Reality Check

by Eric Pete

Genres: African American; African American Urban

Synopsis

Every woman dreams of getting married to the man she loves. So why is the independent, vivacious Glover having second thoughts about her engagement to her rich, sexy boyfriend, Lionel? Meanwhile, Louisiana country boy Max decides moving to LA will better not only his career chances, but his love life. It’s just his luck that the beautiful woman who can help him professionally - and personally - is about to be married to another man. A chance meeting at an employment office gives new meaning to the phrase “reality check” as Glover and Max try to sort through the drama that is bound to happen if they get together.

Release date: April 24, 2012

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Beeeeep!Beeeeeep!Beeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeep!

Its red lights taunted me from out of the fading darkness.

Shit. Why does my alarm always go off right when I’m about to get my freak on? I guess my mystery lover would have to catch me on the next dream go-round. One day I would catch a glimpse of his face.

Lawd, I hate Mondays. Everybody does. Well, except for beauticians because it’s their day off. Of course, I never felt like going to work. It was simply something I did while trying to figure out what I really wanted to do. Damn trust fund babies and celebrities in this town. They’ll ruin a sister’s good work ethic in a heartbeat.

Lionel mentioned it again last night. Always the seductive proposition coming from those sexy lips of his. That was just before I made him go home. Some women out here would jump at the chance to have someone like Lionel take care of them, but, hey ... I guess I’m one of the independent ones. Did I forget to tell you that I’m also vivacious, witty, intelligent, and can work it like no other?

Lionel is my boyfriend. I say that because we aren’t officially engaged. We met by chance more than two years ago, when I was going through a rough dry spell. I was at Mariana’s having a chicken caesar salad after work while he was downtown meeting with a client. I sat there feeding my face and saw this rather debonair brother at a nearby table.

Tall and dark-skinned, he wore a suit that reeked of the finest quality. Almost as impressive as his build and his perfect teeth. He was having a business meeting with a middle-aged white man, who appeared to be interested in more than “bid’ness,” as was evident by the way he eyed the subject of my imagination. I hoped to myself, Please don’t be gay, realizing I was craving the well-built bit of chocolate too.

Their business was concluded with several quick signatures to paperwork. The client left first and passed right by my table. I resumed eating as if I hadn’t been eavesdropping. Lionel was passing next when he slowed and mumbled under his breath.

“Thought that was funny, huh?” He didn’t even break his smile.

“Excuse me?” I answered, almost choking on a crouton. I quickly grabbed a napkin and covered my mouth.

“I saw you watching my predicament with Mr. Brewster. Did that amuse you?”

“Huh? Oh. That. Well, I wasn’t ...” I fumbled in vain.

“And the answer is no. I’m straight.”

Whew.

He sat down and officially introduced himself to me. A few months after Mariana’s, the beginnings of what you would call this relationship of ours, we were dating exclusively.

Lionel is a securities broker and financial planner for Barnes & Greenwood, with more than his share of success through both good times and bad. I’d be lying if I said that success didn’t sometimes go to his head, but he was so charming that I ignored it. He’d asked me countless times to move in with him, but I had my reservations, in spite of the occasional sleepover. Call me stubborn or just plain old fashioned, but I had an issue without having a wedding date selected and all. I was pretty sure I loved him, but wanted to be certain the weekend jaunts to Las Vegas or New York weren’t swaying me instead. I was young at the time, but remembered talk of how a silver tongue had driven a wedge between my mom and her family back in Virginia so many years ago.

Our long talk was coming soon, but first I needed to get my ass out of bed before Mona arrived. Heaven knows she was gonna get me evicted with her loud honking.

The raucous bass from the rapper A.K.’s “Realer Than Ya Know” bellowed through the ceiling above me. Smitty’s normal routine. Don’t get me wrong; I liked the song, and A.K. was a fellow Louisianan, but it was way too early for it. I tried ignoring the raspy command to “drop back or get knocked the fuck back” while cracking my blinds. The morning light coming from beyond Venice Boulevard flooded my tiny single-bedroom apartment, invigorating me.

My momma, Orelia, always used to joke that I’d wake before the roosters. A country joke, but a real disposition, courtesy of my pops, of whom I was the spitting image. He died in a chemical plant explosion back in Louisiana when I was in the third grade. Momma still clung to her memories. One of the main reasons for wanting her “baby” to stay close to home, I guess.

