Sys-Funky (with it)
Published by James Pelton Jr. at Smashwords
Copyright 2002 - James Pelton Jr.
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For Mature Audiences Only
Table of Contents
Miles Freedman sat at one of the cement chess tables in Washington Square Park surrounded by NYU on a pleasant but brisk autumn afternoon in October 1998. He stared at a sun-speckled, shimmering puddle wondering when it would all come together... when he’d feel complete.
If you planned and worked hard, happiness was the payoff... right? It was supposed to get easier. At some point in your life, you were supposed to be able to stand at the helm of your ship of success built by hard work and the right moves; with your hands clasped behind you feeling the warm breeze on your face as you sailed off into the sunset knowing that you fought the good fight and won. Happiness was the pearl brought to you by the one woman put on this earth to fulfill all of your dreams, fantasies and desires.
Miles believed that with every fiber of his being. Call it undying faith... naiveness... denial... he didn’t care. He would not accept or settle for anything less.
He sat opposite his chess buddy of two years, Lamont Scott, and tried to concentrate on the chess game he was playing but the hustle and bustle of the entire park seemed to coalesce at the southwest corner and entrance to the park which was where the chess tables were situated. He watched the drug dealers accosting anyone entering the park. He assumed all the African-American and Hispanic men standing there were drug dealers saying things like:
“Yo, got it.”
“Whatchu want, Mommee? Got them rocks.”
“Trees - Trees!”
Not that he ever saw any money or crack exchange hands... not that he even knew what crack looked like but it had to be something with all the handshaking between what seemed like perfect strangers; college students, well-dressed adults... it amazed Miles how many different types people were shaking hands with people he wouldn’t greet in a million years.
Then there were the quiet ones with the hard faces who moved in slow-motion and always looked like they had a bad attitude. They didn’t approach anyone but merely waited for the ones who looked as evil as they did to approach them. They would just raise their heads at them or say one syllable.
“H...” or “D...”
These were the ones who scared Miles the most. There was no joy or humanity in their eyes. A baby could have fallen out of their stroller and they wouldn’t have cared.
“Miles, don’t pay those fools any mind,” Lamont said observing the fearful look in Miles’ eyes. “...you don’t do business with them so they don’t have any interest in you... not unless you think they’re planning to take your platinum Rolex,” laughed Lamont, a man in his late thirties; a little on the heavy side with close cut hair and reddish brown skin. He was dressed in a green turtleneck, brown slacks, and a tan sports jacket as he leaned forward with his arms crossed on the chess table.
Miles unconsciously pulled his shirtsleeve over his watch causing Lamont to laugh even more. “Do black people make you nervous? Do I make you nervous?”
Miles wanted to say something but he noticed an unshaven, stoop-shouldered African-American man smoking a cigarette standing directly behind Lamont appearing to be interested in the game. He placed his hand on the back of the bench and at first seemed to be leaning over, but Miles realized that he was actually squatting down trying to bring his other hand parallel with Lamont’s back pocket.
“Fool, if you don’t get from behind me, you’re gonna be my queen on this chesstable in front of the whole park,” Lamont hissed without turning around.
The man immediately stood up and stepped away acting as if he was offended. “Yo, nigga, whatchu mean by that?” he said with his hands at his sides at the ready to pounce at a moment’s notice and drawing the attention of those standing by the entrance.
Lamont he stood up and faced the man while reaching inside his sport jacket. Miles noticed that Lamont’s expression changed resembling the hard-faced men with the bad attitudes.
The “offended” man studied Lamont for a few seconds and looked as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it as he sulked off mumbling to himself.
Lamont laughed with his hands clasped in front of him while shrugging his shoulders.
“So how are things, Professor?” Miles asked as Lamont turned around and sat back down.
“I’m not a professor. I merely teach a couple of computer classes at NYU’s School of Continuing Ed,” Lamont replied focusing more on the chessboard than his opponent. “...and stop trying to get in my business,” Lamont grinned.
“Why would I want to do that, Mr. Scott? I heard you were a big time corporate exec. Or should I say Mr. He-Who-Lives-Lavishly-Without-Visible-Means-of-Support?” Miles said as he pushed his pawn forward.
Lamont sat up contemplating his next move. “Hmm...” A minute later, he tentatively moved his bishop forward. “...actually I recently got a job.”
“In I-T?”
“What?”
“I-T, Information Technology... computers,” Miles explained.
“Yeah, if that’s what you call it. In my day it used to be called data processing. All I know is that I’m now in the world of client server.”
“Where?”
“I can’t let you know that because if I did, I’d have to kill you,” Lamont said with a serious demeanor.
“Hey, programming at Toys R Us is a credible job as anyplace else... do you get to spend some quality time with Barbie?” Miles asked with a straight face.
“Yo, screw you, Miles,” Lamont said as they both laughed.
“Why didn’t you come and work for us?” Miles asked.
“Wait... I thought you were selling your company... Aren’t you, Samantha and your other partner planning to sell Sy-Logic for thir-ty mil-lion dol-lars? Isn’t today the big day when you vote on it?” Lamont asked.
Miles nodded, “Actually, we did vote to sell. We meet today to decide on when to accept the offer. But even if we did, whoever bought it, I’d set up an agreement ensuring your employment,” Miles explained. “… provided you tell me what happened at your other job... Oh and by the way, check.”
Lamont was quiet as he studied the chessboard. If he didn’t find a way to protect his king, one more move by Miles and the game would be over... checkmate. He finally moved his king out of harm’s way and Miles confidently slammed his piece on the board.
