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  “Wait. It’s okay.” Valerie recognized the man as her neighbor from an adjacent seat on the flight. She pressed the button to lower the window. The aroma of flowers breezed in. For me?

  “Hi. I’m the guy in the next seat . . . I mean, from the flight.” He was uncertain, as if he was asking for forgiveness and sympathy in the same breath. Sure enough, the passenger-next-door offered the quick bouquet through the 4-inch opening of the window. “These are . . . I got these from . . . for you.”

  Valerie could sense a number of eyes on this little interaction; the skycap, the cabbie.

  “Oh. For me? Well, thank you . . . you’re so sweet.” Valerie calmed the guy within a matter of seconds with her generous Caribbean karma. It was an unpracticed resource that was once captivating to other men, but now that she was a free woman again she was determined to mold her 22 years of island-girl characteristics into a future undenied.

  The fellow passenger blushed, and to save face, Valerie interjected, ready to put an end to any more unnecessary conversation. The guy was already beet-red and had that hunger in his eyes, like he was ready to talk her to death.

  With a quaint smile she said, “Have a nice day.” Up went the window. The driver acted quickly on the cue, leaving the man frozen with awe and a few shades paler.

  Not even so much as an over-the-shoulder peek, Valerie was now focused on the future. School. Money. A real life. No more obsessed boyfriends. No more coincidental relationships. Valerie was ready for life and destiny.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mechelle’s Bus Trip

  Mechelle Ramirez spent 2 years studying at Tuskegee University in Alabama. Her major was Business Economics, but she also majored in socializing and earned her popularity as a cheerleader for the school’s football team. Instead of finding comfort with one of the many team players that propositioned her, Mechelle went against the grain and found most of her comfort and serenity with a classmate far removed from the sports arena.

  Denworth was soft. Except, he had nerve enough to tell Mechelle about his homosexual tendencies. It took Mechelle some time, but with those ass-swishing talents that she perfected on the 50 yard line, with some teasing and tickling in the right places, and not to mention one particular unsolicited kiss that she planted on his lips, Denworth was a changed man. He was putty in her hands, catering to her every whim. The chemistry between the two also made moving into his family-financed apartment a convenient reality, saving her both money and the headache of not having a trustworthy dick to sit on when she needed it. Sure, theirs was a shallow arrangement from the start—the couple survived two abortions (she already had 3 others in high school and again during her first year of college)—but now that school was over for Mechelle there was a do-or-die issue of the future to discuss. Eventually Mechelle and Denworth agreed to marriage. The plan was simple. In two more years, once Denworth completed his full 4-year degree, the two would move into their own house and live happily ever after. But of course if the world took a gamble on whimsical college dreams, then every member of Generation X would require their very own survival guide. Maybe even a subscription to Reality Check Magazine.

  In the meantime, since Mechelle was done with school, she decided to visit her immediate family back in Brooklyn, New York. There were a couple months of shameless sex, and then in December she took off to help out her twin sister with the children. Maybe she’d even find a temporary job during the 2 years that Denworth needed to complete his master’s in Political Science.

  It was days before Christmas when Mechelle found herself in a daze, looking out of the smudge-ridden window at the middle of the New York-bound Greyhound bus. Mechelle thought about the engagement. It was real, but then again there wasn’t a ring to bind the commitment. There was no date set for the wedding. And now (although she loved Denworth as far as she could see), no sex for 24 long months? Quiet as it was kept, Mechelle had been looking forward to the break from that good old southern hospitality of Alabama. She was born with a New York state of mind, and she was already savoring the taste of the city in the salted pretzel and ginger ale that she bought at the bus station.

