The Marionette, The Rear View, and The Truth About Rims

What does it say about a man who is more confident in his choice of automobile than his choice of wife? I'm being serious...

I love my car. I knew I wanted it since I went to the dealership to get my old car serviced and ended up taking the brochure for the new model home. I saved up for it, kept my old car in pristine condition, so I would get the full value of my trade-in, and even though I bought it when it was no longer a new model, I loved it and all of its features UNCONDITIONALLY. My wife? NOT SO SURE. Don't mean to be honest...but I'm being honest....

I used to date this girl who had a talent for one-liners, and it drove me crazy. I was young then. Not used to hearing the word, "NO." Hell...not used to "MAYBE." And here she comes. Smart-ass mouth to match that smart-ass mind.

I tried to get her number and she asked, "What's the last book you read?"

"I don't read," I replied with the subtle swag that I now realize only the ignorant employ when they don't know what the hell else to say...or actually think the dumb shit they say is a valid comeback (or "retort," as she would say).

"Oh," she replied with a smile, and then with jerk-like precision asked, "Do you know a good car wash?"

I took the bait. Thinking I was going to sound like some sort of expert, I asked, with the same stupid-ass swag, "You got rims or hubcaps? The best place to go to have special attention paid to your rims is..."

"I knew it," she interrupted. "Look, I don't think I'm compatible with the rims-over-reading type. Thanks anyway."

"Rims-over-reading type"? And she walked away with that same damn smile she was wearing when she asked the question. That same smile could turn the biggest street nigga (which I happened to think I was at the time) into the biggest pile of foul-smelling feces on the block. (chuckle) In short...I had to have her.

Eventually, I did. She had me, really. She was herself all the time. Not easily impressed or excitable. Honest to a fault. Intriguing. Genuine. She read "If Beale Street Could Talk" to me after the first time we had sex. The whole book. While cradling me naked in her arms. And I paid attention. And I followed. And I loved her...right then...I knew it. But I couldn't keep up with her. Or maybe I just wasn't willing to leave all the bullshit behind to grow with her. She was making me different, from my speech to my thoughts. I didn't want to grow at all...so I stayed behind...feeling like all I could do is take her rims in for special attention every Saturday. I made myself replaceable, so soon, in true-to-form fashion, I cheated, she caught me, and without a second thought, replaced me.

In fact, her exact words were, "Welcome to mediocrity, Muthafucka," before she closed the door and left me tangled in my sheets with my (then) mistake...my (current) wife.

And all this flooded my mind as I sat at a traffic light, heading home to the life I thought I wanted, with the woman I thought I could live with, in the car I loved unconditionally, staring in the rear view at the woman who always made me think too much. She didn't even notice me missing her.

She had truly cut all ties, evidently. And there I was with all my many strings attached. Still her puppet, waiting to be read to and pulled out of my bullshit with one line.

The Last Bit of the Last Pastrami Sandwich I'll Ever Eat...

It hit me suddenly as I sat folding the clothes (a task I hate) and battling vicious menstrual cramps (a  part of growing older I hate). So I picked up the phone and text him: "I finally forgive you..." His response: "Thank you." I probably will never hear from him again now that he's no longer emotionally bound to me in any way. I'll miss him.

I don't think I'll ever love another the way I loved him. Free. Unguarded. Pure. He was my youthful hope for a normal existence. But it is also important that I continue to be a choosy lover. I hope he finds what he's looking for. I hope I do too.

Metronome (149 words)

When the sonogram was invented, that man had no idea that the string of pearls that excites parents so much would look so beautiful fleshed out, lying bare next to me 30 years later. And I felt smarter and more privileged than he as I stared at her back, wondering how she managed to keep it so beautiful when it was heavily burdened.

Inhale...up. Exhale...down. Inhale...up. Pause... And then...Exhale...down. I pull her close and she doesn't wake up. I fall asleep to her metronome.

I don't have much. I never have...maybe I never will. But if I could come home every night and have her I wouldn't need hip hop. This is what being a Black man is really all about. Not about about the ornaments women aspire to be because of who I think I am. But the man I get to be because of the jewel she is.