The Only One Chapter 6

[Cynique]

The Only One

Chapter of 6

Speaking in his deep, well-modulated voice, the suave 10 o’clock news anchor wound up the lead-off story involving yet another corrupt Chicago politician, then looked to his right and deferred to his colleague.

Putting on a concerned face, the weave-coiffed, eagle-eyed female co-anchor took her turn on camera, her red lips glossy, her brown skin velvety.

“Elsewhere in the news,” she began, “police continue to be baffled as the corpse of yet another young black female has turned up in a south side garbage dumpster. The unidentified strangulation victim is the 5th in the past 2 months to be found in these circumstances, and the similarities between these crimes, particularly the disposition of the bodies, has led law enforcement authorities to suspect that a serial killer is on the loose, a possibility that has caused worried inner-city residents to wonder…

…who?” Wanda asked, in response to what Carole had just announced.

“Fourplay,” Carole repeated into the phone.

“Foreplay?” Wanda questioned, her eyes glued to the TV screen as she watched a body bag being loaded into a police van. “Your sex drive kickin back in?”

“Four as in 1-2-3-4!” Carole snapped. “FourPlay is the name of this quartet coming to town next week, and the only way I’m gonna get to see them is if I hook up with this guy I struck up a conversation while browsing in Best Buy last month. His was kind of a nerd, but very knowledgeable about jazz and I agreed to his suggestion that the next time a good group comes to Chicago, we get together and go check them out. He was a little weird but, unlike a lot of guys who get phone numbers, Albert kept his word - and he just called.”

“Uh-huh,” Wanda said. “So, after enjoying the performance of ‘1-2-3-4play’, are you gonna have a jam session with this Albert to show your appreciation for his escort service?”

Carole sighed. “Be serious. All I’m doing is going out on a casual date with a harmless nerd, and I intend to pay my own way. Any dude who’s a jazz buff and who tells me how charming and intelligent I am, can’t be all bad.”

"Yeah, and how you know that by the time you on your 1-2-3-4th drink you and your charming, intelligent, overdue-cable-bill-self won’t decide to get it on with a lyin' nerd in exchange for him pickin' up the tab.”

“Oh, chill out! Just cuz your idea of entertainment is getting high and listening to Kanye, doesn’t mean I can’t take a break from my routine, and go out on a date!”

“Wanda laughed. “I agree. And the routine you really need to take a break from is obsessing about…

…Troy Briggs sat on the side of his sofa bed, staring at his toes, ready to hit the sack but not necessarily ready to fall asleep because the end of the day was when mixed emotions about being single came into play, when the ghost of his dead sex-life crept in to haunt him.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t enjoying his new freedom. Or that he didn’t want to get back in the mix, - didn’t want to stop treating women’s eyes like vaginas waiting for the probe of his hard stare. It was just that he was gun-shy, leery about the bush of man-hunters stalking his dick.

And when it came to sistas, all he needed was to detect a certain voice inflection, a certain twist of the mouth, a certain roll of the eyes, and a neon sign went on in his head blinking “caution”, alerting him to the danger of another Coreen; a mild-mannered nymph ready to pull off her clothes and turn into super bitch after she fucked your brains out.

Or, just as bad, Coreen’s predecessor, Ashley. Ashley Drake, the one who got away.

Impressed with how Ashley had started her own consulting business, attracted to her classy looks and sharp intelligence, appreciative of her nice apartment, Troy had made his move, turning on his charms to win her after their introduction at the wedding reception of a mutual friend. Ashley Drake, who fit right into the future dreams that had inspired him to quit his dead-end factory job and enroll in college.

Losing his heart and depleting his bank account in the course of wooing her, he’d desperately hoped she’d understand how working part-time to put himself through school was what made renting movies, and going half on a pizza order, and springing for whatever wine was on sale at the super market all that he could offer once his savings were spent.

But after a while, it became apparent that “understanding” wasn’t Ashley’s strong suit,

“Have you ever thought about doing some modeling work on the side to make more money?” she’d complained one night, as he stood up to press the “eject” button on her VCR. “Ever consider making your looks good for something worthwhile?” she’d insinuated further, screwing up her face after taking a sip of the off-brand Zinfindel he’d picked up at a discount store.

A sign of things to come. Even his ace in the hole hadn’t done the trick.

“Was it good for you, baby?” he’d whispered in her ear one evening, encouraged when she’d silently nodded.

But an interlude of making Ashley’s eyes cross in the bedroom hadn’t been enough to cloud the vision of this chic, no-nonsense, status-seeker. Sex apparently wasn’t a priority in her life, and after a 6-month fling she’d looked down her nose and given him the boot. A low-income, community college student living at home with his widowed mama, was out of her league!

So she’d traded him in for a law clerk who a demoralized Troy went on “MySpace” and found out was a Republican. And a hockey fan! Puck that. Love was a game for fools.

Was it any wonder that break-ups with women always left him in need of a sounding board…

“You have to share the blame for your divorce,” his mother had counseled last year, seated across from him at her kitchen table. “You didn’t bring out the best in Coreen because you didn’t really love her.”

“Does marriage nurture love, or does love nurture marriage?” he’d murmured, staring off into space.

“If 2 people really like each other, things just kinda fall in place,” his mother had finally answered, remembering the dead husband who had not only been her true love, but her best friend.

Troy knew where his mother was coming from. But his only reaction was to wonder how he was supposed to like a wife that turned out to be a deceitful, annoying shrew who got on his last nerve, - or a “show-me-the-money” ice princess who’d cashed in his heart.

Now ready to retire, Troy clicked off the light and settled under the quilt that was yet another contribution his mother had made in her ongoing efforts to comfort her only son. After devoting a few minutes to fantasizing about what his growing acquaintance with the very tempting and - non-threatening Debbie Marlowe could lead to, for some reason his thoughts strayed to Carole whatever-her-last-name-was. Everly? He’d been hesitant about joining her during their break because he didn’t want this to be misinterpreted. But he also didn’t want to snub any of his black co-workers lest they think him an “Uncle Tom”.

Naturally, during the course of their brief encounter, Carole had sent out the usual single girl signals. Still, there was something different about her. The problem was her sameness, a sameness that had to do with how, like Coreen, Carole’s nose was pierced and how, like Ashley, Carole sported a short hairstyle! Disturbing reminders. Baaaad omens…

What might distinguish Carole from these 2 ball-busters, remained to be seen. But Troy wasn’t inclined to look any further than the desk where Carole sat, performing her daily duties, looking all efficient and…inviting. Hearing that edge in her voice, and seeing that flash in her eyes, was enough to make the red flags go up. Of course he had been rather rude during their cafeteria encounter. And that was because she, herself, was so quick-witted, - an intriguing trait; if you liked the type…

…of woman who challenged you. Silhouetted against the wall in his lamp-lit room, the man vigorously kneaded his groin as his mind re-played the televised scene he’d watched earlier, - 2 morgue attendants closing the doors of a van bearing the body of a young woman he knew had been strangled.

"Another try, another cry," the jack-off chuckled to himself. "The word no is so much bloodier than the word yes, - but they say it anyway," he muttered, performing his solo act to the accompaniment of a smooth jazz selection by FourPlay.

- to be continued -