Cruisin On Desperation

by Pat G'Orge-Walker

Genres: African American; African American Christian; African American Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Award-winning author Pat G'Orge-Walker - who routinely sells out her one-woman Sister Betty stage show - is the queen of gospel comedy. When the unlucky in love Birdie Tweet meets Afro-Latino hunk Lyon Lipps, she thinks her romantic fortunes may change. But then she shows his picture to the other ladies of the Oh Lawd Why Am I Still Single church group, and several recognize Lyon as the con artist who previously seduced them. So the ladies decide it's payback time.

Release date: August 1, 2010

Publisher: Recorded Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Some are called, others just show up!

 

And God hath set some in the church, first apostles, secondarily prophets, thirdly teachers, after that miracles, then gifts of healings, helps, governments, diversities of tongues.

—1 Corinthians 12:28

I give all my love, praise, and honor to my Heavenly Father, the beginning and ending of my faith.

To my husband, Robert, I can never thank you or show you enough love for your generous love and support. When the chemo and the stem-cell transplant to treat your multiple myeloma should’ve left you weak, you always summoned the strength to encourage me to go on. Continue the good fight.

I thank my children, Gizel, Ingrid, and Marisa. My precious jewels, Kecia, Desean, Jerome, Nyasia, Shareef, Donald, Gary Jr., Denzel, Maya, Aniyah, Brian, Shyheim, Jada, Sharday, and India, and my future granddaughter-in-law, Patrice Edwards. To my remaining siblings, remain firm. Aunts Ovella and Mildred and Uncle Elbert, God bless and keep you.

My eldest daughter, Jah Queen Gizel, I thank you for your beautiful poem. From wisdom and experience, you’ve told us to Just Get Over It.

Ms. BerNadette Stanis (Thelma/Good Times), I so appreciate your support, and I can’t wait to work with you. Ms. Dawn Carter, Producer, Fox Pictures, I thank you.

New York Times bestselling author Zane, Essence bestselling authors Tia McCollors, Stacy Hawkins-Adams, Angela Benson, and Jacquelin Thomas, I thank you and appreciate your comments and support.

To my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Bobby Mackey, God bless you for putting up with me. You’re still as pretty inside and out now as you were then. Your continued support is amazing.

I give a special, heartfelt thank you to Karen Thomas, who followed her heart in 2003. Sister Betty and I will always be grateful to you, Latoya Smith, Jessica McClain, and the entire Dafina family.

My new editor, Selena James…Hang on, we’re about to fly. Robin Caldwell, who edited tirelessly, I thank you. Content editor Monica Harris, I thank you.

To my pillars of constant support, Jacqueline Thomas and Tracy Price-Thompson, thank you.

My agent, Renee Byrd and Vanessa Morman along with the entire Sheba Media Group; a thank you is barely enough.

I thank one of the other hardest working women in the business, besides me, Ms. Vickie Winans. I’m still shaking loose during every performance.

Maurice Gray, author, thank you for the “Oh Lawd, Why Am I Still Single?” singles group.

Thank you to my attorney, Christopher R. Whent, Esq., my pastor, Reverend Stella Mercardo, and the Blanche Memorial Baptist Church family.

I give thanks to my first church, which remains my love, St. Paul’s Tabernacle, as well as Bishop John and Lady Laura Smith. Thank you.

To Bishop Noel Jones (Fresh Oil), I love and admire you so much. To the Reverends John and Diana Cherry (From the Heart Church Ministries), you’ve taught me to hold fast and not compromise and I thank you for that.

To Tyler Perry, who could’ve known how well known Madea, Sister Betty, and Ma Cile would become? I certainly didn’t. I offer a big thank-you for finally knocking down doors and taking those hits for the comedy ministry teams that came before and will follow after.

I give a special thank-you to my lifelong friend, Akia Shangia. I applaud you. I feel it is a privilege and an honor to have known you for over forty years. I will continue to support the enormous task that you and Sister to Sister International, Inc., have undertaken to ensure the collection and distribution of Maama Kits throughout Africa to eradicate neonatal fatalities.

