by Tiana Laveen
“Epithet? A lady who uses fancy words. I like that.” They both simpered. “No, King isn’t a nickname. My mother is Brazilian. She was heavily into this old Portuguese soap opera when she was pregnant with me, and one of the characters was called Rei. That means king in English, so that’s what she and my father decided to name me.”
“Oh, so you’re Brazilian?” Damn. King really is his name. How fitting.
“Half. My father is Irish.” Brazilian and Irish? What an interesting combination.
“Okay, cool. I like your name. It’s different. As far as your ethnicity, I thought you were just White with a really nice tan.” His lips curled in a smile and he chuckled lazily. He turned away for a second, looking about, then faced her again. “I like your nose ring.” She pointed at it and fought her smile once again, trying to tone her excitement down. The battle was definitely uphill.
“Thank you. I like your eyes… your nose… your lips.” She swallowed. “You’re pretty. Definitely caught my eye.”
“Thank you.” He sounded sincere enough.
“Your jumpsuit is nice, too… looks real good on you. Red is definitely your color.”
“Thank you for that, too.” So when is he going to offer the drink? It should be coming up, and then the corny compliment, followed by the number request to arrange a fuck fest. She could feel her friends staring at her, but refused to look their way.
“So, are you from Harlem?”
Oh… he is asking questions about me. Well, all right. Surprise, surprise.
“No. I have a lot of friends here, so I come often. I’m actually from Brooklyn, but just moved from the East Village over to East Side.”
“Upper Manhattan. Okay, cool, that’s what’s up. I’m born and raised in Harlem.” Her curiosity over such an admission must’ve been written all over her face. “How, right?”
She burst out laughing, catching her nostril with the side of her finger as if to block a sneeze.
“Yeah… I’m sorry.” She smiled. “I mean, of course I know White people live in Harlem. I’m not ignorant or an idiot, it’s just that—”
“Nah, I understand. Nothin’ to be sorry about. I get that a lot. My father is originally from Queens. He moved away from New York City for a while and spent some time abroad. He worked on a cruise ship part of that time. He met my mother on one of his stints to Brazil. She worked in hospitality, so sometimes they’d cross paths. Long story short, they got together, then got married. Wasn’t long before my mother was pregnant, and my father wasn’t too keen on Brazilian healthcare at that time, politics, things like that. He wanted a change of career, too, so he relocated my mother here. But instead of going back to Queens, he came to Manhattan, Harlem to be exact, due to a job opportunity with some tourist apartment rentals. I was born. Then, a couple years later, their marriage busted up.” He shrugged. “They went their separate ways. He went back to Queens, came and got me every other weekend, she stayed here. My mother got remarried to my step-dad, had a couple more kids, my brothers, and there you have it.” He threw up his hands. “That’s how you get a guy like me to be born and raised in Harlem.”
This is a real ass conversation. He is talking about some real shit. His family. He has yet to say anything inappropriate, too. Well, color me confused.
“Now it all makes sense. It takes all kinds, right? Cool. I like that. So, do you—” Before she could inquire more about him, someone began to make an announcement through the speakers.
“Everyone, please listen up.” The music died down to a whisper. “We’ve selected the two artists for tonight.”
King turned away from her, looking rather interested in whatever was being said. She shrugged and took a sip of her drink, ignoring the silly faces her friends were making at her. He crossed his arms and his lush black eyebrows bunched ever so slightly. “The first artist pulled is,” someone cued a drumroll, “Jay Laaaaamar!” Clapping ensued, and King’s jaw tightened visibly. “Please go to board, A, near the entrance.”
A short Black guy wearing a blue sweatsuit made his way to the front, holding an open backpack from which a number of paintbrushes stuck out. Some people slapped his hand as he moseyed on by. “The second artist for tonight is… Kiiiing Chrysalis.”
“Yes!!!” The big, tall man began to shake his fist in the air and testosterone-infused hoots and hollers could be heard from the near distance. The crowd cheers soon followed.
“That’s what’s up, King! Pimp shit! Broke ass nigga, make that money!”
