The Next Best Thing

by Deidre Berry

  Why couldn’t I see this before?

  The locksmith showed up to do his job, and nodded knowingly as I cut Roland’s image out of picture after picture. Now I’ll bet he has some fucking stories to tell.

  It takes me almost two hours, but when I’m done, I haul the trash bag down to the incinerator where my sincere hope is for that bastard to burn in hell.

  With that done, I start searching for that damn BlackBerry. I find that it had fallen behind the nightstand on Roland’s side of the bed, and is still connected to the charger.

  After fishing it out, I promptly drop it into the toilet. The thing hums, vibrates, and buzzes all at the same time. I watch as the lights flicker on and off, displaying these weird patterns and symbols. Then it just goes dead, which to me, symbolizs our relationship.

  The greatest discovery of my generation is that a human being can alter his life by altering his attitudes of mind.—William James

  MONDAY

  I woke up this morning feeling more refreshed than I have in months.

  Why?

  There are so many reasons to celebrate the absence of Roland and his many trifling-ass habits, like:

  1) Blowing his nose at the table while I’m eating.

  2) Often forgetting to flush after #2.

  3) Clipping his crusty-ass toenails in bed and leaving them for me to clean up.

  4) That extreme lactose intolerance of his that chronically flares up in the middle of the night.

  5) The globs of toothpaste splattered all over the bathroom sink, along with disgusting remnants of his last meal.

  6) Being startled awake by his sharp toenails piercing my skin.

  What’s more, being unattached comes with freedom and a few other perks, such as:

  1) More drawer and closet space.

  2) I can cook and eat what I want, when I want.

  3) I can go anywhere I want, and stay as long as I want without having to answer to anybody.

  17

  E-Money showed up two hours late for our consultation meeting.

  I was just about to write him off and go on with my other afternoon commitments, when a lanky brown-skinned guy bopped into my office reeking of marijuana and munching on a bag of cheddar-cheese potato chips.

  “What up?” he said to me, and then flopped down in the chair across from my desk, offering no apologies or explanations for wasting a huge chunk of my day.

  Still, I welcomed him with a polite smile. “You must be Earl Campbell,” I said.

  “Earl is my government name. I like E-Money better.”

  “Okay,” I said courteously. “E-Money it is.”

  Mr. Money was sporting a beige Gucci sweat suit with the hat and sneakers to match.

  He also had the nerve to bring eight hulking and sulking guys along with him. As they filed into my office and made themselves at home, my one and only thought was that Sophie had thrown me to the wolves.

  What the fuck was this all about?

  Rule number sixteen in the SWE handbook clearly states that it is against policy to associate ourselves with clients whose derogatory reputations could tarnish the company’s image.

  Example: The grand wizard of the Ku Klux Klan would be turned away if he came in here requesting help with the next Klan rally.

  It must be the money. Rappers are notorious for their lavish spending habits, and nothing turns Sophie on more than the almighty dollar.

  I waited until the entourage was all settled in before speaking. “Is this it?” I asked. “Or are we expecting more people to show up?”

  “Nah, this it,” E-Money said casually, as if traveling with a three-ring circus is something we all do. “We can go ’head and get started.”

  “Alright, so why don’t you tell me how you envision your album release party,” I said. “What elements do you absolutely have to have?”

  “Okay…You know how my boy Diddy got the white party, right? Check it, I wanna do the black party, where everybody is dressed like they going to a funeral and shit!”

  I rubbed my temples where a migraine had already kicked up. “I see…” I said. “Because the funeral aspect ties in with your image and the theme of the album, right?”

  “Yo! ’Cause I’m killing mu-fuckas with my lyrical content, ma!”

  Church!

  I didn’t know how good a rapper he was, but E-Money was certainly colorful and animated. He would be a handful to work with. I could tell that I would constantly have to rein him in, but the bright side was that he probably has a small fortune set aside for the party, and I was going to come out of this with a nice, fat commission check.

