I Can't Date Jesus Page 8

  She was into those restaurants where celebrities or quasi celebs would call paparazzi to purposely show up and photograph them so they could end up on TMZ, blogs, and social media. In their minds, this made them seem important. I found it to be like taking the taint of desperation and rubbing it all over your face. I got that it was some folks’ business model, but it was stupid all the same. (Somewhere, though, some paparazzo person is like, “But you be looking, though!”)

  In any event, knowing my audience, I invited her to dinner at one of those spiffy restaurants people in LA liked to harp about eating at. Shani accepted, but naturally still had to pick me up because it would be a few more months before I finally had my own ride. We went to Crustacean, a European-Vietnamese restaurant in Beverly Hills that boasted about being the place to “walk on water.” They mean walk over a fountain. I suppose if Jesus didn’t trademark the phrase, it’s legally available for others to use, but I don’t blame him if he saw that, flipped his bang, and laughed. The restaurant was hailed for its garlic noodles. I never liked the cheaper, heart-attack-inducing ramen noodles that came in a package, so I was even less interested in trying this wealthier, highfalutin cousin.

  As Shani sat there browsing the menu while I contemplated accidentally falling on purpose in order to get a free meal, a loud and very large man in a Fila tracksuit approached our table as if we had motioned him over.

  Mr. Fila Tracksuit asked Shani, “Are y’all from LA?”

  There’s a reason why parents tell their kids, “Don’t talk to strangers,” but, unfortunately, Shani loved talking to strangers and would do so whenever the opportunity presented itself. No matter where we were, if someone said the weather was nice (it was always nice in LA—even when it rained, it was still nicer than rain elsewhere), she’d manage to end up talking to the person about how their high school quarterback had stage-IV colon cancer and how the entire class was grief-stricken. I used to be that way too. Back in high school, two of my close friends, Kim and Shilisa, joked about how I would have full-on conversations with folks I had just met. There was a difference, though: strangers talked to me, but even though I had a slick mouth on me, I was Southern, and thus polite. Shani revealed her native status, while I made clear that I was from Houston. Literally a second later, Mr. Fila asked me if I knew someone named Brad Ford. I said no, and Fila screamed, “You from Houston and you’on know Brad Ford? What you, a medical student or something?”

  I had no idea what one had to do with the other.

  I informed Fila that I was actually a writer. He immediately decided to grab a chair and sit down. Who had told him to sit down? Not me.

  Why hadn’t I just said I was an unemployed chronic masturbator instead?

  Telling someone in Los Angeles that you’re a writer can yield a number of results. The first might easily be skepticism. Social media has made it easier than ever for people to present what is arguably still a hobby as their profession. Those people who post shots of their butt cheeks on Snapchat or Instagram run through a few filters and captioned with a camera emoji and some person’s name? Yeah, meet Jourdan Dunn and Annie Leibovitz. And there are so many “stylists” out there who literally have one client: themselves. Granted, a writer is anyone who writes. The same goes for anyone else who’s starting with a dream and pushing to make it their main source of income. I respect and support you. That aside, I write for a living, and even now, when I tell people I’m a writer, I’m sometimes met with pushback along the lines of, “Sure, but how do you eat?”

  Another response could be one of pity, because, well, who wants to be a writer in an era when people can’t even be burdened to type out “Happy Birthday” in full on social media anymore?

  Then there’s curiosity. “Who do you write for? What sort of writing do you do?” You must choose your answers wisely in order to avoid the moment when the person starts wondering to themselves, “What can that person do for me?”

  Suddenly I felt that a red dart was being aimed at my forehead.

  Fila seemed to possess a large amount of self-esteem. It was evident in the fact that he spent twenty minutes talking about his life to a couple of strangers who showed not a lick of genuine interest in what he had to say. It was my own fault for remembering the rule about respecting my elders. That was dumb, because fuck this rude old man. I was also wrong for making a sincere effort to try to control my ever-expressive face. Nature determined me to be the type of person who looked at you stupid the second you displayed such behavior. I had tried to go against the natural order, and Fila was my punishment.

