Noni Jones in Harlem

Archive for August, 2009

Geneva

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So… Exactly why are you here?

Each time I watched Paul grab OJ from the fridge to drink from the carton or warm up some more leftovers, that question went off in my head.  It wasn’t tripping over his free-loading; laying around the house engrossed in a stack of books, eating up the food, being here when I closed my eyes at night, and at first morning blink. I wasn’t tripping over that.  My roommate’s never around any way.

I was annoyed that Paul was suffocating me when I needed to have some privacy. I needed to sleep alone. To eat alone. To be left alone.

He finally left on Thursday. He fled into the Harlem night like swirls of dust after a good porch sweeping. He journeyed back to Brooklyn for another 2 -3 day period of absence. Good-grief. It felt like fresh air returned to the house and I could breath  again. He’d been stifling me.

By the time he left, the gloom had passed. It always does, like a storm cloud that exhausts itself then casts the sky steely gray. But even in the damp quiet, I needed to figure out my life, my existence. Figure out how I’d so easily slipped into another dark episode. He wouldn’t give me space to do that.

And  honestly, I didn’t ask for it. My ass is too polite. Instead, I let him crowd my space with his twisted energy and shards of chatter that occasionally erupted silence like the smattering of glass.  Paul is the only man I know that can avoid someone and suffocate them at the same time. When he wasn’t on campus, he was sitting on the living room couch, comforted by an open window, reading a  book. Not talking to me, talking through this, trying to figure out if we could salvage what was left. No. There was no love happening. There was the only the turning of pages, fan blades cutting through air, and the occasional siren and curse word shouted on the other side of the window.

Shame.

“Yo, I’m about to pick up something from the bookstore.”

I had just walked home from work and I was changing into  a cotton dress. Our AC was broken. If Paul wasn’t there, I would have stripped naked, and curled  up next to the fan. “Okay.”

“You wanna come with me.”

“Yea, that’s cool.”

We walked down  into the 145th street subway platform and waited on the C. It was hot as hell. I could feel beads of sweat crowding my kitchen. He wrapped one arm around my waist and held my hand with the other. “You alright?”

“I’m good.” Since when had I become so delicate? Since when had he grown so quiet. Where was the man that hosted Fight Night in undergrad, shouting at the TV screen like he was ringside. Where was the man that gave Black kids from New Haven tours of Yale? Where was he? Still it was a nice gesture and the only one I can recall from the week. Paul held my hand until we made it to the used and rare bookstore in Noni’s neighborhood.

I had been feeling guilty that his being there wasn’t the healing I needed. A month ago, the only thing I wanted was Paul to come around. To know where he was and to know he was thinking of me. I felt the guilt of a sinner when he finally tosses a prayer in the air and  it lands unanswered. His presence wasn’t my healing. Let him tell it, it was the healing, the salvation and the testimony.

I don’t know why men think that their jism is the cure-all, like it can mend a broken-heart and fix a relationship. No. Cum is not super glue, it’s just cum.

Every night, like clockwork, he’d come in from the shower, hit the lights. Take off his boxers. Force my legs open and pump me like with enough  sweat he could cum inside my mind– skeet all over my thought process. His body felt good to me. Better than I should admit. But something wasn’t right.

This wasn’t the same sex that made me fall asleep with a smile on my lips. This wasn’t the sex that made me want to get up and make him breakfast, make him feel like a King at my kitchen table. I felt like he was feeding me left overs. Spoils that he’d either been sharing with someone else or had been left sitting for so long, they’d gotten stale.

I wanted his love when it was fresh but when it was fresh he was stingy. I wasn’t  satisfied with the day-old, caked up kisses he was feeding me. It wasn’t filling it any more. I was hungry. Hungrier than I ever knew.

Nobody knows the exact time when fruit goes bad, you just know if you leave it at the bottom of the fridge long enough it will.