“Damn, you’re nosey! I told you before, what’s past is past. It happened a long time ago and I don’t want to bring it up,” Lamont said with finality. “... oh, and by the way, a little somethin’ for you to remember me by... checkmate!” he laughed as he captured the pawn in front of Miles’ king with his queen.
“What? I had you!” Miles exclaimed as he jumped up studying the board as if looking from this vantage point would better explain what happened.
“Pay me my twenty, son,” Lamont grinned with his hand outstretched.
After Miles left, Lamont studied the chess board but stared into the past.
That fateful morning almost five years ago, was fucked up from the start. Lamont was in at 7 am to ensure that all systems were go before attempting to go live transferring data to a business partner.
He tried to logon to the system but kept getting the message, “LOGON ID REVOKED”. After the fifth attempt, he sat back and gnawed off a piece of his toasted sesame bagel drenched in butter while trying to remember if he forgot his password three times in a row the other night which would have caused it to get revoked. Hell, no. That only happened after three week vacations when he couldn’t remember how to spell, The.
Now he’d have to wait until 9 am for systems security to arrive in order to reset his ID. He began to dig through his drawer for his notebook that had other logon id’s when Dan Boskin, Vice President in charge of Human Resources, sauntered into his office along with three of his subordinates and five security guards.
“Hey, Lamont. Why are you in so early? Planning to embezzle some more funds before we caught up with you?” Boskin asked, a portly man with blond, tightly curled hair and a wide forehead which made up half of his round face. The blue eyes usually full of mirth were now clouded over and steely. The easy smile was replaced with a sneer.
“Dan, it’s really no big secret that you’re an asshole of huge proportions but what are you trying to stick up there now?” Lamont snapped his fingers. “I know... an entire data center.” Boskin’s glare was returned. “...look, get the hell out of my office. I’ve got work to do.”
“With this?” Boskin beamed while holding up a small brown leather notebook with the initials LMS on the cover.
“Where’d you get that?” Lamont asked. He was just looking for that.
“It’s not important,” Boskin replied. “...it’s what’s in it.” He nodded to two of the security guards who walked around and stood on either side of Lamont’s desk. Each of them carried two large cardboard filing boxes with lids. “...please empty any valuables you may want to take with you into the boxes... and not anymore bank property.”
“Wait a minute, what the hell is going on?” Lamont demanded standing up, angry but clearly puzzled.
Boskin’s expression grew somber. “You’re being fired for embezzlement.” He unfolded a computer printout from the manila folder he was carrying and placed it on the desk in front of Lamont. “...how much money do you have in your savings account?” Boskin demanded more than asked.
“Almost three hundred thousand,” Lamont responded immediately.
Boskin’s finger pointed at a line on the printout.
“Why don’t you try almost seven hundred thousand?”
“WHAT?” Lamont shrieked. “...That can’t be!”
One of the security guard’s walkie-talkies squawked. He listened then addressed Boskin. “NYPD just arrived.”
“Meet them in the lobby and escort them up... and Lamont, please hurry and empty out your drawers. You don’t have much time,” Boskin ordered. “...everyone else please leave the office and wait for me outside.”
“I’m not doing anything until there’s a full investigation,” Lamont said trying to collect himself. “There must be some kind of mistake.”
“Lamont, listen. I have no choice in this matter. From where I stand, they have a full case against you... I’ve been authorized to inform you that you have two choices.
“You can fight it, embarrass the bank and force us to bring all the legal remedies at our disposal to bear. You will go to prison. I can guarantee that. And your career will be destroyed,” Boskin paused. “... if you choose this path, it will begin with you immediately being arrested and fingerprinted. We will freeze your bank accounts and our lawyers will demand a high bail.”
Lamont shook his head in total confusion and denial unsure of how to proceed. “What, exactly do you have on me?”
“Unauthorized credits to your account traced back to the logon id’s in your book,” Boskin said as he tossed the leather bound notebook on Lamont’s desk. Lamont picked it up and began flipping through the pages desperate to find anything he could use to make sense out of what was happening. “But I didn’t do anything!”
When Boskin didn’t respond, Lamont sat down; drained, no longer able to think. “And my other choice?”
Boskin joined him sitting and lit a cigarette although Lamont had a big No Smoking sign posted on the wall behind him. “We’d rather keep this whole thing quiet and out of the papers until we can sort through this... Lamont, if you resign quietly, we’ll give you a reference, a benefits package equal to what you currently have and a severance package worth two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars.”
Lamont was further confused.
“Listen, I know this is a lot but I’ll give you five minutes to think it through, then let me know what you decide,” Boskin said getting up and leaving.
Lamont felt a little better about his options and Boskin confessing that the bank was also miffed and wanted to take a closer look. At this point, he really didn’t have a choice but nonetheless, he wanted to talk with his lawyer whose vision would definitely be clearer than his. He picked up the phone to discover that there was no dial tone.
“This was absolute bullshit!” They cut off his phone too? He got up and walked to the door ready to take Boskin’s head off. How dare he cut his phone off as well. He opened the door to find two plainclothes detectives with no nonsense expressions, two uniformed cops as well as all the security guards, Boskin and his staff.
“The former or the latter?” Boskin asked.
“The latter,” Lamont stated without any enthusiasm.
“Fine, let’s step back into your office,” Boskin said signaling one of his aids who handed him a manila folder.
Lamont briefly scanned each document before he signed it knowing that his lawyer would have a fit but he stopped at the last page. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s a five year silence agreement... you are not allowed to disclose the terms of your settlement with the press or any other outside agency. You are not allowed to pursue any legal action, hire investigators, or approach any MetroCommerce employees with regards to this matter,” Boskin explained.
“But I thought you said that the bank was going to look into it?” Lamont pleaded.
