Crowd of One: A Humorous, Complicated, Unexpected Story About Love.

By Naceema Samira

If Samantha (Sami) Monroe has nothing else, she has memories. Unfortunately, some of the same memories that give her comfort also complicate her life in unexpected ways. After surviving the loss of her family and being tossed aside by her fiancé, Sami leaves her home, her job, and her best friend for a destination unknown. And although she often feels alone, she never is. Sami braves her new adventure aided by a comedic angel with a sassy tongue and a lot of attitude. Along her journey she makes some surprising encounters and some shocking decisions. As she tries to let go of her past, an unraveling of lies keeps her connected to it; and the only thing more devastating than the lies may be the truth.

Crowd of One is about the memories and traditions that shape who we are and who we hope to be. Sami learns the meaning of love by reading about her parent’s relationship in a diary and witnessing the life-long devotion of her maternal grandparents. Her hope to continue her family’s tradition of “true love” is brought to an end when her fiancé abruptly ends their relationship. Devastated, but determined to move on, Sami starts a new life and opens herself up to new opportunities. When a new romance blossoms, secrets from her previous relationship threaten to destroy her faith in “happily ever after.” Disappointed again, she finds herself spiraling towards a deep depression with seemingly no way out. With the help of her wayward angel, Sami comes to understand that difference between observing love and experiencing it. Crowd of One has all the components that make for a great love story, i.e., betrayal, grief, forgiveness, and love. What makes it different is that it’s laden with drama and humor. What makes it great is its poignant expression of emotions—allowing readers to be touched and entertained.

Crowd of One strikingly portrays the antics and struggles one woman faces in trying to move beyond her pain and fears to accept true love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 1, 2009
• ISBN: 9780984210619

Book preview

Chapter 1

Bismillah ir-rahman ir-rahim alhamdulillahi rabbil alameen, thank you for my food. Amen.

That’s Sami. She doesn’t have any idea what she just said, but she says it before eating every meal. I think it’s Arabic, but I’m not really sure. Sami’s parents taught her that prayer when she was four and she’s been saying it ever since then. She mispronounces many of the words, and she never bothered to explore their exact meaning. Yet, she says them in remembrance of her mom and dad. It’s one of the few things she remembers about them. They would hold hands at the dinner table and say the blessing in unison. As a child, Sami thought the words sounded funny, like a song. To this day, her own a cappella rendition reminds her that the faded picture she carries in her wallet of two strangers who seem to look at her with warm, apologetic eyes are her parents—the people who gave her life, loved her, and left unexpectedly.

On the night of their deaths, Sami was at home playing with her favorite doll on the living room floor. It was a raggedy excuse for a toy that would likely scare most kids. I’m telling you it was ugly. Seated next to her on the couch were her grandparents, Grandma Bethie and Grandpa Edgar, whom everyone called by his last name, Garth. They were babysitting, as they often did a couple weekends each month. Sami was showing them a new hairstyle, a crossroads of twists she masterminded on the small plastic doll head, when the phone rang. Garth instinctively jumped up to answer the phone but then stopped, remembering he was at his daughter’s house. Garth wasn’t the kind of man to disrespect anybody’s stuff. He turned towards his wife as the phone continued to ring. With no words, only a simple look, he asked, Should I answer it? Also without speaking, Grandma Bethie gave him a look that indicated that she thought it would be okay. Garth answered the phone.

Monroe residence. May I help you?

Garth always sounded very professional, despite the fact that he worked various blue collar jobs all his life and grew up a stone’s throw away from a real ghetto—you know, the Good Times equivalent of every inner city that has the ten-story brick buildings with no air conditioning, broken elevators, dirt yards instead of green grass, and the resident drug dealer camped out on the stoop. Garth believed in a man being educated and well spoken. An entrepreneur is nothing but a hustler with a great vocabulary he would say. And for the most part, I think he was right. But his usual display of multi-syllabic words evaded him during his phone conversation. In fact, Garth didn’t say much at all, just a few short responses like uh huh, yeah, and okay. Then, almost in slow motion, he hung up the phone. Sami, sweetie, it’s time for bed. Bethie, honey, take the baby to bed.

