Vondarrien

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt.

I called.
She didn’t answer.
I left a voicemail.
She didn’t return my call.

Well, she didn’t return my call that night.

However, although I’m an eternal pessimist—I was somewhat confident that she’d call the next evening.

Why wouldn’t she?
It’s possible, maybe likely, that she’d been upset that I hadn’t called in a few days. But was it really that big of a deal? Everything had been going pretty well until that point. And, even though she spectacularly flunked Sonny’s door test, I really enjoyed the time we spent together.

In a short period of dating, we shared some pretty memorable moments.
Like her first time at my place: she entered my bedroom—uninvited (“I’m nosy”)—to watch me pick which shirt I’d wear that evening. She sat on my bed, legs crossed, and swung one of my ties while playfully repeating, “Take it off.” How awesome is that? Also, after hearing me profess my love of scented candles—she bought me some from Bed, Bath, and Beyond a few days before Valentine’s Day. What a sweetheart! Additionally, her email reaction to being invited to the Big Daddy Kane show (“Yeeeeah! Here I come, Big Daddy! Oh, and you too, Von.”) was priceless. And who can forget (and by “who,” I mean “ME”) the time we totally rocked out to Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” in my car?

Good, classic times.

I’m a sucker for a fun-loving girl with personality. Always have been.
However, as much fun as we had, I got the feeling I wasn’t the only gentleman in her life. I called one Friday night to confirm our date the following day. I left a voicemail—and didn’t get a response for another three hours. Via text. At approximately 11:30. It got me to thinking: why couldn’t she answer in a more timely fashion?

She had to be out with another dude.

Which was fine. We weren’t exclusive. And it’s not like I wasn’t seeing someone else as well.
Just as long as she had time for me—I didn’t have a problem with her possibly dating another guy.

How could I?

Dating, at its core, is a competition. I’m competing with another guy(s) for her time (and possible exclusivity later). And vice versa. I always assume that any woman I’m dating—until we talk about commitment—is also seeing someone else. That’s just how it works. Nevertheless, I’m confident enough to believe that I’ll prevail more often than not.

One day, she shared that she was taking her “friend” out for his birthday? Really? Why didn’t dude have anyone else to spend his birthday with? It was all good though. I figured that if she told me about him—he couldn’t have been much of a threat.

Although we continued to date and have fun, things began to get a little dicey. Our distance apart and different work schedules meant we didn’t get a chance to hang out until the weekend. Sometimes, she had only one free day for me. The rest of her weekend was full. Jealousy (internal jealousy; I’d never let a woman see my weakness) developed. You mean to tell me she (possibly) made plans with that clown before me? I had now begun to worry.

Who the hell was this dude? And what could he possibly have on me?
Was he more handsome? Smarter? Funnier? More fun?
I doubted it. But he seemed to have the upper hand.
Maybe he called more. Made more of an effort.
I wasn’t quite ready for a commitment. These things take time for me.
Maybe he was ready—and pulled out all the stops to make it happen.
How could I compete with that?

No matter how envious I got, things were always cool when we were together. One Friday night we caught Liam Neeson’s Unknown at the local theater. After a long day, she couldn’t make it through the movie. She fell asleep, using my chest as a pillow and my right arm as a blanket. Everything just felt right. Unbeknownst to me, however, that’d be the last time I’d see her.

I called a few days later to schedule something for the upcoming weekend.
I was shocked to discover that she wouldn’t be free Friday night.
Nor all day Saturday. Nor most of Sunday.
Instead, the only time she had for me was Sunday evening—at 5:30.

The Price Is Right loser’s horn played in the background.

To say that I was insulted would be an understatement. In fairness, I had no idea what she had planned. I just assumed all of her time was devoted to another dude.

Utterly defeated, I told her that I wasn’t sure about Sunday’s movie. In reality, however, there was no chance I’d accept her offer. I wasn’t interested in her charity. Fairly or not, I felt like an insignificant afterthought. My bruised ego made me stop all communications for a few days. I caved, five days later,  and called on Sunday night. I didn’t get an answer.

And despite my hesitant optimism, I didn’t get a response the following day either.

