Warren admired Bobby because he could move from soprano to alto to tenor, with the same blind precision that his late mother used in squirting mustard, pinching relish, and tossing mayonnaise in a bowl of homemade potato salad. Bobby had played with jazz legends Art Blakey, Wynton Marsalis, Max Roach, and Victor Lewis. Warren believed that when you shared the stage with a musician, you took a piece of them with you. He couldn’t wait to earn his piece of Bobby.
“We’re over budget,” said Brett McDaniels, manager of software. “Alan, you’ll have to cut back on overtime.”
The five-person team was assembled around an oval-shaped table long enough to accommodate ten with Brett at the head, Warren and Blanche on the right, and Carl and Alan to the left. Everyone had their notepads opened and Warren could see Blanche doodling sunflowers instead of taking notes. An intercom telephone sat in the middle of the table along with built-in plug-ins for the engineers’ laptops. The smart board hanging from the ceiling displayed Brett’s power point presentation on the defects of last year’s work.
Alan whined. “Why me?” He was middle-aged, thick-bellied and balding.
“Well, because last month you put in an additional fifty hours.”
“I wasn’t the only one,” Alan retorted, pointing his finger over at Warren like a tattle-telling pre-schooler.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Warren leaned forward in his seat, but Alan sat across the table unfazed, chewing his stubby finger.
Since Warren joined the team, he tried to foster a relationship with Alan but was met with a cold shoulder and back-stabbing remarks. Most software engineers were antisocial outcasts, the nerds who were picked on in school. Warren was the exception, which made people either love him or hate him. Alan fit the “geek” mold to a tee, down to his oily hair, constant sweat and the circulating rumor that he was a forty-year old virgin. Warren was jaw-breaking smooth, well-dressed and moved through the building with a blustering swank that Alan couldn’t muster, not even on his birthday. Alan fell squarely in the “hate Warren” camp.
“Take fifteen.” Brett closed his notebook. “We’ll go over staffing and budget when we return.”
Having a tooth pulled without novacaine would have suited Warren better than sitting through another meeting. This was already the third one on the same topic since Friday. Most of what they were discussing could have been settled in an email, but Brett pulled the team together so that he could caravan as the man in charge and his ego-tripping wore Warren thin.
RSCI was a leading software company that made advanced applications for mobile telephones, the first in the industry to come up with text applications. Being a software engineer came easy to Warren. He had always been good with math and problem solving and his team made product ideas come to life on short deadlines. Stan Greenwood, owner of RSCI, was a close friend of Warren’s father and hired him directly. Stan believed that the company could transform text messaging industry-wide and was pumping a lot of money into their software division. When the finished product hit the market, the company was going public and Warren would receive shares in addition to his income. Certainly a lucrative deal.
“Got a minute?” asked Brett, just as Warren was exiting the room.
“Sure,” he shifted his laptop case. Brett was the same height as Warren with pool-blue eyes and honey slicked hair. The joke around the office was that Brett thought he was a GQ model.
“What’s up?” asked Warren.
“You’re the last to sign. Something wrong?”
Warren could feel the presence of the unsigned contract crammed against his computer. He looked down at the carpet feeling Erica’s disappointment. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, and he knew the distance was an obstacle, but he needed to make a living. Growing up, his father stressed how important it was for him to be financially secure. “Ain’t nothing worse than a man who can’t provide for his woman, son. Nothing.”
Moving to New York would feed Warren’s aesthetic soul, and cure the longing for her that had become as much a part of him as his music. He wished he could have it all. Erica was his muse, the reason his skies were painted blue. He wanted to share his whole life with her and the money from the stocks would be a wonderful start.
“I have it right here,” Warren placed his case on the table and pulled the contract from an inside pocket.
“Awesome,” said Brett. “Stan is going to be over the moon. He said that you were the key to moving this project forward.”
Warren placed his case on the table, and before he could think more, he signed and dated the papers. “Looking forward to it.”
