Amy placed her hand to her mouth and giggled nervously. “I guess I forgot them too.” Now I was steaming. I wasn’t going to pay my hard-earned money to someone who couldn’t follow simple instructions and operated on C.P. (colored people’s) time. Amy needed to join Dove on the unemployment line.
“Do you know what you want for lunch?” Amy asked.
“No,” I said, trying to figure out how to let Amy go.
“How about some shrimp fried rice?”
“Is that what you want?” I asked.
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
I pulled a twenty-dollar bill from my purse and handed it to Amy. “Take this and go have yourself a nice long lunch. I don’t want anything right now.”
“Oh, that’s so nice of you. I might go to Ollie’s Noodle Shop. You sure you don’t want anything?”
“Yes, I want something,” I said coldly.
“What?”
“When you finish your lunch, don’t come back. I don’t want to see your face again.”
“What cha mean? You firing me?”
“You got that right. And you don’t even have to write that down,” I said as I headed for the shower.
The Rodeo Kings …(or Queens)
I was kinda depressed because I hadn’t heard from Basil since I invited him to The Lion King. When I called his office, he was always on the other line. When I called his house, the answering machine picked up. He was a little upset the first time I called him there and wanted to know how I had gotten his number. For some reason, I told him the truth. Well, my version of the truth. I told him his number showed up on my caller I.D. when I checked my messages the morning after we met. What I didn’t tell him was that I’d checked my messages on purpose from his house to ensure that I’d have his digits.
Wylie noticed my love jones when I took him to The Lion King after Basil declined. A couple days later, Wylie invited me to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, Maroon over on West Sixteenth Street, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. We enjoyed spicy jerked chicken wings and stuffed pork chops and ended the meal with delicious red velvet cake.
After dinner we walked a few blocks over to Nineteenth to G, a quiet bar where you could go to meet and greet or just share conversation with a good friend. Wylie ordered an apple martini for himself, and I got a lite beer.
“So are you falling in love with this stray?” Wylie asked after a few sips of his drink.
“Yep, I’m afraid so,” I said.
“Why?” he asked. For a few moments I couldn’t answer him. I’d spent the last three days wondering why I was even considering jumping off the cliff called love. I knew I could end up hitting rocks that would leave deep wounds. I already had enough scars from previous love affairs and my childhood. But what if Basil was the jackpot? Falling in love with him could be as soft as falling onto one million down pillows, providing perfect comfort.
The way I saw it, Basil was a triple-threat man. There was the power of his sex, and how I felt like he was branding me when we made love. His face, both handsome and beautiful, had a toughness and yet a feminine quality that was rare in masculine men. If his office and home were indications of his wealth, I was pretty sure he was financially stable. But I knew if I was honest with myself, I might be falling in love with him, because in him I saw all the things I’ve dreamed of for my own life. All the missing things. I couldn’t share all this with Wylie without the risk of a lecture on the difference between love and lust.
“Bart, did you hear me?” Wylie asked. I found myself gazing into my beer and then looking around the circular wood bar at all the lonely faces.
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking,” I said.
“Why do you think you love this Basil guy?” Wylie asked.
“Let’s just say that since I met Basil the beat of my heart has increased, and it’s made me believe that love can be found in New York City,” I said.
Wylie looked at me and smiled sweetly and then motioned toward the bartender. After he ordered another round of drinks, he looked at me and said, “When you think of Basil, if your heart feels bigger, it could be love. If something else gets bigger … well, I don’t have to tell you what that is. You’ve been to the rodeo before.”
“Yeah, but this time I’m going to make sure the horse doesn’t kick me off,” I said.
The Dirty D.L.
I had just gotten home from hanging out at the Sportsline Gentleman’s Club (a strip joint that Nico and I frequent). Nico was celebrating signing a new client, and I went to have a few drinks with him.
