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OASIS
DAY ~3~
Wednesday
Morning
yima rolled back and forth desperately reaching
for something to soothe her parched throat until she fell off the bed, awakened by the drop. Gasping for breath, she sat
up trembling and clutching her knees to her chest until her surroundings
reminded her she was at the Oasis. She
stumbled to the bathroom for a glass of water. As she drank it down, she stared at the image
in the mirror, searching for a glimpse of familiar recognition because she left
the battered looking woman staring back at her behind a long time ago. Her body
ached all over as she reached to turn the tap to run a tub of water. Dragging herself back into the room, she lit a
cigarette before pulling on her robe to trudge downstairs for some coffee. Thankful that no one was in sight, she rushed
back upstairs and spiked it with brandy.
When she took off her clothes and immersed her body in the welcomed
warmth, anxiety besieged her as she waited for the clock to push up to the
eighth hour.
Still trying to
relax, she flipped through one rental directory after another until it was time
to dial the agency’s number. Her anxiety
magnified when Donna told her Cassie had received her message, but could not
take her call; and there were no new assignments available.
By nine o’clock, she
was dressed and ready to face the day. With
an hour to spare before hitting campus, she sat in front of the TV
contemplating what complexes she would check out after class. Not particularly hopeful, she made a mental
note to check on an old application she had submitted for low-income housing. At the time, she was discouraged when told the
waiting list was two to three years long, but was fortunate to find an
apartment elsewhere. Although the
prospect of being in the line of baby momma drama that sometimes runs rampant
in public housing, she knew it was a decent alternative to remaining homeless.
Grabbing her books,
she headed out the door. The freeway was
congested as usual, forcing her to join its motorized stop and go tango. Finally approaching the tollbooth, she
reminded herself again to invest in a coin organizer from the dollar store. Once she maneuvered the grid, traffic flowed
bumper to bumper at seventy miles per hour, and she made it to campus with
plenty time to spare. Approaching the quad, she heard her name yelled by
someone in the distance.
“Nyima, Nyima, Nyima! Over here!”
Sitting in Nyima’s
favorite spot, on the wall surrounding a juniper tree, Rosie smiled broadly and
waved frantically for her to come and join her. Overweight and humped over, Rosie was a
Caucasian female who had bright red hair sprinkled with gray, wore thick
bifocals, and walked with a slight limp. If she appeared to be having an epileptic fit,
very few people would cast stray indifferent glances her way; but whenever she actually
talked, people reacted as if personally assaulted, as they did then.
Rosie was
schizophrenic, and it appeared that Nyima was her only friend on campus. Sometimes, besides her convulsive shakes, she
had episodes when her eyes would glaze over as she chain-smoked and stared out
in space. Even when she seemed normal,
she was still abrasively loud. Cognizant of her own quagmire, Nyima hoped she
would never find herself locked in a paradox such as Rosie’s.
“Where have you been?
I missed you,” Rosie exclaimed.
“I’ve been working,”
Nyima answered, as she sat down and lit a cigarette. “How was the last quiz?”
“It was hard. I don’t think I got a good grade on that one.”
“You always say that,
and you always get a better grade than everybody else.” Nyima laughed, knowing
Rosie worried until proof was in her hand.
“What did you do the
weekend,” Rosie asked.
“Nothing special. What about you?”
“My father and his
new wife took me to a new Polish restaurant.”
“I bet it was nice to
get away from the group home.”
“Yeah, and Robert
came with us. The girl I told you about
who was trying to steal him away from me is going with this other guy now, so
he’s all mine again.”
“Did you have a good
time?”
“Yeah, but I’m going
to break up with him soon because my father says he’s just using me. I told you my father is a millionaire.”
“Well millionaire or
not, you’re over forty so don’t let him stop your groove.”
Nyima chuckled, and
Rosie laughed good-heartedly.
