by Zuri Day
Her phone vibrated in her hand. She almost peed right there. Grabbing her chest, she looked at the screen.
“Doug,” she whispered so the criminal outside her window wouldn’t hear her. “I think somebody’s at my window, trying to get in.”
“Yeah,” he whispered back. “But I’m too big to climb through it. So come open the door.”
She’d never wanted to hit, kiss, hug, and hurt somebody all at the same time, but that’s how she felt when she opened the front door and let him inside. Soon, however, his kissing and hugging only made her want him to hit it, and love all her hurt away.
That’s exactly what Doug did.
32
The next morning, Jan was waddling in the last vestiges of her pity party when her cell phone rang. Doug had definitely made her feel better, but when he left, so did her good mood. She almost didn’t answer the vibrating phone, but figuring it might be a time-sensitive issue, she rolled out of bed and engaged the speaker button.
“Good morning.”
“Hi, Jan. It’s Cynthia. I know you work afternoons and hope this isn’t too early to call.”
“No, I needed to get up anyway.”
“It’s about the show, and I hope you don’t get offended.”
“Let me guess. You showed your party organizers a picture of me and they’re opting for a woman who sounds like fingernails on the chalkboard but looks like Beyoncé.”
“Goodness, no! Jan, why would you even say that?”
“You haven’t talked to Doug today?”
“No, I haven’t talked to him since the weekend. Why? Did something happen?”
Jan gave Cynthia a condensed version of what happened at On That Note.
“Jan, I’m so sorry to hear that. You have an amazing voice. Honestly, though, I can’t say I’m surprised. We live in a very superficial society that places way too much emphasis on things that shouldn’t matter. I’m sad to say that not too long ago I was one of those people. It’s how I was raised.”
“What happened to change you?”
“A man named Byron Carter. Because of preconceived notions and societal standards I almost let a really good man get away. That’s a whole other story. Today I’m following up on the conversation at Thanksgiving. The song I suggested from the incident with your coworker. Have you had a chance to work on it?”
“Not really.”
“I hope what happened last night doesn’t discourage you from trying. I have a group of girlfriends in Chicago. We’ve been tight for years and talk almost every week via conference call. On Sunday I shared with them what happened to you at the club and how you handled it. The message resonated with them as it had with me. I told them you were writing a song that encapsulates that message. They asked if it was available for download!”
“I appreciate that, Cynthia, but I don’t know if I can do it. Given what just happened last night, the words I said to her sound pretty empty.”
“I believe what happened last night makes the message even more pertinent, and important. There’s another reason why I’m calling.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not a stylist, but I am a professional shopper. Some would say I need a twelve-step program.” Jan laughed. “So I thought to offer my services in helping you put together a look for the holiday show. And not because of how you look,” she quickly added, “or what you weigh or don’t weigh or anything like that. But because there will be a lot of influential people there and I want you to hit that stage looking like you not only belong in the room, but like you own it.”
Jan was silent a moment, battling a multitude of feelings. She believed that Cynthia’s intent was sincere but at the end of the day it was yet another person commenting on her looks.
“Hello, Jan? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“I hope that came across in the way I intended.”
“I know you mean well.”
“You’re upset. I’m sorry. I went back and forth on whether or not to call. But I know some wonderful designers who could whip something up tailored to make you look amazing and—”
“Thanks, Jan, but I already have my outfit for the show.”
“Oh, okay.”
“My cousin helped me pick it out. It’s very rich looking, and I like how I look in it.”
“That’s great! What color is it?”
“It’s a wine-colored velour gown, with a bit of a train at the bottom. I caught it on sale at Nordstrom’s.”
“It sounds perfect, Jan. Do you have your shoes yet?”
“I have a pair of silver sandals that will work. They’re dressy, and will fit into the holiday theme.”
“Sounds like the only other thing you need to go with it is an original song.”
“No pressure, right?”
“None at all. Just a few thousand young ladies who could greatly benefit from being reminded that they are perfect, just the way they are.”
After the phone call Jan stayed in bed remembering that night, what Melissa had said, and her unplanned comeback. Slowly, more words began to congeal. She sat up, grabbed her iPad, and typed the words.
You be you. I’ll be me.
I’m the best me there ever will be.
Don’t fit your mold? Don’t give a damn.
You be who you are and I’ll be who I am.
Humming, she got out of bed and continued to think of words and rhymes. Without even realizing it she’d left her pity party and had started writing a song.
33
Jan sat in Frank’s office, her dressing room at Breeze. She stared at herself in the mirror and frowned at who looked back at her. A look that reflected society’s standard of beauty. In that moment, she felt like a caricature of herself. Without thinking, she’d brought and put on her “show costume.” Even as she’d talked Thump into opening the show with a song about authenticity. Even as she was writing a song about being herself, she looked at the reflection of a stranger.