  The trip to New York would be tedious. But Mechelle had no alternative. To hop on a plane would be too expensive. So she purchased a ticket for $75.00 and counted ten stops before she fell asleep. It was sometime later when her journey took a turn for the worst. Deep into a dream which had her pregnant by Denworth, a noise under the bus woke Mechelle at a stop somewhere in North Carolina. She seized the opportunity and rushed up the aisle and into the bus station to use the ladies’ room. What Mechelle didn’t know was that the bus had already been stationary for 15 minutes. The stop was scheduled for a 20 minute wait. The driver was nowhere in sight and the few passengers who were on the bus were asleep. So nobody knew that Mechelle had stepped off. And that wasn’t anyone’s responsibility but hers anyhow.

  Waiting to use the stall, Mechelle twisted her nose slightly to avoid the stench of cheap perfume and disinfectant. Finally, she slipped into the only stall, shed her shorts to her ankles and spelled relief. Mechelle didn’t often have the opportunity to share this idiosyncrasy with others. Maybe Denworth noticed one or two times; or maybe not. However, nobody would understand what a joy Mechelle experienced when she urinated. Without perversion, squatting and discharging her steamy fluid was somehow liberating. It had always felt this way; orgasmic. And here in North Carolina, during her few minutes in the bus terminal, and even with the surroundings being somewhat rundown, the experience for Mechelle was no different. She could take this very activity anywhere and it would still feel very personal, and very intimate for her. It was even more of a thrill now, considering she had a couple of hours’ worth of juice to discharge.

  By the time Mechelle emerged from her very climactic encounter, the bus was pulling off.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!!! My stuff is on that bus!” Mechelle screamed at nobody in particular. The driver was apparently more concerned with his schedule than he was with counting his passengers.

  At 8:55 the station’s manager completed his duties and stood by the double glass doors with keys in hand. He watched as the woman raced past him in the direction of the bus, left amidst its exhaust fumes. He watched as she ran like a gazelle with arms waving frantically, and then as she cursed the world for her own shortcomings.

  “Humph . . . ya lives and ya learns,” said the older white man. And despite the woman’s distress he still turned his key to lock the door. Not to mention the way his eyes cut with prejudice as he flipped the CLOSED sign and pulled the shade.

  Abandoned

  It was 9 PM when the bearded old fart turned on his heel, no less removing himself from the dilemma, content that the locked door and the “closed” sign would answer the young lady’s inevitable questions. Mechelle was indeed that troubled woman returning to the entrance after a failed attempt to chase after “that damned Greyhound.” She even made a desperate, last minute attempt to climb up onto a trash can, hoping that someone on the bus would notice her, and she fell on her ass. Teary eyed, with no other options, she came to face the locked door of the ticket office, slash, convenience store.

  Some convenience you are, thought Mechelle, swearing that the lights had just been switched off on her trek back toward the station entrance. The lights were dim now, but she knew for sure that the scruffy old man was still inside. Instead of becoming anal retentive (Mechelle’s definition of her worst attitude) and smashing the glass, she counted to ten, settled herself, and indulged in a much needed sigh. The greater reality here was: it was cold, dark, and Mechelle was stranded at this unattended bus terminal in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. She was left to assume a fetal position on an old marked up, splintered bench, clenching her legs, and doing her best to maintain warmth. Other than the moon, the only light came from a modern Coke machine which seemed like such an artificial part of this deathly-isolated stretch of dirt road. So alone and feeling abandoned as hell, Mechelle finally let out
some tears of frustration. She was thinking about her 4 heavy suitcases left on the bus. Worse than that, she reached in the pockets of her shorts only to find thirteen dollars and twelve cents. More tears. She still had her ticket stubs, praying that the next bus driver would understand.

  And when was that damned bus coming anyway?

  At 5′4″, Mechelle Ramirez was considered short, as compared to the runway models that she so admired. However, she had everything else going for her. Everything else that a so-called fashion model might possess. She had her velvety-smooth amber skin and a set of alluring bedroom eyes. Besides, Mechelle’s talent spoke so much louder than her appealing looks. She had a wizard’s relentless wit and a chameleon’s skill of adjusting to her environment. In one instance, while using proper etiquette and her best manners, Mechelle managed to have her English Literature professor fix her grade. According to his records, her attendance was lacking. And so he indicated that she’d receive a C for the semester. But Mechelle wasn’t having that. Calling him all kinds of mother-fuckers on the way to his office, she somehow contained her anger and instead used her God-givens. Her persuasion was best seated in her intellect, humor, and that snappy tongue to match her sharp looks. All of those combined resources could be dangerous if she used them as weapons. But for the professor, she didn’t have to lay it on heavy. Of course she could’ve fed into his advances and taken the easy way to the grade. However, Mechelle took the high road and simply “convinced” him that he was wrong.

