Choose Me (4 page)

The first time he introduced me to Maya, I knew immediately something was amiss between them. You could smell the sexuality
in the air, in the way they looked at each other, the way they didn’t look at each other. He might as well have said:
This is Maya, my mistress.

I got up and went into the kitchen where Luciano was brewing coffee and toasting bread.

“I see you found something to eat.”

“Some of your bread’s moldy, but I found a couple of decent slices.”

I opened the fridge and took out the half-gallon of milk. Without bothering to smell it, I could tell by its consistency that
it was bad. I decided to clean out the fridge, something I had been meaning to do for the past few months.

“You want to take my car Saturday?” Luciano asked, scraping the mayonnaise jar for enough mayo to spread on his toast.

“I don’t think so. We’re taking separate cars. Just in case I need to make a quick getaway.” I opened a jar of spaghetti sauce
and found thick balls of mold resembling a scientific experiment, so I tossed it out.

“I told you the woman looks like Maya,” Luciano said unconvincingly. “Her hairs longer, and she’s a little darker, a little
shorter.”

“A little homelier …” I added.

I peeled away the top layers of a head of lettuce, but it was soggy and smelly all the way through. Despite my initial protests,
and against my better judgment, Luciano and Maya had insisted on having me meet Maya’s sister, who so far had remained a mystery.
They wouldn’t tell me much about her, not even her name, which was kind of strange and made me suspicious.

In spite of her infidelity, I liked Maya. After all, who was I to judge her? But if her sister was anything like her, she
wasn’t the kind of woman I wanted to know. I was no prude, but I figured if Maya and Luciano were so much in love, they should
both divorce their respective spouses and get together. Not like my old man who had kept two families on opposite sides of
Chicago until I discovered my half sister and half brother at his funeral. Every day a woman didn’t come into my life was
another day without drama like that. But I didn’t put up too much of a fight with the whole blind-date thing since I had to
admit, I had been craving the company of a woman for some time.

“What was her name again?” I asked, hoping he’d slip up.

Luciano straddled a stool and got busy eating. I slam-dunked a couple of wrinkled, shrunken tomatoes into the trash can. “She
doesn’t look
exactly
like Maya, just a little,” he said with his mouth full of food as if I hadn’t spoken.

“You’ve never met her,” I accused him.

“You’ve never had a
Latina,
have you?” he asked, changing the subject, which intensified my apprehension. Despite his being half-Cuban, and inheriting
his mother’s Latin physical traits, Luciano rarely acknowledged that part of him, and spoke Spanish only when it was necessary,
such as when he wanted to impress a woman. Like lately, whenever he spoke with Maya on the phone, he’d slip into Spanish so
I wouldn’t know what he was saying.

The first girl I ever kissed was a Spanish girl, Nilsa Ortiz. We didn’t really date since we were only ten years old; she
was just a girl who let me kiss her. She taught me a few Spanish words, most of which I’ve forgotten, except
besame,
“kiss me.” The first thing she said whenever she saw me was, “
Besame,
Adam,” before she said “hello.” And I always complied.

I had dated women of other nationalities: a Brazilian, a Trinidadian, even a White girl—though she had been French-Canadian,
not American, so technically for me, she didn’t count as a White girl. For the most part, my romantic interests had been Black,
cultured women. When it came down to it, women were different in some ways, but they were the same in many others. However,
when I thought of my future wife, I saw a Black woman in the picture, a woman like my mother and sister.

“Marti was Brazilian,” I reminded him.

“She spoke Portuguese, so technically, she wasn’t Latin.”

“Brazil’s in Latin America, ain’t it?”

“It’s different with Latinas,” he said dismissively. “They’re cool and tough like Black women, but sophisticated like White
girls.”

I couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Are you saying Black women aren’t sophisticated?”

“You know what I mean. Black women are … melodramatic. And less forgiving.”

“You mean, when you cheat? And Latin girls have fiery tempers, right? Stop with the stereotypes.” Luciano’s first and third
wives were Black, the second one Hispanic, and each time Luciano had started the new relationship before ending the old one.

“Man, you act like you never cheated in your life.” At any attack on his reputation, he would get defensive.

