I didn’t have anywhere to go then for people to see my art,
so I went there. The Coffee Grinder for me was a place of publicity. It was my
only option in the suburbs as I was too young to drive out to the city. I drew
always on the same large table so that I could fit my 18x24in sketchbook. I was
an abnormal teenager in every respect. Abnormal in behavior as well as talent.
I was told I was precocious before I even knew what the word meant. People
mistook my color pencil drawings as paintings. I drew only women, provocative,
and in bright colors that rebelled against realism.
Whatever friends my own age I had at the time I had lost. I
had only art. Only dreams. Only a thirst to prove myself and an ambition that
The Coffee Grinder could never quench. I belonged in an art gallery, not a
coffee shop.
It’s a shame that my youth was wasted there. If my parents
would have helped me they would have found someone important to talk to and
they would have certainly responded. But no, I spent my time there, hoping to
make some connection, to find someone to help me. I cared for the eyes that
took the time to look through my portfolio and affirm my existence, the
admiration that made me feel that all was not wasted. Once in a while I would
find someone who was worth more than just praise and they would pay me to
commission them a portrait of some sort.
It was in this way I always had plenty of money to pay for
art supplies and fashionable clothes. I dressed like my artwork. I wore high
heels wherever I went. It wasn’t about looking sexy to me; I just thought they
matched the colorful dresses I wore better. They never really bothered my feet
either and I liked how they balanced out my proportions. My torso was too long
without them.
My art wasn’t the only thing people complimented. Being
told I was the most beautiful artwork of all had become cliché with me.
I
would order coffee but I almost never remembered to drink it unless it was
ordered for me.
I was drawing at The Coffee Grinder one afternoon when a
tall, black, muscular man addressed me. He was interested in my art, like so
many others, and was looking through my drawings as I was quite accustomed to
people doing. He looked somewhat impressed but kept his face stoic and didn’t
say much. I only figured that he was impressed because he looked through every
single one of them in the monolithic stack. He then asked if he could have a
seat in front of me in which I acquiesced.
“I’m a writer. I just published a novel, you know,” he said
in an overly casual tone of concealed arrogance.
“Well that’s exciting. How is that going for you?” I asked
politely but with hidden intrigue.
He seemed to like this question and replied, “Well
it’s going good. I got a new house, a new car, and by the time they get the
book on the shelf I should have even more money in royalties.”
“Oh, so I can’t buy it yet?” I asked.
“No, but it’s coming. I write poetry too,” he added.
He had slightly Asian eyes in contrast to his ebony black
skin. With his strong hands he opened up a brown leather journal.
“Would you like me to read one?” After I complied he said, “Well it’s kind of hard to understand, and I’m not sure you’ll
get it.”
He
began to read his poem of deep words, with what I presumed had significant
meaning, as I was having trouble comprehending its content. He read it in a
deep and serious pitch, monotone, and hardly fluctuating. I imagined the poem
was about some internal life struggle, or something of that nature. I had
trouble concentrating but he wouldn’t let me read it on my own as if he was
some great orator.
“Did you understand it any?” he asked when he finished. I
told him what I knew and he said, “Well you got farther than most
people.” I should have known he was going to test me.
When he eventually asked, I told him I was fourteen. He
didn’t look surprised like most people do to find someone so young creating art
so advanced. Although, then again, his face hardly changed at all.
“Alright,” he
said. “I’ll read you a poem you’ll understand.”
I indeed understood the second poem. His intonation
was more passionate as he read this one. “Throbbing, pulsing, burning!” he
would repeat throughout the piece.
“You understood what that one was about huh?” he asked me bluntly. I had a
feeling he was trying to turn me on.
“Yes, I did,”
I said so candidly it inspired a little chuckle from him.
“Are you a virgin?” he asked me brazenly.
It seemed like an odd question for a man his age to ask,
but I answered it anyways. “Yes, I am.”
“Well then how can you understand it?” he asked me slyly.
“It doesn’t
take a genius to imagine.”
He chuckled again a little louder. “Do you touch yourself?”
he asked me curiously.
I jumped slightly at the question. I could see the amusement
in his eyes. I smiled uncomfortably but in a way that assured him of the
answer.
The light in his greedy eyes sparked brighter. “May I ask
how?” he said in a deceivingly relaxed tone.
“That, I will not answer,” I said curt and harshly, but he
seemed to enjoy the mystery, and the increase of sass it brought out of me.
We carried out conversation for quite some time, going back to talking about
his writing and my drawings before he said, “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Dominique.”
“Dominique,” he repeated. “That sounds like a model’s name.
“Dominique,” he repeated slower and more rhythmically. “I like that.”
“And your name is?” I asked.
“It’s Jordan. Jordan Davidson. You’ll be able to see that
name soon.”
We had been chatting for so long I was getting quite
hungry. “I need to get something to eat.”
“Do you want to get something together?” he proposed.
I had to find a way to avoid this. I was perfectly
comfortable with talking to strangers but I had my own limits. “It’s just I
have all this stuff here, and I don’t want to leave it. Normally I just go and
get something over at The Coffee Grinder counter, even if it is expensive and
not that great.”
“Well that’s okay. Why don’t we just put it in my car, and
I can drive you anywhere you want to go.”
I paused a moment and thought about it. I didn’t think he was going to pull
anything too aggressive on me, especially since he kept bragging earlier about
his girlfriend that just moved in with him. He showed me a picture of her on
his cell phone. I didn’t really find her that attractive. She had mousy brown
hair, glasses that didn’t make her look pretty or smart, and rather ordinary
features. She was much curvier than me, with larger breasts that flowed out of
her plunging neckline.
“No thanks, I don’t feel comfortable doing that,” I declined.
“What? You don’t trust me?” he asked. “It’s because I’m
black isn’t it? I’m not going to hurt you. Do you not trust me?"
