by Omar Tyree
The bookstore staff had blocked off room out front for the limo driver to park.
Before they climbed out of the car, Shareef asked his driver, “Are you coming in for this one?”
Daryl hesitated a minute. He still didn’t want to get too involved. Then he said, “Sure, why not? They already got a spot out here for me.”
“Okay, well, I might need you to do me a favor,” Shareef told him.
Daryl turned and looked him in the face.
“What’s that?”
“Well, usually, after the last signings, I like to take a lucky girl out to dinner. But since they’re all up in my face inside the store, I usually can’t do it by myself. So I always pick out somebody with me to be the one to say something.”
Daryl smiled and started laughing.
He said, “You got it down to a science, hunh?”
Shareef grinned and said, “All I need for you to do is tell her that I would like to treat her to dinner if she has the time this evening. And that’s it. I’ll look at you to tell you which woman to ask.”
Daryl nodded to him. “All right. I think I can do that.”
Shareef said, “Okay, let’s do it then.”
Daryl let him out of the car and escorted him through the front doors of the bookstore like a bodyguard.
“There he go, there he go,” a single, young woman swooned.
“Hey, how are y’all doin’?” Shareef spoke to them all with humble authority.
“Waitin’ for you,” someone answered. The room broke out with a ready laugh. That was a good thing. The crowd was loose and bubbling.
The bookstore owners, Rita Ewing and Clara Villarosa, immediately greeted the author and pulled him into a side storage room for privacy.
Clara the older partner with striking gray hair and shorter stature, spoke up first.
“Shareef, we’re about to run out of your books.”
He looked at her and then at Rita, the younger, taller partner with freckles.
“How many books did you have?”
“We ordered two hundred of the new book, and the other books have been selling out all week.”
“So how many do you have left?”
Rita answered, “We have seventeen of the new book left. And I’ve lost count of the other ones. But it’s not much.”
Clara added, “It’s probably less than that now, since you’re here. You know, there are people who won’t buy the book until they see the author first.”
At that point, there was nothing Shareef could do about it but continue with the game plan. So he shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, when we sell out, we sell out. And we just tell them that we’ll have more books in stock tomorrow. Do you have any of those name plates that I can sign to stick inside the books?”
Rita said, “I wish we did.”
“Okay, but we don’t. So let’s just do what we do then,” the author concluded. At the end of the day, he would much rather sell out than to sell nothing. So he was ready to rock and roll with the punches.
“Are we ready to do this?” he asked them both.
“We’re ready when you are,” Clara told him.
“Well, let’s go do it then.”
They returned to the bookstore showroom where Shareef was led to the front of the crowd. There was a small table covered with Kente cloth, a comfortable reading chair, a bottle of lemonade, and a plastic cup all ready for him to sit, read, drink, answer questions, and sign copies of his latest novel as well as his previous novels.
Clara stood in front of the crowd to make the introduction while Shareef took a seat in the reading chair behind the table.
“Without further ado, the man you’ve all been waiting to see is here.”
“Yeeaaahhh! a few of the women in the crowd cheered before the store’s co-owner could finish her introduction. Off to the side, Rita smiled as Clara continued.
“New York Times and Essence bestselling author of Chocolate Love, I Want More, and several other hot and steaming titles of black on black romance, Harlem’s very own, Shareef Crawford!”
Thunderous applause rang out from the standing-room-only crowd of fans. They filled every section of the bookstore, nearly two hundred people, most of whom were women. Only a few men speckled the crowd, including The Spear. He looked unimpressed, but he was there mainly to observe the nonsense voodoo Shareef was able to pull on so many women, including the gorgeous sister in the lavender business suit who stood not far from him in the back of the room.
Shareef stood at the front of the room with a copy of his latest novel in hand.
“First of all, I want to thank everyone for reading and loving my work, because without your kind support, I would have no inspiration to write.”
More applause met his humble comments.
“Don’t worry about it, baby, just keep doing what you do and we’ll keep doing what we do to support you,” someone yelled.
Shareef smiled and nodded to the woman. He said, “That sounds like a fair trade to me.” Then he raised his new book to eyesight level. “This new book of mine, The Full Moon, is all about the power of yes and no. And my whole idea to write a novel about it was based on a magazine essay I wrote last summer, where I explained that ‘yes’ is the dominant answer for most happy relationships. Now, that doesn’t mean that we never say no, but if we’re saying no more than we say yes, then there’s obviously something wrong with that relationship. Because in a happy relationship, we’re eager to say yes. Am I right or am I wrong?” he asked the crowd.
Most of them nodded and mumbled in agreement with him.
He said, “In fact, there is no relationship without a yes.” He then looked at several of the women in the audience and asked each of them a specific question. “Can I have your phone number? Will you take mine? Will you call me up sometime? Are you free on the weekends? Can we go out?”
He said, “Now, if every one of these sisters tells me no, then who can I start a relationship with?”
