My Story and I'm Sticking to It

Usually I’m smooth, debonair and quite the ladies man.

Well, not really.

To quote one of my favorite authors, “Everybody wanna be action/adventure. Cain’t be. Somebody gotta be romantic comedy.”

It was supposed to be my day off. A friend really didn’t want to work Saturday night alone. Since I was single, and with no life, and J ditched me for his friends, I decided to put seven years of college to good use working the front desk. As I have written previously, I had learned to spot certain types of guests just by looking at their registration cards. Scanning the forty or so arrivals that night, one stood out.

“Hey, Janelle, you see this card?”

“Uh huh.”

“She’s gonna be trouble. I bet she’s a pool partier.”

OK, there’s a bit of stereotyping here, but experience does that to you. Unpronounceable first name, obviously American surname, room paid in advance. Saturday night only. I was waiting on this chick, just so I could tell her no parties were allowed. Captain Meanie. That’s me.

Janelle and I spent the next few hours checking in guests and laughing at ourselves when a short, bespectacled young woman walked in, a small child in tow. She didn’t look like my typical Saturday night guest. I almost felt a bit sorry for her. During the week, we primarily hosted corporate types. Some of our Saturday night crowd was a bit…earthier. She didn’t look earthy. Honestly, she looked a bit too nice to stay with us. I almost sent her across the street. I was tired of checking people in, but this woman was cute, so I jumped to give Janelle a break. I mean, co- workers should share the load, you know? If the guest had been a guy I would have lectured Jan on work ethic.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“I’m checking in.”

“Sure, what’s your name, Miss?”

She told me. My blood went cold. It was the party lady.They are usually not this cute, I thought.

“Um…”

“Is there a problem?” Her eyes flashed behind her glasses, and she went from sweet and vulnerable to fierce pretty quickly. Suddenly, I felt like the help.

“No, ma’am. I’m just trying to pronounce your name.”

“Rak-kie-yuh.”

“Oh.”

My brain was coming up with all kinds of smooth lines. My mouth was open in an “O”. Finally, I handed her keys and blurted out, “Why yo’ parents give you that African name? Know you from Cleveland!”

Her eyes flashed again. “My name is Muslim. My parents are Muslim.”

Smooth move, Ex-lax. What you gonna do next? Talk about her momma?

“Oh…ah…”

“I’m not Muslim anymore. That’s my married last name on the card.”

Oh.

“I’m not married anymore.”

Oh. Me neither. Lot of that going around.

“Sign here and here, ma’am…”

“What am I signing?”

“Registration card. Just says you won’t set my hotel on fire…have any parties…you know?”

“Please. I’m in town to see my momma.”

“So your mom doesn’t have any wild parties…” Dude, you just talked about her momma.

“My mom is an English professor at the university.”

The little girl glared at me. I wanted to glare back. I’ll fight a little kid, and have on several occasions. I’ve even won a few.

Mom looked tired, though. Suddenly, I was Conrad Hilton.

“Well, ma’am, if there’s anything my staff or I can do to make your stay more pleasant, you let me know…little girl, would you like a cookie?”

Always solid sense to brown nose the kid. I dumped a woman once that I felt acted funny towards my son.

“She doesn’t really like cookies.”

Damn. Guess I’m not batting a thousand.

After she left the desk, Janelle showered me with mock adulation.

“YOUR hotel? YOUR staff? Man, I can’t wait to see when they show up, Mr. Big Shot. And what was all that talk about letting her know the no party policy, Mr. Hotel Police?”

“Um, yeah.”

I was divorced. Not “baby-you-know-I’m-married-but-we-separated”. Divorced. Courts, judge and all. I had that post divorce rebound relationship; though I hadn’t figured it was a rebound relationship. She did, though, so that ended. Badly. I didn’t have anyone, and wasn’t looking. I was at a point where I’d been 10 years ago, living alone and loving it. J and three dogs don’t quite constitute alone, but he does spend three days a week with his mom, and dogs don’t talk. At least, mine don’t. I was enjoying being back in school and just doing me. I am the first to admit I love me some Black women, and the last to understand why I have such crazy luck with them. I used to joke with a friend that I was good for about six months, and then it was best that I get in the wind.

Besides, forget her. She treated me like the help.

Well, I did make fun of her name. And talk about her momma. Kinda.

Janelle left for the evening. I agreed to work late. I didn’t have anywhere to be, and honestly, I was hoping to see that guest again. I wanted to apologize for being such an jerk.

