Ever After, page 22
Nothing was solved with their meeting. Nick left an hour later, physically flushed but unsatisfied. They had just reaffirmed what they had already known. Nick felt stupid. Jasmine wouldn’t change. Not for him, not for anyone. She would be ready when she felt she was ready. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
For all intents and purposes, Nick’s Freaknik had been ruined. By the time he returned to Loq’s Decatur home, everyone was awake, in various modes of getting ready. Another action-packed day of shopping, cruising, and flirting lay in store.
First stop was Lenox Mall. Traveling in the 4Runner and the Acura, the crew nearly made it there, too. The backup extended all the way from the street to the freeway off-ramp. Once the 4Runner made it off the freeway, the car and its six male passengers attracted a lot of attention. All the windows were down with Mal and Loq handling the female passersby accordingly. Marvin, Tank, and Craig popped out of the car via the door in the back to hit the “screets.” Brandon, behind the wheel of his shiny black Acura, pretended not to be there as brotha after brotha stepped to the three girls in his car. Most came by only to say hi, to cop a picture, or just to be nosy. Seeing how they would waste their afternoon in a vain attempt to reach Lenox Mall by vehicle, Nick pulled the 4Runner off the road and into a crowded informal parking lot near the freeway overpass. Brandon’s Acura followed suit and in short time, they’d hoofed it to Atlanta’s premier shopping center.
On a Freaknik Saturday afternoon, Lenox was Freaknik Central. The mall was literally so crowded that hundreds of people milled around in the parking lot in a huge, diverse mass of blackness. Not even twenty minutes into their stay at Lenox Mall did the officials enlist the aid of the police to shut down the shopping center, at two in the afternoon. Overcrowding, they claimed. As police ushered out the people saturating the place, the ejected grumbled among themselves that they would never shut down the mall if thousands of white people wanted to shop there.
“Shit!” cursed Tank. “Whadda we do now, hoss?”
“Piedmont Park,” Loq suggested. “They got free concerts down there and that’s the spot to be on Freaknik Saturdays.”
“True that,” Nick approved. The crew straggled through the crowd, flowed with the foot traffic back to their parking spot by the underpass, and they were off again, this time down Piedmont Road, heading toward the park.
A mile later, the crew were forced to park again. Only this time, the walk to the park was a leisurely two-mile stroll. Half the fun was just getting to the park, seeing how a flow of hundreds of black college students ebbed in the same direction toward Atlanta’s central park. Making the trek to Piedmont Park now seemed like the thing to do.
An hour later, the crew finally made it to the park. The place was off the hook. At least half the Freaknik crowd was there, a good hundred thousand to be sure. Cars that were in the street had long since been turned off. People moved easily through the street. Socializing was the norm. The crew stopped on a small hill to organize themselves and split up, when it happened.
Gunshots. It sounded like someone had just popped off a nine-millimeter in the air two times, but Nick hit the ground nonetheless. Informally trained in these types of situations, the male members of the crew hit the deck as well while the three girls scurried behind a tree, as if that somehow could save them. Chaos ruled. A stampede formed, heading in the direction of the park’s entrance. The crew just lay on the ground, observing events, careful not to get trampled upon. Within a couple of minutes, order was restored and the bravehearted Freaknikers shook off the event.
Once the coast was clear, Nick and Loq agreed that no concert, however free, was going to be worth hanging around the park. The crew wandered outside the park where an even bigger group of people loitered and socialized. Mal nudged Nick in the ribs. “Eh, dawg, isn’t that Harold?”
Nick didn’t even care. Harold was a running mate of theirs from undergrad. “I guess.”
“We need to holla at that kid right there. He’ll know where the parties are poppin’.”
Nick and Mal broke from the crew to go meet their boy. Harold was a born-and-raised ATLien. He was short, darkskin, with curly hair on top, faded on the sides. Wearing a simple outfit of a tank top and denim shorts, Harold had somehow managed to surround himself with three interested-looking women. Once Mal caught his attention, Harold responded in his typically indecipherable Atlanta accent, enhanced by the slur of his alcohol-affected speech. “Whassup, dirty?”