  I let E-Money rattle on for ten minutes, telling me his vision of the event, which is what I expected of a newly rich, uneducated Negro: Extravagance to the point of gaudiness. He wanted exotic pole dancers, cages for women to dance in naked, naked shadow dancers, a couple of crap tables, juggling flame-throwing bartenders, and a swimming pool filled with cold champagne.

  I jotted all his requests down on my notepad, but E-Money wasn’t finished yet.

  “I want Bengal tigers walking around in that joint, too. And I gotta have a big-ass buffet with nothing but shrimps. Fried, steamed, broiled—all that shit Bubba was talkin’ about in Forrest Gump.”

  The entourage laughed on cue, all agreeing that the big-ass shrimp buffet was the best idea yet.

  “And,” E-Money continued, “I want a six-foot-tall ice sculpture with my name spelled out in block letters. And we gonna need like thirty video projectors, pyro, explosions—all that shit, ma. Feel me?”

  “I definitely feel you,” I said, patting my heart. “So, let’s start with the budget. How much do you have to spend?”

  The biggest member of the posse pulled out a Crown Royal bag, and tossed a fat wad of cash onto my desk.

  I recoiled as if a snake had just landed in front of me.

  The money looked damp and sticky, and I didn’t even want to know where it came from, or how it was earned.

  “And you are?” I asked the big man.

  “Ace,” he practically shouted at me, then folded his arms. “I’m E-Money’s business partner, manager, bodyguard, and accountant.”

  “That’s ten thousand right there,” E-Money said proudly. “Do what you do, ma—make it happen.”

  The meeting was going downhill fast. Bigger budgets equal bigger commissions, but small, shoestring budgets equal a waste of my damn time.

  “Listen, Mr. Money,” I said as diplomatically as I could. “The way it usually works is that ten-thousand dollars is the deposit down on the event, not the entire budget.”

  “Ah, so what chu saying?” E-Money asked with a scowl.

  “That I would love nothing more than to bring your vision to life, but I’d say we need upwards of one-hundred thousand dollars—”

  “A hundred G’s!” the posse shouted in unison.

  “At least,” I said.

  “Lady, you must be out cho damn mind!” Ace yelled at me.

  “Can’t you get the record label to help offset the cost?” I asked E-Money, beginning to fear for my safety.

  “Naw,” E-Money said, a little deflated. “Ain’t nobody got no hundred G’s for no party. Especially when we can take just 5 G’s and get it on and poppin’ in a penthouse suite at the Ritz.”

  “Then that is exactly what you should do,” I said, edging the stack of money away from me with an ink pen.

  “Oh, it’s like that?” E-Money said, nodding his head like he was listening to a drumbeat. “Aye y’all, come on! Let’s be out.”

  E-Money bopped out of my office the same way he came in.

  Ace shook his head at me, snatched back the wad of cash, and the entire posse bounced up outta my office.

  So much for having money to throw away. “Pop Dat Boo-Tee” may be a hit, but as of yet, E-Money hasn’t earned the type of cash he needs to throw a SWE party.

  18

  I know I knocked back my share of drinks that night I went c
lubbing with the girls, but damn, how drunk was I?

  That was the question I asked myself when Reggie the screenwriter reintroduced himself to me. When we met for lunch at P. F. Chang’s, the man that stood before me in no way resembled the man I remember meeting and dancing with at Club Suede.

  First of all, he had somehow shrunk from five-foot-eight to about five-foot-four, which was irritating because I’m five-foot-six, and I would prefer that a man be at least that tall in order to get on this ride.

  Not to harp on the matter, but Reggie was so short that I could see clear over the top of his head, and I had to fight the urge to ask him if he knew a bald spot was forming right on the top of his noggin.

  We were seated at one of the large wooden tables at the center of the room.

  “What took you so long to call me?” Reggie asked with a smile that revealed spaces between every one of his teeth.