In addition, thank you to the Depend Company, for your dedication to helping millions of men and women who suffer from the embarrassing but curable affliction of incontinence.

Finally, to the many book clubs and bookstores; my readers; the radio, print, and television media; the many churches, libraries and organizations; and so many others too numerous to mention, I thank you for your continuous support. It is always appreciated and very much necessary for my comedy and writing ministry. For those I’ve not mentioned, please blame it on the head and not the heart.

For more information regarding Akia Shangai and Sister to Sister International, Inc.’s efforts in eradicating infant mortality in Africa, please visit: www.stsi.org

Please log onto www.depend.com for more information regarding incontinence. You don’t have to suffer with its embarrassing effects.

Please log onto www.mskcc.org (the Memorial-Sloan Kettering Cancer Medical Center) to learn more about multiple myeloma and other cancers. Please remember to give blood because there is never enough. There is also information regarding using your own blood for its stem cells.

For Pat G’Orge-Walker, log on to: www.sisterbetty.com, www.myspace.com/sisterbettycomedy, or www.cruisin-on-desperation.com.

 

The same day I wrote my acknowledgments, my husband learned that he was in remission. He’d only been given a year to live and didn’t God just show out!!!

I give all praises to God.

It was 2005 and in the town of Pelzer, South Carolina, during the month of June, weddings sprang up faster than gas prices.

It seemed that bouts of desperation had taken over the many physically and mentally challenged who seemed destined to remain unmarried. The why and how of the sudden marital surge was a mystery, except to those who were getting married. They didn’t care why, and for the most part, really didn’t care how.

However, most of the other town folks, tired of boredom, were happy to have something to celebrate. And, of course, having plenty of free food to eat on Saturdays when no one wanted to cook at home, in all the heat, was always a good thing.

There were a few of the folks not happy for the newlyweds. They were the just-couldn’t-get-a-man-to-save-their-lives members of the Oh Lawd, Why Am I Still Single Singles Club. Those women had never so much as received an obscene phone call let alone a marriage proposal. But for propriety’s sake, they tried to keep their opinions quiet, preferring to gripe among themselves.

They indulged and wallowed in self-pity. Their unhappiness didn’t bother the other Pelzer residents until there was one wedding that finally sent them over the edge. They could stand it no more.

The beginning of their push for freedom from unmarried misery began when suddenly one of their former members, Sheila Shame, got a man.

Fifty-year-old Sheila with chronic post-nasal drip, and one of the worst church soloists in the “A” choir history, announced she was getting married. Before folks could recover from her news, a flood of other wedding invitations poured into mailboxes all around town.

The wedding deluge spread out over several gorgeous sunny Saturday afternoons. The first one, which was Sheila’s, started like something straight out of a Disney movie. There were colorful birds chirping, smiling bees buzzing, and it was all for a woman no one thought they’d live to see walk down the aisle.

There was standing room only when Sheila married Pookie Bowser at an IHOP Restaurant. Sheila could barely control her joy at her good fortune. She grinned and cried endlessly at the altar, causing her makeup to smudge all around her bulging brown eyes. She stood at that altar looking like Pookie had given her a shiner. But before their “I do’s,” Sheila boasted to her guests.

“Y’all didn’t think I could get a man, but I did,” Sheila gushed, causing her makeup to spread and making her look like she wore a half-mask. To further her point, she turned and snapped her fingers at the guests.

Pookie quickly snatched Sheila’s burqa-shaped veil and covered her pimply face before he changed his mind.

Although they wanted to laugh, the guests could do nothing but nod in agreement. Some did bother to cover their mouths and muffle a snicker as Sheila stood, slightly askew, on her one leg hidden by her extravagant, long, off-white gown. And, with a quick shout of “Thank you, Jesus. I sure do,” when asked if she’d take Pookie, Sheila grabbed and leaned on her new husband.

Pookie, on the other hand, was elated because he finally had a chance to get his bucked and crooked teeth fixed. Sheila had both dental and medical benefits. The image of his name on an insurance card made Pookie scream out in joy, “Hallelujah.”

