More Than Enough, Part One
By: Maria Thompson Corley
Tags: Fiction Series, Fiction, Coming Of Age, African American, Novel

I’ve pretty much given up on being published again, but having spent years writing and re-writing this story, I’ve decided to let my characters out of my laptop and into the world. Nobody I’ve hired to answer such tough questions has been able to explain why they aren’t worthy, so here they are; they won’t be more ignored on Medium, after all, than they were before. In case anyone decides to bother, the opening section of this novel, whose first draft dates back to the late 90’s, is called, “Michael.”

CHAPTER ONE

Even at 11 p.m., the end-of-July heat and humidity made Syreeta’s dress cling like a childhood humiliation. She hated being cold, but still appreciated the polar blast of air conditioning that greeted her, her sister, Anita, and her future brother-in-law, Jay, as they entered the posh, downtown environs of The Kasbah on the second night of Caribana 1993, Toronto’s 26th annual celebration of their West Indian heritage.

If a fresh crop of black men bent on having a good time couldn’t distract her from the imminent threat of senior year, nothing could. She scanned the room, hoping that somewhere in the mass of melanated humanity surrounding the gleaming ebony curve of the bar, leaning against the aubergine walls, lurking behind the alabaster gauze curtains and gyrating on the dance floor, the man who would end her dry spell waited for her. And that he’d find her skintight scarlet dress and matching pumps impossible to ignore.

She spotted her Prince Charming the moment she entered the club. Well, so did everybody. He was hard to miss: 6’2, underdressed in a jet black tank and matching jeans, his bare arms cut and muscular, his stomach flat, his thighs twin columns of statuesque loveliness. His face impressed her even more, with onyx skin, lips like ripe plums, slanted eyes and high cheekbones that made her think of exotic lands she’d heard of only in legend. The diamond stud in his ear only added to the mystique. In short, he was the kind of man who makes grammatically correct sentences a challenge.

Their eyes locked for a tantalizingly long moment. Then, she forcibly turned her head. Why bother? A man like that had at least five women already. Besides, he scared her, leaning against the wall in a dark corner drinking beer, his expression so cold it dared anybody to approach him. Most of all, though, she hated it when people went to a dance and then just stood there, posing.

With three strikes, he would have been out if Syreeta had met another interesting male that night. Instead, she’d spent most of the evening trying not to choke on second-hand smoke and listening to Anita and Jay playing fashion police with the club’s customers, a pastime she found both hilarious and depressing. Syreeta glanced at her dress, regretting the decision to wear a take-no-prisoners outfit that intimidated more men than it attracted. Should have gone with common sense instead of fashion sense.

She was down to four piercings, two in each ear, she’d cut back on over-the top makeup, and while she sometimes wore Daisy Dukes and cropped tops, she never combined them anymore. But alcohol still calmed her down, so she was thankful for the constantly circulating, model-beautiful waitstaff, who made it easy for her to keep drinking rum punch so mouthwateringly sweet and tangy that after her third one, she demanded the recipe.

Maybe lime, coconut rum, grenadine, pineapple juice, Myers and Bacardi are a magic potion, or maybe she was trying harder than usual to kill the ache that comes from being disappointed, but that night Syreeta was this close to being drunk. Not that she embarrassed herself. When she needed to dance to Fatback’s version of “I’ve found Lovin’,” being high just meant she asked Prince Charming instead of somebody else. (One more drink and, as much as she liked that song, she would have danced by herself.)

She emptied her glass, handed it to a Halle Berry clone, and strode across the room, her inhibitions chemically nullified. As she approached, The Prince’s eyes widened with what appeared to be fear, surprise, or both. Syreeta smiled reassuringly. He smiled back, his angular face softening as the corners of his mouth forced his cheeks into symmetrical mounds, the expression in his eyes so endearing that she wished she’d asked him sooner. Then again, it took a while for her to have imbibed enough to have the guts.

“Would you like to dance?” she yelled in his ear. (The music was too deafening for seductive invitations. Besides, she always spoke loudly when she had a buzz).

“Sure,” he replied, in a voice like black sable on bare skin.

` The dance floor was an impenetrable wall, but as The Prince spoke, Syreeta could have sworn a path to the middle appeared, just like in a romantic movie. The crowd forced them close enough for her to smell his scent — Hugo Boss with an earthy touch of musk — and bask in the radiating sunshine of his body. Perfect, if the girl to her left hadn’t kept jabbing Syreeta with her elbow.

They jockeyed for position for about a minute, then Prince Charming took Syreeta’s hands and guided her a few steps backwards. Even though she’d never believed levitation could be a means of moving from place to place, she got so lost in The Prince’s eyes that she started to wonder. Somehow, Syreeta managed to smile at him and start dancing again, concentrating furiously on her equilibrium, painfully aware of the encroaching fog in her brain.

