Love the One You're With (32 page)

He was
not
talking about them sharing a batch of Joe's famous.

A female admirer of Noble's appeared. Well, we heard her giggle before we saw her.

Noble turned. “Hay, sweetheart.”

She continued to giggle.

He pointed to a pen and a letter-sized envelope she was holding in her right hand. “I guess you want me ta sign that, huh?”

She continued to giggle.

He eased next to her. He bent sideways and held out his arm (she was a petite thing and, hunching over her in a lime Nike sweatsuit, he looked like the Jolly Green Giant). “Why don't we go someplace where there's a little mo' light so I can do that.”

She stopped giggling. Her mouth dropped open. After receiving a nod from him telling her that she had in fact heard him right and that she was not dreaming, she cautiously looped her arm in his.

He turned to me. “Nice ta meetcha.”

“You, too.”

“Yo, I'll
see mo
' of ya later.” He winked at Montee.

“Ah, a'ight.”

He escorted the young lady, whose mouth was
still
open, toward the bar.

“How do you know Noble?” I asked.

“We met at Hit Factory last November,” Montee explained, sitting down.

“Were you working on a project together?”

“No. He was remixin' a track with Malice. Alan was showin' me around, introducin' me to folks.”

“Ah … isn't he dating Brown Sugah?” She's a rap artist out of Oakland, a true glamour ghetto gurl—you know, fixed up (she wears leopard-skin jumpsuits and pumps, her face is always painted, and the weave whipped) but still a little fringy (you can take the girl outa the ghetto, but you'll never get it
out
of her). Rumor has it that she is a lesbian, if not bisexual (when
hasn't
a female rapper been rumored to be anything other than heterosexual?). Noble produced her debut,
Sweet 'n' Sour
, which just went gold, and they have been romantically linked. But since the gossip started (she was apparently seen at a lesbian hangout around New Year's in Newark called Lady Day's, a nod to Miss Billie), they're no longer a duo—at least in public.

“As far as I know.”

I wanted so bad to ask whether Noble was one of the people Montee was “involved with”—from what I just witnessed,
something
was goin' on between them—but decided not to. “Is he going to produce you?”

“He may do a track or two.”

“Well, with him producing and Kevron recording one of your songs, it seems you've got all the right connections. And you've got the talent. So you're going to do all you want to and more.”

“You think?”

“Yes, I do. And you've got a fan in me.”

“Hmm … would you like to be the president of my New York fan club?”

“Mmm … I might.”

“You might?”

“Yeah. How much does it pay?”

His eyes widened. “‘How much does it pay?' You're supposed to do it because you
a-dore
the artist. And, you'll get all the free CDs, concert tickets, and T-shirts you want—not to mention private performances from the artist himself.”

“Is that what you're going to promise
all
your fan-club presidents?”

“No. Just a very special one.”

He peered; I blushed.

He finished his last wing; I finished the rest of my second drink.

I pushed the glass back. “I should be going.”

“Why?” He checked his watch. “It's only a few minutes before midnight. What you gonna do, turn into a pumpkin?”

“No,” I chuckled.

“So, stay awhile longer.”

“No, I … I better go.”

“Uh … okay. Can I walk you to your car?”

“I don't have one.”

“Then can I walk you to your carriage?”

I laughed. “My
carriage
is the 6 train.”

“Then, may I …?”

“Yes, you may.”

He got his coat. We were silent walking those three blocks to the station. We stood near the turnstiles, a foot apart, facing each other.

“You don't have to wait with me.”

“I want to.”

“Your public awaits.”

“Let 'em wait.”

“And Noble is probably waiting on you.”

“
He
can wait.”

Silence.

“Thanks again for coming.”

“No problem. Thank you for making me your special guest—and making me feel so special.”

“You're more than welcome. It was easy to do.”

Silence. He stared at me; I focused on the token booth.

“Sure you can't stay …?” He was almost begging; he wore that wounded puppy-dog face too well.

“I … I can't.”

“Uh … okay.”

Silence.

Wind from an incoming train swept through the station. I pulled my token out, ready to drop it in the slot when …

“Mitchell?”

“Yes?”

His hands in his pockets, he stepped to me. “I'm gonna do something
really
stupid right now, but I would feel even
more
stupid if I didn't do it. I think you are one fly brother and … I get the feeling that I may never see you again and … I … I … I would
love
to spend the day and night with you. No hanky-panky, no spanky spanky, just … just us two, catchin' a movie, just chillin' at my spot. I would cook you the
best
dinner you ever had. And I'd love to play a few of my other tunes for you, see what you think. I promise, I will be a complete gentleman. Just twenty-four hours out of the rest of your life, is all I'm askin'. Will you, please?”

Just
who
does this man think he is? I came to hear him, I supported him, and now he wants more? I tell ya, you give an inch and folks try to take a yard. He should be happy I came, for I didn't have to.

“I can't. Maybe if we had met, as you had sung tonight, in another place and time … you are a special man with a special talent and I wish you all the best in the future. Have a good show and a good night.”

That's what I
should
have said.
This
came out instead …

“Where and what time do you want to meet?”

I had “the story” all figured out.

I would be working on an article for
Vibe
about the “gay flava” in hip-hop, doing a little shopping, then spending the rest of the day (and the night) with Adam (who, I would let it slip, was getting married and wanted him to be in the wedding party).

This is what I planned on telling Pooquie about my not being around today. But no matter how much I practiced it and tried to convince myself that what I was about to do wasn't a big deal, I couldn't escape the truth.

I was about to “cheat” on my beaufriend.

