I Almost Forgot About You (4 page)

The next thing I knew, he reached into his shirt pocket and whipped out a joint and lit it. “A few hits of this and you won't have any problems concentrating, Miss G.”

“I don't smoke marijuana, and I think you should've asked if I minded before you lit it.”

“I'm sorry, baby. I respect you and your crib,” he said, but not before taking two deep hits. “You should at least just take a puff or two. It's not like you're doing drugs. I promise you, if you don't like it, I'll never ask you again.”

And he handed the joint to me. I also didn't like the way it smelled, and how anyone who didn't smoke real cigarettes could inhale smoke was beyond me. But I was about to find out. I didn't feel comfortable holding this thing and wasn't sure exactly how to inhale, and of course Abraham gave me yet another tutorial. I almost choked to death after the first attempt, because the smoke was hot and made the back of my throat feel like it was on fire. He encouraged me to take one more deep puff and hold it in, so I did, and the smoke traveled down on top of my esophagus and then did a U-turn up into where my brain was supposed to be. At first it felt like fireworks, and then I began to feel like I was floating down a stream. I liked it. And I took another puff and studied my ass off. The next morning, however, I would fail my very first Spanish exam, because I would not remember how to conjugate anything except Abraham.

“Can I move in?” Abraham asked one night. This. After not so much as having walked outside for three days. This was during spring break, if I remember correctly. I was now addicted to him, because I loved all the anytime-I-wanted-it sex. It was like having my very own action figure, and all I had to do was wind him up. Sex was my new major.

As much as I was in love with Abraham's body, I knew I wasn't in love with him. He only made me feel good from the waist down, but to be perfectly honest he had also started getting on my nerves. First of all, he wasn't the most stimulating conversationalist. When I would come in from a philosophy or a computer class and try to explain that some guys were developing new ways to use computers, he wasn't all that intrigued or even interested. He acted like he was afraid of books. He didn't seem very concerned about what was going on in the world, and he changed the channel when the news came on. I changed it back. I should've known he was missing a few links, the way he went into a trance watching anything that had to do with murder, combat, espionage, fire, floods, or horses.

This is precisely when I had to admit that Abraham was not that bright. In fact, he was boring as hell when fully dressed. I knew he was probably never going to appreciate the world that fascinated me and the role I might one day play in it, and there was no way in hell I was going to allow him to drag me down to his level, which was simply the mezzanine but had started to feel more and more like the basement.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you. And no, you cannot move in,” I said firmly.

“Why not?”

“Because my apartment is too small.” (He was six foot three—six-six if I included his Afro.)

“Then let's get a bigger one.”

“But I don't want to move, Abe.”

“Please don't call me Abe. I've asked you on quite a few occasions not to, because it makes me feel like Abe Lincoln.”

“Abraham, I don't want to live with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because my grades are dropping.”

“And you're blaming that on me?”

“I'm blaming it on me, Georgia.”

“I thought you said you loved me.”

“I love a lot of things about you.”

“What's the difference?”

“I don't know how to answer that.”

I shouldn't have had to break this shit down to him. I had already begun to make the distinction between dynamite sex and love. One lasted a few minutes. The other was supposed to last years. My mama used to say, “A man can make you forget your last name.” So far I was glad I still remembered mine. However, being with Abraham had started making me feel like I was shrinking and losing my focus. At that point in time, all I really wanted was what I could control and that was getting a bachelor's degree. My GPA had dropped, and I was not about to go into my junior year with anything lower than a 3.5. Period.

Which is precisely what I would end up missing for two months. My period. I was too afraid to tell Abraham.

