Carol Taylor
SCRATCH THE SURFACE
"You never thought it would happen. You knew he wasn’t the one. You were complete opposites. He wasn’t your type and you weren’t his. But it’s the next morning and you’re watching dawn break across the bed, fingers of light sliding slowly across the rumpled sheets. As you break through the surface of sleep, you become aware of the arm snaked around your waist, the chest pressed against your back, his breath rising and falling rhythmically in your ear. Your hips are nestled into his, your legs parted by his thighs. You feel his lips nuzzling your neck even in sleep. Then a rush of heat infuses you as you remember everything that led up to last night.
Derrick was a coal black bald brother who still lived in the Bronx neighborhood he was born and grew up in. "Not far from my Moms in case she needs anything," he’d said with a smile and a shrug. But not only that, as you’d walked around the gallery looking at the sculptures from all over the world he mentioned that he’d never been out of the country. "Why get in a plane for 8 hours when I can jump in a car and drive all over America in the same time." He’d shook his head in amazement at the very thought.
You couldn’t imagine not having met French, Italian, German, Dutch and British blacks and referencing yourself against them. When he’d said something about driving a bus for the MTA for the last 10 years you tuned him out completely already walking away from him in your mind. But he excused himself first. Relieved, you watched him walk away, liking the easy strut in his glide, the way his hips and ass moved under his jeans. When he turned and smiled, his teeth white against his deep black skin, you smiled back before you could stop yourself.
Derrick was easygoing, casual. You usually went for intense, have to change the status quo radicals somehow juggling, a corporate career and a side gig as a writer, playwright or producer. You liked brothers who were on the go, who questioned everything, who had too much drive and determination to drive a bus for ten years. You liked brothers who were going places—and not as a bus driver—who were gonna change the world. You liked brothers more like you. An overachiever since kindergarten you rocketed through school so fast you were in college at 15. In your first corporate job at 19, executive assistant to the VP at 22, head of the department at 25 and President of you own division at 30.
You’re a snob, so you surprise yourself when you accept Derrick's offer for a lift home. The opening was over, all the hors d’ouevres gone and the crowd thinning in search of other pursuits that might involve free wine. Most guys you dated didn’t own cars. They lived centrally or were away on business trips too often to deal with one. I guess driving a bus has its perks you think bitchily. When you say yes, Derrick takes your glass and puts it on a table, then he settles you into your coat. Picking up your briefcase he takes your arm and leads you through the crowd and out the door.
You talk all the way to Harlem as he expertly maneuvers the SUV through heavy Friday night traffic. His patience as other drivers cut him off amazes you. You also couldn’t believe he knew who Machiavelli was but when you’d been talking about corporate politics you quoted him and he’d nodded and smiled.
"So you read The Prince. It’s my favorite book, next to The Art of War. I don’t know which I like more. That’s what kept me out of corporate America. If the business world was anything like the court Machiavelli described with all its backstabbing and machinations"—
"Did he just say machinations?" you wonder.
"—then I was gonna stay out of it." He finished. "So I drive a bus. I’m good at it. I’m a simple man with simple needs. I make good money. I have job security. I own my own car and my own place. I work a shift and I’m done. It doesn’t stress me and I don’t take my work home with me. I’ve got plenty of time to do what I like, seeing my moms, and taking road trips with my buddies. I’m happy."
He was full of surprises, you thought, but at the end of the day he was still a bus driver and not really interested in being anything else. Meanwhile for you, the sky was the limit.
After he watched you let yourself in he drove off honking once in goodbye. He hadn’t asked to come in or tried to kiss you, hadn’t even asked for your number. You watched him smile one last time before he drove away. When he was gone you stood there strangely missing him; amazed at what you could find when you scratched the surface."
Read more in Brown Sugar 3!