  After a while I started to tune him out. Not completely, of course. I needed to know just what level of crazy I was dealing with. As he kept rambling he pulled out two IDs from his wallet.

  One had an address that Shani later explained to me was located in some part of LA far worse than where I was. The other ID had some address in Beverly Hills. Why was he telling us any of this? (To this day, I’m still waiting on Scooby Doo and the Mystery Machine to email their findings.)

  Fila went on and on. He was a motormouth with a fresh tune-up. He talked about how rich he was. How he had a house in Manhattan. How he had first arrived in LA on a Greyhound bus with twenty cents in his pocket. How he could walk into what he described as “this fine establishment” in a Fila tracksuit. If only the 1990s had kept this man in the decade he belonged in.

  In between all of his ranting he repeatedly asked me if I wanted to make money—mumbling something about 35 percent and Paramount.

  Initially, I assumed that if I let this crazy motherfucker talk to me for a few minutes, he would eventually go away. But then several minutes went by. Maybe it was only seven minutes, but it felt like forever. Squared.

  After a while, I started to realize that this Fila-tracksuit-wearing fucker smelled like Kool cigarettes and more than likely had spent the previous two hours of the night tongue-kissing a bottle of Crown Royal. Probably the maple version, because he was nasty and constantly thought of bacon.

  When he had first sat down, I had gotten the sense that he assumed I was dating Shani. I must have spoken or gestured in a more detectable way, because all of a sudden Fila stopped midsentence to ask me, “Are you a homosexual?”

  “Yes, as long as women still come with vaginas.”

  “Does my straightness make you uncomfortable?”

  Well, this was different. Usually it was the other way around—the straight person professing his discomfort at a gay person. Was I supposed to be flattered by this line of questioning? But the answer to his question was no. His straightness wasn’t the irritant; his existence itself was.

  This was the part of the one-sided discussion when I pulled my glass of water closer to me. Fila quipped, “Oh, my man, I’m talking over your water. From the bottom of my heart I am so sorry.”

  A simple “my bad” would’ve sufficed, but in any case, that wasn’t why I had pulled the glass closer to me. Sensing an attitude at this point, I started to wonder if this crazy-ass man was going to swing on me. I needed to be prepared just in case he tried it. I might have to bash that glass in his face and start swinging.

  It finally hit me that Fila wasn’t going to leave the table of his own accord. I was being way too polite, which allowed him to get way too comfortable. I was shocked he didn’t order an appetizer before we did. Then again, he didn’t have a chance to. Our waitress had left us alone for quite some time. When she finally did come back, he told her, “Nah, they’re not ready to order.”

  Man, fuck this.

  “Yes we are, homie—hold on.”

  I motioned to the waitress to come back over while beginning to grip that glass of water more firmly. Finally, we were able to order our meals: saddity salmon, bougie crab legs, and those damn noodles everyone was fawning over.

  “It’s time for you to go, sir.”

  “ ‘Sir’?!”

  Another problem: Southern manners.

  Being civilized clearly wasn’t going to work
.

  Also not working was Fila repeatedly touching my arm while he spoke to me. I guess my gayness didn’t bother his straightness.

  After finishing his soliloquy about why his life ought to be made into a movie, Fila kept pressing me: “Now, what do you say? Do you want to make money?!”

  “I’m okay. Good luck to you and your book-deal-movie thing.”

  Followed with: “No disrespect, man, but you’ve been here for a minute, and I’m with my friend and we’re trying to enjoy our dinner.”

  Fila: “Well, fine! Die poor!”

  Say what?

  I had been banished into poverty over declining the offer to write this unidentified man’s autobiography and biopic.

  “You try to help people out, and look how they treat you. Fine, be poor. Die poor. Your problem!”

  Coincidentally, I was being told this as I was developing the fear of such a fate. Los Angeles was the perfect place to let this sort of anxiety blossom, given everyone’s penchant to parade their wealth. Even the theme of this dinner was my modest way of showing appreciation for kindness and generosity to someone in a much better position than mine.