King looked in the direction of the crude words being yelled by some guy with a mouth full of gold and diamonds, albeit attractive, donning a gray hoodie, and burst out laughing.
Hmmm, must be a friend of his. Broke? Welcome to the club. Chrysalis? That’s not an Irish surname. Her cheery mood instantly vanished. A wave of heat washed over her. This mothafucka probably been standing here lyin’ this whole time, shooting fake narratives like a BB gun. Gassing me up. I can’t stand these jokers from Harlem. They always try to come across so artsy and intelligent, but they’re just like everyone else. Full of shit.
She winced and sucked hard on the straw, feeling a bit like a fool. Despite Suri’s desires to not date at the moment, she’d given this bastard a chance to slip her a verbal resume – or at least begin to. Figures. Glad that exchange only lasted five minutes. What a waste of time. Let me enjoy the rest of my night. Should’ve gone with my gut and stuck to the plan to keep shooing these dudes away like flies tonight.
She turned to walk away, but felt a tug at her arm.
“Wait. I have to go paint, but, I’d like to talk to you more tonight.” He smiled big, showing shiny white teeth framed by gorgeous, succulent lips. Lips she wanted to slap until they swelled up twice their size.
“Why?” She forced a giggle. “So you can tell me more about the luck of the Irish blood that you don’t have?”
He gave her puzzled look, then reared back as if offended.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Chrysalis. That’s not an Irish last name. I don’t know what the hell it is, but it’s not Irish. I am so sick of liars. You stood here and lied about something as simple as this. What a silly thing to fabricate. As if it even matters. Your real name is probably Brad Hinkley and you are from Long Island. It’s cool though. Paint away, Picasso.” She cast him a wink then turned away once more.
“Chrysalis is my stepfather’s last name,” he called out. She paused and turned back in his direction. “He adopted me when I was a little kid. And for the record, it’s Greek, but you should know that too, since apparently you know every damn thing.”
She heated with embarrassment, but before she could utter another word, he was walking away. She called out to him, but he either ignored her or didn’t hear her over the now thumping sounds of ‘Kaleidoscope Love,’ by AlunaGeorge. His long legs and quick pace made it virtually impossible for her to be able to catch up to him. So, after trying for a short while, she stopped. She simply stood there amongst a crowd of bobbing bodies and half-inebriated forms.
After a while, she could only see the top of his head. The black hair caught the spinning lights as if it were some ebony crown, and then soon, that was gone, too.
CHAPTER THREE
Aladdin, Red Riding Hood, and Buttercream Frosting Walk into a Bar…
King set out the well-used, plaint splattered tubes of acrylic on the small bench to his right, just so. An empty silver champagne bucket, arranged to collect cash, was placed nearby as he began to prep the large canvas before him. It was a bit too high to reach all of the areas on his feet, so they’d provided a ladder. Running his finger over the canvas, he gauged the thickness then grabbed a roll of painter’s tape and lined the backdrop frame in order to create a border, using a ladder for the hard-to-reach parts. He thanked the host for delivering a warm glass of water for his brushes, then removed several of them from his satchel, laying them out from largest to smallest. He removed his black shirt, now
only in a black wifebeater.
Seinabo Sey’s, ‘I Owe You Nothing,’ began to play as he prepared to start. He bit his lower lip and snapped his fingers, feeling the flow of the music creeping inside of him and taking hold. It was a salve to him, the perfect music to set his mood. Jalil approached him, sporting a shit-eating grin.
“What’s up?” King asked.
“I ain’t gonna hold you up, man. I know you’re in the zone. We can talk after you’re done, but, uh, I saw you talking to shortie.” He winked. Ever since Jalil had become spiritual, as he called it, he’d take it upon himself to try and play matchmaker, a love encourager of sorts, for all of his single friends. Having been a poet in their high school days and a hopeless romantic, Jalil had recently gotten engaged. He was now mostly focused on his small food courier service he was trying to get off the ground after leaving a lucrative accounting job. Thus far, it had turned out to be a great decision. Business minded as he was, it came as no surprise that he stuck his nose in King’s business, too. King had become one of his latest projects.