Discarding thoughts of returning home, I inserted my earbuds and turned up my modest iPod Shuffle. A strange mix to hear Alicia Keys’ melodies lay atop the chorus from beyond my walls. Sure, the tenants complained about him, but Smitty’s silly ass was the closest thing to a best friend I had since moving to the City of Angels.

I’d graduated from McNeese State University with a BS in business administration more than two years ago. After getting that paper, I went to work on collecting the other kind of paper as a slot attendant at one of the casinos, saving a nest egg before coming out west in the last six months. I’d considered moving to Houston, but decided more distance was needed to avoid being pulled back to Lake Charles and the prospects of either no money or the easy street money that sent too many fools to either their graves or prison. Y’see, I didn’t entirely sleep through class. My college professors had taught me that mobility was the key to a higher standard of living, and that all paths to success led away.

Of course my momma didn’t want to hear that noise. Lake Charles was good enough for her and my pops, so it had to be good enough for me. The only solace she took in my move was that her brother and his family resided in nearby Carson, so I would have some family to look out for me.

Familial bonds ran deep in terms of how I was raised to view the world.

I removed one of my earbuds when I saw my vibrating cell dancing on the table. I was about to dine on a light, cheap breakfast of Frosted Flakes and orange juice, but decided to answer.

“Hello?”

“What up, Maxwell?” It was Smitty. I hated the way he called me by my full name. I should never have told him.

“Smitty, I know you da man and all, but you need to turn that shit down this early in the A.M. !”

“Why you gotta fuckin’ yell?” I hadn’t realized it, but his music was off. Made me feel stupid. “You know me,” he continued. “I need something to help me get up after busting guts all night.”

Smitty was a smallish jokester who talked way more game than he really possessed.

“You ready to go on this job search, man? Or are you gonna just sit around and continue to talk shit?”

“Naw, I’m ready. Tired of being broke too. I started to come downstairs earlier and knock on your door, but decided to watch Mrs. Griggs doing her morning laps in the pool.”

“Aww.” I moaned over missing out on the spectacular view of a wet Mrs. Griggs. “And you didn’t come get me?”

“Yeah, right. Like you would know what to do if a MILF like that offered the pussy on a platter. You know Fistina and Palmetta are the only women for you.”

“Fuck you, Smit.”

“Naw. Smitty don’t do that Brokeback shit, bro.” There he went, going all third-person. “Maybe you lookin’ to move to West Hollywood.”

I sighed, wondering why I even bothered. “What I need is a fuckin’ job so I can move the fuck away from you.”

Mona arrived late to my apartment in her gold Volkswagen, honking as usual. The brown-skinned, leggy twenty-six-year-old was the daughter of a successful real estate developer who made his money reinvesting in the inner city. While she usually shunned his favors, Mona wasn’t stupid enough to decline his gift of a comfy little condo in Santa Monica. It was his way of making up for her newest stepmother, to whom she was severely allergic.

Mona and I had been best friends since attending West Los Angeles College. When I got on with the downtown state employment office, I brought her along with me. We were as close as sisters and tried to look out for one another as if it were a fact.

“Did Lionel spend the night?” Mona asked as I dug in my purse for lipstick during the drive. “You know how persuasive he can be when he wants something.”

“Nah. Trying to keep some boundaries, although he’s persistent. Had to push the nigga out the door.”

“You know, you really need to stop using the N-word. There was this big discussion about it on TV last night.”

“You watch too much TV, Mona.”

“Don’t I, though?” She smirked. “Anyway, have you guys had the talk yet?”

“No. What about you?” I asked, tiring of the topic. “You still seeing Craig?” With her cute little tapered short crop atop her petite yet curvy frame, Mona was a stunner. When combined with her smooth, sophisticated voice, she was devastating. Craig, an international basketball player, was the latest in a long line of conquests.

“Changing the subject, Ms. McDaniel?”

“Not at all,” I lied. “Just curious. Are we on for this weekend?”

“I guess. Have you checked with Charmaine?” she asked, referring to the missing third of our crew.

Charmaine was our co-worker at the employment office. Caucasian by birth, she was pure sister in every other way, having grown up around minorities in SoCal most of her life and sharing a lot of the same obstacles and strife. She kept us in stitches with her comments on who was doing what to whom in the office. Weekends were when we bonded, going out or simply hanging and unwinding.

