I didn’t know what to say next, so I changed the subject again.
“So what sports do you enjoy besides golf?” I asked.
“I like sailing and riding horses. I just bought a new mare. She’s a beauty,” Davis said.
“I’m anxious to improve my tennis and golf games, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to have a lot of time, between getting adjusted to the new job and the temporary living situation.”
“You don’t like the corporate apartment? I can get a designer to come and redo it to your taste,” Davis said.
“Oh no, it’s great. But I know I can’t stay there forever.”
“Stay as long as you like. It’s a write-off, but when you’re ready to find your own place, let me know. I have a great real estate guy,” Davis said.
“Thanks,” I said, knowing full well I couldn’t afford anyplace Davis’s real estate agent might show me, even on a good day.
The waiter served the meal, which ranked as one of the best I’d had in a long time, not counting my mother’s fried chicken. Our lunch was interrupted several times by Davis’s two-way pager and his cell phone. Once, during the meal when both were in play, the waiter brought a phone over and said he had an urgent call for Davis.
Davis took the phone and after a “Yes. Sure. I can make it happen,” he asked, “How much do they want for it?”
Then Davis hung up the phone and said, “I need to get back to the office. If you want dessert, you can stay, and don’t worry about the bill. I have an account here, so everything’s taken care of.”
“No, I’m fine. I’ll just head back with you if it’s okay,” I said.
“Sure. My driver’s out front.”
We walked out of the restaurant and were greeted by two young lanky black guys with their pants hanging off their butts, holding boxes of candy.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you like to help support our youth basketball team by buying a box of candy? We’re trying to buy new uniforms.”
As I stuck my hand in my pocket to see if I had any singles, I was disappointed when I heard Davis’s response.
“What are you kids doing out here harassing this restaurant’s clientele? Where are your parents?” he demanded.
“What?” one of the kids asked. He looked like he was ready to challenge Davis to a duel.
“Don’t question me. Why don’t your parents pay for your uniforms?”
“Dawg, you gon’ let him talk to you like that? Who dat short niggah think he is?” the other one asked, laughing.
“Davis, is that your driver over there,” I asked, trying to intervene.
Davis made eye contact with a middle-aged white man dressed in a black suit and black hat and said, “These little project people better be glad I’ve got business to handle, or else I would show them. Raymond, do you want to ride back with me?”
“Uh, I think I’ll just walk back,” I said. I didn’t know what had made me angrier, Davis’s behavior or the young boys’ foul language and disrespect. Still, I couldn’t resist giving each boy a ten-dollar bill after Davis’s limo had pulled off.
5
__________________
I walked into the bar, greeted by the chalky glare of fluorescent lights and a warm smile from a man who I knew would never disappoint me: Hayden.
“Hey, Miss Zola. What are you drinking today?” Hayden asked as he took a swig from a green beer bottle.
“The usual,” I said.
“Bartender, a white wine for the beautiful sistah in green,” Hayden yelled as I scooted into a booth near the bar. I leaned over the table, gave Hayden a kiss on the cheek and said, “Good seeing you, baby boy.”
“You, too. You smell good. What are you wearing?” Hayden asked.
“After eight hours? I guess it would be funk mixed with a little Angel,” I said.
“Oh, I love that scent. You know they make that for men, too,” Hayden said.
“I know. Which one do you wear, the funk or the Angel?” I teased.
“It’s too early in the evening to come for me. My reading skills are sharp since I’ve had only one beer,” Hayden said, laughing.
Thursdays were reserved for my best male friend. Right after I leave the office, Hayden and I would usually meet at our favorite hangout, Joe’s Pub, in the village on Lafayette and Astor Place. We’ll have a couple of drinks, then head uptown to my place or over to Brooklyn, where Hayden lives. We watch Survivor and Will & Grace. Most times we fall asleep and wake up in the middle of night and talk about life and the perfect relationships neither one of us have but secretly dream of.
Joe’s Pub was a cute little spot that featured live entertainment of up-and-coming R&B groups and poetry slams. It was also a place where both Hayden and I felt special because of the attention we received from the male patrons.
Hayden was from Pittsburgh and had moved to New York to perform with the Dance Theatre of Harlem and was later a principal dancer for a new group called Evidence. He had injured his knee and was now concentrating on acting and Broadway. He was tall, almost 6'5" with a well-proportioned dancer’s body and sculpted biceps. He had an angular face with unusual gold-flecked dark brown eyes.
“So what did you do today?” I asked as the bartender brought over a glass of white wine for me and another beer for Hayden.
“Nothing special. Went to the gym after all the gym bunnies left. Dropped my pictures off at a couple of casting agents and then I did a little broke shopping, looking in the windows, since I don’t have any money to buy anything,” Hayden said.
“Anything look promising?”
“Are you kidding? Child, if I don’t get a callback for The Lion King, then I can forget about Broadway,” Hayden said.
“Didn’t you say something about auditioning for Oklahoma!?”
“Yep, but it didn’t go that well. I must admit that ole Hayden can’t high kick like he used to. I’m getting old.”
“Please, you’re not even thirty,” I said.
