When I got to the office around nine thirty, I didn’t get a damn thing done all day. I was too busy watching CNN, MSNBC, or any TV reporter willing to give me information about the election.
And I’d soon celebrate at Mitch’s election-night party.
Right now I was in my car on a barge for the three-mile ride across Biscayne Bay to his condo on Fisher Island. Of course I had the radio on, for constant reports about the election. After the financial stress at the agency, I was hoping that it was prophetic of good fortune to come that I would enjoy this historic night on the private island. Fisher Island was where the superrich “wintered” in mansions and condos that made the places on MTV Cribs look like shacks.
I’d been there with my parents, so the first time I visited Mitch, I wasn’t impressed with the fancy homes or their even fancier owners. He had invited me to a dinner party about a year ago, where a chef prepared Kobe beef that melted in my mouth.
Now, as the sun was setting over the ocean, I remembered how my father drew the connection to Detroit’s Fisher Body factory and the Fisher Building, where my family would see Broadway plays on Sunday afternoons in the Fisher Theatre. Turns out, the building and the island were named after the guy who founded the automotive parts company back in the Motor City.
When the barge reached the island, I was counting the minutes until I could get to Mitch’s condo and watch election results on TV. But for my viewing pleasure here in the car, several handsome, dark-skinned brothers sprayed my vehicle with a water hose as I drove off the barge and onto the island.
Minutes later, I was riding the elevator to a high floor in Mitch’s building. I rang the doorbell and an attractive white guy in a butler’s outfit greeted me at the door.
“Good evening,” he said over the chatter of dozens of people and live news reports on flat-screen TVs. “You are?”
“Bentley Dean.”
“Welcome to the victory party, Mr. Dean. I will tell Mr. Proctor you’re here. What can I get you to drink?”
“A beer would be cool.”
“Would you like imported or domestic, sir?”
“Why don’t you choose,” I said as I walked down a long hallway into a sea of handsome white and Italian men. The rich-looking crowd was about two-thirds women, but I could tell immediately that this party had a gay victory vibe.
I scanned the crowd for Mitch and familiar faces. Some guys had Mitch’s agency country-club rich-boi look, while others wore business suits or had that superhip, overgroomed metrosexual style. The gorgeous, muscular men who were obviously models were sporting everything from jeans to tailored suits. As I studied the guys I assumed were models I wondered if Mitch and I would ever really compete against each other. The women ranged from fashionista models to banker-lawyer types to preppy. Almost everybody I saw in this sea of pale people was wearing “Obama for Change” buttons.
But I didn’t see a single African American face. I wondered what the mood was on South Beach or, better yet, Homestead, where the community was mostly African American.
Here, almost everybody I made eye contact with made it a point to smile. If it was a woman, it seemed like they were pushing out their breasts so I could see the button they were wearing.
But I was more interested in the flat-screen TVs showing live election coverage in every corner of the enormous space. The outer walls of Mitch’s three-bedroom condo were floor-to-ceiling windows that led to a huge outdoor terrace where even more people were eating, drinking, and talking.
But I couldn’t look away from the TVs, even though I suddenly felt nervous again. The polls were closing on the East Coast in thirty minutes. Soon we’d know whether we’d be saying “President Obama” for the next four to eight years.
A waiter brought me a beer on a silver platter.
As I took it, Mitch popped up out of nowhere. He kissed my cheek and stepped back to look at me. Wearing a pin that said “Change” on the breast of his pink button-down shirt, Mitch wore crisp khakis and a white sweater over his shoulders. He nodded approval at my black linen hook-up with man sandals.
“Bentley! I’m so glad you came. It’s a historic night.” He took my free hand and pulled me through the crowd. “Come on in, get something to eat. I have several people I want you to meet. A lot of my models are here. It’s great to have eye candy at your party for free!” Mitch let out a hearty laugh.
“What’s the latest on the election?” I asked as several people looked at me curiously. “Have they said anything new?”