I still haven’t gotten a response.
Her silence would seem to validate my theory: there was, indeed, someone else.

Since then, I’ve thought about calling again. Or sending a text. Or email.
But my pride won’t let me. I’ve just decided to bow out gracefully.

Losing someone you care for—to another man—is a tough pill to swallow.

I guess you win some and lose some.

Let it be said that chivalry is not dead.

And if it is dead, apparently I ain’t get the memo.
’Cause I adhere to all of the principles of gentleman-ness when dealing with the opposite sex.

I open doors.
Pull out chairs.
Offer my jacket or sweater if she’s cold.
Allow the lady to order before I do.
Walk on the side closest to the street (so when the 18-wheeler skips the curb, it’ll demolish ME instead of her).

Make no mistake: a woman can expect to be treated like a lady when she’s in my presence. To that end, my chivalry was on full display last weekend.

After dinner Saturday evening, I volunteered to retrieve the car alone while my date waited inside the heated restaurant—instead of making her brave the bone-chilling temps with me.

Later that evening, I opened the door for ol’ girl to exit the movie theater.
Once outside, we were quickly reminded that the frigid Chicagoland weather and snow had transformed the pavement into an icy deathtrap, just waiting to claim its next victim. And, seeing as how she was rockin’ boots with several-inch-high heels, she was very likely to be a casualty. I offered her my arm to hold (that way, if she fell—BOTH of us would wipe out in spectacular fashion. Chivalry at its finest) and we carefully traversed the slippery terrain until we reached my ride. Once there, I opened her car door and guided her in.

Quite the gentleman, I know.

After ensuring that she was safely into my vehicle, I closed the door and made my way around to get in on my side.

Then it hit me: this exact moment in my life was playing out like a scene in Bronx Tale.

The main character in the movie, Calogero, faced a similar situation.
Calogero was an Italian teen raised in the Bronx during the ’60s who idolized the neighborhood wise guy/crime boss/gangster, a gentleman named Sonny. Now, Sonny was NOT a nice dude. He ruled the neighborhood with an iron fist. Even killed folks.

But I’ll be damned if dude didn’t give some of the best advice ever.
When “C” excitedly told him about his new girl, Sonny dropped some knowledge on ‘him:
“You give her my test, the Door Test…you take out your key and open the door for her. You let her get in. And you close the door for her. You walk around the back of the car and you look through the rear window. If she doesn’t reach over and lift up that button for you, so you can get in—dump her…listen to me, kid, if she doesn’t lift up that button for you so you can get in, that means she’s a selfish broad and all you’re seeing is the tip of the iceberg. You dump her and you dump her fast.”

As a teen, I remember being blown away by the man’s wisdom. Made sense. It was a small, yet significant, gesture of selflessness. At the time, I wholeheartedly agreed that if ANY woman I ever dated failed Sonny’s test, she’d be sent packing.

In the years that passed, however, I realized that the Door Test had been rendered irrelevant by the advent of modern technology. Power locks had all but done away with the need for a woman to manually open a man’s door.

However, the used car I bought last year on the cheap doesn’t have power locks. I have to let folks into my vehicle the old school way.

This was the perfect opportunity to administer the Door Test.

I looked through the back window to find that she wasn’t reaching to unlock my door. Instead, she was shivering. As well she should’ve been. The wind chill that night was in the single digits. By the time I made my way to the driver’s side, she still hadn’t unlocked my door. Disappointed, I got in and we drove off into the glacial Chicago night.

Her actions (or NON-actions) beg the questions:
What does this mean? Was she really a selfish broad? Was this merely the tip of the iceberg?

Contrary to what I pledged years ago, I decided not to take Sonny’s advice for two reasons:
1) I had a pretty exceptional time with ol’ girl that night.
2) Also, the Door Test didn’t factor in if your date possessed a big butt and a smile.

Ultimately, I decided not to take any action.

Somewhere, at this very moment, Sonny is rolling in his grave.

Your mom ever supplied you with condoms?