“Where are you from?” he asked, leaning close, tickling her ear with his breath.

“Edmonton, but I’ve been in Toronto about three years. You?”

He leaned in again. “I’m from New York.”

Syreeta nodded — a weekend visitor. She would have picked up on that if he’d asked someone to dance, but since he’d followed the lead of the majority of the best-looking Canadian guys, she hadn’t guessed. Actually, that made his behavior even more bizarre…

“You came for Caribana?”

“Yeah.”

“By yourself?”

He smiled. “Something wrong with that?”

“No.”

Syreeta smiled back and glanced away, trying not to stare, ingesting his presence like a pomegranate, one nourishing seed at a time. Her heart stayed in her throat until she’d stopped looking at him long enough to get caught up in the music again. He hasn’t even asked your name, she realized, a thought that relaxed her a bit.

After one more song, he asked, “Can I buy you a drink?”

She wasn’t ready to leave the floor, so she said, “Oh, did I wear you out already?”

He chuckled and responded, “Not even close, baby. I just want to talk to you some more, that’s all.”

Gazing at him felt like the pull of a riptide. Syreeta suppressed a strong impulse to make an excuse and flee, then followed him off the dance floor. The music was so loud where they were standing that she could have sworn her pulse changed its rhythm with every song. Good, because he had to speak directly into her ear to be heard, but bad because all that dancing could have diluted her sister’s Chanel №5 with the aroma of perspiration.

The Prince bought her ginger ale. She clutched it for dear life, happy to have something useful to do with her hands while she struggled not to become overwhelmed by her spinning brain.

“Thanks,” she said, leaning as inconspicuously as possible against the bar.

“You’re welcome. So…what’s your name?” His teeth actually seemed to glow, beacons in the midst of The Kasbah’s artful gloom. He has five other women, Syreeta thought desperately, swallowing hard.

“You know, I thought about that,” she said, swirling her ice so fast it was a miracle it stayed in the glass. “You asked me where I was from, but you didn’t ask me what my name was.”

The Prince’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “I would have asked you what your name was, but you obviously didn’t want to talk anymore.”

“Well, I was kind of interested in dancing.”

“I like that. I mean, that’s what we’re here for, not to get picked up.” He shifted his weight.

“That’s hard to believe. I mean, you haven’t danced all night.” Damn — just admitted watching him for hours…

“I haven’t tried to pick anybody up, either.”

“True. Which makes me wonder why you came.”

“Checking out the scenery.” He sipped his drink, taking Syreeta in with his eyes, making her insides tingle. “I’m a student of human nature. I wanted to see if people in Canada are the same as they are in New York.”

“Are they?”

“Yes and no. The single brothers here don’t ask you to dance, do they?”

“Yes and no. The better they look, the more they just hang out. Which is why I was sure you were Canadian.”

The Prince’s laughter had the color and flavor of a sip of fine merlot. “Nah.”

“What’s your excuse, then? Wait…don’t answer. I think I know.”

“Oh, really?”

He folded his chiseled arms. The artist buried deep inside Syreeta longed to draw those lovely contours…being an artist is a FANTASY! Then again, so is this man…

“Yes, really,” she continued. “You’re just afraid to get turned down.”

“I am not.”

“Oh yes, you are. Look, it’s no big deal. I mean, every time you ask someone to dance, all eyes are on you because you’re so damn big and handsome, and you never know, you could ask one of those girls who think dark-skinned guys can’t possibly look good. Then you’d have to walk all the way back to your spot on the wall empty-handed. Which is almost expected if you’re ugly, but when you’re gorgeous…well, it’s embarrassing.”

“Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “What was your name again?”

“Syreeta Evans. And I’m right, aren’t I, uh — ”

“Michael. You’re definitely not shy, are you, Syreeta?”

In her imagination, she watched Anita roll her eyes as Little Sister committed yet another dating faux pas. “Look, I’m sorry if I offended you. We can talk about something else, if you want…why are you looking at me like that?”

“Do you model?”

She chuckled nervously. “No.”

“What’s so funny?”

“It sounds like a line.”

“You’re a trip,” he said, with a bemused grin, furrowing his forehead.

“Is that good or bad? Or are you still trying to decide?”

He laughed. “Maybe. Anyway, it wasn’t a line, and if you don’t model, maybe you should think about it.”

“Are you an agent or something?”

“No, but I know a little about the business.”

“You’re a model?”

“Sometimes,” he said, still analyzing her face. “So, what do you do?”

He’s a model, Syreeta thought, even more convinced that she would probably never see him again, and even if she did, she probably couldn’t trust him. Which didn’t matter, because his beautiful head was full of nothing but air. Then again, he didn’t seem stupid. Besides, a lot of models weren’t dumb anyway, from what she’d read in fashion magazines.

