the matching perfume. She then would put on her undergarments, do her makeup, and let her hair down. Last, she would slip into her dress and put on her pumps. She would check herself out in the mirror. Then she would transfer all her important items such as her license, lip gloss, cell phone, money, and condoms into her new Gucci purse. Once all that was complete, she would put on her mink and walk outside to hail a taxi.
Everything went according to plan when Dior got home. She was dressed to kill and ready to meet the man behind the MySpace messages. Her purse in one hand and a single white rose in the other, she got into a cab she hastily hailed at the corner. As soon as she sat down on the seat and gave him the address for MoBay, the driver turned around so fast you would have thought he had whiplash.
“Oh no. Not you!” he said with a scowl.
Dior looked startled as she tried to figure out why the driver was mad at her.
“You’re the one who tried to run without paying me,” he reminded her.
She put her hand on her forehead in frustration. “Oh God, it’s you. Listen, I’m so sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean any harm,” she said.
“Sorry doesn’t pay the cab fare,” the driver snapped. “You want me to drive you to MoBay on 125th Street? That will be six dollars.”
Dior nodded. “That’s fine.”
The driver glared at her in the rearview mirror. “Show me the money.”
“What?”
“Show me the money,” he repeated stubbornly.
Dior was ready to say to hell with the driver and try to hail another cab, but it was getting close to seven o’clock and she didn’t want to be late. And the fact remained that if the driver was acting shitty he had every right to do so. After all, she did try to stiff him for the fare. She blushed at the memory.
She opened her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.
“See!” she said, showing it to the driver.
“Good. Now pay in advance.”
“You’re kidding!”
The driver shook his head. “How do I know you’re not going to stick that money back in your pocketbook and then jump out without paying me?”
Dior sighed and handed him the twenty. “You can keep the change,” she said wearily.
The driver looked at her queerly. “You sure? You gave me a twenty, you know. I said the fare would be six dollars.”
“I know. This is just my way of saying I’m really sorry about what happened last month. And believe me, I’ve never even done anything like that before. Please, forgive me. But can you start driving now? I’m going to be late.”
“Sure, and thanks.” He put the cab in gear and prepared to pull off but all of a sudden stopped.
“Now what’s wrong?”
“This money isn’t counterfeit, is it?” he asked suspiciously.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Dior reached for the car door.
“Calm down, calm down. I was just kidding,” he said as he started down the street. “So, you have a hot date for Valentine’s Day? You look real nice. I noticed that when you got in the cab.”
I know this man isn’t trying to push up on me. Dior grimaced and rolled her eyes, then noticed the driver looking at her in the rearview mirror again.
“Listen,” he said in an annoyed voice, “I was just trying to be nice. You don’t need to make a face like I’m trying to pick you up. You’re nothing but a fare to me. And shoot. I don’t even like women. I’m gay.”
Dior blinked her eyes in surprise, then burst out in laughter.
“What’s so funny? You have something against gay men?” the driver asked with a growl in his voice.
“No, no,” Dior hurriedly assured him. “Listen, you’re not going to believe this, but…”
As they drove down Malcolm X Boulevard, Dior spilled her guts about her tragic encounter with Chris, the encouragement she’d been given by Gordon, and her plan to meet a blind date that evening.
By the time he pulled up next to MoBay they were chatting like old buddies.
“Can you move up just a little so you’re not right in front of the club? I’m following Gordon’s advice and scoping him out before I find myself jumping from the fire into the frying pan. Don’t worry. I’ll pay you extra.”
“Don’t worry about it. Besides, now that I’ve heard your story I almost feel obligated to wait for you.” He turned in the driver’s seat to face her. “No offense, but you don’t seem to have any kind of Gay-dar going for you. I want to stick around and make sure you get a straight guy this time.”
Dior giggled. “I can’t even get mad. Thanks.”
Patrons went in and out of the chic lounge, but none carrying the white rose Dior and Mr. Good Black Man agreed to bring with them. Butterflies started to dance in Dior’s stomach as she embraced the idea that she might have gotten stood up. She opened her purse and took out her mirror to touch up her makeup, and in that moment Mr. Good Black Man jumped out of a cab in front of MoBay and headed for the door.
“There he goes!” the driver said. “That guy has a white rose.”
Dior sat up in her seat and peered out the windshield. The only visual she and the driver could get of Mr. Good Black Man was his profile. But when he reached out and put his hand on the door to open it, he turned around and the two of them got a good look at his face.
“Oh no! It can’t be!” Dior groaned and fell back onto the seat.
“Isn’t that the guy who took care of your tab that day?” the driver said, oblivious of her reaction. “Naw, he ain’t gay. But no offense, because he was nice to you and all, but he seemed like he had the making of a real jerk if you ask me.”
Dior was sick to her stomach. Mr. Good Black Man was pesky Jerome from her block. She was too through, wanting to go back home and cry herself to sleep. How could she have been so stupid? she thought. She should have seen through his “I don’t post my picture because I’m not superficial” routine. A Blair Underwood look-alike? Jerome was butt ugly, no matter what he was wearing, and he didn’t even bother to dress up for the blind date. He was actually walking into the club wearing that same old dingy army jacket. And a business owner who owned real estate? Jerome didn’t even have a job and he lived with his mother! She should have known better than to go out on a blind date with a guy she met on the Internet. She got just what she deserved.
“So, what are you waiting for?” the driver asked, interrupting Dior’s pissed-off thoughts.
Dior shook her head in disgust. Here she was all dolled up to meet the man of her dreams and the whole night was a bust. The thought of going back home and spending the night alone in her apartment contemplating her series of bad decisions brought tears to her eyes. No, she decided as she tried to blink back her tears.
