Mourners

20

TAMARA

Saturday night she almost got laid.

Almost: The Sad, Pathetic Story of Tamara Corbin’s Love Life.

Almost messed up and almost pregnant by one of a succession of losers in high school. Almost permanent relationship with the almost love of her life. Almost sex with a man she almost hadn’t gone out with in the first place. And the reason for Saturday night’s almost Lord!

Man wasn’t a pickup, he was an actual date. First date she’d had with anybody except Horace since her first semester at S.F. State. Blind date, which was the reason she almost hadn’t gone out with him. Vonda was responsible. She got together with the girlfriend for a drink after work on Friday, poured out her tale of Horace woe, and the first thing Vonda said was, “Only way to forget a man is to find yourself another one quick.” Then she’d gone and done something about it, quick; Vonda never wasted any time when it came to men. By nine o’clock Friday night, the blind date was all arranged.

His name was Clement Rawls, he was a stockbroker with the same company Vonda’s boyfriend, Ben Sherman, worked for. Ben was white-and Jewish, leave it to Vonda-and if Clement had been either or both of the same she would probably have said no. Not that she had anything in principle against dating white guys or Jewish guys, but she’d never done it and this wasn’t the time to start. But no, Clement was African-American. A hunk, Vonda said, and to her surprise he’d turned out to be just that. Few years older than her, nice smile, sexy eyes, the Denzel type. Cool, easy to talk to, funny, didn’t come on too strong. Only thing wrong with him-the only thing, anyway, until the kink he revealed to her when they were alone together-was that he was hung up on his appearance and pretty fond of himself. Metrosexuals didn’t appeal to her; Mr. Clement Rawls would’ve eventually tied her patience in a knot. But he was no more interested in a long-term relationship than she was, and for one night it didn’t really matter.

He picked her up at her apartment-he drove a Beamer, what else? — and they went out to dinner and then club-crawling in SoMa with Vonda and Ben. About an hour with him was all it took to break down her resolve against any more casual sex. Love and respect and all that were fine, but when your hormones were running wild everything else took second place to scratching the itch. He was a terrific dancer and a terrific kisser, a combination that told her he’d be good in bed and got her even more hotted up. When he finally took her home she hadn’t had any last-minute hesitations about inviting him in.

Should’ve figured he was too good to be true. Should’ve had a clue when he dragged his briefcase out of the backseat and brought it in with him, but she figured as self-confident as he was, he expected to spend the night and the briefcase contained his toothbrush and a change of underwear. Wrong. Wrong big time.

Everything went along fine for a while. They drank some more wine and made out on the couch, both of them getting their temperatures raised-man really did know how to kiss. So then she said, “Come on in the bedroom, Clement,” and they got up and swapped some more spit and she started leading him into the other room.

And then it all fell apart. He unlocked their lips and whispered in her ear, “Before we go to bed, there’s something I’d like you to do. Something, well, special to please me.”

Uh-oh. “What kind of special?”

“It’s nothing, really. You won’t mind.”

“If you want to tie me up-”

“No.”

“Or lick Cool Whip off my-”

“No, no.”

“I’m not into games. Or pain, I draw the line at pain.”

“Nothing like that, I promise.”

“What, then?”

“I’ll show you.”

He let go of her, put his hands on that briefcase of his instead, and showed her. Whipped this thing out of there that for a couple of awful seconds looked like some kind of dead animal.

‘Yo, what is that?”

He shook it out, extended it toward her. Long and blond and hairy “A wig?” she said.

“A wig,” he said.

That was what it was, all right. About three feet of blond hair so pale it was almost platinum, straight except for some tangles and end flips. She stared at it hanging from his fingers like some kind of trophy scalp. He was staring at it, too, hot-eyed, his mouth hanging open a little as if he might start drooling on it.

“What you want me to do with that?”

“Wear it,” he said.

“You don’t mean in bed while we-?”

“Yes.”

“Man, what for?”

“It excites me.”

“… Yeah, so I see.”

He wiggled the wig. “Put it on,” he said.

“No,” she said.

“You won’t be sorry. It enhances my performance.”

“Not gonna be any performance with that thing on my head.”

“Come on, now, it’s just a harmless fantasy-”

“I don’t do fantasies. I don’t do wigs.”

“The sex will be fantastic, you’ll see. Best you’ve ever had.”

“Oh, sure. Blondes have more fun, right?”

“Don’t you want to find out?”

“Uh-uh. No way.”

“Tamara, it’s important to me that you wear it.”

“Must be. What, you carry it with you everywhere you go, just in case you get lucky?”

“I won’t dignify that question with an answer.”

“Dignify? I don’t see much dignity in a black man hauling a Marilyn Monroe scalp around in his briefcase.”

“It’s just a wig. You make it sound like something obscene.”

“It is if you don’t wash it.”

“What?”

“Bet you never wash it. Expect me to put it on my head with all your other women’s cooties still in there.”

“For God’s sake-”

“Listen here. You want a white woman, why don’t you go find yourself one instead of messing with me?”

“I don’t want a white woman. I don’t date white women.”

“Black woman in a blond wig? That what boils your pot?”

He blinked. His mouth thinned down tight. The wig wiggled. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Any black woman, right? Just so long as she’s wearing Marilyn’s hair.”

“This isn’t Marilyn’s hair!”

“Looks like it from where I’m standing.”

“And you’re wrong, it’s you I want-”

“You sure about that?”

“What do you mean, am I sure?”

“Can’t help but wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“If it’s a woman you really want. Or just that scalp.”

He puffed up like a toad and made a couple of sputtering sounds.

She was on a roll now. No longer horny, no longer interested in Mr. Clement Rawls, and with her claws out in frustration. She said, “You ask me, you’re in love with that thing. The way you hold it, look at it, practically drool on it. Wouldn’t surprise me if you pet it and hump it all by itself when there’s nobody else around.”

“You can’t talk to me like that! You smart-ass bitch, who do you think you are!”

That was when she threw him out.

And that was the end of that.

Sad and pathetic, all right. But the worst thing about this Saturday night almost, aside from the fact she hadn’t gotten laid, was that now her story had a new twist that made her feel sorry for herself in a different way. A cheating chump cellist wasn’t bad enough, oh no. Now the Man Upstairs had to go and throw in a scalp-sucking stockbroker fool and turn a tragedy into a Whoopi Goldberg farce.