Showdown at the Okie-Dokie

by Deborah Gregory

  “Chuchie—look at the horns. Those are cattle,” I correct her.

  “What happened? That’s what I meant,” Chuchie retorts, fascinated with the cattle being rounded up to go in the corral.

  “Those are longhorns,” Skeeter says, stopping to stare at the procession.

  “Yeah—they’ve definitely got long horns,” Do’ Re Mi says.

  “You ever seen one before?” Aqua asks, putting her arms around Do’ Re Mi’s tiny shoulders.

  “They got them at the zoo in the Bronx?” Do’ Re Mi asks mischievously.

  “Probably not.”

  “Well—then I’ve never seen one!”

  “What’s the letter B doing on their behinds?” I ask.

  “You gotta brand those babies, so nobody will steal ’em. Rodeo livestock is costing a pretty penny these days,” Skeeter says.

  “How much?” Chuchie asks, like she’s in the market for a longhorn.

  “One of these is gonna cost you about ten thousand dollars—but you gonna spend about twenty-five thousand for a champion bronco, that’s for sure.”

  All this talk about duckets makes me wonder if the Okie-Dokie entertainers are gonna get any in their buckets. “Do you think they’ll be paying talent?”

  “Probably in grits, if you’re lucky,” Skeeter says, looking at me. “But that’s the first thing I’m gonna ask Mr. Steer when we find him.”

  Once inside the one-story building, we see two more men—one in a powder-blue suit, and another in a red one. They are in a heated dispute. “See, he thinks he’s slick,” the one in red is yelling, “shipping the lights at the last minute. You ain’t gonna see a church mouse singing up on that stage, let alone Sista Fudge, dog.”

  We stand by nervously as the two continue to duke it out.

  “He’s my cuzzin, dog—doing us a favor. What am I supposed to do?” the man in the blue suit counters.

  “Yeah—well, the lights are out on cuzz, ’cuz you’re paying him out of your share, dog!”

  All of a sudden, the barking duo notice our presence. “Wazzup?” the man in red asks.

  “We’re looking for Mr. Steer,” Skeeter says.

  “You talent?”

  “Yessirree.” Skeeter puffs out his chest.

  “Hell be right back,” the man in red says, then remembers his manners. “We’re the Rashad brothers—the promoters.”

  “Is that right?” Skeeter says, perking up. “I heard you guys are from Philly.”

  “You heard about us, huh? Yeah—that’s right, we’re from Philly, and we’re definitely learning a thing or two down here, boy,” he says, shaking his head. “This has been a trip. Our cuzzin Reggie lives down here, and he’s been after us for years to put on an event down here—”

  Before the dukin’ duo can get in any more details about their urban rodeo drama, a tall man wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat walks in. “Can I help you folks?” he asks.

  Suddenly, I feel jitters again. I brush down my cheetah skirt automatically. I’ll bet he’s the man we’re looking for, and after Skeeter introduces us, I can tell I’m right.

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t have anymore slots available for the Sassy-sparilla Saloon Competition—but let’s see what you got, since you came all this way.” Mr. Steer takes off his hat and rests it on the long wooden table behind him.

  I guess the Sassy-sparilla Saloon must be the contest for wanna-be stars, like us and Miggy and Mo. Funny they didn’t mention anything about a contest. I wonder what the prize is? We should have asked them for more details.

  I feel myself sinking. I shoulda known we weren’t getting in to this shindig. Chuchie is bugging her eyes at me, like, “What are we supposed to do?”

  I guess “see what you got” is our cue to perform. Suddenly taking charge, I hear myself say, “We’re gonna perform our latest song for you—‘It’s Raining Benjamins.’”

  “All right. Sounds good to me.”

  We stand together and begin:

  “For the first time in her-story

  there’s a weather forecast

  that looks like the mighty cash …”

  While we’re singing, I can’t help but look at Mr. Steer to see how he’s reacting. I mean, it’s kinda weird, performing for someone who’s wearing a ten-gallon hat that covers his eyes, if you catch my drift. Maybe he doesn’t like our kind of music. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Skeeter. He is just beaming at us, and clapping along until we finish.