  Nevertheless, A+ grades, coupled with all the wit and shapeliness in the world, wouldn’t be able to help Mechelle now. Nor would it keep her from weeping. Worse times had prepared her for situations like these. But feeling abandoned, stranded and alone was just a bit much for her to carry. For the moment it just seemed easier to cry than ever before.

  Next to where Mechelle was curled up, there was a window with a bus schedule posted inside. The hue of light from the soda machine was enough for her to recognize the arrival and departure times for Greyhound. And according to the schedule there would not be another bus coming through for 11 hours. Eleven hours!

  Nine AM. Just the thought of that caused Mechelle a great sigh. At least she knew when the next bus was coming. At least she could anticipate the next time that she’d see people, and she never thought there’d be such a need or desire to see them.

  Growing drowsy, lonely, and already drained from crying, Mechelle made the best of the idle time by dreaming, reminiscing and planning. It had been easy to just lay at home while Denworth kissed her ass to the limit. Literally. After all, Den did love her more than life itself. But the distance, whether on the bus, or now at the bus station, had Mechelle thinking. She began to realize that she loved Den more for the security that he offered than for his love; she loved his servitude and financial support more than she liked his company. No, she didn’t love just for the sake of loving him, or any of that unconditional banter that lovers claimed. No. Essentially, what Mechelle was doing was playing Denworth. She played him and was feeling quite proud about it, too. Mechelle recalled how Denworth was that class geek who knew it all. His pants were always too short. His eyeglasses were outlined by thick frames, and his hair was always glossy from so much curl activator. Perhaps his initial appearance was the aftermath of growing up in a female dominated, fatherless environment. But Mechelle loved Den in such a routine way. Always the missionary position. And the first time they did it? She laid in his bed while he serviced her. He was the bitch. Freshening up in the bathroom; changing into something comfortable, and then when he came out (checking first to see if the lights were out or if she was looking), he shot across the floor like a burning flame in a pair of black silk shorts that were at least one size too small. On top of that scared-shit move, he slid into the bed and underneath the covers as if to hide himself. After 5 or 10 minutes of his bullshit conversation, obviously nervous as a bowl of Rice Krispies, Mechelle thought up her own desperate humor.

  “What are we gonna do? Watch TV or fuck?” She took a deep breath and released a wearied “oh brother.” Then she reached for his hand and guided it to familiar areas of her body that aroused her most. If not for his excessive perspiration his erection wouldn’t make it through her doors since, 1) Mechelle just wasn’t excited enough to take him with natural juices, and 2) there was no way she was gonna suck his dick since she hardly knew him. As their encounter progressed, Mechelle began to find fun in teaching him. He began to catch on, despite an onslaught of amateur licking, kissing, touching and caressing, until the idea of teaching a virgin finally excited Mechelle to the point of climax. An infrequent event for her.

  And now, nearly two years later, these thoughts somehow kept Mechelle warmer than she should have been. The tears had soaked away, now replaced with goose bumps on her arms and legs. In the meantime she was passing away the hours, consumed in her own tight embrace and trivial memories, with the night slowly drifting by.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Debbie’s Chicago Tragedy

  For 7 weeks, Debbie Rose was attached to her computer, as if it was her personal life support system. Her interactions with David, a virtual boyfriend over the Internet, had all of the elements of a long distance relationship. He lived in New York, and Debbie was from Chicago’s south side where even the poverty-stricken still enjoyed the luxury of one and two-family houses. Debbie’s mom was one of those home renters who would soon be able to purchase and retain equity in her home. Then she could finally begin to build a nest egg for her family. It was hard to accomplish average progress as a single mom, struggling up the workforce ladder. Sometimes an affair with a new boyfriend, or some new sugar daddy, would assist her with that extra push. But when those relationships faltered it felt as though she had taken one step forward in order to take two steps back.

