Arlene

“Romulus, you look beat,” She said as she masterfully mixed another husky glass of Jack Daniels and Coke.” Are you sure you want to hang out after driving all the way from Birmingham?” That’s Arlene for you. Inches from financial and emotional ruin but always concerned about someone else’s well-being. “Hell yeah,” I said, after swallowing half a glass of Jack and Coke. “I’ve been up driving since 2:30 this morning, been stuck on the side of the road for 4 hours at some hick town gas station, and my car is sittin’ in the shop up in Gainesville until a new transmission comes.” Right on que, Arlene’s little black Labrador, Maddie, comes flopping around from the den to the kitchen to sniff my shoes—the parakeet screeching frantically, banging around in his cage. Before I could reach down to pat Maddie on the head my wobbly, organically-shaped glass is empty again. “After all I’ve been through it’s going to take some serious liquor to calm me down.”

I go through these moments where where I’m perpetually sluggish, then all of a sudden, I’m a damn machine for several days—can’t close my eyes if my life depended on it. It could be 3AM—my eyes are closed and I’m flat on my back in bed but my heart is thumping like a Kodo drum, my ears are ringing, and clusters of thoughts flash through my skull—sheets soaking wet even though the house is freezing from the chill of the AC.

“You wanna go to the Blue Martini over in Cityplace or The Rum Bar behind Panama Hattie’s off of PGA Boulevard or Forte off of Clematis Street?” She asks as she sets a bowl of cherries and grapes on the counter top. “Forte, Forte!” I yell—reminiscing over my old rugby days back in college when bar hopping and road trips came before studying and mid-terms. “Okay, okay, mr. sexy man,” Arlene says in her usual lazy pur. “What a great time for you to meet Tyler.” She says with a little flair to her tone. “He’s the black guy I’ve been telling you about that I’ve been flirting with at work for the last few months.” Now she wants to throw this dude she met in my face because I didn’t jump her bones after she had her epiphany a couple years ago that, all of a sudden, after several years of being a divorced mother of three white kids, that jungle fever was the way to go. Don’t get me wrong—Arlene is a beautiful woman with her wirey little Olympic swimmer frame, messy, sandy blonde hair and her signature tattered low rider jeans with the haggard little white tank top she always wears—barefoot and tip toeing around the house with her snow white Apple laptop under one arm and an ‘all natural’ cigarette dangling from the fingertips of her other hand. We had gotten along wonderfully as co-workers and as friends but It was her chain smoking that killed it for me. It also didn’t set too well with me that she had lead this lilly white existence devoid of any ethnic inclusion up until now.

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“I’m glad you showed up, man,” I said to Tyler as my sixth round  of B-52 shots appeared before me, compliments of whomever was buying. “If not for you I would have been the only black dude in the whole bar.”  I said. Traci and Linda, former co-workers from the office with their boyfriends, Mark and Derek, laughed wildly as they continued with ordering more drinks. Tyler and I laughed but it was not because of my tongue in cheek. Something that Arlene doesn’t understand, being an upper middle-class white girl from Kentucky, is ‘we’ have a different way of communicating than ‘they’ do. Tyler knew Arlene was trying to play him against me but he played it down like he wasn’t hip to the situation.

“Oh shut up, Burnett,” says Arlene, continuing to chuckle as she answers her cellphone. “What are you doing?” She says into her cell as she abruptly stops her chuckling and walks away from the table. “So, Burnett,” Derek says. “You thinking about coming back to Florida and work?” His question  slightly sobered my mood as images of my mom, helpless and bed ridden, flashed through my mind. “No man,” I said. “I won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. I’ll be in Birmingham for a while but I may return in the near future.” Derek and I were always cool. An easy going, sportsaholic, beach bum kind of guy that owns a club off of Colins Avenue in Miami. Arlene returns to the table with a slightly worrried look on her face that quickly disappeared as she sipped her cosmopolitan that glowed in the electric purple lighting of the bar. “Well, guys, where to next?” Says Mark. “Anyone feel like Dr. Feelgood’s or E.R. Bradley’s?” He says as he gently rubs Linda across the back, her smile signaling her approval to continue bar hopping.

 A familiar figure staggers to the table. “Hey guys, y’all aren’t partying down without me are ya?” Says Blake, Arlene’s on again off again boyfriend. “No honey, come have a seat.”  Arlene says as she takes her attention completely away from everyone at the table. Tyler peels a grin and sips the last of his Long Island Iced Tea. “Well, guys,” He says as he backs from the table. “I have to get back home so my daughter’s babysitter can go out on her date.” Completely unaware of Tyler’s reaction to Blake’s sudden appearance—or so it seems—Arlene leans into Blake as he pulls a seat up and wraps his arm around her back. “Alright, Tyler,” Arlene says. “Call me.” Tyler smiles as he gives me a quick brother handshake and nods at Arlene as he walks toward the door. “I tell you what guys, we’re going to Dr. Feelgood’s.” Says Derek as he reaches for Traci’s hand to usher her out of the lounge space onto Clematis.  After paying the tabs Everyone scatters into the street like a small band of high schoolers on a scavenger hunt. “I’m up for heading to the Rum Bar.” Blake says in his usual arrogant, obnoxious tone. Instead of leaving with Blake, Arlene stammers to my loaner car—jumping in as if she owned it.

“How the hell did Blake know we were here at Forte?” I asked as she rummaged through her purse for a cigarette. “I told him where we were going when he called me earlier.” She replied, face still buried in her purse. “What?” She says, slightly annoyed, looking up from her purse at me as if she were completely oblivious  to the unsaid melodrama that had just occurred.