Although Sheila and Pookie’s marriage was the straw that broke the camel’s back for the singles group, they weren’t the only unlikely pair to wed that month.

There was Sister Patty Cake, the eighty-year-old, reed-thin co-chair of the Senior Choir. She had celery-colored teeth and breath so bad she could peel paint off a wall. She married a twenty-five-year-old Jamaican man nicknamed Kool Aid. He had dreadlocks that flowed like branches from his head. When folks tried to warn her that her soon-to-be husband was only marrying her to get a green card, Patty didn’t listen or care. Having never been married, she was so happy she gave him a matching green American Express card. Whatever he did to her on their wedding night pleased her, because even though he left the following morning, she continued to send him a weekly check. And she was happy to do it.

There were others. Southside Annie was forty with arthritis so bad she couldn’t thread a needle, but she snagged her a man. She married a thug named Klepto from the north side. They married quickly because he was only out on temporary parole. She declared she didn’t mind conjugal visits. And then there was Two-Ton Sally who married a fella from Alabama named Big Louie. He was about three times smaller than Sally. Despite the odds, those women had snagged husbands.

After that last wedding, which the members of the Oh Lawd, Why Am I Still Single group took as a slap in the face, they became downright shameless and, of course, even more desperate. They perpetrated daily sunrise jogging sprints. They sported natty but expensive hair weaves that were neon-colored. They even enrolled in “nouvelle cuisine” cooking classes. There wasn’t a ploy or a trick that was off-limits.

None of their schemes worked. Since it was still early in July and they weren’t willing to give up their manhunt, they decided to try something new. They would open the door to new membership.

They didn’t have to wait long after the call out to the lonely and desperate before someone answered.

That next Saturday was their first meeting for new members. As always, Sister Need Sum held the meeting at her house as she had since the group’s beginning. It was at that meeting that they welcomed into their chaotic mix the group’s first caucasian member, Sister Birdie Tweet.

None of the members suspected that Birdie’s huge heart and even larger overflowing bank account would catapult them into a journey that they were ill prepared to take.

Moreover, the women went to new heights to prove that desperation creates strange bedfellows when they also welcomed a former ex-con and current memory-challenged member of their church’s Mothers Board, Mother Bea Blister.

There was a little more than a month left of summertime, and there wasn’t any time to waste.

Desperation made these women act crazier than a swarm of intoxicated butterflies stumbling for ten miles, instead of flying. They were just that lost.

“Do you think this old gas-guzzling clunker can go a little faster?” Cill asked, impatient and loud as she leaned towards the steering wheel of the 1993 red Camry from her seat on the passenger side.

Cill and her childhood friend, Petunia, had just left the wedding reception for a fifty-year-old woman with an oversized glass eye, nicknamed Blind Betty.

Blind Betty had landed a wealthy real estate mogul who, for reasons no one could understand, had fallen deeply in love with her.

Cill and Petunia, along with some of the other single women at the reception, tried to be happy for Blind Betty but they couldn’t. None of them had ever found a poor man who owned a bag of dirt, let alone a rich real estate mogul.

The single women sat around wearing plastered smiles, and had almost accepted Blind Betty’s good fortune until it was time for her to toss a bouquet of colorful forget-me-nots. They’d swarmed out onto the floor kicking, pinching and screaming. Suddenly from out of nowhere, a twenty-something shapely woman with lemon-colored skin and an ebony, store-bought wig with its price tag showing, just happened to pass in front of the crowd of desperate crones. “Get out the way,” someone from the crowd shouted at her. When the young woman, whose name was Miss Fitt, turned around, she accidentally caught the wedding bouquet with her French-manicured, claw-shaped nails.

The sight of those long nails ripping the colorful forget-me-nots to microscopic shreds brought a hush all over the place. Like the other single women, Cill and Petunia thought they’d lose their minds. However, when they saw the young woman toss the remains of the bouquet into a nearby garbage can as she screamed, “Ooh, I don’t want this. I don’t want to get married, ever,” they wanted to strangle her shapely neck.