“...and we will. When we get to the bottom of everything, we’ll be in contact. Until then, you’re going to have to be patient. Please sign the last page.”
Lamont felt cornered and wondered if this was the same thing as plea bargaining. Serve three years if you confess or run the risk of fifteen to twenty years if you misjudge your case... or they misjudge your innocence.
He signed it.
Thirty minutes later, Lamont found himself on the street in front of MetroCommerce Bank with five hastily packed boxes that the security guards were nice enough to deposit on the curb.
No, he wasn’t going to share that past with anybody ever again.
Chapter 2
Fifteen minutes later, Miles met his business partner and friend of twenty years, Samantha Hoyt-Dryden, outside the Starbucks at 14th Street and 7th Avenue. Today, she was smartly dressed in a grey pinstripe business suit with a pleated skirt and dressy stiletto heels. She was a petite woman with dark inquisitive eyes set in a pretty round face that was framed by short cut black hair which ended at her chin. As usual, she was methodically rubbing lotion onto her small ivory hands he knew she got from a big bottle of lotion in her shoulder bag. Miles knew that she always dressed this way when confronting Bill Dryden, her ex-husband and their current business partner. She wanted him to know that in no uncertain terms, she was doing quite well without him.
“Hey, Sam,” Miles cheerfully greeted her.
She took the folded Wall Street Journal from under her arm and slapped her thigh with it. “Come on, Freedman, are you ready to do this?” she replied trying to sound upbeat as they began walking crosstown on 14th towards Union Square.
Miles feigned a double take at her. “You are not trying to project your anxiousness on me about something you’ve been dying to do for a long time are you?”
“No, this is strictly business and I want to make sure you’re in the proper mindset to conduct today’s proceedings,” Samantha replied with a straight face.
“Come again?” Miles said stopping and putting both hands on his hips.
“I will after we tell him, I’ve already come once walking over here just thinking about it!” Samantha beamed. “...come on, Miles, walk up, I don’t want to be late and give him any excuses whatsoever.”
Miles didn’t know how they all remained in business together after their divorce three years ago... and it was an ugly one. For six months, Miles ran the business because neither Bill or Samantha wanted to be in the same physical location where the other might trespass.
“So, Sam, what are you going to do when you retire?”
“After I pay off my mortgage, I’m gonna take out a contract on my ex. Then I’m gonna buy myself a young stud and set up residence on beach somewhere far, far away from here and use him... for an alibi.”
“That’s cruel and heartless, Sam. I’m glad I didn’t marry you.”
“Oh, you thought about it?” She asked with interest.
“Yes, on many occasions,” He said looking down into her brown eyes as they walked.
“Miles, I’m going to take that as a compliment of the highest order because Tara is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. God, she makes you want to throw away all of your makeup and say, why try?”
“So can I apply for the position of young stud?” Miles asked jokingly.
“Are you going to leave your soul-mate, Tara, for me, Studly?”
“I like that... Studly... a name I could live up to... a vision quest; something I could invest my hard-earned money into perfecting,” Miles pondered.
“But you’re not young.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not Studly,” Miles answered as they both laughed.
As they crossed 6th Avenue, Miles observed that the neighborhood had become seedy with cheap clothing stores, Wiz-like electronic appliance shops selling larger and larger boom boxes… and men conducting similar business transactions on the street that he witnessed in Washington Square Park.
Miles noticed a tall, dark, muscular African-American man walking towards them dressed in a brown velour sweatsuit with matching sneakers and a brown furry Kangol cap turned backwards with a cigarette hanging ominously from his lips. He was accompanied by a smaller African-American man dressed similarly in powder blue except he also wore dark blue sunglasses. The taller man was staring lustfully at Samantha and Miles could almost read the crude thoughts in the man’s eyes.
Samantha looked away ignoring him but Miles defiantly stared back at the man visually voicing his disapproval.
“That’s right, I’m looking at your bitch, mother-fucka! Whatchu gonna do about it?” the big black man asked grabbing his crotch in a threatening gesture towards Miles.
Miles‘s heart jumped in his throat as he flinched from the man’s unexpected animosity. He almost froze in his steps had Samantha not pulled him along.
“Punk-assed Bitch,” the man spat as he and his partner walked away laughing and slapping each other five.
“I would have said something else but there were two of them,” Miles mumbled trying to offer up an excuse for his non-responsiveness... and fear.
“Miles, thank-you but the best thing to do is to ignore them. Women go through this all the time. It’s no more than a fleeting encounter,” she said trying to comfort him.
Yeah, right! Miles thought as he nervously looked behind him.
***
Samantha, stopped and froze in front of their office building.
“Sam?” Miles ventured.
“I can’t do this right now,” she said gasping.
“Sam, what’s the matter? What can’t you do?” Miles asked completely confused. Samantha had her head down staring at the ground rhythmically slapping the side of her leg with the Wall Street Journal as if she was trying to prod herself forward.
“I… I don’t understand… you don’t want to talk to Bill? What? Sam, talk to me. If you don’t want to meet let’s do it another day... What’s the matter?” Miles pleaded never having seen his partner act this way.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. We can do this another time,” she said smiling, suddenly becoming herself again. “… I have to run. I’ll talk to you later.” She turned and left in the same direction they had just arrived.
“What the hell just happened?” he asked himself as he stood outside his office building oblivious to the people brushing past him. One thing he did know, he didn’t want to confront Dryden alone and not have an explanation for Samantha’s absence. Dryden would have said something off-color about Samantha; Miles would have taken offence and they would have been at each other’s throats. It would have been a month before tempers settled down and they would be able to meet. The best thing to do was to cancel and say it was project related.