Grandma Bethie knew Garth well enough to know that something was terribly wrong. They had a silent way of communicating that many couples have come to experience but few can begin to explain. Similar to the way she told him to answer the phone without actually saying it, there was something in the look he gave that warned of danger. Grandma Bethie was certain of this. She had lived with this man and loved him for an eternity. She had washed his dirty drawers and more. She had no doubt that she knew him as well as she knew herself. And her ability to detect every inflection in his voice, every slant of his eye, every tremble in his motion had been perfected over time. Grandma Bethie rushed Sami to bed and returned to find her husband weeping on the couch, his face buried in his hands. Yes, something was terribly wrong. You see, Garth was from the old school. And Black men from his generation followed certain rules. Rule #1: Men don’t cry. And they especially don’t cry in front of their women unless there is a really good reason.

Realizing she had forgotten her doll, Sami’s small footsteps could be heard racing across the hardwood floors upstairs.

I forgot my baby.

Sami stopped abruptly mid flight down the stairs. Seeing her grandparents huddled across the room, visibly upset, Sami stood frozen in time. She couldn’t see their faces or hear their words, but a child can sense when something isn’t right. It’s a keen sense they have, much like a dog. Seemingly undetected by her grandparents, she stood and watched them curiously. A few minutes later, she quietly returned to bed without her doll.

The next day and every day thereafter, Grandma Bethie and Garth stayed with Sami at her house. She never saw them move in their clothes, and they never replaced any of the items in the house. In fact, everything was the way it had always been, except that Sami never saw her parents again.

Grandma Bethie never told Sami what actually happened. And the once eloquent speaking Garth became a man of few words. Whenever Sami would ask for her mom and dad, and that was all the time, Grandma Bethie would run to her crying, hold her tight, and say, It will be okay baby, everything will be okay. But Sami was a child, and she didn’t understand. How would everything be okay? Why couldn’t she see her parents? She simply didn’t understand. That was, until the day Garth mustered up the strength to tell a 6-year old that her parents had died in an accident and that they were in heaven with God. He told Sami, Every time you say a prayer, God will kiss mommy and daddy for you. After that conversation Sami never asked for her parents again, she just prayed.

Grandma Bethie and Garth were parents again at the ages of 72 and 75, respectively. They never considered letting anyone else raise Sami. I think in a way, it was the only way they could bear the loss of a second daughter and their son-in-law. But Grandma Bethie and Garth were old, and chasing after a kid didn’t make them any younger. In fact, it probably wore them down a bit faster. But they loved Sami and she loved them. And in the end, I guess that’s what really mattered. Trust me when I tell you, love doesn’t always come easy. So day after day, month after month, year after year, they were there. That is, until everything changed.

Garth passed away first. The doctors said he died from prostate cancer. What is it with Black men and prostate cancer? Sami was in her last year of high school when it happened. She and Grandma Bethie were both devastated. They clung to one another for support and the strength to get through the days. Slowly, Sami began to accept his death and move on. After all, she was about to embark on her life’s next journey, college. And besides, she still had Grandma Bethie. And a grandma’s love can rival hitting the Pick 3 Lottery, even when you hit the numbers straight! But the days got harder instead of easier for Grandma Bethie. She missed Garth terribly. Decades of her life had included him in her daily routine. When she got a glass of water for herself, she poured a glass for him. When she washed her clothes, she washed his too. When she went for a walk, he walked beside her. He had always been there by her side. He was her partner and nothing felt the same, nothing felt right, without him. When Sami left for school Grandma Bethie faded into life. Her days were long and lonely. She died two months into Sami’s freshman year. Everybody said she died of natural causes, but Sami insisted that she died from a broken heart. Hold on, she’s not done.

