by Nikki Turner
TRACK 3
The Chicken Shack
t had been three years since the night Fabiola and her family were almost put out on the street. Fabiola was still determined to make it, and during that time she worked hard to make sure she was at the top of her game mentally, physically, and artistically Her mother continued to work two and three jobs at a time to invest in Fabiola's career, and any money that Fabiola earned she put into her development as well. She took weekly voice and dance lessons, worked out with a trainer for two hours a day, kept a dermatologist on speed dial, and tried to fit the image of the star she wanted to be, which wasn't hard, since her sister Adora designed all of her clothes and was a fabulous stylist. Fabiola was on her grind and took every opportunity that came her way to perform. One such gig was as a singer with Ricky Chunnaly's band.
“Ricky, it's two PM and you haven't called me with the color yet,” Fabiola said in frustration as she walked on the treadmill at the gym.
“I'll call ya back in five minutes, I'm about to decide now.” Ricky put Fabiola off to the last minute, like he always did. She may have gotten most of the applause when they performed, but in his mind he was the real star.
“A'ight, call me back in five minutes, because I need to get my stuff straight. We are still on to meet at six, right?”
“Yeah, that's right: six sharp. And if you not there at five fifty-nine, I'm leaving without you.” Ricky had no intention of letting anyone tell him how to run his band, especially not a nobody dreaming to become somebody like Fabiola. Ricky didn't care that he was just a has-been himself. In his prime he had a number-one hit on Billboard's Top 100 chart for sixteen straight weeks. He had plenty of women, money, and drugs at his fingertips and the world at his feet. He became an overnight success. But then he started chasing the pipe more than he chased his craft. He was good, but not good enough for the record company to keep absorbing the cost of the producers and engineers he kept waiting, wasting expensive studio time. Eventually the label dropped him. His reputation in the industry was so bad that no major or minor record label picked him up.
“Well, give me the damn color then so that I can get my shit together, and you won't have to worry about me not being there on time.” Fabiola rolled her eyes and mumbled under her breath, “This doesn't make no sense.”
“Five minutes,” he said. “I said I'll call you then.” He hung up abruptly.
Fabiola sighed. “I don't know why in the hell that motherfucker needs five minutes to decide on a color for us to wear,” she said to Adora, who was on the treadmill right beside her.
“Ricky is so extra,” Adora agreed, slightly out of breath. “Why does he make such a big deal about the color scheme anyway?”
“It's simple,” Fabiola said as she looked at her sister in the mirror. “Because he's an asshole and that's what assholes do.”
“I agree, but wouldn't it be so much easier to tell people the color the day before the gig instead of hours before?”
“I think all those years of getting high wore out his common sense.”
“The fucked-up part is that the colors he choose is always some shit none of us have in our closets.”
“I know.” Fabiola shook her head. “Like the other night—rust and gold.”
Adora laughed. “How about that time when he was feeling his inner bumblebee and had all y'all wearing yellow and black?”
“Thank God Mommy had that dress in her closet, even though it was too small for her.”
“I know, girl, be grateful that Mommy don't throw shit away.”
They both laughed.
Fabiola got to thinking. “You know, when I buy her a house we gotta make sure that her closet is extra huge so she can keep all the dresses she wants to.”
“Don't encourage her, girl. Mommy will pull out a dress that we ain't ever seen and be like, ‘I had this since ′82.’”
“You ain't lying either.” They laughed even harder. “But as soon as she pulls it out, you'll come up with an idea to cut that baby up some kind of way—asymmetrical—or add some stones or another fabric to it to make it work out and be some star-quality type of shit.”
Adora was touched that Fabiola was so supportive of her talent. Even though there were times that she was a little jealous of all the attention that Fabiola received from their mother and everyone else, she knew that Fabiola was the ticket to taking the whole family to the next level. “You know your big sis can't let you go outta here looking like an antique.”
“Ain't that the truth? Not over your dead body anyways. I just hope that clown doesn't come with some whack-ass mess like brown and hunter green and you have to run out to buy something.”