“She was niiiice,” he added. “I take it you’ll have to meet up with us later this weekend?”
“Man, that was a no-go.” King shook his head and laughed as he unfolded his favorite cloth to dry his brushes. “She’s straight drama. I had to release her back into the ocean.”
“Damn, man. That was fast. What exactly happened?”
“Silly bullshit. Not even worth getting into. Hey, when I’m done with this, let’s all head to another spot. The drinks here are kinda high and since I need to mind my budget right now, I figured we could hit another place and just hang out.”
“That’s what’s up. Yeah, we can do a little bar hopping tonight. Maybe we could head over to 67 Orange Street. I bet they’ve got a good crowd tonight.”
“That’ll work.” They bumped fists.
As he grabbed a paintbrush and dipped it in white paint, a woman came by with a wine glass filled with sand and lit incense sticks stuck in it. “Hey, sweetie, let me get one of those, please. If you don’t mind.” He threw on some charm. The pretty, short-haired woman with dyed blonde curls and rich almond colored skin smiled and leaned forward for him to partake. He grabbed one. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, beautiful.” She drifted away. He lifted the stick to his mouth like he would a cigarette and climbed the ladder again. Swirls of smoke wrapped around him like a smoky shawl with the scent of Bombay Blues. Brush in hand, his arm muscles burned as he quickly went over the canvas with white paint. When he was done, he hit the floor and shoved a couple of tubes of paint in his pocket before going back up, where he blended two shades of blue, forming a sky.
He worked diligently, steadfast and with purpose, and after about fifteen minutes, he returned to his station where he noticed a crowd gathering. Across the club, the other artist had attracted attention, too. He knew what was at stake. My shit has to be tight. They had two hours to work, though he hoped to finish before that so he could dip out a bit early. They’d both collect tips in their buckets and if he got lucky, there would be offers for their finished piece from various patrons, some of whom only attended to see the art. He stuck the incense stick into the soil of a nearby plant, and began to move like a maniac as his vision became clearer and clearer.
He chanted the lyrics to ‘Bad Blood,’ by Nao, as it boomed through the thumping club speakers. People danced, rocked, kissed, laughed, drank and shot the shit. Voices blended smoothly like iridescent rolling chariots on a road paved in crystal. He studied the canvas, hand on hip. He worked on the outline of his creation in simple, small stroke segments. Humming to the music, he loved the eclectic fusion of the world around him as he concentrated on his painting. He toiled on, then paused as he heard a voice calling out over the music. He heard it once more, this time convinced someone was summoning him. He turned to see where the voice was coming from. When he couldn’t figure it out, he started to turn around but then, the person spoke again, the words clear as a bell.
“King.”
He looked down from the ladder and spotted the woman in red. Suri. He hated this vantage point. She glowed from the way the lights hit her and stood out like a vibrant crimson chess piece on a board before one decided to make a move. Her breasts were practically bursting through the fabric of her top, and a sheen of glitter dusted the dark, smooth globes, as well as her face. He hadn’t noticed that before. Maybe she’d hugged someone who’d been covered in the stuff. She looked like a pretty little jewel. His dick jumped as he stared at her breasts once again. He grimaced, annoyed with himself, and turned away.
“I’m busy,” he yelled out as he continued to paint. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry. I jumped to conclusions. No excuse for it, but it’s been a hard week and I’ve been dealing with a lot. I was overthinking and took it out on you. Can we start over?”
He kept his back towards her, took a deep breath, then climbed down the ladder, dripping paint brush in hand. He placed it on a towel and looked down at her. Damn. Why in the fuck does she have to be so pretty?
“Suri, thank you for your apology.” She nodded and rocked back on her feet. “I have a lot going on too, so I’m glad I got to see what I needed to early on.”
Her brows bunched and she crossed her arms.
“What are you referring to?”
