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“You know, Bird, you’re a cool guy,” I said.
“Why, thank you. I aim to please.”
“And I am pleased. I’ll admit it—at first I was a little nervous about hanging out with you.”
“Nervous?” He looked puzzled. “About me?”
“Not really about you . . . more like us . . . I wasn’t sure if we’d have anything in common,” I said delicately.
“Oh. We’re both black and breathing. Isn’t that enough?”
“You know what I mean. But I’m happy I was able to look past it. You’re pretty cool. I’ve enjoyed hanging out with you. I certainly haven’t seen this side of Atlanta.” I looked around the bar. “But I could get used to it.”
Bird kind of squinted and then looked at me like I was some naïve schoolgirl. “Sure, baby girl. I’ll give you a list of spots to check out.”
“A list?” The offer sounded so distant. “Oh, I see how it is.”
“How it is? What’s wrong with a list?”
“It’s just the way you said it—kind of like you don’t intend to go those places with me.”
Here was Bird’s opportunity to say of course he intended to take me those places and ask me out on a second date. But, as they say, opportunity is only available to those who seek it.
He said, “Sure, we can hang out again.” His voice was even more distant this time. Suddenly, he was looking at me like some crazy old lady he’d met at a bus stop. The conversation had morphed from his chance to invite me out again to me seeming like I was asking him out. And the worst part was that I wasn’t sure that I wasn’t asking him out. Whiting sandwiches at Bigelow’s was the most action I’d seen in months.
“Sure?” I repeated the same distant way he had. “And there it is again.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“I just thought that—you know—that you’d ask me out again. Like on a date. Not just to hang out. Hanging out is for friends.” (Oh no! Where was this going? I had the feeling that I was about to humiliate myself, but I couldn’t stop myself. Ronnie’s drink was talking to me.)
“Oh . . .” (Bird looked like he was sensing the same thing and didn’t want me to make an ass of myself.)
“It’s nothing. You don’t have to explain.” I put my hands up defensively. “I just noticed that your voice changed and—”
“I’m sorry, Rachel, but I just wanted to take you out. You’re a beautiful woman. I like beautiful women. But I wasn’t looking for anything serious with you. Did you think that?”
(There really isn’t any other way to answer this question without sounding insane.)
“No, I didn’t, but . . . I . . . I guess I did.... I mean, I didn’t think I wanted to, but . . . you asked me out, so I thought maybe you wanted to—” Thank God Bird stopped me from talking right then, because as I kept rambling, I was about to start crying at any moment.
“Oh, so you thought I was just all in love with you?” This wasn’t exactly the kind of interruption I was looking for.
“No, it’s not like that. I was just thinking that since you asked me out, that you, you know, liked me like that.”
“I do like you, but not like that. We’re different.”
“Different?” I repeated as if I hadn’t been thinking the exact same thing just hours before when he showed up in front of my office in his brown silk two-piece. What a difference a few open doors and free food can make in the heart of a single woman.
“Yeah. We’re different. You just said it a minute ago. Is it different because I’m saying it now?” Bird paused and slid his beer onto the bar beside my drink. “It’s like, I work and live on the southside. You only come to the southside to get your car fixed.”
“So?”
“So . . . I don’t plan on leaving the southside. Do you plan on leaving Buckhead or Alpharetta or wherever you live? I noticed that you didn’t even let me pick you up at your house.”
“I can explain that—I’m—”
“It’s not a big deal. See, I know that when sisters like you date men like me, it’s not exactly your first choice. I’m more like the man you settle on. The brother you consider getting with right before you start dating white men—or after you realize the white men won’t marry you.”
