Carl Weber - Baby Momma Drama

“Stephanie, I love you more than anything in the world and I want you to be my wife. Will you marry me?” You should have seen the look on her face when I took out the half-catat diamond ring from my pocket.

“Oh, my God.” She looked over at Big Momma, who was smiling and nodding. “Yes, yes, Travis, I’ll marry you.” I slid the ring on her finger and we both stood to embrace. Stephanie wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me to the sounds of a few family members applauding, the others grabbing for their Thanksgiving feast.

I was so full, I thought I was going to burst. I unhooked my belt buckle to give my stomach some room to breathe as I drove down River Road, back to my house in Petersburg. My girlfriend, Monica, and I had just left her parents’ place in Chesterfield County, Virginia, where her mother had put together one hell of a Thanksgiving feast. Turkey, ham, candied yams, collard greens. You name it, we ate it. Mmm-mtnm, it was some kinda good.

I looked at Monica in the passenger seat. She was staring into space, no doubt still upset about the argument we’d had at her folks’ house. Even angry she was a beautiful woman. At five foot nine, Monica was a good two inches taller than me. Her body was slender with long, sexy legs, and beautiful curves in all the right places. Big, dark-brown eyes highlighted her smooth mahogany complexion. As far as I was concerned, she was the sexiest woman on earth, and I’d traveled quite a bit.

“You still mad at me, boo?” I asked.

“What do you think, Dylan?” She cut her eyes at me, then turned away.

“Look, baby, I think you’re blowing this whole thing out of proportion.” She whipped her head around and pointed her finger in my face.

“How can I be blowing it out of proportion? You humiliated me in front of my family.”

“All I did was answer your mother’s question. You’re acting as if I farted at the dinner table or somethin’.” She wanted to laugh. I could see it in her face. But she stifled it and shouted instead.

“I spent six, almost seven years of my life with your ass! And you can’t tell my ma when we’re gonna get married? You ain’t shit, Dylan Taylor!” She turned her head back toward the window.

“Come on, Monica. You know I love you, baby. You know I want to marry you. All I want you to do is finish school. Why is that such a big deal?”

Monica sucked her teeth and crossed her arms tight against her chest. She didn’t intend on answering my question. Hell, we’d been arguing about marriage for almost two years. She knew I wanted to marry her. I wanted to start a family more than anything in the world. I just wouldn’t give her an engagement ring until she graduated college. Yet she still insisted on starting this same argument at least once a week.

Monica and I met almost seven years ago, when I was a junior and she was a freshman at Virginia State University. We quickly fell in love, and when I graduated, instead of moving back to New York I decided to stay in Petersburg while she finished her two remaining years of school. Well, she changed her major three times with less than a semester to go each time. I think she was afraid to graduate. Graduating would have meant getting on with her life. She would have to find a job and cut the financial ties with her parents. I don’t think she wanted to do that until she had a committed replacement, and that meant a wedding ring from me. But my parents had taught me the power of an education, so I kindly explained to her, over and over, that upon graduation I would present her with a rock that would make her eyes pop out. For whatever reason, that didn’t motivate her. She wanted things done her way.

“Look Dylan, me finishing school has nothing to do with us getting married. If you really loved me, you’d marry me no matter what. One day you’re gonna wake up and my black ass is gonna be gone. Then what are you gonna do?”

“I’m not going to justify that with an answer. You know how I feel about you, and if you don’t, maybe you should leave.” I was getting tired of this argument. I pulled into the parking lot of Colonial Plaza, in front of my business, Colonial Comics.

“What the hell are we doing here?” She threw her hands in the air.

“I just wanted to make sure Brett packed all the boxes for the comic convention in D.C. tomorrow.” I stepped out of the car as I spoke.

“Goddamn it, Dylan! Can I have one day with you that you’re not worried about one of your fucking stores?” She got out of the car and slammed the door. “Why couldn’t you just have stayed an accountant-”

Monica shut up when I shot her a look. There were very few things that could piss me off without a thought, and my old career in accounting was one of them. We’d had more than our fair share of fights about that. You see, Monica was a very materialistic woman and she liked having-no, she loved having-a man to show off. Someone she could brag about, who fit society’s idea of a successful man. For my first two years after college! I fit that role perfectly. It didn’t matter that after I left accounting I made sixty grand a year as a comic book dealer. She always looked down on me because I didn’t wear a suit and tie to work every day. This was the same woman who couldn’t seem to finish her own degree.

I’ll never forget the expression on Monica’s face the day I told her I’d quit my job at PricewaterhouseCoopen and rented a small store to sell comic books. It was a mixture of shock, anger, and disappointment all wrapped up into one.

“Wh-why’d you do that?” was all she could stutter. She took my career change as a personal insult.

“Well, there are three reasons, actually,” I smiled, ready to state my case. I was happy about my decision and wanted her to understand and support me. “First of all, you know that I hate being an accountant. Do you have any idea how horrible it is to wake up every morning and go to a job you can’t stand? Second, I’m not the kind of guy who can work for someone else. I need to be my own boss. And third, I like comic books.”

She gently held on to the lapels of my suit jacket and kissed me. I suppose she thought she could sweet-talk me into changing my decision. “Look baby, I understand you wanting to own your own business. To be perfectly honest, that’s what I want for you. But you’re an accountant, a CPA, a man of prestige. You’re not some insignificant shopkeeper. Why don’t you open up a tax office? Hey, I’m even willing to take my classes at night so you won’t have to pay a secretary.”

“Monica, I’m going to open up a comic book shop with or without your blessing” I folded my arms defiantly.

“Comic books? You keep talking about how much you want a family. How the hell do you expect to support a baby selling comic books? Jesus Christ! Southside projects here we come,” she mocked

There is no word to describe how much that hurt me. Ever since the day we met, Monica knew how much I wanted to have a child. Now she thought I’d put that child in the projects if I wasn’t a suit-and-tie man. It was like a knife in my back, and it just proved that she had very little faith in my ability to be successful.

“Thanks for the glowing endorsement, Monica.” I shot up my middle finger and turned to walk away.

“Dylan, comic books are a hobby, a fad. Do you really want to place our future in the hands of ten-year-old boys and drugged-out teenagers?”

I was still too pissed off to answer. What she didn’t know was that before I handed in my resignation, I had sold my personal copy of Fantastic Four #1 to a man in D.C. for seventy-five hundred dollars. Would you believe I only paid ten dollars for it in 1973? I had started collecting comics when I was six years old. My stamp-collecting father forced me to keep my comics in protective plastic bags after I read them. Sixteen years later I was still collecting comic books, and my personal collection was worth a small fortune, thanks entirely to dear old Dad. During college I began selling and trading comics at flea markets and small shows around the Richmond-Petersburg area. Unbeknownst to Monica, who thought I was just going through a childish phase, I was making more money selling comic books than I was as an accountant, and having a lot more fun at it, too. I had developed quite a local following in Petersburg. Not only were the kids my customers, but I also sold to many die-hard adult collectors. It only made sense to me that if I gave my comic book business my undivided attention, I would quickly be on my way to prosperity.