Mischa approached, smiling
from ear to ear. Only twenty-two, she
was a pretty girl with blond hair, bright blue eyes, and typical magazine
friendly features. She was an exchange
student from Germany and lived off campus in San Leandro with her boyfriend.
She was in Nyima’s business analysis class, which met twice a week; and she
took to regularly meeting Nyima in the quad before class. In the beginning, when Nyima suggested she
make friends on campus her own age, Misha’s introspective response commenced
their friendship.
“They all just talk
about boys and I’m so-o beyond that,” she sighed. “Besides, you’re cool and easy to talk to.”
“Aren’t you the
serious one,” Nyima had teased her.
Now they knew
personal things about each other, interacting as if they had been friends for
years.
“Hi Rosie. Where have
you been Nyima?”
“Coping with life
style changes. What you doing on campus
today?”
“I had to get
immunized and it was cheaper to get it done through Student Health Services. I came up this way hoping to catch you.”
“What’s up?”
“We’ve got an exam
tomorrow. You never gave me your number
so I couldn’t call you. Is everything
alright?”
“Not really, but things
will work out like they’re meant to. Thanks for the heads up on the exam.”
“You’re going to be
here, right?”
“Yeah I guess.”
“I’ll meet you so we
can study before class, okay?”
“You forget. You already know I don’t do that. Last minute studying mounts to memorization
that gets in the way of my reasoning.”
“Yeah, I guess I
thought maybe you’d change your mind.”
“It’s time for me and
Rosie to make it to class,” Nyima said, rising from the wall.
“Okay. I gotta catch
the shuttle anyway. See you tomorrow.”
Nyima completed her
tax quiz quickly, confident that it would result in a passing grade, even if
just barely. She left while Rosie hung
around to receive her previous quiz. When she joined Nyima in the quad, she was
excited about having gotten a B on it. Nyima congratulated her and encouraged
her to keep her momentum going. When she finished her cigarette, Rosie prepared
to catch her ride.
“Nyima promise you’ll
be here tomorrow.”
“I can’t promise, but
I intend to be here.”
“Don’t forget,” Rosie
yelled. Hunched over by the weight of her book bag, she limped away.
Nyima felt good as
sat there passing time before her next class. She was relaxed about having the
weekly tax quiz behind her, and was optimistic about getting back on track with
her studies. Surprised by an exam in
marketing, she was confident that she passed it with excellence, because it was
a test of simple logic.
By the time her last
class ended, she was in high spirits. She
really enjoyed how her professor aligned the philosophies of Socrates, Gandhi,
and Thoreau, with Martin Luther King, Jr.’s Dream. She liked his style because although he tried
to adhere to the secular, he would address the spiritual aspects he attributed
her for bringing up during class. As she
almost danced her way back to the parking garage, she laughed to herself,
recalling the time he coaxed her into a spiritual versus secular verbal battle
outside of the classroom one day.
The music on the
radio continued to buoy her optimism as she headed for the bridge. Even the delay in traffic could not deter her
spirits. When she stopped at the Oakland
Public Library to write a paper for her English class the words flowed
effortlessly; and she easily completed her essay on lies, deception, and its
acceptance in today’s society.
Before heading back
to the Oasis she stopped at Mexacali Rose and ordered some crab enchiladas to
go. Taking a seat at the bar in front of
the TV, she waited for her order. A silver
haired man came and sat on the bar stool beside her.
“Can I buy you a
drink pretty lady?”
“No thanks,” she said
without even glancing his way.
When he abruptly rose
from his seat, he captured her attention.
“Excuse me Miss, my
name is Walter. I just got off work and
it would give me so much pleasure to have a beautiful woman like you join me
for a drink,” he said, while extending his hand.
She chuckled and met
his handshake.
“The name’s Nyima.”
“It’s a blessing to
meet you Nyima,” he responded, as he sat back down. “What can I order for you?”
“I’ll have a brandy.”