Heavenly father, I thank you for the food I’m about to receive, may it be nourishment to my body and sustenance to my soul. Amen.

Anyway, after losing her grandparents, I wasn’t sure if Sami would be able to cope in this world alone. She doesn’t have any other biological family to speak of. She didn’t have any siblings, and she never knew her grandparents or any other relatives on her father’s side of the family. Rumor had it that her paternal grandmother was an addict who had a reputation for sleeping around town to fund her drug habit. She abandoned Sami’s dad, Ronny, when he was only 14-years old. Alone at 14, I wouldn’t wish that on anybody. Anyway, Ronny met Sami’s mom, her name was Tamara, when they were sophomores in high school. Before Grandma Bethie died, she gave Sami a diary that belonged to Tamara. According to the diary, Ronny was a tough guy; no one dared to mess with him. Although he wasn’t very big, just 5’8 tall and about 160 pounds, he had an edge about him that everyone recognized as something you could only get by taking your fair share of hard knocks from the streets. He was handsome in his own right, but many girls didn’t look his way because he didn’t wear the latest clothes or sneakers and he wasn’t an athlete. Kids talked about him being abandoned and speculated that he didn’t have much money, food, or family support. All of this was true. He did odd jobs around town and somehow managed to scrape up enough money to keep a roof over his head. Many of the mothers in his neighborhood would take turns cooking for him, ensuring that he had at least one meal per day. Sometimes the meals came with an invitation for dessert, if you know what I mean. But Ronny always ignored the overt advances. Sami’s mom Tamara had a much better life growing up. Every day she awoke in a warm bed, followed by a hot breakfast and tender hugs from her parents as she set off to school—her contentment with life evidenced by her soft smile and naivety. She did well in school and had many friends. Tamara’s only fleeting sadness came when she thought about her twin sister Tamia, who was abducted at 8-years old from the neighborhood park. Tamara was able to describe the man she said stole" her sister. Two days later the perpetrator was arrested, but it was too late. He told the police where to find Tamia’s body.

When Ronny first laid eyes on Tamara, he thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever encountered. She was as curvy as a girl could be at 15, had long jet black hair, and suede-like cocoa skin. Yeah, she had it going on. Wasting no time, he introduced himself and stated his intentions of making her his woman. Flattered by his compliments and impressed with his gregarious approach, she agreed to have lunch with him and the rest, as they say, is history. Her beauty was soon overshadowed by her kindness and their bond was sealed when they learned of one another’s personal stories. They had long talks about growing up without someone they loved. Ronny seldom talked about living without his mom with anyone else. To an outsider, his mother was just a very busy woman who worked a lot, at least that’s the story he told. And Tamara rarely spoke about her dead sister, mainly because her parents had such a difficult time with her death that she didn’t want to upset them further. But for some reason, they found it easy to talk about these difficult situations with each other. Ronny told Tamara how he felt that no one loved him, how he never knew his father, and how he felt ashamed about his circumstances but refused to play the role of a victim. Tamara talked to him about missing her best friend, her sister, the guilt she felt about being the living twin, and how her parents grieved. Ronny and Tamara shared everything and they immediately became inseparable. They would hold hands between classes and sit with each other beneath the bleachers after school. But unlike the other teenagers who were more interested in kissing and making out, Ronny and Tamara just talked about the future—their future, together. Two years passed with little change, except for the fact that Ronny and Tamara officially fell in love. Then, during the last semester of their senior year, Tamara told her parents about Ronny, his hardships, and her love for him. Grandma Bethie and Garth were shocked. They suspected that Tamara had a boyfriend; she was an attractive, smart girl. But that the boy was abandoned by his own mother, that he had been taking care of himself, that Tamara loved him, this was all breaking news. Grandma Bethie and Garth did not discourage Tamara’s relationship. They too had fallen in love at a very young age. And after losing Tamia, they only wanted Tamara to find happiness. And if Ronny made her happy, then that was good enough for them.