She flounced in that evening and I tried to appear cool. Like “Shaft Works the Intercontinental”.

“Hi!”

“Oh, hey,” I was going to pretend to be smooth, but that hadn’t worked so far. Guess I gotta wing it being goofy ol’ me. “Please Lord,” I prayed, “don’t let me do anything extremely nerdy like start quoting books. In fact, let’s pretend I’m illiterate, just for this night, and I’ll go to church for the next month and only pray for other people and orphaned children and not for Lotto numbers. And please don’t let me tell her I am a writer. Let me be something more exciting, like a professional Black bungee jumper or bounty hunter.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Why do people do the things they do?”

My divorce taught me the most valuable skill I have learned to date. I listened to every word and let her talk. About everything. About anything. I didn’t offer any judgment, and reserved feedback until she was finished. It took a while. She could talk. I mean, she could REALLY talk.

Let me not lie. Heck. She was talking to ME. All that mattered.

She could listen, as well, and was willing to hear logic and counter it with more sensible logic when appropriate. I'm kinda used to being right, but I'm quick to enjoy the company of someone smarter. Espescially if she's pretty. And nice. And paying attention to me.

She must have spent over two hours at the desk that night. I didn’t mind. I actually was bummed out about going home.

I came in the next day at about 3pm. By 4 we were talking again. About everything. I had spent a good part of the night convincing myself that trying to make a connection did not mean I was a stalker. It wasn’t easy. I knew that she lived in Michigan. I knew she came her to visit her mother. I knew a lot about her marriage. I knew that at the very least, she found me to be good, free therapy. I didn’t know how to begin to ask if I could see her again.

Not just that. I did much better listening to her than talking. How could I tell her, “Hey, I’d like to see you when you come back to town?” without sounding like an ass? The relays between my brain and mouth were on strike that weekend, that much was sure.

I'm not good at much else, so I decided to sit down and write her. This would give me the option of editing anything stupid I might say. I wrote honestly, telling her it had been a pleasure meeting her that weekend. I also told her not to let the past keep her from being happy. "Living well, " I concluded, "Is the best revenge. Live well long enough and revenge doesn't matter."

Sunday came and Janelle decided she had jokes. “Your girlfriend is in the pool with her mom and daughter.”

This was her last day in house. I did want to see her and, I don’t know. I also had the surprisingly strange male habit of enjoying half naked women.

A young man suddenly stopped by the desk and asked for pool towels. Some of ya'll don't believe in God. That's cool. I do. God pities babies and fools, and I'm 37. This was the Almighty's way of giving me a shot, since I'd blown so many so far.

I dutifully acted like an overgrown cabana boy, laying out towels.

“Hi!”

“Oh, Hey, you. Enjoying the pool?”

“I’m not in it any more…”

I can see that.

“How is your day going?”

Don’t ogle her bod. DON’T. You didn't get this opportunity to undress her with your eyeballs, Buddy.

“Good. Last day?”

“I just decided that I may stay at my mom’s for another week.”

“Oh, OK. Let me get these towels out. I’m off at 7 and Lord knows I am looking forward to getting home.”

“Bye!”

I was mad at myself. (1) I didn’t ask to see her again and (2) I didn’t even ogle her bod. Loser.

As I was packing up my stuff, she walked up to the desk.

“Uh, hi.”

“Hey…I know you’re leaving at seven. I just wanted to stop by and say ‘bye.’”

“That’s nice of you. Thanks.”

“And thanks for talking to me. Well, for listening.” She giggled. “My mom and my daughter say I’ve spent a whole lot of time at the front desk this weekend.”

“Sure. Um…”

“Yes?”

“If you’re…well, when are you coming back? I could really get you a good price on your room…well...”

“Yes?”

“Look. I wrote you something. It’s in this envelope. I’m happy you stopped by. Here’s my business card…OK. Look. It was a real pleasure meeting you. I gave you a hard time, and I'm sorry. I've enjoyed talking to you this weekend, adn I'd like the opportunity to talk to you again.”

"I'd like that. I didn't want you to leave without me getting a chance to say goodbye, and thanks so much. Don't worry about that other stuff. Sometimes, I take things too seriously. I really appreciate you listening. Here's my number."

Hmmm...She had that ready pretty quickly. She scanned my card. Suddenly I felt like a dork.

“JD? I thought everyone called you Mac.”

“Long story.”

“I don’t like Mac. What’s JD stand for?”

“James David.”

“I like that better. I’ma call you that from now on.”

And she has.