by Ritz, David
“The brothers are an interesting crew,” said Anita. “They run in packs. They even call themselves dogs. ‘He’s my dog.’ ‘Yo, dog, what up?’ Well, here’s what’s up, dear sista—intimidation is what’s up. Swag is what’s up. Attitude is what’s up. But, look here, my lovely, under the swag and attitude is a whole lot of fear. The boyz in the hood are afraid. And you know what? So are the boyz on the board. See, I learned that early on. The educational background is different. Skin color is different. But all that posturing, whether it’s the dude on the street corner or the pinstriped CEO in the corner office, is a mask. Rip off the mask, my dear, and you’ll see a frightened little boy looking to be led. Now where in hell is our goddamn food?”
Anita had polished off the first bottle of wine, and with the pasta came a second. Meanwhile, Beauty had stopped drinking after the first few sips. She didn’t like the taste of wine, and besides, Anita didn’t want her to have any more.
“I’m a do-what-I-say kind of woman,” Anita explained. “I don’t want you to start doing what I do.”
Beauty couldn’t remember food tasting this good. She could concentrate on eating because, in between bites of pasta and swallows of wine, Anita kept up her monologue.
“I have given a great deal of thought to your arrival, Miss Beauty. That’s why tomorrow Solomon will spend the day showing you how the subway works. The subway here works beautifully. You need to learn the system like the back of your hand. I rode those dirty trains the first twenty years in the city. I got my ass pinched. You’ll get your ass pinched. A pinched ass is the price a woman pays for life in New York. No big deal. Don’t bother to turn and protest or slap the man because the man might have a knife or a gun, so you’re better off just moving on. Always move on, Beauty. Move away from the crazies. Goddamn city is filled with crazies. Then next week it’s school in the Village, only a few stops away. This school is not for fools. You’ll excel. You’ll fly. I hear you can sew.”
“I can,” said Beauty.
“That’s why I put you in alterations. Bloom’s has a big alterations department. Boring as all hell, but a perfect Saturday-afternoon and summer job. I’ll give you a few months to adjust to school and then, after New Year’s, I’ll take you to Bloom’s. I want you in that store where I can make sure you’re learning what you need to learn. You need to learn the store. The store needs to learn you. There’s a method to my madness. I want more wine. I always want more wine but perhaps it’s time to stop. Then again, it’s only a few steps home and we are celebrating the birth of a star. Do you see yourself as a star, my dear?”
“No, not really.”
“Well, you are. Wanda said so. Wanda has never asked me to look after anyone before. That’s because Wanda knows that my standards are high. I have no interest in mediocrity. You have no interest in mediocrity. This food is not mediocre. This wine is not mediocre. I’d rather slit my throat—forgive my drama—but yes, I’d rather slit my throat than lead a mediocre life. Excellence is everything. Help me up, my dear. The night is young but I am old. This old lady has lost her balance. They will charge all this to my account. I can’t be bothered with checks.”
Beauty helped Anita out of the booth. She held her arm as they walked the few steps to the brownstone. Beauty realized that, without her help, the old woman, more stooped over than ever, would collapse. Anita was smashed. Tiny Anita and thin Beauty were small enough to both fit into the elevator. By the time they reached Anita’s front door, Anita was out cold. Beauty had to open Anita’s purse and fish out the key. Once inside, she had to carry Anita and place her in bed.
That night, excited and confused by all that had happened during this first day in New York City, Beauty had a tough time falling asleep. When she did, she drifted off into a dream. Only when she awoke did she realize the dream had involved Power. It was a deeply erotic dream that left Beauty in a state of longing.
“Your breakfast is ready,” she heard Anita announce from the kitchen.
Beauty put on a robe and went to the dining room. Anita was wearing a white apron over an off-pink pantsuit. Although stooped over, she looked fashionable and fresh as a daisy. The apartment smelled of fresh coffee. The sunny-side-up eggs were cooked to perfection and the toasted bagel was covered with cream cheese.