  “Okay, girls, I’II tell you what. I’m gonna give you a slot in the contest—the opening slot. That’s the best I can do for ya,” Mr. Steer says apologetically. “I know it’s not much, and we ain’t paying, so it’s up to you.”

  I want to jump up and down and throw a lasso around Mr. Steer’s neck, I’m so amped. Whoopee!!

  “What’s the Sassy-sparilla Saloon?” Do’ Re Mi asks Mr. Steer.

  “That’s one of the saloons where customers will be served beverages and food,” Mr. Steer explains. “We’ve got about, let’s see—counting the Bronco Burger, five places set up where customers can eat and drink. The Sassy-sparilla is for young people, so we thought about putting on a contest—you know, like a warm-up show before the All-Girls Rodeo event.”

  “Oh,” I say. “What’s the, um, prize for winning the contest?”

  “Oh, nothing much—just a bronze cowgirl statue … and two tickets to Astro World for the Holiday in the Park Celebration.”

  “Oh,” I say nonchalantly, trying not to seem too interested. I can tell that Skeeter doesn’t get it: the Cheetah Girls always keep their eyes on the prize—and no prize is ever too small. “How many performers will there be?”

  “You mean on the main stage?” Mr. Steer asks.

  I feel a twinge of jealousy. I wish we could perform on the main stage. “No, I mean performing, um, with us.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry. We have six groups—all local, like yourselves,” Mr. Steer says. “Miggy and Mo, CMG, Diamonds in the Ruff, HF—Houston’s Finest—and the Cowgirls. I believe that’s it.”

  Chuchie and I look at each other like we can’t believe our ears. He did say all the groups were from Houston—and the CMG we know said they were from Oakland.

  “Did you say CMG?” I ask Mr. Steer, not letting the fat cat out of the bag.

  “Yes, I did. The Cash Money Girls.”

  “We performed with them, um, in Hollywood,” I say, ’cuz I want Mr. Steer to know that we aren’t just some group of wannabe kids. I mean, we have had a few gigs, okay?

  “Is that right?” Mr. Steer asks, smiling. “I know they moved out to California, but they are originally from right here.”

  Chuchie and I look at each other again, our eyes shouting. “Yeah, they said they’d moved to Oakland.” I still can’t believe it’s the same Cash Money Girls we performed with at the Tinkerbell Lounge in Hollywood!

  “I’m gonna have to run right now—we’re doing a sound check for the main stage—but lemme show you girls the Sassy-sparilla Saloon.” Mr. Steer ambles along in front of us, and we follow him to the saloon, which is getting its sign hammered on as we walk in.

  “Construction sure took a long time around here,” Mr. Steer says, motioning for us to walk under the ladder and through the doorway.

  “That’s bad luck,” whispers Chuchie.

  “Too bad,” I whisper back, going in.

  “This is nice,” Aqua says, looking around at the wooden bar with heaps of sawdust on the floor. I glance over and see the small—and I do mean small—stage area.

  The Rashad brothers have stopped fighting, and they wave good-bye to us as we walk back outside. Suddenly, I feel sorry for them. “It must be hard putting together an event like this,” I say.

  “Well, we won’t have to worry about lights—’cuz we’re performing in a barn,” Aqua says sarcastically—which makes me wonder if she’s disappointed in our hookup.

  Once we are alone, I repeat the name of the group like a mantra: “CMG. CMG …”

/>   “I can’t believe they were frontin’ like that—like they were so hardcore—from Oakland,” Do’ Re Mi says, shaking her head.

  “Yeah, throwing money onstage, talking about the Benjamins alrighty, alrooty, tooty, frutti!” I heckle, making fun of them. “At least we got that dope idea of throwing money onstage from them.” Like I said—special effects are fair game for copying.

  “I told you it was a good idea,” Aqua says, shaking her head. “Remember what Drinka Champagne says: ‘You always got to have a theme’…”

  “—and a dream!” Angie and I finish in unison.

  “Aqua—you never heard of them before?” I ask, still puzzled about the origins of CMG.

