Life After Death

by Sister Souljah

  The rose-red Rolls-Royce rolled up. He flicked his finger. His son got right out. He waved his son off like a man swatting a fly.

  “I have something to say,” his son said. The father ignored. Instead he opened the front passenger-side door and waved me in.

  “I need my girls to ride with me. That was the ‘if’ I was talking about,” I said to him. He waved Pretty over. She was standing and watching me. Held her heels in her hand, walked over in her bare feet and climbed in back. I looked around for Bridgette but didn’t see her in the dancing crowd that was lining up to enter the club. I should have known that Bridgette would run off somewhere in search of her next outburst.

  “The fair-skinned one is already seated.” He gestured. “She seems to like Olga, my secretary,” he added slyly. I dipped and looked in the back. Bridgette in her nun garment was hugged up with some tall, but petite-framed, European-model-style woman, who on first glance I saw was wearing three-thousand-dollar heels. Bridgette shrugged her shoulders like, “Whatever.”

  Now we were rolling in the rose-red Rolls-Royce. He was driving. I was chilling while falling in love with the white leather captain’s chairs with the deep red piping. The whole beauty of this vehicle had me melting. My girls behind me were holding crystal wineglasses as his secretary poured the drinks. She passed the first half-filled glass to me. I was like, That’s right bitch. Keep everything flowing in the right order and I’ll let you keep your job… maybe! By the time this night comes to an end, I better be wearing shoes double the value of the pair she had on. I’d make him prove himself to me, over and over again, not through his charm-filled words, but through action. That’s the way I measure a man.

  On the dash right in front of me was a thin pure gold case. I leaned forward and opened it. “Help yourself. It’s my business card,” he said, granting permission, but I was already on it. The card was all black and made of expensive fabric. Strangely there was no business address or phone number, or even an email address. It contained only a finely embroidered, slanted, capital letter E enlarged and positioned in the center of the card. I flipped it over. The backside was just pure black with one sentence written at the bottom edge in fancy tiny white lettering. It read, ONE NIGHT ONLY.

  “Ask me anything,” he said, sensing my curiosity.

  I was imagining going into the club tonight, getting VIP seats, drinks on the house, a few celebrity sightings. I was thinking of all my favorite dead celebs that might be performing at the club. I laughed to myself. I wondered if the stars have to be dead to perform in the city called the Last Stop Before the Drop? Or if they could be booked from the world of the living and required to sign a confidentiality agreement like I learned about from preparing for my reality-show debut. As long as they never told one living human being about the realm of the living dead, and the fact that “rest in peace” is a sham, would they be allowed to perform at his nightclub?

  The unexpected that I had not imagined so far was way better than the expected. I dropped the card into my saddle bag. I had so many questions. I didn’t ask him anything, though. Wherever we were going next as we cruised through the darkness was better than returning to my little room for one in a convent with a bunch of ugly broke bitches who were determined to stay broke forever.

  20.

  Laid out on the spa table having our bodies gently scrubbed with loofah sponges and fragrant soaps, it couldn’t be better. When we arrived curbside, we were greeted by an attractive older woman. She came directly over to the driver’s window with a very attentive and familiar expression upon seeing him. When his window lowered, she spoke to him in a strange language. Even stranger, he spoke back to her in the same-sounding language. But his talk was way beyond simple greetings. He looked over to me, placed his hand on my arm, then turned back to her. I could only guess that he was telling her to care for me properly. He looked back where Bridgette and Pretty were comfortably seated along with his secretary. Then he turned back to the attractive older woman and spoke some more. She listened with a knowing pleasant smile on her face, then stepped to the back door of the Rolls. Olga eased out as though she had fully understood their conversation. He eased out too and to my surprise walked around to open the door only for me.

  “I have to finish up some business matters at the club. By the time you ladies are satisfied here, I will have returned to escort you to Pharos.”

  “Pharos?” I replied, but really it didn’t matter. I was down to go wherever!