“No, but not to worry. The gays, the blacks, and it seems like people of all colors are going to give this country what it needs.”
“I’m not worried.” Of course that was a lie. I suddenly had the desire to be back in Michigan with my family watching the returns. We’d have dinner and then retire to the family room to talk the pros and cons of the election. But that was not to be. My dad was most likely at the country club or with some of his golf buddies drinking beer. My mother was most likely unaware that anything aside from her bridge game was going on. Anna and her husband were likely putting the kids to bed early so that they could watch the election results.
Mitch led me into the dining room, where the table held a beautiful buffet of food. In the center was a huge ice-sculpture bust of Barack Obama. All around that were towers of exotic cheeses, tropical fruits, a basket of gourmet breads, seafood, fresh vegetables with dip, and pasta salads. Nearby, men in chef uniforms stood at carving stations, serving lamb, turkey, and prime rib. In the corner was a giant cake with Obama’s face, the White House, and the word “change.”
“No egg white omelets served here, buddy,” Mitch said playfully. “Indulge. Party like it’s 2010.”
Mitch stood by me as I piled my plate. As people streamed in and out of the dining room, they greeted him and he introduced me. Was I the token black man? Had he invited me to show his friends just how “liberal” he was or was I being an ass?
With my plate of boiled shrimp, oysters, and mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat, I headed to the terrace with Mitch in tow. People stood at the railing with drinks and plates, while others sat at tables.
“Mitch!” called a George Hamilton–type man in a navy blue pin-striped suit. He was sitting with a middle-aged blonde who reminded me of Cindy McCain.
“Richard!” Mitch exclaimed, taking my arm to guide me to their table, which had a view of the sun setting over the Atlantic Ocean. “Meet my friend, Bentley Dean. He owns a modeling agency on South Beach. Bentley, this is Richard Mayer and his lovely wife, Linda. Richard is chairman and CEO of the company that owns the world’s largest cruise ship line.”
Richard stood and shook my hand. His dyed black hair remained perfectly combed back as he nodded and said, “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Bentley.” A piercing look from his gray eyes stunned me for a minute. This man definitely had serious charisma. “Join us, please.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Do you guys compete against each other?” Richard asked.
“Almost never,” Mitch and I said in unison without even trying.
Linda, who wore a white St. John suit with silver trim, shook my hand and smiled. “Delighted to meet you,” she said.
Mitch leaned over and whispered to me, “Doesn’t Linda look like she’s going for her interview as Miss Valdosta Feed and Grain?” I tried to suppress my smile as I thought of the Designing Women episode.
Mitch pulled out a chair for me and I sat. I’d hardly eaten all day, thanks to my nervous stomach, so I really needed some dinner. I raised a stuffed mushroom to my mouth. I took a bite and savored the delicious flavors.
“Tell us about your modeling agency,” Linda said. “That sounds like so much fun.”
“He used to model in New York,” Mitch said proudly. “He’s so gorgeous, you can see why. But with all the brains behind the beautiful face, good old capitalism was calling his name to open his own business.”
Richard nodded approvingly. “You know, w
e often have fashion events on our cruise ships. Perhaps we could employ some of your models for our events. Not only does it pay very well, but they’d get a chance to see the world and meet people from every continent.”
His offer to do business with me, and the delicious taste of shrimp and pasta salad, plus the slight buzz from my beer on an empty stomach—not to mention the overwhelming excitement of this historic day—well, I was feeling like everything was just about perfect right now. The only thing that would make it better would be to hear that Barack Obama had won the election. But we still had several hours to wait for that.
“That sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime,” I said to Richard. “Thank you. I’d never even thought about hiring my models on cruise ships.”
Linda raised her glass of champagne. “I’m loving that idea!” She laid her fingertips on my forearm and leaned closer. “Bentley, take it from me, the ladies absolutely love the male fashion shows. And since you’re on a cruise ship after the show, the guys just can’t escape all that adoring female attention.”