Going to jail for murder would certainly hamper their chances of marriage, so they decided to grab a few petals as souvenirs. With their heads held high, and a single tear rolling down their cheeks, they left with a scrap of dignity and a renewed vow not to remain alone or attend another wedding unless it was their own.

Petunia’s old car lurched out of control as though it was trying to throw up its last little bit of gasoline. All the while its speedometer seemed to stand still, even as the steering wheel spun erratically. It clanked and inched down the right lane of Pelzer’s Highway 29, while black smoke spewed out its muffler like smoke signals. Yet it was in better shape than the lives of its occupants.

Petunia pushed Cill’s hands away. “Touch my steering wheel with those ashy paws, and I’ll fight you like the man you want to be,” she snapped as her sunglasses bobbed on the tip of her pointy nose.

Petunia was skinny and banana-shaped, and she was just as pale, almost to the point of looking jaundiced. At the age of thirty-six, she was an on again and off again anorexic with breasts the size of acorn seeds. She stood about five foot nine and weighed about one hundred and five pounds, and that was only after gorging on a Happy Meal.

Cill took another glance over at Petunia and sucked her teeth as she pointed at her. “Girl, please. I’d love to see you fight me or anyone for that matter. As a matter of fact, stop tripping. You’ve never won a fight against anything, and from the looks of this puddle-hopper, certainly not the war on poverty.”

Cill watched the steam escape from under Petunia’s peach-colored, floppy hat. She laughed and then pulled her oversized, beige Apple cap further down over her doe-shaped, brown eyes. Cill wore a big Apple cap everywhere, and had even worn it to the wedding that day. The hat covered her micro-short dark hair, giving no clue as to her gender, despite a stubborn, long chin hair.

Cill and Petunia fought constantly and made up just as often. Arguing about how slow Petunia drove was the springboard for most of their arguments. Next was whether Cill truly wanted a man or just hung around the other women pretending she did. Those were the same arguments they’d had for the past several years on the first Saturday of the month, as they drove to the singles meeting.

“You just make sure that there’s some padding in the backseat before we let Mother Blister sit down when I pick her up,” Petunia said as she pointed to an old comforter balled up in the backseat.

Cill let her shoulders drop and shook her head. “I don’t know why we always have to pick up that old woman to go everywhere,” she mumbled as she reached over the headrest for the blanket. “I know for certain that they have free shuttle service from that seniors’ home. She could use it if she wanted and stop inconveniencing us. And, you know good and well, she has a problem with her bladder. It just ain’t sanitary to have her in the car with people that normally pee in toilets.”

“You got a lot of nerve, Cill Lee,” Petunia argued and rolled her eyes. “I only live a block away from Mother Blister, but I had to drive three miles from my house to pick you up and take you to a meeting that’s right next door to you. I’m going out of my way because your car is in a shop that’s on this side of town. So, who’s an inconvenience?”

Petunia totally ignored the reference to Mother Blister’s uncontrollable bladder. After all, she had the blanket in the back seat for that very reason.

“I’m your friend. We go way back like salt pork and collards,” Cill answered as she again shook her head in annoyance and watched old folks on the sidewalk in their motorized wheelchairs speed past.

“Why don’t you be a better friend and chip in for some gas?” Petunia asked. She knew Cill wouldn’t do it but she still needed to remind her.

“Well, let me look in my pocket for a quarter. At the rate you’re driving that’s about all the gas you’ll use.”

Petunia was just about to lock horns again, but Cill spoke up too quick.

“Look, there she is in the front of her building standing under the awning,” Cill said as she avoided Petunia’s impending rebuke. “Have mercy, will you look at that old woman?” Cill was about to burst with laughter. “I wished she’d come to the wedding wearing that orange and red striped blouse and that maroon wool pleated skirt. She’d have made us look good.”

Petunia, forever the cautious one when it came to the maintenance of her precious car, kept her eyes and mind on parking it, completely ignoring Cill. When Petunia was satisfied that she’d parked exactly twelve inches from the curve, she looked over at Mother Blister, and accidentally hit her mouth on the steering wheel when she leaned over. She almost chipped a tooth to keep from laughing, too.

