Flat On My Ass
October 1st, 2009 | Author: Noni
GENEVA
My director looked like an African-matriarch, sprawled behind her desk attempting to whisk the sweat bullets from her brow with a palm fan. She wore a crown of intertwined locks, and the beads of sweat that seemed to be born at her hairline, soaked the ebony skin of her face, neck and decolletage. The cotton of her b lousy dress was suffocating and probably damp in a few places. She was hot. I was hot. More hot from looking at her suffer in the still air . The AC was broken. Again.
I glanced at the second hand that had to be moving backwards. The anal-retentive play wright didn’t know who he wanted for a lead and I was ready to tell him to flip a coin and call it a day. I wanted to be escape, to be anywhere, an-y-where, but there at that moment, talking in circles in a small office where the air felt like hot breath.
In the days that followed my break down, Paul morphed into the sweetest man on earth. He bought carnations to the house. Called to say he loved me. Put smiley faces at the end of his text messages.
As the days passed I grew suspicious.
This was not my man. Showing up unannounced it. Grinning in my face. That shit was making me nervous. He had me coming up with all kinds of scenarios. Like was he about to confess to poisoning one of my roommates dogs on the sly? Paul’s inability to escape his own genius thoughts is what makes Paul Paul. Believe it or not, chasing him, craving his intimacy, is like crack.
And crack is whack. Thanks Whitney.
I had nothing to confirm my suspicions, so I shrugged his niceness off and avoided it. We were in the process of casting for the next play and I was spending extra hours at work and more time crashing at my friend’s places. We were playing hide and seek and I wondered how long we could keep it up. Something crazy was bound to happen.
And then the shit hit the fan.
The doorbell chimed at the theater and I jumped up to answer it. Finally, an opportunity to escape. I wish I’d known I was headed toward Dante’s Inferno.
She was bony, old and she looked as if she’d been walking all day long. Her tiny jeans clung to her gaunt frame, her pixie cut had outgrown it’s perm and strands of crudely bleached hair clung to her forehead. She looked permanently bewildered, like a woman who furrowed her brows too much for her own good. She was wearing a wrinkled ‘I Heart New York’ t-shirt, and some black tennis shoes.
I figured she either needed to use the phone or she had the wrong address altogether.
“Are you Geneva?”
“Yes.”
“Bitch!”
She lunged across the doorway and shoved me to the ground with all of her might, which suprisingly, was great. I fell straight back onto the mosaic tiling and from my horizontal position she looked possessed. Her eyes twitched like they were performing silent incanatations. Maybe she was willing my destruction. The pain spread from by back to the rest of entire body. My legs were trembling. I couldn’t feel my fingers. I couldn’t sit up. The pain was too great. I was helpless.
I was expecting to see her eyes roll back and her head to spin in 360 degree rotations. And then she’d take her bony balled up fists and finish what she’d started. She looked so tired. Like she’d never had a comfortable place to rest her head. Like she had witnessed a lot of grief in life. Like she didn’t have a damn thing to lose.
I wanted to scream, but the shock alone pulled the wind from my body. My mouth hung open, just like the window, letting out all my body heat. My heart pumped. My skin burnt. We were warring on the stoop of hell and I was unsure of the spoils. Homegirl made it plain.
“I told you to stay away from him. I told you! You bitch. You mother-fucking whore! Try me, try to come near me again.”
I heard foot steps, four of them, in lop sided syncopation. Slow thuds alternating with the quick taps of the playwrights loafers against the tile. When Mother Africa discovered me staring at the cieling, grimacing in pain she began to cuss. She her palm fan to swat at my unwelcome visitor like she was a house fly. “Get out! Get the fuck out!” Her warm alto rose to a menacing shrill. She looked like she was willing to kill for me. I still couldn’t move.
I overheard the playwright recite our address to the 911 operator.
“Be glad I don’t slice that bitch whore right now. You think I’m scared of you? You think I’m fucking scared of you. Don’t try me! If you was smart you’d get your fat ass out the way!”
“I’m not scared of you either,” Mother Africa shouted back, standing her ground. If the two were pitted against each other it would be an unfair match. The woman looked like she might topple over if Mother Africa so much as tapped her. “Get off of my damn property. We’re calling the cops. I’ll have you arrested. You will spend the night in jail!”
The woman began to back away, but not quietly. She called me a cunt, a whore, a tramp, a witch and a bitch. She spelled out my death. Announced all the people who would participate in my demise. My back hurt so much, it took over my entire body. I was burning and then my lids snapped shut.
I woke up in the ER at Columbia-Presbyterian.
