Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 10

Author's note: Huge thanks to Exluke1 for helping me iron out some parts of a rather complicated chapter.

*

Mitch's bleary eyes opened on Saturday morning, and he rolled over on his mattress to check the time on his phone. 8am. Too early. He rolled back over and snoozed some more. He finally crawled out of bed just after 9. He took a shower and got dressed before heading out for breakfast at a nearby café. He sat at a window table, waiting for his coffee, eggs and toast to arrive. It was hot out; summer was on the way.

He ate, watching the foot traffic sweep by. He remembered last Saturday when he felt energetic enough to walk the width of Manhattan -- today, he decided that, after breakfast, he was going to go for a run.

After leaving a healthy tip for his waitress, he strolled back to his apartment, changed into gym gear, and walked to Central Park. He crossed Madison and Fifth avenues before doing some light lunges and stretches to get the blood flowing. He opened an app on his phone that would track his movements as he ran.

He jogged south, on the western edge of Fifth Avenue, past the Metropolitan Museum of Art where tourists lined the steps, as far as 59th street where the park ended. He turned right, heading west, skirting the park's southern fringes. When he reached Central Park West, he headed north, slowing to a walk as he passed through Strawberry Fields. He picked up the pace and ploughed on further, covering the entire western edge of the park which ended at 110th street. Harlem was on the northern side of the street, and he knew he had plans there later this evening.

Turning right again, Mitch pounded the pavement as far east as Duke Ellington circle before heading south on the final leg of his run. He ran along the eastern edge of New York City's massive green lung, astride the eastern fringe of the Jackie Onassis reservoir, before returning to where he started. The full loop was about 10 kilometres, and it took Mitch just over an hour to complete it. He felt wildly alive, but he knew he should conserve some energy for later.

His skin was covered in beads of sweat, and his t-shirt felt like it'd been glued to his back. He headed home to shower off. He opened the door and stripped naked. He'd just thrown his clothes into the hamper when he noticed he wasn't alone.

"Mitch!" shouted Trina. She looked his sweaty body up and down. She thought he looked fitter than she remembered him, but at the same time, his cock seemed a little smaller. "How are you?"

Mitch was emotionally thrown, not sure what to say. Something about standing naked in front of his wife felt completely inappropriate to him now. "Uh... yeah... I'm good... how are you?... umm... can you excuse me for a minute, I'm just going to have a shower."

"Yeah, you look like you've just been for a run or something." Trina's eyes were fixated on her husband's small white cock. The last time she'd felt his dick inside her was when it was in her ass.

"Yeah... uhh... I just ran around Central Park."

"All of it?"

"Well... yeah... as much as possible... I mean, you can't run around the square borders of the park, but there's a loop inside the park that covers most of the perimeter."

Trina remembered months ago when Mitch told her he'd been running in the park and she didn't believe him. In fact, she ridiculed and mocked the fuck out of him. Maybe he'd been telling the truth. She glanced down at her husband's sweaty cock again, wondering what it might taste like after he'd been for a run.

They stood facing each other -- Trina fully clothed, and Mitch not -- for a few more seconds of uncomfortable silence. Mitch sneezed. "Gonna grab that shower now, Trina," he said.

"Sounds like you've earned it," she whispered, watching his ass as he walked away.

Trina could've sworn she saw a heavy black mark on one of Mitch's ass cheeks.

She sat on the couch, aimlessly flipping through the TV guide while Mitch showered. Mitch hoped she'd be gone by the time he finished, having done whatever the fuck she needed to do, but as he shut the faucet off, he sensed he still had company. 'She'd better not be going through my fucking drawers again,' Mitch thought to himself.

He dried himself off and wrapped a towel around his waist before heading to the bedroom for some clean clothes. Trina was still here, in the living room, sitting on the couch. Mitch wanted to know *why* she was here, but he couldn't think of an appropriate way to ask the question without making her feel like an intruder, which, in a legal sense, she wasn't. The difficult reality Mitch inhabited was that he and she were still married, her name was on the lease, and she had a key. She had as much right to be in their apartment as he did.

Mitch dressed and returned to the living room. Trina closed the magazine and lobbed it onto the couch. She gave him her full attention. "What are your plans for the day, hubby?" She was getting used to his nose ring and now thought it suited him. She felt ashamed when she thought how mean she was to him when he first got his nostril pierced.

Hubby? Mitch winced. "Uhh... I don't know... I guess I feel a little hungry after the run." As soon as he admitted this, he regretted it, because it was an implicit invitation to Trina to have lunch with him.