Before she could tell her hands not to, they were reaching for the wig she wore and tossing it across the room. She ran her fingers through the natural twists her hairdresser had given her last week, just to take a break from the press and curl. Looked into the mirror, and smiled. She kept on the damnable body shaper but traded the silk maxi dress for what she’d worn to the club—black stretch pants, a pink, black, and turquoise baby-doll top, and pink high-top sneakers. Eyeing the pile of clothes on the floor and herself in the full-length mirror, she began to giggle. She felt like a little girl about to do something naughty. With the hourglass shaper and playful apparel, she felt girlie too. Girlie and cute. But she wasn’t without apprehension. What would the crowd think about this new look? What would Doug think? If Melissa decided to show her heckling face, would the crowd now agree with her? Frank was either going to applaud her or tell her she’d lost her mind. Thump was probably going to have a heart attack.
All Jan could hope for was a doctor in the house. Because she’d decided to be her song’s working title, “Who I Am.” There was no turning back.
Frank’s two-fisted knock signaled it was showtime. With one last look in the mirror and a deep, calming breath, she opened the door, threw on a cloak of confidence, and belted out the first line to India Arie’s “I Am Not My Hair.”
Frank’s brow raised. Thump’s jaw dropped. The crowd applauded and shouted their appreciation, especially when she changed the last words of the chorus and sang that she was “just Jan.”
“You go, sistah!”
“You look beautiful, girl!”
“Way to love yourself, Jan!”
During the instrumental bridge she freestyled the recent chorus she’d written. As the song ended with the band jamming on a prolonged instrumental loop, it took a second for her to realize that the room was chanting, and what they said.
Don’t fit your mold. Don’t give a damn. You be you. I’m who I am!
As a single tear rolled down her face, Jan realized
something else. Doug’s was the loudest voice of them all.
Normally when the show was over, Jan would say, “Thank you and good night!” and walk off the stage. The band would continue playing for a minute or so and end in a grand finale. Tonight was no different except for when she walked toward stage right and her exit, a woman was waiting there.
“Jan!”
Jan turned to see a woman, about her age she guessed, short, cute, and overweight. She was crying.
“Hold on a minute, I’ll come down.” Jan left the stage and went around to the door that led out to the club where the woman was standing. She stepped out and was met by a big hug.
“Thank you, thank you,” the woman said as more tears continued to run down her face. “Thanks for what you said tonight. Those words are powerful and I so needed to hear them. You just don’t know!”
“Yes, sister, I do.”
“I grew up in a family where I was the only fat one, and have been teased all of my life. Then when I was twenty I had a baby and the extra weight stayed on. I’ve tried dieting and exercise but have never been able to stay on a program long enough to see real results. I’d hate myself for failing, and what do I do to ease the pain?”
Jan knew all too well. “Eat.”
“That’s right. But, girl, what you said tonight encouraged me to try again.”
“I so know how you feel.” Jan hugged her again. “I’m glad what I said encouraged you.”
“Is there somewhere I can buy that song?”
Jan smiled. “Not yet, but maybe soon.”
“Let me know, okay. I have a niece who’s going through the same thing I went through as a child. I’d love for her to be able to hear it.”
As they talked, several other women had come over. They all expressed how empowered they felt by what Jan said. After twenty minutes she was finally able to go backstage and change. She did so knowing that she was on to something good.
The last confirmation of the night came as she and Doug walked to the parking lot. “Jan, you looked beautiful up there tonight. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Doug. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Whatever it was, I hope it stays.” They reached her car. His bike was parked nearby. “Did you just make that up, what you were chanting?”
“No. Remember on Thanksgiving, when Cynthia asked about me writing a song?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been working on it.”
“For real?”
Jan nodded. “She thought the message was one that the girls in her program could benefit from and might use it as a counseling tool.”
“You say you’re working on it. Are you almost done?”
“No, I’ve written the chorus to a song. Haven’t gotten the verses down yet.”
“That’s pretty cool, Jan. Stick with me, girl, and we’re going to be rich!”
“We? How do you figure?”
“You just said it yourself that this happened because of my big mouth. Clearly I was the catalyst to this situation. And your inspiration. Hey, that rhymed. I think I’ve got skills, girl.” He kissed Jan’s incredulous face. “Don’t worry, girl. I’ll help you out. We’ll knock out that song, no problem.”
He opened her car door. Shaking her head, she got inside. “I have no words.”
“That’s why I’m here. To help you write this hit and make this money.”
34
Doug bounded up the steps to the Baker residence and rang the doorbell. The door opened almost immediately. “Thanks for coming over so quickly,” Jan said, breathless.
“Why are you out of breath? Did you go jogging or something?”
“I need to. But I’m just excited. And nervous. Thump sent over the music for the song I’m writing.”
“Correction. We’re writing.”
She gave him a look. “Yeah, okay.”
“The music is so good, Doug. I can’t wait for you to hear it.” She grabbed his hand, pulling him inside. “I hope you like it.”
“Your liking it is all that matters.”
“I want Lionel to hear it, too.” She knocked on his door. “Lionel! I need you. Come out of your cave!”
“Yeah, and don’t make me have to come in there after you!” Doug added.
