Last night, I received the most riveting Facebook message
ever. A blast from the past humbled and anew, decided to share his big news
with me.
“I married my girlfriend of two years, yesterday. All I
could seem to think about as I walked down the aisle was you.”
Believe me, I was just as shocked as you are. I promise you;
I’m not that kind of girl and it’s not that kind of party. However, Marcus and
I have a complicated history. Let me explain:
It was sophomore year and the newbie feeling was finally starting
to wear off. I’d gained my confidence and started to talk up the guys I’d
shuffled past as a freshman. Marcus was one of the first. He was the DJ at all
the parties, fine as all hell and always wore a white flight jacket, resembling
the cloud in my sky. He knew me, but he didn’t know me, know me. He would smile
at me from the booth during parties and give a shout out to “poetry girl”, but
we’d never really had a conversation.
One night, as I was making my way to the dorms, our very
first dialogue happened. He drove up in his black Maxima and rolled the window
down, I immediately recognized his smile.
“Hey Marcus.” I peered into the darkness of his all black
leather interior.
He leaned towards the window, his thick eyebrows arched,
thinking of his sentiment, “You need a ride poet? You’re looking lonely out
there.”
I agreed to the ride and many more. For the next three
months, Marcus and I would shuffle between his apartment and mine. We’d talk
about hip-hop and art through text and sever the boundaries of intimacy in
person. He would scoop me after classes and he’d teach me things: The artist’s
name who painted the DJ with elongated hands in a frame in his living room, how
to recognize a good mix and the distance from my navel to my chest.
Oh, by the way, Marcus was my first. The naiveté coddled
safely inside my heart would let him have anything he asked for. He wanted us
to keep it cordial during school hours, so we did. We’d see each other in the
buildings where we shared classes and gently smile as though we hadn’t laughed
together the night before. This rule started to manifest in other spaces: At
parties where he spun the records, I could only glimpse him in the booth
exchanging “daps” with his comrades and avoiding my glances.
My roommate was angered at our fluctuating union. “What the
hell is up with you and Marcus, one second he’s all into you and the next he’s
ducking and dodging? You need to get rid of him.” She was right. Marcus had run
up to me during one of his parties and excitedly introduced me to his sister
who’d come to visit. He looked like a little kid in his black tux, holding his
older siblings hand.
“Maria this is Riv! She’s an amazing writer and poet, one of
my closest friends here.”
His sister’s face was suddenly flooded with remembrance,
“Oh! I’ve heard so much about you. You’re so talented.”
A few weeks after that incident, Marcus confronted a guy
who’d disrespected me at a party. I don’t know what the particulars were, but
the arrogant asshole who’d called me a b*tch the night before laid down a full
frontal apology the day after.
Amazing.
However, the same man who’d defended my honor and bragged
about me avoided me often, ignored my calls and would go missing for days at a
time.
One night, after one of his shindigs, he chased me halfway
to my dorm. I was slightly angry with him, we hadn’t spoken in a three days and
he was impossible to reach. My party dress flapped in the Virginia wind as he
caught his breath. I wasn’t sure if it was the sweet smell of the southern summer
or the sweat that lingered near his perfectly sculpted neck, but my irritation
was suddenly vanished.
“Hey babe! Slow down. Where have you been?”
I stared at him, dumbfounded at his audacity. “Really
Marcus? I’ve been calling you for days.”
“Word?” He checked his phone ferociously. “I haven’t been
looking at my phone. I’ve been spinning at so many gigs; I haven’t had time to
keep up with the personal life. I miss you and I mean that. Besides, you know
you can come over whenever you want to. Mi casa es su casa.”
My naiveté crept in slowly, “I miss you too. I guess I’ll
talk to you later though, I’ve got class in the morning.”
He grabbed my hand as I tried to walk away, “Come home with
me. I’ll get you back in time for class.”
He got me back at 8am the next morning; I waved while
glancing at him speeding away with a wink of his eye. Sucked back into the
smooth that was Marcus we started our never-ending cycle and would repeat it
for another month. He’d be too busy, I’d be hurt; we’d make up and spend a week
in bliss. Repeat.
On a Tuesday around 10pm, I headed over to his place an hour
earlier than we’d planned. I figured while he was on his turntables, figuring
out his mixes for tomorrow night’s party, I’d finish up some homework. He
opened the door like he’d just seen a ghost and slammed the door. I knocked on
the door harder, upset at his foolery.
