I Fell In Love Last Night... (Part I)

This one's for Pumpkin...

Last night, for the first time in almost four months, I got to enjoy the air conditioning in my car, after driving it home from the mechanic's. Last night, when I stared into the mirror as I brushed my teeth, I realized that the lady at the hair shop hadn't done such a bad job on waxing my eyebrows after all; they looked exceptionally well from this angle, in this light... Last night, for the first time ever, I put on the pair of Old Navy denim capris that my sister got me last July for my birthday. Last night, I took the Miami Gardens Drive exit off of I-95 - the first time in a very, very long time. Last night, I went to a barbecue and drank an adequate amount of alcohol and smoked a couple of cigarettes, too. And last night, I fell in love.

I fell in love last night.

I didn't mean to. It just happened...

When I arrived to this barbecue, I was both late and early. I was late because although the invitation had requested guests to arrive at 5ish, the Haitian in me took full advantage of the "ish" part; it was approaching 7 PM when I parked my car in the driveway. But when I walked into the empty backyard to find - only - my host and her husband putting more ice into the coolers, I realized that perhapes everyone else was taking a lot more advantage of that "ish" part, too. I greeted each one of them with a kiss and asked if they needed help with anything; instead, I got a tour of the house and introductions to additional family members: the father-in-law, the sister-in-law, the daughter and the son and a friend of the son's. I went back outside and grabbed a seat nex to their fifteen year old chocolate Lab, Star, who probably weighed just as much as I did. Tiger, the one year old half Pit/half Something Else that was just as big as Star, sauntered up to me and I played with him while making small talk with Hostess and her husband. The usual: What'd you do yesterday? (Most of us had taken Good Friday off.); What'd you do earlier today?; Are you going to church tomorrow for Easter?, etc.

A little while later, my partner in crime arrived.

"Joanne Virgille," she greeted me.

"Paola Echegaray," I greeted her back.

She walked into the backyard and grabbed a seat next to me, asking Hostess what the hell it was she fed her giant beasts.

At first, it seemed as if the time was crawling by. Us sitting out in the backyard sharing random stories that seemed to slightly connect with the story before. As usual, Paola was the talkative one. I sat back and offered an occasional, "What?!", "Really?!" and "How come?!" I laughed a little here and there but, for the most part, my mind was occupied with trying to figure out how the hell I was going to get rid of the bottle of Prestige I was trying to force down. I don't do beer; I just can't. Hostess had offered it to me earlier and because it was Haitian beer, I felt obligated to not only accept, but to make sure that that there wasn't even a drop of it left in the brown, glass bottle. But after just two very large gulps, my obligation had waned.

Hostess's father-in-law, Big Poppa, was now conversing with Paola about his wood factory back in Haiti and I piped in and asked him in which part.

"Croix de Bouquets," he said. "But you don't know where that is."

"Yes, I do."

"How do you know?" he raised an eyebrow at me and I turned my body towards him to give him my full attention.

"I'm Haitian."

"Really?!" He is smiling at me now. Then the usual questions follow: "In what part of Haiti were you born?" I was born in the States. "How long did you live in Haiti?" One year. "When's the last time you've been there?" When I was a baby. He huffs at me and, in an effort to salvage his respect for me, he asks me about my parents. "Where are your parents from?" I tell him that my father is from St. Louis du Nord and that my mother is from Port-au-Prince and I know he is coming to the conclusion that my father is a country boy and my mother, a city girl.

Big Poppa, Hostess's husband and I are making small conversation in Creole and I am trying with all the determination in the world to prounounce every single syllable with my best Creole accent. (I had a bad experience once with a waitress in a Haitian restaurant I had taken my Trini friends to.) (Shut up, Ren.)

Evenutally, we are summoned into the dining room for dinner. I would rather be sitting outside in the cool, spring evening with paper plates and corn-on-the-cob, but chinaware and artificial air will just have to do, I think to myself. I take a seat beside Paola and we begin to eat our dinner with Hostess, her husband, her sister-in-law, and her father-in-law, Big Poppa. The food is delicious: brown rice and red beans with barbecued chicken wings. After the first bite, I am cursing myself for having only taken two spoonfuls of rice and two wings. Damn it! Lucky for me, Paola isn't shy; after she helps herself to some more rice and chicken - for the third time - I relieve her hands of the bowls and put way too much food on my plate. Oh, well; this stuff is da bomb! A little more chit chat and after the table is cleared, we retreat back to the backyard..... and this is when the party begins.

