Even though it was Tuesday night, the place was full by the time 7:30 p.m. rolled around and I decided to text Evan to ask what the holdup was. I was becoming more certain Dame wasn’t coming and wanted to leave. But then, there was the matter of Evan’s corporate account that the restaurant had on file. I could eat alone ... on the county.
Squinting in the candlelight at the table, I texted:
WHERE ARE YOU? I THINK DAME ISN’T COMING.
When I looked up from the phone, I saw two, skinny white women walking toward the front of the restaurant.
“He’s that rapper,” the blond with the too-tight dress said to the other woman.
“With the song ... ‘Get This in You’?” She giggled as they walked arm in arm.
“Yeah, he’s outside.”
“Outside?” someone else said, and I turned around to see other people nonchalantly, yet clearly inching up and craning their necks toward the door.
“Who is it, Tilda?” the round-faced white man with the exaggerated chin said to the woman across the table from him.
“You, know ...”—she smiled sensuously—“the one we listen to when we’re ...”
“Oh.” He patted his mouth and turned toward the door, too.
The windows of the restaurant were being crowded by onlookers, and all I could think of was how most people around the country would’ve assumed that Dame wouldn’t have been welcomed in such a place in the deep South ... and years ago, he wouldn’t have. But watching Mr. Round-Face and Tilda grin at each other as I supposed they replayed his latest raunchy tune in their heads, it was clear that like the Yankees, rap had arrived in the Old South.
Debating if I should go look at the spectacle with the rest of the grown groupies or call Evan to let him know Dame had arrived, I realized that in a minute all of this attention would be coming my way.
“Mrs. DeLong,” a waiter said, approaching me. His voice was dignified and exaggeratedly Southern.
“Yes?”
“We have a table change.”
“A table change?”
“Yes ...” He paused and Tilda and Round-Face looked at me curiously. “Your ... company prefers to sit in one of our more private seating areas. It’s just a security precaution. Please follow me.”
I trailed the waiter to a long table that was tucked to the far right of the back of the restaurant. It was where I’d seen Saban and his wife eating. It was an area I’d never been to.
When I turned to take my seat, I saw Dame walking toward the table, flanked on either side by the white women I’d seen rushing to the door to greet him. Benji was just steps behind.
Dame, who was still in the same clothes he’d worn to the school, walked along laughing with the females and I watched the faces of the white men in the room turn from possible excitement to a bit of disdain at how closely the women were glued to his sides.
“So, ladies ... give me a call and we’ll see what we can do,” Dame said, spinning the girls around simultaneously and then releasing them. “We’ve got to get you two fine females in the next video. Fly you out to L.A. and everything.” His voice sounded fake and inflated, much more playful than it had at the school, and even though I wanted to be disgusted with his puffed-up playboy rendition, he was obviously toying with these women. Only they had no clue.
“Benji, please make sure I never see them again,” Dame said when the women, beaming and blowing kisses, finally departed. “Cocaine ain’t good for you.”
He and Benji laughed, but I was less enthused. Dame put his arms out to embrace me, but he must’ve noticed my internal frown.
“Oh ... cocaine.” He laughed lightly. “That don’t mean the real thing. I meant fine-ass white broads ... you know, like slang, Ms. Cash. Don’t act like you don’t know.”
I looked at Benji, who was standing beside him now and he nodded along with Dame.
“Like cocaine, fine-ass white broads,” he said pointedly, “make brothers act crazy and give away all their money.”
He and Dame burst out laughing and even I had to giggle.
“Finally,” Dame said as I inched closer to receive his hug. “I mean, you’re a teacher, you have to get metaphor and simile and hyperbole and all of that.”
“Yes,” I said, “but the cocaine is a stretch.”
In a loose and friendly embrace with Dame for just two seconds I noted again how tight and imposing his chest muscles were. He smelled spicy and clean, like something green in the woods, wild, yet tame enough to tantalize. I pushed away quickly.
“Everything all right?” Benji said to Dame.
“No doubt.” They gripped each other like five times. Benji tipped his cap to me and turned to walk out.
“Does he have to approve of all of your guests?” I asked as the waiter pulled out my chair again and we sat down.
“Man, you’d be surprised what fools will do nowadays,” Dame said. “I can hold my own, but they be out looking to bring me trouble. Five-ten fools all together. I ain’t no punk, but it’s too much money on the line for me to get locked up for stomping some fool.”
“So you let Benji do it?”
“He has a license to ill and kill ... like Bond. But for real, I was just happy I could take him along with me on the road. We came up together. I know I can trust him. That’s my boy. Whenever you see Benji, know that I’m just two steps behind,” he said as the waiter put down the menus and asked what we’d be drinking.
“Really?”
“You can believe it. He has my back.”
“That’s good to know.”
“So, where’s Mr. I-Love-the-Kids?” Dame asked after we ordered our drinks.