"Cool, I could use a bite to eat myself," Trina said. "Let's get lunch together, what do you say?"

Mitch knew there was only one thing he *could* say. "Yeah, sure, OK." He would've much rather been left alone.

Trina bounced up from the couch and hugged him. Mitch returned her gesture as weakly as possible without arousing unnecessary suspicion.

"I know a place," she said, beaming. She grabbed her husband by the hand. "Come on."

Twenty minutes later, Mitch sat at a table in a restaurant, across from his wife. A smiling waiter brought menus.

Trina beamed. "This place is new. I've been here once or twice with Amanda. She says hello, by the way. Check out the menu. It's Icelandic food."

Mitch nodded before perusing the menu. He found it confusing. Each of the dishes had unintelligible, unpronounceable names. "What would you recommend?" The table was made out with plates, cutlery and glassware of all shapes and sizes. He would've been happy with a simple salad sandwich.

Trina didn't answer. She waved to the waiter and ordered two martinis.

Mitch wasn't in the mood for alcohol. "I don't know about this, Trina. It's only lunchtime, I've just done a six-mile run, and I don't usually drink gin or vodka at this time of the day."

"You aren't drinking either of those," she replied. "I've ordered brennivín."

"What's that?"

"It's an Icelandic drink. The name means 'burned wine', but it's not wine. It's kind of like an aquavit."

A few awkward minutes later, two martini glasses landed on their table. Thin floes of shaved ice floated on the surface of each chilled glass.

"Try it," Trina encouraged. "Skál!," she said, raising her glass to his.

Mitch had flashbacks to the time he thought Tyrone and Leroy gave him a shot of gasoline to drink. He sipped gingerly. "Tastes like liquorice."

"Mmm," Trina agreed, nodding. "Yeah, I think so too. Even though the liquid is clear, like vodka, I think there's something very dark about this drink. Almost... black." She looked him dead in the eyes.

Mitch choked on his beverage. Surely his wife must've seen his tattoo when he headed to the bathroom after his run. Assuming she did, would she know what it meant? He held his menu up to his face to try to disguise his reaction.

A waiter noticed Mitch choking and came over. "Are you OK, sir?"

Mitch's face was red. "Yeah... I'm fine, but thanks for asking." The waiter poured him some chilled water, and Mitch drank greedily.

"Are you ready to order?" asked the waiter.

"Almost. Two more minutes?" Trina replied.

The waiter smiled and walked away.

Mitch's eyes ran up and down the menu. "I don't know what any of this is," he admitted.

"Neither did I, at first, but like I said, I've been here a few times and I've tried a few different dishes."

Mitch looked concerned. "I really need you to help me out here."

"OK. So as an appetiser, we'll order hákarl."

"I've never heard of it before," said an unimpressed Mitch. "What is it?"

"Cubes of shark meat. It´s an Icelandic delicacy. I'd suggest we get a second brennivín martini to accompany it. They go well together."

Mitch was a million miles out of his culinary comfort zone. "OK, whatever." He had no choice but to trust her.

"Then we'll order hrutsprungar, blóðmör, and svið".

Mitch hoped they were Icelandic words for fish, bread and salad. "If you say so, Trina. Hey, do they have beer in Iceland?"

"Yeah, sure they do. I'll order us two bottles of Víking."

The waiter came over and Trina relayed their order. Whatever it was she was speaking, it wasn't English.

"Hey... what the fuck was that?" Mitch asked.

"What?" Trina pretended innocence.

"That wasn't English."

Trina took a sip of her martini. "Amanda's parents are from Iceland, and she's been teaching me a little of the language. It's insanely complicated."

Mitch wasn't happy. "So, like, we're not here because you wanted to take me here, but because this'll be an amusing story for Amanda?"

Trina put her hands up, palms open and outfaced in a non-verbal apology. "Fuck, no, hubby, it isn't anything like that. I just thought you might be interested in trying something new."

Mitch mulled this statement over in his head. He'd been trying many new things for himself over recent months, but Trina had rejected and ridiculed every single one. Was it only OK for him to do something new if Trina approved? He remembered the night a few months ago when he took her to a restaurant in Harlem, precisely because it was something new, and she lost her fucking mind.

And he desperately wished his wife would stop calling him 'hubby'.

Their beers arrived, and Mitch took a sip. It tasted good. Seconds later, their appetiser arrived. There were half a dozen whitish cubes of something firm and fleshy, with a toothpick stuck in each.

