I think it was on his birthday, but my spirit sister, Carrie, called to wish her former, lonely beau if he’d like to go out and grab a bite to eat—her treat, since he usually picked up the tab. Although he wasn’t sure he wanted to go out, being a reclusive type, David welcomed hearing Carrie’s voice, ’cause it had been months, maybe a year, since they’d last spoken—he’d worn her patience matzo thin.
After some verbal foreplay, he figured eating Swanson’s every night wasn’t his cup of Mogen David and that, perhaps, dining out would be nice. Returning the favor in advance, he asked if there was anything he could do to help her around the house.
My sister, not one to speak without deliberate hesitation—a Southern custom—nor beat around the bush—perhaps an only-child, get-to-the-point trait, considered and slowly said, “Mmm, I could use a little he’p trimming my trees,” having a stand of mangoes, papayas, oranges, and other fruit trees on her Florida property. “But I’d pay you to do that,” she drawled, not wanting any obligation from this past on-again, off-again relationship.
They’d met at the Dade County Department of Social Services almost a decade ago, and, as with many work relationships, Carrie and David’s began with the typical sarcastic humor about their employers’ lack of foresight and operational inefficiencies. Both being higher intelligence for that environment and leaning toward obstreperous, they cultivated a friendship that grew like Carrie’s veritable jungle in her cubicle, frequently causing a stir in this multicultural Miami mix. Plus, their obvious similarities and differences made them two peas in a mutated hot, damp pod.
Eventually, David and Carrie’s fun exceeded the boundaries of that building, and they started experiencing the Miami scene together—dining in new restaurants, hiking on the beach, flying in small airplanes, stargazing on big boats. The thought of reliving their adventures helped motivate them to return to Monday morning tedium.
At one of their department’s events, all personnel received T-shirts boldly displaying the agency’s name and logo—an agency that helped those in need, often more assistance than they could efficiently handle, including many newcomers coming onto the mainland. The idea of actually wearing these shirts, however, seemed absurd to Carrie and David. So one fine, two-glasses-of-wine evening on Carrie’s front yard adjacent the Dixie Highway, my beloved big sister and her Jewish boyfriend hoisted his shirt on top of a broomstick and lit it on fire.
Yep, right there at dusk for all who drove past to see was a very black woman and a very white man burning a very bold social services shirt. I’m sure a few passers-by still wonder if they might have had one too many at a local watering hole before seeing Burning Shirt and driving into their driveways that eve, wondering if maybe they should drive by again on Saturday morning to see if evidence proved they really saw what they think they did.
But time, events, and a variety of less-merited experiences altered Carrie’s opinion of David, and their relationship waned. Still, there they were, olive branch in voice, talking on the phone.
“You don’t have to pay me for anything,” David responded. “I’ll come over with my saw.”
“Mmmm,” Carrie cautiously pondered. I’m sure she slowly tipped her head, curled one side of those big, juicy lips, and recalled the past. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Tell me, if you don’t want me to pay you, what’s in it for you.”
“Well,” he longfully, wishfully paused, “maybe you could just rub some of that hot oil on my ‘gentles,’” as Carrie heard David say.
Without hesitation, she said, “Uh-uhh. I ain’t doin’ nosuch thing, so you just stay right there at home.”
“Well,” David waxed hopeful, “maybe you could just think about it.”
“I don’t have to think about it,” she said, hung up, and mindfully poured herself a warm glass of Courvoisier.