“Oh ... Evan’s ...” I paused and looked down at my phone to see I had a new text:
CAN’T MAKE IT. GOV JOHNSON CAME TO MEETING. RIDING TO HIS LODGE FOR DRINKS. I KNOW YOU CAN HANDLE DAME. GIVE HIM MY BEST.
I took a deep breath and looked back at Dame. “... not coming,” I finished. I tried not to look disappointed, but I knew I was rolling my eyes. I knew this would happen.
“Okay,” he said, unmoved.
“I know he set the whole thing up, but sometimes his schedule just—”
“You don’t have to apologize for him,” he said, sliding off his hat and setting it on what would’ve been Evan’s seat. “I know all about schedules. And really I didn’t feel like politricking tonight anyway. I’m home and I just want to relax. None of that star stuff ...”
“That’s not how you looked earlier ...”
“That wasn’t work. That was pleasure. See, those white girls actually buy my CDs. They don’t want nothing from me but a little attention. It’s all good.”
“That’s a good way to look at it.”
“And the other way I look at it is, I get to break bread with a fine lady I’ve admired for a long time.”
I tried not to blush, despite feeling a little flushed.
“Dame, you never came to my class, and when you did, you just sat in the back, joked around with your friends, and wrote in your notebook,” I listed.
“I did,” he said, nodding and laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“You don’t even know what you did, do you?” The smile on his face washed away quickly. “Look, you never turned me away. You never let me act up in your class. And you always tried to include me in on what y’all was doing.”
“Well, it’s school. You’re supposed to be included. I’m a teacher.”
“You think all teachers do that?” he asked.
“I think I’d be naive if I did. But I know most try.”
A woman walking by waved at Dame and he smiled back.
“Try? Most pretend they don’t see half the kids—the bad ones. Most either treat their students like criminals or ghosts. But not you... . Man, you was trying anything to get us to sing that gospel stuff.”
“It means a lot to me,” I said as the waiter put the drinks we’d ordered on the table.
“And one day, you
were dead serious. Got mad because nobody had their handouts from the day before and people were talking. Man, me and T-Brill was cutting a fool in the back of the room and you got up and stood next to that old beat-up piano and was like, ‘You all think other schools have pianos like this? You think they have broken computers, rusty water fountains, and outdated biology labs with no biology teachers?’ And to be honest, I’d been smoking and I wasn’t listening to you before that, but when you said it, I was thinking, man, finally somebody’s talking real talk to us. And you said, ‘If you don’t care about your education, no one else will.’ You remember that?”
“Yes, I do.” It was one of the worst days of my teaching career. I’d lost complete control of my classroom and felt helpless and useless. When I came to work, I was so excited. We were supposed to be singing “Amazing Grace.” I was still a new teacher then, and I thought that the Word needed to be in each song I taught. While other schools weren’t teaching gospel music in chorus, our mostly black and Christian faculty and student body insisted upon it. It was the tradition before the government even recognized the school. And, as my first principal told me, we weren’t changing until the government came in and stopped us. They’d taken everything else from our little school and we weren’t going to let them take the last thing that was sure to teach our students about goodness.
I knew the kids would love the song and prayed all night they’d receive the message of God’s good graces. Only it was clear they weren’t. The students were so rowdy that day, they wouldn’t receive a message if God jumped out of the piano and sang the song Himself.
“When you were standing up there,” Dame continued, “I just kept thinking, when I get out of here, I’m gonna make sure we have a new piano, new water fountains, a new biology lab, and some good teachers. Good teachers like Ms. Cash.”
“Really?”
“Man, I was sixteen and high”—he laughed—“but I know truth when I see it. And that ain’t never leave me. I traveled the world and that ain’t never leave me. I knew as soon as I got my money right, I’d bring it home, so other kids don’t have to see Hay Court and McKenzie like I did. So they can dream of more than making these white folks happy every day.” He looked at the waiter, who was standing nearby, waiting obediently to take our orders. “My mama and my grandmama served these people all they lives and ain’t nobody bothered to give them nothing but trouble. Now, I’m giving them the world.”
The waiter came and took our orders after we’d heard the specials and Dame joked with him, asking if they had any hash browns covered and smothered. The waiter laughed robustly, but I was sure if it was anyone else, he would’ve stared them out of the restaurant.
The food, when it finally came, was good but scarce. I’d ordered the grilled salmon with asparagus and mashed potatoes. But what I got looked like a sticky pad, two pencils, and a dab of hand cream. There was so much white space on the plate that I tried to spread the food around to pretend there was more.
“You know, when I dreamed of eating in places like this, I never thought that rich people’s food was just like rich people,” he said.
“How so?”
“It’s skinny,” he said, and we laughed together.
“You’re quite the comedian,” I said.
“Daaaame,” a female voice oozed just as I was about to look away. Standing before us was a twentyish white girl dressed in a preppy pink sweater with a khaki skirt. Her hair was curled tight and pushed back behind her ears. “I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I’m Mary Kate. I’m your biggest fan.”
“Hi, Mary Kate,” Dame said coolly. There was an awkward tone at the table. We were sitting there eating and she was standing, hovering above us. It seemed she was going nowhere.
