by Love Belvin
“Are you comfy in your chenille slippers?” I attempted to learn the answer.
“No. I just came in from walking that old Buffy. I threw on my blue Keds because it’s muddy out there.”
I knew it.
My mother was a woman of simple elegance. Since I was a little girl, I could recall her being the most beautiful woman in the neighborhood and church. Her warm, golden pecan skin was absolutely radiant. She held on to her European-like features with sparkling hazel eyes, a pointy nose, high cheekbones and slender lips bestowed by her Creole roots. Though her hair was soft and manageable, she’d always worn it cut above her small neck. Even at fifty-six, she was a modest size six without the restraints of undergarments. When my parents met, it didn’t take my father long to marry her. He said her beauty alone seized him. I could see why.
Most of my features were inherited from my mother. My skin was just as almond with gold undertones as hers. My eyes were a shade darker but the hues of brown reflected in them in the dimmest of lighting. Since high school I’d colored my hair. I went between reds, oranges and blondes. It’s now honey blonde with brown roots and tinted yellows. ShawnNicole loved experimenting with coloring my hair. It’s layered into a bob hanging past my shoulder blades with low bangs framed around my face.
Even when I put on weight a few years ago, back at home during my pregnancy, my skin glowed and my hair grew like wildfire. A few complimented me on my pregnancy radiance and I always knew I had my mom to thank for it. She was classically gorgeous.
“What did you cook?” My mother cooked every Sunday—rain, sleet or snow. It was a part of her religious ritual.
“Your dad has been complaining of a sore throat, so I put together a chicken soup for him. I broiled myself a few pieces of fish and threw together a salad. Nothing fancy.” That was a poor man’s dinner in the Greene household. I wondered if something was wrong.
I took a fortifying swallow before I pushed out, “How’s he?”
I could hear the smile eclipsing upon her lips against the phone receiver. “He’s good, baby. Just a little tired. He’s been doing weddings, after funerals, after hospital visits. I keep telling him we’re not as young as we used to be.”
I knew she was hinting over at my estranged relationship with my stepfather. We’d been disaffected since my boobs budded. Once puberty set in, my stepdad checked out. As painfully aware of it as I was, I never asked him why. Instead, I embarrassed him by spiraling out of control. My affection for him waned and he became my target for humiliation. I’d seen him once since leaving for New York and it wasn’t a genial encounter.
I quieted and my mother caught on to my stump.
“Well, how’s work, precious? I know you were working so hard on that project the last we spoke. How’s it going?”
I was grateful for the navigation of our conversation. I didn’t have to tell her either. She knew. My mother was somehow always able to gauge my mood and create an environment conducive to it. I needed that. It wasn’t pity. I didn’t need the pity everyone else was quick to give me. I just needed spatial accommodations and she facilitated that time after time because she knew without it she could possibly lose me. It was a horrible fact, but my truth. The truth that came to light in every scar I bore from those in the hollowness of my soul to those physically present on my belly. It was my truth to own until death. It seemed fair.
“It’s going well. They’re narrowing down the selection and tomorrow the top two candidates will be chosen.”
With a sharp intake of breath she excitedly pronounced, “That’s wonderful, precious! I know you’ll get it. You’re smart and determined. You always manage to get what you will!”
That statement drove a dagger into my belly. I felt like my lungs had been ripped from the cavity of my chest. Panic spiked as my limbs went cold. I doubted if my mother knew how poignant those words were to my troubled being, but they paralyzed me. My head started to spin and before I gave off what my body had been experiencing, I had to end the call.
“Mmm-hmm. Mom, I have to go. I have something on the stove. I’ll chat with you soon,” I informed with sudden urgency.
“Okay… Well, I love you, honey. And good luck tomor—”
CLICK!