  “The Light House. It is my private place, my estate, where I welcome only the most selective special guests.” He smiled, gave me his arm, and escorted me to the front of the establishment. Once I was standing beside my girls, he checked his goddamn hot-to-death, rose-gold Audemars Piguet diamond-flooded watch. I was swooning as he walked back to his whip.

  “Take deep breaths,” Pretty said, and laughed a little.

  “This way, ladies,” the older attractive woman guided. Olga followed first. We followed Olga. But Bridgette bolted forward so that she could walk beside Olga.

  “What amazing language was that?” Bridgette asked Olga.

  “Amharic,” Olga replied. “It is the language of Ethiopia.”

  “My country,” the attractive older lady stopped to say proudly.

  Three young Ethiopian maidservants serviced us. Olga was in charge of assuring that we receive the “royal treatment.” I was glad that it was just us three receiving the works. If Olga had also been laid out on the table, then I would have known that she was not really a secretary, but maybe is a secret side piece, hopefully not more.

  “Do you think he’s married?” Bridgette asked me, as our soaped bodies were being gently hosed down with warm water.

  “No, probably just divorced. Didn’t you hear him say outside the club that his grown son was a son of a bitch? He wouldn’t say that about his wife. So whoever his son’s mother is, either just some jump-off baby momma or tired ex-wife he’s no longer interested in.”

  “Son of a bitch. Yep, he definitely did call his own son that,” Pretty added.

  “Well, I hope he is divorced. I hate a scumbag who cheats on his wife. I really hate it, hate it, hate it.” Bridgette was getting revved up.

  “Relax,” the Ethiopian girl who was serving Bridgette said softly. Bridgette had raised her head up and tensed up her back muscles just by thinking about my guy’s marital status.

  “Me too,” Pretty said. “I hate adultery. It hurts.”

  “Ahh bitch, you were fucking Dat Nigga same time I was,” I said too quickly.

  “That’s not adultery,” Pretty said. “You were not married to him. And as far as I know, based on what he said, he was not married to anyone either. If single people fuck each other, that’s not adultery. That’s called fornication.”

  “Fornication, huh? What no-dick-having, no-pussy-having idiot came up with a dry-ass word like fornication to describe coming so hard your thighs tremble!” I said, and we all laughed. I was glad they didn’t front like they couldn’t understand where I was coming from. And suddenly the Ethiopian maidservants were laughing too.

  * * *

  Our bodies washed, scented, and oiled, we were receiving mani-pedis simultaneously from the now six new servants who were serving us in the same building but separate salon room. I thought it was dope how it was one wide, one-story building that accommodated all of a woman’s needs. I had a thought while seated in the comfortable elevated salon chairs. “How did you find out about that club? It sounded like you had been there a few times before. Yeah, and you even knew the way,” I asked Pretty.

  “Because I went once before,” she said softly, as though she didn’t want to discuss it.

  “That wasn’t your first time seeing that beautiful red God in the sky playing the music!” Bridgette asked. Then there was a pause before Pretty replied.

  “I didn’t get that far to the front of the club. I was on the back end of the line two or three blocks over. That’s how I knew the club just ha
d to be lit! You know it’s like a great restaurant. It could be small like a closet but if the food is exceptional, there will still be three miles of people waiting for a taste. Or a restaurant can be fine and fabulous, totally upgraded but completely empty because of who or what’s cooking. Or who’s serving and how they look and also how they treat the customers. Stuff like that. So I knew the club had the right formula. Everything working right at the right same time.”

  “So what happened once you got to the front of the club? Was there a different DJ than the one we saw tonight?” Bridgette demanded to know. But I had already figured out.

  “I met a guy while I was on that long line just enjoying the music. We could hear it even three blocks away. Well anyway, the guy pushed a black Lamborghini. He pulled up right beside where I was standing. He gets out and all the girls were checking him. Even the men were fascinated with his whip. And out of the sea of women gathered there, he chose me.”