  Offended by the writing guy from Houston who had the nerve to not know who the unidentified but seemingly awesome Brad Ford was, Fila huffed and puffed and finally got his ass the hell away from our table.

  Our waitress came back with our food. Sensing the hostility in the air, it dawned on her what had just happened.

  “Wait, did you know that guy?”

  “NO!”

  You damn fool.

  “I thought he was your father the way he was yelling at you.”

  Now, my looks have been described as a fake-ass Chris Brown and a knockoff Chico DeBarge. By contrast, Fila looked like “What if Danny Glover lived on an all-pork-and-cigarette diet?” Like father, like son?

  The manager appeared, and Fila—still lingering around the premises, likely searching for another Black victim in the restaurant—was escorted out. The manager apologized and offered us a free dessert. The dessert was bland as hell. Considering they let a stranger in nylon terrorize me at the table, they could’ve at least offered us some liquor. Hell, I would’ve settled for complimentary crab cakes. A Southern restaurant sure would’ve given us some, and maybe even suggested we drive to the Walmart after and get us a gun and some of those frozen Tyson chicken tenders on sale.

  In the midst of Fila’s fury, Shani and I didn’t pick up on the live entertainment at the restaurant. I’m not sure if this was to our benefit, but the jazz vocalist and pianist—both white—started performing a spirited rendition of “Wade in the Water.”

  Wade in the Water

  Wade in the Water, children

  Wade in the Water

  God’s gonna trouble the Water

  Yes, white people in an Asian fusion restaurant were performing a Negro spiritual. If any Negro spirits had been awakened by their performance, it would have likely been only to bitch-slap them both in disgust.

  When the bill came, the dinner totaled $120 plus tip.

  As Shani reached for her wallet, I reminded her that this was my treat.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I said hastily.

  A crazy man, forecasts of poverty, and a poorly advised song selection combined with food that wasn’t remarkably special notwithstanding, I had promised to pay for this dinner, and I intended to keep my word. This meal encapsulated my entire outlook on Los Angeles: a pretty place full of kind natives largely overshadowed by soulless transients looking to score. I have no idea what happened to that old man, but I hope that Fila tracksuit of his caught on fire.

  Learning How to Ho and Date and Failing at Both

  Having paranoia about sex did not mean that I lived a completely asexual experience. For me, there was the ideal situation in which I desired to have sex in terms of penetration—someone I cared about deeply—and the reality that during immense fits of sexual frustration, I needed a release. Sometimes this meant engaging in sexual acts that assuaged some of that unsettling tension but left me feeling as though I was too loose with my own standards. Most times, however, I went on dates with the intent to forge meaningful connections that would give way to the ideal scenarios for sexual eruptions. Unfortunately, I forgot to keep one thing in mind: men are fucking awful.

  I. 2007.

  I assumed he was biracial, because despite clearly being of Asian descent, he had braids and wore a grill, and his name was Trevonte. He didn’t necessarily have Jackson 5 nostrils, but they were at least B2K nostrils, so there was a legit reason not to have a definitive answer on his racial makeup. And again, his name was Trevonte. Not to be completely stereotypical, but Trevonte is the kind of name that screams Black. For the record, I’m not a racist working in human resources who sees a name like Trevonte and promptly deletes the résumé over fears that upon being hired, he’ll show up carrying a huge tub of Lawry’s seasoned salt and sprinkle it all around his cubicle to mark his territory as he quietly plans the race war on company time. In fact, I’ve mulled naming a set of twins I’ll create with the help of science “Destiny’s Child” and “Jodeci.” (Then again, there are quite a few 1990s babies with the name Jodeci, and perhaps I oughta go with another R & B group of that era like Troop or Silk.) I remain undecided on that, but to be clear, while I have no problems with names that scream Black-Black-Black, I do expect someone named Trevonte to at least have one parent of Negro descent.