Miles called up to Jamali East, his office manager, and told him to inform Dryden that he and Samantha were called away and they would reschedule. He walked away from the building shaking his head and wondering what crazy shit would happen next before this deal went through.
His attitude changed the moment he turned the key in the lock. Lamont unconsciously steeled himself for whatever was on the other side of the door. He stood in the foyer listening for her sounds; the loud cackle when she was on the phone; the constant opening and closing of the refrigerator; and worst of all, Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, The Love I Lost, blasting from the stereo with the volume up to eight out of a possible ten. He swore that one day, if he ever made enough money, he would buy every copy in existence, including the masters, and burn them. There was no song in the world that he liked enough to hear ten times a day, every-single-fucking day.
She wasn’t in.
Good.
He made himself dinner and relaxed in front of the TV, catching The Usual Suspects from the beginning which he had never seen. An hour and a half later, he heard the front door slam, followed by the refrigerator door opening and closing.
He could hear her bang the seat down in the bathroom, probably cursing him. Be grateful. Before I met you, I used to pee through the seat, he thought. Hmm, let’s see what comes next. Click... she pressed rewind... Farted... Click... she pressed stop... Farted again... Click... she pressed play... Big Fart... “The love I lost,” she sang almost as loudly as she farted.
Shantelle, long ago helped Lamont come to the conclusion that no matter how well you know somebody, there are just some things that should be kept private. He was also pretty sure that when they first dated, Harold Melvin was not in the picture.
She stayed in the bathroom until the final fifteen minutes of the movie. Thank God. She walked in the living room and plopped her fat ass on the couch next to him demanding some quality time.
“In fifteen minutes, Shan.”
“That TV is more important than this relationship?” Lamont ignored her as Kevin Spacey was wrapping up his story to Chazz Palminteri.
There was a time when her light brown dread locks, hazel eyes, and toned body would distract him from the final playoff game between the Knicks and the Bulls, with a tie score and twenty seconds left to play…but not anymore. She let herself go... completely. Her dreads were unkempt with little pieces of lint in them and they had a funky, sweet incense smell to them. She had her nose pierced but since it was thin and delicate to begin with, the stud and post made her left nostril appear larger than her right, throwing off the balance of her once angular face as it met in a square at her chin.
“Fifteen minutes, Shan. Why can’t you chill?”
Angrily, she pushed and sighed herself off the couch and waddled to the television. He hated the way the flesh on the back of her thighs clumped and jiggled as she walked. What the hell was her obsession with tight pants? She turned around and stood in front of the TV blocking the 27" screen.
“Chill? Where did you learn that from? Your Beer Buddies group?”
“Shantelle, please move from in front of the TV?” Lamont pleaded.
“Do I look like a little B-girl to you?” She put her fist on her hip as Miles watched it disappear into the folds of her flesh.
You don’t want to know what I think you look like, he thought. “No, Shan, I’m sorry. Would you please move?” he politely asked.
“Lamont, I don’t give a damn about the Usual Suspects. Oh, the cripple guy was Keyser Sose. Instead of watching this, what you need to do is watch me so you’ll know...”
Lamont didn’t hear the rest. He had gone cold inside; no emotion or anger, just a black void and the thought that if he put his hands on her, he wouldn’t care what happened afterwards. At that moment, he knew with the certainty and clarity of a brisk Winter morning that it was over.
“I’ll pay your first month’s rent and security. I want you out by the end of the month.”
“You’re ready to call it quits over a television show?” Shantelle incredulously asked before seductively smiling at him. “…Lamont, do you want to put your head in my lap, baby?... or do you want some special attention?” She licked her lips and looked at his groin. He could see color coming into her cheeks.
“Oh, you think this is all a game?” He angrily asked. “You think every fucking thing revolves around you? Well it’s disrespectful to do what you just did.”
Lamont thought back to a time in junior high school, when he was reading the then popular Rosemary’s Baby. He had gotten down to the last ten pages and decided to cut class to finish, sitting in the stairway where no one would bother him. A girl he didn’t know walking up the stairs said, “Oh, isn’t that the book where on the last page she found out that she gave birth to the devil?” Lamont threw the paperback down the stairs at her and never finished it.
“Well, Sweetie, it’s disrespectful when you don’t pay attention to me.” She pouted her lips. “I’m so hoooorneeeyy...” She pulled out one of her papaya like breasts and ran her finger along the light brown skin until she got to the rich brown aureole, where she scraped it with her nails while she stared at his crotch as if she were performing some kind of incantation. The effect was instantaneous on her nipple which swelled to the size of a fat raisin.
Lamont didn’t care what she did. It was the last fucking straw. Her ass was leaving. Did she think he was so shallow and so easily manipulated? The nipple was pulsating... She freed the other breast and kneaded both nipples with her thumb and forefinger until they both swelled with desire. She was into it now. Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were flushed as her pelvis swayed with an imaginary partner.
Chazz Palminteri, looked on his wall after Kevin Spacey limped out of the office. Lamont tried to pay attention to what was happening but his arousal wouldn’t let him and he cursed himself for being so damn weak. Although he had both eyes focused on the screen, some part of him saw every undulation her hips made and those rubbery nipples as she undressed. He tried to find disgust with her fatness; stoking his anger but it wasn’t working.
Lamont sat watching the TV with his legs open and his hands resting on his crotch. Shantelle walked over to him and straddled one of his legs. He tried to ignore her and halfheartedly pushed her away as she sat on his thigh facing him.
“Come on, Shantelle. Can’t you see I’m watching this?” he pleaded half-heartedly as he felt the moisture on his thigh through his pants from her gyrating back and forth.