“For a dancer I might as well be fifty. Besides, I don’t care what the doctor said about making me as good as new, I still feel a little pain after I’ve danced for more than thirty minutes. That won’t cut it on the Great White Way.”
“But you’re not going to give up, are you?” I asked as I squeezed Hayden’s hand.
“Naw, I’m not going to do that, but you might have to fire that assistant of yours and let me come work for you,” Hayden said, smiling.
“But you can’t even type,” I said.
“Yeah, but I’d look good trying,” he said, laughing.
“You got enough money?”
“I’m okay. I’ll let you know before I head to the soup kitchen.”
“So how’s your love life?”
“You mean my lust life?”
“Whatever.”
“I’ve hit a dry spell. I was hoping there would be more prospects in here than this,” Hayden said as he surveyed the room with one scope. His eyes suddenly lit up when a handsome, brown-suited UPS man walked into the bar, carrying a box.
“Hayden, don’t embarrass me,” I warned. Hayden approached any man in whom he took an interest. It didn’t matter if the man was gay, bi, or straight. In fact, Hayden preferred men who were somewhat confused, and I had been captivated by his stories of seducing so-called straight men. When I protested, telling him if he had them they couldn’t be straight, he would tell me what he told them: As long as they messed around with only him, then they kept their straight status.
Hayden didn’t have time for romance with gay men because he said they brought him too much drama and heartache. I knew his current dating strategy was just a phase he was going through and that one day he’d give true love a chance. I was also a little concerned that he had such an easy time meeting and having sex with men who were either married or living with a woman. I was comforted by Hayden’s promise that he wouldn’t let me date any man who swung both ways, and whenever I had a concern I made sure Hayden met the guy before I b
ecame intimate. I remember how mad Hayden was when I introduced him to Jabar and Hayden had to admit that he didn’t stand a ghost of a chance to get him to cross over, even for just one night.
“So how is my man?” Hayden asked.
“Who?”
“Zola, don’t be coy with me. You know who I’m talking about.”
“Jabar?”
“Yes.”
“You know I don’t see him but once a week. Twice if he’s lucky.” I smiled.
“Stop frontin’. If you get that dick twice a week, then we both know who the lucky one is,” Hayden said.
“As Jabar would say, ‘That’s what’s up,’” I said, laughing.
“Tell me about it. What time is it?” Hayden asked as he looked around the bar for a clock.
I checked my cell phone and realized that it was almost seven-thirty. I gulped down my wine, dropped my phone in my bag, and told Hayden to drink up, that it was time for us to dash.
* * *
From Bling Bling Confidential
When Davis met Veronica Meadors during orientation at Harvard, it was love at first sight for him. For Veronica, the leggy beauty from Philadelphia it was love at fifth sight—once she learned from his close friend Seth, that Davis came from old money. She was even more interested when she discovered that both of Davis’s parents were deceased and there were no siblings to share his inheritance, which he would receive once he turned twenty-five. Since Veronica had her own trust fund, she decided she could wait.
* * *
6
__________________
It was a humid Tuesday evening in early July, and I jumped from the taxi to the street and then through a gold and glass door. A nervous anticipation bounced in my stomach as I rode up the elevator with an attendant to Davis’s Fifth Avenue apartment. I wondered if I’d be dressed appropriately since I’d only changed my shirt and tie and had kept on the suit I’d worn to the office that day.
Davis’s wife, Veronica, had insisted on giving a small dinner party for me to welcome me to New York City. I was hoping that Davis had told her I was gay so I wouldn’t have to spend the evening entertaining some beautiful woman she had invited just for me.
When I reached the penthouse I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. Seconds later, an older white man in a tux opened the beveled-glass door and greeted me with a very stately, “Welcome to the McClinton residence. And you would be?” as he looked me over from head to toe as if he were measuring me for a better suit.
“I’m Raymond Tyler.”
“Yes sir, you’re the evening’s guest of honor. Please follow me, Mr. Tyler,” he said as he turned to lead me down a long hallway covered by a colorful Persian rug. I could hear the buzz of conversation and laughter coming from the end of the hall.
I was led into a large mahogany-paneled room with three chandeliers that looked like dripping diamonds. It was the size of a small ballroom, grand and gilded, with built-in bookshelves and gold-trimmed books. A shiny baby grand piano occupied a space next to a life-size marble statue. When I walked into the room, Davis saw me and signaled for me to join him. He was holding a monogrammed brandy snifter with an amber-colored liquid and smoking a cigar. He was also dressed in an elegant navy blue tux with a white shirt sans tie. As I moved toward him, I suddenly wished I had at least changed suits. I felt like the Eddie Murphy character in the movie Trading Places.
“Raymond, over here. I have someone I want you to meet.”
“Davis, how are you doing? This apartment is amazing,” I said as I looked around the spacious room with its high ceiling. It was so large that calling Davis’s place an apartment didn’t sound appropriate.
“I don’t think you’d call this an apartment,” a large lady said as she chuckled with the musical laughter of a bubbly socialite. I guess she was a mind reader.
“It does have more than twenty-five rooms,” Davis said as he smiled at me and the lady.