I smacked the phone in the receiver, flew to the bathroom across from the sofa and upchucked substances I didn’t even know I had in my stomach. I didn’t cry. I hadn’t cried in years. I just needed a distraction to wait out the burn that coursed my chest. A run to blow off some steam. So, after washing out my mouth, I threw on leggings and running shoes and headed towards the door.
Just inches away, there was a knock. I pulled the door open to find Michael, standing in nothing but a teal towel wrapped around his narrow waist. His jet black hair that fell to his strong cheekbones dripped ringlets of water. His dark eyes were impassive.
“To what do I owe the Men’s Health shoot visual to?”
Michael snorted his usual arrogant, yet bearable response. “Elle, you don’t want none of this. You know if you did, all you’d have to do is come knocking right across the hall,” he stated casually, strutting sexily past me into my tiny apartment.
“Ummmmm…no. Actually, I would need an appointment. Wouldn’t want to run into Rebecca, Tina…or Harry in pursuit of you.”
“Oh, they’d all be kicked out the moment you rang.”
I closed the door behind him, concerned about the cool breeze of air attacking his muscular frame that he clearly had no worries of.
“So how can I be of service to you?” I asked. “I was on my way out for a run, and would invite you, but…” I gestured to his ripped abs and bubbled chest.
“I came over to borrow your foot cream. I like that expensive shit. It kept my feet soft for days.” He walked over to my makeshift linen closet in search of the moisturizing jar. “I know you keep it in stock, gorgeous.”
Michael always called me gorgeous. He was very much attractive and hugely attracted to me. Our relationship was strange because although I knew he wanted to fuck me six ways past insanity, he also had become almost a friend. He lived across the hall. Since the day I moved in, Michael had propositioned me for sex. And while he was damn near the sexiest Italian man I’d ever seen and tempting for the first few months of my residency, I learned that the olive tone skinned, god-like bodied man played for both teams. I’d been awakened by the sounds of a man shouting, almost in my ear. I jumped out of bed and took to my peephole where I eventually realized the ruckus was coming from the hall. I held my breath as I watched a tall blonde, obviously angered man spew accusations of betrayal by his lover. He was so loud, brash and impassioned. I swore he had the wrong apartment until Michael eventually swung the door open and the blonde demanded that Michael’s “other” lover come out immediately. When Michael told him no, the blonde went ape shit on him, swinging in all directions, yet landing some on Michael.
At that time, I opened the door and threatened to call the cops on the blond. That’s when Michael, with his hair in silky jet-black disarray, begged me not to call and to just go inside my apartment, he’d take care of it. I didn’t know what to do, so I obeyed, but kept my eye glued to the peephole. That’s when Michael began to grovel, murmuring intimately to the man and groping him familiarly. The blond started to loosen, huffing and crossing his big arms over his chest. Michael eventually kissed him in the mouth, asking him to leave and promised to call him in the morning when the blonde had calmed down. I’ll be damned if it didn’t work. The blond guy did leave. And hours later, when I was setting off to work, a blonde woman left Michael’s apartment, appearing very timid, I’m sure still shaken by the earlier episode.
Since that day, not only did Michael not have a shot in hell between my legs, but for some reason, I warmed up to the possibility of a friendship with him. So on a day like this one where he made crass comments about sleeping with me, it rolled off. We’d even attended a few work events together: some as platonic friends to outsiders, and some as sign
ificant others. In many of our conversations, Michael made no secret of his closely knit Northern Italian family going bat shit and disowning him if they found out about his bisexuality. I secretly figured they’d be more accepting of him dating a black woman.
“Dude, you’re dripping your sexy juice all over my floors,” I complained.
Michael casually glanced down around him and shrugged his broad shoulders. “You wouldn’t be complaining if you hadn’t had these expensive ass hardwood floors installed. Who does that in a shoebox Harlem apartment?”
I cocked my head to the side, expressing my annoyance.