He called the
bartender over and ordered a double brandy for her, and a dirty grey goose
martini with three olives, for himself.
She laughed. “I thought I was the only one up for three
olives in a martini –”
“Is that so,” he
interrupted. I like three because when
the drink is done the olives have sucked up enough vodka to make them a
pleasurable eating experience.”
He had taken her
remaining comment right off her tongue. She noticed he was a handsome man, not much
older than she was.
“That’s my opinion
too.”
As the bartender set
their drinks on the bar, he said, “I’ve never seen you around here before. I work right across the street in the Federal
Building and I come in here quite frequently.”
“Do you have a
drinking problem,” she asked, chuckling.
“Not at all. I’m strictly social, but the burritos in this
place are to die for.”
Raising his glass, he
toasted, “To beginnings.”
Nyima clicked it and
took a sip. “What do you do across the
street?”
“I’m an attorney,
mostly probate. And you?”
“I temp.”
“Married?”
“No, happily
divorced.”
He started laughing. “As gorgeous as you are, tell me how you
manage to stay single,” he asked, flirtatiously.
“I just don’t
socialize.”
“Well is there any
chance I could change that?”
“Don’t try to
manipulate me, and maybe it’ll be subject to change,” she flirted back.
“Change is good. I’m single, never been married, and considered
a decent guy by my friends.”
“That’s what friends
are for.” She laughed. “You’re in your mid fifties and you’ve never
been married?”
“Fifty-seven, and no
I haven’t. Just never found the right
woman.”
“Aw, what’s wrong
with everybody?” She pouted, clowning.
“He laughed.
“I’m a little too
particular, so I’m told.”
“How about kids, do
you have any,” Nyima asked, before sipping her drink again.
“I can’t say that I
do. How about you?”
“They’re all grown.”
She took in his look
of surprise.
“How old are they?”
“That’s slick,” she
laughed.
“What makes you say
that?”
“Okay lawyer. You know you might as well have asked me my
age,” she laughed.
He joined her
laughter. “I guess you’ve got a solid point
there.”
Her food order was
placed in front of her just as she finished her drink, and he asked, “Can I get
you another?”
“No thanks. I want to
go eat while my food’s hot.”
“Why don’t you just
eat it here?”
“Because I don’t want
to. Thanks for the drink.”
She smiled brazenly
as she rose out of her seat.
“Wait a minute, please,”
he asked, as he scribbled his number on the back of a business card. He took her hand and put the card inside her
palm, then closed her fingers around it, gently kissing the backside of her
hand. Nyima figured she must have
flashed one of those looks when he suddenly dropped it as if it was hot.
“Will you call,” he
asked, smiling and swiveling his stool around as she walked away.
“Don’t hold your
breath,” she said, glancing coolly over her shoulder.
When she got in her
car, she tossed the card in the console and drove off thinking – If I hadn’t dressed today a man like him
probably wouldn’t have given me a second glance – and wondered why men
always flattered women about their looks as an opening line. Maybe if it were not such a common refrain she
would be more receptive to possibilities. It all seemed so superficial because she heard
it all the time, but evidently successful too; and she laughed at herself aloud
for feeling good about a compliment for the first time in a long time.
Back at the Oasis,
she thanked God for the success of her day; turned on the TV, and watched the
evening news while she ate. Restlessness urged her to drive down the street and
check out her friend Mena. Changing into
a pair of baggy jeans, a sweatshirt, and her favorite cap, she bounced. On the way, she reminisced about her five-year
friendship with Naima and Derrick.
They went by Mena and
DJ, and referred to themselves as her Cali family. They met during her first summer semester at
City College. A married couple with two
teenagers and a four-year old, they ran a catering service while maintaining
their status as career students. It was
funny how they actually met because Mena just approached her and started
talking as if they were already personally familiar. Her conversation immediately
revealed she was Nyima’s ex-husband’s match in conjugating a ‘motherf~ker’ as a
noun, verb or adjective.
