The Last Time I Was Me. Cathy Lamb

kids are black? You can damn well bet that if a bunch of rich, white sixteen-year-old girls all started dropping out of school and selling drugs on the corner that people would be screaming their heads off and demanding change. And change would happen. So are black kids dispensable? Is that what they’re saying? If not, why aren’t the schools doing something?”

      “The answer eludes me,” I said.

      “Me, too. That’s why I threw chairs,” he sighed, making his green beanbag look tiny. I could tell by that sigh he was very tired of this fight. “I threw chairs for black kids.”

      Then there was Soman Fujiwara. Soman Fujiwara was from somewhere in the Pacific Islands and has worked as an electrician for almost fifteen years. He has a ton of beautiful black braids that drop to his shoulders, kissable lips, and black eyes. He sang for us as a way of “introducing his past and present.” It was a lovely, melodious song, even though it was in a language I didn’t understand. It filled my mind with images of color-infused sunsets, the smell of cooked ahi, and the taste of mango and pineapple.

      When he was done Soman told us it was a song of suffering and death.

      Before I could even think for a minute that he was a psychopathic killer and that we were all soon going to be mowed down by an AK-47 he had hidden near his groin, he said, “I’m glad to be here.” He patted the side of his yellow beanbag. “I do have a temper. But I have rules to my temper.”

      I nodded. I had rules to my warped, selfish behavior, too.

      “I don’t ever show my temper around women. My dad taught me that. He thinks it’s disrespectful and so do I. My mama always tells him what to do and he does it. He told me it makes life easier for him. I never hit a woman in my life, no way. None of the men in the Fujiwara family have ever hit a woman and none of them have ever divorced. Ever.” He slammed one giant fist into his open palm, then slipped a glance toward Becky, a woman who looked like she wanted to disappear into her beanbag. “But I’m not married. Never been married. But I would like to get married. Someday. I mean, not tonight, but someday. If I meet, you know, a woman, who wants to get married.” Another glance went sliding to Becky. “Someday. Like, you know, to me.”

      I swear I could see a hint of a blush. He flicked his braids over his shoulders, cleared his throat. “I also don’t hit when there are any children around. Children cry when they see that type of shit and man, they get their feelings hurt so easily and they get scared. Can’t do that. I got nieces and nephews and they love their Uncle Soman.” He scratched his chin and looked contemplative. “But I don’t seem to have a problem with sluggin’ men when they piss me off. My fists get like this.” He showed us his clenched fists. “And I go boom, boom, boom, and they’re down. Down and mushed.”

      I could relate again. Only I preferred using peanut oil.

      “That’s why I’m here. I got a sluggin’ problem.”

      Soman sat next to Drake Windham. Drake was a white guy around the age of forty. He wore an expensive suit and a tie. He was about six feet tall and looked slimy in the way that men look when they are dishonest and value money above all else and think women are toys and believe that the more gals they sleep with the longer their dick gets. I am sure that there are women out there who would say Drake was gorgeous with his slicked-back black hair and his not-quite shaven jaw and big lips and big shoulders, but all I saw was this-gonorrhea.

      His face looked like a lemon to me. A lemon who didn’t like lemons. He had a snotty, snobby expression as though he thought he was a simply sensational, stylish, and super-fabulous slice of mankind (pretty good alliteration, although not perfect). When he held my hand he did the ole BWBL (Boob-Waist-Butt Look) with his limpid eyes half closed, as though he was trying to be sexy wexy.

      He had smirked at me when we first met, his hand limp and wet and reminding me of a used condom. I refrained from saying that.

      He leaned close and whispered, his breath smelling like dead garlic mixed with manure: “Looks like we’re the only normal ones here, sweetheart. Goddammit, getta load of this lot of losers. We’ve got jungle men and a drug addict and a counselor who is so New Wave I want to hand her some drugs and leave, goddammit. What a joke. Drink afterward?”

      I removed my hand from his wet condom. “Unlikely,” I said.

      First he looked shocked, his eyebrows bursting toward his slick hairline. “Married?” He glanced down at my hand.

      Sheesh. Men always think this. If you won’t go out with them the only possible reason is that you are married. “No.”

      “Ah, got it.” He winked at me, did the BWBL again. “Dating a married man? Don’t worry, honey, your secret’s safe with me.”

      Now, how he jumped to that sick conclusion was beyond me, so don’t ask.

      “I like married women the best.” He rolled his tongue around in his left cheek like a human weasel. “They don’t want anyone to know what’s going on, they don’t press you for commitment, and all they want is to have sex and go home to their kids and vans.”

      This puzzled me. Married women wanted to have sex with Mr. Gonorrhea? “This puzzles me. Do you actually mean to tell me that there are married women out there who wish to have sexual intercourse with you?” (No need to be crass here.)

      I heard a gurgle of shock erupt from his throat.

      “Do they come back after the first time?”

      He gurgled again, composed himself and winked at me. BWBL. “Smart-ass. I like that in a woman.”

      “Fab!” I said, not smiling. “So fab!”

      “I like feisty women. I like when women pretend they’re not interested when they are. And I like the chase. God, I like the chase. Women love it when I’m chasin’.”

      “Women chase you?” I leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Really?”

      “Shit, yes, I’ve got women after me.” But he flushed red, the color creeping from his creepy neck to his creepy hairline.

      “So, to be clear. When you say women are ‘after you,’ you mean in the sense that they want to have sexual intercourse with you? They do this willingly?”

      He flushed redder, but he was royally pissed off, too. “Yeah, they do, I already said that. What’s wrong with you? You can’t hear or something? I got a ton of hot women after me for that.”

      “You’re flushing redder,” I said. “Is redder a word, do you think?”

      “Hey, whatever your name is, I’ve forgotten it already. I made more money in a week than anybody else here does in a year so get off my case.”

      Now, how he jumped to this conclusion was beyond me, so don’t ask.

      “You’re kidding me!” I rearranged my facial features so I would look appropriately awed. “You have actually viewed all of our tax returns? Is that legal? Well, rats! It’s that Internet again. So much information! I’ll have to tell everyone here that you’re the richest so we can be impressed together!”

      “Hell, all I’m saying is I’m looking around here and I know I’ve got more money than anyone and I’m stuck with this bunch of lower rung losers.”

      I opened my eyes real wide. “So you’re making a ton of money, more than anybody else here, more than us losers. So much you can probably buy a bunch of women. A harem.” I snapped my fingers together three times. “In fact, is that why those women are after you? I bet that’s it!” I put my hands on my hips and cocked my head at him, as if the mystery had been solved. “Hookers should not count as ‘hot women after you.’ That’s stretching things a bit, don’t you think?”

      “No…” He was totally flustered. “I mean, yes, I mean, no! I got money-”

      “Yes, I’ve heard that. You have money to buy women.” I gave him a BWBL, although he had no boobs.

      “I