The Feather- in the present

When I was a child there was a woman on my grandmother’s block that always kept male company. I recall her being an attractive woman even for her age. She had a decent figure–broad hips, small waist–definitely curvy by anyone’s standards. My grandmother would tell my aunt's boyfriends to stay away from the “loose woman,” as she called her. One day I saw my aunt’s boyfriend laughing and chatting with the woman in question at the end of the block. There was this empty lot there that you could cut through by hopping a small fence to get to the corner store. It saved you a block’s walk at least. (Now I’m starting to see where my laziness came from) My aunt's boyfriend was a police officer–a nice guy then, but knowing what I know now, he was a pervert and probably looked at me and my other cousin in ways that was not appropriate. I told my grandmother that I saw him talking with the woman and that they seemed very friendly. My grandmother immediately told my aunt to watch the relationship. A few months later he stopped coming over, but I always saw him whenever I went to the store, laughing and talking to the lady. I remember telling my grandmother,


“I saw him again with her”


“I’m sure it’s too late now. He already knows about the feather. “


I had to be maybe 12 or so when this happened. I never knew what "the feather" was. Over the years I would hear my mother or aunts make reference to "feathers" belonging to them or other ladies, and they would all erupt into laughter. It wasn’t until much later in my adult life that I found out what all this meant.


Fast forward: My friend and I were going to Target the other day. She has a lot of dating tales, so any outings with her are filled with some story or another. She’s actually a private person but if she lets you in she will share and tell you the world. I love people like that––not shy or inhibited once they know you. She’s one of those friends you can not talk to for months and get back together like you never lost touch. So of course I asked her if there was a man in her life.


“Oh, did I tell you about Mr. Man?”


“No, who is he?”


“You know the one that has the kids.”


"Oh yeah. You're still doing that––I thought you didn’t do men with kids?”


"I know––that's part of where this huge fight came from.”


She went on to tell me how she had called him after having had a horrible day at work when she just needed someone to talk to; someone to vent to. He half listened for a bit and said “Let me call you right back––I’m taking the kids to practice.” She responded, “No, I really need to talk.” “Ok," he said, "but I’ll call you back.” As it turned out, he did call her back, but it was hours later and by then she was pissed. (Let me stop here and tell you that when my friend is pissed, all bets are off. She’s one of those people that doesn't know how to argue with the opposite sex––I have a guy friend like this too. They say things that are often below the belt and, to most people, unforgivable.) She told him that the relationship was not going to work. She was tired of playing second fiddle to his children. The conversation went like this:


“I need to be #1 in your life sometimes," she told him.


“My kids come first––you should applaud me and every man who is a good father.”


“I don’t have children, and I’m not impressed––you don't get brownie points for doing what you’re supposed to do. Maybe if I were a mother, I would find your parenting redeeming, but I’m not, so I don’t care what you do for them. I need someone that does for me. “


“Well luckily God has not blessed you with a child because you would not be a fit mother.”


He continues after some thought,” God has also punished you by making you dependent on medication to control your breathing” (she suffers from asthma).


And that was what it took to ignite her. She responded: “If your cripple mother" (she has multiple sclerosis) can be a mother, surely I can.”


And then the line was silent.


I interjected, shocked: “You did not––you did not say that!”


“Yes, I did. I was pissed. “


“You can’t talk about people’s mothers!”


“He stabbed first.”


“He talked about you––your health, not your mother's. I can’t believe you.”


“Well, he took off the gloves first.” She continued to relay the conversation to me.
“You spend your days trafficking around your talentless ass kids and that so-called basketball star of yours can barely control the dribble out of his mouth, let alone the dribble of a basketball.” And at that, the conversation ended.


“You said WHAT," I said, shocked. “You know you will have to justify those comments to a higher being one day...”


She laughed and we split up, shopping for different things. Before I knew it, 30 minutes or so had passed, and I couldn't stop thinking about her words. They hurt my feelings, so I knew Mr. Man had to be hurt. I found her again in the toiletries aisle. She was searching her flawless Chanel bag.

“What are you doing?”


“Oh, looking for my phone, I need to see if Mr. Man uses Magnums or Trojans.”


(WTF!!!) “He’s speaking to you? “


“Oh yeah––he called later and said that he thought about what had transpired and that he realized I must have really felt alone during my time of need. We admitted we'd both said things we didn't mean..."


(Ummm you called his mother a "cripple"...)


"...and that he was sorry and wanted to talk in person. “


My mouth was open, but then it came to me: some women have special powers that allow men to experience something that they will never experience again sexually. It’s like a drug addiction––once known, they spend their days on earth searching for the lady at the end of the block. So now I know my friend is one of them; she has a fucking feather down there!