Man Curse (16 page)

Chapter 22

A
week later I began to look for a new apartment. Searching in the
Village Voice
, pulling out a checkbook when interested, I took only two weeks to find the perfect spot. A one-bedroom in a four-story walk-up in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. Word was, Biggie used to live around the corner. The apartment Lil' Kim grew up in was a block away. The wild days of crack-fueled gunfights had calmed down into a gentrified, cleaned-up area that was on the rise as far as overpriced places to live.

But it didn't take long for me to regret moving to Brooklyn. Weeks of not speaking to Sean had me yearning for home and wishing I'd picked Jersey City, instead of a borough that reminded me of
him
. After a long November weekend, a friends-and-family production of unloading boxes and furniture into my tiny spot, I trudged down the chilly block to the C train. Observing gloomy clouds and couples skipping with the promise of falling in love, my heart withered with blackened anger and moldy envy. I noticed the dead leaves turned inward, spotted crisping branches and potted plants suffocating from a craving for water. At work I sat hard, motionless, like a corpse in rigor mortis. The words on the computer screen were blurry to me, meshing with its blue background into a mirage of letters on the horizon of sleep. I dragged on tirelessly to the promised land, the land of the finished task—proofreading documents, typing memos, sending e-mails, making copies. I could see completion in the distance, but getting there was an upward hike. Something was holding me back, for days, weeks. The heat of depression, anger blazed across my brain like an oppressive heat wave—thick and pressured—sitting on triggers igniting my migraines. Tension in my stomach built, blocking my appetite, mooching my smiles, robbing me of all happiness and love. Damn that evil man. The aftermath of my breakup with Sean was murdering my soul.

“Meena!”

I jumped out of sullen inertia and found Denise standing over me with a confused look of concern on her face.

“Come in my office,” she said, before placing yet another pink Post-it with a to-do list atop my inbox pile and walking back into her office. “Get an intern to answer your phone.”

I took a deep breath and dragged myself behind her.

“Close the door,” she said, sitting at her desk, typing an e-mail. “Let me ask you something . . .”

The thoughts inside me ran in frenzied, circular disarray.
What did I do now?
Sean cheats, damn near gives me an STD, and now my boss wants to fire me. Fuck.

I plopped down on her white leather recliner. In front, atop a marble table, my eyes focused on a dying bouquet of roses turning brownish black, a tiny petal hanging like my heart from its tall glass vase.

“Okay, what's going on, Meena?” Denise walked over and sat next to me. “You're starting to depress me. Did something happen?”

“No,” I answered in a monotone, eyes fixated on the dead flowers, concentrating on keeping tears from flooding my eyes. “I'm just tired.”

“Meena, come on now. Been there, done that,” she said, placing her lipstick-stained, tall cup of coffee on the table. “What's up? How are you and Sean doing?”

Priding myself on being private, I hated that everyone knew Sean was my boyfriend. It was as if he'd made a point to tell every single writer, editor, and publicist in New York City that we were dating. He had to find a way to let people know our ups, downs, and outs. I'd run into people on the train and they'd say, “Hey, are you okay?” With a sad, pouting look of apology they'd add, “I talked to Sean.”

But Denise wasn't sitting there pouting. Instead, she held a pinkie to the side while sipping a hot latte. I could feel her studying me, hoping to connect and understand. For the first time, I didn't see my boss. I saw the big sister I'd always wanted. She sat with her legs crossed, patiently waiting. Her pager buzzed across the room, e-mails chimed in her inbox, and still she didn't move, staying focused on me.

“Listen. If he's not making you smile, it's not worth the stress,” she said, taking another sip. “We women have a tendency to put so much into relationships, losing our souls. And when we're so busy doing that, we can't enjoy the success that we have in life. The success and happiness we've created by ourselves, without a man, goes unappreciated, unnoticed, and unenjoyed because we're so busy focusing on him.”

“I know,” I said with a sigh. “I just love him. And I want it to go right.”

“Meena, you have so much going for you right now. You're doing an excellent job as my assistant. Everybody loves you. The big dogs that call always tell me how professional and efficient you are. I can't run this without you. Even though I know I'll have to promote you soon.”

I perked up. Eyes wide open. Like a jolt of caffeine running through my veins, giving an adrenaline pump of electrified interest.

“Soon,” she said, with a smile. “But see that energy there? The way you sat up straight, alive, eager? That's the type of energy I need. Not that mopey shit.”

