Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [48]
Boys seem to think that girls hold the keys to all happiness, because the female is supposed to have the right of consent and/or dissent. I've heard older men reflect on their youth, and an edge of hostile envy drags across their voices as they conjure up the girls who whetted but didn't satisfy their sexual appetites. It's interesting that they didn't realize in those yearning days past, nor even in the present days of understanding, that if the female had the right to decide, she suffered from her inability to instigate. That is, she could only say yes or no if she was asked.
She spends half her time making herself attractive to men, and the other half trying to divine which of the attracted are serious enough to marry her, and which wish to ram her against the nearest wall and jab into her recklessly, then leave her leaning, legs trembling, cold wet evidence running down her inner thigh. Which one will come to her again, proud to take her to his friends, and which will have friends who only know of her as the easy girl with good (or even bad) poontang?
The crushing insecurity of youth, and the built-in suspicion between the sexes, militate against the survival of the species, and yet, men do legalize their poking, and women do get revenge their whole lives through for the desperate days of insecurity and bear children so that the whole process remains in process.
Alas.
The Poole-Rita partnership, with a little romance on the side, had left me yearning more for the stage and music and bravos of audiences than for a lover's arms.
But as fry cook in a small restaurant in the farm community, my fantasies were little different from any other girl of my age. He would come. He would. Just walk into my life, see me and fall everlastingly in love. I had the affliction suffered by most young women. The sexual excitement of my teens had abated, and I looked forward to a husband who would love me ethereally, spiritually, and on rare (but beautiful) occasions, physically.
He would be a little younger than my father, and handsome in that casual way. His conservative clothes would fit well, and he'd talk to me softly and look at me penetratingly. He'd often pat me and tell me how proud he was of me and I'd strain to make him even prouder. We would live quietly in a pretty little house and I'd have another child, a girl, and the two children (whom he'd love equally) would climb over his knees and I would make three-layer caramel cakes in my electric kitchen until they went off to college.
L.D. Tolbrook was my father's age, my father's color, and was as conservative as a black Episcopalian preacher. He wore tailor-made clothes and his rare smile showed teeth so anxious they clambered over each other. His hands were dainty and his long brown fingers ended with natural-polish manicured nails.
One night he was with a party who had come to the restaurant for a midnight breakfast. I had changed into evening clothes but my replacement hadn't yet come. When the waitress explained the situation to L.D.'s party, he came to the door of the kitchen and said, “Excuse me. I wanted a word with the chef.” His voice was soft.
“I'm the swing-shift cook, but I'm off now.” I didn't really look at him.
“Well, I understand that.” His smile came from a deep well of understanding. “But my party is especially hungry. And we'd take anything you'd give us.” He looked at my dress. “I'd make it worth your while to be late to your party.”
“I'm not going to a—” Before my mouth could close.
He peeled a ten-dollar bill off his money roll. “Give us bacon and eggs, or ham and eggs. Or anything and any way you fix them. We'll be happy.”
I needed the money, so I took it and turned to go back to the dressing room and change my clothes.
“What's your name?”
“Rita.”
“All right, Miss Rita. Thank you. We all thank you.” He pushed his way through the door.
Though I prided myself on tender sensitivity,