Saving Lucian

The week dragged on with her and the hubby failing to speak. They avoided each other; he would go to sleep or go out whenever she came in the house; likewise, she always slept on the sofa or she would go crash at her friend Lauren's apartment when he was around. On Friday, she decided to stay over at Lauren's for the entire weekend.

Lauren turns on the light. "I can't believe he is being so unreasonable about it." Tall, single, and beastly looking; she has been a close friend for years. Her frizzy brown hair dangles all over. "Honestly, I think he's the reason you guys can't have the baby."

Ally shrugs her eyes and stares dazedly at the blank television screen. Lauren brings two glasses of Shiraz and hands one to her. They both gulp it without savoring the taste, and both their expressions are empty. "We need to party it up tonight," Lauren says.

Ally places the glass on the matte coffee table. "God, I thought I left that life." She is suddenly attacked by memories of her single days; she frowns and moans, remembering the days and nights hoping they would call, the jerks and jackasses. "I can't believe I'm even at this point again."

Lauren stands and twirls around. "No Ally, it's gonna be fun! We're going to go out, meet cute guys, get wasted, get their numbers, come home, and go on with our lives." She starts to shake vividly. "You need to have some fun again."

Ally's eyes contemplate the situation. An hour and something later, she is inside a noisy bar downtown. The bar is a fusion between the electric energy of a younger techno rave and the older informality of an Irish pub. There is a bar section, and a dance section. Standing next to the bar, the two women do not seem to stand out too much. Many of the people there are professionals, ranging from the late twenties to maybe the early forties. Ally has on a neat plain black shirt and tight purple pants; her butt protrudes, and is thick and voluminous. Several men nearby, despite not being totally enamored with her face, gaze at her ass with very desiring eyes. Lauren, thin and in fashionable light hippie-chic attire, does not attract any stares, except for quick glances and repugnant gazes.

The two sip on fruity cocktails and gossip about old friends. They are discussing an old friend living in Connecticut when, Lauren points at the dance section. "Oh my god, I think I recognize him," Lauren says.

Ally looks to where Lauren is pointing-- a tall black man, very muscular, very fit, stands in the center of the dance floor. He has on silver or platinum earrings that shine brilliantly underneath the flickering lights; his suit, a very dark purple, looks finely tailored and expensive. His face is neatly cut, and neatly shaped. He is surrounded by an entourage of hip-hop types and groupies who seem to melt in with the people on the dance floor. There is an aura around him; also, he towers over everybody.

"What is he, a basketball or football player?" Ally asks. Lauren sips her drink and gives him an interested look, although he is far away and cannot see her. Lauren answers her, "I think he plays basketball. I know I've seen him before."

He seems to be floating on the dance floor. The crowd of people around him seems to know who he is. Lauren is desperate. "Hey, who is that guy?" Lauren asks a man nearby.

The man, wearing a baseball cap and a polo, answers, "The guy is Deshon Brown, used to be a good running back for the Colts. He's retired now-- I don't know what he's doing here."

Lauren snaps her fingers. "That's it! I remember seeing him on ESPN."

Ally does not care about the man, as she does not enjoy football or sports celebrities. But in the corner of her eye, as she looks at her cell phone for the time, she sees someone near Deshon Brown, someone familiar. She can't catch his name, but she had seen him days, or weeks, ago. The time is late.

"Let's go Lauren," she says. Ally had a few drinks but doesn't feel any happier. Lauren, on the other hand, cannot let go; she hands her purse to Ally. "I'm going to meet him," Lauren announces.

Lauren walks stridently to the dance floor. Deshon Brown is dancing, hip-hop style. His torso gyrates and the front of his pants is behind every girl he can touch. Lauren slips near, and places her ass up against his pants. Deshon doesn't see her face and likes the back of her thin, hippie body. But after a while he gets bored and moves onto another partner. Lauren tries to get near again, but she is pushed aside by the other girls. Furious, she grabs Deshon's hand and places it on her crotch. He seizes his hand away and tells her, "Wait your turn bitch."

Hurt, she walks out. Ally is texting on her cell phone, looking bored. Lauren walks up to her and grabs her purse. "Let's go," she says. She has a distraught look on her face. "I'm through with this shithole."

Ally notices, but doesn't say anything. They both walk out to the parking lot. Though it is night, the lights and dim sky illuminate their path. Lauren kicks a beer bottle. "I fucking hate black people. They have no manners."

They reach the car. Ally realizes the situation. "Oh shit, Lauren!"

Lauren opens the door. "What?"

"We're both drunk!"