“No, baby, I want you to watch this...” She took her nipple and rubbed it against his closed lips, sighing from the contact. Lamont felt a shiver pass through his body as the nipple rubbed against and tickled that sensitive spot at the corner of his mouth.
“Come on, Lamont, kiss it,” she sighed. “... kiss it and I’ll leave you alone,” as she continued rubbing it back and forth against his closed lips and mustache. He tried to open his mouth to protest but the fat nipple slipped in making contact with his tongue. She threw her head back, “Yesss!” she hissed as she grabbed the back of his head and grounded his face into her breast.
The battle was lost. She won as his body and his desire mutinied against his will. The smell of her sex overpowered his senses and any anger he felt towards her was replaced by the pureness of his pleasure. She frantically tried to force her whole breast in his mouth as she took him in her hand and mewled at the contact.
She pulled his pants down around his ankles and suddenly, she was on her knees in between his legs capturing him between her breasts as she pulled on her nipples while sliding up and down. To Lamont, the friction was indescribable accompanied by her cries of desperation as if she couldn’t fit all of her desire into one moment.
Lamont froze with his arms extended on the back of the couch and his pelvis arched upwards as her mouth joined in the up and down friction.
Lamont went with it. By now, his stand on watching The Usual Suspects was preempted by his flesh stand, which was supporting the same fat ass he despised earlier as he hungrily grabbed and kneaded both of her cheeks. She rode him into oblivion, drawing his seed up into her as she came too, grinding him into the deepest recesses of the couch.
Afterwards, she tenderly held him, nestling his head between her breasts as she rubbed his newly cut hair which tickled her palm, sending aftershocks throughout her over-stimulated body.
“I love you, baby. If you don’t want me in your life anymore, I understand.” She waited to see if he would respond but he didn’t. “…I know I’m a hard person to live with. Every man I’ve ever been with told me that.”
Lamont didn’t... couldn’t say anything. His neck was impossibly twisted and he could hardly breathe. His head hurt. He felt like an overused love slave of a sex starved Amazon Goddess. Lately, when he came, it was with such force, if he was on his back, he would repeatedly bang his head into the pillow or as he just did, on the back of the couch.
She kissed his forehead and got off of him. Lamont felt and probably looked like a deflated rubber doll, crumpled into the couch with his pants at his ankles. He knew this was a Polaroid moment; that if she took a picture of him right now, he would forever be in her thrall. But she didn’t laugh or make fun of him. She was cool like that.
“I think I’ll visit the old homestead for awhile. I own as much of that condo as my sister does, all the maintenance and mortgage payments I’ve made on her behalf.”
“Shan…”
“Lamont, it’s okay. You obviously have some things you need to work out by yourself.” She sat next to him and got dressed.
“Don’t you want to take a shower?” he asked.
“All I want to do is get out of here.” She avoided eye contact with him as she put on her shoes. He could see that her resilience and cheerfulness was rapidly eroding and she was genuinely hurt. Tears weren’t far behind.
“Shan, I’m sorry...”
“Sorry, about what Lamont? We’ve only been together for five years.” She stood looking down at him. Lamont covered his crotch with one of the couch pillows. He couldn’t answer her or look her in the eyes.
She rummaged in the bedroom for awhile before exiting with her travel luggage hastily packed. Her face was puffy and her eyes were red.
The last thing he heard before she left was her taking the cassette out of the tape player.
Chapter 4
Shantelle dropped her things off in the musty apartment and headed back out for food. She and her sister, Fulani, kept the apartment after their Mom died but they only stayed there in between relationships. Outside of that, they used it as a storage room, stacking up clothes and the furniture they bought with whatever man they were with, but refused to let him have after they broke up. Or if they moved in with a man who didn’t have much furniture, they always brought some along with them.
She hopped in a cab making her first stop, Sylvia’s, the soul food restaurant, where she ordered a rib dinner with candied yams, greens and two large apple pies. She got a bucket from Kentucky Fried, some fries from McDonalds, chips, soda, cookies, and ice cream from a bodega, and she made her last stop the liquor store.
Hey, no one to look good for anymore, she thought as she sat in the back of the cab, patting the pies like an old dear friend. Men kept her in check. She wouldn’t eat around them, only small helpings, although she began to slip around Lamont. That’s why she and Fulani never stayed at the apartment because they had to be with men. Also, too many sad memories of being fat girls.
Shantelle and Fulani Moore... the Moore sisters; Moore of ‘em; M&M’s; Horrible nicknames like Much Moore and Many Moore, which quickly evolved into Munch and Minnie. By the time she turned fifteen, Shantelle topped the scales at 250 and they added Too Much to her nickname ... Munch Too Much and Fulani metamorphosed from Minnie Moore to Whole Lot.
Once inside the apartment, she sat on the sheet covered couch and ceremoniously placed the food around her on the coffee table. She didn’t turn on any lights or the TV, opting to put on some mellow but sad Keith Jarrett in the background. The couch faced the terrace that looked out over the Hudson River. Shantelle stared out as she always did, this time oblivious to the moving boxes stacked against the walls in the living room, and all the furniture that lived there covered with white sheets.
Yeah, kids could be cruel, but teenaged boys... a breed of animal unto themselves... cruelies. In public she and Fulani were ridiculed constantly. People would stare at them on the train. Little children pointed at them... and the constant snickers always made Shantelle so self-conscious. But she would absolutely cringe if she had to walk by a group of teenage boys.
“Hey, Too Much... let me rest my head on one of those big titties.” or “I’d fuck you if I could find it.”
Shantelle ate as the sun set.
