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Chapter One Cee Cee
It used to start off with “Dear Diary,” but that was when I needed to feel as though I was really talking to somebody. Now I just start typing. Usually I haven’t had such a good day so the relief of hitting the keys and the gratification of seeing my day come to life on the screen is fulfilling. It does not change the fact that my life is still royally fucked up, but it does make it seem as though I at least have a purpose. Today was really no different than any other day. I got up and went to a job where my skills far out weigh the capacity of the job. I put on a designer suite to sit in an office were jeans are standard protocol and my hair; my six hundred dollar weave was flawless as always. This morning I woke up alone in my king sized canopy bed like I have been doing for the past month. I know you recall the whole incident regarding Bryan. We were together for three years. We never lived together because he insisted that he needed his space, but we shared our keys with each other. That was for me a sense that he trusted me and that I could trust him. I had never used the key without him knowing until last month for his birthday. I purposely hadn’t mentioned his birthday. I wanted him to think that I’d forgotten because I wanted to surprise him. I got off work early that day to go to the seafood store and get the lobster and scallops I was going to prepare for him and to pick up the teddy I was having custom made. It was suppose to be a night of great surprise and oh, believe me, it was. When I got to his apartment all I heard was some woman screaming for Jesus in the hallway. I knew it was coming from his apartment, but I was not sure why. Arms loaded down with bags I struggled with figuring out what key went to what lock. When I stepped inside the apartment my mouth flew open and the bags hit the floor. Bryan had some hussy bent over the back of his couch fucking the shit out of her. He never even heard me come in. I went straight to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest damn knife in the knife block. That Bobbit chick wasn’t going to be the only woman known for cutting off a man’s dick. I guess the hussy saw me coming because sweet Jesus turned into oh, shit. Bryan with his dumb ass thought that she was cuming and he started pumping harder and harder slapping the woman on her ass. By the time I reached the couch the woman had managed to get loose and Bryan had opened his eyes long enough to see me.
“CeeCee, what are you doing here?”
He managed to stutter.
I never said a word just kept gaining on them with the knife in my hand. The hussy snatched up what clothes she could leave behind a shoe and her K-mart bra and ran out of the door. Bryan on the other hand couldn’t do much of anything. His dick was still hard and looking delicious I might add and he was not thinking. You know that they say that when a man gets an erection all of the blood leaves his head and goes to his dick. I swiped at the base of his dick missing and cutting his hand. I had nothing to say. I was now on a mission and nothing short of death was going to stop me.
“Cee Cee, you cut me. Put the knife down or I’m calling the cops. Put the fucking knife down Cee Cee and let me talk to you.”
I kept coming. Swung again and this time I got his arm. Blood was just dripping everywhere. Fuck around on me. I don’t think so. He reached for the phone, but I was too quick I snatched the base out of the wall so the cordless unit would do him no good. We both saw his cell phone sitting on top of the glass dinning room table at the same time. He was hurt and I had the advantage. I darted for the phone grabbing it off of the table. I flipped it open and punched a sequence of buttons to see who the last person he called was. All it said was “red hot pussy” and a number appeared. He didn’t even bother to record the woman’s name. This made me even angrier. I was broken now though. I went into the bathroom and dropped the phone into the toilet. I splashed cold water on my face and dried it. I rinsed the bloody knife off and headed back for the kitchen. I walked past Bryan still standing against the wall trying to hold his bleeding arm. I picked up my purse off the kitchen floor, jammed the knife back into the butchers block snatched up my keys and groceries and I left. He must have called me more than two dozen times that night, but there was no reason for me to answer. What was he going to say that I hadn’t already heard from men a million times before? Grant it that was the first time that I would have heard it from one of my men, but I’d heard it from men on the television, in magazines, on Dr. Phil, in books. It was always the same tired line. “Baby she didn’t mean anything too me.” So then the question becomes how much I really meant to you if someone who meant nothing could come between us. It wasn’t even worth asking because I already knew the answer. That night when I got home I didn’t do the crying, feeling sorry for myself thing. Nope, I made me a kettle one martini with a twist shaken not stirred and I sat in my Jacuzzi bathtub for two hours telling myself how much I loved me. I hate it when women feel sorry for themselves because of the selfish dumb shit that men do. How is what men do making you less of a person because a dumb ass man can’t keep his dick in his pants? It has nothing to do with what we do or don’t do for our men, but everything to do with the level of respect they have for themselves and for the woman that they are dating. I refuse to feel sorry for myself. So that was a month ago and I have not spoken to Bryan since. He spent a great deal of money on flowers and Godiva chocolates that ended up in the garbage shortly after their arrival and he even showed up here at my house. I started to shoot him, but waving the gun from the window seemed to be enough. He got the picture and left. I still have to see him on occasion for business, but I don’t have to deal directly with him so I am fine with that. If we happen to be in the same room I don’t turn my back on him. I make sure that I can see his green eyes and curly little head from where ever I am. The last thing I want is to have to break out a can of whoop ass on him at a business function, but don’t get it twisted. I will if I need too. What is it that men say? “Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.” Well, I’m just playing by their rules.