On a night he wouldn't go home, I just sat there and looked at him while he watched
Sanford and Son
. He was so engaged he didn't even know I was studying him. He really wasn't all that handsome. In fact, he
was
starting to favor Abraham Lincoln. It was creepy. Every time he laughed, I started noticing that his teeth were getting beiger and that they'd only looked white because of his mustache and because he was also the color of a double espresso. Those lips, which had been so soft and warm and juicy and tender, now seemed to need more and more ChapStick. I had also started realizing he wasn't as concerned about personal hygiene as he should've been. The list of things about him that were getting on my nerves kept growing, but it's also very hard to tell someone you'd been having for dessert almost every single day and night that your taste buds were changing.

I didn't want to have Abraham's baby. I didn't want to have anybody's baby while I was still in college. I was too scared to have a baby. It would change the entire course of my life, and it would also mean I'd always be connected to him. Wanda went with me. On the way to the clinic, she had to pull over three times, because I couldn't stop throwing up. What I was about to do terrified me. But I did it. And was grateful I wouldn't remember any of it right after I started counting backward. I pretended to be mad at Abraham for two whole weeks, even though he wouldn't stop bothering me. He apologized for whatever it was he'd done. Although he was an amazing joyride, I also knew he wasn't the only tall, handsome black man in the world with a penis worthy of a gold medal.

Instead of inviting him over to my apartment, I asked if he'd meet me at this amazing vegetarian restaurant that was the reason I was beginning to turn my back on hamburgers. When Abraham walked in, he was wearing an army green fatigue jacket. Everyone in the place seemed to notice him. He was one sexy militant, who looked like he lived by his own personal constitution. Like he stood for something important.

When he bent down to kiss me, I turned my head, and his lips brushed my left cheek. “So it's like that, then, huh?”

His voice didn't match the way he looked. It was too soft for a man his size. Something else I hadn't noticed before.

“Can I buy you lunch?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Everything here is meatless.”

“Yes it is,” he said. “Yes it is.”

We didn't talk. We simply chewed. After he'd eaten every single piece of the thick wheat bread, he stood up, looked down at me, and let out a long sigh. “I think we just met at the wrong time.”

I looked up into his black eyes. “I don't know if that's true or not, Abraham. But I have appreciated what we've shared.”

He chuckled. “Can I at least give you a good-bye kiss?” he asked.

I nodded.

He bent down and kissed me softly on my forehead and then on my cheek, and then he pressed his lips against mine for two long seconds. “Good luck to you,” he said, and took a few steps back. “You'll probably make some dude a great wife one day, Georgia. And I hope you keep his baby.”

I went numb. I can still remember how ashamed I felt. I couldn't look at him, even though I felt his eyes on me. I stared down at the mishmash on my plate and closed my eyes until I heard him say, “Keep the change,” and felt the cold air rush in after he walked out the door. I lifted my head, wiped my eyes with my napkin, and watched his thick, black Afro and those army green shoulders disappear as he got onto the cable car.

I'm nervous just thinking about looking Abraham up as I sit in front of my cold computer. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. In fact, maybe it's a stupid idea. I sit here for the longest time just staring out the window when I see Naomi and Macy, my next-door neighbors, sauntering up the sidewalk. I almost run to the front door.

They're both sexy blond lesbians who love white shirts and black pants and must have every color of slip-on Vans ever made. They got married on the steps of City Hall two years ago in San Francisco. I took them to brunch to celebrate. They're also crazy as hell, or I should just say wild and fun. Macy's a curator at the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco, and Naomi manages a four-and-a-half-star hotel I've yet to stay at.

“What do you huzzies want? Hey, Rascal,” I say, and rub her head the way she likes. She's a sweet pit bull.

“We were wondering if we could borrow twenty dollars?” Naomi says, and hands me a white box. I know there's something delicious inside, because there always is.

“No. And I'm on a diet. So whatever's in that box, I can't eat it.”

“You've been on a diet since we met you, and what year was that, honey?”

“I believe that was 1886,” Macy says.

“So you will eat this and enjoy it. It's my very own Key lime pie.”

