Thursday, April 26, 2007

R.I.P... Him

He’s dead to me. And not even in a bad way. He didn't do anything wrong.

More like, in a necessary way. It was his time.

I planned a trip. Didn’t tell him until it was all said and done and the airline got their money. I have other business in town. But he was the reason. He just didn’t know it.

There’s a lot he didn’t know, actually. He had no clue that I still felt as strongly for him as I did a year and a half ago. He had no clue that I had plans. Dreams, really. Nor that they involved him.

I was waiting for the right time. Waiting for me to feel completely comfortable with the idea of being vulnerable to him again. Waiting for him to show me that he wasn’t a bitch. That he could handle this kind of communication.

But mostly just waiting for us both to emerge from a hectic few months of travel and work and school and shit.

I could no longer wait.

I booked the flight.

Made the arrangements.

Packed the warming lube and Durex.

Even as my overnight bag swelled, the weight of the ensuing loss was apparent. I acknowledged it. Folded it neatly, and zipped it up tight and stood it upright in the corner next to the door.

I remember at my dad’s funeral feeling a peculiar sense of vanity. I was well aware of all the eyes on me, me hidden behind large dark shades, dry eyed for the moment, walking down the aisle of the church toward the casket that held his shell in a dry-cleaned suit. I remember being fully cognizant of the outward appearance, much like I did when walking this same aisle as a bridesmaid in my sister’s wedding only a month prior. *step, together. step together. don't forget to smile.* All this attention was lavished on me at the funeral and I enjoyed it. And I felt bad about it. I knew that it was a natural thing. I like attention. And if you feel like shit, if you’ve lost something significant, why not wanna have some attention to hold you together?

I know that getting on the plane and seeing him will end in a death. A significant one, even.

So why not wanna have some attention to hold you together?

The plan was to arrive there. Give him a bubble bath. Join him. Embrace the vulva-vulnerability, his head in my hands. Fcuk him senseless. Say goodbye. Without opening my mouth, except to take him all in.

I remember the hot Jamaican sun beaming down on my back and watching the casket being lowered into the red earth. I remember wanting one more glance at its platinum fa├žade, but knowing that it had to go.

I planned that that last time with him, also the first time, actually, would cum and go. I would savor every thrust. I would give him more than he had earned. And I would bury him, finally. Even if I wanted one last look.

Why not leave on an orgasmic note?

I know it seems absurd. Comparing the death of my pops to ending a relationship that never was. No, it IS absurd. (but it's so dramatic and poetic and shit)

But so is making plans without notification.

So is falling in love and not staying there.

So is walking away without a fight.

Or with one, for that matter.

So is unzipping the overnight bag. Unpacking.

Trashing the Durex.

Stashing the lube.

Abandoning the plan. With or without him.

I have other business in town. It’s now the reason.

He’s dead to me. In a very good way.

And I can finally, FINALLY move on.


Feels great.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Airport Guy: A Romantic Comedy

I’m usually the girl hustling thru security, hitching a ride on the little scooter. Friday morning I arrived at BWI on time, in fact, with plenty of time to spare.

As I approached the departure gate, I noticed that my boarding pass said something to the effect of “THIS IS NOT A BOARDING PASS. PLEASE RETRIEVE PASS FROM GATE.” That’s a new one. I went to inquire and apparently the flight was overbooked. No biggie. I’m not late, nor am I on standby.


“Is anyone interested in volunteering to step off this flight (9:30am) in exchange for a travel voucher worth the price of your one-way fare plus $200?”

I pondered it. Even called my ride to ask if it was cool.

They asked several more times before it was my turn in line to settle up my boarding pass issue.

“Ms. Wise, we are currently overbooked. This means that you do not have a boarding pass …”

Priority standby is what they called it. The next flight is at 12:30.

I signed my paperwork and go grab some breakfast. When I arrived at the new gate I sat where I could hear the employees working. It was a shift change and the new chick was mad bitchy. Talking about passengers after they left.

Within a few minutes of me arriving a man went up asking if they needed volunteers.

“Yeah, but we’re overbooked all day so we can’t even confirm you on another flight today…or tomorrow.”

I overhear this spiel many times over the next hour or so, and it’s oddly unaggressive compared to the feverish sales pitch of the last flight. What seemed before like a routine bump now was looking like something else.

“Looks like this flight is overbooked too, huh?”

I looked up at the smiling stranger. I recognized him from the earlier flight. He was also contemplating taking the voucher just like me. I overheard him calling his ride, just like me. He was asking mad questions of the staff, and I remembered thinking he seemed so antsy, so anxious.

“It is, but there have been quite a few people offering up their seats,” I replied.

“Well they better start bumping dudes off this one like they did on ours!”

That was the first of many laughs in a very short space of time. Before I know it, this stranger and I were old friends with a list of inside jokes.

“I’m Darryl, by the way.”

“I’m Wise.”

“I’ll definitely remember that, if not because you’re a beautiful young lady, then because that’s also my sister’s name.”

“Ahhh, your sister must be fantastic.”