“Loungin’, god. What up with you?” Mal responded.
Harold extended his arms wide, as if to encompass the three women he was with. “Just kickin’ it. I’d like you to meet three of the tightest shawties in the South, my frien’s Trina, Tamicia, and Tay-Tay.”
“Hi,” they all said simultaneously.
Mal shook their hands enthusiastically. Nick couldn’t care less and could not spare the effort. Betraying nothing, Mal noticed this lack of enthusiasm, choosing to ignore it. “So what you gettin’ into tonight, big pimp?”
Harold frowned indignantly, as if to say, “Look around!” “These nice, friendly young ladies from Montgomery were just tellin’ me that they were goin’ back to their friend’s crib in Marietta to chill. Trina here said it was cool if I come, but wanted to know if I had any homies to come kick it with them.”
Mal grinned. “And y’all need two?”
“You damn skippy. Whassup?”
Seeking approval, Mal turned to Nick, who looked bored. Scrambling, Mal pulled Nick aside after excusing themselves. “Eh, Nick, what’s goin’ on with you?”
“Nathan,” he lied unconvincingly.
“Whatever. You’ve had this deer-in-the-headlights look all day. What up with you? You wanna do this or what?”
“What.”
Mal bent his knees quickly in disbelief. “C’mon, dude!” he hissed. “Look at those girls! Look at them! They want us to kick it with them. Don’t front on me, Nick!”
“Y’all gonna ride out or what?” Harold called.
“Just a minute,” Mal assured him. Turning his attention back to Nick, Mal pressed, “What’s wrong?”
“I saw Jasmine this morning.”
Instinctively, Mal’s hand reached for his forehead. “Aw, shit.”
“I’m not over her, Mal.”
“There’s a news flash,” he opined sarcastically. “But don’t let her spoil your Freaknik!”
“You mean yours,” Nick distinguished. “Go ahead. Go get busy with your biddies over there. I’m headed back with the crew.”
“Aww, Nick! They need two. You hear me? Two! Don’t trip on me now! You know I’d go along with you if you were in the same situation!” Mal was such a guy. “We know fo’ sho’ that the ‘party’s over here!’ ”
Nick shrugged indifferently. “I’ll get Tank. I’m sure he’d love to go.”
“Y’all niggas ’bout it or what?” piped Trina, the leader of the girls.
Restraining a laugh while wincing at her use of the word niggas in reference to them, Nick walked back to the crew. Having heard the ringleader’s lack of class, Nick was sure he had made the right choice. He whispered something in Tank’s ear. Immediately, Tank beamed, strutting over to Mal, Harold, and the girls. Introductions were made and Nick stayed behind. The remaining crew began the long trek back to the cars.
The best parts of Freaknik were free. Traffic on Peachtree Street heading toward Downtown was at a standstill. Several cars were stopped while passengers rushed out of them to dance with and solicit phone numbers from members of the opposite sex. “To the screets!” Craig cried, leading the charge out of the car. It amused Nick to see just how much bolder he had become on his third day in Atlanta.
Only Desiree stayed in the car with Nick. Her feet were sore and she was all walked out.
“Why ain’t you out there with your boys?” Desiree asked, yawning.
“I just ain’t feelin’ it right now,” he answered truthfully.
“We hardly goin’ nowhere now anyway. I’ll drive the car, if you want,” she offered.
Her generosity was duly noted. “Thank you.”
His quiet demeanor was starting to attract Desiree.
Twenty minutes later, the crew reassembled in the 4Runner, aglow with success. Loq thrust a flyer in Nick’s face. “Check it out, playa. House party in the SWATS.”
“Y’all wid it?” Nick inquired. This was a democratic vehicle.
“As long as those hos at the party ain’t talkin’ that fuckshit,” Brandon stated. Liquor really liberated his tongue.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Nick. “Ladies?”