She could walk into a bathroom full of women, all talking and laughing, and it was suddenly silent; an animated silence as she read their thoughts in their eyes. She’d squeeze herself into a stall and have to breathe in to turn herself around.
“I don’t think we have to worry about desert tonight. We can all eat guilt free,” one of them would invariably say as they left the bathroom tittering and to high pitched squeals of laughter.
Shantelle ate in the dark.
Maybe if they had been more like some of the big women they saw who just didn’t take any shit, their lives would have been different. But they were just fat and pitiful... waiting to be laughed at and abused. It was so easy to reduce either of them to tears if they fought back. Then it was open season on insults.
“Haiti is starving. Let’s send your fat ass over there so they could have food for a year.”
“Can you see your twat or do you just imagine you know where it is?”
It broke her heart when Fulani went to college and left her on her own. No one to cry with over sad movies or to eat with... gorging on food.
Then she met Euland or Eulie, the first guy who talked to her; who was interested in her. Of course he didn’t speak to her in public but he didn’t join in or laugh when the cruelies snapped on her and she appreciated that.
They spoke on the phone mostly, and they got to know each other pretty well. He wasn’t the cutest guy in the world with thick glasses he was too embarrassed to wear, dark ashy skin and an Afro he could never quite grow enough hair to look full. His two front teeth were parted and she kind of liked that. But not the gaps between his bottom teeth he kept pushing his tongue through.
But Lord, he could make her laugh to the point where she almost choked on a potato chip one night.
She even lost twenty pounds for him. Not that he noticed but she was proud of herself nonetheless. The taunts didn’t even bother her that much because she had someone she loved; someone who liked her. She kind of had a boyfriend... although she resigned herself to the fact that they would never hold hands in public or kiss in a park, but whenever her mother was out, which was often, Eulie would come over.
They spent hours kissing, she pushing on his gaps from the other side with her lizard like tongue. Eulie loved playing with her breasts and he loved watching her play with them while he played with himself. She loved it too. But she wouldn’t go all the way with him because she feared that maybe she was too fat.
Everything was fine until his cousin, Delroy came to visit with Eulie and he changed into a cruely like the rest of them.
Shantelle finished half of the fifth.
He was older by a year, bigger and rough looking from Chicago, with a greasy process. She wanted to tell Eulie that she didn’t like him when he first brought Delroy over; that he scared her but she could see that Eulie worshiped him... and was embarrassed by her.
Their phone conversations were shorter. He wouldn’t even make eye contact with her in the street and she thought she saw the shadow of a smile on his face behind one of the cruel remarks.
But she loved him and thought it was all her fault because she was fat. She was losing him and she knew it. So she made the mistake of telling him that her mother was gone for the weekend and she begged him to come over... without his cousin.
She stopped eating and just drank.
It was just the way she wanted it to be. He was her Eulie once again as they kissed and fondled each other, fueled by the wine and the Forty he brought. She knew that tonight was the night and she wanted it. She loved him so much.
She stripped and danced in her bathrobe for him as the wine and the malt liquor made the room spin and her desire grow. He sat on the couch and watched while he rolled a joint.
She hadn’t realized she was smoking until she coughed on the acrid smoke and saw through the fog in her mind, Delroy and another cruely sitting in the chairs opposite the couch, slowly stroking themselves. She found herself splayed on the couch with one leg up and her hips pushing against the hand on her crotch.
Shantelle chugged the rest of the fifth.
“It’s all right, Munch, you ain’t got no secrets now,” Delroy laughed as he guzzled from Forty in his other hand.
She tried to move but she was too distracted and disoriented from the heat in her loins.
“Oh, shit, Eulie! You found it! Look at that fat, blubber bitch come.”
She was awkwardly positioned and she felt like she was choking as her body was held hostage by her wild contractions.
When she came too, her own hand was betraying her as they stood over her laughing while they stroked themselves.
“Eulie, mon, I’m a find ME a whale bitch too cause this is the nastiest shit I ever did.”
She tried to shutout the noise and the laughter; tried to focus on the one thing that they couldn’t own. She hid in her pleasure.
Shantelle ate into the night, feeling the liquor as she stared at the distant lights in Jersey.
She woke up the following morning in one of the living room chairs drenched in urine, semen and her own vomit. Beer bottles, pizza crusts and chicken boxes were everywhere. Cigarettes were crushed out on the white rug. She could hardly remember any of it. She didn’t even know how many of them there were or what they did to her... or she to them.
She didn’t feel disgusted, ashamed, nor angry... just empty and convinced that that’s what you get for being fat. You couldn’t expect anymore because being fat was the lowest form of existence.
She got up and began to clean, refusing to look at it, the way she wouldn’t look at herself in the mirror after she masturbated. From that day on for the next few months , she only drank water, ate lettuce and tuna fish.
Her mother guiltily never asked what happened, seeing the burns in the carpet, the stains on the furniture and her daughter’s sullenness. Shantelle stayed at home refusing to go to school until her mother transferred her to another one. Her mother tried to get her to talk to the police and took her to therapists but Shantelle refused to talk to anyone about it... ever.
The cruelies on the corner never said anything anymore when she walked by, always looking away and never making eye contact. Shantelle liked to think that maybe they thought of their mothers and sisters being put through the same humiliation.
By the time she went away to college, she had lost 125 pounds and was beaming with confidence. Her only regret was that she never saw Euland again. He dropped out of school and moved to Chicago with his cousin.
She fantasized about what she would say to him, “How could he do that to her? How could he place his friends before her? How could he treat and use her like an animal?” And when she got on the bus to go to college; when she walked past him as the new, shapely her, as Shantelle and not Munch, or Too Much, or Blubber Bitch but Shantelle, in her heart, if she had one thing to tell him, as twisted as it sounded, it would have probably been, “Thank-you.”