“I haven’t,” I said proudly, but without conceit. “Whenever I get tired of a relationship, I break it off. If I meet someone
new, I end the old one. I don’t string women along.”

“That’s why you haven’t been with one in what … a year?”

“That’s a choice.” I had told Luciano it had been a year, but it was more like eighteen months.

“No, that’s ’cause of that mop on yo’ head,” he joked.

He was referring to my dreadlocks; I had started growing them since my cancer’s remission and they were now down to my shoulder
blades. I know a lot of people have a problem with locks because they aren’t as neat as fades or bald heads. But because it
had survived the chemo treatments, I vowed never to cut my hair. I felt a connection to Samson in the Bible, whose strength
was connected to his hair.

“When are you going to cut that mess?” Luciano asked, rumpling my locks with a slap of his hand.

I punched him. “Yo’ mama likes to hold on to them,” I joked, reverting to old college insults. He had to laugh at that one.

I knew one thing, if he had some dream about us double-dating with the Latina sisters, he was about to get his matchmaking,
Cupid-butt disappointed.

The worst part about having cancer is that it drains you of your strength and robs you of the control and overall attitude
you once had over your life. Subsequently, I became obsessed with exercise, running and weight lifting several times a week,
not to look good but to gain back that power.

After cleaning the fridge, I changed into a sleeveless T-shirt and jersey shorts, popped a Mozart CD into the joggable CD
player hooked to my belt, and went for a run. Classical music gives me a sense that I am floating through a surreal world,
making the confusion of the real world disappear if only for just a short time.

I lived several miles from Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood, in a rehabbed building that was once a rubber glove factory.
Sometimes, during really hot summer nights, the smell of rubber seeped through the vents and I imagined the generations of
working class who once toiled at the machines. With the money I had received from my first screenplay, I invested in the loft
at a time when gentrification was in its infancy and White folks were still pessimistic about moving inland. Eventually I
wanted a townhouse in the city, not a house in the suburbs. I was a city boy through and through. I had no problem living
across the El tracks from the projects. One good thing about surviving cancer, nothing much scared me anymore, not even thugs
carrying guns. I figured in this day and age of mistaken identity and Driving (or Running) While Black, I had more to fear
from the cops.

The run from my loft to the lakefront was a rather scenic route that extended from the gentrified blocks of lofts, condos,
and town-homes, through the soon-to-be demolished Cabrini-Green housing projects, to the YMCA where the homeless and veterans
lived, to the condos of old money and nouveau riche.

A patrol car cruised by and immediately my feelers went up. You would think that by now I would have been used to the increased
presence of cops since the upwardly mobile population had surpassed that of the old public housing residents. But I was always
on guard. The cruiser turned the corner I was approaching and stopped at the curb just as I reached it. Two uniforms got out,
surrounding me like the cavalry, one in the front, one in back. The one in the front was a veteran, White; the one behind
was younger and a brown Latino, but he could have passed for Filipino or American Indian. As I slowly removed my headphones,
a name ran through my mind: Amadou Diallo, the African brother who had been shot at forty-one times by NYPD cops who claimed
his cell phone was a gun. In this age of high-tech terrorism, I didn’t want them to mistake my headphones for some kind of
New Age bomb.

“You live around here?” the White cop asked.

“A couple of blocks down. On Larrabee.”

“Can we see some ID?”

If they could have seen my eyes behind the shades, they’d have seen nothing but innate contempt. With exaggerated caution,
I reached into my pocket and brought out my billfold, extending my license using two fingers. I turned to glare at the Latin-Indian-Pacific
Islander cop who wasn’t saying a word, standing at ease, surveying the perimeter like he was ready for anything that might
jump out.

“Mr. Black. We’re just checking on a call about a purse snatching on Halsted.”

“Let me guess. I fit the description. Black male running.”

The White cop smirked; the other one wouldn’t meet my eyes. I was handed back my license.

People were strolling by, breaking their necks to catch a glimpse of the commotion, of which there was none, except for the
one broiling inside of me. I recognized a couple from my building watching, and when they saw the stone-cold look on my face,
they averted their eyes.