The doctor trying to talk to me looked like he walked off the set of General Hospital. He was beautiful. Beautiful tan skin, nice mauve lips, brown eyes that reminded me of a llama’s heavy eyes. “Geneva? Geneva?” I thought I was answering but it turns out my lips weren’t moving. I looked away. Mother Africa was by the door shaking her head and muttering something inaudible. I turned back, and it was Dr. Feel Good. It felt like I was 10 feet under water and someone was quickly pulling me up to the surface. As if I’d been abrutly awoken from a horrible dream. His voice grew louder and less muffled. ” Geneva, can you hear me? Can you hear me talking to you? Are you able to respond.” He put his hand on my forehead and I wanted him to keep it there.
“Yes.” But my mouth felt like I’d been sucking on cotton balls. I’ve never been thirstier in my life. I soon learned that I’d spent the past 2 hours unconscious. The shock, the heat, and the pain had ruined me.
I moaned.
“Look, you may have damaged your tail bone. You’re pretty bruised back there.”
“You’ve already seen my behind?”
“We examined you when you came in,” he smiled.
“This is awkward” I said, trying to make light of a crazy situation.
“It shouldn’t be. I’ve seen worse.”
Dr. Feel Good smelled like Christmas. Like chestnuts roasting, and hot cider, and gingerbread men. And when he leaned over me and wrapped his toffee hands around mine, a shock of pleasure flew through my body. This was an outer body experience. Had I died? Was this heaven?
“We’re going to get some x-rays done and take it from there okay.” He stroked the loose hair from my damp brow and left the room.
Long story short, I fractured my tailbone pretty badly. My back side was black and blue. I was out of the hospital after two days, and I can walk okay, but it’s painful to sit and lie down. Go figure. Hence why I’m writing this while sitting in one of those donut seat cushions.
In the week that followed my fall, I cleaned house. Figuratively.
Paul came over the day after I returned from the hospital. Caroline answered the door. My mom, Caroline and Noni are taking turns making food for me. I know. I’m loved. Caroline made him wait outside the apartment and asked me if I wanted to see him. Wait, she actually was scowling. I really did want to see him. I wanted to know if all this madness was really what it seemed. There was a part of me that wanted him to tell me that trollop was just a crazy stalker who lived in his building. Someone who had it twisted. But I followed Caroline’s judgment. The pain was shooting through my body as a reminder of all the emotional pain he had caused me. I was exhausted. let Caroline get rid of him. I don’t know what she said. Something stank. The door slammed seconds later.
Then my phone buzzed.
“How you doing queen?”
“My back feels like death.”
“Anything I can do to help.”
Wait, did he figure that if he just acted normal everything would be normal. Because there ain’t shit normal about me catching a beat down.
“You can make sure your girlfriends don’t get my phone number and addresses.”
“Look, I feel I really need to apologize, but for real though. I had no idea she was tripping like that.”
“Who is she?”
My question hung in the air like an ice cycle prepared to cut either of us when it broke free.
“She’s someone I used to mess with.”
Woosh. I felt another hard blow to my stomach. Tears began to well up in my eyes. My face burned. Why the hell was I crying over this fool? Why?
“How long ago?”
“It’s over.”
“Really Paul? You’re going to play games now even though you know I actually got my ass kicked over some of your shit. Really? ”
“I mean, it’s over. What else do you want to hear?” Now was not the time to be smug. Now was the time for him to be humble, drop down on his knees, and beg for my forgiveness. Wasn’t I worth that?
“You know what, nothing.”
I hung up. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t handle the truth, or the sound of his voice, or the thought that all of my suspicions were right. He played me. He played the shit out of me.
When the phone rang a second time, I turned it off. I didn’t even want to see his missed calls. I fought the tears and the darkness, but not hard enough. I curled up in my bed until Caroline found me and promptly scolded me for giving that clown my grief. It was tough love that at that moment I needed. Still, I cried on her shoulder until I had no more water and we drank wine until the wee hours of night.
I woke up with crust all over my eyes and lips. I had a hang over. My back was stabbing because I’d fallen asleep without my back cushion. But I was on a mission. I tip-toed to my bedroom, fished my for phone in the darkness and cleared his number. There. It was a start. But getting rid of Paul and his demons wasn’t going to be that easy.
This trollop still had my number and for a week she called me from different phones just to hang up. Talk about adding insult to injury. Literally. My life! My world! I thought about doing a little investigation and taking out a restraining order. That was Noni’s suggestion. But really, I just wanted to stay at home, nurse my bruised behind, and watch day time television during my week off. Mother Africa had given me a week of sick leave.
Right now, it hurts to rest but it feels amazing to be alive. I didn’t know how good it could feel to fall out of love with someone. Looking back on it, maybe God arranged my beat down on purpose. Maybe it was the very brutal wake-up call I needed to move on. I feel excited, for what I don’t know. I’m proud of myself, for not turning ack and letting him smother his way back into my world. And now I feel like it’s time to try something new. Travel. Give the stage another shot. I don’t know. I’m going to let myself heal, in all senses of the word, and then see where the wind takes me.
-Geneva
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