Mitch raised his beer. “Cheers to new opportunities, new friends, and a new president!”
We all clinked our drinks together and I sipped my beer.
I hadn’t felt this great in a long time, so I made a point to stay in the moment and bask in the festive mood of this historic night.
“Mitch!” exclaimed a female voice in the crowd as we were mingling in the dining room. He turned toward the living room. A stunning sista in a slim-fitting designer dress was dashing toward him. An attractive brunet man in an impeccable business suit followed close behind.
“Annette!” Mitch said happily. She took his pale, chubby jaw in the palms of her elegant brown hands and kissed each of his cheeks. Her huge diamond wedding ring sparkled and her long, cocoa-hued fingernails almost touched his ears.
He glanced at me, as if this greeting had just earned him some much-needed points on my “cool white guy” scale.
“Mitch,” said the brunet man following the only other brown face in the room. “Thanks for having us. Annette and I have been making the rounds. So many parties. But our final stop is Fisher Island.”
Mitch smiled. “It’s an honor to have you both. Annette, Brad, this is my dear friend Bentley Dean. He owns a modeling agency.” Oh, so now he was tailoring his introduction of me based on whom I was meeting.
“We own a boutique,” Annette said proudly, smiling and shaking my hand before her husband did the same. “I do the women’s fashions, and Brad handles the men’s clothing. Our store is called Black, White, and Gray. We’re on Washington.”
Suddenly I felt happier than I’d felt all evening as I recalled the funky displays I’d seen in their storefront windows. I always thought that whoever had come up with that store concept and their displays had to be cool people.
“Everything in the store is black, white, or gray,” Mitch said proudly. “Brilliant concept! We use their clothes for shoots all the time.”
“What is your agency?” Annette asked.
“Picture Perfect,” I said, equally proudly. “We specialize in African American men and women. My partner oversees our female models.”
She turned to her husband. “Why have we never used his agency?”
“Tonight is all about change,” I said, handing them each a business card.
“Change, yes,” Brad said. “We’re excited that our new president is biracial.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Mitch warned. “The votes aren’t counted yet.”
Brad looked at Mitch and repeated, “We’re excited that our new president is biracial.”
“He will win,” Annette said. “My grandmother in Africa had a dream. She saw Sasha and Malia playing on the lawn of the White House, and Michelle reading to kids at a school as the first lady.”
I turned to Mitch and said playfully, “Don’t challenge an African grandmother and her dream.”
“Oh, I’ve heard all about Gramma,” Mitch teased, looking at Annette. “She’s a superpower unto herself.”
Annette smiled, taking Mitch’s hand. “If this guy is your friend, then you’re our friend as well.” She took my hand and raised both my hand and Mitch’s. “Victory tonight! For everyone!”
“Especially our kids,” Brad told me. “We started the store because we wanted to play up the metaphor about our children.”
“We don’t believe they’re black or white or even in the gray area between,” Annette said. “They’re a colorful mosaic of both of us. His allergies, caramel skin, my temper, my nose, his ears—”
“A penchant for debate,” Brad said, “that one comes from Annette. Just a warning.”
I smiled.
“Another warning,” Mitch said. “Don’t say their kids are exotic. People walk up in the grocery store and say, ‘What are they?’ like Lily and Leland are exotic pets. It’s so obnoxious.”
Annette said, “We celebrate our children for their character and their intelligence. Physical beauty is simply icing on the cake.”
Brad put his arm around Annette. “You’re proof of that, my queen.”
“Well, we’re all about the icing on the cake,” Mitch said, “seeing as we both own modeling agencies.” He turned to the couple. “Annette, Brad, I think we should talk about how Bentley’s models can show Black, White, and Gray’s sizzlin’ hot fashions to the world.”
They nodded at me. “I think you’re right.”
Cha-ching! I thought as I nodded back and smiled.