Darryl approaches the gate on behalf of both of us. I appreciated his initiative ad his kindness. He comes back looking amused.

“They don’t know what the hell they doing, but you’re #1 on the standby list and I’m #2, and there are still six people who haven’t checked in yet.”

Naturally we start cracking on the other folks at the gate. Dude with the bad hip who missed his flight yesterday and thinks he’s getting on this next flight. Granola chick with the dirty kids.

“There’s only so much longer I can sit and listen to my !pod. They need to wrap this thing up.” And with that he whips it out and impresses me with the depths of his musical tastes.

“What you know about !NXS?” he asked rhetorically.

“Wow! The “Kick” album?” He stopped and looked at me for a delayed moment, before breaking out into a smile.

“Not to scare you or anything, but I just fell in love with you a tiny bit,” he said, measuring it out with his fingers. “I’m impressed, Wise.”

“Me too. You’re the one who actually has the album. That's a throwback to like, 5th grade.”

So I pull out mine, and we have an !pod battle. We share another intimate musical moment when we both shout out Hall & Oates at the same time.

By now the flight is boarding and there are still people missing. But they’re not offering any vouchers, not asking for any volunteers. WTF?? Ok, no problem, because the flight closes ten minutes before the scheduled departure time, in which case those empty seats are offered to the standby list.


“Attention all passengers on Flight 1234 to Shitsville. It is now ten minutes to the departure time and if you are not checked in, your seats will be given away.”

They repeat this three times. By now, it’s 5 minutes to take off time. Why are me and Darryl still not on the damn plane?

Three minutes. Someone runs up. Let on.

It’s now the time of departure and they are still allowing muhfcukas on the plane! Now, I’ve been known to miss a flight or two…and I have been denied access for arriving at LEAST 15 minutes before the departure time. More than twice.

Then why in the hell did they let a wheelchair roll up three minutes AFTER departure time and get on, while me, Darryl and a bunch of other standby schmucks sit and watch??

“The next flight is in an hour and a half. Wanna go to the bar?” And with that offer I fall in love with Darryl a tiny bit.

Two rum and cokes later we learn that we know some of the same people, have both been to Vegas in the past month, and that our 30th birthdays were four days apart. A fellow alcoholic Aries.

He’s cool. No outward pretensions. Genuinely respectful and decent. Funny as shit. A party guy without being an idiot. A secure professional on a weekend trip home to visit his mama.

We end up being screwed on the next flight as well, and he supported me wholeheartedly as I let the supervisor HAVE IT. He didn’t try to placate me in front of them as a display of “decorum” (I fcuking HATE when dudes do that docile shit, especially when it’s something to legitimately be pissed about. Don’t play that, ‘Everything is ok, sir. I’m not an angry Negro like my girlfriend here’ bullshit!) He just sat and smiled.

He lives in the absolute opposite direction yet he offered me a ride home. Made sure I’m straight before heading for his car.

When I put my number in his phone at his request, I labeled it 'BWI Wise'. As I’m sitting on the train back home he texts me…

“If we turn back we can still make a flight to Vegas.”

If this was a movie he’d have been Hugh.Grant or Tom.Cruise and he'd have had me at ‘standby.’

But it’s real life…MY real life, so of course there’s no fairytale ending.

I am not physically attracted to him in the least. At all. Not even a little.


Nonetheless, I fall a tiny bit in love with the notion that there are Darryls out there. Nice guys with funny jokes and good conversation.

Guys who don’t flip out in public, but who will have your back if you do. Guys who go out of their way to be kind.

But would it have been so difficult for him to be a tiny bit cute?!

My life blows.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

"An American Story"

Know what my professor said today?

It tripped me out soooo badly.

We were talking about the 24-hour news cycle and how obnoxious and overwhelming it tends to be (who's old enough to remember when news only came on at 6am, 6pm and 11pm?)

Anywho, we're talking about Ann@ Nic0le...who, oddly enough, my mother is obsessed with. She doesnt trust "that H0ward K. St.ern for one second."

No wait, we were talking about Sam.Shepard's Pulitzer Prize winning play Buried.Child, and about how it tells such an "American story."

Sometimes our conversations intersect as they did today, and he mentions the circus that is Ann@ Nic and mentions as a sidenote that he does not believe this business of the photo guy being the baby daddy (I only wish they woulda let Ma.ury reveal that shit).

"I believe the son was the baby's father...and that's why he's dead. That's why they're both dead. Quintessential American story," he says.

That shit creeped me out, and as I get into bed I am already anticipating the nightmares I will have.

Not a fan of the incest.

But I'm hoping that sharing it with yall will help me sleep.

*nighty night*

Monday, April 02, 2007

Yall KNOW I Dont Be Doin This!

For a limited time only...a view of some of the crew.

Guess which one is me!

Disqus for She's Just Not Feeling You...

  • So...Wise??

    My photo
    Our Nation's (HIV) way of Harlem, NY and Upsteezy NY
    I'm older than I look, and stupider than you think. But I'm quite proud of my sharp eye for The Ridiculous, and by Ridiculous, of course I mean Me.