“I’m not doing this every day, my dear,” said Anita. “But on this, your first full day in the city of dreams, I want to make sure you start off right.”
Nina Golding
The differences between living in New York City and Atlanta were so great that Beauty found that she could go through an entire day without thinking about Power more than three or four times. At night, though, he appeared in practically every dream. In one, he rescued her from a burning building; in another, she cheered for him as he scored the winning shot in a championship basketball game; and in the most frequently recurring dream of all, they lived together on a faraway island where they ate fruit off the trees, walked the moonlit beach at night, and slept in a grass hut to the sounds of chirping birds and gentle waves washing ashore.
Beauty wondered why she would be dreaming about a remote island in the middle of nowhere when the island she was really living on—Manhattan—thrilled her entirely. Her mind was completely stimulated, her sense of adventure completely satisfied. She couldn’t have been happier. And yet . . .
The first day at Greenwich Village High School of the Arts had her comparing each boy she saw to Power. This one had Power’s skin shade; that one had Power’s height; the other one had Power’s way of walking; another had a suggestion of Power’s smile. At the same time, none of them was anything like Power. That was one of the reasons—at least this was what Beauty told herself—that she was so happy. The school was attended by kids who were artists and the children of artists. From behind, it was often tough to tell the boys from the girls. Some boys wore their hair down to their waist. Some girls shaved their heads completely. Other girls dyed their hair emerald green or electric blue. Tattoos and piercings were commonplace.
Her first friend at school, Nina Golding, whose white dad was a sculptor and whose black mom traveled in a modern dance troupe, had a tattoo on her left arm that read DISCIPLINE and another on her right arm that read CHAOS. Because they were both biracial and interested in fashion, they bonded quickly. Nina had wildly curly black hair, a quick smile, crazy energy, and a love of style that excited Beauty. Nina was obsessed with Erykah Badu and Janelle Monáe. On some days she wore her father’s vintage tux to school; on other days she wore overalls several sizes too big for her slight frame, which she bought at an army-navy store on Canal Street.
Beauty met Nina in sewing class, where the other girls tended to be conservative. They were interested in sewing conventional dresses and blouses. When asked what she wanted to make, Nina said, “Combat uniforms for female marines.” Under her breath but loud enough to be heard, a classmate whispered, “What a dyke!” Nina, who was not a lesbian, turned to her accuser and told her to fuck herself. The teacher called for order. That same day, when Nina saw Beauty eating alone in the lunchroom, she joined her.
After quickly running down their racial backgrounds, Nina had lots of questions.
“Are you an only child?” she asked.
“Well, kinda.”
“What do you mean ‘kinda’?”
“I have an adoptive brother.”
“How old?”
“Our age.”
“Cute?”
Beauty didn’t answer. Nina asked again. “Is he cute?”
“Most people think he’s nice looking.”
“And you don’t?”
“I don’t think about it,” Beauty lied.
“You’re lying,” said Nina.
Beauty laughed.
“I think I should meet him,” said Nina. “If he’s cute, I need to meet him. When’s he coming to visit you?”
“I’m not sure he is.”
“Don’t you want him to?”
“Not really.�
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“Something happen between you two?”
“We have different mothers and different fathers. His birth mother happened to adopt me—that’s all.”
“You sound so detached about him. What gives, girl?”
“He’s no big deal.”
“What’s his name?”
“Power.”
“Wow! Quite a name.”
“His real name is Paul.”
“But you call him Power?”
“Everyone calls him Power.”
“Is he an athlete?”
“You have sisters and brothers?” asked Beauty, changing the subject.
“Only child. Can’t you tell?”
“How can you tell an only child?” asked Beauty.
“Extreme self-involvement.”
“I don’t think you’re so self-involved. You’re asking me all these questions, aren’t you?”
“You can be nosy and self-involved at the same time. That’s me.”
Beauty laughed again.
“You a virgin?” asked Nina.
