Let me finish this story…I’ve got some f’real stuff to tell you about!
For those of you who aren’t caught up, here ya go…
Now, where was I? Oh, yes:
I turned, and out of the corner of my eye I could see White Guy walking briskly back to the table. Just five more seconds, and…
“Come see, Brian!” Super Soul Sister was waving excitedly at White Guy, er, Brian. He pivoted sharply, making me admire the tensile strength of his ankles. White men can’t jump, but they can turn on a dime, let me tell you.
“Brian,” my daughter whispered to my wife.
“Watch this,” my wife whispered back. I’m not a believer in domestic violence, but these two were pushing it.
“Sorry I took so long,” Brian arrived, a bit breathless. “You weren’t leaving, were you?” I rolled my eyes; this fool was hooked, and he didn’t even know it. I briefly considered enacting Man Rule #64C—Always Help A Fellow Man With Female Trouble, but one look around let me know I was outnumbered. Both Madame and Mademoiselle M had their talons out, and SSS’s 48DDs had my flank covered. White Guy was on his own, kinda like the mother gazelle on the Serengeti who realizes her baby gazelle is now the appetizer, and if she doesn’t run like hell, she’s the entrée. WG should have left SSS at the water cooler where she was.
Oh, well. Sometimes you just have to let stuff play out, and just make sure none of the schnitzel don’t land on you. Kinda like Obama and Syria.
“Oh, no, Baby,” SSS said, holding her erster, I mean, oyster, up towards Brian. “See? It’s a raw erster! Try it!”
Well, Brian looked like he’s rather eat soap, but I’ll be dogged if he didn’t take that er—oyster out of her hand and pour it in his mouth, hot sauce and all. “Mmmmph,” he mumbled, not sure what to do with it. Yeah, he was hooked. Raw oyster with green hot sauce is not for the faint of heart. He gulped, and managed a crooked smile. “N-n-not bad,” he lied.
“Well, I shure hope it don’t do you like they say it do,” Sister laughed; the other two females joined her. He laughed weakly, or at least he tried to. That hot sauce was kicking him, and the sudden realization of what she said kicked him at the same time. I felt sorry for him, but hey, it was his first date. Let him see how dating a sister felt like. Besides, I had my own troubles.
“Why don’t y’all sit down and join us?” my wife asked. “It’ll be on us! Right, dear?”
I gave her Husband Look #108, I’m Smiling, But We’re Headed For Knuckle Junction When We Get Home. “Right,” I said through slightly clenched teeth.
“Good!” she answered, giving me Wife Look #108A, No, We’re Not, “Y’all get your chairs! Honey, go help him.”
I got up, noting my daughter texting busily; her best friend Shooney’s phone was blowing up, I was certain. A Swirl Date, up close and personal? Their phones would be smokin’ like Joe Frazier in the fifth round, for sure.
The women chattered like magpies, like newly introduced women are prone to do; all the while taking note of hairstyles, fingernails, perfume, makeup, etc., you know, the important female stuff. Brian and I discussed sports, as men are supposed to do when we first meet. True to form, however, Madame tried to turn the conversation, or, as I call it, mind other people’s business.
“Where did you two meet?” she asked Brian.
“On Soul Train,” I answered with a grin, “Where do you think?”
“I think,” she answered, “that I’m talking to him.” She glared at me, and I stuck the tip of my tongue out at her, lightning-quick. To the uninitiated, it looked like I was just licking my lips, but she knew better. “Grrrh,” she said softly.
“All right, you two,” my daughter said, mid-text. We weren’t about to ruin this Swirl Date for her, no sir.
Brian began telling us how they met. Queesa, that was her name, short for some long pseudo-African schit her momma found in a baby name book. Took my daughter three times to text-type it right, and I doubted seriously if Shooney would be able to pronounce it. Queesa was one of the IT people at the company, and Brian had been called in for a training session. Queesa had been explaining the importance of not using Facebook during company time when she noticed ol’ Brian, sitting on the front row. “He was sooo cute,” Queesa bubbled, “all I needed was some gravy to sop him up!”
Oh, geez. IT person? Queesa? Yeah, right. I started looking for a polite way to signal the waiter for the check, while hoping Brian would insist on splitting it. Least he could do, since Queesa ordered the lobster Pontchartrain. At least she ate it, claws and all. “Kinda, er, crunchy, aint it?” she had mumbled, trying to spit in a ladylike fashion.
Like I said, claws and all. You people don’t listen.
Anyway, my daughter had been punching buttons on her IPhone, discreetly at first, then she became increasingly more annoyed, frowning at the screen. “Where did you buy this thing, Daddy, Dollar Tree?”
“I wish the bill would come from there,” I answered.
“Put that thing up,” my wife said. “It’s rude.”
“Gimmie that ,” Queesa said, extending a French-tip manicured hand.
“Huh?” my daughter said, looking at me quizzically.
“Give it to her,” I commanded. “Serves ya right.”
I briefly hoped Queesa would stick in her bra, purely as a logistical exercise, of course. Not so much as to how she would get it in, but, rather, how she would fish it out. Maybe she would need some help, or something. I tucked that salacious little thought in the back of my mind, while I watched Queesa fiddle around with the IPhone. She took her phone out of her Brahman purse, then removed a little squiggly wire-and-ink pen pointy looking thing, and stuck each end into both phones.
“What’s that?” my daughter asked. I shrugged. “Heck if I know,” I said.
“Satellite jumper,” Queesa said softly, whistling what sounded like “Smooth Operator.” She hit a few buttons on both phones, then looked up at us. “It’s what I do,” she said, as if that explained it all.