I've dated several men who told “the story” so well that when they were telling the truth you didn't believe them because the tales they told
sounded
better. Being involved with some of the most talented liars in the world, though, didn't make this task any easier. I had never deceived Pooquie before and doing it made me very uncomfortable—which is why it took me all morning to come up with “the story.”

It was also taking all morning to tell it to him—or at least three hours. I had called a half-dozen times—four times at home and twice at a pay phone at the corner of West Fourth Street and Sixth Avenue, just footsteps from the court where Pooquie used to play basketball and the spot Montee wanted us to meet—and the line was always busy. We briefly spoke last night before I went to the concert; he had just got in from shooting all morning and was exhausted. He said he might go out later to celebrate completing his first film (of course, the
real
celebration would happen when he returned home tomorrow). Did he just decide to stay in and take the phone off the hook so he wouldn't be disturbed?

Not only could I not reach Pooquie, but Montee was twenty minutes late. Maybe these were signs that what I was about to do was a big mistake.

I cocked my heels to head back toward the subway when a yellow motorcycle blared up Sixth Avenue and swerved to a stop in front of me, causing me to jump back. With the motor still running, the driver took off his helmet.

It was Montee. He was wearing the standard biker drag—faded blue jeans, a worn brown leather jacket, black steel-toed boots, even fingerless black leather gloves and a double-link silver chain subbing as a belt, looped around his waist.

“I'm so sorry,” he apologized. “I overslept.”

I just stood, bewildered.

He waved me on. “Well, just don't stand there. We got a
lot
of ground to cover today.”

I approached him. I did the baby-step thing he'd shown himself to have mastered at Body & Soul.

He chuckled. “You don't have to be afraid. I'm not a Hell's Angel.”

I was finally standing in front of him, but I was still speechless.

“Say somethin'!”
he cried.

I sighed. “When you said you'd be taking me on a trip …”

“I'm a man of my word.”

“Indeed. You're also a man of many suits.”

“That I am.”

“And
I'm
a man who's never ridden a motorcycle before.”

“You won't be doin' the actual riding—I will.” He handed me the helmet.

I took it. “What will you wear?”

“Nothing. I'll be okay.” He nodded toward the back. “Hop on.”

I adjusted the helmet. It wasn't a perfect fit but snug enough. I leaned on his right shoulder and threw my left leg over the cycle, positioning my seat on the seat.

“You're gonna have to sit closer than that.”

I inched up.

“Closer.”

I inched up again.

“Closer.”

I pushed up into that booty.

“Ah. Now
that's
better.
Feels
better, too.” He winked. “Hold on to me.”

I maneuvered my arms under the jacket (which was opened) and clasped my hands against his belly.

“You're gonna have to hold me tighter than that.”

I tightened the grip.

“That's better.”

He took some shades out of his breast jacket pocket. He put the pedal to the metal.

“Here we go.”

And we were off. I admit that I was …
scared
. Most of the men I've seen ride have been much,
much
heftier (Humpty-Dumptys, to be exact), and while it may seem like an easier vehicle to steer, I'm sure the extra weight gives one more leverage to ride like the wind, not let the wind ride them (there were moments when I thought I would be knocked off because of the tornadolike breezes we faced). But Montee never once lost his grip, his focus, his balance, his stride. He directed the cycle with ease, flowing in and out of lanes, zipping through traffic, yet always obeying the rules of the road. And he never forgot about me, asking every few minutes: “You okay back there?”

“Yes,” I'd reply, all the while thinking: With a man like you at the controls, how could I
not
be? After the anxiety subsided and we zipped through the Queens Midtown Tunnel, I started to soak up the sights and the smells, and the mix of the gas, the burning rubber, the leather, the cologne he wore—not to mention the friction being caused as his ass melded into my dick—was making that temp rise.

When we pulled into the parking lot of a movie theater, I realized I had never stopped to ask
where
we were going.

“So, didja enjoy your first ride?” he queried.

“Yes, I did.”

“Good. I have the feeling you'll be experiencing a few more firsts today.”

“Oh?” Hmm … what else did he have up his sleeve?

He purchased tickets for
The Shawshank Redemption
. Given the other choices—
The Brady Bunch Movie
(I never cared for the series) and
Pulp Fiction
(a movie lauded for being innovative and revolutionary when in reality it's a gory blaxploitation flick in whiteface)—he made the right one. But why did we come all the way out to Queens to see it? I'm sure it was playing somewhere in Manhattan. I guess he wanted to
really
take me for a ride …

We had a half hour to kill before it started, so we ducked into a coffee shop directly across the street from the box office. We slid into a booth. We both ordered tea with honey and lemon and shared an apple Danish.

“How long have you been riding motorcycles?”

“I've only ridden one. I've had Blaze for three years.”

“And why a Kawasaki and not a car?”

“The practical answer is that it's easier to maintain and manage, not to mention park. The personal answer … I always wanted one, ever since I saw Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper in
Easy Rider
.”

“Have you hit the road like they did in the movie?”

“One of these days I will.”

“Are you a member of a cycle gang?”

“It's not a gang. Just a group of brothers who ride.”

“The Panthers?” There was a panther on the back of his jacket.

“Yeah.”

“Are they a local group?”

“There are mini-chapters in L.A., San Fran/Oakland, Miami, D.C., and Philly.”

“Sounds like
whole
chapters, not minis.”

“We're not an organized posse. It's not like we have a president, or a headquarters, or a set of bylaws.”

“Ah. Do you meet with them on a regular basis?”

“Like once every couple of months. We just get together to hang, party. Or we'll ride someplace like the Poconos.”

“Ah. Do you have a tattoo?” That's the one thing all cycle men and women seem to have.

“I do. But it's in a place only special people have seen. Maybe you'll be one of those people.”

Yeah, maybe …