"What's this, Trina?"

"This is the shark meat appetiser. Wait until we get our next martini before you try it."

The meat smelled bad, and Mitch felt the need to pinch his nose. "Are you sure that's edible? It smells like the chemical I use to mop the bathroom floor."

"Yeah, it's unusual, isn't it? It's because the meat has been cured for up to eight months, and it ferments over time, like wine."

Mitch was mystified. "And people actually eat this?"

"Yeah," said Trina. "Like I said, it's a delicacy. But don't judge until your brennivín arrives."

Right on cue, two more martini glasses landed on their table. Mitch gingerly reached out to grab a toothpicked cube of shark-based ammonia. The taste was so horrific Mitch downed his martini in two gulps, trying to burn the stench out of his mouth. He gasped for fresh air. "The rest of that shit is yours," he said to Trina, pointing to the plate of rotten shark flesh. He tried hard not to puke. He remembered what happened last time he threw up at a restaurant.

The rest of their meal began to arrive. Mitch remembered Trina had ordered three other items off the menu. The waiter plonked the first plate down on their table, saying something unintelligible to Mitch. "What's this?" he asked Trina. It looked like a thinly sliced sausage, perhaps like something they'd be served in a German restaurant.

"It's called 'blóðmör'."

"What's in it?"

The Icelandic aquavit was going to Trina's head. "Everything's in it, Mitch. For hundreds of years, people in Iceland were too resource-poor to throw any part of their dead animals away, so they found ways to consume everything."

"Great. So I'm about to eat eyeballs, am I?"

Trina chuckled inwardly, knowing what was still to come. She shrugged. "Yeah, possibly. I guess it's all different kinds of meats, blended together as a sausage, and then cooked."

Mitch picked up a slice and took a nervous bite.

"There's a lot of boiled blood in it, too," Trina disclosed.

Mitch nearly retched. "Blood? That's fucking gross. I can't eat any more of that."

Trina devoured three slices.

The next dish arrived. Mitch felt outright nauseous. This plate contained flattish balls of meat.

"Fuck, Trina, what the hell is this?"

"These are ram's testicles."

Mitch nearly dry-retched. "What the fuck? Ram's testicles? Are you being serious with me right now?" He looked around the room. "Am I on one of those weird-ass Japanese game shows right now? Where are the hidden cameras?"

"I'm serious," Trina replied. "These are usually eaten during the bleak Icelandic winter."

Mitch stared at the plate. "Is that because they have to eat shit like this, or die?"

"Once upon a time, yeah, probably, but it's not like that anymore," Trina enthused. She put one into her mouth and savoured the delicacy.

"No," said Mitch. "That's not for me." He would've killed for some southern-fried chicken from a humble Harlem diner.

Trina remembered the dildo she'd temporarily 'borrowed' from him. "Haven't you ever tasted a testicle?"

Mitch was like a rabbit caught in headlights. How much did she know?

The waiter brought their final dish across to the table. "Þetta er svið," he said, resting the plate on the table. "Gjörðu svo vel."

Mitch was horrified. "That's... that's the head of a sheep."

"Yeah, I know."

"And it's still got its fuckin' eyeballs!"

"Amanda says you can buy sheep's heads wrapped in plastic from convenience stores in Iceland. She eats the eyeballs and says they taste sweet, but I'm not brave enough to try one yet. Anyhow, if you buy one of these in Iceland, it's already cooked, so all you need to do is put it in the microwave for a minute or two, and..."

Mitch stood up from the table, went to the bathroom, and threw up into the sink. He puked until there was nothing left to come up. He wiped his face and slunk out of the restaurant without returning to his table and without saying goodbye to his wife. This whole experience had violently fucked him up. No way was he paying for this ridiculous culinary ordeal. As he walked home, his stomach felt empty like a vacuum, but despite his intense hunger, he couldn't bring himself to eat anything.

Trina sat at the table for another fifteen or twenty minutes before concluding that Mitch wasn't coming back. She messaged him a couple of times, but he didn't respond. She paid and apologised to the staff.

Mitch wasn't sure if he could ever eat meat again. He went home, lay on the couch, and hoped those horrific images would one day leave his head. He placed a plastic bucket next to the couch in case he felt the need to hurl again.

He heard a key turn in the door. "Mitch?" his wife asked. "You here? You OK?"

'Are you fucking kidding me right now?' Mitch thought to himself. He groaned loudly.