“Ahhh… Here it is,” Michael sang as he unscrewed the jar and inhaled deeply with closed eyes. Such a damn shame he wasn’t available to me. He was truly art on thick, muscular legs. “It’s a shame you don’t have someone like me here to rub your pretty little toes down with this. I bet I can make you come doing that alone,” he assured with a winked.
“Look, Michael, I have to go.”
“Okay…okay…” He moved to the door. “I’m leaving. I have a hot date tonight and this cream will get me the action I need.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m afraid to ask with who.”
“So don’t, gorgeous. Unless you want it to be you.” Michael issued a smooth wink.
Seriously, this man is beyond good looking!
I walked out behind him and locked the door before setting off for a therapeutic run.
two
The next morning at work, I was sitting at my desk, finishing the proposal for a water company we were trying to court. I guess J.G., Wizer and Hunter monitored the success of the water company’s rival that was masterfully weaved at the hands of our rival firm and asked my supervisor, Susan, to put together a solid campaign. She had no idea what to do with it, but for the sake of her underused dignity, threw a few words together and asked me to polish them. In other words: write a sound proposal to get us in the door of HorseLake Water Company.
Writing proposals had never been a challenge for me. My mentor at NYU made it very clear that if I couldn’t write I was better off in accounting crunching numbers because marketing was about perception and communication, and where they meet. If you can effectively communicate a message, you can successfully create whatever perception you desire. I got that and at a pivotal time in life when I needed to reinvent myself.
After leaving home, I transformed Ellen Ann Greene-Dickens to Elle A. Jarreau because instantly upon that revelation I knew that I could master altering people’s perceptions of me into what I desired: a Jane Doe. This was so I could glide beneath the living and exist alone. My fate had exiled me to solitude. I accepted it and made the best of a world of seclusion.
There would be no accurate reference of me or my past if I had not bumped into Clarice during my first week in New York. She was a designer-hopeful at NYIT, finishing up her time there. She began her tenure at J.G., Wizer and Hunter as a designs assistant and now she’s worked herself up to senior digital marketing designer. I was sodden in disappointment when I learned that the PR firm I was able to temp for, to get my foot in the door was the same firm she had been working at for three years.
I’d been with the firm for just over a year and though I was now a fulltime employee, my movement up the ladder had been marginal. Until recently there was little upward mobility for young starving account manager candidates. The higher-ups didn’t groom them well. The role was reserved for middle-agers.
It wasn’t until nearly four weeks ago that a request for action came into my inbox for an opportunity to become a senior account manager on a new wave of accounts that were coming down the pike. The grist in the rumor mill was the firm was adding a new leg of public relations to its roster. No longer would they exclusively represent companies. Supposedly they were moving into representing well-known individuals with brands that were consumed by the masses.
As good as this venture seemed in theory, it was extremely risky. Most athletes, musical artists, chefs, authors and the like already had their means of representation. Blending the two was a huge risk to the firm’s current stellar reputation. It would take those with the most determined, artistic and imaginative minds to ensure the success of this rollout; hence, this rigorous vetting process. All interested non-senior and junior account holders were pulled into the conference room nearly a month ago and told to come up with their best marketing ideas for music producer and rapper, Swizz Beatz. Many of the people in the room didn’t know who he was until some of his most popular works were played there for them.
By the end of the night, I’d written up a sound prospectus coming from a point where Swizz Beatz was not. In other words, I thought of those key markets where he was unknown and how we’d get his brand into those streams. Coming up with a plan and writing it was hardly work. Bringing it into fruition would be a totally different matter. But they weren’t asking us to do this as a real assignment, they were just testing our skills. I simply took my time and created a plan that was practical and wide-ranging. I submitted it and was invited to this morning’s meeting for phase two.
I rose from my desk and smoothed the wrinkles from my heather gray, sleeveless midi dress with a bateau neckline and adjusted the narrow-width black leather belt that sat at the belly button line of my waist before ambling to Susan’s office a few feet from my desk. I knocked on the frame of the open door to grab her attention.