Shantelle awoke among plastic wrappers, discarded food containers, empty soda and liquor bottles. She sat there for at least an hour not focused on anything, wondering what the hell was she going to do with herself. She didn’t want to work. How could she be anybody’s therapist as fucked up as she was right now? She didn’t want to share her break up with anyone.
All she wanted to do was to forget her life and eat.
So she got up, bagged all the trash and went back out to buy more food and booze; deciding that her mission for the day would be to buy a VCR and find a video store where she would try to see if she could get all the episodes to Good Times. She loved Janet Jackson’s character.
Chapter 5
Miles sat in his office on a Friday afternoon of the Columbus Day weekend after he and Samatha met with Dryden. He was pissed that he was stuck there and Samantha hadn’t been in since the meeting. The problem was that somebody had to do the administrative work; meet with the clients, write the proposals, oversee the project, direct Samantha because nothing existed outside of the program she was working on, and it all fell on Miles because Bill was never around. When he was, he didn’t want to be concerned with the day-to-day trivialities. He only wanted to know how much money they were making and when the project was done so he could bring in the next client.
Frustrated, Miles retrieved his voicemail buying a few precious seconds rather than continue working.
“Hi, Lovey. Remember we’re having an early dinner at The Lookaside at 5:30. Don’t forget and don’t be late. You know how silly you get if you find someone speaking to me because I happen to be standing at the bar waiting. Byeee!”
“Well, why do you stand at the fricking bar instead of sitting at the table and ordering a drink... duh?” Miles said out loud talking back to the message. He could hear glasses clinking in the background and what sounded like a hundred people shouting. She was already at the restaurant. He looked at his watch. “Oh crap, it’s 4:30!” He forgot all about her.
He headed towards home. There was no way he was going to meet Tara in a trendy place dressed like a suit... her words. He didn’t want any more episodes where some well-dressed Brad Pitt type would find some pretext to speak to her and act like Miles didn’t exist, or grin when she introduced Miles as her fiancée.
He fast-forwarded through the rest of his messages until he heard a familiar voice.
“Dude! Call me if you want to hang out tonight.” The music in the background was deafening. He wondered how his brother conducted business with the music blasting. Every time he called Desmond at the office, there never was quiet in the background.
“…Listen, are you
going with me to that concert I was telling you about in
Westchester
this evening? I have to attend. Chill with me and we’ll
hang. Meet me at Down Low at 8:30. And Miles, wear some of the cool
stuff we bought, okay? Live dangerously, dude.”
Miles caught a cab to his place on Tenth Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues and ran up the stairs of his brownstone. Thank God he had asked Desmond to help him select a casual wardrobe. Dressing in an iridescent, gray Armani suit, a black mock turtleneck, and Kenneth Coles shoes, he was pleased with how he looked. He at least felt formidable.
During the cab ride uptown, Miles didn’t pay attention to the meter. Instead, he fretted on what the hell happened to Samantha. Had Dryden threatened her in some way? He knew that Dryden beat her up a few times over the years because Samantha wouldn’t show up in the office for a week after each incident. When she did return, the heavy makeup couldn’t hide the bruises underneath. Miles tried to get her to confide in him; offered his help but she refused to discuss it, growing silent... distant... unreachable. If that was what Dryden was planning, that he was going to beat her up and convince her not to sell, Miles was going to confront his business partner and let him know that under no uncertain terms was he going to allow Dryden to coerce his ex-wife into changing her mind.
He was amazed that Samantha hung in there as long as she did, never personally interacting with the Dryden in close proximity or otherwise. He half expected her to call up one day saying that she had it and she wanted to be bought out. He didn’t blame her.
If he and Tara were married and business partners as well, he knew damn well there would be no way he would want to see her even once a year if they were divorced, especially if he knew she was sleeping around with his co-workers.
By the time the cab arrived at 48th Street and 8th Avenue in front of The Lookaside Restaurant, he was back to worrying about Tara. There she was standing at the bar with three guys around her trying to inhale her very essence; kissing and licking her with their eyes, while screwing her in a thousand different positions with their thoughts. Observing her from a distance without being at her effect, he realized that was how she communicated, through sex.
When she was in public, she never kept her mouth closed; always moistening her thin lips with her tongue. There was something she did with her eyes that made them soft, dreamy, bedroom like, although when he kissed her, she never closed them. Her hair was black but she tinged it with red which made men think she was wild and sex-crazed but to Miles, she never quite delivered what she telegraphed. Her skin was flawless, no blemishes or pimples, just smooth, Cosmopolitan Magazine creamy, lickable... as if it would have a vanilla flavor if you kissed it, but it didn’t.
And this was his soulmate, the woman he swore he couldn’t live without.
Occasionally, she was a kind and loving partner... when they were alone together... and she wasn’t on the phone. She knew how to make him feel special... when she wanted to. And that’s what he told himself whenever she acted like this in public. Maybe it was her being in the music business that made her put up this facade. Whatever it was, all Miles knew was that their relationship could not go on like this; with her smiling at every guy she thought was cute.
He walked up to her at the bar and put his arm around her waist. She smiled at him at went back to her conversation.
“Are you ready?” Miles interrupted. There was annoyance in her pause, like when a mother catches herself before she yells at her child, then, carefully measuring each of her words.
“...Sure, Lovey. Hurry along to the table and I’ll be there after I finish conducting my business,” she coaxed squeezing his arm and smiling at him making Miles blush away all of his doubts. No one spoke as he left them to seek out the maitre d’ but he knew that the ensuing laughter was about him.