She returned to her former point. “I don't know what's going on. But if he's not treating you right. If there's another girl . . .” Her words drifted off as our eyes connected in a moment of understanding. “If you think there's another girl, listen to your instincts and do something about it. But don't let it hold you back and affect what you do here or anywhere else. Business is never personal. Walk into your job, forget about the outside world, and you'll do fabulous. Fuck him.”

She let that idea marinate.

“It's hard being a woman, all emotional and full of moody estrogen. We need to have tunnel vision like these men. Focus. Forget about the outside till we get outside. Does that make sense?”

I nodded in agreement.

“Good, now clean your desk. It'll help clear your head.”

“Thank you,” I said, walking toward the door. “I needed that. A nice kick in the ass.”

“No worries. Been there, done that,” she said, smiling. “Close the door on your way out. E-mail my messages and don't disturb me for a few hours. I need to get on this editing.”

I walked back to my desk renewed, refreshed, refocused. Picking up the pile of papers in my inbox, I shuffled through the stack of Denise's Post-its, differentiating between what needed to be handed out, copied, typed up, and filed. Making my rounds, I proofed a few documents, sent them back to the managing editor, cleared my inbox, and finally got to file a stack of writer contracts. Pulling open the heavy black drawer, I found each space was filled with overstuffed manila folders. Determined to be productive, I alphabetized and updated each section until I got to the bottom of a disorganized stack. Then I picked up the final contract, and a name in blue ink was written in capital letters: KELLY JONES.

The phone rang.

“
Buzz
magazine,” I snapped, not realizing I'd answered my personal line and not Denise's.

“Uh, Meena?”

The familiar voice was strong, soothing, and melodic like a late-night radio DJ's, making my heart melt with a romantic R&B serenade. It was Sean.

“Hey, babe,” I said instinctively, missing that man I hadn't seen in forever, loving him.

“Okay, that sounds better. What are you doing?”

I looked at Kelly's contract in my hand and felt the wall build up again.

“Filing. And I'm kinda busy. What's up?”

“Damn, and you are kinda bipolar right now. You on your period? PMSing?”

“I have to go . . .”

“Okay, okay, I was just calling to see if you wanted to come over after work. You know, I was gonna pick up some salmon or something. Make you dinner. Haven't seen you in . . . too long.”

“You wanna cook for me?”

“Um, yeah. I miss you. And I wanna talk.”

Ice melt. My heart was cold, but the charming heat in his voice turned my mind to mush.

“Well,” I said slowly, fighting the soft urge to give in, failing at the need to be hard. “I guess we can do that.”

“So when you get off, and you're on your way, call me. I miss you.”

I was silent for a few seconds. Letting his words percolate inside my body, sinking emotionally, chemically, appeasing my addiction that had caused painful withdrawal. Pissed that he sounded like nothing had happened. But his words said he acknowledged it. We had talked easily, a familiar pull of affection and friendship.

“Hello?” he asked, a tinge of doubt in his voice. “You there?”

“I miss you, too,” I said, looking at the address on Kelly's contract. “But I have to go now. I'll see you later.”

632 Greene Avenue. Brooklyn, NY.

I knew that address. Kelly lived around the corner from my new apartment. I could reach out and touch a bitch. We'd probably been on the train together and not even known. Taking out my planner, jotting down her address, I filed the contract and sat at my computer to open a new document. It began with two typed words: “Dear Kelly . . .”

Chapter 23

I
hate breakups. That fucking yearning to want to be with someone you have no business being with, but you can't get his damn face out your mind, the feeling of his body, his touch. So addictive. Thoughts that make you pine with sweat, your vagina vibrate with wet daydreams. I know why I did it. Because I loved him. Because my self-esteem was wastebasket low; because I subconsciously believed I couldn't do better, that I had to prove myself, chase love, show my worth. Because I hoped that by doing it, by being the best at it, he'd be satisfied and not want anyone else. I thought I needed this attention, needed his love, needed him. I thought sex was the cure.

On a table next to the bed, a brown prescription bottle from the STD clinic lay sideways, empty. Still there even though he'd finished it weeks ago. Next to it was an empty condom wrapper. I picked it up for inspection, making sure it wasn't expired, reading: “Durex. Made in India. Effective against pregnancy, HIV (AIDS), and STDs.”