The question took Beauty aback. Anita had asked her the same thing. Why was everyone in New York asking about her sexual experience? She paused before answering.
“You don’t have to tell me,” said Nina. “But I’ll tell you. I’ll shock you. I am a virgin. You shocked?”
“A little.”
“Because I look so artsy?”
“Maybe,” said Beauty.
“Well, you can look artsy and be artsy and still be afraid of what it feels like to have some guy shoving his thing in you. What does it feel like?”
“Depends on the guy.”
“So you’ve had more than one,” said Nina.
Beauty looked down at her lunch tray. The conversation with Nina had been so fast and furious that she hadn’t even taken a bite of the vegetable quiche.
“If the guy is nice, he’ll be gentle,” Beauty said.
“How many nice guys have you had?” asked Nina.
“Just a few.”
“Was it heaven?”
“It was okay,” said Beauty.
“Just okay?” asked Nina. “No pain?”
“A little pain at first.”
“Then all pleasure?”
“I liked it,” Beauty admitted, thinking of Power.
“Think I’d like it with him?” asked Nina, indicating a dark-skinned black guy with long dreadlocks eating alone at the table next to them.
“Who is he?”
“Raymond. Calls himself Ray Ray. Think he’s cute?”
“Very cute.”
“He’s a deaf-mute,” said Nina. “But he’s a rapper.”
“How does that work?”
“He raps with his hands. Raps in sign language. So I’m learning sign language. I’ve decided he’s gonna be the one to de-virginize me. It’s gonna happen in exactly a month, on my seventeenth birthday. What do you think of that?”
“Have you let him know?”
“No, but I will. I’ll tell him in sign language next week.”
As the weeks flew by, Beauty went to Nina’s Tribeca apartment many times, where she met Nina’s father, Arthur, a burly, gregarious man whose delicate sculptures filled every room, and her mother, Cynthia, a tall, thin woman who spoke in a whisper-quiet voice. They welcomed Beauty with great kindness. Nina’s dad loved jazz and her mom, a well-known dancer, prepared dishes she had learned to cook in Italy and France. Nina also became friends with Solomon and Amir. And, in fact, after Nina fulfilled her promise and lost her virginity to Ray Ray the silent rapper, she introduced Ray Ray to Amir, who, in turn, included Ray Ray in his group All. Using dramatic hand and arm gestures, Ray Ray not only rapped in sign language but wrote out parts of his raps on large chalkboards.
Beauty felt secure in this small but tight community of friends. In a certain way, they were a group of loners who had come together. And yet, because she herself was a guest of Anita’s, she had not invited any of them to the fourth story of the brownstone on Gramercy Park. Finally, though, in mid-December she thought it would be cool to ask Nina over. Nina went directly from school to Anita’s apartment, where she was fascinated by the peacocks.
“They’re a hoot,” she said. “Does this woman wanna be a peacock?”
Beauty took Nina on a tour of the place and, in doing so, felt a certain pride, as if she herself was the owner.
“I can’t believe this lady is such a square,” Nina gushed. “Does she drive you crazy?”
“Oh, no, she’s great. She leaves me alone. She encourages me.”
“To design dresses that look like peacocks?”
“No,” said Beauty. “Anita’s taste in interior decoration is one thing, but her taste in clothes is another. She’s really trendy. She has to be. She’s the chief buyer at Bloom’s.”
“Doesn’t Bloom’s carry predictable shit?” asked Nina.
“Not really. They have far-out stuff.”
“But stuff calculated to sell to rich East Side ladies with money to burn.”
“Fashion is all about selling,” said Beauty.
“ ‘Put art first,’ says my dad, ‘and sales will follow.’ ”
“Anita loves art. She’s taken me to all the museums here.”
“My father won’t exhibit at the establishment museums or galleries. He says the art establishment is corrupt. Plus, he won’t allow his sculptures to be used as interior decoration.”