He sat at the table and ordered a Chivas on the rocks. Forty-five minutes and five drinks later, he’d had enough. “Business be damned,” he muttered as he walked back to the bar without a trace of being drunk... and he was plastered.
Thirteen years at IBM and countless “business” lunches and brunches where they drank on empty stomachs while pumping the client full of booze in order to get them to sign those six and seven figure hardware and software deals, taught Miles everything he needed to know about drinking and... alcoholism.
He approached Tara and her associates who were all drunk. “Let’s go,” he ordered ignoring the hateful stares of the men as he took her arm and led her towards the restaurant section.
She acted like she didn’t know him as they walked back to the table.
“Tara, if you want to go back and speak with them, if your business is that important, let me know, I’ll leave.”
“No, that’s okay.” He could hear the disappointment in her voice.
The appetizer part of the meal was quiet, uneventful... awkward. He was at a loss for something to say to spark their intimacy, their life together. All attempts at small talk ended pathetically flat and he knew it was Tara who created this space of awkwardness... her effortless way of making him feel guilty and insignificant as the napkin in her lap. So he drank instead.
By the time she was ready to talk, he had had two more drinks during the mental conversation he was conducting with himself wondering why he was even in this relationship.
"Tara, why the hell are you with me?" he asked, his voice rising.
"Miles, why do we always have to have this conversation? I told you when we first started seeing each other, in the course of my business, I have to interact with a lot of people."
Miles angrily slammed his hand on the table, rattling the tableware and drawing attention to themselves from the other patrons, as she nervously looked around.
"Do I look that stupid? You write lyrics. Are you telling me those were record execs at the bar?" Tara sat forward in her seat, hugging her arms as if she were cold, looking to her left, and then right without making eye contact with anyone.
“Miles, keep your voice down,” she whispered.
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Am I sullying your pristine image?"
He looked up to find one of her beaus from the bar standing over them; a tall, thin, unshaven man in his thirties with an out-of-date Fu Manchu mustache and a Cardin suit... an old Cardin suit.
“Is everything okay?” he asked. To her credit, Tara took one glance at him and kept her eyes on her plate.
“Who are you? Her chaperone for the evening?” Miles sarcastically asked. The man ignored Miles and placed a business card next to Tara’s plate. Miles snatched the business card off the table.
“Mr. David Peels, Reproduction Technical Manager, would you kindly leave my fiancée and I alone?” He stood there looking at Tara as if he expected her to say something but she refused to look at him... or Miles.
Peels glared at him as he sulked off.
“I’ll call you when my copier breaks,” Miles said as he ripped the business card into tiny pieces and clumsily threw it after him.
“That was entirely unnecessary,” Tara said, slouching in her chair.
“And he writes lyrics too, I suppose?” She looked down and didn't say anything. “…What was entirely unnecessary was for him to walk over here, without so much as excusing himself and intruding on our privacy... pretty much the same way every time the goddamn phone rings, no matter what we’re doing, you have to answer it.” Miles was on a roll, releasing all the pent up anger that gnawed at him like an unfed tapeworm. “And why is it every time I answer the phone, all I hear is breathing or someone hanging up on me?”
Mile’s laughed bitterly. “...You don’t love me. You don’t have a clue what being in a relationship is about... and I’m just as guilty for not kicking you out when I knew it wasn’t working... that’s right. You live in my house”
He stared at the fat diamond engagement ring on her finger. “I’m sorry but you’re not the kind of woman I want to marry.” He grabbed her hand and easily slid the engagement ring off of her finger that she wore... occasionally, like only when they went out together. “...you won’t be needing this anymore.”
It had grown dark in the restaurant, rather the mood had. Each table looked like a little snow capped mountain with the white tablecloth hanging, dimly lit by a candle in a glass jar. Miles wondered what truth lay hidden as he studied the shadowy faces lit from underneath by the flickering candles, until he noticed one couple staring at each other. He saw the same frustration and resignation in her eyes as her cheeks glistened from fallen tears.
“Your friends are still at the bar,” he said as he left the table making a conscious decision not to pay the check or her damn bar bill.
Chapter 6
Miles didn’t know whether to cry or go back in the bar and try to kill the Xerox repairman, David Peels, who was laughing at him through the window while he had his arm around Tara’s waist. He turned to head back in the bar and kick David Peel’s ass. No, that would be stupid. Miles would wind up getting arrested and sued for every penny he had, and if David Peels survived, he’d be rich enough to be a part owner in a copier corporation. Meanwhile, Tara would be laughing in another bar with another bunch of guys... or Peels, and Miles would be somebody’s girlfriend in prison, standing at the bars himself with someone’s arm around his waist.
In a fit of impotence and drunken rage, he picked up a half-filled drink in a clear plastic cup resting on the hood of a parked car and hurled it at the window of The Lookaside. The contents of the cup left long before it actually hit the window and ineffectually bounced off. No one inside even knew he threw it. He turned and slightly staggered away hailing a cab.
He rode to 29th Street and Park Avenue South, headquarters of Down Low Records, to hang out with Desmond and attend the concert. Desmond owned Down Low Records, a once independent label that was now under the umbrella of Apex Recording with worldwide distribution. After Desmond passed the bar, he started his own label, Wall Sweet, specializing in Rock and R&B but the money was in Rap and Hip-hop. So he dropped the non-selling product, changed Wall Sweet’s image, and became Down Low... hip-bopity bad.
Miles and Desmond competed their entire lives but Miles had to confess that his brother had him beat in the way cool-ness category. Desmond Cole Freedman, now and forever known as Dee Free, really did look like a senior member of Generation Next as he stood with two of his young record producers dressed in the latest street fashions.