  Whoa! He looked like Biz Markie in the mouth.

  Sober and in the light of day, Reggie is not what you would call classically handsome. Not that it matters. Looks aren’t everything. Like Aunt Vera always says, “You can’t take fine to the bank and cash it,” meaning looks should not be the primary criteria by which you choose a man. Besides, I have dated enough pretty boys with serious issues to know that looks aren’t everything.

  “What do you mean, what took me so long to call?” I said. “We just met a week ago.”

  “Like I said, what took you so long?” he asked. “I would have called you, but I misplaced your number and I’ve been literally waiting by the phone for you to call.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say,” I said, although I knew it was just game.

  The server came to take our orders. Lettuce wraps and marinated sea bass for me, and Reggie chose the orange-peel beef.

  “So, how’s the film project coming along?” I asked.

  “Pretty good, actually. My agent told me that they will start casting for the film in a few weeks and we will be going into production in about six months or so.”

  “You’re about to blow up!” I said. “I’ll be sure to keep you in my prayers.”

  “I appreciate that,” he said with a grin, flashing that jacked-up grill of his again.

  I excused myself and went to the ladies’ room to call Simone for more information on Reggie. For the most part, she told me what I already knew, which was that he belongs to one of her writers groups and is also a friend of Rasheed’s.

  “I know he’s not Mr. Universe,” Simone said. “But he’s a good guy, Tori. You should definitely give him a chance.”

  Back at the table, our food had just arrived and Reggie had moved to my side of the table so that we were sitting side-by-side.

  “You had to call and get the rundown, huh?” he asked, giving me a knowing look.

  “Yes, I did,” I said. “And I’m happy to report that you passed with flying colors.”

  “That’s good to hear.” He leaned over and kissed me on the tip of my nose.

  So what if Reggie is vertically and facially challenged?

  He is still a nice, interesting guy that I wouldn’t mind getting to know better. He asked for a second date. I said yes.

  To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson

  THURSDAY

  After having lunch with Reggie, I went back to work this afternoon feeling optimistic and energized.

  In fact, I had so much surplus energy at the end of the day, that I put myself through a grueling two-hour workout this evening. I was down in the fitness room going from the treadmill, to the Life-cycle, to the StairMaster, to the free weights, like a mad woman. And I have to admit, I felt good afterwards because I am starting to see some results. My ass is no longer spreading like wildfire, and my thighs don’t jiggle half as much as they used to.

  For weeks, I have been going out of my way to keep from running into Nelson by taking the stairs instead of the elevator, looking through the peephole before venturing out into the hallway, and avoiding common areas where residents congregate to socialize.

  I got back up to the ninth floor after my workout, and the moment I have been dreading finally arrived: my door and Nelson’s door swung open at the same time.

  My heart jumped into my throat, but I calmed myself by reasoning that if I was woman enough to spread-eagle for this man, then I should be woman enough to look him in the eye and be halfway civil.

  I held my head up high, and braced myself for the confrontation, only it was not Nelson who stepped out into the hallway. It was Ursula. And she was wearing a slinky, black slip dress and a pair of black high-heeled sandals. Her long hair hung loose and was disheveled. Like maybe she just got through boning something.

  This is exactly what happens when you violate the DSWYE rule. You have to put up with shit like this.

  19

  I did something this morning that I have never done in my life. I asked a man out on a date. Don’t ask me where the courage came from, but I called Reggie the screenwriter and boldly asked him to go out with me tonight for dinner and a movie.

  “Yeah, that’s what’s up!” he said with excitement in his voice, and agreed to meet me outside Cinemark Theater at eight p.m.

  My day at work was uneventful. I sat in on a couple of meetings, then went out to the Kansas Speedway to take a tour of the venue with a client who wanted to surprise his racing-fan wife with an anniversary party. He never showed. Instead, I received a tearful phone call from him an hour later saying that his homebuilding business was failing due to the mortgage crisis, and he could no longer afford the big extravaganza he had planned for their eighteenth wedding anniversary. It was sad. I felt so bad for the guy that I had to cheer myself up with some retail therapy at the nearby Legends shopping district, where I bought a nice leather jacket from Wilson’s Leather, and a couple pairs of boots from Off Broadway Shoes.