And so went the discussion. Beauty saw how Anita’s notion of beauty clashed with Nina’s approach. And the minute Anita arrived, Beauty also saw that Anita immediately sensed Nina’s disapproval. They tolerated each other, but barely.
When Anita walked in the door she was a wearing a gray cashmere cape over a chic black woolen dress. Nina was dressed in one of her crazier outfits—a thrift-shop 1940s lime-green pleated skirt with Minnie Mouse leggings and a yellow sweatshirt with the words HIGHLY CREATIVE NEUROTIC scrawled across the front in glitter letters. Anita looked over Nina’s ensemble and forced a smile. She told the girls she was a little tired and asked if they would mind if she ordered in Thai food. The girls said that would be fine, and Anita went to her bedroom to change.
When Anita returned, she was wearing a Jil Sander leisure suit in navy silk. Watching Anita slowly walk across the room with her cane, her back so painfully bent, Nina decided that she looked like some aging duchess out of a history book. Anita opened a bottle of white wine, poured herself a full glass, and then poured a half glass each for Beauty and Nina.
“Welcome to our home, Nina,” she said. “Here’s to your health, my dear.”
Beauty was struck by the fact that Anita said “our” home. That made her feel good. Maybe the evening would go well after all. The good manners and polite exchange between Anita and Nina, though, didn’t last for long.
“Beauty tells me your parents are artists,” said Anita.
“Dedicated artists,” Nina said.
“That’s wonderful. Beauty also says you want to go into fashion.”
“Well, I think I’m already in fashion. My own fashion.”
“I see.”
“I see fashion as something different than most people,” said Nina.
“In what way?”
“I see fashion as pure expression.”
“And what is it that you want to express, my dear?” asked Anita, finishing off her first glass of wine.
“The truth is that changes every day. I really don’t know.”
“I’d respectfully suggest that you find out before graduation.”
“Why the rush?” asked Nina.
“I suppose there is no rush if making a living is not essential.”
“If making a living means kissing the ass of a corrupt industry, I’d rather starve.”
“I doubt very much if your folks would let you starve.”
“My father spent the first ten years of his career starving.”
“And then what happened? Did his work begin to sell?
” Anita asked.
“No, he met my mother.”
“And she has worked steadily?”
“She’s a much in-demand dancer.”
“Well, my dear, I think it’s wonderful that she supports the family. Unfortunately, I’ve never been in that enviable position. I’ve had to deal with commerce.”
As the conversation went silent, Beauty felt the tension build. Sipping an always fresh glass of wine, Anita continued. “To be truthful, I’ve never seen a contradiction between commerce and art. To my mind, true creative genius is expressed in the marriage of the two. It’s rather easy to be crassly commercial without regard to art or, conversely, self-indulgently arty with no concern for commerce. But if you can incorporate design into a piece of clothing—or for that matter, any product—that is both aesthetically pleasing and appealing to the public, then you have something.”
“I’m not interested in products,” Nina said plainly.
“I see,” Anita replied. “But you would agree that any object you put out there in the market can be considered a product.”
“The word sounds cheap to me. It cheapens your work. Do you think Picasso thought of his paintings as products?”
“I’ve never met the man, but I have met Rei Kawakubo.”
“Sure,” said Nina. “She owns Comme des Garçons. She designs all their dope clothes. I love her.”
“She has no problem calling her artistic creations products. She’s a realist. If you’re going into fashion, you must be realistic. And no matter how far afield you go, reality takes you back to commerce.”
More silence. More wine for Anita.
“The food is delicious,” Nina said, changing subjects. “Thank you for having me over.”
“My pleasure, my dear. I’ve heard so much about you from Beauty.”
“Hey, Beauty,” Nina said, turning to her friend. “You ever heard of Candy Girl?”
“No.”
“She’s new,” Nina explained. “She’s out-there. She’s kind of a combination dancer/rapper/singer. She wears evening gowns and tears ’em down the middle halfway through her act.”