Brett shook his hand and Warren tried to smile, but it fell short around his chin. For some, this position was a dream in the making. But Warren’s dream was to sign a contract for a week of gigs at the world famous Blue Note in New York, with a sold out audience, and Erica sitting front row.
A thick fog spread through Warren and his head felt like a twenty-pound weight. Scotch would level him out but coffee would have to do. The enormity of what just took place kept knocking against him. So much was on the line. Not only did he have to give this project his all, he had to do it while keeping his music moving, and his weekends free for Erica. He needed to call her. The conference room was just down the hall and as he rounded the corner to his cubicle, he saw Blanche leaning against the felt wall clutching a cup.
“Coffee, black like you like it,” she sang with her melodic accent.
“You don’t have to bring me coffee every day.” Warren reached for his money clip, but she waved his hand away.
“You kidding? If you hadn’t created the framework, I would have never finished my last layout on time. I ought to be doing more.” Her sentence hung. Warren took the coffee.
Most of the guys in the office referred to Blanche as the Brazilian bombshell. Her hypnotizing voice rang in your ears long after the conversation. Her clothes were short and scant and she wore tall skinny heels even on dress down Fridays. But she didn’t do it for Warren. He enjoyed a rounder ass.
“How was your weekend? Did Erica come down or you go up?” She made herself comfortable on the tip of his desk as her school girl skirt rested in the middle of her thigh.
“She came down. It was fun.”
“Erica doesn’t exist,” chided Alan. A dollop of mustard caked his graying beard as he chewed on a sandwich.
“What’s your problem?” Warren cocked his head, not realizing that his fist had balled. Alan was so bitter that Warren could usually ignore his sly comments, but at that moment he was hotter than a steam roller. Deep down he knew this wasn’t the time, but he felt like punching Alan in the throat. Blanche must have recognized his rising temper, because before Warren knew what was happening she stepped between them, swishing her golden streaked hair, and straightened Alan’s tie.
“Alan is seeing the receptionist on the third floor. I saw them having lunch the other day.” Her blouse was unbuttoned down to her breastbone and she wore a thin gold chain. Leaning closer to Alan, she moved her hand from his neck and patted his cheek. As soon as her fingers left his face, Alan’s shoulders contracted and his skin flushed a fiery red.
“Oh, ooooh,” he said, his mouth puffing into a stream of Os, while his hips contracted forward. Blanche threw Warren a knowing look.
Alan turned his back as Brett walked up, clapping his hands. “Kids, fifteen minutes is over, back to the conference room.”
Alan darted down the hall towards the men’s room and Warren never made his call.
Chapter Six
I Wish I Could
It was dark when Erica got off the PATH train at Penn Station. Even though she was born and raised in Newark she had spent so many years in New York that she felt like a stranger. She maneuvered through the pedestrian traffic past the bookstore, the wine and spirit shop, the newsstand, and McDonald’s, pinning her handbag to her side, never forgetting that it was filled with her father’s fifty dollar bills. Now because of her mother�
�s trouble her dream of throwing her father’s money back in his face would never be.
Train stations brought all classes of life together; suits with hired cars curbside, commuters chugging down that last cup of coffee before heading home to children and chores, and the down-and-out loiterers who hogged the wooden benches until police ordered them to move on. Erica was one who hurried, pushing through the sliding glass doors and onto the street, not stopping until she reached the taxi stand. A heavy-set woman with a curly-do and airbrushed nails motioned her into the next cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked in a thick West Indian accent as she slid across the splintered vinyl seat. The car smelled like a half carton of cigarettes and Erica hoped the smell didn’t get trapped in her hair. She read off the address while letting the window down some. The fresh air calmed her nerves, which had not stopped buzzing since her mother’s morning call. She couldn’t wait for this to be all over.
Outside the tinted window, Broad Street stumbled by with packed bus stops, vendors selling the latest bootleg DVDs and mixed CDs, knock-off designer purses, tube socks and children’s trinkets. Young mothers in tight pants negotiated prices as their babies sucked on pacifiers, kicking their feet against plastic-covered strollers.