I have been looking for a new job for an entire month and it is no surprise that I haven’t found one. I know that it has nothing to do with my education or potential, but it has everything to do with the fact that Bush number two is fucking up the country and that the job market and economy are in a terrible way right now. I have been building a business plan though. I plan on starting my own magazine. That is what I’ve always wanted and I think that I should have it. My mother used to tell me that nothing beats a fail but a try. That has been my motto since the day she died. Well, I’m not going to go there because that is the one thing that can make me start feeling sorry for myself. My mother raised me without a father. I met him once though. My mother thought I should know who he was so she invited him to my high school graduation. He came, flowers in hand and all, but he was one of those playa, playa type men who even tried to run game on their daughters. Not run game in the sense of having sex with them, but run game in the sense of pushing lie after lie on why he couldn’t have been a good father and why he should remain out of my life. At the restaurant that night my mother and I had a heart to heart and she was ok with the fact that I had decided from that one meeting that I never wanted to see the man again in my life. She kissed me and told me to do what I thought was best. She told me that as a young woman I would now be responsible for making my own decisions. My mom and I were best friends until the day she died. I really miss her. God gave us a break though. In my sophomore year at Northwestern I was going to have to transfer out because my scholarship did not cover housing or books and my mom couldn’t afford to pay for it. I couldn’t drive everyday from the south side of Chicago too the north-suburb of Evanston, so I had decided to finish up at the University of Chicago. But God had a different plan. My mother was not a gambling woman, but she was tired and broke and she wanted and needed a way out. She stopped on her way home from work at the hospital one day and she did something she’d never done before. She played the lottery. The prize was for two million dollars. That was a lot of money. I know that most black people think that the lottery is not geared toward allowing them to win and they are probably right, but my mother won. She won the two million dollars. She won the two million dollars and that changed our lives. I was able to stay and get my degree from Northwestern and my mother moved into this house that I still live in today. My mother was smart with the money when she was alive and she made smart choices. We didn’t get the entire two million dollars. There are taxes and other things involved, but we walked away with a little more than a million dollars. Three months later my mother would die of a brain aneurysm. Again, God had a plan. I just had no idea what it was. My mother had all sorts of life insurance and as a result I received almost another million dollars. Before she won the lottery the insurance company wouldn’t give her a policy for more than seventy five thousand dollars. They told her it was based on her worth. Can you believe that? A person works their entire life and the insurance company tells you that you are only worth seventy five thousand dollars. That is two years of my mother’s salary so how they come to that conclusion is based on a lot of fixed numbers and bullshit. I have no relatives. My mother was an only child, my father is god only knows where and I have no siblings. So no one knows I have this money but different institutions in which I choose to house it. I don’t tell people that I am a multi-millionaire because I want them to respect me for me. I work because I desire too not because I have too. I work for a magazine one of Chicago’s most popular black magazines actually. It used to be owned by a black family, but for what I assume to be their own good reasons they sold it. Nothing has been the same since. I chalk the experience up because I know that when it is time for me to walk out of those doors and into my own I will need all of the experience that this job has too offer.
I’m going to pour me a glass of champagne and sit in my Jacuzzi bathtub. I have had a long hard difficult day and I need to relax. I’m going to sit there with my hair piled high, manicured toes soaking and sipping my hundred dollar a bottle champagne and ask my self why I’m lonely and man less. Until tomorrow-dear diary, you are the only thing that keeps me sane!!
Clarice Camille McGovern or to those who I’ve allowed into my private world, CeeCee.
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