After a couple of private lap dances I felt like I needed a shower, so I came home and washed and scrubbed myself like I had spent the evening in a sewage tank. Either I was getting too old for this shit or I had too much on my mind. Maybe in the past I’d enjoyed strippers because they didn’t require an emotional attachment.
When I got out of the shower, I wrapped a towel around my waist and rubbed some lotion on my chest. I pulled a beer out of the fridge and went into my study to check my e-mail. Another message from SWALZ: Hey Sexyman, So you’re going to ignore me? That’s okay. Just wanted to give you a look at your profile on brothersontheDL.com. I think I hit it right on the head (pun intended): John Basil Henderson—Look for this heartbreaker anywhere around the country, but most likely in New York, Chicago, Miami and Atlanta. Tall (around 6′2″) and still in the prime shape he was in while playing professional football. He’s in his mid-thirties, though he could still pass for twenty-nine. Basil has mesmerizing cat-gray eyes, golden honey-brown skin. He is a card-carrying member of the PBP (pretty-boy pack), so his buddies, although hopelessly hetero, will be good-looking as well. Mr. Henderson is a great dresser, and a “baller” from the letter B. Likes women of all colors, though he tends to date the model-actress-airhead type. You won’t catch him looking at men in public, because he’s much too smart for that. Don’t look for him in gay bars, parks or bathhouses, either. Basil has such a chameleon-like quality that he doesn’t slip with hints of being a switch hitter. His oral skills are said to be among the best, but don’t be fooled. You don’t know where that tongue has been. If anyone has additional information, contact us on the DL.
This shit was getting serious. Who was harassing me? I immediately typed in “brothersontheDL.com” and was deeply relieved to see “Site Not Found” flash across my screen.
Annie Get Your Switchblade
I was at the Scissors New York Salon and hating the fact that I didn’t make enough money to have a hairdresser come to my home. Scissors was so popular for Broadway people and the like that it was always difficult to get an appointment, and sometimes the process of beautifying moved at a snail’s pace. But it was well worth the wait once I got out of the chair and my mane would once again bounce and behave like the white girls’ on TV.
I hated being under the dryer, because it prevented me from being in full eavesdrop mode. I loved hearing people talk about the business: What was happening behind the scenes. What shows were opening and closing. Who had a record deal or a workshop, who was doing who, and who was headed back home in defeat.
Since I knew I’d be tied up in the shop for a while, I brought along a book everyone was talking about, The B.A.P. Handbook. I was having a good old time reading about how we Black American Princesses should be treated until I came across the list of famous B.A.P.’s and didn’t see my name. Who did these ladies think they were, not including a legitimate Broadway star? And now I’m a recording star! I was inclined to take this book back to Barnes & Noble and get my money back. So I put the book aside and pulled out a copy of the newspaper and began to flip the pages until I came across “Lines from LaVonya.” I wondered whose life she was ruining today, when what did I see on the first line: What up-and-coming R & B diva has a child about the same age she is claiming to be?
Suddenly my face felt warm, and I rolled the paper up quickly and tossed it into the wastebasket. Who was LaVonya talking about? I was the only up-and-moving-ve
ry-fast diva. Could she know about Madison?
I decided I couldn’t worry about LaVonya and her lack of journalism skills, so I pulled out a People magazine and made a mental note to get Motown to get me into this magazine, or at the very least In Style. I read a few of the album and movie reviews and continued to thumb through the magazine. Just as I was getting ready to put People back in my bag, I came across the headline “Diva with Diapers.”
There was a large picture of a pretty black woman and a handsome man. He was holding two children who appeared to be the same age, and the woman was holding a newborn. The woman looked familiar, and when I pulled the magazine closer to my eyes I realized I did know her. It was Nicole Springer.
There was Nicole, smiling like she was on the top of the world and standing in front of an elegant two-story colonial home. The article said that Nicole and her husband, Jared, had had a difficult time conceiving a child and shortly after they adopted twins, Nicole got pregnant. And despite a difficult pregnancy, she had recently delivered a healthy baby boy. But that was not all. According to the article, Nicole was getting ready to return to Broadway in the lead role of the hit revival Kiss Me Kate, becoming the first African-American actress to play the female lead.