“I can’t do any drama. I’m thirty-five years old and way beyond that sort of thing now, so maybe you’re young, I don’t know, but—”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Well, regardless, again, thank you for the apology but I’m not feeling your energy. Your vibe isn’t calibrated right…” He shrugged. “No offense. I won’t deny that when I first saw you, I literally felt speechless. You’re just that beautiful—but it’s an unconventional beauty, too, and I like that, but physical attraction alone isn’t enough for me anymore. I trust my instincts. Have a good night, lady in red.”
He turned away to work on the bottom of the canvas, pushing the ladder aside. He could feel her stare on him. She hadn’t moved. Is this woman going to stab me in the back or something? He slowly turned around and glanced over his shoulder. She was there. Not looking sad. Not looking confused or angry, either. In fact, her face was rather expressionless.
“We were having a good conversation before I falsely accused you,” she said, uncrossing her arms, then recrossing them and shifting her weight from foot to foot. “If you think you can know someone’s energy and vibe from one misunderstanding, then you’re not as “woke” she put her fingers up in air quote signs, “as you wish to believe. You must think you’re all that.” She chuckled dismally and rolled her eyes.
“You must think I am, or you wouldn’t be standing here.” He ran the tip of his paintbrush against the cloth and looked back at her, unable to wipe the smirk off his face.
“I think it’s a privilege to be in my presence, and everyone who knows they are somebody, despite their shortfalls, should feel the same.” Her eyes were icy, yet her tone heartfelt. “And for me to allow my precious time and energy to be utilized or shared is a privilege, too. I love myself and my personal space. I don’t beg, King, but I’m woman enough to apologize when I’m wrong. And I was wrong. I’m stronger than my emotions. Are you?” She cocked her head to the side and as they glared at one another, he felt his gut clench.
“This isn’t about me. I didn’t walk back over here. You did.”
“But it is about you because of what you said to me. That was a reflection of something inside of you.” What is she a therapist, now? “Being wrong doesn’t scare me; I have no fear. And well,” she shrugged, “that’s that.”
Who the hell is this woman?! He was annoyed and impressed. Intrigued and wanting. This wasn’t happening correctly. Nothing was going as planned and she was not what he expected.
“Well, you’ve apologized.” He cleared his throat, trying to shake the strange mood. “I accepted it. And now I have work to do. You’re slowing me up, so
if you’ll excuse me.”
He dipped a different paint brush in the water, cleaning it. He hated how his heart thumped at rapid speed, triggered by their conversation, her lingering scent and very presence she’d stated was an honor to be in. Something about how she expressed herself he found wounding, yet amusing and captivating, too. Her voice was feminine but low. She didn’t speak as fast as he expected. She took her time with her delivery. It was at that moment that he questioned if perhaps he had been too hasty. Shoving the incident out of his mind, he got back to work, and this time, when he looked around, he no longer saw her. The music played on, the crowd grew thicker, and now his friends were cheering him on as he painted—Shane the loudest and most obnoxious of the bunch.
“Why don’t you paint two double-D tit-taaaaays!” The crowd started laughing, and so did he, but he refused to turn and give attention to the man. Shane sounded drunk off his ass.
He kept on stroking the canvas like the bend of a woman’s arm, then petting and beating it at a frenzied pace. The crowd changed, grew, thinned, then swelled again as the minutes turned to an hour. Soon, his bucket was half full and a sense of relief washed over him as he noticed a good number of ten and twenty-dollar bills amid the singles. He was growing tired from dealing with such a large canvas and small deadline, but he was determined to finish what he started.
I could make enough to put a sizeable amount towards my rent if I sell this piece, too. Kaiit’s song, ‘Miss Shinny,’ played so loud it pulsated within his heart and soul. He swallowed, his throat scratchy like sandpaper, mouth dry as could be. He’d been thirsty for a while, but had been so busy he didn’t dare slow his stride. He looked about, trying to find any of his friends he could ask to score him a beverage. He finally spotted Jeremy, but then noticed the bastard was on the phone, not looking in his direction. Damn. Where the hell did these mothafuckas go? I need someone to bring me a drink.