When the driver made a left onto Bergen Street and headed toward Central, Erica counted five liquor stores in a twelve-block radius. Fatty fast-food restaurants occupied every third corner with large signs advertising dollar menus. The homes were rundown but shackled with wrought-iron gates. Housing projects were named after African-American heroes like Betty Shabazz, Malcolm X and Shirley Chisholm, people who deserved higher recognition for their American achievements than dilapidated tenements. The debris blowing down cracked streets was as common as the young men hugging the corners in oversized coats, jeans fastened below their waist, and Timberland boots. Even the trees look sad.
“Thanks,” she paid the driver. He sped off before she reached the front door. Chivalry was so dead.
The bail bonds’ office was a standard storefront with a red-and-white striped awning and thick bars over the two windows. The street was eerily empty and Erica was relieved when she was buzzed inside. At the end of the short hall a man dressed in a velour running suit waved her in. He was younger than she had expected.
“I’m Chris,” he said with a warmness that put her at ease. The office was sparse with a gray metal frame desk on the right and two faux leather chairs. An old boom box sat on top of one of the file cabinets and Erica recognized the song playing low. The walls were ecru and bare except for the poster of Martin Luther King, Jr., holding his inmate number taped with the quote, “If you bend your back people will ride your back. If you stand up straight can’t nobody ride you.”
The quote hit Erica with a pang. When she was seven-years old, she would go to work with her father in his garage every Saturday. Each week he brought her a crispy fried bacon and egg sandwich that she would eat while sitting in the driver’s seat of whichever car he worked on. Careful not to spill crumbs. The same quote was pinned to her father’s bulletin board and it was one he repeated often. Her hand dropped into her purse and caressed the wad of fifties.
“We have a problem,” Chris took her coat. “In addition to the bail we discussed earlier, a detainer for your mom popped up in Irvington. Turns out she has some unpaid traffic tickets.”
Her mother had lost her driver’s license years ago.
“How much is it?”
“Five hundred with no ten percent.”
“What does that mean?” Her hand covered a cough that came out dry and rattled.
“It’s cash only, which means you’ll have to pay the whole thing.”
Erica’s armpits began to sweat. “Why didn’t you tell me this over the phone?”
“It just popped up before you arrived. I can still post bail for the shoplifting charge but the jail won’t release her until the detainer has been satisfied.”
Erica didn’t know what to do. This situation had already caused her to split her soul in directions that troubled her pride. She had left her job an hour early, was spending her father’s money that had accumulated in her drawer, and now she had to call Warren for the difference. Although he wouldn’t hesitate to help, she still hated asking.
Music was already swirling in Warren’s head as he clicked off his desk lamp and shoved a file in his satchel. At the last minute Brett had called another meeting, this time with the hardware team to discuss design options. Now he was running late for his gig at Sweet Melodies, but if traffic was on his side he could still make curtain. His band had never had a musician of Bobby Watson’s caliber sit in before and Warren couldn’t wait to share the stage.
“’Night, Gladys,” he waved to the evening receptionist as he crossed the travertine floors of the main lobby. Erica’s ringtone went off and he reached for his phone.
“Hey, baby,” he sang.
“Where are you?”
“Heading to the club. Bobby’s there tonight. What’s up?”
“My mother is in jail,” her voice cracked.
“What? Why didn’t you call me? Where are you?” he stopped in front of his building, but the air was so chilly he was forced to keep walking.
“In Newark. At the bail bonds. I can pay the bail but some ticket came up for another five hundred.”
“Whatever you need, baby. How come you didn’t call me earlier?”
“I did but…”
“You should have left a message,” his voice was rising, and before she could respond, he apologized. Erica put him on hold and he could hear her talking to someone in the background. It bugged him that he couldn’t be there to help figure things out.
“There’s a Western Union on the corner but they close in thirty minutes. Do you have time to stop?”
