“What? I’m funny?” A. J.’s dimples smiled at me. We were standing at the side of the car.
“No. You just seem to have all of the right lines. Know what to say to a woman.”
“Lines?”
“It’s fine. It’s you,” I said. “The smooth-operator type.”
“Whoa! That’s a new one! You’re judging me?” he laughed.
“I’m not judging you. I’m saying what I see.”
“Maybe I’m saying what I see, too.”
I let what he said set in and then we both laughed.
“So, that was a line, too?” he said. “I see what you’re saying.”
“You’re good, though.”
“How about we just spend a little time together, so you can see that I’m not just all lines?”
“A. J., I told you, I’m not seeing anyone right now. I’m trying to do something and it’s not a good time.”
“All right, I guess I’ll take my second beatdown like a man.” He jingled his keys. “I’ll be on my way.” He started walking to the other side of the car to leave. “But there’s only one thing I’m worried about.”
“What?”
“How are you going to get home?”
A. J. wasn’t lying. He was more than his lines. He was funny. And smart. And after a while of being with him, you forgot how fine he was and even who he was.
I know you’re probably waiting for an explanation of how I got into his car; in a minute you’ll probably wonder why in God’s name I was at that man’s house. I’ll sum it all up by asking a question and giving an answer. First, what would you do? Second, I was tired of saying no. Not just “no” to A. J. and his odd campaign to date me or whatever he was thinking, but “no” to fun. To life. To doing something I thought I wasn’t supposed to do. I wanted to experience something different. Something not me. Something mad. Jump right in, knowing it might hurt and resort to having fun the whole time. I know some of you are on my side. You were probably wondering how long it would take for me to accept A. J.’s offer, but to the rest of you, I offer you this: go outside and make angels in the snow. Wear a bikini with your gut hanging low. Get blond bangs because you like them—it doesn’t matter how dark you are. Date a man half your age and kiss him until the sun comes up. Then, you tell me if this wasn’t worth it.
A. J.’s house was a bachelor’s pad. I’d never been in one, had only seen one in those “Ladies’ Man” skits on Saturday Night Live, but there I was in a gargantuan house decorated in so much leather and chrome it nearly looked like a sports bar. There was a red leather chaise longue in the middle of the living room floor. It was big enough to seat at least six people. A fish tank stretched from the living room, through the kitchen and into the dining room and pool room. A. J. showed me a trick he’d taught one of his sharks and raced him on foot from side to side in the house. At first, I thought it was a different shark in each room, but then, sure enough, I noticed it was the same shark following him from room to room.
“He’s just greedy,” A. J. said, laughing like he was R. J. working on one of his science projects. He’d taken off his shoes and was sliding around on the freshly waxed marble floors in his socks.
When I’d gotten in the car at HHNFH, I’d said again that I wasn’t going out with him and I’d be happy if he’d just take me home. He asked what all I had to do at home for the evening. I, of course, had nothing to say. The kids were getting tired of me following behind their every move in my mother’s house and I knew she’d love having some time alone with them to make them read the Bible and show Cheyenne how to cook; she was surprised Cheyenne was
ten and couldn’t cook anything. A. J. saw the weakness in my plans and asked if coming to his place to help him cook something for his church’s annual men’s day potluck was considered a date. I said I wasn’t sure. He asked if I knew how to make macaroni and cheese.
“So how did you get involved in this thing at your church?” I asked, sitting on the big red chaise with a wineglass filled with Sprite in my hand. Part of my agreement with the judge to fulfill my DUI probation was participating in a drug and alcohol abuse program. I agreed to stop drinking until it was over.
“It’s a group for men at the church. We meet once a month and discuss issues Christian men deal with in their faith,” he said.
“So you’re a Christian?”
“Born and bred. What about you?”
“I don’t know right now. Religion and I haven’t gotten along in a while. Guess I’m trying to find what works for me.”
“I get that,” he said. “It’s better to figure that out than to be a believer not knowing what you’re believing in.”
A. J. had a way of saying things like that. He made everything sound so simple, so easy.
“And the potluck? Why would you volunteer to make something? You know what most men do—”
“Go out and purchase the nearest store-roasted chicken?” he said, leading me into his kitchen. We were both in our socks and sliding across the floor.