I don’t know when but at some point our love reached it’s expiration date. Paul and I had exploited all romantic possibility. We were fasting and it wasn’t for the spirit. But  unlike food, it’s not so easy to throw love away.

-Geneva

Caroline

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I tell you, this shit is getting old. Old and tired. I mean if I had a nickel for every time some Tom, Dick and Mr Charlie tried to steal my idea, I’d own half this company by now. I could retire before thirty and not have to put up with this shit.

It’s been a long day. I’m trying to unwind. I’m on my third glass of Merlot this evening. Probably should have chosen something stronger.

I knew that this  time around Paris wouldn’t be the city of romance, the city that I, a self-proclaimed Afro-Dite, love to turn out. This time around Paris was work  and a crazy hectic mess.

The company’s developing a new celebrity fragrance that we’re passing off as being ‘created’ by a  young actress that you all know.

Originally we wanted the scent to be bliss in a bottle, an up-beat  chypre targeting single twenty somethings with dreams of big weddings and autumn walks through Central Park in Manolos.  You know what, perfume is very cheap to make.  You  pay for the bottle and the dream.

We thought we had it. The lab put together an amazing rose-peach-cedar scent. Something sophisticated yet sweet, with a brush of naughty. Something I’d even wear.  I projected that this scent would have a broader appeal, maybe even reach into the older demographic. We had the ad campaign approved  until a sample group of ‘average’ Joes and Janes sat around a dry room in New Jersey, sniffed a  dozen viles, different variations on the scent, and checked ‘no’.

Shit.

Emergency overhaul.

I mean, I find out I’m going to Paris on a Monday, and by Thursday my team (meaning I) need a brand new marketing strategy. I worked my ass off. Grabbed maybe 5 hours of sleep (cups of jamal*) over the course of 48 hours. Took an Ambien on the plane and slept the whole way there.

This time around we directed the perfumers to take out the nuance. No room for coquetry, just girlish. Obnoxiously sweet. Something for the woman with sling backs, lace bras, and tea cup dogs. A blend of  Bergamot, lavender, cedar… a hint of apple martini. Nothing I’d ever where, but a guaranteed hit.

All this work so Mr. Smart Ass could present my idea before the board this afternoon as if they were his own. The day before the meeting he agreed to do  the first part of the presentation– the numbers. Then he’d  leave the strategy, the magic, up to me. So when I heard my words leaving his lips– I nearly choked.

Me and the other guy just stood there, like he was Gladys and we were the Pips. Needless to say, the board loved my game plan.  He was congratulated personally by the company heiress for saving the day

And what was I supposed to do? Smile and be grateful they even let a colored girl in the room. No, maybe fly into a rage, confirming suspicions that I’m nothing more than an angry Black woman in Prada.

Hell if I know.
I swallowed the loss.

I’m listening to Shirley Bassey sing “I am what, I am” (loves it), feeling light headed, tipsy, like I might be sleep in the next half hour.

I’m so frustrated I could scream.

But who am I kidding? I want to get laid.

I miss Lance like crazy. It’s times like this I just wish he was hear to hold me.You know those really long hugs that last a zillion minutes and leave you feeling like of all the places in the world you’ve traveled, the cove between his right and left arm is your favorite.

Besides a few text message and one short conversation, we haven’t talked much. Haven’t had time to be sidetracked.Yesterday morning, he wrote “I miss you.” Sweet.

I need it right now. Need it badly . And I want only him. Two more days.

Bisous,

Caroline

NONI

I was at the head of the table, facing two rows of 4 beautiful black couples. This was a random sampling of North Jerseys Black crème de la crème and I’d known them all since childhood; a cosmetic surgeon, a retired banker, an international business man, mom and dad. We were at Deons, a black owned restaurant on Circuit and we’d been waiting forever for the main course. They must have been in the back killing the chickens and pulling out their feathers . A dressed down Jasmine Guy had just walked by with a small group, took a look at the packed house and decided to dine elsewhere. I got a little star struck at the sight of Whitley Gilbert, my childhood idol. Too bad. Vernon Jordan’s daughter was beside us, with a party of like ten. Rumor has it Chelsea Clinton is getting married at her father’s house at the end of the summer. Of course she denied this.