It had happened a few times before, just as the demographics were beginning to shift from Black to White. Soon after, the
patrols were stepped up as the newcomers complained about the established residents who had yet to be dispersed to scattered-site
housing around the city. One time, a searchlight was blazed in my face from a slow-moving paddy wagon; another time, I had
been thrust against a cruiser after I insisted I didn’t know what “assume the position” meant. After that incident, I stopped
running at night, or even dusk for that matter. Now they were hassling me in the daylight.

“Sorry to bother you,” White cop muttered insincerely. “Have a good one, now.”

I glowered at them as they swaggered around their car, climbing in like they were gangsters who owned the hood. My chest heaving
with hostility, I turned around to go back home and take out my frustration on the bench press, but then I decided they weren’t
going to ruin my day.

At the El station on Franklin and Chicago Avenue, the light changed and I ran in place. A brown-haired White girl who was
also running pulled up next to me and flashed me a sweaty grin. I smiled back, concentrating on Mozart’s Piano Sonata no.
16 in D Major blasting in my ears, trying to forget the encounter with the cops. When I took a second glance, I noticed she
wasn’t White but an attractive light-skinned Black woman with a tan, dressed in a white Tommy Girl running outfit.
Definitely not a serious runner,
I thought. She was more about looking cute than getting sweaty. I saw her lips moving so I removed my headphones.

“I’m sorry?” I said, still running in place.

“I said, ‘how are you?’” she asked in the affected speech characteristic of the Gold Coast.

“Alright. How ’bout you?”

“Good. Mind if I run with you?”

Running was a solitary activity. Though I’d seen people running together, it wasn’t for me. Not to mention that the run-in
with the cops had all but killed my usual sociable nature.

“If you can keep up.”

When the light changed, I checked the traffic before taking off. She kept up for the most part, but only because I was holding
back. I let her get ahead of me once so I could check her out from the back, but then I pulled ahead because I was starting
to get behind my time. If Luciano were around, he’d tell me there was definitely something wrong with me when I didn’t seize
an opportunity to holler at a beautiful sister.

We didn’t stop for another light until we reached Loyola University, at which time she stooped over with her hands on her
knees and waved me on. I smiled pompously and moved on.

I reached the lakefront in forty-five minutes, behind my usual time and more winded than usual. I attributed it to the woman’s
interruption, disregarding the fact that I had started smoking again, and vowed not to let anything interfere the next time.

It was a blistering summer day, furiously hot even for August, the kind of day that brought lots of people to compete for
the cool breezes of Lake Michigan’s shores. All up and down the outer paths, people were running, biking, and Rollerblading.
There was no sand on this portion of beach but there were still plenty of half-clad sunbathers lounging on the cemented shore.
Future cancer patients,
I called them. I always wore shades, a visor, and sunblock; I didn’t play. Clouds were moving in, periodically obscuring
the sun, and I waited in anticipation for the impending thunderstorm that had been predicted earlier. There was nothing like
watching people running away from a little rain. Another good thing about having cancer—you learn to appreciate the simple
things you took for granted before.

I removed my headphones and sat down on the nearest bench and leaned back, soaking in the rays and breathing in the fresh
air—as fresh as city air could be.

In the murky distance, I could make out Navy Pier like some mirage, the super-sized Ferris wheel barely moving. I remembered
the day my father had taken me there before the pier had been turned into a tourist attraction. He told me that during World
War II, it was used as a pilot-training base, and now there were about two hundred planes resting at the bottom of Lake Michigan
as a result of training accidents. Then he told me he was dying of cancer.

Unlike my father, I had defied the odds in so many ways. After my last chemo course, when my blood tests, CT scan, and chest
X-rays all came back negative, the doctors were so stunned that the cancer was in remission without surgery, they presented
my case at a medical teaching conference. The fact that the kind of cancer I had was rare in Black men made me an even bigger
anomaly. I attributed my recovery to God and a rededication to prayer. But sometime in the last year, I had drifted away.
And like all sinners who called on God only in times of need, I felt kind of bad about it—but not bad enough to believe I
needed to go to church on a regular basis. I was a biannual Christian, the kind who went to church on Christmas and Easter—the
Lord’s birth and resurrection. I was going on the notion that by attending church on these two holiest-of-holy days, the eternal
fires would remain out of reach.