Desiree, Kecia, and LaShawn nodded in agreement. Marvin was driving Brandon’s car, seeing how the owner was a bit incapacitated at the moment. “Is Marvin in on this?” Nick checked.
“He’s wit it,” Loq verified. “Time to ride out!”
Surprisingly, Malloy and Tank returned to Loq’s house by ten the next morning, in one piece. The girls had been so good as to give them rides back. No one was more surprised than Nick to see them back so early, and exactly the way he had left them. He questioned Mal, to no avail. The man was tired and promptly went to sleep on the couch. Taking Tank aside to the kitchen, so as not to disturb anyone, Nick grilled him about their encounter.
“ ’Sup, Tank? Any haps?”
The requisite mischievous grin. “Hell yeah, dirt. At first it all started off kinda innocent. Me and Mal were playin’ spades with them chicks Tamicia and Tay-Tay in the living room. That nigga Harold was back in the cut, watchin’ us and TV and shit, but you could see he was creepin’ on Trina. So they cut out and go on upstairs.”
“And y’all?”
“We chilled for a minute, finished our game. Then those girls both asked us for backrubs.”
“Hold up.” Nick wasn’t buying the progression of this story. “They asked you for backrubs, just like that?”
“We had just finished the game, and I asked them what they wanted to do next. They suggested backrubs.”
“So these girls were ’bout it,” Nick surmised.
“Were they!” Tank enthused. “We start giving them backrubs on opposite sides of the room with their tops off, just they bras on. No sooner am I five minutes into rubbin’ this broad’s back when she’s flippin’ over and goin’ for the dick. We have to excuse ourselves and handle some bi’ness.”
“And Mal?” Nick urged.
Tank snorted. “That Negro didn’t do a dayum thang! This chick was feenin’ for the dick, and Mal stopped messin’ with her. Denied her.”
Nick slumped against the refrigerator. The moons must be aligned or something. Was it true? Could it be true? Was Mal . . . whipped? Not Mal! Not The Kid! Not the playa-for-real! Mal was in love with Mia. That was the only explanation.
Once everyone was up, which did not occur until about one o’clock, they set out for another day of Freakniking. On a bright day with blinding sunshine and clear blue skies, the crew set out for Greenbriar Mall in their two-car caravan. As expected, traffic was a mess surrounding the mall. Inside, Nick bought some more bass music and some Gulf Coast bounce music, and purchased a little Georgia license plate keychain with MAMI CHULA printed on it for Chantel. He was shadowed throughout the mall by Desiree’s inquisitive eyes.
After Greenbriar, the crew headed out to the AUC. A free concert was going on all day over at Morris Brown College, and Nick lingered in the gridlock from the let-out along Martin Luther King Drive.
On one level, Nick was happy, on another, he was ripped up inside. Freaknik was a very life-affirming event, one that pleased him to his cultural core. But the city now bore the mark of Jasmine. The longer he stayed, the more he felt her within him.
As Nick again volunteered for driver duty while the rest of the crew hit the streets, Desiree shunned the crowd this time for his company. With respectful, careful eyes, she observed him. She touched his bare knee with her hand. “You’re deep in thought.”
“It happens,” he said plainly.
“What are you thinking about?” She really wanted to know.
“You don’t want to know,” he told her.
“Well . . . I was hoping you were thinking about me.”
Nick broke his trance and looked into her brown eyes. As fine as she was, Desiree could have been Tyra Banks and not have swayed his heart. “I can see why a lot of guys would.”
“But you wouldn’t,” she inferred.
“You don’t want me,” Nick assured her.
“Don’t be so sure.”
“I’m damaged goods.”
Desiree eased her hand over to his athletically defined arms. “I can fix what’s broken.”
“I wish you could.”
“I can,” she insisted. “When we get back to the house.”
“You deserve better.”
“But I want you. Tonight, before I leave.”
Nick stared at her before answering. “Like I said, Dezzy: You deserve better.”
Desiree removed her hand, avoiding his gaze. Still, she admired him for his resolve. Most guys would have her panties around her ankles by this point. Impressed, Desiree leaned over and kissed him on the lips, restraining her passionate tongue. He had earned it.