I was the center of attention. They were looking back at me, intrigued by my new life. Now that I’d given up my television career to write, what exactly did I do all day?

I know. The answer should be obvious.

“So are you headed to law school now?” Aunt Natalie, mom’s best friend, was was seated to my immediate left sounding more like a prosecutor than the surgeon she was.

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“You should. Columbia’s in your backyard. You need to have a back-up plan. I see you like nice things.” She was hinting at the Chopard on my wrist, which was a gift from Carter but that didn’t mean I couldn’t spoil myself. People have it twisted. Not all writers are starving artists. Some of us know how to write magnificently, and a few of us know how write stuff that people actually want to read. I put myself in the latter group and I eat well.

Nonetheless, my sudden career shift and fly by night romance had taken Aunt Nat by surprise. I was “Noni-she went to Yale”. She always introduced me as if ’she-went-to-Yale’ was an unusually long hyphenated last name. By her standards I was supposed to complete the trifecta; go to grad school, marry some well-bred corporate man named Darius or maybe Joshua, and then move into a fabulous suburban house.

But dating an older, divorced jazz musician with locks? This was so la vie boheme.

“So your mother tells me he’s married.”

“Divorced.”

“Divorced, but he has kids?”

“One daughter.” I needed a second round of drinks. And where the hell was the food? People don’t ask as so many questions when their mouths are busy chewing. I was giving our waiter the serious side-eye glance.

“How old is she?”

“Eight.”

“Okay, so he still practically has another family.” A lot of people think my Aunt Natalie is pushy and can’t stand her for it. She’s never been one to mince words but frankly I’m too old for her critique. My mother doesn’t even sweat me like she does.

“Damn Nat,” my dad said emphatically wincing as if he’d just taken a shot. Like vodka, Natalie’s candor was equally shrill. “I like your style! You don’t even try to sugar coat it.” Laughter erupted around the table. It wasn’t that funny.

“I mean I’m saying! I know she likes this guy but a woman has to think about the future! You guys put too much into her for her to end up with just anybody.” She faced me with a smirk. “What happens five years down the line when you figure out he’s been having a good time at your expense?” She was pointing at me with the same hand that bore her five carot engagement ring. I think she bought it for herself. “I mean do you really think this man is going to get married again and is he even someone you should be marrying?”

“Noni, you’re thinking about marriage?!” Lynn, the free spirit, blurted out.

“Umm…” I stumbled. I mean, I wasn’t, but I was. And how could I say that I wasn’t in front of my parents when according to mom, I’m living in sin. “Not any time soon.”

A smile spread across her face. “You know what, you look happy, don’t she? She looks like she’s in love,” Lynn said in her playful Chi-Town accent. “I say go for it girl, do whatever makes you happy.”

I smiled at her. She was always the one I could relate to. Lynn’s the life of the party. The child in her never went away. She and her husband have traveled the world. She lived in Japan for a decade, learned the language, how to make excellent sushi, and worked for a huge firm over there. She’s sophisticated as they come, fierce, but she doesn’t take herself or any of this pretension too seriously.

“Well… we’re proud of Noni,” mom said, always the diplomat, “But we still have to get used to fact that she’s living with him.”

“So where is his place?” Aunt Natalie asked.

“Morningside Heights. The Paterno.”

“Oh, okay, so he’s balling!” I had to laugh at her attempt at hipness. Everyone else did too. ” No! No! No!” she shouted over our voices, “I mean the man probably does have money coming out of his pores, but do you love him or do you love being his girlfriend?”

They hushed for my answer. For the first time in my life, the spotlight was too hot. “Of course I love him and he loves me. He’s a good guy.”