“Who would tell you no?” an older woman sitting in the second row of chairs asked him. There were only six rows of chairs of eight across, and those forty-eight chairs had been filled long before seven. Everyone else had to stand.
Shareef responded, “Oh, you’d be surprised. Everybody gets their share of nos. But let’s think about it, without the yeses, there would be no stories for me to tell. So I want to read from one of the hottest chapters of many in this new book of mine.”
“Yeaaahhh!” the crowd responded again.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” someone else yelled.
The Spear continued to shake his head in the background, joined there by Daryl, who was impressed. From Daryl Mooreland’s perspective, any man who could hold the attention of that many women for a book was well worth watching.
As Shareef thumbed through the pages of his novel, the anticipation continued to build in the room. The crowd of women breathed deeply, swallowed hard, readjusted their stances, smiled from ear to ear, and gave the author their undivided attention.
He found his chapter, took a sip of his lemonade, and began to read from his standing position:
Carla looked down at the phone number she had scribbled onto the back of one of her business cards and thought about the man’s proposition. Why travel to Bermuda by herself to begin with if she was only there to window shop? She could window shop at home with friends in Houston. But what was the use in lusting for a man through a window? Either she would decide to wear his soft brown skin, aroma, and hard flexing muscles while she was there on the exotic island, or she would only have her moist dreams to remember him by when she left. Still, she could have had her wet dreams back home at Houston.
If she was not willing to indulge herself and become physical with the man, she could have been just as easily served watching the movies of Denzel, Morris, Kodjoe, and Shemar under slippery satin sheets. For what was life if she didn’t live it? For how long would she allow herself to continue b
eing a spectator. Every grown woman had been hurt to some degree by love and loss; it was the victorious women who were courageous enough to move on and find new love. Then again, becoming a revolving door of sexual fantasies, a human McDonald’s, where every customer was served, and cheaply, was not an option she would allow herself to entertain.
That was Carla’s dilemma. How much would she be willing to give of herself? To whom? And at what price to her conscience? Nevertheless, she was an honest woman who craved a man’s touch, his words, his comfort, his caress, and his intimacy. Holding out would only build up her intensity and anticipation of release, and indeed, a release was needed. She was woman enough to admit it; “I need what I need.”
Suddenly, she became antsy. Normal human lust was winning over. She felt butterflies in her stomach, quivers in her legs, and twinkles in her toes, as fresh blood rushed to her bosom, producing the perfect firmness for foreplay.
Her desires were undeniable. Her cravings were strong. Her will was weakening? Or was it strengthening? For what was the equal balance between yes and no? Was no more courageous than yes? Or was yes more courageous, particularly while Carla held the phone number and her fate in her own hands. A no was as simple as no phone call, but a yes had to be initiated.
Then again, she reasoned that there was room for a series of yeses and nos. For instance: she could say yes to a walk on the beach, but no to a temptatious glass of wine too late in the evening. She could say yes to dinner in a public restaurant, but no to a private nightcap. She could say yes to an afternoon swim in her bathing suit, but no to a skinny-dip after dark. Such was the proper etiquette of a tactful lady.
Nevertheless, at the end of their courting, Carla would still have a pressing question to answer; yes or no, with only three nights left between them for seduction.
So she took a deep breath and boldly decided to pick up her hotel phone and call the number he had given her. She would start with that first yes—a phone call—after that, she would determine how far another yes would lead them.
When Shareef closed his novel and made eye contact with the crowd, they began to exhale and celebrate.
“Whuuuuww! Give us more!”
“Somebody turn on the air! It’s hot in here!”
“I know you’re not stopping on us there!”
Daryl started grinning from the back. Even The Spear cracked a smile. And the sister in the lavender business suit had been smiling since she walked into the store.
Shareef laughed out loud from the front. He said, “One thing I’ve learned in this publishing industry is only to read enough to wet your whistle, and let you read the rest. Besides, we still got books to sell and I don’t want to bore anybody.”
“You’re not boring us. Read some more,” one woman stated.
“They said your books are sold out tonight,” another woman pouted.
“They’ll have more in stock tomorrow,” Shareef responded quickly. The hustle was the hustle. He said, “And at this point, we’d like to start our Q and A’s.”
The crowd asked the usual questions about his writing process; his inspiration; how they could become writers; who he liked to read; what was his take on the state of African-American literature, sex, and relationships in the new millennium; books to feature film deals; e-books and Internet dating; science fiction and fantasy writing; how to sell poetry; how to get a publishing deal; how to market your work—the list went on before the sister in the lavender business suit asked her question.
“Have you ever thought about writing something other than romance? I mean, your writing skills are obviously above average. I just feel that you could do so much more by writing more universal subjects.”
The Spear looked at her and nodded his head in agreement. The woman continued to turn him on. Someone had to break away from the idolization and bullshit that was going on inside the store.
Shareef looked the woman over and answered, “Yeah, I’ve thought about it. But ultimately there’s no subject more universal than love. Don’t you think?” he asked her back.