Eight years Nyima’s
junior, Mena was streetwise with a hint of lameness, but her appearance
portrayed the look of a player. Her
glued horsetail hair, flashy jewelry, designer jeans with matching jackets, and
stiletto boots with matching bags, camouflaged the fact that she was really a
family woman through and through. In
time, despite the fact that she was also a get-high queen who required a doobie
like a two to four hour prescription, it became apparent that she was a good
mother to her children. Her husband, DJ,
was strictly family oriented, and closer in age to Nyima, trailing maybe a
year. He was conservative, always coordinated
with sweaters or dress shirts, pressed slacks, and dress shoes. Despite their clash in fashion, she discovered
Mena and DJ were as compatible as dark chocolate wrapped around caramel
filling.
They were friendly
and always spoke in passing, but Nyima shunned their late lunch invitations,
using her hectic schedule as an excuse. At the time she worked the graveyard shift for
Super K from eleven to seven six days a week, and then went straight to campus
each morning for classes from eight to two six days a week. By three o’clock each afternoon, she was good
for nothing but her battle with the sheets.
When the fall
semester began they shared a class, and Mena insisted their sisterhood was
destined based on their shared name. Nyima was intrigued by why a younger woman
who possessed her name insisted on becoming a part of her life. She acknowledged that Naima was a mirror of
some things long forgotten. Pronounced
the same, but spelled differently, Naima, who already went by the nickname
Mena, insisted her nickname be Nima. Their
teacher was pleased with further distinction when addressing one or the other
when both were present, and everyone else ran with it as well.
Mena and DJ were
popular on campus, and once it became apparent that Nyima was approachable, she
even made friends outside of their circle. Monday through Thursday, they began socializing
between classes and eventually, Nyima started joining them for lunch on
Fridays.
One morning when she
came into class feeling worn out and down in the dumps she found a tiny gift
bag with her name set atop the desk she always sat at. It contained a bottle of lotion with sparkles
in it. They were absent that day, but
the Happy Birthday card was signed your friends, Mena and DJ, followed by the
teacher’s and other classroom signatures beneath. By the end of the semester, they were tight;
so when a schedule change allowed her Saturdays off, she sometimes accepted
their invitations to camp out with the family in their living room for movie
marathons, mixed drinks, and plenty of good food.
As she parked and got
out of the car, she acknowledged that Mena and DJ had come a long way since
they’d first met. They now lived in a
modest home in Hayward’s quiet suburbia, away from their old Oakland
neighborhood where gunshots resonated throughout the night. She rang their bell and Mena greeted her at
the door.
“What’s up my nigga? Long time no see. You’re just in time to have a drink with me,”
she said, holding up the bottle she clutched in her hand as she swung the
screen door open.
“Okay, but I can’t
hang too tough. I just decided to talk
to you in person today since I was so close. Is DJ here?”
“No, everyone went
with him when he took Devon to football practice.”
“Good.”
As she walked into
the living room to take a seat, Mena disappeared in the opposite direction.
“What do you mean
close? Where you at?” she hollered from
the kitchen.
“I’m staying at the
Oasis.”
She came out with an
extra glass.
“What you doing
there?”
“Damage control. Steffon kicked me out.”
“What! Why that mothaf~ka do that?”
Mena sat down and
poured brandy into two glasses, one with, and one without ice.
“He got upset about a
man leaving me a phone message.”
“So, you live there.”
“Not anymore.”
“You know I want
details so drink up,” she urged, passing her a glass. “What happened?”
Nyima took a sip of
reinforcement before setting the glass back down on the table.
“His daughter was
released last week and he left Friday to go visit. He said he would be back
Wednesday or Thursday, but he came back Monday.”
“Released? I thought
you said she was on a f~kin’ vacation,” Mena responded, removing her lips from
her glass.
“Mena sometimes
you’re so lame,” Nyima laughed.
