Hardwood Floors
Ernest stood up the steps on the
landing near the exit, opened the door as I turned for a last glance. Nothing
about this place, a condo on the sub-level of a three-floor colonial,
registered as a purchase Hope would make. With a visitor’s lot not too far from
the secured gate where one signed in, it conveyed more than affluence and seclusion.
Less than a five-minute drive, the Lincoln Tunnel separated and connected. The
skyline faced us with windows lighted or dark in no specific pattern.
The short walk to the car found us
silent, as if processing unconnected thoughts. Ernest had to be thinking two
steps ahead or something. Wanting to sleep with him served many functions with
lust being near the bottom of the list. If anything, loneliness but not in a
needy way, yet I found myself on my way to Brooklyn at one in the morning with a MAX boy. I reasoned with myself – yes, he
walked in with Devon, but Attitude only dealt with people
of impeccable character. Still I kept thinking they were MAX boys, and their
fraternity’s notoriety included the ruthless, deceitful manner in which they
dealt with women.
I needed more convincing. If, for all
that I had done and accomplished in my life, I couldn’t have a one-night stand
with a MAX boy, then maybe I was still an eighteen-year-old freshman.
“Brooklyn, eh?” I exaggerated the words, letting him know my displeasure. “I
haven’t been to Brooklyn in months. Didn’t you anticipate Devon leaving with Miranda?”
“Is that who he left with?” Ernest
matched wits. His answer avoided telling his friend’s business, while not
having me think he condones Devon’s behavior.
“Where do you live?”
“Kew Gardens.”
“Oh, oh! You Queens girls are very high maintenance.”
I switched to a less-occupied lane
then paid the toll for the Lincoln Tunnel. “Yeah and you Brooklyn guys are all crooks.” He laughed.
“Where do you live? In Flatbush?”
“Not all Haitians live in Flatbush,
you know…but I lived there until recently. I just moved to Carroll Gardens to take over my brother’s lease.”
“I didn’t know you were from Haiti. How long have you been here?”
“Going on 14 years.”
A slight tension still existed
between us, confirming the small talk we made screened our true intentions. I
never had a one-night stand, but I could feel Ernest shared what I felt. I needed
something to oil my engine, move me pass the point where I thought that
relationships ruled, and sex required an emotional attachment. I kept thinking
to be quiet and let him lead, yet I asked, “What have you been doing since
college?”
“It’s only been two years, but I’ve
mostly been feeling my way around the advertising industry, hoping to land a
job at a top-notch agency. What about you?”
“I’m the Executive Director of a
school for children who have not done well in traditional schools.” Ernest
nodded, more than approval. “Do you currently work in an ad agency?”
“I was but I quit.” I thought,
quitter, loser…this guy’s unemployed? As if he could read my thoughts of
wanting to turn on the radio and make this ride quicker and less involved, he
added, “Things got tough…after my friend, Bliss, killed herself, I couldn’t
focus. I needed to regroup. Did you know Bliss well?”
“No, met her and we spoke a couple of
times. Why didn’t you just ask for a leave of absence?” A shallow thing to ask,
but quite logical; plus I wanted him to move from this topic. Ernest gave me
this look. Had the light on the West Side Highway not changed to red, his
silence could have meant he had not thought of the possibility. The look meant
a dear friend had died and any past involvements had to be severed, and for me
to ask that question confirmed my reputation - a cold-hearted chick. Even when
I cared deeply, I did so in a cold, demanding way – that was my reputation.
Ernest reached for the radio. We both
felt the same thing, so why not, why not turn on the radio. The clear starless
sky gave a dark, empty feeling to the night. The sudden quietness between two
relative strangers should have been uncomfortable, but it seemed to be what we
needed. We drove across the Brooklyn Bridge. The sounds of WBGO, the NPR jazz
station soothed a yearning in my heart, to be touched. October has always been
my favorite month, although my birthday is in June. The cool, gentle, nightly
breeze, sometimes peppered with moments of rain, the month anchoring the fall
season symbolized my renaissance, my rise from the ashes of my summer of discontentment.
Perhaps, having been in an academic setting since five years old, I viewed
autumn as the first season.
“Make a left on Atlantic and a right on Nevins.”
I decided to give him a quick test to
see where his heart lies and when it lied. I switched from radio to cassette. I
had been playing the song over and over during the ride to Hope’s, to steel me
for the first time I saw my ex. Ken was a brother; I knew he would be there. It
would be my first time seeing him since he left me a note, that note:
I have to leave. I’m not sure I will
be back. You do what you have to do to survive. Always know that I love you and
always will.