“Yes, Elle…”
“Just wanted to tell you that I sent the rough draft of the proposal and I’m headed to the conference room for the RFA meeting.”
Susan’s eyebrows knitted and I wasn’t too sure if she was trying to recall the latest request for action opportunity or reacting to the fact that I was going.
“Uhhhh…,” she stalled as she pinched the bridge of her narrow nose, “…this RFA, if you’re selected, how much notice will I get to find your replacement?”
And here’s the bullshit.
I’d been working with Susan for the past seven months and she’d been nothing short of lazy, and now she’s adding selfish to her repertoire. Unbelievable!
“I’m not sure. I’ve never taken an RFA before.” And you know why! It’s because the firm values lazy, middle-aged fucks like you to keep seats warm while young and eager enthusiasts like me do all your work. “Who knows if I’ll get it. I’m just trying my hand here.” I tried sounding less excited than I really was.
I bet Susan didn’t even know that I, along with nine other candidates, had been chosen for the second round.
Un-fucking-believable!
En route to the conference room on the other side of the building, I got a ping from my cell, alerting me of a text.
It was Clarice: Go knock ‘em dead! Oh, and young hottie alert! Just got a whiff of the Young Hunter. His smile alone can make your vajayjay cry a river! Lunch @ 1…Grier Deli?
I sighed, slightly humored by her juvenescent hankering.
Me: Thanks. See you for lunch where I will invite child protective services.
I rolled my eyes as I silenced my phone and stowed it away in my pocket. I needed to get my game face on and prepare to secure this senior account manager position. I mentally recited the points I made in my proposal just in case I was asked to elaborate. My stomach churned as anxiety rose, but it was good anxiousness. It was what I’d been waiting for ever since I applied for a temp position here. My opportunity had arrived and no matter who was in my way, I would pursue it with relentless aggression.
As I approached the stained glass double doors where J.G., Wizer and Hunter was splayed across in engraved calligraphy, I’d been so caught up in thought that I bumped into a giant.
“Oh, excuse me!” The giant grabbed me at the elbow to help steady me, though I’d only stumbled.
My eyes ascended until they reached his face. He was tall and light, perhaps two shades darker than me. And young. His regretful glare was quickly eclipsed by a flirtatious grin when his eyes absorbed me. I understood those looks that
men gave women they found attractive. He drank me in from my toes to my head that was now cocked to the side by his audacity. I pushed my oversized Ray Bans up on my face and switched my stance to express resistance. This guy had to be in his early 20’s. Even in a suit I could discern his vernal features. Is this what’s got Clarice all hot and bothered? The kid was good looking, no doubt, but in very collegiate terms.
“You’re okay. Pardon me,” I murmured before going for the door handle.
“Hey! Wait,” he called out to me and I turned to him not uttering a word. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Oh, great! The proverbial pick up line. I tucked in my annoyance for his lack of professionalism and simply answered, “No.” as I proceeded to push the lever and turned from his impossible mesmeric gaze.
Inside of the room, people were shuffling to find seats. I was sure they were all jittery with suspense just as I was. I let the geek who damn near crashed into me when he crossed me pass by so that I could find an available seat. Great! There were none. My head shot up to the head of the room where I could see a man and two women whispering in concert, I guess about the impending meeting. The man’s face was downward reading a document the woman next to him was calling his attention to. The other woman had been fighting with the light switches to get the lighting prepared for a presentation on the projector that displayed the company’s logo. Unable to get anyone’s attention, I decided to go look for another chair outside of the conference room. As soon as I turned to head to the door the tall tot was rolling a chair in for me. I sighed inwardly, disappointed that my wish of him not returning to the room hadn’t come true.
“Thanks.”
I managed a tight smile and an affirmative nod as I pulled the chair from him to continue rolling it to the space that I managed to secure. I could tell his ego was bruised at my mild rejection, but I couldn’t be concerned with the kid’s feelings, I had a career to pursue.