Denim #2
There’s actually a decent size crowd in the small store.
With the closure of the entire city, looks like we all had the same idea.
I maneuver to the coolers and grab two bottles of water and Gatorade.
Influenced by full hands and bags of the other customers, I decide to grab snacks to be on the safe side.
Forty-seven dollars later, I exit the marketplace with my drinks plus a lunch kit, trail mix, a can of Pringles, two Cup of Noodles, and peanut butter crackers.
The moment I turn the corner leading to the lobby, I hear her voice.
My accidental partner in this mess is going off on somebody.
After hearing her yelling at ol’ boy, I easily recognize her voice.
When I’m in the lobby, I see she’s at the desk, arguing with the nice clerk who’d assisted me.
Our connection is strange, unorthodox, and based on betrayal but there’s no denying it exists so I step to the desk to ascertain the situation.
“Where am I supposed to go? You have to have one room! A bed, a sofa, something I can fucking lay my head on and stop this damn headache!”
“Ms. Payne, as I have been—”
“Jamila,” she insists.
“Ms. Jamila. I’m trying to explain. The hotel is booked to capacity. There are no rooms.”
“Then call your sister hotel or something.”
“The roads are closed. Even if they have rooms, you would be unable to get there.”
“And where the hell does that leave me?” she snaps. “You can charge whatever; I’ll pay.”
The clerk spots me heading their way and her eyes plead for me to intervene or do something.
I raise my hand to acknowledge I see her then cautiously approach.
She’s emotional and upset. Even though we are in fact strangers, we share the identical source of her frustration and I feel compelled to help.
In her current state of fragility, one more thing could easily debilitate her, so I tread lightly and approach gingerly.
“Hey. What’s wrong?” I ask calmly the moment I’m by her side.
“Excuse me,” she snaps but when her head whips my way she quickly registers who I am.
She exhales loudly and her tear-stricken face softens.
She opens her mouth to speak but refrains.
Unexpectedly, she steps into my space, latches her arms around my neck, then buries her face into my chest. When she audibly cries, I place my hands on her back and try my best to soothe her.
For a moment, she releases her feelings through her tears as I embrace her.
Then, she sniffles and lifts her head. Her big, doe-shaped eyes peer into mine for a few seconds then she abruptly steps out of my arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She snatches her handbag from the counter then frantically places it on top of her suitcase.
She tries unsuccessfully to attach the bag to her luggage.
After her third attempt, she kicks her luggage and it starts to roll away from her.
She’s falling apart in front of my eyes and I feel so much empathy for her.
After stepping over and stopping her luggage, I roll it back to her, take her handbag, and hook the strap around the handle of her luggage, then tap her arm.
“Let’s go over here,” I suggest.
With no objection, her shoulders deflate and she walks beside me as I roll our luggage to the elevator bay. Once we are alone and out of the lobby, I look at her, plot my words, then make a crazy ass solution to her frustrating dilemma.
“I just booked the last room,” I begin and her eyes narrow into slits. “And you can stay with me. There’s a bed and a sofa,” I add quickly. Her eyes narrow more and she shakes her head.
“I can’t…I don’t know you and I don’t… No thank you.” Her skepticism has her stumbling over her words.
“I know you don’t know me but it’s a blizzard out there. The roads are closed and there are no other options. I can practically hear my momma’s voice in my head yelling if I don’t help a Black woman in distress. For my momma, please share my room with me.”
A smile creeps across her face then she shakes her head. “For your momma and because I’m pretty pathetic and homeless right now in this shitty ass town, I will but can I see your license?”
“My license?”
“Yes, please,” she insists with her hand held out.
“My name is Denim.”
“Okay. Your license please, Denim.” After pulling my wallet from my pocket, I produce my driver’s license and place it in her awaiting hand.
She examines it. “Crescent Falls? I definitely know where this is and so do my Manor cousins,” she says, smirking.
The Manor neighborhood is notorious in Crescent Falls.
She knows my town.
“Are you from Crescent Falls?” I ask.
“Born and raised in The Manor but currently reside in The Millennium,” she says proudly. CFers will represent and I love that about us. “I’m Jamila, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Jamila. You good now?”
She presses her phone dramatically, then looks up to me. “License sent. Now, I’m good. And for the record, I do have a taser and mace.”
“Calm down, killer. You won’t have to use either on me. Scouts’ honor, I am a gentleman and I’m my momma’s son.”
While eyeing me suspiciously, she asks, “Were you even a boy scout?”
After pressing the up button on the elevator, I mumble, “Hell no.”