The song’s first notes drew no
reaction from Ernest. He stared straight ahead and I really could not…You
can never tell what's in a man's mind
Ken played the role of the perfect
man to the limit and though I claimed this as my favorite song, he embodied the
lyrics, singing over the cassette whenever I played the song, replacing the
next and many other lines with autobiographical sketches like, And if he's Stay
Black’n Die, there's no use of even tryin'
SBD were the call letters of his
fraternity and over the years the fraternity came to be known as Stay Black’n
Die because of their fierce loyalty and willingness to die for the cause.
Before then, they were simply known as ‘the brothers’. As years went by and
many other organizations formed and the term “brothers” got used for nearly
every Black man, SBD veered away from being ‘the brothers’ even though those in
the know knew what a person meant when they said ‘the brothers’. The brothers were
the glue and the fabric, the married, the fathers, the preachers, the doctors
and the lawyers, the scholars; they were the men you saw holding hands at
museums with the women who looked straight ahead- down, or with their nose in
the air. The brothers had been betrayed, captured and sold; then they escaped,
decided to stay, fought, marched to overcome. And, I had a brother; a fine
brother… Then he surprised me, leavin' me a note sayin' he's gone for good…
The streets were empty and I was in a
car with a MAX boy. His quietness confused me. Had he interrupted the song to
give more directions then I would know. A red light. You can have your
Broadway,
Then he chimed in…give me Flatbush Avenue…
Angels from the skies stroll 7th and
for that thanks are due
I almost asked ‘what’ until I
realized what he’d done; he replaced Ken’s Harlem
with his Brooklyn street. An invitation to come in,
sing lead in an impromptu duet. Not only did Ernest know the words, he held
tempo as I sang. He joined in at the end to let me know that he was willing…To
put some music to my troubles and call them the Harlem blues...
He directed me to a parking spot.
Feeling my hesitation, he asked, “You’re not staying for breakfast?”
“Breakfast at one in the morning?” I
wanted to know his exact offer, but he only nodded. To know, I would have to
enter.
The two-block walk gave me a chance to survey the
neighborhood, consisting of three-story limestone homes, with street-level
entrances, and another entrance up on the first floor. The landings were about
twelve feet above the street. Parking seemed tight since most cars had very
little space between them, and the hydrant across the street from his apartment
had a car risking a ticket by being less than ten feet away. Up the block, a
school. Across the street, a corner laundry. The streets had no noticeable
potholes. Ernest lived in the garden floor and basement level of the fourth
house from the corner. “This is an interesting duplex,” was all I could say
because he hadn’t done much to the place.
“I still don’t feel at home here.
It’s gonna take some time to adjust.”
The top floor had no furniture except
for a coffee table surrounded by one sofa and throw-pillows. A small living
room with a small bathroom situated directly behind the sofa. Next to the
bathroom, an enclosed kitchen area. The main bedroom served as his den. A few
canvases, reams of paper and large unframed canvases layered the floor near the
computer desk. “Do you paint?”
“No, I just dabble. The computer is
my main weapon. I do graphic design and I’m beginning to expand into writing
copy.” Ernest walked in from the kitchen and into the living room. We faced
each other, adjusting to the environment, trying to reestablish a comfort
level. For some reason, he held the locket again. He had done so at the party.
I snatched it away and shocked, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“My father gave me that.” I lied.
“Well call me George Michael
then…I’ll be your father figure.” He winked then laughed to show that he served
up the corny line on purpose, to make light of the moment.
I turned to leave, but he put his arm
around my waist and pulled me to him. I talked forward into the open space in
front of me. “Get off me! Get your hands off me!!”
Instead of letting go, he asked, “Why
can’t you relax and stop trying to control the situation?”
I turned to face him and spoke in a
slow, measured tone. “My father gave me this chain and locket. White gold, he
said when he gave it to me. That was the first and last time I saw him. He died
two days later. He committed suicide.”
I lied to Ernest again, totally going
against my ‘honesty is the best policy’ nature. I could not tell him the truth,
that when opened, the locket revealed a black and white photo of my brother,
who could pass for my father when he was in his late twenties. The secret and
my confusion was that my brother died at 20, so how could he have taken this
photo.
Ernest took hold of my hands, pulling
me closer. Our bodies leaned softly against each other. Our faces slowly closed
the distance between us, we kissed, our fingers caressed. He kissed without
squeezing body parts. Next, he did another thing that impressed me when it was
my first time with a guy. He took off his top. Sure, I liked to be undressed
and savored, but I preferred a man who took off his clothes first. Especially
when the room was lit, even if by only the light from the next room, allowing
me to see only his shape, the bulky shoulders, the well-defined chest, the
shapely arms, the could-be a little flatter stomach, the stiffy with the
pee-hole aiming at the ceiling, the strong thighs and calves, and the stiffy.
Ernest smiled as if asking for my
approval. I approached and used the tip of my tongue on his chest then our
mouths met. I wondered if he would carry me to the bed, instead he pulled me to
the cold, hardwood floor.