“Lord, please don’t let me be and look that crazy if I live to be that old.” Petunia whispered the prayer, laughing as she did.

“We ask in your name, dear Father,” Cill added as she crossed her chest and her fingers. She almost caught a cramp when she tried to cross her toes, too.

Mother Blister hadn’t looked in their direction. Instead, the seventy-plus senior stood under her building’s awning with a jar in her hand. At five foot nine, with a hefty frame, she looked like an overripe dark raisin with twice the wrinkles, bent almost in half like the letter C. Her entire body looked uneven when she stood.

As the blazing hot sun poured through the cracks in the awning’s cover, she spooned fistfuls of sunscreen from the jar and smoothed it on her dark skin. But it was when she lifted her skirt, to dab a little on her knobby knees, that she spied Cill and Petunia. She dropped her skirt and waved to let them know she’d seen them.

“Look at her,” Petunia said. She pointed towards the building’s awning quickly so Mother Blister wouldn’t see her as she approached. “She’s one of the senior heads of our church’s Mothers Board.” She dropped her head again pretending not to laugh as her bony shoulders shivered. “That’s too sad.”

“Sad ain’t exactly the word I’d say. Downright ridiculous is more like it,” Cill chimed in as she suppressed another giggle. “Listen. Do you hear it?” she asked.

“Hear what?” Petunia asked. She turned her head from side to side while holding one of her ears.

“The sounds of snaps, crackles and pops,” Cill answered while snapping her fingers. “Mother Blister was standing there broiling in that sun and sounding like a geriatric bowl of Rice Krispies. I can still hear the sounds echoing in the air.”

“Hello, Mother Blister.” Petunia stopped laughing long enough to call out as Mother Blister ambled towards the car. She opened her door and stepped out to give the woman more room to enter on the driver’s side, when she finally reached there. “You’re going straight to hell for that,” she leaned back inside and whispered to Cill.

“How y’all doing, today?” Mother Blister asked as she finally arrived. She squeezed her hefty body into the back seat of Petunia’s car, pushing aside the blanket Cill had carefully laid out.

“How was Blind Betty’s wedding?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Forget about a wedding, I hope we get to the meeting on time, today,” Mother Blister said as she finally found a comfortable spot, despite the concerned look from Petunia and the smile on Cill’s face.

“Well, they can’t have a singles meeting without all the most promising singles being present,” Cill offered. “You do remember that we are going to discuss what other things we can do to meet our soul-mates, don’t you?”

“You do remember that I’ve probably forgotten more about men than you’ve ever learned or will learn no matter how hard you try to be like one,” Mother Blister snapped.

“I like keeping in touch with my masculine side. You gotta problem with yours?” Cill’d always liked tattoos and keeping folks guessing about her gender. She never questioned why. She just enjoyed the game.

Mother Blister was old, but not stupid. She knew Cill would always try to get an argument going with anyone she could. “Watch yourself, youngster,” Mother Blister continued as she adjusted her false teeth as if she were going to take them out and use them on Cill.

For the rest of the ten-minute ride to Sister Need Sum’s house, the three women alternated between arguing and apologizing. And, of course, Cill and Petunia had to give their edited version of Blind Betty’s “fiasco of a wedding,” as they called it.

And they were the sanest women in the Oh Lawd, Why Am I Still Single Club.

It was Saturday morning and several sweat-stained gardeners were scattered throughout the Pelzer suburbs of the rich and wish-they-were rich population.

Most of the men were young, willing workers, and arrived in small trucks and multi-colored vans. Their well-toned bodies were tanned from the hot sun and dirty from the hard work of mowing lawns and spreading fertilizer. That morning they came prepared to prune and to plant.

Light testosterone whiffs of dripping sweat intermingled with the fragrance of jasmines and yellow lilac bushes that dotted the lawns of several plush homes. The homes of the rich and snooty residents of Hope Avenue were definitely not the homes of the single, but often desperation still came to visit.

As they pushed their roaring lawnmowers, the gardeners’ sleeveless T-shirts clung to their bodies. Although the sight of the young men intimidated the well-dressed men struggling under the weight of their golf clubs, it wasn’t enough to keep them from driving off in their luxury cars and leaving their wives behind.