Laughing too, Mena
said, “Wha- t? I would’na guessed that
boogie nigga had a jailbird in the family. Was she in for drugs or for prostitution?”
“Why are you always
so eager to hear dirt?”
Laughing so hard she
could hardly get it out, Mena said, “So,
inquiring minds need to know. Aw shit
that reminds me. Girl, remember I told
you my sister’s husband took out a restraining order on her last week? Well yesterday that ho broke into their house
and robbed that mothaf~ka and now the cops are after her.”
“Is she safe?”
“She was still in
Fresno when I last talked with her, but she could be anywhere by now. Anyway, finish telling me why that mothaf~ka
put you out.”
“He said I
disrespected him by giving a man his phone number.”
“So-o-o-o, you live
there too. What else did you do?”
“Nothing, but he’s
been brooding since we got back from the wedding.”
“He’s just pissed
‘cause you didn’t stay at the motel with him.”
“Please.”
“Really, because you
know that nigga was jealous your ex-husband and ex-boyfriend were both there,”
she said, laughing.
“At first I didn’t
see the harm of inviting him since he was going to Boston anyway, but when I
had second thoughts he insisted I couldn’t revoke the invitation. He even held onto my ticket until we boarded
the plane.”
“F~k that nigga. Tell me ‘bout the phone call.”
“Saturday night I
went out and gave someone the digits, and he called and left me a message.”
“Girl, come on now. Don’t drop kick my need for drama that way. Sip some of that brandy and relax your
tongue.”
Nyima did not need
any more encouragement. Although the
thought of sharing misery was distressing, she was anxious to get her blues off
her chest since she had already opened her can of beans. She picked the glass
up, took a big gulp, and cleared her throat of the burn.
“Okay. You already know I don’t go anywhere but to
work and school.”
“Hell yeah. Me and Deege were just talking ‘bout how we
never see you since you moved in with that mothaf~ka.”
“Well I went out
Saturday night.”
“You did? With the guy that left the message?”
“No, I didn’t know
him then. But –”
“Who’d you go with?”
Mena interrupted.
“Myself.”
“Get outta here,
where’d you go?”
“Independence Alley.”
“How was it?” Mena couldn’t contain her excitement.
“It was fun. They had
a jazz band and a nice crowd, and I got to dance.”
“Did that mothaf~ka
know you were going out?”
“Yeah, ‘cause he
called while I was getting dressed and wanted to know what I was up to.”
“I bet he didn’t like
that shit. That nigga got some tight ass
reins on you bitch,” she said, laughing.
“Mena I told you
about calling me a bitch,” Nyima reminded her, momentarily remembering the
first time Mena called her a bitch some five years ago when they first met.
As if reading her
mind, Mena said, “Yeah I remember too. You threatened to kick my ass but we’re
sisters now so handle it.” Mena laughed.
“Any-way, dead
silence let me know he didn’t approve.”
“That mothaf~ka
didn’t want to sound like a hypocrite.”
“He asked me where I
was going and when I told him he hung up on me.”
“You go girl. It’s about damn time you got out.”
“Yeah, I felt like
dancing and mingling. You know girls
just wanna have fun.”
Realizing E& J
had taken effect, Nyima laughed at herself for singing Cyndi Lauper’s pledge.
“Was he nice?”
Nyima was sipping
some more ease and comfort.
“Uh-huh. He’s my age and fine. And he didn’t even flinch when I told him I
was only interested in being a platonic friend. He said we could hook up and hang out
sometime.”
“Yeah, right. Like he’s really gonna settle for friendship
with someone like you.”
“What’s that suppose
to mean?”
“Girlfriend, you know
you’re fine. That dude probably thought
he hit gold.”
“Now you really sound
like you’ve been drinking all day,” Nyima said, laughing.
“Why you say some
shit like that?”
“You’ve never
complimented me before. What’s up now? Are you trying to lift my spirits?”
