Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [4]
Brandon’s wife and kids were in Paris so I hopped a plane to Atlanta, where for three days we ate, slept and fucked (not “made love”) like we used to, in the bed he shared with his wife. On the day I left, I asked for his home phone number and he told me he didn’t think that was such a good idea and that he would get a voice-mail box so I could leave him private messages. What kinda guy did he think I was? Obviously not a very smart one.
I was so angry I didn’t know what to do. I had to show Brandon he couldn’t treat me like crap. I was fed up with brothas touting that bogus, down-low bullshit. I wanted to scream from the bottom of my vocal cords, “Pick a team and play!”
While Brandon was in the shower, I dialed my home number from his phone. I was planning to harass him with phone calls and hang-ups, late at night, once the wife and kids returned. I had learned from our conversations over the weekend that his wife was a stay-at-home mom, and that he spent long hours at his office. Before I went home, I couldn’t resist leaving Brandon and the Missus a little gift.
When I got back to my Harlem apartment, Brandon’s number was on my caller I.D. I couldn’t believe he wasn’t smart enough to have a restricted phone number. I guess having a B.S., an M.B.A. and a law degree didn’t give Brandon a whole lot of common sense.
I dialed the number, and sure enough wifey answered the phone.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Fine. Whom am I speaking with?”
“You don’t know me, but I know you,” I said.
“How may I help you?” she asked.
“Oh, you can’t help me, but maybe I can help you.” I wanted to mess with her a little more, but she lost patience and demanded to know who I was.
“Are you in the bedroom?” I asked.
“Listen, if this is some kinda sick sex call, then I’m warning you, my husband is an important man in Atlanta and we will get you.”
“I know who your husband is,” I said. “Are you in the bedroom?” I repeated.
“Yes,” she said. If I were her, I would have hung up, but I guess she liked my voice.
“I was in your bedroom recently, and since you weren’t there, I decided to leave you a little gift.”
She didn’t respond, so I continued.
“Why don’t you look underneath your mattress?” I suggested. There was silence for a few moments and then I heard an audible gasp.
“Did you find the present I left you?”
“Who are you?”
“Just answer my question. Did you find my black Lycra Jockey boxers I left for you and Brandon? He really seemed to like them. I know Brandon only wears Calvin Klein briefs. You buy them by the box. Right?”
“Who are you and what were you doing in my bedroom?”
“Are you holding them?” Oh Bart, you are a bad, bad boy.
“Stop it,” she yelled. “Who are you and why are you doing this?”
“Ask your husband, and ask him to tell you how he was screaming my name so loud I’m surprised you didn’t hear me all the way in Paris.”
“What are you saying?” she asked. She had begun to cry, but I didn’t give a flying fuck. I doubt she would’ve cared that for years I’d cried myself to sleep over losing Brandon to her.
“Ask your husband to tell you about Bartholomew Jerome Dunbar,” I said. And then I hung up, sweetly satisfied.
When I told my best friend, Wylie, what I had done, he called me everything but a child of God. “You’ve most likely destroyed a family. Ain’t you got no shame?”
When I defended myself by telling Wylie how Brandon and his wife had destroyed my life, first with their affair and then with their marriage, Wylie responded, “That was years ago. Grow up and get over it!”
Get over it? Get over this: At twenty-one,