“I’m Danielle DuBois,” the woman said as she extended her plump hand, flaunting a large diamond on her ring finger.
“Nice meeting you, Miss DuBois,” I said as I took her hand and shook it gently.
“The DuBois of Philadelphia and Newport,” she added. I didn’t know what she meant by that exactly, but I just nodded and smiled like I knew.
“What are you drinking, Raymond?” Davis asked.
“White wine,” I said.
“Tell me you’re kidding? I’ve got some fifty-year-old scotch that you must try,” Davis said.
“Maybe later. Just some wine right now,” I repeated.
“What about some champagne? I know my butler keeps the Cristal chilled,” Davis enticed.
Since it seemed like getting a glass of wine was going to require an act of Congress, I quickly agreed. Davis disappeared, and I started to walk slowly around the room, admiring the books and artwork. I glanced out a large window, which looked out onto a busy Fifth Avenue, when I heard a female voice say, “You must be Raymond.”
I turned around quickly. I was facing a tall, beautiful lady with an egg-shaped face and long auburn hair. She was wearing an elegant egg-yolk-colored evening gown and an emerald necklace surrounded with diamonds the size of Spanish peanuts.
“I’m Veronica Meadors McClinton,” she said as she gave me a quick peck on my cheek and handed me a drink. “My husband asked me to give this to you.”
“Thanks,” I said, accepting the glass. “Nice to meet you.”
“Come, let me show you around. I also want to introduce you to our daughter and some of our guests. I invited only eight people, and I just hope none of the gossip columnists find out about this little dinner. I’ll have hell to pay if some of my B-List friends find out I had a dinner party and didn’t invite them. I find it best to ask people to only one or two events a year or else they get a little too comfortable,” Veronica said as she offered me the soft hint of a smile. There was an impatient edge to her voice, but I could tell she was trying hard to be nice.
I followed Veronica back down the long hallway as she pointed out different rooms, including a music room and a twenty-five-seat screening room. Veronica led me to what seemed like another part of the house, where she gently opened the door. I could see that it was a child’s room, and I noticed a white lady wearing a modest uniform, with a book, sitting on the edge of the full-size canopy bed.
“Is she sleeping?” Veronica asked, and the lady nodded. Veronica then turned to me and put her slim finger to her lips and whispered, “Maybe you can meet her next time.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” I said as I noticed the face of a young girl with small hands covering her nose.
I toured Veronica and Davis’s apartment in awe. The master suite was larger than my temporary residence and included a thousand-square-foot closet with floor-to-ceiling drawers and a special chilled area for furs and cashmere sweaters. I discovered that he had a staff of six that lived in the residence—a nanny, a chef, and two maids, one for the day and one for the evening, as well as a butler and Davis’s personal valet who was on twenty-four-hour call.
“So, where did you go to school?” Veronica asked.
“The University of Alabama and then Columbia Law,” I said proudly. “I also have an MBA from the University of Washington.”
“What about prep school?” Veronica asked.
“I attended public school.”
“Oh, you poor thing, but you’re from the South, right?”
“Yep, a proud son of the new South,” I said.
I could tell Veronica was not impressed with my education or Southern upbringing, and I suddenly felt like I should repeat my Ivy League law education but decided against it. I was sure Veronica was trying to make me feel ashamed of my public school background, so I raised my eyebrow to let her know she had said something insulting, but I wasn’t about to go off on the boss’s wife in her own house.
Just as it seemed Veronica was getting ready to ask something else about my background, another whi
te lady with a plump, pleasant face approached us and said, “Madame McClinton, dinner is served.”
“Thank you, Marion,” Veronica said as she looped her arm through mine and led me to the dining area. It looked like something out of a British murder mystery, with a long table covered with a white linen tablecloth and adorned with blue Wedgwood china and crystal goblets.
I listened intently to the guests’ conversation, which mostly included yachts, summer homes, and parties, losing money on technology stocks, and how hard it was to find good personal assistants. When I didn’t join in, there was a friendly silence interspersed with more comments about wealth and the silliest of people, especially black people who actually thought earning a million dollars might make one a millionaire. I suddenly missed Trent and recalled how we would enjoy talking about different guests at events like this, even though I couldn’t ever remember a dinner party like this in Seattle.
After courses of soup, salad, and tuna tartare, one of the guests complimented Veronica on the food. She took a sip from her wineglass and said, “Thank you, darling. I slaved over a hot checkbook all day.” Most of the guests laughed, and I gazed into my empty soup dish, wishing I hadn’t emptied it so fast.
Based on the gentleman sitting next to me during dinner, I figured Davis had told Veronica I was gay. He was a tall, brown-skinned man with thick eyebrows that looked like they had been painted on. He told me his name was Mathis, and when I asked if he had a last name, he laughed and said, “I used to before my parents disowned me. It’s a very interesting story and I would love to tell you sometime.”
I smiled back like I might be interested, and he whispered, “My place, of course. If I can decide which one.”
“Must be nice.” I smiled.
“Where do you summer?” Mathis asked.
“Excuse me?”
A Love of My Own Page 5