“Look” she covered my hand with hers, “I believe you. But Noni, there’s a kid and his baby’s mother. And trust, if she finds out he’s dating someone as smart and pretty as you, she’s going to get jealous and indignant. You don’t want that kind of drama. It might be cool at first, but after a while it’s going to be too much. Sweetie you are too young and your parents have invested too much into you for you to end up in some dead end relationship with an older man. I mean, chances are, he’s going to move on. If not for the simple fact that he’s already paying alimony. And trust me, you don’t want to be thirty just starting your search for a husband.”

“Wow.” I was speechless.

She wasn’t done. “And Noni, if he’s fifteen years older than you, do you really want to be taking care of your husband at 50’s when he’s pushing 70? Changing his diapers and shit!”

They bust out.

“Damn that was cold!” my father said.

“I’m kidding, but you know what I mean.”

“I’ll sleep with one eye open, Aunt Nat. I promise.”

On my first night back on the island, I’d been whisked back into the world where waist size, wallet size and pedigree were magnified in importance. And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t drank a little of the Kool-aid too.

In this world, it wasn’t just about money. Aunt Natalie had married into an elite Black family and her in-laws despised her. But the fact that her husband’s family never came over for the Holidays and talked bad about her to her face and behind her back was irrelevant. What mattered was that she had a last name that meant something (to a select group of people) and a daughter with, as she put it, ‘good’ hair. A daughter that was being raised by a Portuguese nanny. Prior to this conversation we were talking about a Long Island couple whose daughter didn’t get into an ivy-league school—even after the prestigious New England boarding school and violin lessons. Touche. She’d been accepted to Georgetown but her parents, a surgeon and a Black Stepford wife, weren’t happy with that. It wasn’t ivy-league. It wasn’t name brand. The solution: Rather than have her attend a school that was beneath her, They made her take a year off. She would do some shallow community service while living in the comfort of her parents spare Upper East side apartment and re-apply in the fall. I mean… really?

Everyone at the table thought this extreme display of pretentiousness was just that, a hot pretentious ass mess, except Aunt Natalie. But like I said, in this world, it isn’t about money. It’s about elitism. Money can’t buy your way into the Ivy League. Carter had plenty of money but even his fortune didn’t afford him Aunt Nat’s acceptance. It is the unspoken difference between the Atlanta Housewives and The Links. Vanessa Bryant and Michelle Obama.  Hollywood romance versus Spel-House love.

And for these folks, elitism isn’t a flaw. It’s just force of habit.

I managed to escape dinner unscathed, but that food took forever to come . Too bad.
****

We headed to a get-together after dinner at the Davis’. Their summer home is in a wooded section of Oak Bluffs, removed from the touristy area that lines the beach. The husband is retired now, but he was VP of a major corporation in his day. I was sitting in their front room, studying family portraits and nursing a “Michelle Obama-tini” when I realized their son was home.

Langston Davis the Third. My, my, my. This man has the distinguished air of an Earl and a movie star’s swag. He entered the room wearing a polo shirt, khaki shorts, and suede drivers. His goatee was sharp, his peanut skin bronzed with the glaze of the sun. He had a little more girth than I remembered and I could tell that his hair line was receding. It was cut low. But this man was still fine. He looked like money and smelled like Ralph Lauren.

He’d caught me staring, but he’d been staring first. I placed my martini on the coaster beside me and stood up.

“Noni!”

“Hey Langston. Nice to see you.”

“You look good girl.” My, his praise felt good. My ringlets had become lightly tussled in the salt-air. I was sporting a strapless pink Lilly Pullitzer and matching Jack Rodgers sandals. When I was a teen I dreamed of this man. He was the guy that girls like me were groomed to snag. But back in the day, I wasn’t his type. He always had a girlfriend, and despite the fact that his mother was beautiful cocoa brown, his companions were always soft-spoken, trim, and the color of butter. I’d made these assumptions but from the way he was sizing me up, like I was Italian ice on a hot day in July, maybe I was wrong.