Lauren throws her purse onto the backseat. "So what? I can drive fine. I'm not that drunk."

"No, you can't drive Lauren. You already have a million DUIs."

"Oh, who gives a fuck."

"I give a fuck!"

Ally and Lauren both stare at each other with distant eyes. Lauren's face is contorted with pain and annoyance; her body is unwomanly and postured aggressive. She gets into the car. "Allison, just get in the car."

She stands outside. She doesn't move. Lauren gets impatient. "Allison, get into the fucking car, or I'm just gonna drive without you."

Allison's eyes turn red; despite being drunk, she can't be fazed by what is happening. "Go then. Go without me. I don't care. I can just call a taxi."

The engine is turned on. "Fine, call one then," Lauren tells her, before driving off.

Standing alone in the parking lot, she has an urge to call him. She wants to finish the feud, and let him have what he wants. She wants to do it, so badly, but she can't press his number. There is a lingering feeling of anger that is unresolved, and she shuts the phone. She walks back inside the bar, and asks the bartender for the number to a taxi. He says he doesn't know, but there is a poster with the number somewhere in the front. She walks over there. She starts to dial the number, but suddenly feels hands all over her.

She turns back to see a face of darkness-- his eyes, so white! She almost screams, but he kisses her lips. Wet, savory, and short. She barely felt his breath or his tongue-- just his lips. But she is shaken, visibly so, and she pushes away from him. "You better get away or I'm going to yell," she warns.

He just smiles. "Do you remember me?"

She can't place his identity. She just types into her phone the number and waits for it to answer. His hand reaches for her thigh; she slaps it away and starts to head toward the well-lit bar. He follows her; she looks panicked. She quickly arranges for a taxi to pick her up, then she dials 911 and shows him the numbers. "I'll call if you do anything else," she warns again. He just laughs. "You think that scares me?" he taunts.

She closes it and clutches her purse. "What do you want from me?" she asks.

"I can't believe you don't remember me. I was at court the other day, when you were there. Remember?"

She suddenly remembers, but doesn't understand why that holds any significance. She can't believe he was stalking her.

"You know, I saw you, and you reminded me of this teacher I liked in middle school. A teacher I really liked. I think you might've been her."

"I was never a teacher, and quite frankly, I don't care who I look like, just leave me the hell alone!"

He sits on the stool next to her. She wants to move, but knows it would be pointless. "A draft for the lady please," he orders. She sits, terrified. In her mind, she prays for Lauren to come back.

The draft arrives, and he exhorts her to drink it. "Please, my treat," he says.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "Just go. I swear, I will scream."

"I just want to know one thing," he says. He takes her drink. "Are you willing to do the right thing?"

She cannot understand him. "What do you mean the right thing?"

His eyes lower; his expression becomes serious. "You need to help me-- I can help you. I can help your case. I know you're drunk--"

"Me, drunk? What about you! Groping and kissing me..."

"I know I'm drunk too. But I was drunk before I saw you. If I knew you was gonna come in here, I would've stayed sober. For real." He gets closer to her; she barely budges. "You gotta help me."

"You help me first," she snaps. "I ordered a taxi but I have nowhere to go--"

"Come to my place. I can tell you more there."

Allison's eyes narrow, but she nods her head. The man escorts her out of the bar, and like a movie, the taxi arrives just in time. He opens the door and leads her in. The driver asks where to.

"Cherry Hill," he says. The driver grimaces, but nods his head.

Allison looks out the window. The skyscrapers become old office parks, depressed intersections, chain-link fences, and finally beaten down houses. The taxi enters an apartment complex. The projects; she had studied poverty in college, seen it passing by, heard of it in court, but never drove into it in the night.

"I'm twenty short...could you spot me a twenty?" he asks.

She takes out three tens. He gives the driver two of them and puts the third in his pocket. She doesn't notice. They walk up a flight of stairs. She can barely get up she is so dizzy. "I am so drunk," she mutters.

He places her on his back and carries her up the remaining steps. She is muttering incoherently and whimpering. His keys jangle and he opens the door and the darkness envelops them.

He lays her down on a weathered brown sofa. Her face is red and there is water in her eyes; she starts to cry. "I hate my life..." she weeps.

He turns on the light, illuminating the sparse surroundings. He grabs a water bottle and offers her one, but she refuses, preferring the wetness of her tears. "I never get it the way I want...there is always sacrifice...always...it's never easy for me...never..."

He sits on a sofa chair next to her and gulps a portion of his water bottle. "Ahhhhh..."