“Don't hold your breath, because you know he will. I don't want to have to go out and buy anything and deal with that Halloween crowd. But don't worry, Fab, we'll make it work. I just wish that muthafucka wasn't so unprofessional,” Adora said.
“You know what? I just try to soak up his madness and think of it as preparation for the major leagues. Putting up with his bullshit keeps me quick on my feet. It'll only make me a better performer in the end, and it'll be that much easier to work with any choreographer, manager, or producer that comes my way—even if they are crazy.”
“You right, sis. I'm glad you can look at it like that,” Adora said. “That's what makes you special. Not only are you a remarkable singer, you were born to be in this entertainment industry. Because had it been me, that motherfucker would have long been cussed the hell out.”
Fabiola smiled at her sister, as she turned up the speed on the treadmill. “Girl, I am about to take my frustrations out on Ricky and put in these two miles.”
Two miles later the phone rang. Fabiola reached for it, hoping it was Ricky.
“Hello?” she said, as she gasped for air.
“I'm going to make it easy for you tonight,” Ricky said. “Red and white. No exceptions or you will be fined. And don't forget to be on time. Six o'clock on the dot.”
“How could I not?”
“It's not like you've never been tardy before. I'm just giving you fair warning: Anybody not on time gets left.”
“I heard you the first couple of times, Ricky,” she said to him as she grabbed a small towel to wipe the sweat from her face. But she knew good and well that he wasn't going to leave until she got there. How could he leave the real star of the show behind?
Fabiola showed up at the meeting spot with her bags packed at eleven minutes past six. Four hours and forty-five minutes later the band was in the deep sticks of North Carolina. Ricky put the van in park and scratched his head while double-checking his papers, and said, “This is it?”
“What the fuck, Ricky? Damn, maaann.” Keys, the keyboard player, shook his head and asked, “This is where we're performing? You couldn't do no better than this here shit?”
“Yeah, this the right spot. They supposed to have the best chicken in all of North Kakilaki, and they say we can eat all the chicken we want.” Ricky tried to assure his fellow band members that this place was official.
“I can buy my own guyd-damn chicken,” Keys said, “as long as that muthafuckin' paper is right at the end of the night.”
The Chicken Shack looked just like the name boasted; a wooden barn that probably should've been torn down a long time ago. But if the parking lot was any indication, the place was jam-packed.
“It looks like they may have a decent-size crowd in the good ole Chicken Shack,” Fabiola said, hopping out of the van. She was in a hurry to clear her head of all that stinky cigar smoke she was forced to inhale while Ricky chain-smoked down the highway. The clean country air felt soothing as it worked its way through her lungs, but then she was assaulted by the smell of chicken grease. “Wheeew.” Fabiola fanned her nose. “That chicken smell is strong.”
“This place sho lives up to its name,” Boonie, the drummer, said.
They got all their equipment on the dolly and headed in. The venue wasn't much. The stage was in the fro
nt and the kitchen was toward the back. There was a dance floor in the middle of the space, and tables covered with chicken-printed tablecloths were lined up throughout. There was enough seating to handle a crowd of three hundred or more. The barmaids wore all black, except for the aprons tied around their waists, which were the same print as the tablecloths. They hustled back and forth from two fully stocked bars making sure everyone's glasses stayed full to the brim. To the left, on the opposite side of the restrooms, was a set of stairs that led to a balcony. The sign read VIP.
Fabiola laughed and pointed to the sign. “Damn, they got VIP in the Chicken Shack?”
They had a little more than a half hour before they were to perform, so Fabiola sat with the rest of the band for a while in a little sitting room the owner had set up for them. Platters of chicken lined the tables. Fabiola had never in her life seen chicken wings that huge. These people must be shooting them birds up with steroids, she thought.
Boonie jumped into a plate of the chicken first thing, sucking bones so hard he could have been doing a commercial for the establishment. “Damn, this barnyard pimp is good as a mug,” he squealed.
“Fab?” Jack, the trumpet player, called out with his mouth full. “Fab, you gotta get you some of these wings.”