Standing in the doorway with each hair in its place and nails polished to a shine, the left-behind wives leered at the workers. The sight of the promising young men caused the spoiled wives to daydream of slinging the golf clubs and their husbands over their shoulders, and depositing them at the curb.

A little farther away the intoxicating mixtures of flora and perspiration had wafted towards the corner and into one of the homes on Drudge Road. It was a house where an old flowery faded mat with the furrowed face of a winking cherub, resting lopsided on the front porch, welcomed visitors.

Townfolks always described Hope Avenue as looking “well-off.” They said that Drudge Road just looked “far off.”

Inside the small, cluttered wood-framed eye-sore on the corner of Drudge and Hope avenues, where the smell of Icy Hot for back pain and Clairol plum hair dye was certain to attack a visitor’s nose, lived Sister Need Sum. Her close friends called her Needy. Moreover, even those who didn’t know her at all took one glance and called her that, too.

Needy leaned out of her narrow bedroom window with a chipped pair of binoculars and inhaled the morning air for the umpteenth time since awakening from a restless night. I’m long overdue for some pruning and planting, she sighed as she mentally tore off with her teeth the shirt of one of the young gardeners. With her free hand she began to fan furiously with a torn Aretha Franklin album cover. Her heart fluttered as her mind began to entertain fleshly thoughts that she’d thought she’d overcome at a recent prayer meeting.

Since she had her first kiss at the age of twenty-five, Needy struggled with issues of the flesh. “God’s still working on this building,” she always testified.

“Buenos diás, Carlos. Que pasa?” Needy shamelessly yelled across and up the street at one of the workers who came dangerously close. She prayed her voice rose above the constant high-pitched buzz of the hedge clippers. “Oh you fine, young thing,” she muttered and then quickly looked sky-ward and added, “Lord, please forgive me for that flesh-ridden thought about what I’d love to do with that young man.”

As happy as she was to see the bare chested young Spanish men flexing their toned and sun-kissed muscles, she was even happier to know that God would forgive her for her inappropriate thoughts. She knew this because she’d asked forgiveness far more times than she probably deserved.

Needy was in her late thirties, if she’d been telling the truth. Unlike most of her single friends, she owned her home. There was nothing outstanding about her one-story green and brown frame house except that it sat cushioned between two trailer homes that teetered precariously on whittled cinderblocks.

After a few minutes of inhaling as much air as she could without wheezing from the rag weed in her back yard, Needy shut her bedroom window and went towards the front of the house. Her huge head-wrap, a tattered dark linen towel spotted with hair dye, slowly began to unravel. She moved about as if she were trying to dodge flying objects as she quickly sprayed her living room with long misty streams of Old Spice cologne. The odor of Old Spice was as close to having a man in her home in the middle of the day as she’d been in the past year. And she was not happy about that fact at all.

Needy had barely finished spraying the room with the odor of false hope when the urgent sound of her doorbell clanged though her home.

“Hold your horses, I’m coming,” she yelled, angrily, even though she knew her visitors couldn’t hear her. She quickly looked at her wall clock and realized that her guests were almost thirty minutes early. She was annoyed but certainly wasn’t surprised. Plotting to catch a man was serious business. Blind Betty’s wedding had sent them into overdrive.

The six female club members had become a tight-knit group. They hung out together and even planned their vacations together. They all worked in the same area of town and they still checked in with each other at lunchtime, every day, just in case one of them caught more men than she could handle. That never happened, but they still clung to hope.

“Cill, Birdie and Mother Blister, come on in. How are you ladies today? Excuse the mess.” Needy feigned surprise and the appropriate agitation as the women entered in various stages of desperation, decay, and annoyance into her living room. “Y’all have a seat. Is Petunia parking the car?”

“Yes, she’s outside trying to find a suitable parking space for that mess on four wheels,” Cill said, cheerfully. “We ran into Birdie while we were coming up the walkway.”

“You look wonderful,” Birdie said softly to . . .