“You know that I know
that shit don’t fly with you, you’re just trying to change the mothaf~kin’
subject.”
“Anyway, I felt like
dipping into life. Besides, Steffon
needs to be provoked into dumping his funk so I’ll have a clue about what’s
going on with him. I think he’s trying
to change our program midstream.”
“Yeah, that’s a sure
way to find out where a mothaf~ka’s coming from. Get him pissed off. Mena
laughed. “You said he told you that you
could go about your mothaf~kin’ business with no strings attached so what’s the
problem?”
“I think he’s trying
to flip a script on me. He sounded so
sincere when he said he just wanted the chance to show he could be supportive,
but now he acts like he’s the boss over me.”
“You never should
have given that mothaf~ka the pussy,” Mena laughed.
“For sure, you’re
right about that,” Nyima responded, joining Mena’s laughter. “Anyway, he said the only rule was for us to
be human toward each other.”
“Like what the f~k
does that mean? That mothaf~ka just said
what he had to say to get you where he wanted you.”
“To be human is to
love, let love, and be loved. I thought
an older motherf~ker would be better at standing by his own word.”
“Aw sukie now, he got
you cussing,” Mena teased. “Girl, you
say mothaf~ka so proper. Remember the
first time we heard you say mothaf~ka?
You had us rolling ...”
Nyima was relieved
when Mena read the look on her face and regrouped.
“Seriously though,
don’t let that mothaf~ka get you down, it’ll be alright.”
“No doubt,” Nyima
replied, between sips of her drink. “But
I really wanted to believe what he told me about grown-up arrangements. Hell, he was in one when we were seeing each
other romantically. If it had not been
for one of his other female friends wanting him to pose as an onsite manager he
would probably still be living with the other woman. This is the first apartment he’s had by
himself in more than ten years, or so he says.
And it’s rent-free.”
“That might be why he
took the woman up on it, so he could help her out and offer you a place to
stay. Bottom line is, he jumped at the
chance to get your f~kin’ company.”
“I figured that too,
but obviously I got it twisted. Now I’m
wondering if he was just trying to furnish the apartment. When I questioned him for particulars on being
human, he said it was self-explanatory. Left
to my own understanding, I figured I might have to give him a taste now and
then.” Nyima laughed at herself.
“Yeah but girl you
know a mothaf~ka ain’t ‘bout shit ‘cept his own,” Mena laughed. “He woulda told you anything to put you in his
spot.”
“He goes about his
life and his female friends call him all the time, but the minute I bust a move
on mine he’s all up in my cool-aide like I have no right making friends outside
of him. And to think I gave him money
for my own private line as soon as I moved in, but when the technician showed
up he sent him away. Later, he told me
the apartment would need rewiring and it was an unnecessary expense because his phone was my phone.”
“I’m tellin’ you, that
boogie mothaf~ka did that shit on purpose. But I bet he really didn’t mean for
you to leave.”
“Anyway, by the time
I got in that night Jamal, that’s his name, had already called, and left a
message on the phone saying, “I made the first move now it’s up to you to
connect.”
“He called before you
got home?”
“Yeah girl, and by
the time I finished listening to his message Steffon called again and I didn’t
think to delete it.”
“That mothaf~ka was
checking to see how late you’d come in.”
“You think? Anyway I told him I had a good time and made
a friend who I’d given the number to, and . . .” laughing, “I told him that he
had already called and left me a message.”
“No you didn’t,” Mena
said, unable to control her laughter.
“Yeah I did, and I
told him what the message said.”
“Aw shit, what did he
say then?”
“He hung up on me.”
“What?”
“When I came in from
school Monday he was sitting on the couch drinking and looking crazy.”
“So, he came back
early?”
“Yes he did, and I
greeted him when I got in from school, but he ignored me so I went about my
business and he started bugging. He
called me a deceitful bitch and a delusional idiot for a warm-up.”
“No, that mothaf~ka
didn’t!”