“Hell yeah, Fab. This shit right here is gooder than a mutha,” Keys insisted.
“I'm afraid to try it,” she said. “The way y'all acting, they might've battered it in crack or something.”
Ricky nibbled his lip when she mentioned crack.
“Just give it a try,” the drummer said.
“Okay, I'll try it.” She picked up one of the wings off of the platter and looked at it. It was damn near the size of a turkey wing. After taking about three bites, Fabiola decided that it was good all right—good and greasy. “Did they bring us any bottled water?”
“Nope, but they sent us plenty of this corn liquor.” Tommy, the bass player, held up a plastic gallon jug that was more than three-fourths of the way full.
“I'm going to go and see if I can find a water fountain somewhere around here then.”
“I'll go with you, Fab,” Greg, the sax player, insisted. “Don't want to let you out in that buy-one-get-one-free-chicken-special crowd by yourself.”
Greg and Fabiola made their way through the thick crowd. Hands down, Fabiola was the baddest chick in the club. Maybe it was the liquor, or maybe country boys just got down like that, but dudes were pushing up on Fabiola like meat-starved bears. Jaws dropped and mouths drooled; it didn't matter.
“You wanna dance?” One clown grabbed her hand.
“No thanks,” she said with a smile.
“Can I talk to you?” another asked.
“I don't think my man would like that.” She smiled at Greg, who gave the guy an intimidating stare. Although Greg was as sweet as a peach, with a voice soft as six-hundred-count thread linen, his 350-something-pound physique was definitely threatening.
“Sorry, man, I wasn't trying to get yo woman.”
“I understand,” Greg said in his soft voice. “She's fine, ain't she?”
One dude, who wore a purple suit, was checking out Fabiola real hard from across the room. He had two women with him, but they must not have been enough, because the thirst for Fabiola was evident in his eyes. Fabiola gave him a once-over; the purple suit was hideous.
She finally found her bottled water at the bar, where she was greeted by one of the assistant managers.
“We've been so busy tonight that I haven't had a chance to come down, meet you, and say hi, as well as show you to your dressing room.” As they walked back, he said, “I know it's not much but it is somewhere you can change in private, away from the men,” the assistant manager said.
“Thank you so much,” Fabiola said, almost bowing, grateful that the club could accommodate her in this way.
As soon as she opened the door to her “dressing room,” she was struck by an overwhelming aroma of lemon Lysol, which camouflaged the odor of the smoke-filled club. No chicken smell. “Thank God,” she said out loud. A breath of fresh air, finally—even if it did come out of a bottle.
Fabiola's dressing room was normally the employee's rest-room. They had brought in a folding table covered with a white lace cloth. Resting on the table was a mirror, a pitcher of water, and a vase with two yellow roses placed inside. How sweet, she thought, smelling the beautiful flowers. On the back of the door was a full-length mirror as well as a hook to hang her clothes on. Ten of the band's promotional flyers were taped to the wall.
Fabiola quickly transformed herself into a performer. Her cocoa-brown skin was set off by a red one-shoulder Tarzan-style minidress. Her sexy red stiletto pumps were fierce and their silver heels gave an extra four inches to her five-foot-three-inch frame.
Ricky knocked on her door on his way to the stage. “Almost ready?”
“Yup, go break a leg, I got ya back,” she responded to Ricky.
As she painted her lips, Fabiola could hear the crowd singing along with Ricky as he sang his old hit. She could tell by the vibe that they were dancing along as well. Then Ricky tried to slide in some of the new material he'd been working on. That's where he started to lose the crowd. Matter of fact, that's where he always lost the crowd. Even the people in North Kakilaki weren't feeling Ricky's new shit. It was a crying shame; he couldn't even sway the country folks.
The boos were Fabiola's cue to hit the stage. She took one quick final look at herself in the full-length mirror and was ready to take on the crowd at the Chicken Shack. Ricky and the band needed her bad.
