Curves, Edges and Perfect Imperfections

Chapter 3: Wingmen … And Women

The atmosphere inside Woody’s Bar and Grill was electric. Music played loud enough to mask the din of table talk. Most people sat enjoying their meals while the regulars checked their watches, brimming to exercise their vocal cords with their best renditions of their favorite songs. It was Karaoke night. And Karaoke night at Woody’s always packed a crowd of American Idol wannabes anxious to take home the $500 prize.

Woody’s was an American–style restaurant occupying a triple-wide storefront on Short Street. A college undergrad painted the immense mural above the entrance. The dramatic, fifteen by twenty foot mural depicted the physical layout inside Woody’s, but the vibe was more reminiscent of the Harlem Renaissance era.

Desmond Woodson was nervous about his dinner date with the lovely lady he called Red Velvet a week prior at Binders and Spines. Dressed in a blazer, a mock turtleneck, black jeans and green suede brogans, he left the bar with three shot glasses and two tall lagers. He placed the glasses on his personally reserved table, which afforded him the best view of the entire restaurant, then joined his fraternity brother and wingman for the night, Solomon Alexandré.

Solomon lifted his beer, clinked glasses with Des and emptied his glass in five large gulps.

“Thirsty?” Desmond said.

“A little heated.”

“What’s wrong, Partna?”

“It just amazes me how rude some people can be.” Solomon lowered his glass to the table and sat up straight. “So I’m coming in the door and out rushes this fine lady all in tears and boo-hooing. A couple seconds later, some drunk plows into me trying to catch her. When I didn’t clear his path fast enough, he turned to fight me for being in his way.”

“You were in a fight?” Des asked. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Nobody fought, Des. Before he could think good about swinging on me, some even bigger dude came out and snatched him up. I came inside while they wrestled their way out to the sidewalk.”

“That’s good,” Desmond said. “I don’t need no foolishness messing things up for me tonight.”

“I hear you, Des. I just don’t understand how some women put up with these fools.”

“I feel you, Bruh.”

“Hey Man,” Solomon nodded toward the three shot glasses. “Let me ask you a question. Why would you pick tonight of all nights to go on a blind date?”

Desmond cleared his throat, thought, and took a long, deep breath before looking back at his friend.

Solomon was referring to tonight as the same day on the calendar five years ago when Desmond’s wife, and their unborn baby, died unexpectedly from complications during an emergency C-Section. Penny was only thirty. Her death hit Des hard. For the next ten months, he battled depression and mourning with the help of clear liquors. His days were consumed spending more time drinking his profits and less time running his business.

Now, although considered a recovering alcoholic, he drinks to his sorrow on the anniversary of Penny’s death. Desmond has always hated cemeteries, so instead of visiting their gravesite, he pours himself three double shots of his most expensive single malt scotch; one for himself, one for his wife and one for their unborn baby, then toasts their death with the phrase, To my love for the dead.

Solomon glanced at his watch. Des’ blind date was fifteen minutes late. Des’ interest in this woman was the first true interest in a woman Solo had seen from him since Penny’s death. “You can’t even imagine how long you’ll be paying me back for this,” Solomon said. “Fine ass Skylar Diggins is in town tonight and I’m missing her.”

“I know.”

“And, I had courtside seats.” A client of Solomon’s was out of town and gave him the tickets. “How did you get mixed up in a blind date anyway?”

“It’s not a blind date, it’s a first date,” Desmond responded sternly. “I told you I met her last week.”

Solo shook his head and chortled. “The little bit of nothing you told me about her makes her a stranger, so it may as well be a blind date.”

“Look; we had a great conversation when we met.” Desmond sipped his beer then recapped the ten minutes he shared in the bookstore with the lady known only as Red Velvet.

“Seriously, Bruh…” Solo started.

“Dang Dad, stop trippin’!” Des said emphatically. “She called, told me she was free tonight and asked me to text her the address to the bar; so I did.”

“So, why’d you call me?”

“Because she said she was bringing a girlfriend.”

“Why didn’t you call Kenny? You know this is more his thing.”

Before Des could defend himself, two attractive women came through the front door. The lost looks on their faces showed they were strangers to Woody’s. Solo tapped Des on the shoulder and nodded toward the door. The smile on Desmond’s face confirmed it. He stood and summoned the hostess to escort them to the table. Solo followed.

When they arrived, Des anxiously gave the taller of the two women an uncomfortable hug.

Her return hug was similarly apprehensive. She averted her eyes. “Desmond, this is my friend Sharet Thompson.”

Sharet offered a perky, upbeat greeting.

“Nice to meet you Sharet,” Des said. “This is my friend, Doctor Solomon Alexandré.”

Solo thrust his hand toward Red Velvet. “Nice to meet you.” Red Velvet did her justice from a metaphorical sense, but despite her pleasant facade and normal appearance, Solo needed the mystery woman to have a real name; something more than a dessert-influenced moniker. “And you are?”

Desmond expressed his displeasure with his friend’s forwardness by loudly clearing his throat.

“Nice to meet you Doctor Alexandré.” Red Velvet held Solo’s hand with a strong, confident grip. Her voice was velvety smooth through the announcement of her name. “And I am Leona Pearson.”