into her purse draped in an expression that communicated a combination of anger, fear and disgust.
“I am about to go.”
“You look very nice.”
“Thanks.”, followed by her shifting her weight to one leg and pursing her lips tightly and batting her eyes.
She turned and walked toward the door leading into the garage. I sprang to my feet and trotted behind her, then I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back to me.
“Stop! You’re going to get my clothes dirty.”
I refused to let go of her. I tried to kiss her on the lips but she turned her head away from me. When I finally saw her face, she looked like she had been sucking on a sour ball.
“So, can I kiss you?” I asked.
“I don’t want to kiss.” Without even looking in my direction she released a sigh of disgust.
This is how I get treated just before she extended what she called affection. I find it hard to believe that she really believed in her heart that this was true kindness. Maybe the type of kindness reserved for lepers and people covered with open sores.
“Shit! Kiss me on the cheek Chapman.”
“Am I a three year old or what?”
“If you have to ask...” I eased up on my hold on her as I moved in to kiss her on the cheek and sneak one on her lips.
“You make me sick.” She stormed out of the door.
“I like you and I love you anyway. If I am not here, I will be practicing over at The Spot.” Standing in the door, I waited for her to back out of the garage and head off down the street. “What the hell am I doing? I deserve better than this,” are the questions I asked myself. I closed the door and bopped over to the stereo to check my CD rack for something flavorful. I reached down for the old faithful. “Reach For It” by George Duke. If this couldn’t get a brother out of a slump, nothing would. In the song, George promised to take me to the bridge and drop me off into some funk. That’s just the kind of promise I needed to get me out of the funk I was in.
Gazing into my closet to see what I could put on for rehearsal, the craziest thought came over me. I had to be the stupidest man in God’s eyes. I can’t believe I was going to miss practice just to keep her company and show her support. Hell, the only time she is even remotely interested in seeing me perform is when I’m opening for a Maxwell, Najee, or Will Downing. Writing songs to her and for her since the time we met, has been my passion. I bet she can’t hum the melody to one of them all the way through. Shit! I’m not washed up by any stretch of the imagination. I still get the looks from the ladies who hang around to seduce the band after every set. So what if I put on a few pounds? She isn’t exactly how I met her.
“Here we go. I guess I’ll wear this.” I pulled out my old FAMU
Marching 100 sweatshirt, my blue jeans and my cowboy boots and I was ready to go. I love my cowboy boots. Not too many brothers are brave enough to wear cowboy boots. At the barbershop I hear a lot of men commenting that I look like a redneck. I tell them. “I may look like a lot of things, but a redneck ain’t one of them.” I gazed into the mirror as I rubbed on some Anucci scented body oil I picked up at the straw market in Charleston, South Carolina. Brushing what little hair I had left, I tried to imagine how I’d look with a shaved head. The thought of Terri’s negative response kept running across my mind. She made it a point to tell me how crazy she thought I would look. She even went as far as to say that the people at her job would think I looked like a lunatic. Reaching down into the closet I picked up my horn cases. “Oops!” I almost forgot my briefcase. “I can’t leave this.” I had my newest concoction. It’s called “Stank Like Chitlinz”. Just like I liked it, heavy on the bass line so those horns could lay down and relax right on top of it. I grabbed the notepad to leave a note for “Ms. I Don’t Need a Man.” and scribbled, “Terri, I am at The Spot. Call me if you need me. XOXO Love Sweet Chapman.” She used to like it when I changed my name around like that. Well, out the door I go.
As I pulled up on The Spot I tried to clear my head of all of the negative matters that clouded it, because I was at The Spot for business. Music has never shorted me, so she was not about to be shorted by me. I sat still in the car before I made my move. Reciting the 23rd Psalms and Psalms 133 always had a calming affect on me. The words of those Psalms had power beyond explanation. I need to be focused to receive these emotions that flow through me when I play. As I entered the building, Thumper was already there. He was on his cell phone. I closed the door behind me and walked across the room and shook his hand.
“What’s up Black?” He raised his finger as if he were a fat lady sitting on the front pew at church. You know how they do when they have to go to the restroom and the preacher is preaching or when the choir is singing.
I nodded back to him and went about setting up my horns. These are my babies. My flugal horn is a Bach that I nicknamed “Daddy’s Man". My Dad is the one who got me hooked on Louis Armstrong and Miles Davis at an early age. My other horn is the sax. It’s covered with purple lacquer, with etchings all over it. The etch marks are gold against the purple lacquer. I named that horn after my mother, Doris, ‘cause she’s sweet like that. After I got married, I put in for a name change on the sax to “Terri”, but just like the wind, Terri began to blow in another direction. She went right out and destroyed my desire by doing something crazy when I wasn’t looking. The name change was then recalled. So, Daddy’s Man and Doris are always by my side. I had some new charts to lay on the band and there was no better night. Sorting through the pages of music, I placed them carefully on everybody’s music stand then I heard Billy close his cell phone.
“Yo man!” with a furrowed brow and a scowl on his face.
“What's up Man?” No response from Billy. “Sounds to me like whom, or whatever was on that phone of yours, bit a chunk out of your ass.”
“Ain’t no thang but a chicken wang.” A faint smile showed on his lips. I threw a punch to his midsection. He smiled more.
“I don’t know what to do with the ole girl.”
“So, what now? You know, if I, Dr. Billy Jones can’t fix it, you need to give it away.”
I released a nervous laugh. You know the kind of laugh that friends use when they don’t want their friends to know how serious the trouble they are in really is. Pausing for a moment, I felt the positive high I had, run right out the door.
“Man!”
“What now? Is it Terri again?” Billy asked in a tone of voice that suggested that he was tired of hearing the story of my life.
“See, I told you that you needed a pleasant distraction. Man, your girl has got your nuts in a bag of trail mix.”
“No...Man, its not like that,” I stated in my own defense, knowing damn well that it was partially true. “So what? I care about my lady and I try to be everything that I think I’m supposed to be. Now she is getting to the point where she will say anything to me. I mean its blatant disrespect.”
“Shit, ain’t nothing wrong with caring, or doing the right thing.
I’m all for that, but the trick is doing all of that without letting her know how much. I started out just like you. I tried that “Mr. Nice and Right” shit. Then, I must have woke up out of a nightmare, where