With the night crystallizing behind him, Nick smiled at her gesture. Thanks.
At midnight, Craig was in command of the 4Runner, driving it northbound on I-75/85 through Downtown Atlanta. With their wild weekend behind them and about twelve hours of driving ahead, they were eerily silent. No more talk of hotties, not even from Craig. The rest of Sunday had ended pretty uneventfully. Brandon and the girls had headed back for Spartanburg, South Carolina, an hour earlier, satisfied. Nick had made a new friend, as Desiree’s address and phone number were secured in his electronic organizer. He had just delivered Mal to the airport in the nick of time to catch his flight back to New York. Not a word was spoken about last night. Mal was not aware Nick knew about the details of it all, and Nick would keep it that way. After all, the man had an image to uphold. So with Downtown Atlanta fleeting in the rearview, Nick had officially ended Freaknik for himself.
To celebrate, Nick began to write. He opened up a notebook full of blank lined paper and wrote. Nick wrote as if his life depended on it. His story came out in spurts, sometimes a gush, sometimes a trickle, but he wrote nonetheless. He did not stop for four straight hours. When Nick took over the wheel and let Craig sleep, he closed the book and stuffed it in his bag. He had heard from some psychologist somewhere that it was healthy to write out your emotions. When you wrote them down and then tossed out whatever it was you wrote, it was supposed to be cleansing. After writing twenty-five pages of his feelings for Jasmine, he would do that very thing with his words, the same thing she had done to their love four months ago. He would throw it all away.
10
TUESDAY AT WORK, Chantel bombarded Nick with questions about Freaknik. Enquiring minds wanted to know. Taking centerstage, Nick leaned back in his swivel chair and began entertaining questions.
“Were there a lot of people there?” Chantel asked eagerly. What had previously all been secondhand legend and lore was about to become real to her through Nick’s firsthand account.
“They estimated about three hundred thousand.”
“Get out!” she exclaimed, sitting on a corner of his desk. “Was it live?”
“Yeah, it was crunk, shawty,” Nick drawled.
“Huh?” The woman had never spent any extended period of time in Atlanta’s black community.
“It was off the hook,” Nick translated. “People were dancin’ in the streets, all up on one another—”
“With people they didn’t know?” she asked incredulously.
“Like it was a club,” Nick grinned. “Booties and laps meeting everywhere!”
“Uhhh!” Chantel groaned. “It’s like . . . like sex!”
Nick continued smiling. “Got you something.”
He flipped the keychain at Chantel, who deftly caught it with her left hand. She examined it briefly. “Thanks.”
“De nada.”
Chantel nodded enthusiastically, before taking a quick visual surveillance. Didn’t want to look like she was chatting away Harris Bank’s salary. “So come on, dish me the dirt. Tell me some stories from your wild, ‘crunk’ weekend.”
“Do you want the R or the PG-13 version?”
“R, ése,” she encouraged him, her accent sounding so beautiful today. Nick had missed her Spanish trills, contrasting the low, guttural, Southern slang dialect of this past weekend.
“Let’s see . . . the highlights of my weekend. Hmm. Would it be the women stripping in the street? Or the women stripping in the car? Or the women stripping on the car?”
Chantel rolled her eyes. Such a man. “The PG-13 version,” she amended.
“Thursday night was tight. We rolled out to this booty shake club called 559 and kicked it there all night. Came home at four in the morning,” Nick added proudly. “Friday was real straight. Got the ’Runner washed, headed out by Morehouse and kicked it. These girls from South Cackalacka came down with this one girl’s cousin, Brandon. Everybody, except me, of course, got straight faded, and we went out to kick it. One girl ended up passing out later on that night. Anyway, we all rode out to Peachtree Street and just got stuck in traffic. That was the best part of the ’Nik, being stuck in traffic, meeting peeps.”
“Did you take any pictures?”
Nick gave her a look. “Did I? Shoot, chile, I bought a videocamera.”