  We met at a gay Black club in Houston called 20/20. It was Saturday night, so virtually every gay Black man who was a clubgoer would frequent it—yet another reason to assume Trevonte was a racial and ethnic concoction like Tiger Woods. I was back in Houston, miserable and trying to figure out how in the hell I had ended up back in my hometown after spending all that time and money in college trying to live anywhere else but Houston. Going to the club and getting drunk out of my mind was a coping mechanism. I also went because my sex life was nonexistent, and that club was a good venue for me to work out some of my sexual frustration. I wasn’t having sex, but I did feel up boys, get felt up myself, and, on occasion, exchange numbers with someone who ideally might become someone I would get to know, fall for, and, when I felt comfortable, consummate the relationship with. I had been at 20/20 for hours, and it was nearing the time for me to begin drinking a whole lot of water, chill for a spell in the parking lot of the club with the other gays who didn’t know when to go home, and make a pit stop at Whataburger before going back home and purposely forgetting everything that just happened.

  The club was massive. It had three levels, though only two functioned as places where everyone actually partied. The line began on the ground floor, but you had to walk up steps to have your ID checked and to pay to get in. Upon entry, you were on the second level, which was a sizable space in and of itself, but there were two ramps on both the left and right sides that you took you down to the massive dance floor. And there was a very large stage area where men would occasionally perform. Either they would perform as drag queens or set up their own impromptu dance troupe and twerk it out while everyone was drunk or high out of their minds. Trevonte was sitting in the middle of that stage surrounded by a sea of Black boys. He made eye contact with me—possibly because he thought I might’ve been my brother—but that was about it. I was used to men not approaching me and having to make the first move, so I walked over. I introduced myself, I told him that he was cute, and we exchanged numbers.

  Upon texting, I learned that he was not mixed but Filipino. I should have known better. This was Houston, Texas, where braids and grills were as common as men in the hood going up and down the street on horseback. Houston has always been incredibly diverse, but there is a bit of what some would describe as “ratchetness” to be found in city residents regardless of their socioeconomic status or racial background. Whether or not they have any inherent anti-Blackness may be another story, though.

  I was complimentary and flirtatious, but I often ha
d a habit of sometimes speaking a wee bit too loosely. When I found out he was Filipino rather than being the by-product of at least one Black parent, I said, “Oh, you’re like an Asian Paul Wall.” Paul Wall was a white rapper from Houston who had immersed himself in the culture well enough to where he could bring potato salad to a cookout and Black folks present wouldn’t inherently question whether he put raisins in it (he had a Black wife, so she’d likely step in and save the day). One could only discern the tone of texting to a certain point, but I got the sense Trevonte didn’t love the comparison despite my actually having spotted him singing along to Paul Wall in the club that same night. He let it slide, though, because after a few more days of texting back and forth, we finally set up a date.

  He told me to meet him at a sushi spot I understood to be frequented by all kinds but on Fridays was populated heavily by Black people. It had a lengthy happy hour that went well into the night, with heavily discounted food and drinks. It also had both a large area for dining and an equally big area that served as more of a lounge. Guess which night Trevonte picked. He did so partially because he had a relative there who worked as a bartender, one who would be quite generous with his gig’s available alcohol. Considering that I had only recently started freelance writing and was learning to save money to move away, in addition to developing the skill set to efficiently harass accounts-payable departments to get my money in a timely manner, I was not going to turn down a date with a cute boy who had lots of muscles and tats, with free drinks to boot. After all, my broke ass was driving my mama’s car there anyway.

  We met at the bar, and as soon as I sat down, he asked me if I wanted something to eat. I told him no. I had not eaten all day. I had a high tolerance when it came to drinking, but that was only if you factored in food first. Given that I had nothing in my stomach before I was due to drink a lot with this guy, my answer should have been an emphatic yes. But no, not me. I wanted to be cute and drink. For a while, we simply talked. I learned that he was a junior at the University of Houston, majoring in criminal justice with the goal of going to law school and becoming a lawyer. I told him about my time at Howard, what I had done, and what I still planned to do once I escaped again.