“I downloaded your album and I was so excited when I heard you were coming home to Tuscaloosa,” she went on. “Who knew you would come over here to join us for dinner.”
“Us?” Dame repeated. “Us who?”
“Oh ...” she said, taking a breath and turning red immediately. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I’m sure,” he said.
“Well, can I have a picture?” She pulled a camera from her purse.
For the first time that day, I saw Dame’s face fill with tension. Through all of the screaming kids, flashing lights, and countless directions from the camera crew, he was cool and relaxed, but now he seemed strained.
“No pictures,” he said bluntly, even though the girl was already standing there holding the camera up to her eye.
“Excuse me?” she said, her voice cracking in disbelief.
“No pictures. I’m having dinner.” His decree was louder this time and the waiter came over to the table.
“But I—” she tried. Her voice was whiny now.
“Is everything okay?” the waiter asked.
“Just clear my bill and have my driver come around, please,” Dame said, holding out a black credit card.
“Certainly, sir,” the waiter replied. He took the card and turned to Mary Kate, who was still holding her camera. “Ma’am, could you please return to your seat?”
“But I ...” she repeated.
The waiter nodded his head patiently and directed the sad girl to her seat. People who heard the exchange were looking on now.
“You ready to get out of here?” Dame asked.
“Out of here?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m hungry. Let’s go get some real food. This was an appetizer.”
“You don’t want to order something else?” I asked.
“Trust me, we don’t need to stay here. Once Mary Kate texts all her friends and says I’m here, things are going to get worse.”
“Are you serious?” I asked.
He nodded and signed the bill.
“Now, I was supposed to put that on Evan’s tab,” I said.
“You can get the next one,” he replied.
“Really, I don’t think I should.” I looked down at my watch. It was nearing 9 p.m. “I need to get home.”
“No... . You promised me dinner and I’m hungry,” Dame teased.
Twenty minutes later, Dame and I were walking into the old Dreamland BBQ, a far cry from the frill Evan had in mind for the dinner. Dreamland was my daddy’s favorite restaurant. All they really served was meat and bread, and most people liked it that way. I tried to resist, remembering my diet, but my mouth started salivating the minute I saw the sign from the road. Dame and I were riding in the back of his Bentley. When we exited the Cypress Inn, I saw the silver, shiny car lighting up the front of the restaurant. Peeking through the little curtains hanging from the back windows with a few admirers, I admitted that I’d never been in one and Dame insisted I ride with him. Benji drove my car and I got to feel like royalty riding in the luxurious automobile that seemed more like a rolling, plush couch than a car. I could hardly feel the thing moving and Dame kept laughing as I slid around on the backseat, my dress caressing the soft leather. All this and when I looked over at Dame, he seemed so natural riding there. Like he’d been born riding in Bentleys. And even though he was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, he made the car look more stylish.
Glancing at him carefully from my seat, I thought of how different he seemed from Evan. Both men were handsome. Both were confident. Both were successful. But Dame had this kind of strut and style that screamed “I’m here.” In the school, in the restaurant, it invited all eyes on him, and then dared them to stare. It was mystifying and exciting and it made me wonder what my former student had done and seen to make himself glow in such a way.
When we walked into Dreamland, a few people looked up from their barbecue plates at Dame familiarly, and one girl took out her phone and sneakily snapped a picture, but that was it. The people, most of whom looked like they’d just gotten off work, seemed more inclined to enjoy their own meals and allow Dame to enjoy his than to make a fuss. We sat down and Dame exclaimed happily, “Now, this is us.
“You should’ve got
ten that whole chicken,” Dame joked after we ordered our food. “This is on Tuscaloosa. We might as well do it up.”
“I need to watch my figure,” I said, loosening up to him with the promise of BBQ filling my nostrils.
“I’ve been watching your figure for a long time and I can tell you, it’s all good.”
I didn’t know how to feel about this statement. Sitting there, my first inclination was to be offended that he was admitting that he’d “watched” me. Dame was a kid. He may have grown up now—in a lot of visible ways—but to me, he was still a student. But then, there was another side of me, the side that had spent too much time picking out the dress I was wearing that felt like I looked good when I walked out of the house and was happy that someone noticed—there was nothing worse than when no one noticed. This side wanted to point out how nicely the red wrap dress held up my breasts and accentuated my hips. She wanted to get up and do a runway walk through Dreamland. But instead, I decided to settle her down and calm the odd moment at the table with a bit of comedy. A big girl joke.
“Spare me. No one likes a fat girl,” I said, laughing. But Dame didn’t budge.
“You have a point. I hate fat girls. I only date big girls,” he said.
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“You ever notice how women who say they’re ‘fat’ never seem happy about it? They say it like it’s negative—a curse or something. Now, big girls—when they say they’re ‘big,’ they say it with pride and confidence. They know they look good and that’s a turnon,” he explained and I was completely intrigued by this idea. “They know what they want and how to get it. Most big girls are like that. And they know how to treat you.”
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