It’s a rainy Wednesday. I’m getting some work done, but I’m sleepy and wired at the same time. Is that possible? Despite the day, I want to have some fun with it. I dug in my vault a bit and pulled up an old short story of mine. It’s not just any short story. It’s one that was this –> <– close to being published by a mainstream company. In 2006, I submitted a story to the ladies behind the web series “What Was I Thinking” (WWIT). It was a series in which women submitted narratives or essays of their bad breakup or relationship stories. St. Martin’s Press picked up on the series and worked with the two ladies behind it to put together an anthology.
To make a short story even shorter, the ladies of WWIT loved my submission. All I had to do was read over an agreement (check), sign a release (check) and boom I was going to be in the anthology. The book What Was I Thinking: 58 Bad Boyfriend Stories was slated to be released the following year on Valentine’s Day. My excitement was building as I saw the two editors (the original ladies of WWIT) do their media blitz to promote the book, including a chat with Oprah! Yet, my mouth dropped when I finally saw a copy of the book and didn’t see my story. As the publishing industry would have it, the editors at St. Martin’s decided to go a slightly different direction. Instead of stories from the everyday female, most of the stories in the book were from celebrities in their late 30s or well into their 40s. At the time my story was submitted I was only 26, so I guess I hadn’t acquired enough wisdom or retrospection on my life with men, boys, whatever. I was heart broken, but I understood, it’s business. I did receive an apology from one of the WWIT ladies, who kept reiterating she loved my story, but it wasn’t the right fit with the rest of the stories. However, I guess the ultimate decision came from the publishing house.
So I tucked my story away. It barely saw any daylight unless I used it as a sample submission when applying for literary grants. Today I want to bring it to light. There’s no particular reason as to why now, just to say that I want to give my readers of this blog more of my creative side. Also, just generate some feedback on my creative writing style. I’m posting the story as is, meaning in raw form. No editing was done, but my spelling and other grammar is on point! So here it is.. my “What Was I Thinking?” story in the raw! Enjoy! Have a laugh on my dating life at my expense.
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* Names have been changed to protect identities.
Faux Predictions: Too Real For Comfort
By: Mahoganie Jade Browne
After looking into her tarot cards and seeing a male silhouette in my future, a psychic told me that strange circumstances would surround this man. This was several years ago. If I could call her back today I would ask her to be more specific. My meetings with men have always, and I’m afraid, will continue to be with “strange circumstances.” I should have known she was a fluke since she was one of the random gypsy posers for the Miss Cleo Psychic Network. However, to her credit, she never did predict that any one of them, or this one shadow of a man, would turn out to be “the one”.
There was “Jim,” who I met from a chat line that actually carried out his dialogue as if he were typing in the chat room. He would go into a little (not so funny) joke, and when he laughed at himself he actually said aloud,
“Backslash, backslash L-O-L”
In the chat world, this translated to him typing up the cartoon image code for “laughing out loud.”
Needless to say, that was the end of Jim, well sort of. The end came a few days later as we were both back in the chat room. At first we were exchanging pleasantries and suddenly the conversation took a turn for the worse. One sarcastic remark on my part opened the floodgates for Jim to virtually humiliate me. I was everything from a fat slob to a garden tool on welfare with multiple kids that I was hiding from society, because they were illegitimate and dumb as dish water. Thankfully no one believed the hype.
The sad thing is he unknowingly furthered the gap between Baltimore and DC as there is an unspoken division between the two cities that are only a few minutes apart. DC natives believe that Baltimore people tend to be a bit more colorful and perhaps the city is just too foreign for Washington’s taste. I never bought into that, but after meeting Jim I got a taste of his “colorful” nature as mundane and spooky it was. Baltimore was beginning to look like a modern and mild version of Carroll Lewis’ “Wonderland.” I swear my name was Alice for those few weeks I knew Jim.
Exits Jim, enters “Kenny.”
Kenny was about eleven years older than me. He was stable, divorced with a couple of kids and worked as a contractor at the Pentagon. It wasn’t the divorced with kids part that frightened me away. It was the night of our casual dinner date. I was already irritated as I was kept waiting at the restaurant because he was lost; after he assured me he knew where it was and knew his directions. Still, that alone didn’t scare me away. It was the sight I saw once he finally made it to the restaurant.
Almost an hour late, Kenny stepped in, dressed nice in some tan khakis and a casual dress shirt, but there was this bulky black case he was lugging with him. He walked over to me, greeted me with a hug and kiss on the cheek and then we were rushed to our seats. Before I could inquire about what was in the case, Kenny signaled our hostess.
“May we please have a seat near an outlet? I need a place to plug in my cell phone so it can charge.”
CELL PHONE?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
There we were in the middle of 2001, a new era, and this man was still carrying around the bulky Inspector Gadget cell phone (with a cord) and its bulky case. Now I know I’m… how did Erykah Badu put it…“an analog girl in a digital world.” I truly think vintage or anything retro can be sexy, but that was just an eye sore. Unfortunately, it was a packed house in the restaurant that night and I had to sit through dinner with Kenny fussing off and on about his cell phone not being charged. Plus, the fact the conversation was nothing but mindless banter and nothing stimulating made me want to cry.