The article quoted Nicole as saying how happy she was about the miracle of birth and the miracle of faith. Well, I couldn’t take any more of her happiness, so I closed the magazine. I wondered if she had been bedridden like Windsor. Had Nicole ever figured out that I was the cause of her sudden illness in Grand Rapids, Michigan, some years before? But most of all I wondered what it felt like to have the same man love you for so many years.
I actually felt a twinge of guilt over some of the things I had done to Nicole when I was her understudy in Dream-girls, but it was very short-lived. Clearly, nothing I’d done had prevented her from fulfilling her life’s dreams.
• • •
I had just gotten home from a strenuous day of rehearsals and meetings. I was getting ready to check on Windsor, when I heard several voices coming from her bedroom. I peeked in and saw Windsor and four other ladies. Two were sitting on her bed, one was sitting in a chair and a rather tall, pretty girl was standing up at the end of the bed. As I glanced at her, she looked at me like we knew each other.
“Yancey, come on in,” Windsor said.
“How you doing?” I asked as I went over to her bed and gave Windsor a kiss on the cheek.
“Aw, I’m having a good day. My sorors stopped by for a visit, and we’ve been having a good old time catching up. As you all know, this is my famous roommate, Yancey B!” Windsor said as she motioned her hand gracefully in my direction.
“Hello, everyone,” I said. Sometimes I felt competitive when I was surrounded by women. Not so with this crowd. Except for the tall girl, none of these ladies could ever be in the same limo with me.
“I’m Dionne.”
“My name is Tara. I knew you at Howard,” the one sitting on the bed said as she smiled.
“Lisa.”
“And I’m Marlana,” the tall one said with a deep, theatrical voice. “I also knew you at Howard, but you were a couple of classes in front of me.” Marlana had long dark auburn hair, and she looked like she was on her way to a nightclub, since she was wearing a very expensive-looking leather blouse and matching pants.
“Oh. Well, nice meeting and seeing you ladies. I’m going to take a bath.”
“Yancey, don’t you remember me telling you about Marlana? She’s a singer-dancer. Remember? I sent you her demo tape when you were out in Los Angeles.”
“I don’t think so. Are you working on something?” I asked Marlana as I turned toward her. I studied her face, and it was clear to me that she needed full makeup on a daily basis to achieve her look. Marlana was attractive, but she couldn’t touch me.
“I just left the national tour of Smokey Joe’s Café. I actually auditioned for Chicago when you were doing it on Broadway, but I didn’t get the part. You know Broadway can’t stand more than one or two black divas at a time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Next time you’re up for a show, give me a call and I’ll see what I can do.” I wanted to say Diva? Chile, please, don’t make me knock some sense into you.
“Thanks, but I won’t be doing Broadway anytime soon. I just turned down the lead in Annie Get Your Gun,” she said confidently.
“Why would you do that?” I asked. I bit my tongue to prevent myself from suggesting the producers would have to change the title to Annie Get Your Switchblade, with Marlana in the lead.
“I have a deal with Virgin Records. My single is going to drop in a couple of weeks,” she said.
“Really? Good luck. This is a tough business. You ladies have fun,” I said as I was leaving Windsor’s room.
“Oh, Yancey, there’s an envelope on the counter for you,” Windsor said. “Dionne saw it outside and brought it in.”
“Thanks.”
I walked into the dining room and over toward the bar area, where Windsor usually left my packages and mail. The brown cardboard envelope didn’t have a return address or a post mark, so I was a little bit leery about opening it.
I was sorry I did. Out fell two more photos of two little girls and another note. It read, I’ve narrowed it down to two. Do you know which one is Madison yet?
