Rude Boss

“If you valued what you had at home, you would have the fortitude to resist those advances.”

The smile falls off his face. Looks like he’s sobering up quickly. He asks, “Are you telling me I don’t value my wife? The mother of my children?”

“I’m not telling you anything. Your actions should tell you everything you need to know about yourself. If your wife was doing the same thing to you, you’d leave her. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He takes a pull from a cigar, crosses one leg over the other, and asks, “When did you become such a saint?”

“I’m not—far from it.”

“That’s what I thought. Every time we link up, you have women trying to get at you. I’m sure you’ve had your share.”

“I’m not in a committed relationship, Brock. And let me school you on something. Just because I’m not married doesn’t mean I have women all over the place.”

“Man, please…like I’m going to believe that. You got drivers, mansions, vacation homes—you’re what they’re looking for. We’re what they’re looking for—high-value men.”

I grin at this guy. He may be slightly under the influence, but I entertain him by asking, “What exactly is a high-value man in your opinion?”

“Men who got money. Men who are going places. That’s us, brother, and that’s on a hundred. Money equals stability. Women want to be taken care of—they don’t want to be out here scrubbing toilets or doing manual labor trying to make it on their own. I don’t care how many women anthems you hear about how they don’t need no man. It sounds cute, but at the end of the day, men rule the world.”

I tell him, “I have plenty of women who work for me—single women—taking care of themselves. I believe a woman would opt for a man who would be a loyal husband and caring father before they’d take a man strictly because he’s a good provider. Women want love and respect and they deserve that. They deserve to be nurtured and protected. A man who knows how to take care of his woman and family—that’s a high-value man.”

Brock blows a cloud of smoke then says, “That’s bull. And since when did you become all philosophical? What did I miss? You done found Jesus since I last saw you?”

“I’ve always been the way that I am. You and other people just choose to see me a certain way because of what I have and all I’ve accomplished. Just because I make millions doesn’t mean I have a gaggle of women at my disposal. I’ve been there. Done that. I know the emptiness of it. I don’t want to go there again.”

Brock looks completely flummoxed. “Why not?”

“Why not what?”

“I mean, are you writing off women?”

“No. I just want only one woman.”

“And you think one woman is enough to satisfy you?”

Quintessa’s face appears in my mind like a favorite memory. It’s her I’m thinking about as I talk so I know what I’m saying is the truth. Out of all the women I’ve been with, no one could ever compare to her. No other woman could assuage me like her and I’ve never touched Quintessa besides us dancing together at our prom. And I’ve never kissed her. I want to. I need to feel her in my arms so badly, I experience a gnawing ache when I’m near her, but one step at a time.

“I don’t think, Brock. I know she will. This idea of having a wife, a main chick and a side chick—that’s the garbage being pushed on the radio. Tell me this—what good has resulted from this kind of lifestyle? These men out here impregnating all these women—got babies all over the place instead of keeping their family hierarchy strong and intact. I was out there a while back, but I’ve learned over the years that it’s futile. All of it. I want a family. I’m not one to be out here spreading my seed around like I’m planting a community garden. My seed is sacred. It’s life. It’s the life I want to create with the woman who wants to build with me, and it was meant for one woman and one woman only.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s one hundred percent right.”

“And what woman would be good enough for the famed and highly-esteemed, Essex DePaul? Show me a woman on your level who can rock with you like that?”

“She doesn’t have to be on my level.”

Brock sits up straight, points his cigar at me, and says, “That’s where you’re wrong. Jay-Z, Beyonce—same level. Barak and Michelle—same level.”

“You’re referring to famous people.”

“And you’re Florida famous! You’re a celebrity in these parts, man. How are you going to look walking around with a woman who makes minimum wage when you are who you are?”

“My woman doesn’t make minimum wage.”

“Ah, so there is a woman.”

“There is…been knowing her since high school.”