“And here,” Macy says, handing me what I know will be another invitation to an opening I probably won't attend and do not know why. She must be six feet tall and could easily be a forty-something runway model if she just wanted to.

I open the envelope. I'm right.

“Thank you both. And I'll try. You want to come in?”

“No. Our goal was to disturb you. Did we succeed?”

“Yes, and I'm grateful. Now, beat it!”

And I slam the door. I can hear them laughing. This is our way. I'm lucky to have them as my neighbors, because the Russian family on the right has never uttered so much as a syllable when I say hello or good morning or good evening or happy holidays. They don't like to celebrate but are very good wavers.

I open the box and dig my finger into the mint green pie and scoop out a thick, smooth dollop. It's so good I do this three more times and then make a pot of coffee and push the rest of it into the garbage disposal for obvious reasons.

I take my coffee back to my office and find the password I keep hidden with all the other ones inside the big red Webster's dictionary and log in to Facebook. I've only been on this site twice in two years, because I have yet to see the point of it, but I understand you can find just about anybody on here, even though until today I haven't been looking for anyone.

I'm shocked when I see a photo of someone who looks like I did about ten years ago. I think Frankie put that picture of me on here when she signed me up. I forgot I had cheekbones. And only one chin. And a wig that wasn't synthetic; it was actually my hair. I looked happy, I looked good, and I can't remember why.

What will I say if I find him? “Remember me from the seventies? We spent some time together.” That sounds lame, like I'm still stuck in the past. And what if all he says is yes? What if he has nothing else to say to me? What if he thinks I've only gotten in touch because I'm trying to hook back up after a thousand years? But then again, what if he's still in the Bay Area and happily married and would love to see me, maybe introduce me to his wife and kids (which I would love), or what if he wants to meet for a latte after thirty-four years? I forgot all about the possibility of seeing him in person. Shit. He would probably think I've let myself go. But I have.

According to Frankie, people put their whole lives on Facebook, so I should be able to see what he's done with his. I hope he finished college. But what will I tell him about me? That I've gone through two husbands? (I wouldn't admit to being traded in for a newer model or take any responsibility for being a bad judge of character.) That I'm a little on the fuller side and I also dye my hair intense auburn to avoid looking at the gray? That I'm an unhappy optometrist looking to make a career change when most people are thinking about retirement? And lie that I'm in a serious relationship but we're just taking it slow? And what if he asks what made me get in touch with him after all these years? What in the hell will I say that would make any sense?

I hit Escape.

Then Sleep.

Abraham's going to have to wait.

Wanda just had to open her big mouth and tell Violet what I'm planning to do, which is why Violet chose to leave me a long, sensitive voice-mail message:
“Have you lost your damn mind, Georgia? You must have. This is about the dumbest shit I've ever heard. What do you hope to gain from it? I say leave the bastards exactly where they belong: in the Relationship History Book. Of course I'm sorry to hear about Raymond, but if I were you, I'd think twice about selling my house in this fucked-up economy. But you have yet to take any good advice I've given you, and I don't expect you to start now, so forget everything I just said and do it your way. Bye.”

I'm forgetting it right now.

I go back on Facebook and type in Abraham's first and last names and push my chair away from my desk two or three feet and look down at the floor while my heart pounds like a jackhammer. When I glance up at the screen, I cover my mouth, because I only see one black face and he's a teenager.

I feel somewhat relieved.

But then, as if I'm on autopilot, I decide to Google his name, except this time I include his middle name, which I didn't even know I remembered. Well, I'm pretty sure Abraham wasn't a soldier in 1898, and he didn't drive a tractor-trailer in North Carolina, nor did he play the jazz trumpet with Jimmy Smith, and I'm hoping, for his sake, that the parking-summons warrant waiting for him in Alabama isn't his.

“Maybe Abraham is dead, too,” Wanda says. We're getting off the Sausalito exit right past hundreds of houseboats, where Violet has lived for years. Black people don't live on boats. We live on land.