I was lucky not to have gotten gonorrhea from Sean. But the mystery of where he'd gotten it made me delirious. We'd used condoms some of the time—we'd had several drunken slipups. But was he cheating? Or did he have the infection before we met and I'd been blessed by God not to have contracted it? In my head I did the math: Two weeks of no sex after my surgery. Two weeks of seeing Kelly Jones on weekends. Those recent dates on the calendar. He had to have gotten it from her. It was a fact that nearly every woman I knew, including myself, and except Meredith, had a man cheat on them. That didn't automatically mean Sean was doing the same. But my faith and confidence were screwed up from years of being told about “the curse.” From years of hearing that all men were dogs. From trying to block the seeping generalizations of men that poisoned my mind and suppressed my confidence in making the right choices. But I was still determined to break the bullshit line. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe he would change his ways and we would get married and live happily ever after. We'd look back and tell people the dramatic stories about how many times we broke up and got back together before deciding to finally stay together. It could happen. I could manifest my thoughts. But to do that, I had to trust him. The vision of Kelly Jones stepping off the
Buzz
elevator, and that uncomfortable triangle of tension between her, Sean, and me. I couldn't shake it. I wish I hadn't found her contract. I wish I could get her out of my head.

“What are you thinking about?” Sean said, his hand rubbing my stomach. “You look angry.”

“You,” I said, grabbing his hand and holding it close. “You, me, the possibilities . . .”

“I didn't do it,” he said, laughing and squeezing my left breast. “I'm innocent.”

“Didn't do what?” I let go of his hand. “How do you know I was accusing you of something?”

“I'm just playing!” He laughed and kissed my lips. “Relax, babe.”

“I know, sorry,” I said, snuggling up and kissing his neck. “Let's play hooky today. We can stay in bed, play, take a break. I can make you some lunch. Play some more. Then I'll make you dinner. Give you some head.”

“Well, I got plans tonight,” he said, pulling away a bit. “I got a meeting.”

“Yeah, about what?”

“Oh, I've got a follow-up with Puffy. You know, for that story I'm doing for
Buzz.
”

“That's right! You got the cover again! Congratulations, babe.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He smiled. “But I'm supposed to meet with him and then talk to the writer doing the sidebar and give some info to help with that.”

My ears perked up. I was like a dog hearing the sound of a whistle miles away in the wind.

“Oh, okay. When's this happening?”

“Tonight.”

“Who's the writer?”

“Um . . . Shawn Garrett, you heard of her, right?”

Shawn Garrett was the biggest lesbian in the freelance writing game. She dressed and walked like a boy. But despite her manly stance and swag, from the neck up she looked like Tyra Banks. Her niche was reggae and world artists. A piece on Puff Daddy seemed strange.

“Anyone else working on a sidebar?”

He was quiet for a long, contemplative moment. As if he couldn't formulate the words. As if he didn't know what to say or do.

“Hello . . . did you blank out?”

“Um, nah,” he said, getting out of bed. “I'm not sure . . .”

“Not sure of what? The sidebar?”

“Why are you asking so many questions? Damn, you're like five-o,” he said, putting a leg into his sweat pants. “What the fuck, Meena. We're sitting here, having a good morning in bed, and then you're cross-examining me.”

“What the fuck?” I asked this while jumping out of bed. “Where's my bra?” I started walking around feverishly, looking for my underwear. I had to get out of that place. “Where's my panties?”

“Where you going, Meena? I'm sorry,” Sean said from across the room. “I'm just hungry.”

“Something came up,” I said, sitting on the bed, putting on my socks. “I forgot I gotta go to the office.”

“So no hooky day today?”

“Nah, I gotta do something for Denise.” I pulled my blouse over my head. “I need to get to the office. I just remembered.”

Sean watched as I rushed and stumbled to get dressed. His face was perplexed. I ran out of his house, caught the train, and made it to work in thirty minutes flat. Eight thirty. Ran upstairs, flew past the security guard, got to my desk, and with my purse still on my shoulder I opened the file cabinet and pulled out a contract. It said what I'd suspected: “Kelly Jones Assignment: Puffy sidebar. Word count: 250 words.”

“Lying-ass motherfucker,” I said out loud.

I slammed the cabinet closed, sat and turned on the computer, pulled up the document in my files, and began typing:

Dear Kelly,

You don't know me well. But I think it's time we talk woman to woman . . .