• • •
I opened my purse and took out a small mirror to check my makeup. I was getting frustrated. Michel and I had spent over six hours screening guys for my video. Almost fifty great-looking guys with bodies to match had responded to our casting call. But when we told them what they had to do in the video, all but one declined. You would have thought we were asking them to pierce a treasured body part. Even after we explained that viewers might not be able to see their faces, most declined. I wanted to tell them it was called “acting” for a reason. Yet most of these guys were models and probably didn’t know the difference. In one scene we wanted them to appear shirtless and embrace another man, and in the other we wanted them to wear some sexy underwear and look lovingly at another man. What was the big deal? Nobody had asked them to kiss. And the few who were interested were way too unattractive to be on the same screen with me. I mean, we’re talking bad skin, gold teeth, missing teeth and bleached blond kinky hair. One guy who had more bounce in his step than me had the nerve to decline for religious reasons. I wanted to say, “Honey, don’t you think God knows about you?’
“Michel, didn’t we tell the agents what we were looking for?”
“Sure did! But when they see a casting for a black man, they send anyone and everyone without really giving the guys the full story.”
“I certainly don’t appreciate their wasting my time.”
“I hear ya. Do you want something else to drink, Yancey?” Michel asked.
“No, I’m cool.” I said.
Michel was very attentive and always made me feel like I was a star who already had a number-one hit. When my song moved up only a few spots last week, I was concerned it’d reached its peak. Michel assured me that once we got the video in rotation on BET and VH-1, the single would shoot to the top.
Michel looked at his watch and said, “I’m going to see if this guy is waiting in the lobby. Sometimes models don’t always follow instructions.”
“Okay,” I said as I pulled out a mint and popped it into my mouth. Just as Michel reached the door, a handsome man with skin the color of the crease in a cinnamon roll walked in. The first thing I noticed was his dazzlingly white teeth and full-bodied lips. I guess the men on the West Coast weren’t the only ones bleaching their teeth.
“Is this the audition for the video?” he asked.
“It sure is. I was just coming to look for you,” Michel said. “Come on in.”
He walked confidently toward me and took a seat at the end of the table.
“Are you the singer?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m Yancey B,” I said as I extended my hand toward him.
“Nice meeting you. Are
you the Yancey Braxton who was in Dreamgirls and Chicago?” he asked.
“That would be me,” I said cheerfully. I already liked this man.
“Have you ever done a video before?” Michel asked.
“Yeah, I’ve done a few, but never as a principal. This is for a principal role, right?” he asked.
“Yes, it is,” I confirmed.
“Tell me your name again,” Michel asked as he looked at the yellow legal pad on which he was making notes about the guys we interviewed.
“Bart Dunbar,” he said.
“Bart, yeah, that’s right. You had a great comp card,” Michel said.
“Thank you.”
“Bart, before we ask to see your body, I want to make sure your agent told you what the video’s about,” I said.
“He did,” Bart said quickly.
“So you don’t have a problem embracing another man?” Michel asked.
“I do it as often as I can,” Bart said as a huge smile crossed his face.
“So do you mind my asking if you’re gay?” I asked.
“No, I don’t mind, and the last time I checked I was.” Bart giggled without looking at Michel or me, like he was enjoying his own private joke. I admired his honesty, but I couldn’t help thinking, There goes another good-looking black man to the other side.
“So, Bart, do you mind standing up, taking off your shirt and dropping your pants to your knees? They did tell you to wear a swimsuit, right?” Michel inquired.
“No problem,” Bart said. He stood up and very quickly pulled his sweater over his head and dropped his pants. Bart had a great body, with a double-barreled chest, small waist and nice ass. It reminded me a lot of Basil’s body, except the skin and eyes were significantly different. Bart had serious eyes the color of warm walnuts, and he wore his hair cut close. He had on tangerine bikini swimming trunks that looked wonderful against his skin. Michel scribbled down a few notes and then looked over at me and whispered, “What do you think?”
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