I had downed a little over ninety-percent of the Prestige beer and, as a reward, I allowed myself to indulge in my usual: vodka and orange juice. (Hostess's husband went out to buy a gallon just for me! Hehe!)

Pretty soon, people started to arrive. Hostess swore that she was not having a party, that her front door was more like a revolving door with family and friends contstantly seeking refuge in all the hype and excitement that usually surrounded the house. A DJ came by and helped Hostess's husband and son set up the sound system - which was already working perfectly fine. A brother-in-law came by and reminisced with Paola on living up north; she from New York and he from Boston. A few more people here and there..... nothing interesting.....and then I saw him, Boy.

"There he is! The one I was telling you about. Look!"

While having lunch with Hostess about a month ago, Paola had had the utmost pleasure of meeting Boy; he was Hostess's nephew. And just like the awesome friend that she is, she rushed back to work and came straight into my office.

"I just had lunch with Host and I met her nephew. He is the most beautiful black man I've ever laid eyes one. I would totally do him." She said this with a serious face and, right then and there, I could not help but to laugh at her revelation. Then she went into describing his physical characteristics, totally exaggerating pretty much everything that came out of her mouth. I must admit, though, that I was a little tempted, just a little. We've been exposed to Hostess's family on several occasions and the men in that family are.....long sigh.....yeah, ladies. EXTRA long sigh..... So when Paola was flailing her arms about and pounding her fist on my desk, I had no choice but to take her seriously.

"Hopefully you'll see him at the barbecue." And a little bit over a month later, yes, here I was seeing him at the barbecue.

I didn't look over at him right away. I played it cool cause that's what I do best.....yep, play it cool. I could make out a chocolate giant making his way into the yard and two girls following close behind. One of them was his girlfriend; Paola had met her on the same day she had met him. The girls kissed everyone on the cheek and said hello. Then one of them bolted into the house and the other one, his girlfriend, sat down a couple of chairs away from me. Boy was still standing - right in front of me - kissing Hostess's (his aunt) cheek and answering a few questions she was asking him and it was then that I decided to steal my first quick glance at him. Little did I know that that quick glance would turn into long, jockey-short-moisting stare.....

Ladies, the man was foo-ine (pronounced as one syllable)! (No, that is not an official word but the man is so fuckin gorgeous that I hafta start inventing words an shit, you know what I mean?!) Anyway, yes, the man was foo-ine. To begin with, he was at least "a trillion feet tall!", as Paola later mentioned. And although he was a bit on the skinny side, I came to the conclusion that it was nothing a couple of home-cooked meals and/or Big Macs couldn't fix. He was wearing a pair of brown Diesels, long blue jeans and a white wifebeater underneath a white, name-brand track jacket. Now I know what you're thinking, I'm not a fan of the wife-beater wearing type, either; ah doh do gangstas. But I know one thing, this dude was WORKIN! the hell outta that wifebeater! You know what they say: The clothes don't make the man; the man makes the clothes! Yessuh!!!

His complexion was much like mine, the color of coffee, except that if my cup of coffee had one drop of cream in it, then his had one and a half..... and so clean and smooth, as if it had never before been burdened with the usual pimple, blackhead, hyperpigmentation, etc... I don't remember his lips that well; I just remember thinking that they looked absolutely delicious, like a cold watermelon slice on a hot summer day. His nose was broad and top of it sat the most intriguing pair of eyes I had ever seen. It seemed to me that his eyes were always squinting, as if he were asking a question or awaiting an answer to one that he had already asked..... A neat goatee framed the bottom half of his face. Lawd! Ah does luv me a man wit a clean goatee, yes! Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! And finally (I saved the best for last!), on top of his head in a neat ponytail sat the neatest mop of dreads I had ever seen! Oh, yes! Yeah, bwoiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Dreads! (Moment of silence as I moist my jockey shorts.....)(Okay, I'm back.) Lawd, ah does LOVE! me a man wit dreads, yes! Double grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!

