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Chapter Two
My hotel wake-up call was right on time, at 10 A.M. Soon as I got myself together I dialed Tim's room. When Bernice answered I said, "Good morning, Mrs. Waters." She replied, "You mean Mrs. Wilson-Waters."
"Oh," I replied, "is Mr. Wilson-Waters available?"
"He's in the shower. I heard you asked Caron for her number."
"If you mean we talked about getting together, we did, though I don't know how seriously I should take a beeper number and not a home number."
"You know, Rodney, it's really time you got serious."
"Yeah," I agreed noncommittally. This lecture was not how I wanted to start the day. But then screaming on my best friend's bride wouldn't have been cool either. So as pleasantly as possible I said, "Well, just let your husband know the limo for the airport will be downstairs in half an hour."
After I'd finally, mercifully, peeled off my tux, showered, trimmed my goatee, and slipped into jeans and a T-shirt, I was down in the lobby handling my final best man duties — checking out the honeymooners, confirming the limo with the concierge, and calling the groomsmen about returning their tuxes as soon as possible.
Tim and Bernice came off the elevator holding hands, trailed by a bellhop and a cart filled with bags. Bora Bora was seven and a half hours away, but judging by their demeanor the vacation had begun.
"And how was last night?" I asked, which was our old way of asking, "How was the boning?" Tim just looked at me piously and replied out of Bernice's earshot, "This is my wife, Rodney."
"Sorry," I said as respectfully as I could to a man who used to describe his sexual heroics like each encounter was the Super Bowl.
"What's going on?" Bernice wondered, and Tim reassured her, "Nothing, honey." Then he flipped it. "So, Rod, I heard you and Caron might get together."
"We'll see" was my conservative reply. Tim cut me a look, the old raffish look I knew so well, and said, "Well, Rodney, you know whatever you do, you better act right." This was uttered with a touch of irony, so I knew that somewhere, buried inside Bernice's husband, my old running buddy still breathed.
A few of Bernice's relatives appeared in the lobby. Much hugging and kissing ensued. For a few moments Tim and I stood side by side, our first private moments since he'd become a husband. I took the opportunity to put a question mark in my voice: "Wilson-Waters?"
"Yeah." He spoke the word slowly, stretching it into two syllables as he glanced at his bride. "It makes sense for her, Rod. It doesn't take anything away from me and it makes her happy. And you know, that's the gig."
"Three weeks in Bora Bora?"
"Yeah," he said as slowly as before. "I researched this spot. Got a satellite dish at the bar that pulls up NBA games and SportsCenter. My plan is to watch sports, fish, and make a baby."
"Wow, you are married."
"Rod, I hadn't had sex without a condom in four years — until last night."
"So you're just happy to be home," I observed.
"You got that right. Besides," he added as he turned to smile at his bride, "I love her like a Babyface song."
I hugged my homie. I kissed his wife. I watched them enter a limo and drive off in the direction of Bora Bora. I sat in the hotel's breakfast nook and watched as members of the wedding party checked out. Uncles and stepdaughters, second cousins and nephews, childhood pals and ex-lovers disguised as friends. Caron, the maid of honor and possessor of the telegenic smile, sauntered up to the front desk, her walk as sultry as a Georgia night, and I debated intercepting her.
But as I haven't done that often in my life, I let that romantic/sexual impulse pass and watched Caron walk her beautiful self alone out of the hotel's front door. It was almost checkout time and I hadn't even packed. My duty to my friend and my reaction to his joy had left me strange and funny, like someone had told a joke I didn't get.
Back in my room I slowly gathered up my things, stuffing them in my duffel bag with the delicacy of a retiring garbageman. Then I remembered my list. On the nightstand next to the phone was that peach notepad with names written down in my ugly scrawl. Women's names. Names so dear. Names from the past. Names I should have forgotten, like bad dreams.
Peachina Evans remained at the head of the class, but the enrollment was long. I counted up 133 names. An odd number, 133. Nothing special about it. Certainly nothing sacred. I knew men with many more names than me. So many that they weren't names anymore — just body parts and situations and smirks. But predatory Peachina had a name. So did all the other women who had blessed me with their bodies. The question was, why? Why did this list exist and what did it mean?
Woodrina Perkins. Woodrina had woolly red hair, freckles, a lime green jumpsuit, and platform shoes. She used to hold my head in her hands and look into my face with glassy, amused eyes.
Charlotte Hughes — Carla — was another publicist. She stumbled into my bed one night after I'd helped her write a press release and listened to her talk about her absent boyfriend. We were both embarrassed in the morning and never ever acknowledged it had even happened.
Yim. She was the only Asian woman I'd ever been with. Met her with Tim at a trip hop lounge in Hollywood. Beneath glasses and a fluffy sweater was a lovely yellow body. We devoured each other one long May night, and in June she got deported in a tragedy of epic proportions.
Before I spent all day reminiscing I folded the list up, slipped it into my back pocket, and headed down to the lobby.
Copyright © 2000 by Nelson George