She was easily one of the finest women in the room. She looked just below thirty, but her smooth, young face could pass for a fresh college grad.
“I mean, we have a million books published about black love, but how many great books do we have about the everyday struggle?” she questioned.
Shareef read her position and liked the woman. She wasn’t grandstanding at all, she was simply expressing her mind, just like he would.
Before he could answer her, The Spear spoke up and added, “Yeah, this Full Moon book, to me, sounds just like How Stella Got Her Groove Back. I mean, what’s the difference?”
Shareef backtracked. “Well, let me answer her question first, then I’ll come back to yours.”
He answered, “I would say, yeah, it is true, we don’t have many great books about everyday struggles. But who wants to read those kind of books? We want to get away from struggle when we read. So when those great books are written, how many of us are really willing to pay attention to them?”
He said, “And as far as The Full Moon being similar to Stella’s Groove, I would say that the only things in common between the two is the island romance, and the fact that a woman has to talk herself into saying yes. But this book is not about an older woman and a younger man. The Full Moon is about people in their prime years and beyond, having the courage to say yes to love in general.”
The Spear mumbled, “Yeah, all right, it’s all the same thing to me.”
Daryl overheard him and didn’t speak on it. Nor did the sister in the lavender suit.
Clara took center stage again. “Well, as everyone can see, Shareef has a gang of books to sign tonight, so we want to limit each person to two books.”
As soon as she made that announcement, some of the readers with three books or more to have signed began to grumble.
Shareef spoke up on their concern immediately. “Nah, if they bought my books, I wanna sign everything they bought. I’ll just have to sign them quickly. So please forgive my handwriting.”
The first young woman in line said, “Thank you.” She was holding five of his books to have signed.
So Shareef took a seat, pulled out his platinum pen, and started signing away while thanking the readers.
“Thanks for coming out tonight.”
“Keep reading my work.”
“Thanks for your love and support.”
“Okay, I’ll use your name in the next one. I promise.”
There were several women Shareef wanted to ask out to dinner, but there were just too many books to sign. He could barely lift his head up to signal his driver in the background to ask one of them. Nor did he spot any of his Harlem homies who had promised to make it out to the bookstore that night. He didn’t count on that anyway. Book events were not their thing, so there were single women to talk to everywhere.
When it came time for the sister in the lavender suit to have her four books signed, she made sure she got his undivided attention. Not only did he smell her, remember her look, her question, and her poise, she managed to write her name and a question mark on a piece of paper for him.
“Hey, thanks for the tough question back there,” he commented as soon as he spotted her at the front of the line.
She only smiled at him with no words exchanged. Then she slid him the piece of paper on the table in front of her books.
Shareef looked down and read the name.
“Coffee? Your name is Coffee?”
She continued to smile at him. “That’s what they call me,” she responded.
He paused for a minute, imagination running wild.
“Why?” he asked her.
“I just have a lot of energy.”
Shareef was ready to signal his driver for her for sure.
Then he read the question mark below her name.
“What does that mean?” he asked her.
She looked him in the eyes and answered, “Whatever you want it
to mean? It’s up to you.”
On cue, Shareef spotted Daryl toward the back of the room. Daryl caught the look and already knew. He had peeped her out as soon as he walked into the store. She was the one he would have went after himself, just like the camouflage-wearing brother beside him had tried and failed before she stepped up into the line.
Daryl grinned and nodded. Shareef nodded back and went back to work.
He signed her books with the normal messages of “Thanks for your support,” blah, blah, blah. Then he told her on the sly, “Stick around for a minute.”
The woman called Coffee heard him and nodded. Their understanding of each other was clear. She was reading his real-life book and he was reading hers. Nothing else needed to be said until later.
When she was close enough, Daryl pulled her aside and made sure that his words were perfect.
“Mr. Crawford would like to know if you would be available to join him for dinner this evening.”
Daryl wanted the invitation to sound as professional as possible to keep himself out of any trouble. A complimentary dinner seemed innocent enough, and that’s all it had to be. If the dinner led to more, then it was none of his business, nor was he responsible for their actions once they were outside of his vehicle.
Coffee looked pleased by the invite. She answered, “Yes, I would love to.”
The driver nodded to her and looked back toward Shareef. Shareef caught the nod from his table at the front and nodded back. It was all nonverbal language.
Coffee asked Daryl, “Does he want us to wait in the car for him?”
She was taking the proposition to the next level with confidence and speed. Daryl was stunned by it.
He said, “Well, okay, I guess we could wait out in the car.” She was the only woman Shareef had given him the signal to ask, and she had already agreed to dinner, so what was there left to wait for? He led her out of the bookstore and to the waiting limo.
The Spear jealously watched the whole scene, but was powerless to alter the script. Coffee had sent the alley cat scampering away so she could snag the prized lion.
Aw, that fake-ass, wannabe Diana Ross. They deserve each other, he told himself as the woman left with the limo driver.