  The one blessing that Debbie’s mom had going for her was her job as assistant to Mr. Felton, one of Chicago’s most aspiring Black entrepreneurs. Thanks to his unconditional helping hand, Ms. Rose was secure even in her times of grief. On the days when Debbie or her brother Raymond were home sick from school, Ms. Rose was given the day off with pay. There were two or three instances when Ms. Rose’s car broke down, to the point that Mr. Felton made it his obligation to talk to a friend who owned a dealership. By her boss’s suggestion, Ms. Rose visited this same dealership and she was suddenly offered a deal that she couldn’t refuse; a new car with a $3,000 discount, not to mention the monthly payments that didn’t begin until 3 months after she drove the car off of the lot. Talk about a deal!

  Just when it seemed that everything was going Mama’s way, the Rose family experienced a big family tragedy. Debbie, Raymond and Mama Rose had been quietly enjoying the Jamie Foxx show when a crash sounded. It was so unexpected that it almost blended in with the television, like some sound effect. But in fact, broken glass littered the couch and Debbie’s brother instantly fell over to the floor. Seconds later, it was clear that a bullet had ripped through the back of young Raymond’s head. A stray bullet had shattered the living room window and took his life. Just like that. 13 years old.

  This was extremely traumatic for the Rose family. Reducing the Rose family to a simple mother and daughter relationship.

  Ms. Rose cried nightly for more than 2 months. And yet, again her boss supported her leave of absence. Paying her salary the whole way through, as well as Raymond’s funeral arrangements. In a note that accompanied a huge boxed delivery, Mr. Felton wrote: This could never replace the fond memories that you will always have for your son. But maybe this kind gesture will be accepted as a token of my condolences.

  The note was attached to a brand-new Pentium computer.

  Thanks to Mr. Felton’s generosity, Debbie began to learn more and more about the new technology, vowing to one day move her mother out of the urban decay that had caused their family so much heartache. In time, Debbie’s favorite place to be was on the Internet. The salary from her part time job at McDonald’s supplemented this extracurricul
ar activity. As a cashier, Debbie would outlast all the other teenagers who worked various jobs. One after another they were fired because of stealing, giving extras to friends (an extra burger here, an extra shake there) or constant lateness. She wondered if this was only happening where she worked.

  Debbie’s take-home pay was usually about $190 a week after taxes. She’d pay $5 towards her $20 monthly internet service fee, $30 to the hairdresser for her Saturday afternoon ritual and she’d give $75 to her mom to help with the bills. She had already contributed what she considered her life savings to pay for the circumstances surrounding Raymond’s funeral.

  “WELCOME!”

  Debbie’s online service was easy to use and she caught on quickly to the routine sign-on. She clicked the icon that flashed on her monitor, signifying “No” that she didn’t want what was being sold in the pop-up advertisement. Next, a mini news flash appeared in the screen.

  “YOU’VE GOT MAIL!” The computer’s voice bellowed audibly through the attached speakers. Debbie smiled since she was expecting an e-mail from David, her New York Internet love interest. She clicked the mailbox icon and waded through the junk mail until she hit pay dirt. She opened the mail that was titled “BOY WANTS GIRL”. That was David’s wit. And it made Debbie curious and anxious to always hurry to her e-mail. David was always saying something new and exciting. Everything he did seemed to make her day.

  “HI DEBBIE! I felt in the mood for some poetry today . . . Hope it hits your spot . . . ” As Debbie scrolled down the message, she focused her glossy eyes on David’s beautiful words:

  If love is a flower, then you are its seed

  If love is the power, you are its energy;

  Love will not perish, so long as you give

  Because your love I’ll cherish, for as long as I live.