After graduation Ronny and Tamara swore to stay together; remain virgins until marriage; and because of Ronny’s mother’s problems with addiction, never to drink alcohol or take drugs. Ronny must have really liked Tamara, because I don’t know too many high school boys who could tame their raging hormones long enough to walk to the drugstore for condoms, more less wait to walk down the matrimonial aisle. But Ronny and Tamara had something special and they both knew it. Their talks turned into promises, their promises turned into commitment, and their commitment eventually turned into vows. Ronny proposed after Tamara completed her Associate’s degree at the local community college. He took a job with the city and she went on to pursue a Bachelor’s degree at the state college. They married and for the next four years they were convinced that life couldn’t get any better. Then they had my girl Sami. The last diary entry read, Today Ronny and I were blessed with a beautiful baby girl. She is perfect. We named her Samantha Monroe. Now our lives are complete.

Just a minute, there’s just one more.

God is good, God is great, bless me while I stack my plate. Amen.

I swear, this chile has the most blessed food of anyone I know. And yes, I said chile. So, that’s the family tree. Oh, what about me you ask? Who am I? Now I know you’re thinking I’m from somewhere down south. But trust me when I tell you, I don’t know a thing about hominy grits, fat back, pork this or pork that. I’m from as far north as one can get, but I guess I picked up a few southern ways somewhere along the way. Anyway, I’m Toodle. I like to think of myself as Sami’s partner. And no, I’m not her man. After all, a man named Toodle would be funny. Get it, funny, as in literally and figuratively. I crack myself up. Anyway, I digress. And besides, Sami’s man has been M-I-A for the last couple of days, but I’ll get to that fool shortly. As I was saying I’m Toodle, the praying girl’s personal angel.

---

Ok, maybe it’s me, but I think that fish on her plate just moved. Would somebody please tell me when Black people got into eating damn sushi? Sorry about the cursing. Sami tries not to curse, but sometimes I just have to let it out. And sometimes things just slip. You know, like farts, clumsy kids, curse words. Don’t get me wrong, Sami is not a geek or anything. Well, maybe she is a little bourgeoisie, but she’s cool. And as you can see, I’m a little more urban I’ll call it. I know, you thought all of us angels were candy sweet. I bet Garth could appreciate that I can be a hustler or an entrepreneur, depending on the day you catch me. Surprisingly, Sami and I get along stupendously. See, that’s one of the words she taught me. Ninety-thousand dollars at an Ivy League school means I can be upper echelon when I have to be. But that’s more Sami’s speed. As for me, I’m more of your around-the-way type. Normally, I kick the straight Ebonics, double negatives, expletives and all that. Don’t let the halo fool you; but I’ll try my best to keep it clean. Oh, don’t get it twisted. Just because you have some papers that does not mean you are smart. I mean, how do you call yourself eating healthy by eating fish, but then you dunk it in some salty soy sauce. That sodium is like crack, it will have you shaking like a dope fiend. Just look at her go, eating Nemo. Lord, the girl just ordered eel; help me somebody.

Ring, ring.

Is that my cell phone?

Is she talking to me? She must be, since she’s sitting here alone. I don’t know why she insists on talking aloud. She knows we have this telepathic thing going on. Now if I answer her aloud, that would be some kind of funny, right?

Hello, this is Samantha Monroe.

Why is it that uppity folk announce who they are when they answer their own phone? See, I told you, bourgeoisie.

Ms. Monroe, this is the ADT security dispatch. Our monitoring center has received a signal that the alarm on your front door has been engaged.

I’m sorry, what did you say?

Sami was taken a bit off guard.

This is ADT. The police have been dispatched to your home because your alarm signal was activated.

Oh shit girl, he’s trying to tell you somebody has broken into the crib. Get the check so we can go. We have bigger fish to fry!

