Page 87 of Lovetown, USA
Column
Sherlock Holmes Ain’t GotSh*t on Me
By Lane Washington
I’m getting closer.
People who investigate—detectives, journalists, parasocial people on social media with a lot of time on their hands—often find themselves in possession of tiny bits of information they can’t quite make sense of yet. Hints. Factoids. Red herrings. Like a bunch puzzle pieces that don’t fit.
But if you’re good, it’s inevitable that there will be a eureka moment, that split second when the lightbulb turns on inside your head and you realize 1) I was right, and 2) I can prove it.
Your girl’s light isn’t on yet, but it’s coming. I can feel it. But in the meantime, here’s some news:
I had an experience.
I went to this…potluck dinner. And not the kind of potluck you see on Pinterest where everybody labels their quinoa salad with cute chalkboard signs. This one was different.
At first, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I do know one thing for sure. If you’re black, you already know we don’t eat just anybody’s food. There are rules to this thing.
Once those were established, we got started on the first course. A modest appetizer. It was light. Playful. Easy to share. Delicious flavor, but bite-sized, leaving everyone wanting more.
I brought the main course, and it was out of this world good, if I may say so myself. People dove in and devoured it. A rabid, noisy lot, they were. A few moments of confusion ensued, with forks crossing, plates in the wrong spot, laughter and a few spills and messes, but overall, it was magnificent.
A couple of spicy surprises popped up and made my eyes water, but that’s just part of the adventure, I think.
And when we finished…the table was amess, y’all. But a beautiful mess. Everyone got fed. We all got full. We sat there after, grinning, licking our fingers, halfway to a food coma, and most of all,satisfied.
But I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the wonderful conversation. I’m still learning about myself. Still growing. And it’s easy to do when your dinner companions are so smart and insightful.
We shared things with one another that were meaningful. Baring our hearts, I suppose. I enjoyed that just as much.
I wish I had more to complain about, quite frankly, but I’ve had a good time here of late. That tends to happen when you let go of your preconceived notions and plans and let life take you to new places to experience new things. That’s what happens when you’re open to the possibilities.
Some things just can’t be curated. They must be stumbled upon.
30
Trey
Mayor Daphne is blowingup my fucking phone.
Buzz after buzz, her name lights up my screen like a neon sign. I can’t ignore it, so I silence it instead, placing my phone face down on my desk, trying to focus on the patient chart in front of me. But that woman doesn’t take a hint. She never has.
Twenty or so minutes later, Pam buzzes me. “Dr. Montgomery? Mayor Davis is here. She says it’s urgent.”
Of course she does.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, count to three, and tell Pam to send the mayor to exam room three.
She’ll hate that.
I take two more patients before I finally make my way to room three. As soon as I open the door, her perfume hits me, as does the sight of her pacing back and forth in her stilettos. Her arms are folded tight against her body, her jaw locked like stone. The second she lays eyes on me, her lips curl into a scowl.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” is her unfortunate greeting.
I close the door behind me, gesture for her to have a seat on the table, then take the stool as she says, “You think you can ignore me? You think you can embarrass me like this? Fuck no.”
I bring my eyes to hers. “First off, watch your fucking mouth. You walked your mayoral ass up inmyplace of business without asking, and you got the nerve to be disrespectful on top?” I shake my head. “Control it, Daphne. You already know I ain’t the fucking one.”