Traffic was unusually light, so we made it downtown on time. Mona parked next to Charmaine’s black Kawasaki and we rushed inside to clock in. When we spotted Charmaine, she had her hands full with a cup of Starbucks and a six-box of Krispy Kremes, but that didn’t stop her from running over.

“G-love! Mona!” she yelled, excited to see us after a last minute cancellation had squashed our weekend plans. Her own little pet name for me was a play on the spelling of my name. Very original, even though I hated the fuck out of it.

“Did you guys see those construction workers in front of the Times building? Damn. Might have to take a little walk at lunch.” Charmaine chuckled to herself, all the while serious.

“Good morning to you too, Charmaine,” Mona said dryly. Construction workers were so far removed from her type. While often physically attractive, they tended to lack the social status or sophistication she required.

“Charmaine, are we going out this weekend?” I asked.

“You know, G-love, you’ve got Lionel, and Ms. Mona here has ... well ... I don’t know who she has this week, but I’ve got to play catch up.”

“Whatever,” Mona chimed. “I really don’t date that much.”

“I don’t know what you call it, but you do do it much.”

I fought back a laugh, wondering how these two ever got along, and if maybe I was the glue.

I had spent my time in Los Angeles getting acclimated and working odd jobs, but hadn’t found anything close to taking advantage of my degree. Today was no different. Smitty and I spent the first half of the day pounding the pavement northeast of town from Pasadena to Pomona. Applications were filled out and some handshakes given, but all we got were promises to call us if something came up. Straight-up lip service. We knew what that meant: resumes in the trash.

And any hopes dashed.

My nest egg was beginning to run low, and the last thing I would do was call home for my momma to spot me. I could hear her soothing voice now, telling me what a mistake I’d made ... but that it was okay.

And all I had to do was just come home.

I had the evening off from the Denny’s on Hawthorne in Torrance, so Smitty and I agreed to get some playing time in if nothing turned up. We changed clothes in the restroom at the last employer we’d visited and got back on I-10 to head to Venice for some b-ball.

We took my Corolla, as Smitty’s car wasn’t running. His hooptie was always broken, but he always managed to find some sweet young thang to either chauffeur him around or allow him to borrow her ride. They weren’t the most appealing of prospects, but Smitty really didn’t seem to mind. “I gets minez,” he would always say.

Smitty was one of the first people I met upon moving to Los Angeles. It was his damn music that did it. It was my second day there on Venice Boulevard after my cousin Jay had helped me locate my apartment. I was crashing hard after a long night of unpacking and putting away my stuff—until his thumping bass startled me from whatever good dream I was having. I pounded on the ceiling for a few minutes, but that didn’t do shit. I threw on some clothes and went running up the stairwell in search of an ass to kick. I banged on Smitty’s door, but wasn’t expecting to see this skinny little figure looking at me when the door opened. He had the nerve to look like he was the one being disturbed. This five foot four, bird-chested individual in a silk robe was such a sight to behold that my eyes watered up while holding back a laugh.

Instead of scolding him over his volume, all I could think was, Do you know how stupid you look?

We’d been hanging ever since.

We managed to get on the court after an hour, losing both games. That didn’t stop my friend from talking shit. Smitty, being a little man, always had to talk shit. This was true whether it was hooping at Venice or flag football at Leimert Park on weekends. It usually amused our opponents that Smitty thought he was the Second Coming, and I hated to be the one to burst his bubble.

Smitty and I retreated to the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica to lick our wounds, finding an outdoor seat at a bar and grill. Smitty ordered the chicken strips and fries with a beer. I ordered the fajitas and was nursing a margarita.

“... next Kobe.”

“Say what, Smitty?”

“Next Kobe, Max. I’m telling ya. I’m gonna be the next Kobe. Or at least Tony Parker. Maybe snag a wifey like Eva Longoria, too, now that I think about it. You saw me out there. Ballin’!” he said, making the shot gesture popularized by Jim Jones’ song.

“Sounds like you got your future all figured out. Wish I did,” I dryly joked.

“Don’t hate on the brother like those fools back on the court. You saw all the elbows whenever I drove? I guess if I wasn’t so good I wouldn’t have so many haters, huh?”