But for now business was the last thing I wanted to deal with; I needed to find a television and get my fix on the latest reports about the election.
I felt like I was floating.
My ears were still ringing from the cheers that had almost shattered the windows when Barack Obama’s victory was announced. Now, the crowd was so quiet, you could almost hear people’s hearts beat as we watched his acceptance speech.
I was enjoying the party, and had gotten my fill of delicious food and even a piece of cake that would keep me on the treadmill extra long tomorrow.
But deep down, I felt empty.
This historic moment should have been shared with family or a lover or a best friend. There, in that sea of unfamiliar white faces, I decided that inauguration day would be different. Maybe I would even go to Washington. Or perhaps I’d watch it on television. Regardless, Bentley L. Dean III was going to enjoy the most historic day of the millennium with one of the above. Family, a lover, or a best friend.
Now, President-elect Obama’s face blurred as tears stung my eyes. I heard sniffles all around me, so I knew other people were crying, too. Mitch appeared out of nowhere and put his arm around me. A short time later, he and I stood on the terrace, drinking beer and staring at the sparkling Miami skyline across the black bay.
“Did you ever think we’d live to see this day?” Mitch asked.
“I’d like to say yes, but no, I didn’t, Mitch.”
“Tomorrow the sun is gonna rise on a whole new era,” Mitch said. “One of my wishes is that right now, your dad is wishing you were with him. My first election night wish came true—we just watched it on live TV. My second wish is that you don’t end up like me.”
“Mitch, what do you mean?” Was he referring to his HIV status?
“I mean fatherless and robbed of a chance to make up before he died,” Mitch said. “That’s all I could think about tonight, that I wish Dad were here to see this. If America can change in such a profound way, with millions of white people voting for a black man, then why couldn’t my dad change enough to love his son again?”
Mitch’s lower lip quivered like he was about to cry. So I hugged him and let him rest his cheek on my shoulder. He didn’t sob. But he was shaking. I felt overwhelmed with sympathy for him. And I hoped that his wish would come true for me, too.
SEVENTEEN
A big surprise was waiting on the other side of my door when I opened it.
“Mother. What are you doing here?”
Her black leather pants, sky-high heels, and gold lamé blouse were so inappropriate for her age. Her jet-black hair framed her face, which was made up like a hand-painted portrait. Yet her expression announced she didn’t give a damn what anybody thought.
“I’m here to see you,” she said with that tone that was both ladylike and domineering. “Are you going to invite me in?”
I stepped back to let her pass through the doorway. “Of course, Mother. Come in. I didn’t even know you knew where I lived. Or that you were coming to Miami.”
Her White Shoulders perfume breezed around her as she whizzed past me, looking around like a housing inspector. “I got your address from your sister. This is a nice place for someone in the middle class. You do own this place, don’t you, Bentley?”
Closing the door, I said, “I don’t own it yet, but I’m purchasing it.”
“Where is your artwork, hon? A Jonathan Green or some nice prints would brighten up this place.”
“I can’t afford artwork, Mother.”
She ran her perfect red manicure over my bar and said, “I bet if you hadn’t made your father mad, you could be living someplace nicer. Even though I’m sure you’re going to fix this up.” Her disapproving expression made me almost wish she hadn’t even found me. “How is that little business you started going?”
“It’s tough all over, but we’re hanging in there. The economy is really rough.”
“So I heard,” she said, dashing into the kitchen. Her wrists full of gold bracelets jangled. “Are you still in business with that girl?”
“Alexandria? Yes, we’re still in business.” I followed her.
“That’s good,” she said, inspecting the contents of my refrigerator and cabinets. She was like a little tornado that shimmered with a diamond necklace that looked like a huge tennis bracelet at the base of her neck, which looked like a crinkled paper bag stretched over her throat. Maybe Botox and whatever else were keeping her face looking decades younger than her real age, but her neck left no doubt.
In My Father’s House Page 13