Brian beamed. “See? That’s what I’m talking about!” I glanced at him; he had gotten a bit loud.
“Shush,” Queesa said. “I’m twistin’ this cat’s tail.” Brian lowered the volume, in fact, he shut up completely. Dang! I thought. He aint even got none yet, and she got him all twisted up! Hate to see what happens when she twirk him for the first time! “Here,” she said, handing the phone to my daughter. “Be careful what you download, sometimes you get some real crap.”
“Madmoiselle M’s eyes widened. “Wow,” she said softly. “Thanks!” Her thumbs began moving at warp speed. I rolled my eyes inwardly; this was not the way it was supposed to go.
Madame spoke up. “So, what’s in the cards for you two? To be, or not to be? That is the question! Brian?” She put her chin in her hands.
Uh-ohhhhh. This was the Watching the Wildebeest From 50 Yards Out position…
Brian was doomed. All we were missing was the rice and the ugly-dressed bridesmaids. My daughter hitched forward in her seat a little. She’d probably be allowed to sit in on the upcoming feeding frenzy. Queesa smiled. “Oh, this is just our first date, ma’am. We’re jus’ learnin’ about each other, y’know, we’re so different!”
“Really?” I mumbled. 3 sets of eyes turned my way. “Oh, come on!” I protested. “It’s–it’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”
Queesa looked at my wife. “When the shoe is on the other foot,” she purred, “does he have the same reaction?”
“No, baby,” my wife purred back, “he usually says, ‘Cuz got him one! Go ‘head, Cuz!'”
“Then he laughs like it’s funny,” my daughter joined in, her thumbs moving furiously, then she stopped and looked up. “He laughs like it’s funny.” She had the faintest hint of a growl; I felt like a hyena on the fringes of a lions’ feast: We’ll let you know when you can join in, but if you bark too much, we’ll run you off, and maybe, just maybe, make you the dessert.
I looked at Brian, poor thing. He wasn’t going to even get a whiff tonight, but, he seemed happy just to be with her. Oh, well. He’d learn, big ‘uns do not a relationship make. Takes affection and respect, not to mention a good hiding spot for the remote.
“Got any advice for me, sir?” Poor thing, so trusting and all. Madame and Mademoiselle were both looking at me with that Don’t you DARE! look on their faces; Quessa shifted in her seat, making them wiggle a bit. Trying to throw me off my game with those big 52’s pointed at me, I suppose. Like I said, fish and breast stories get bigger with the tellin’.
My wife opened her mouth; a cocked eyebrow from me closed it back. “I thought so,” I said. “If you need to check and make sure, the bathroom’s that-a-way.” I pointed, but her mouth remained shut. I’d hear about it later, but she knew she had it coming. I leaned back, and clasped my hands behind my head, the default Here Comes Some Manly Advice position.
“My dad does that,” Queesa said to the other females, who rolled their eyes.
“Wise man,” I answered, then, to Brian: “Son, there’s two kinds of women in the world, women you play with…and women you stay with. Women you play with, they flashy and cute, and they’re fun to have around, y’know, for dates and sex, y’know?”
“And the good thing about them is when you’re done is, you just put ’em back where ya got ’em from, like a pool stick or a tennis racquet. Or, if you like ’em a lot, you buy a case for ’em, and put ’em up, keep other men from gettin’ his hand on ’em, y’know what I mean? Then, when you’re done with ’em, or find you a better one, you pass ’em on to the next man. Understand?”
He nodded again, and Queesa said, “Damn! That’s cold!”
“Life is cold,” I answered, “But that’s how it works. Men take you the way you present yourself. You act like a toy, you get treated like a toy. You act like you got some value, you get treated like you got value. You know why baloney is cheaper than diamonds? It’s easier to get. Any grocery store carries baloney. But diamonds? Only special places carry it, and you better have your money. You don’t buy diamonds out of your front pocket, do you?”
“What about the second kind?” Brian asked.
“Women you stay with?” I answered. “Them’s the kind you make commitment to, introduce them to your mother and your kinfolks.You want to lock ’em down quickly, before another man with better sense comes and takes her from you.” I looked at Queesa. “How do you know when a man got proper intentions towards you?” I asked. “Don’t listen to what he says, watch what he does. Men have a habit of marking what is his; we personalize everything. Why? Because we don’t want other men to think they can take it.”
She was taking it in; I could tell. “How will I know how he feels about me?” she asked.
“Check your hand,” I answered. “When there’s something on it that wasn’t there before, he’s serious.”
“Uh-huh,” she answered. “I hear ya.”
“See what’s on that hand?” I pointed @ Madame, who shot out her left hand like a Scud missile. “Two-and-a-half C’s” she said proudly. “He did that right,” she said.
“That aint all I do right,” I answered, eliciting a blush from Madame, and an eye roll from Madmoiselle. “Y’all quit that,” she said.
“You best be glad Poppa can swing the hammer,” I replied, “Otherwise you’d be one of them cherubs sittin’ in Heaven with nothing to do.” We laughed; all except her, that is…
On the way home I said, “You think ol’ Brian scored?” Madmoiselle was snoring, so it was safe.
“Not if Queesa got good sense,” Madame answered. “White man always get what he want too quick. Making him wait be good for their relationship. Now, as for me,” I said with a grin, “I been waiting long enough. Time for Poppa to swing the hammer!”
“Negro, please,” she answered, but I could tell she was fighting a smile…
He’s a smooth operator…