“Yeah. Must be it,” I indulged. “How are the chicken strips?”

“They a’ight. The longneck’s helping, though. It cost enough. How’s your shit?”

“Pretty good. I need to get paid, though, so I can start eating some high-end shit. Ramen noodles and McDonald’s dollar menu ain’t cuttin’ it, y’know? I want some filet mignon for a change. Maybe some—”

“Prime rib,” Smitty continued for me. “Yeah, dawg, I hear ya. I only got an associate’s. You’re gonna have an easier time with your bachelor’s degree, even if it is from the backwoods. Where you went to school again? McCajun? Possum University? Alligator State?”

“Watch that shit. It’s McNeese State. You ain’t funny.”

“My bad,” he said, already moving on to future insults. “Look, I just want to get a reliable car. Somethin’ dependable. Tired of Mexicans lookin’ at me all stupid on the side of the road and laughin’.”

“All in due time, Smit. We need to hit downtown next week. Maybe something will break for at least one of us.”

“Max, shorties at three o’clock.”

Smitty’s radar locked on. Two blondes had just sat a few tables over from us. Judging from the growing crowd, they’d probably just left the movies down the street. The taller one wore a short, frizzy hairstyle and was well endowed. She sported a black halter top with a pair of weathered denims. The short one had straight, shoulder length hair with donk for days. She wore a white designer T-shirt with a pair of black shorts that barely contained her ass cheeks. It was a little cool for shorts, especially those shorts, but this was California. I was still adjusting to that.

Diversity at its finest.

“So, are we gonna do this, dawg? The tall one’s callin’ to me, and I’m ready to scale Mount Everest.”

“Smitty, you don’t even know if they’re game. Besides, we’re all sweaty and shit.”

“Hey,” he grunted with a shrug. “Sweat now, sweat later. Does it matter?”

I wasn’t going to admit it, but Smitty was right. It had been too long for me.

And my days of being a good boy had only resulted in pain and disappointment.

New state requirements, along with the plethora of new forms they entailed, had descended on the California Employment Development Department. We were sucking air. Charmaine was in charge of data entry and filing, so the day was wearing even on her usually upbeat, devil-may-care attitude. Mona was confirming employment searches of benefit recipients who sometimes creeped her out, and I was doing a little bit of everything. During our first break, we managed to chat some.

“Shred this one. Send these back. Retain these for five years,” Charmaine muttered. “Rules, rules, rules. These motherfuckers are gonna make me go postal in here.”

“And you’d be on lockdown so quick,” Mona replied while shuffling through the worn Los Angeles Times on the table.

“Lockdown? At a male prison, I would hope.”

“Please. No prison talk. Mona, we don’t need Charmaine’s graphic imagination going to her mouth.”

“Speaking of lockdown, you about to go away for a stretch with Mr. Moneybags?”

“If you’re referring to Lionel, Charmaine, we’re having lunch today.”

“What I’m referring to is whether Lionel’s going to make you an honest woman.”

“I’m as honest as they come already, girl. I don’t need some man to do that.”

“I heard that,” chimed in Mona. “Girl, let Glover do her thang.”

“Honestly, we really haven’t discussed the marriage issue that much. I mean, Lionel appears to be interested, but he’s not pressuring me.” Much. “I mean, he asked me to move in with him and quit my job, but—”

“Hold up! Quit your job?” Charmaine barked out loud enough for half the office to hear. My girl was flabbergasted. “And you haven’t skipped out on this place yet? Girl, I would have told everyone in here to kiss my white ass, especially Mr. Marx.”

Mr. Marx was the office supervisor, a Grinch of a man. Charmaine hated him with a passion but still needed her job, so she nervously looked around the break room to ensure he wasn’t within earshot.

“That’s why she’s with Lionel and you’re not, Charmaine,” Mona chimed defiantly. “Glover’s not weak and dependent like that.”

“Thank you, my sister!” I said with a high five, while Charmaine rolled her eyes and hummed the notes to Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Women.”

The lunchtime crowd at New Japan sushi bar in Little Tokyo was massive. Luckily, Lionel had told me their service was fast once you got in. His work schedule hadn’t permitted lunch together as frequently these days, so I was already in line when Lionel pulled up in his Audi. I watched as he casually flipped his keys to the valet, running up to give me a kiss.

“Any problems finding it?”

“No. . .