The band played her introductory medley in the background. “Introducing to you … for the first time ever at the Chicken Shack … Fabiolaaaahh … Maaayys!”
The crowd didn't know her from an ant on the sidewalk, so Fabiola's name meant nothing to them. The women didn't care how beautiful she was and the men were too drunk to notice. She was going to have to win the crowd over with her voice. She began kicking a few riffs just to warm up. The audience started to pay a little bit more attention. And then she turned it up a notch or two. She broke out a pre–Bobby Brown vintage Whitney Houston note, holding it for what seemed like forever. The whole place went bananas. The crowd didn't sit down until she left the stage, dancing and feeding the tip jar all the while.
After the show was over, the whole band sat in the back of the club shaking hands with the patrons, making small talk, and autographing photos. The lines were pretty long.
A woman walked up to Fabiola and said, “I saw you making eye contact with my man the entire time you was singing, trying to be Aretha. Boo, you ain't Aretha.”
“Excuse me?” Fabiola looked up at the lady. She looked like she had piled a bottle of Vaseline on her face and probably had a razor blade hidden somewhere behind those big gold teeth that guarded the inside of her mouth.
“Don't play dumb now. I saw yo ass looking at him,” she said.
Before Fabiola could respond, Greg stood up, and then Mr. Purple Suit walked up with a girl on one arm and the other empty.
“Baby, I was looking for you,” he said to the gold-teeth-having, Vaseline-smeared woman.
Her tone changed and she looked as if she had been busted. “I'm right here, honey. I was just trying to get this photo autographed for you, that's all—since I know you liked the singer girl so much.”
Mr. Purple winked at Fabiola and walked off with both of his arm pieces.
“I thought we were going to have to beat up a bitch.” Greg always tried to make Fabiola smile.
“I wasn't afraid of horse teeth. I could've taken her if it came down to it,” she said and smiled. “I'm not just another pretty face, ya know?”
“Oh, I know 'bout all that. Shorty looked like she might've grew up sparring with pit bulls, but you sho wasn't backing down from her.”
“She was tripping from the get-go. I wasn't looking at no man wearing no bright-ass cheap purple suit.” They both laughed.
The band was s
till working the remainder of the line when Ricky came up from behind and handed Fabiola two envelopes. One contained her pay for the night, and the other held her cut of the tip money.
“Count that shit, Fab, 'cause you know that motherfucker always got some shit wit 'em,” Keys instigated.
“You know I'm on it, Keys.” She smiled, then took a deep breath. This was the part of the show that she hated most: dealing with Ricky about the pay. She damn near had to go toe-to-toe with the man to get what was rightfully hers. She wished that Viola were there. Her manager would definitely have taken care of this for her.
After getting to her dressing room so she could count her money, she thought, this shit never ends. Pissed off, she rushed back to the band's dressing room and charged in.
“Ricky, what the hell is this?” She held up the envelope. “You shorted me a hundred and sixty dollars.”
“I didn't short you anything,” he said. “I took out for the gas and your fine.”
“Gas is usually twenty-five dollars and I don't owe any goddamn fines, Ricky,” she said, up in his face and not giving a damn about the rest of the band that was either undressed or undressing.
“That's right. It's usually twenty-five dollars, but since we had to come all this long way I deducted sixty from everyone instead of the usual amount.”
“Who the hell told you to book us all the way out here if you were going to act petty about the gas?”
“I'm trying to broaden our horizons,” he said, doing everything in his power not to look Fabiola in the eyes. He was dead-ass wrong and he knew it.
“‘Broaden my horizons,’ my ass. This is some bullshit, Ricky, and you know it.” She pointed to his face. “You can't even look me in my eye. Let me do the math on this here shit. Sixty dollars times six … or am I the only one getting taxed like this since I am the only female?”
“Nah, he taxed us, too, believe that,” Tommy, the bass player said.
“Tommy, stay out of this, all right? You are always trying to keep the peace.” She was tired of Tommy's shit, too. Tommy was so far up Ricky's ass, she was sure that he could smell Ricky's shit. It drove her crazy.