“I have no
reason to, I hardly know you,” I said.
“Alright Dominique, I get you. You’re a smart girl,
you know that?”
“I am hungry and I can’t leave my belongings here. I
wouldn’t mind walking with you someplace if you could carry my stuff.”
He gave me a look of obvious stupidity at my question
and responded with, “Of course I can carry it, you kidding?”
He pointed out the window, “There’s a sandwich place over
there. Do you want to go?”
I had my heavy purse with all my art supplies and a large
portfolio with my entire collection of art I had made up to that point.
Throughout the entire summer I had spent almost all my time drawing, so it was
quite a burdensome load now.
I was walking a bit in front of him for he was moving at a
much slower pace with the additional weight. I knew he was staring at my body,
at the grayish-purple cotton cloth that tightened around my delicate back and
swayed at my hips.
“This is kind of heavy,” he admitted mid-way through.
When we arrived, I went to the register and started to fetch out some money in
my purse but he insisted on paying for it. We sat down and he read me another
sex poem. It didn’t sound much different from the previous one. I ate my food
and avoided looking him in the eyes. I was uncomfortable and I had the feeling
he could sense my nerves. I really regretted coming with him.
“You know you’re like Cleopatra?”
“What makes you say that?” I asked curiously.
“Because you’re not very pretty,” he said flatly.
“What?”
“Cleopatra wasn’t very pretty. You have small tits like her.” A smile crept up
on his lips as he stared at my affronted face. “But she was still able to get
all the guys like Alexander because she was so very charming despite.”
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to feel flattered or insulted.
My sandwich tasted like crap. They put way too much
mayonnaise on it. But on I went eating, since he paid for it, and I did not
want to offend him, or have him think I was anorexic.
“Do you think my girlfriend would have a problem with the two of us eating
together?”
“I don’t think she would at all, because I’m not interested
in you, and you’re not interested in me. As you said, I have small tits.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, but a little injured beneath
his monotone voice. “Why wouldn’t you be interested in me?” he then asked
defensively in his arrogance.
“You’re too old.” I said frankly.
“I’m only twenty-two.”
“Yes, and that’s too old.” I couldn’t help but think he
looked quite older, perhaps 26 or 28, but I figured maybe he just came off that
way because he was so fit.
When we returned to The Coffee Grinder he set down my belongings, and said he
had to go. He gave me his phone number.
He didn’t seem that nice of a person but he intrigued me either way, so I
decided to call him. It wasn’t every day I met an author. I dialed his number
and we had another conversation over the phone.
“You're like my sister,” he told me midway through. Then he
asked after a little more time passed by, “What color are your panties?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“What? Dominique? Don’t take me wrong like that. I
ask my sisters all the time,” he said like I had suddenly attacked him.
“What! Why do you ask your sister’s that?”
“I ask all my seven sisters. It says what kind of mood they
will be in for the day,” he explained.
“You have seven sisters?” I asked surprised.
Then he went off on a half hour tangent of how he grew up
in Jamaica, and how he respected woman so much because he grew up with so many
sisters. He told me all their names and their personalities, and how he was the
favorite of them all. He droned on and on and wouldn’t let me interrupt him or
change the subject like he was the most fascinating person in the world.
“You’re different Dominique,” he said. “Every girl wants me
besides you,” he told me.
In my innocence I felt glad that he was happy to have me
not like him like that.
“Every girl wants me, I can’t stand it,” he continued.
Then he went off on another digression of him not being
able to go to a place without chicks staring at him like he was god’s gift to
woman. Then he started gloating to me of how good he was in bed, and how much
he could make a girl cum multiple times, and that they could never get enough
of him, like I should sympathize with him for it.
“But you, Dominique, you’re different. You’re not like the
other girls. You have so much more substance and intelligence.”
I believe it was this compliment that kept me on the phone.
“What color underwear are you wearing?” he asked me
again.
“It’s orange. So what does that mean?”
“Eh, um, that means you’re feeling sexual,” he replied.
“So what do all the other colors mean?” I wasn’t asking
seriously, but his logic seemed dubious and I found it worth investigating.
“Uh, black means your depressed, and red means your
lusting for someone, and purple means your determined, and pink means your
hopeful, white means your innocent, yellow means you’re happy, and blue means
your depressed,” he explained.
“Doesn’t black and blue mean the same thing?”
“No, they
don’t,” he denied.
“Yes they do, black and blue mean depressed. You said that
twice.”
“Oh, well they mean two different kinds of depressed. Black
means you miss something or someone, and blue means you’re lost,” he explained
again trying to restore my faith.
“What is the source you have for all this
information?”
He paused a moment and said, “My grandmother told me
all of this when I was little.”
“Your
grandma told you to question woman’s underwear when you were a child?” He
seemed at a loss for words. “All right whatever Jordan,” I said. I didn’t
believe him, but I didn’t feel like fighting with him either.
We began talking again, and after the heat died down he
asked me, “Hey Dominique, will you masturbate on the phone for me? I want to
hear what you sound like.”
I can’t really tell you my reasoning. I didn’t find him
attractive. I didn’t even really like talking to him. But for whatever reason,
perhaps I felt pressured to, I got out my vibrator. It was late in the night
and it was something I was planning to do regardless. It wasn’t a real vibrator
but an old back massager I had found around the house. I put it on and I knew
that I was supposed to moan for him but I didn’t. I just turned it on and
complained about the batteries being low. He seemed bored or at least
disappointed. I didn’t orgasm or ever call him again. It was clear that no
honest friendship or resource would come out of it.
A year after that I searched for his novel at the
bookstore out of curiosity. The bookkeeper said that it hardly sold any copies,
it was out of their system, and that the publisher had completely stopped
printing it altogether.
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