“G-i-r-l, you should
have seen him. His eyes were all popped
out, and his arms and fingers looked like they had minds of their own.” Nyima
laughed boisterously as she imitated his animations.
Mena could hardly
stop from cracking up, throwing herself into the couch, and holding her stomach
as she laughed at Nyima’s antics.
Nyima composed herself
and sipped the rest of her drink, waiting for Mena to find her own composure.
“That mothaf~ka is
too crazy. What’d you say after that?”
She poured herself
another drink and moved to top Nyima’s off.
“Whoa, that’s enough
for me,” Nyima cautioned, grabbing her glass before Mena could fill it. “I told him as soon as I find an apartment
I’ll be moving out.”
“I bet he didn’t like
that shit.”
“Well, he figured
that’s the reason I started working again. Anyway he told me, ‘You can get the hell out
now,’ so I did.”
Nyima paused to sip
some more of her drink.
“Just like that?”
“Yep.”
“I warned you not to
give that mothaf~ka that f~kin’ check. You should put a stop payment on that
mothaf~ka. You could use that thousand
dollars about now.”
“Girl, I gave it to him
as soon as my student loan came through. I’m pretty certain he already cashed
it to finance his trip to the desert. Anyway, I owed him, and I always pay my
debts. Besides paying for my airfare and
loaning me money for some stuff I sent home for my daughter’s shower, he’s
given me money from the laundromat for cigarettes and gas when I needed it, and
provided transportation back and forth to school for the whole month my car was
in the shop.”
“Laundromat?”
“He pulls coins from
the washers and driers in the building.”
“That ain’t worth no
f~kin’ thousand dollars!”
“Anyway, I packed my
bags and left the key before going out the door.”
“He didn’t f~kin’ say
anything to stop you?”
“He told me good
riddance. I think it may be a blessing
in disguise, because I was beginning to feel so trapped.”
“I bet that mothaf~ka
really didn’t want you to go. His f~kin’
pride was hurt that’s all.”
“Maybe, but what can
I say. He should not have set rules he
knew he did not intend to abide by. Mena
why are you cussing so hard,” Nyima asked, a little agitated.
“Habit. So where you staying?”
“At the Oasis.”
“Where’s that?”
“Up the street a
ways.”
“He’s probably out
looking for you. I hope he doesn’t come
here ‘cause we’ll f~k him up for pulling some shit like that on you.”
“I doubt it. I’ve been gone since Monday. Besides, he doesn’t even know you guys live in
Hayward now.”
“I don’t know girl,
you better be careful. And watch
yourself when you’re at school. As much
as you say that motherf~ka hangs in San Francisco, he might stalk you.”
“Mena you watch too
much TV.”
“Maybe, but shit
happens.” She poured herself another
drink and reached to top Nyima’s off again. “So what are you going to do now?”
“Same as I’ve been
doing.” Nyima brought her glass to her
lips. After a reinforcing sip, she explained, “I started applying for
apartments a few weeks ago, but I’m denied once they look up my credit report. That money is non-refundable so I might as
well have wiped my ass with the hundred-fifty dollars I’ve invested so far.”
“Damn! Why don’t you just ask your mother to
co-sign?”
“I did. She said she didn’t want me getting her in
trouble.”
“What?”
“Don’t ask.” Nyima took another sip of brandy.
“Don’t worry,
something will turn up.”
“I hope so. I’m so-o-o tired of all this struggling and
getting nowhere. The agency I’m working
for now isn’t for me, and school . . . well, I haven’t had any focus on that
since my father passed. Now everyday
just gets harder to hang in there.”
“Too bad you let your
apartment go. I’m almost positive that White
motherf~ker would’ve worked something out with you until you found another
job.”
“Now, you should know
me well enough to know I thought about that before making the decision to move
out. Hell I did not have a clue this was
going to happen. Besides, the landlord
was already working with me when I first started having problems paying my rent
on time. Then he started getting on my
nerves by pressing me harder and harder about us hooking up. I could not even bring myself to consider that
shit. All his pressure just pushed me to
take Steffon up on his offer and move out.”