“Sit there. In the dining room.” Jan rushed down the hall and came back with her iPad just as Lionel came out of his room.
“Damn, girl. I’ve already been run over once.”
“I’m sorry, Lionel.”
“That’s all right. Hurt me and I’ll sue. What’s up, doughboy?”
“Your sister is about to blow up, that’s what. And I’m going to be her manager, so if you’re planning on suing her, you’ll have to come through me.”
“Neither of you is getting my money, and both of you need to sit and zip it.” She clicked on an icon. “Pay attention, Lionel. I need to write a song that will resonate with your generation.”
“Well, for starters, don’t use no big-ass words like res-o-nate. For someone my age to like it you need to come hard and bring the fye.”
“The who?”
Lionel shook his head. “Fire, Jan.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“I did.”
“Shh!”
The three listened as a medium-speed, percussion-driven sound—a combination of hip-hop and world beat with a side of pop—filled the room. Instantly, Doug and Lionel began bobbing their heads.
“That’s dope,” Lionel said.
“I like it,” Doug added.
Jan’s comment? “Shh!!!”
For the remaining two minutes, the two men dutifully obeyed.
When the music finished, Jan looked from one to the other. “Well?”
Doug feigned sign language. Jan gave him a look. “Hell, I’m just making sure that if I open my mouth I won’t get shot!”
“I wasn’t that bad,” Jan said.
Doug and Lionel spoke in unison. “Yes, you were.”
“Who did that music?” Lionel asked.
“The bandleader of the group I’m in, the group you’ve never heard because”—she used air quotes—“the Breeze is old school.”
“It is!” Lionel looked at Doug. “You been to see her?” Doug nodded. “You see anybody in there my age?” Doug shook his head.
“Ha! I rest my case.”
“Good, because instead of a case I need some words that will do justice to that bomb beat! Okay, y’all want to hear what I have so far?” She spoke the chorus that had come to her the other morning.
“The best me there ever will be,” Lionel sang with a hand in the air and one on his heart. “Sounds like some Oprah feel-good Super Soul Sunday stuff.”
“What’s wrong with that? I like Oprah, feeling good, and Super Soul Sunday!”
“Sounds corny.”
“So come with it then!” Doug challenged. “Over there jaw-jacking about what it isn’t. Bring the flow. Tell us what it is.”
“Man, shut up.”
“I’m just saying. Create, don’t agitate.”
“Hey, I like that!” Jan said, chin in hand as she pondered. “Can’t use it in the song, though.”
Lionel chuckled. “Y’all are both whack.” Maybe, but he seemed to be enjoying himself just the same. “Play it again.”
They did. Over and over. With every replay more words came. Some rhymes worked. Others didn’t. Cynthia felt that she could turn her feelings into a song that inspired. With every line added, Jan, too, started to believe. They worked on the song for hours. Jan’s enthusiasm, Doug’s encouragement, and Lionel’s witty prose had created what they considered was the rough cut of a masterpiece—a first for them all.
As soon as they finished, Jan called Thump. Even though it was after two in the afternoon, she knew she was taking a huge chance by calling him “so early.” Thump kept vampire hours.
“What?” is how Thump answered the phone, his voice raspy with sleep.
�
��It’s early. I know, and I’m sorry.”
“Jan?”
“Yes.”
“Damn, I answered the phone and this isn’t even a booty call?”
“No, fool, it’s work. Now wake up. I want you to hear the words I put to the music you sent me.”
“Okay, come on over.”
“Come over? I was going to do it over the phone.”
“I don’t work like that. Plus, you can’t really hear how it sounds until it’s recorded. I’ve got a little mixer in my house.”
“Oh, cool. That way I can send a sample over to Cynthia.”
“Who’s that?” Jan told him. “She married?”
“Very and to the brother of the man I’m dating. So when you meet her, mind your manners and your business.”
That night, Jan e-mailed a thirty-second MP3 file to Cynthia with the following note:
Here’s a sample of the song I’m writing, the chorus and a little bit of a verse. Let me know if you like the direction we’re headed. Thanks, Jan.
In the morning, on her phone, Jan saw Cynthia’s four-word response.
Love it! Keep going!
That’s exactly what Jan did.
When Doug and Jan arrived at work Monday afternoon, they were still giddy, shining with satisfaction at having created something all felt was bigger than them. Well, except maybe Lionel. Within minutes of finishing the last lyric he was already talking record albums and collaborations with Kanye and Dre. This recollection had Doug and Jan laughing as they entered the back room.
“Ooh, somebody’s happy,” Melissa said, without turning around.
She’d been angry at Jan ever since the Breeze showdown. Had even threatened to sue. Jan’s response? “Go ahead.”
“Last night must have been pretty good.”
“It was, girl . . .” Jan teased, confidence showing. “Until three a.m.”
Joey looked up in surprise and caught the huge grin on Doug’s face. “You?” Doug nodded. Joey looked at Jan. “And you?” Jan nodded, too. “You’re admitting it?”