  “Same like tonight!” Bridgette exclaimed. And because she was all reflexes, she caused the polish on one of her toes to get nicked. I didn’t say nothing. I knew that was the day Pretty had first met Dat Nigga. She knew my feelings and my bond with him. So she was either nice enough or clever enough not to bring him up by name. And I know he rocked her bells, same as he rocked mine.

  While our nails dried, we were served, in tiny little colorful clay cups, sips of the best coffee ever. I’m not really a coffee drinker, but I got a bit curious from the aroma, and was impressed at having a servant hold the tiny cup for me until I sipped. It was the first drink I had as a dead human. The fact that they offered it to us made me feel alive. I liked that. The pastry that accompanied the coffee was the size of a coin. I thought it was clever to offer guests the best cake they would ever taste in life or death and to only give them enough for them to leave with a delicious memory and a continuous craving. Seemed like you would have to return to this exact location to experience the exquisite taste. I’m sure that was the whole point. Beyond my sexual enticement, I was getting pretty pumped about the business possibilities this new connect would open for me. I could do what any of the women working here could do. I could do it even better. Upon arriving in the next salon in the same spa, I became skeptical about letting some Ethiopian girls, who were still foreign bitches to me, do my hair. Even though the hair salon was crystal clean, I don’t choose beauticians by how sparkling their salons are. I choose based on reputation, hearsay, and technique. Once I choose a beautician bitch, she gets one chance to make one mistake. Then I’m out. Never again to return, and I’m telling everybody not to go there.

  “Here, madame.” The maybe twenty-one-years-young beautician set to do my hair handed me a Vogue, a Cosmopolitan, an Elle, and a Black Hair magazine. I was so thrilled to see magazines period, I could’ve peed with joy! I didn’t, though. I grabbed hold of them and knew they were going to be taken with me to wherever my next stop is. I looked at the date on the front cover. These mags came out after my death!

  “Choose a style. I think you may be particular,” she said demurely. “But we are particular too. And we do a great job,” she said pleasantly, striking a confident pose.

  “Better than the Dominicans?” I asked, just to fuck with her. But she didn’t know who the Dominicans were. I flipped through the pages, taking my sweet time. I settled on a short cut that I saw on top model Linda Evangelista. Only the prettiest bitches have the confidence to pull off a short wild cut. With my skin back in flawless condition, my scar gone like it was never ever there, I was as cocky as Naomi Campbell and as sultry as Chanel Iman. So I went for it.

  “You got a mirror?” I asked when my cut was complete.

  “What for?” the young Ethiopian beautician asked, then smiled. Then she pointed. The mirror was right in front of me. And even though I was seated in her chair and she was standing over me, neither one of us cast a reflection. “Trust me, you are more gorgeous than all of the bitches in the magazines. I’m counting on your look to win me a promotion, a bonus and a reward, all three.”

  * * *

  “The two of you…” the dark-eyed, dark-haired older Italian woman who was introduced to us as the top hostess who runs the fashion wing of the spa building said, speaking to Bridgette and Pretty “… may select two dresses and two pantsuits. You are limited to salon rooms A and B. You, my dear, follow me.” So I did. She was like an old beauty pageant winner who walked as though she still had her crown on her head. Traces of beauty were there but obviously terminally faded. She swung open a heavy door. Inside were the designer’s top pieces from all over the world. As my eyes zoomed from left to right at each item, I thought of how I didn’t really have enough places to go down here to wear these type of “fuck the world I’m rich bitch” styles. I smiled.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said, but sounded a lil’ greasy, even with her thick accent.

  “How many can I select?” I asked, ignoring her little swipe.

  “For you, it is unlimited. Choose anything you like. I will package it for you.” She didn’t have to tell me twice. I was like a greedy fat bitch in the chocolate shop. I strolled calmly even though I was overjoyed and overwhelmed. I paused as though I had to think about certain items, when there was absolutely nothing to think about. I’m taking it all.