Nyima finished her
drink.
“I guess I can’t
blame you. I remember that time he
showed up when we were there. Deege said
that mothaf~ka was sniffing round you like a big dog looking for a place to
bury his bone,” Mena said, laughing.
“That’s right; I
forgot you guys met him, so you already know. And that bone’s probably just
gristle, ‘cause there’s no kind of pedigree in that crack smoking mutt.”
Mena burst out
laughing. “Girl, sometimes you talk so
crazy. But seriously, I’ve seen you go
through some mothaf~kin’ shit, and you always make it through. I couldn’t even find that kind of strength.
I’m so glad I got Deege to take care of me.”
“Some of us are
fortunate like that. I can kick myself
in the ass when I think about how hard I’ve been working, just to end up in the
dirt again.”
“Don’t be so hard on
yourself Nima. Something will turn up. Just hang in there okay?” Mena finished her drink and started pouring
another. “Hand me your glass.”
“No more for me. This is a change.”
“What?”
“You giving me
encouragement,” Nyima said, with a half hearted laugh.
“Hell, never needed
to before, so take notice. I have no
doubt that you’ll pull it together again.”
“Yeah, no one’s gonna
do it for me.”
They experienced an
awkward moment of silence.
“Well thanks for the
ear. It’s time for me to go.”
“Come on, stick
around a while longer, we’ve still got a few shots left,” Mena whined.
“Another day, another
time, okay? Right now, I have so much
homework to do; and I am determined to get some sleep before I lose what’s left
of my mind. I told you this job is
tweaking my last nerve.”
“You handled that
mothaf~kin’ bullshit at Platinum so I know you can handle anything.”
“Baby, I didn’t need
that reminder. That damn job almost did
me in before it dissed me out. I just managed my survival,” Nyima said, rising
from the couch to head for the door.
“I saw you do it. Make sure you stay in touch.”
“I will. I’m going to need some help moving my stuff.”
“We’re here for you
when you’re ready.”
“Thanks, I’ll see you
later.”
Mena pulled on her
housecoat, and caught up with Nyima before she reached her car. They hugged before she got in and as she drove
away, Nyima was thankful for having the kind of friend who could make her laugh
and kick off her blues. Nothing was
solved from talking about it; but like a fart, she experienced some relief from
letting it out.
As Nyima drove back
to the Oasis she questioned herself again for not confiding in Mena about her
diagnosis, and Platinum’s real effect on her well-being. That employment experience dazed her so much
she became gun shy about jumping back into the workforce; and depression forced
her to return to the therapist, plagued by thoughts of suicide submission. She was overwhelmed with negative thoughts - No matter what she did, no one found her
acceptable; and she pondered the point of continuing the struggle just to
sleep and work to have shelter and eat, as if it was the only purpose of life. She felt worthless and entertained thoughts
that, other than her kids, no one truly cared whether she was in the world or
not. Sometimes, she even doubted that
fact as well.
Mena always shared
information of her medication intake, but she had no idea that Nyima was now
taking medication too. As the medication
prescribed lulled her into a false sense of serenity, Nyima had continued to
attend school; and struggled to maintain her household on unemployment benefits
and student loans.
Back in her room, Nyima
pulled Paul out for company. Eyeing the
shot suspiciously, she sat gazing out the window, trying hard not to be mindful
of her racing thoughts. She lit a
cigarette and gulped the dark intoxicant. The burning in her throat assured her of
Paul’s presence, but Paul let her down, once again. The relaxation she craved
never came as her mind echoed –You’re the
worst kind of deceitful bitches, over and over again.
That night, Nyima did
not do any homework, as planned. There
was an incessant prayer going on in her mind and heart, as she sat in a daze,
staring out the window.
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