“I’m a student,” she replied.

“What do you study?”

“Sociology.”

He grinned. “A student of human nature.”

Human interaction. She chose not to correct him. “Something like that. Although to be honest, I don’t think they’ve told me very much that couldn’t be picked up by anyone with a little common sense.”

“If you’re observant. A lot of people aren’t.” He surveyed the drunken crowd, smiling in a way that made Syreeta wish he lived closer. And that the DJ would play something slow.

“Is this your first time in Toronto?” she asked, more hopefully than she would have liked.

“Yes. But I have a feeling I’ll be back. Unless you plan on coming to New York.”

Her blood pressure spiked. He can say anything, she reminded herself. Doesn’t mean he’ll follow through. “I’ve always wanted to, but you know how it is for us poor students. We can’t just pick up and travel when we want to.”

“You don’t have a car?”

“I’ve got TTC.”

“What’s that?”

“Depends. But it comes with a chauffeur, plus a whole bunch of other seats, and you ring a bell when you want to get out, unless you’re underground.”

Michael chuckled. “Mass transit.”

“Toronto Transit Commission, to be exact. You drove up here?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you drive?”

“Are you into cars?”

“No.”

“So what difference does it make?”

He sounded so defensive, Syreeta decided to drop it. “Just making conversation,” she said, amazed it had taken that long to ask such a dumb question. She glanced around, finishing her drink. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her sister tapping on her watch. Syreeta looked at her wrist — 1:30. Not overly late, but Jay had to work at seven. Being in the hotel business had its perks, but Sundays and holidays were only occasional days of rest. “Seems like I’ve got to go.”

“Already?”

Syreeta pointed to Anita and her fiance. “That’s my chauffeur over there, and that’s my sister. They’re leaving, so that means I am, too.”

“If you want, I can drive you home.”

“Thanks, but I’d better not. It was a pleasure.” Syreeta put her glass on the bar and extended her hand. Michael clasped it with his giant mitts, pulling her in gently and kissing her cheek.

“Can I have your number, Syreeta Evans?” he whispered in her ear as he pulled away.

His breath against her skin made her shiver again. “Sure,” she said, trying to seem cool. Impossible, even with all that air conditioning.

Syreeta gave him her number, said goodbye, and picked her way across the room as steadily as she could, aware of the cold stares of a number of women as she passed. What is it with females, sometimes?

Anita’s smile was so broad, it belonged in an orthodontics commercial. “What’s his name?”

“Michael.”

“He looks like a hoodlum,” said Jay.

Anita stared at him. “Why?”

“Who dresses like that to go to a club?”

“He’s wearing a tank top,” Syreeta said. “If you looked that good in a tank top, maybe you’d be wearing one, too.”

Jay clenched his fist jokingly.

“Really, Jay, why?” Anita asked again, trying not to grin. “A good reason, this time.”

“Dressed like that and wearing an earring and driving a Mercedes…I mean, what does he do for a living?”

“He’s a model,” said Syreeta, resisting the urge to look down in embarrassment. “And how do you know he drives a Mercedes?”

“I saw him come and get something out of it while we were still in line. Where’s he from?”

“The States.”

“See? You can’t be too careful. You know how Americans are.”

“How are they?”

“He’s probably living in the car and wearing the rest of his paycheck on his back,” Anita said breezily, “but so what? Everybody needs a boy-toy now and then.”

Jay glared at her. “Really? You need one, too?”

Anita put her arm around him and purred, “I’m playing for keeps. Why would I want to mess with something disposable?”

He smiled slightly, then turned back to Syreeta. “You still can’t explain how he’s driving that car.”

“Are you implying that the only way a young black American can drive a Mercedes is by being a criminal? Are West Indians the only ones who know how to earn money honestly?”

“No, but — ”

“But what?”

“Well…what kind of job is a model anyway?” Jay replied exasperatedly. “What kind of man makes a living doing something so frivolous?”

“A drop-dead gorgeous one,” said Syreeta, and Anita gave her a high five that made Jay glare at her again.

“Be careful,” said Jay. “That’s all.”

Syreeta glanced at Michael, who caught her and smiled. Jay is just jealous, she thought, because he could never be that sexy in a million years. She’d always considered him an attractive guy, in a buttoned-down kind of way, but definitely not her type. She pinched his cheek and said, “No need to be careful, Jay-jay. He lives in New York, so I’ll never see him again. Weren’t we leaving?”

Syreeta looked around for the Mercedes as they headed for Jay’s Nissan. Maybe Michael is a criminal, she thought. Or maybe he thinks every woman is a gold digger.

She decided not to talk about Michael anymore around Jay, because she didn’t have enough information to argue. But as soon as they got home, she told Anita absolutely everything she could remember. Then she went to sleep, knowing sweet dreams were guaranteed.