  “No, ma’am—but we don’t know everybody in Houston, Miz Galleria,” Aqua says, bugging her eyes. “This ain’t a one-horse town, you know.”

  “Three million people live here,” Angie says, coming to her sister’s defense.

  “Well, I can’t believe it’s the same girls, coming off so hard like lard,” I mutter.

  “Lard ain’t hard,” Aqua says, confused.

  “You know what I’m saying,” I hiss, trying to make my point.

  “Yeah, we understand,” Angie says, shaking her head.

  “Well, at least we got in there,” Do’ Re Mi says, shrugging her tiny shoulders.

  “Yeah, in there like swimwear,” I mutter back, feeling better already.

  “Do you think all five of us are gonna fit on that stage?” Aqua asks, concerned.

  “Not if you keep eating three pieces of corn-bread for breakfast,” I snicker back.

  “Well, then I guess we’d better start dieting now,” Chanel pipes up.

  “Not a chance,” Aqua says, shaking her head. “We have to go over to Big Momma’s, and then to Granddaddy Walker’s for Thanksgiving!”

  “And eat two Thanksgiving dinners!” Angie pipes in.

  “Well be as fat as cows headed off for slaughter!” Chuchie moans.

  “Well, then I got a new song we can sing,” I say, smirking.

  “Word?” Do’ Re Mi says, her eyes widening.

  “Yeah—‘Can I Get a Moo!’”

  Chapter

  5

  Chuchie is jumping around like a hot tamale, just because we’re finally going to my namesake—the infamous Galleria Mall in downtown Houston. Of course, we’re all down with hanging out at the mall, but we also have to buy some more fake Benjamins for our gig at the Okie-Dokie Corral. No matter how many times I say that word, it sounds like music to my ears: “We got a gig at the thingamajig,” I hum aloud.

  Aqua and Angie are telling their mother (for the tenth time) the story of how my mom named me after this mall, because she bought her first pair of Gucci shoes here, when she was two months pregnant with me.

  “Is that story really true?” Mrs. Walker asks me, amused.

  “Hard to believe, but true,” I respond. “If you knew my mother—you would believe it.”

  After we park the car in the mall garage, Mrs. Walker tells us the game plan: “Y’all pick me up from Tender Tendrils in an hour—I’m just getting a quick touch-up.”

  Aqua gives her a mother a look. “It doesn’t look like a quick one to me,” she says. “You let your roots go too long, Ma—they may send you down the street to the magic shop instead!”

  “I said one hour, or Reesy will keep me there all day, running her mouth about her ulcers, boyfriend problems, and late mortgage payments!”

  “All right,” Aqua concedes.

  “Check this mall,” Do’ Re Mi says, looking around at all the beautiful stores like she’s Alice in Wonderland. Out in the middle of the walkway, this guy has a table set up with CDs, and a sign that says $5.

  “How come the CDs only cost five dollars?” Do’ Re Mi asks me.

  “’Cuz they’re bootleg CDs,” I retort, but I gaze at the table anyway, I could use the new Chutney Dallas CD. “Are these just like the real ones?” I ask the guy selling them.

  “Word is bond,” he responds, “and I’ll give you two for nine, ’cuz you’re fine.”

  “Omigod, Sista Fudge has got a new album!” Aqua says, reaching into her cheetah backpack for her wallet.

  “Hold up, Aqua,” I say, pulling her aside. “Listen, you know when you buy bootleg CDs, the artist doesn’t get any money for it.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Aqua says, nodding her head.

  “One day, they could be selling our CDs on that table, and you know we’d be mad as hatters if we didn’t collect our duckets in a bucket. Am I right?” I look over my shoulder at Mr. Bootlegger, to make sure he doesn’t peep our conversation.

  “You sure are right,” Angie agrees.

  “How come they don’t get caught doing it?” Do’ Re Mi asks.

  “’Cuz peeps is just happy to buy the CDs for less—they don’t care about the artists, but we do, you get my flow?”

  We walk away from the table, and the guy keeps harassing us from a distance. “Don’t sleep on this, curie!” he yells after me.