Mine has. Lots and lots of condoms. In a brown paper bag. Very uncomfortable.
In the summer of ’95 she threw a going-away party before I left for college. My family came through with gifts, mostly stuff for my dorm room. Opening my mom’s brown paper bag—in front of everyone—was one of the most awkward moments of my young life. It was also confusing—it ain’t like I was sexually active back then (except for that one time).

She was saying, in no uncertain terms, that my upcoming responsibilities extended beyond the classroom. Uh, yeah—it was awkward. But she got her point across: no kids!

It’s funny in retrospect, because nowadays all she wants are some li’l rugrat grandchildren running around for her to spoil rotten. Unfortunately, the only person capable of bringing that to fruition—is me. And, as recent events can attest, that ain’t happenin’ no time soon.

Poor woman.

However, little does she know that she almost got her wish back in the day.

My close call came during college. I wasn’t exactly known as a ladies man around campus back then. Therefore, it’s safe to say that my mom’s going-away gift didn’t get much use (and by “much,” I mean any). However, I met a young lady during my junior year who’d later become my girlfriend.

Things weren’t all rosy though. Let’s just say that we had a dysfunctional relationship.
Ol’ girl was somewhat, uh, emotionally unstable. At times she was a sweetheart; oftentimes she raged out of control. She also had a penchant for lying. Word through the grapevine is that she’d told folks that she didn’t like something I said once—therefore, she had to slap the hell out of me. It was a spectacular lie not based in any reality.

Apparently, I was dealing with my first crazy woman. Strangely, this wasn’t enough for me to break up with her.

One evening she stayed overnight at my campus apartment—and awakened the next morning in a rage. And I was the subject of her ire. Apparently, something I did had her simmering all night. I can’t remember what specifically set her off, only that there was a legit reason for her resentment (as opposed to one of her many mood swings). As a result, she verbally chastised me while I lie next to her.

At the height of her anger that morning—she kicked me. She fucking kicked me!

Now, normally that’s grounds for getting thrown the hell out (like how Uncle Phil used to throw Jazzy Jeff out the mansion). However, I was so racked with guilt that I allowed her to stay. At that point, I’d have done almost anything for her forgiveness. Luckily, she only wanted one thing: makeup sex.

That’s it? I was getting off (no pun intend—OK, maybe a little) easy. When I reached for my mom’s brown paper bag—ol’ girl inexplicably stopped me. She wanted to know how it felt without protection.

What?!

I was fully aware of the magnitude of her forbidden request. It’s something I’d never dreamed of doing. My mom did an excellent job of programming me (that birds/bees talk in the park—yeah, another awkward childhood moment) to always strap up. ALWAYS! The repercussions of not doing so would be catastrophic! We were playing with fire. Fortunately, I thought of a compromise: start unprotected. Finish protected. That way, I could please my girl and still adhere to my sensibilities.

Unfortunately, once I went in—there was no turning back.
That morning I experienced a feeling unlike any I’d ever felt. It was a blissful euphoria. Everything happened so fast. Two, possibly three minutes passed before I reached the point of no return—and barely managed to “escape” in time.

Or did I? ’Cause a few weeks later ol’ girl called and said the two words no 20-year-old college student ever wants to hear from his girl: “I’m late.”

Son of a bitch!

I was NOT ready for this. At all.
It felt like my life was over. Like a black cloud had enveloped my existence.
I couldn’t concentrate on class. Nor could I focus on playing football.
All I could think was that I was going to be a father. A premature one at that.
And my baby momma was a lunatic with whom I’d be connected for the rest of eternity.
My mom gave me that brown paper bag specifically so this wouldn’t happen.
The one thing she wanted me to take responsibility for—and I blew it.
How could I let this happen?! How could I be so careless?! So easily manipulated by the forbidden nectar?

Things seemed pretty bleak—until she informed me a few days later that it was a false alarm. She wasn’t pregnant. I wasn’t gonna be a father.

We broke up not too long thereafter.

Looking back, I often wonder if she was being truthful about the situation. Or if it was another manipulation. Or maybe, for once in her life, she was telling the truth. I’ll never know.

What I do know, however, is that my mom could’ve already been a grandma. What a horrifying thought.