  I found a chic, pinstriped pantsuit at Ann Taylor, and a cashmere sweater and several cute tops at BCBG.

  Once I got home, I decided that fun and flirty would be my look for the evening. I went with a long, sleek ponytail with a Mohawk center, House of Deréon jeans, and a kimono-style top.

  The Cinemark Theater was extra packed, but it did not take long for Reggie to find me standing by the ATM machine where I said I would be.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he said, giving me a warm hug. “You just keep getting sexier and sexier every time I see you.”

  “Thanks, and I’m digging your look, as well,” I said, referring to his retro ’80s gear, which consisted of Cazal glasses, a Polo shirt with an upturned collar, jeans, and black-and-white shell toe Adidas.

  “Alright, so let’s see how much of a movie buff you are,” Reggie said, as we stood in the mile-long line for tickets to the latest Will Smith flick. “Birth of a Nation, did you love it or hate it?”

  “Hated it!” I said.

  “Friday, with Ice Cube and Chris Tucker?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” I said. “Loved it! That’s a classic.”

  “Johnson Family Vacation?”

  “Eww…I’m a Cedric the Entertainer fan, so I’ll just say: it wasn’t my cup of tea.”

  “The Great Debaters?

  “Love it!” I said. “It was incredible.”

  The long line in front of us moved a bit, and we inched closer to the ticket window.

  “Okay,” Reggie said. “Hustle & Flow?”

  “Hmmmm…Truthfully? It just didn’t live up to the hype for me,” I said. “I mean, really. A pimp and three ho’s all living together, and they’re still doing bad?”

  “Yeah, they should have named it Hustling Backwards, instead,” Reggie laughed. “But at least it wasn’t as ridiculous as The Cookout.”

  “Oh! I don’t even understand how movies like that get made,” I said. “Now, somebody at the studio should have put that shit on the grill and burned it!”

  “You got that right.” Reggie casually draped his arm around my sh
oulder. “When I get in there, I’m gonna elevate—change the whole game!”

  As Reggie and I were talking, some crazy-looking woman ran up on us, foaming at the mouth. “Just what the fuck is going on here?” she shouted, spit flying everywhere.

  I was confused. I had never seen this woman before in my life. I gave her a “talk to the hand” gesture, and said, “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, you’re excused, because I wasn’t even talking to you!” she said, then turned to Reggie. “You’re foul. You’re a foul muthafucka, Reggie, and you best believe that my sister is going to hear all about this!” Psycho chick whipped out her camera phone and took a picture of Reggie standing next to me looking like a deer in headlights.

  “Enjoy your movie, because your ass is grass now!” she laughed, then disappeared in the crowd.

  “Someone you know?” I asked.

  “Somethin’ like that,” Reggie said, wiping sweat from his brow. A minute later, his cell phone started blowing up with back-to-back calls.

  “Look,” I said. “I don’t know what the drama is all about, but I think you need to go take care of that.”

  “Everything’s cool, but you’re right. I do need to straighten something out right quick.” Reggie gave me thirty dollars and said, “Go on and get the tickets. I’ll be right back.”

  Five minutes passed, and the writing was on the wall.

  There was a white couple in their fifties in line behind me. The woman tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “You’re better off, honey. You can do better than that.”

  Instead of going home to brood about it, I bought one ticket, then went in and watched Will try to save the world, and looking mighty damn fine while doing it.

  I had a great time too, mostly because I don’t mind going to the movies by myself. It’s dining alone that’s difficult for me. But, after the movie was over, I decided to tackle that fear head-on by keeping the dinner reservations I had made for two at the Golden Ox.