A fierce wind spun up, licking Warren’s face. He knew that if he stopped he’d never make the show.
“Can I send it first thing in the morning?”
“She won’t get out if I don’t pay the detainer and I’m not leaving her there overnight.”
“What about my credit card?” he slid behind the wheel.
“Honey, it’s cash only. Forget it, I’ll figure something out.”
“Let me speak to the bondsman.”
“I said don’t worry about it, I’ll handle it,” she said, her tone embarrassed. “I don’t want you to miss your performance.”
“Erica, put the man on the phone,” he retorted, leaning on agitation. A few seconds later Warren heard a man’s voice and they talked about what he needed to do.
Wiring the money had sucked up a full hour. When Warren walked into the club his band was well into the second set, jamming with a young trumpet player from Southeast. He didn’t see Bobby anywhere. The place was packed with Monday-night regulars but Warren wasn’t in the mood for small talk. The bar was shaped like a horseshoe and Warren found a seat in the curve.
“What’s up, Sissy?” he said, greeting the regular bartender over the music.
“Hey, handsome. What’s your poison?” she smiled, resting her hand on her curvy hip. Sissy’s skin was the color of cognac and she wore a black Cleopatra wig that was as much a staple at the club as she was.
“Glenfiddich, neat. Bobby still around?” He leaned in over the music and could smell her wig spray.
“No, honey, he rushed out of here about ten minutes ago, said something about teaching a class first thing.”
It was just Warren’s luck. A chance of a lifetime lost in a puddle of responsibility. Sissy returned with his drink.
“What happened to you? Boss working you like a runaway slave?” she chuckled.
“Something like that,” he said, dipping his head. Warren downed his four ounces and headed for the stage.
Chapter Seven
Game Time, Jersey Girl
Erica lounged on the bright orange futon with her feet tucked under her. “I’m home.”
“You took a taxi, right?” asked Warren. L
ive music was playing in the background, and Erica could hear the chatter of different voices resonating at once.
“I had more than enough left over,” she said, feeling sheepish. “Thanks.”
“I need to keep you safe.”
Even with the distance, Warren overwhelmed her with devotion and mere talk couldn’t express how sustained she felt.
“How’s your mom?”
“A mess, but at home. Did you make the show?”
“Naw, but it’s cool,” his voice dropped and Erica felt his blow.
“I’m sorry.”
The music got louder. “Look, you’ve had a long day. Get some rest. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Promise?”
“Kiss, kiss.”
Erica held the phone against her breast long after the line died, too riled up for bed. A glass of wine would have been sedating, but her cabinet was dry. So she sat staring at the exposed brick wall in front of her. It was one of the best features in her one-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t newly refurbished like a lot of the Harlem apartments, which had attracted a mix of young, white, and foreign professionals. But for Erica, the place was a perfect fit. With gleaming hardwood floors, oversized windows, a tiny kitchen cove, claw foot bathtub, and original moldings and trim throughout, the space had an old school feel. Her unit was at the front of the house, so it was flooded with natural sunlight. Adjacent to the window was a three-tiered bookshelf leaning heavily on its side bursting with books, some from childhood. Magazines and manuscripts were stacked under the glass coffee table. On the surface of the table were two used tumblers, a dry cleaning receipt, and a word search book stuffed with a pencil. Erica grabbed the book and started flipping.
It was important for her to pick the right subject when selecting a word search. The topic needed to capture her mood. Exotic islands, Cadbury candies, Celtic string instruments, sea animals. She settled on the islands. First word Bora Bora. Eight letters and she was sure the word was either upside down or backwards. It was backwards, jackpot. Next the Cayman, easy. Daukuskie Island, tricky, but she found it diagonal, right side up. Circling each word was like pulling the lever on the slot machine and winning. Chi ching. She moved through the puzzle, ending on Vancouver Island. The next puzzle she chose was Goddesses of the World, and the sound of lead scratching the page became her lullaby.
Love in a Carry-On Bag Page 4