She continues to cry. "I am so pathetic. I really am. God, if I could only go back in time and change everything!"

He sits there quiet, water bottle in hand. His eyes are focused. "I didn't know you had problems," he says. "I thought you were one of them okay white ladies."

She wipes her face. "No, I'm one of those fucked up white ladies. With a shitty husband and a pile of debt. I swear, if I had more courage, I would just kill myself right now."

He grabs her hand. "Look, I called you here so you would help me. But damn girl, it looks like you need the help."

She swings her hand away. "I am just drunk. The only reason I'm here is because everyone I know is a douche."

He gets up. "You are drunk. Maybe you could help me tomorrow. Anyways, I'll bring a blanket and you can sleep here tonight." He goes and gets a blanket. "Tomorrow is Saturday. You don't work on weekends, right?"

She shakes her head. He places the blanket on her. "Okay," he says. "Just wake up whenever then."

The thoughts shift, but she cannot sleep. She thinks about Lauren, and how single life was killing was her. Lauren had always wanted to be someone else; in high school, she had desperately tried to be the popular girl, but her looks coupled with her internal problems only made her attempts look foolish. After high school, she saved up and tried for surgery, but the surgeon did not know what to fix, as it was her countenance, not her features, that was the problem. It killed her to appear the way she did, and she wished morosely for death. Suicide was no stranger; five years ago she had nearly poisoned herself to death but a timely arrival had prevented the casket and flowers. She was in and out of rehab for drug and alcohol abuse; she was emaciated and worn out and even uglier looking. She could not shake off her demons.

But what about Allison? Her whole life had been one long interview-- never had she really stopped and contemplated the purpose of her life. She had been the valedictorian of her high school; graduated summa cum laude in college, then was elected President of the law school journal. She left law school hoping to gain something as a prosecutor, but what that something was, she didn't know. She got married late and didn't know if the man she married was of any quality. It was one of those thoughtless marriages; he looked decent and had a respectable job, and was unmarried at the time. But she never understood his thoughts and hated his personality. He was not funny (humor was a trait she loved) nor was he affable. He was definitely not virile; initially in their relationship she had disregarded it as something frivilous, but as months passed, it became unbearable and she resorted to porn and purple dildos. She wasn't a size queen. But he just couldn't satisfy her and he often finished too early for her to feel anything. And the thing that killed her was that he didn't care; she would ask for more, but he would just say he was tired and he would brush his teeth and go to his sleep. She even tried blowing him one time, but he didn't like it and told her her teeth were hurting him. He was small-statured with a beer belly. She couldn't believe that he was complaining about a blowjob.

She once thought about having sex with the cop at the metal detector. Everyday in the courthouse she glanced at his belt and the area underneath, wishing his six-foot frame would be on top of her. He had a crew cut and was very tanned; he was Bwoston Irish and had a very cute ass. Large muscles as well. But he was married, and too good-looking for her. But she dreamed.

Recently, she thought about black men. Her cousin had married a black man; he was big-boned and heavy-set, and had been a linebacker before becoming a high school football coach. In a blue-whisper conversation, her cousin had told her that he was big-- nine inches in fact. It was fat and juicy, she said, and he had the stamina of a soccer player. She was drunk then, and Allison wondered if she was exaggerating. But her cousin was adamant, and told her it was no false stereotype that black men were better in bed.

Allison went online and searched for some black-on-white pornography. She wasn't a porn fiend, but she had been so bored with Nick that she was interested. And the things she saw-- well, it aroused her. But she just couldn't imagine meeting a black man and getting to that point; she just didn't think it was ever going to happen.

But here he was. In the other room. She couldn't sleep for some reason; she was stressed out and sobering quickly. She felt so lonely on the couch, and cold by the worn-out blanket that barely warmed her. Her pants were too tight and her stomach was about to burst. She was feeling so sad.

She took off her shirt and pants. Her Hanes white bra and panties were exposed. Her skin was so white underneath the blue window light. She had an urge to burst into his room and fling herself on him. She got near the doorway, which was open, and heard snores. She peeked inside and he was naked except for his basketball shorts. She could barely see his body, but ascertained that he was probably very fit looking. Suddenly, she felt cold.

"I can't do it," she said to herself. She walked back to the sofa and put her clothes back on. She slid herself underneath the blanket and clutched it tightly, cold and shivering. She started to tear up again, except she was quiet and sober. The clock said 4:30. She shut her eyes and wished the numbers would just fade and time would rewind. She hated herself deeply. "I don't even know him," she whispered to herself. "I don't even know where I am."