---

It took me 6 months to convince Sami to buy a Mercedes Benz, 3 months for her to drive it over 55 miles an hour on the highway, and another 2 weeks for her to park next to any non-luxury vehicle, especially if it was American made. How quickly she forgot that she used to drive a hand-me-down, dingy blue Chevette with no A/C. Then there was the green Corolla with the taped up tail light. And how can I forget the lime Tercel with the bumper sticker that said I screwed up and forgot to pay the note on my luxury car. I laughed until I cried when somebody cut out a few choice letters and the sticker read I screw for pay o luxury car. Sami didn’t see the humor but I thought it was hilarious. Well, those days are long gone. Once she landed a job at Maxi Corporation as a Corporate Paralegal she got her first brand new car, a red two-door Honda Civic. Yes, we have come a long way baby. Now my girl has passed the bar and is General Counsel with Maxi Corporation. She is ballin’ as they like to say in the hood. For the last year, we’ve been cruising around town in this fully loaded, white opal, chromed out CLK550 Coupe, complete with a 6-track CD player, MP3, navigation system, and honey-trimmed leather. Like I said, ballin’. Sometimes, Sami drives extra slow so everybody can get a good look at materialism at its best. But tonight my home girl was driving like she had just car-jacked this ride and was headed for the chop shop. We weaved in and out of traffic all the way down Interstate 95. Every thought you can imagine raced through her head. Maybe someone wasn’t paying attention and accidentally tried to open her door with their key. Or God forbid, someone was trying to break into her house and rob her. Or even worse, what if someone wanted to break in and hurt her? What was going on? The more she thought, the faster she drove. Once she hit the city, she gambled against every red light camera on the strip. Sami ignored the honking horns and insults people yelled as she broke traffic rule after rule. Then suddenly Sami slowed down and tears began to roll down her face. The lines on the road became blurry. She felt panicked and her heart raced. She was remembering.

Sami regressed to that 6-year old sitting on Garth’s lap, face buried in his chest as he told her the truth about her parents’ deaths. The police report taken at the accident scene stated that a blue SUV crossed the median of a two-way highway and struck her parents’ sedan head on. The driver of the SUV was a teenager, a first-string basketball player at the local high school. Sami later learned that he had received the truck for his 17th birthday and was out celebrating, i.e., drinking with his friends, the night of the accident. An inexperienced driver, the youth lost control of the vehicle while rounding a sharp turn. His excessive speed and suggested intoxication were cited as the causes of the misfortune. One minute Sami’s parents were headed home from a movie and the next minute they were killed on impact. Sami drove safely for the duration of the twenty minute drive to her home. Nothing that awaited her was worth hurting herself or someone else. She found the brake petal and turned off the music as she entered the Parkside community. It was almost 9 p.m. and she knew many of the neighbors would still be awake. She didn’t want to draw added attention to whatever situation that was unfolding. She had a few nosey neighbors that were surely peeking through their curtains already. As the car slowed more, rounding the cul de sac, Sami’s heart quickened. She gasped for air when she saw her house, a four bedroom, single car garage townhome in a gentrified section of northeast D.C. with two marked police cars sitting in front of it.

What the…?

Come on girl, get it out.

Fuck.

Hallelujah, my girl hasn’t gone completely sadiddy on me yet.

The cranberry door to unit 1379 was wide open, and so was Sami’s mouth. Her eyes fixated on the man seated in the back of the cruiser, she didn’t notice one of the officers approaching her car. I don’t know how she could have missed him, because this man was F-I-N-E, fine. He stood about 6 feet, broad shoulders, probably 220 pounds. He was thick! He was chocolate like a Hershey bar, wore a thin mustache, and flashed a pretty smile. For the record, we don’t do ex-cons (no exceptions), we don’t do baby mama drama, and we don’t do men with yuck mouths.

Good evening madam.

Did you hear that girl, he said madam. Ain’t that French?

Officer.

Officer? Is that all she’s going to say? Officer? I’m sorry; she has lost her ever-loving mind. Let’s see. Behind door number one you have "Monsieur