So sitting practically on the edge of my chair now and taking in this lovely sight, I had to agree with my dear friend, Paola. Yes, he was the most beautiful black man I'd ever seen. Actually, he was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen, period!

I don't particularly remember the events that soon followed after I first laid eyes on Boy. I cannot remember for how long his lips had touched my cheek when he greeted me hello. I cannot remember if he went into the house or lingered outside in the yard. I cannot remember when any of the additional guests arrived. I cannot remember what Paola and I whispered about when no one was listening. I cannot remember how many more glasses of Belvedere and orange juice I had....

I do remember realizing that Hostess's husband was asking his sister to change the music. Someone, I think it was Hostess, mentioned that I was doing too much sitting and not enough dancing. I answered saying that although I loved the Prince music that was blaring through the stereo, that I would much have rather been listening to some good ole kompas and/or zouk music. A mischievous grin spread across Hostess's husband's face and he stood up, pointed to his sister and demanded that she change the music. Then, before following her inside, he turned to me and asked me to be more specific.

"Kassav," I answered.

"Zouk la se sel medikaman?" he asked.

"Keeeeeeeeeeeewl! That's actually my ringtone right now."

"What is?" Hostess's sister-in-law was peeking her head out from inside the house.

"Zouk la se sel medikaman by Kassav," I repeated.

Boy had been sitting in the chair to my left, but with his back to me. And with those sexy squinting eyes of his, he turned to me and demanded to know, "You Haitian?"

I was caught off guard. I thought that this had already been established - Joanne is Haitian. Where was he when I had made my declaration? Does he not listen? How dare he not know who I am. He bettah ask somebody. Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeee-it!

"Yeah."

Boy looks at me for a very long time and I look right back at him, staring him down with fire in my eyes because I see that he is looking at me with disapproving eyes; he is looking at me with the same look in his eyes my mother got that time we saw a four hundred pound lady at the supermarket wearing nothing but booty tights and a midriff halter top. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?

After looking me up and down (literally) a couple of times, he finally turns away from me and I am left swimming in a sea of blinding rage. Usually if people looked at me like that and made me feel the way that he just did, I would give em a piece of my mind and bitchslap em. Actually, I should tackle him down to the ground, ram my fists into his stomach while shouting obscenities in Creole at the top of my lungs. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? For a few seconds, just a few, I imagine myself doing just that and a childish giggle escapes me. I take a sip of my drink and wonder if anyone can tell what I am thinking.

Before long, sweet kompas music is caressing everyone's ears and all heads are swaying, all feet are tapping. Hostess's husband apologizes for not having been able to find his Kassav cd. I tell him it's okay, that I think Zin is just as awesome. It isn't long before Boy and I have our first dance.

I never saw it coming. In fact, I was thinking that I would need approxtimately two more drinks before I could work up enough courage to allow my but cheeks to part ways with the plastic, white chair I had found refuge in. But with what was probably the first Haitian song that played that night, Boy was before me, holding out his hand to me and looking as if declining was the absolute last thing in the world could have crossed his mind. It's as if he knew with every fibre of his being that there was no chance of me saying no. Arrogance was painted all over his face and, for reasons that may be quite obvious, this turned me on - a lot. This was the type of man that women always said yes to.

"No, thanks." I smile politely and shake my head from side to side.

My answer didn't seem to surprise him as much as I thought it would. Instead, he sucked his teeth and held out his hand closer to me, so that his hand was almost touching my left breast; he did all this while tapping his foot lightly to the rhythm of the music. For some reason or another, at that very moment, I began to feel extremely childish for having refused him the first time. I mean, the way I was "backin my thang up" in my chair, it was obvious that I wanted to dance. And what was the big deal if I danced? What was the big deal if I danced with him? Besides, I like a persistant man. Grrrrrrrr!

I took his hand, got up from my chair and followed him to the "dancefloor" that was a few steps from my chair. With one swift moment, he hooks his left arm around my waist, takes my right hand into his, holding it high above my shoulder, and just so we begin to sway. I let my left hand find his right shoulder and I let it rest there, ever so lightly, while making sure that there is enough room between us so that an elephant, if he desired, might have enough room to dance right there in that space, between he and I... I and he...us...