“So what you been up to? I know you have a book out.”

“How’d you know? Oh Facebook.” I grinned. “Yes, sales are good. Knee-deep in the second one.”

“ So what do you write about?”

“Love, what else?”

“War, politics, sci-fi… mysteries.”

I laughed at his point. “Well I like to write books that turn people on. Books that remind them that romance isn’t dead, it’s our faith in it that dies. Those are the books that fly off the shelves.”

“I see. You’re probably right.”

“ I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I know, I don’t come up here like I used to, and when I do I pretty much just chill here.”

” I stay low-key , myself.”

“You live in the city?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why haven’t you visited me? Me and my frat bros throw parties all the time.”

“You have to send me a line next time you do. You still at JP?”

“No, I left at the beginning of the year. Started a hedge fund.”

I nearly lost my balance. “Wow! That’s amazing! Congratulations.” I knew automatically his daddy had provided the start up money, but it was clear Langston would grace the cover of Black Enterprise in the next five years.

“Thank you. So what are you getting into tomorrow? I’m around for one more day.”

I should have told him that I was picking my boyfriend up from the airport and spending the day with him and my folks, but I decided not to disclose that bit of info. I’d been taught well. I knew not to burn bridges before I jumped the broom. We exchanged numbers. Of course I didn’t answer when he called the next day, but I do plan to keep that option open. Too bad for my life.
****

I still had Langston on my mind the next morning when I woke up. His preppy affectation had gotten under my skin. It was a different kind of lust. Not the lust that makes your nipples hard, but the kind that sedates you with images of Michelle and Barack. Aren’t all of us BAP’s trying to find our Barack?

I got back in the right groove as soon as I picked up Carter. He entered my car smelling like frankincense and myrhh… like strong spice taken straight from the cradle of civilization. I got high. Nothing beats a fine chocolate man with locks dripping down his back. Nothing. We went back to the Pequot, a bed and breakfast about a block away from the Inkwell. We had plans to meet my parents and their friends at the beach, but Carter was tired. He’d just finished a two-night gig in Madrid. We showered together, I made love to him, and we napped.

I don’t know why I ever doubted Carter. He’s a social chameleon. He’s bohemian at heart, deep into his art and his people, not really down for titles and name dropping, but he can hob-nob with the best of them. I love that about him.

We arrived at the Inkwell around four, just before the breeze picked up and the sand ants started biting. It was the same crew as dinner the first night plus two other couples I didn’t recognize. Everybody was sprawled on a make- shift camp site of beach towels, umbrellas and chairs. Someone had a stereo playing smooth jazz and there was a cooler with some mixed drinks. That’s how you do a beach day.

If anybody disliked Carter, they hid it well. Too well. As he made his rounds, shaking hands, repeating names, they greeted him with porcelain smiles and spirited introductions. Wayne Shorter’s saxophone could be heard playing “Milky Way” . That got dad and Carter talking about Weather Report and engrossed in jazz dialogue. I could tell the women were all privately turned on by the site of his bare sculpted chest and sprawling locks. Carter was the type of man they denied themselves and I knew that at that moment they were craving his guilty pleasure.
After a while we broke free and waded in the water. At first we just got our feet wet, holding hands and kicking loose sea weed. I let Carter lead me further out, even though that New England water was cold, it felt good against my skin. The water came to my chest when we stopped. We faced each other, holding hands, stealing the moment from everyone else on the beach. His locks were wet, dazzling beads of water were rolling down his chest, over his dark nipples, down the dip of his back. His eyes put my soul in bondage. He slayed me. Made me forget abou t the world around me. He pulled me into him and kissed me, his lips tasting like spearmint and salt water. I closed my eyes and relaxed, the rhythm of the water lapping against my body matched that of his tongue. I knew we were being watched and whispers were being passed but I didn’t care.

My choices in love and career made me happy. I realized that I don’t want to live by the book. I just want to write it.

-Noni