“One second homie!” He yelled from the other side of the
door.
I heard the voices of three other men in the house, two of
them familiar.
“Was that the poet?” One asked. They all sounded as if they
were packing up to go. Two of them suddenly emerged from the small apartment. I
sat on the nearby steps annoyed at Marcus’ unnecessary actions, waiting to
blaze on him. Two of the guys walked past me, they were Phillip and Jerome. The
twins went to my university, one of whom was a rapper, and they were probably
just ending a studio session with Marcus.
“What’s going on poet? We just finished up recording,
waiting on Lou. You here for a session with Marcus?” Phillip asked. Lou was
their goon of a friend, I didn’t know much about him.
I smiled, “Something like that. New mix tape coming out
soon?”
A loud conversation between Lou and Marcus, in the closed
apartment, interrupted our banter.
“Nah son it’s not even like that. She’s here for a session.”
Marcus’ voice boomed through the wall.
The other voice laughed, “It’s ten at night Marcus. You’re
tapping that, I’m not stupid.”
“What? Not at all. She’s an artist, you know that right?”
“I don’t know anything. What I do know is that you can do
better kid, much better.”
The two emerged from the apartment convinced that their
dialogue had been silent. Phillip and Jerome stood still and hushed. The solace
rushed over all of us as we all began realizing the words spoken.
Jerome spoke first, “Uh, you know these walls are thin
right?”
Marcus looked like he’d just sunk into himself. Immersed in
hurt I began gathering my things to leave.
Phillip touched my hand as I reached for the door, “I
wouldn’t come back either shorty. That was beyond rude.”
I walked the 2.7 miles it took to get home from Marcus’
house. At the time, I didn’t drive and I didn’t want to bother the roommate
who’d just dropped me off. The entire walk, my phone rung off the hook. I
didn’t answer. I didn’t want to speak to anyone who was ashamed of me. With
each step, the realizations of Marcus’ BS flew into my stomach butterfly by
butterfly. Between the fluttering of their wings I asked myself, “How could I
have been so stupid?”
I hadn’t spoken to Marcus in months. He called at first,
sent a few Facebook messages but eventually he gave up. The few times I did see
him on campus I sped in the other direction praying he didn’t see me.
One day he finally spotted me, only this time Marcus wasn’t
alone. He stood before me with his mother and father that were on campus for
Parents’ Weekend.
He ran over to me with a smile and grabbed me by my
shoulders, “Hey Mom and Dad! Remember that girl Maria and I were telling you
about? The one that I took her to see perform when she was here? This is her!”
His mother and father smiled, shook my hand and said an
expected “Pleased to meet you.”
I was, however, the furthest thing from pleased. Suddenly I blurted,
“I don’t understand why your son continues to speak to me. He made it clear
that he and I weren’t friends a long time ago. In fact, I think he’s the scum
of the earth. Perhaps you can rectify his mannerisms with women before you’re
bereft of any grandchildren in your future. Goodbye.”
As I walked back to my dorm, they stared at my back in
astonishment. At least that was the way I heard it from my roommate who watched
from nearby. She and I also laughed at the angry Facebook messages I received
that night, together. There were a few “ungrateful” and “I can’t believe”
quotes in there but at that point I couldn’t care less.
Four years later, I received a Facebook message that I did
care about. Marcus scribed in his smooth talk, even visible through font:
“I married my girlfriend of two years, yesterday. All I
could seem to think about, as I walked down the aisle, was you. I don’t even
know why I’m telling you this. I guess it’s because the last time I remember
being the asshole, I regret, was with you. My wife is a thick, healthy and
chocolate 210 pounds, an intellect and a surgeon. A few years ago, I wouldn’t
have even spoken to her. When I was in love with you…(I did love you, you know
that right?) People expected me to be with a certain type of girl. I regret it
all because I never dated MY type. You were my type, I was just too afraid to
admit that. You taught me about love. I would’ve never left the daze I was in
had it not been for your loud mouth. I heard you loud and clear. Thank you.”
Usually, I’d wrap this blog up with a beautiful conclusion, a
metaphor that would last a lifetime or an mhmmm-I-told-you-so. Today, I’ll let
the message speak for itself.
Literally.
-riv-