Bye bye Kenny.
Naturally there were others after Kenny; such as two of my journalism peers who did wine and dine me to no anvil. I did have a great time with them, even though one did remind me of the lovable Sesame Street character Grover. Seriously, every time I looked at him I thought about the blue, fuzzy, loveable and a bit annoying monster. However, I just enjoyed their professional friendship. I think they took the hint.
Of course I can’t leave out Mr. X. He was someone I use to work with. He was sorely stuck on himself (mostly because people often told him he looked like the actor Morris Chestnut). He managed to confuse me daily. Some days he acted as if I could be the little sister he never had. Other days the signals were mixed and perhaps I could have been someone he desired. What else could I expect from a Leo? The whole Leo and Aquarius mix is dangerous. It wasn’t until I left that job that things were cleared, but only after I had already gone off the deep end of sharing short stories I had written filled to the brim with innuendo. Now, anytime I run into a Leo, I just take Nancy Reagan’s advice. I run (in the opposite direction of course) like hell screaming “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”
Yet, out of the poor souls mentioned above, none will be so great of a disappointment than “Bantu.” Before I left that particular job, I should have learned my lesson from all of the confusion Mr. X threw my way. Yet, I was that moth that was struck in awe by “the light” – the light being GQ looking men. Like Mr. X, Bantu, who looked like the actor Taye Diggs, also worked in my building. He came after me. I noticed how whenever I came into his view he looked my way, almost never taking his eyes away. Finally after weeks of eye contact he had enough courage to approach me.
We spent time talking on the phone well into the night. Things felt nice as conversations were indeed stimulating and intellectual. I found out that he had seen me before he started eyeballing me at work. We both attended the same university and were both in the same communications program. However, he was a graduate student from Nigeria. I was still an undergrad.
Months flew by, but we still hadn’t had a date. Anytime plans were made to go out, something would always come up on his end at the last minute. At first I understood because he was a bit of a workaholic that was trying to pay his way through school, pay a mortgage and regular house bills. As time marched on, my patience wore thin and my radar was up on full blast. Something wasn’t right. Even though he was gentleman enough called me at my desk during the day to see how I was doing, and walked me to my car in the garage if I worked late, my instincts were kicking in.
My supervisor at the time loved to dish out advice whether you wanted to hear it or not. One advice in particular was,
“If a man can’t give you his house number, cell number and work number, something isn’t right. You’re lucky if you get the mother’s number thrown into the package.”
Sure enough, in several months time I only had Bantu’s cell number. I knew he at least had to have a house number. He was a home owner with internet service for goodness sake. Yet, he made the excuse that the house line was strictly for internet use. Silly me for being stuck on stupid and living within such a beautiful lie.
In no time Christmas was on the horizon. We made plans to meet for dinner the night before Christmas Eve. I was scheduled to leave town on Christmas Eve and wouldn’t be returning until just before the New Year. We both wanted to see each other before I left. The plan was to leave from work and head to wherever our stomachs led us. All day long I hadn’t received a call at my desk. I didn’t even get his usual midday greeting of “hey, how are you doing?”
An hour before I was to leave work he finally called sounding sullen and as if he lost his best friend. To be fair his father had passed in Nigeria that Thanksgiving and he still hadn’t made it back home to even help with the funeral that would be taking place that January. He announced that we wouldn’t be having dinner. Not only we weren’t having dinner, he had something to tell me but wanted to wait until after the after holidays to disclose it. I begged for him to tell me then and there, but he refused.
Before long I was in my car heading home by way of the Capitol Hill area. I was driving along the east side of the Capitol when my cell phone rang. It was Bantu who was reluctant to tell me what was on his mind. When I reached the top of the Hill I pulled out of traffic and braced myself for the bomb that was about to drop.
Bantu was married. Bantu was married with children. Bantu was married with three children; all were below the age eight. He even tried to explain the whole it-was-an-arranged-marriage-and-I-am-falling-out-of-love-with-her bit.
Picture me in my car doing the upward eye roll and neck roll.
I went through the initial shock that all females (with moral fiber) go through when they hear something like that. Ok, honestly I wasn’t all that shocked. Something in the back of my head said “married” but I still gave him the benefit of the doubt. Despite only having the cell phone number to contact him, he didn’t wear his wedding ring. I also told him to loose my number. I cried, but immediately dried my tears. I called my girlfriends to vent and curse him.
Unfortunate for me, Bantu found my rejections to him as a turn on. My no’s translated to yes. For a minute I thought he was confusing the English language with one of the native Nigerian languages. Every time he called my desk or my cell I found myself either not answering or in a back and forth war of words.
Unfortunate for him, when I resigned from that job and even switched my cell service; he was no longer able to reach me.
Unfortunate for me again, I continue to meet men with or under stranger circumstances. At least this time, after another failed relationship that resulted with the blessing of a child, I’m wiser about what the world has to offer. At least I know not to take the advice of a “wanna be” gypsy using a stack of playing cards as tarots seriously.
Mahoganie: Musings East of the Anacostia River 
Posted on January 16, 2013
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