  From the look on her face, I guess she thought I overdid it. “Everyone forgets. The nightclub is called One Night Only,” she said strangely.

  “Yeah, what about it?” I asked her sharply, letting her know I’m top bitch right now, not thirty years ago. Even if this is a one-night shopping event, that’s even more reason to grab everything while I can.

  “You chose fifteen dresses, six skirts, ten blouses, eight scarves, six silk robes, and—”

  “And go package them. Do your job.” I cut her off.

  “Which one will you wear to the club?” she asked slyly.

  “Depends on how I feel and how I want to look at that time,” I said, which was my super-polite way of saying bitch mind your fucking business!

  “So-fee-ah!” she called out. A younger woman emerged from behind a curtain. “Package these,” the old bitch said. “All but one outfit will be returned either way,” she added. I just ignored her, crossed my arms across my breasts, and tapped my foot like, Run, bitch, hurry up!

  “You didn’t select any undergarments,” she said deviously.

  “I don’t wear any.” I said it old-school, like, How you like me now!

  * * *

  Bridgette and Pretty came looking for me at the designer shoe shop. I’m glad they showed up, because I was never coming out on my own. Being in there was like a tongue tickling my clitoris. I was turned on by everything I saw. “Who owns this shop?” I asked the French hostess who served me, the only customer at the moment.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you have a pair of shoes in a glass showcase over there that are selling for more than one million dollars.”

  “Oh, oui, oui, yes, yes. Stuart Weitzman loves to design this million-, multimillion-dollar shoe collection. He is showoff with diamonds and rubies and gold and emeralds!”

  “So, uh, whoever owns this spot is so caked up, he could afford a seven- or eight-digit shoe inventory?”

  She smiled. “You know him. He is the one who made it possible for you and I to be here,” she said as though she and I were sharing some secret.

  “Oh word, he owns the shoe store?” I double-checked.

  “He owns the entire building, the whole spa, and all of the businesses on this street plus more.”

  “How did you get this job?” I asked her. I knew it was bold and that she might tell me to mind my fucking business, the same way I tell people that all the time.

  But instead she said, “How does a woman get anything she wants from a man?” Then she stared into my eyes as though she and I would finish off our conversation speaking only through our eyes. After a long pause, she said, “Whenever you want something from a man, satisfy him.�
� She winked. “And don’t keep him waiting.” She nudged me to join Bridgette and Pretty, who were waiting at the exit.

  21.

  “It’s a real lighthouse,” Bridgette exclaimed, as the Royce rolled along the torchlit path to his estate. “That means there must be a river or an ocean close by.” No one replied. The truth is, I had never heard of a lighthouse and had no idea what its purpose was. I just thought it was what he decided to name his property. And because we were in the Last Stop Before the Drop, the name Light House to me signaled that he was a very wealthy man. If light was a forbidden commodity, and he had plenty of it, that makes him king.

  As we drew near, I saw it. It was a tower of light, the only thing that pierced the extreme blackness that was the atmosphere. Pierced but not nearly as powerful, like the sun that lights not simply a small area but the whole world. Upon arrival, we saw that his parking area was packed, as though we were arriving late to an indoor concert that had already begun. It was not wild and loud like his nightclub. There was no dance line, fight club, or crowd waiting to crash in. There was no red cage or red beast. Still, I knew there had to be a reason that we were all dolled up and smelling sumptuous. I was amped that my six-inch crystal Dolce & Gabbana stilettos were not being wasted tonight. And my new look and crystal mini and matching clutch were the most perfect eye-catchers.

  “Olga,” was all he had to say. She got out and escorted Bridgette and Pretty to the guarded entrance. As I placed my mean manicured nails on the passenger door to join them, I heard the lock click. “Not yet,” he said smoothly. So I stayed still. He was silent for some seconds. “You are not afraid of me, are you?” he asked.