She saw him lying on the couch. "I'm so sorry babe," she said, sitting by his feet. She reached out to rub his tummy.

"Was that a joke?" Mitch challenged. "Was that meant to be funny?" He angrily pushed her hand away.

"No, babe, I thought you might like to try something new."

"What, sheep eyes and testicles for lunch, after a six mile run? Please leave me alone for a while, I need to recover from that shit."

"I just thought it might be an unusual experience."

"Well, I can't argue with that," Mitch responded. "If I could assign a single word to throwing up in the bathroom at a Saturday lunch after having eyeballs and testicles presented to me as food, I'd go with 'unusual'."

"I'm sorry," said Trina.

"Look, I know we need to talk about our stuff at some point, but if you were looking for an entry point to that discussion, that meal wasn't it."

"I'm sorry," Trina apologised again. She looked at the walls of the apartment she used to call home, but these days was just a place to keep her stuff. "And no, I wasn't trying to have that conversation today. You said you were hungry after your run, so I took you to lunch. Or, to be more accurate, I tried to. Maybe we should've just gone to a café." She noticed Mitch looked tense. "Look, Mitch, I'm gonna leave now..."

"Thanks," Mitch interrupted. "Under the circumstances, I think that's a good idea. And I know you have a key to the apartment and we're both on the lease, but we're separated, and it might be better if you called or texted ahead in future."

He heard Trina close the door behind her. Something about the way the door closed sounded sorrowful to him, but he shrugged it off. As soon as he knew she'd left the building, Mitch raced into the corridor and stabbed the elevator button. In a sudden blizzard of almost insatiable hunger, he bolted to the Subway across the street. His eyes closed in bliss as he bit into his toasted veggie patty footlong with melted cheddar cheese, drenched in honey mustard sauce and sprinkled with a light dusting of black pepper.

As he hungrily inhaled his sandwich, Mitch thought about what had just happened. Trina had blindsided him, coercing him into having lunch at the strangest place he'd ever been to, while seemingly trying to pretend that everything between them was normal. It made no sense. Nothing was normal.

He knew what he should've done. Even though it would've been a cowardly lie, he should've said he had plans. Even though they were separated, it felt like Trina's claws laid claim to a part of him that she could play with whenever she wanted, but this wasn't the life Mitch wanted. He needed to grow some balls and end this charade, but this was an issue for another day. The rest of the day was all about Harlem.

Stomach full again, Mitch headed back to his apartment in need of a quick snooze before tonight. He reached for his phone and sent a message to Tyrone.

Mitch: gonna take a quick nap right now but hey can you and i meet at 4:30 before Leroy shows up

Tyrone: yeah sure thing whiteboi

Mitch: i need 2 tell u something

Mitch didn't wait for a response. He put his phone on silent, went to bed, rested his head on his pillow, and closed his eyes for a while. His alarm was set for half past three.

*

Mitch's alarm sounded after his nap and he jumped out of bed. He threw some clothes on, brushed his teeth, grabbed his backpack, and headed to the subway station, looking forward to what might happen tonight. The afternoon was warm.

His train arrived at 125th street. He walked west across Harlem and took a seat at their booth. Mitch was relieved to discover that the bar was crisply air-conditioned. He ordered a beer, and it arrived just as Tyrone walked through the door.

Tyrone pointed at Mitch's beer. "You get me one of those, whiteboi?" he smiled. "It's hot out, and I'm a thirsty motherfucker."

"Uhh, no, but hey, I can ask the waitress..."

"Nah, dude, 's all good, whiteboi, I's jus' playin' wit' you." He looked across the bar. "I know who's workin' today." He pointed towards the waitress who'd just served Mitch his beer. "That's Jada over there. My dick an' her fat, tight asshole are on speakin' terms."

Jada came over with a tall pitcher of beer, along with a couple of shots. "Thanks, girl," he said, slapping her ass as she headed back to the bar. He turned back to Mitch. "Fuck, whiteboi, look at those fuckin' thighs. She got some thicc slabs of dark meat, just the way I like it."

Mitch watched Jada's ass sway away. Sure, her ass looked amazing, but he didn't feel compelled to comment. He knew he'd never get her attention. To Jada, Mitch was a customer who might provide a tip, but nothing more. "What did you order?" he asked.

Tyrone's gaze was superglued to Jada's tight cheeks until he heard Mitch's question. "Huh? What'd you ask me jus' now, whiteboi?"

"What's in the shot glass?" Mitch asked.