FIELD REPORT #52
Handwritten - Personal Journal
July 23, 2017 - Memphis, TN
3:17 AM
Can’t sleep. Hotel AC sounds like a dying cat. But that’s not why I’m awake.
Just got back from the best night I’ve had in... shit, years maybe. With Keisha.
The Date
Picked her up at 7. She answered the door in this yellow sundress that made her skin glow. First thing she says: “You clean up nice for an Oklahoma boy.” She had her hair down this time, that thick, curly hair that only mixed girls have. Fucking gorgeous.
Took her to this BBQ place she suggested - Rendezvous. Didn’t have to explain what dry rub was or pretend I liked whatever organic bullshit was trendy. Just ribs, beer, and real conversation.
Here’s what gets me - she’s NORMAL. Hospital administrator. Good job. Steady. Only has Facebook because “Instagram is for people with too much time.” When I told her that, she laughed so hard she snorted. Didn’t even try to hide it. She was relaxed around me too and straight up said, “You the first nigga that took me out without at least three kids running around.”
The Conversation
I don’t tell plates where I’m from. I just tell them I grew up poor. But with Keisha it was just easy. After her kid comment, we ended up talking about family. I told her about my mom. How Victoria and I barely talk. She just nodded, said “My mama had her struggles too. That’s why I made sure to get my degree. Break the cycle.”
Her ex used to hit her. Had to stop my fist from clenching when she mentioned it. She saw, put her hand on mine. “That was a long time ago. I know my worth now.”
I told her about the hack too, since I figured she had probably already googled me. Or would after the date was done. No point hiding it. The whole world’s seen my shit but I was nervous telling her. I expected judgment. Instead: “Wait, someone stole your private journal? That’s fucked up. Why is it wrong to write things down for yourself? Everyone processes differently.”
Jesus. Is this what normal women are like? The ones who don’t live on Twitter?
After
Walked Beale Street. Live music everywhere. She knows all the musicians, introduced me around. “This is Jackson, he’s visiting from Oklahoma.” No explanation needed. No performance.
Back at my hotel. Won’t write details - but she was perfect. Afterwards, lying there, she traced her fingers down my back.
“You think too much,” she said. “I can see it in your face.”
She’s right.
Reality Check
For a few hours, forgot about Crystal/Irina. Forgot about the murders. The investigation. The fact that my life is destroyed back home.
Jessica blocked me on everything. Amanda sent a text: “Don’t contact me again.” Sophia posted some feminist screed about “men who prey on women’s trust.” Fair enough. They’re protecting themselves from the mob.
But Keisha doesn’t know HeForSheWrites. Doesn’t care about Twitter. Just knows Jackson from Oklahoma who’s trying to find out what happened to his friend.
Thinking about asking her to visit OKC when this is over. If it’s ever over. If I survive it.
Maybe starting over isn’t the worst thing. My reputation’s dead. Career’s over. But sitting in that restaurant with a beautiful woman who actually LIKES me - not my Twitter persona, not my connections, just me - maybe there’s something after all this.
Assuming Crystal doesn’t kill me first.
Keisha’s getting us access to old police files through her cousin at MPD. She’s invested now. “If this girl killed people from our neighborhood, we deserve to know.”
A good woman. A normal life.
Is that even possible for someone like me?
Guess we’ll find out.
-JR
PS - She’s making me breakfast tomorrow before we go meet her cousin. Acting like it’s no big deal. “You need real food, not hotel continental breakfast.” When’s the last time someone cooked for me?
Jackson needed this scene. Thank you. 😅