  “I wish he’d kill the noise,” I moan, walking arm in arm with Do’ Re Mi. Suddenly, I stop dead in my tracks, and gaze at the window of a store called Who Shot the Sheriff?

  “Ooh, those are nice,” Aqua and Angie coo simultaneously, because they’ve spotted the same gagulous items that I have: cheetah-spotted cowgirl hats!

  “Chuchie! Come on, Calamity Jane!” I yell, and motion for her to come check out our latest cheetah-licious find. “Girlitas, I think it’s time we rock this town by getting us a hot-diggity getup,” I say boldly, like I’m the trail boss leading my cowgirls into Dodge.

  “What happened?” Chuchie says, catching up to us out of breath. Then she spots the prize: “Ooh, those are la dopa!”

  Inside the store, Do’ Re Mi peeps these funny-looking leather pants. “Check this, yo—I wonder …”

  “Those are leather chaps,” says the sales clerk, who has an upturned white mustache and a red face.

  “Oh, um, word,” Dorinda says nervously, putting them down.

  “Lemme show you how a real cowgirl would wear them,” the sales clerk says, strapping the pants around her waist. The leather chaps are so long on tiny Dorinda that they’re dragging on the floor, but the jolly man pays it no mind.

  “See, now, if you were wrestling steer, these would protect your legs from cattle horns, rope burns, scratches, and other hazards of the profession,” he explains.

  “Good thing I just go to high school!” Do’ Re Mi says, chuckling.

  “Where you gals from?” the clerk asks us, amused.

  “The Big Apple,” I explain.

  “Is that right over by the Pear Tree Inn?” he asks, puzzled.

  We burst out laughing. Sometimes I forget there are peeps who don’t quite get our flow. “No, sir, that’s what we call Manhattan,” I explain.

  “Oh,” the clerk says, ’cuz now he gets it. “Sometimes I can’t understand you young people. So what can I do fer you today?”

  “We were wondering how much those hats are?” I say, keeping my fingers crossed that our latest cheetah find doesn’t cost more than the duckets we have in the bucket, if you get my drift. Otherwise, we’ll just have to buy one hat, and cut it up into five pieces!

  “The Stetsons?” he says.

  “Stetsons,” Do’ Re Mi repeats after him.

  “Why, those happen to be on sale. I can give them to you for fifteen apiece,” the sales clerk responds.

  “Awright!” I say, relieved.

  Chanel makes her long señorita face again. “I don’t have any money left. Nada for Prada,” she moans, cracking a joke.

  “Here, Chuchie,” I say, whipping some duckets out of my fat cheetah wallet. I know that Chuchie has been paying back her mom every penny she owes her for charging up her credit card. Her bucket is always empty these days—like a broken piñata. “Just stop jumping up and down—or I’m not giving it to you. You’re making me dizzy, Chuchie, I swear!”

  “Est�
� bien, mamacita!” Chuchie says, giving me a hug.

  “Well take five of them,” I tell the beaming salesclerk.

  Aquanette tries on one of the spotted Stetsons, but it sits on top of her head like a muffin. “This one is too small. Here, Dorinda,” Aqua says, handing it to Do’ Re Mi, who has the tiniest head in our crew.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll bring out some bigger sizes,” the clerk says, stepping into the back.

  “Ooh, put this on, Dorinda,” Chuchie says, trying to hang a canteen around Do’ Re Mi’s shoulder. “Mira, now you look like a real cheetah cowgirl!”

  “Chuchie, we’re not in a desert!” I chuckle, fingering the circular metal canteen on a strap. “This would make a dope purse, though.”

  “All right, young ladies, why don’t you try these on?” the salesclerk says, returning with an armful of spotted Stetsons.

  “Are they really gonna stay on?” I ask, twiddling the adjustable string.

  “Yeah, just make sure to adjust it tight enough under your chin, but not so tight you strangle yourself,” the salesclerk chuckles.

  Once we’re outside, I catch a glimpse of the five of us in the store window, and I like what I see. “The hats look really dope with our outfits,” I say, feeling the soft pile on my cheetah blazer, then touching the brim of the hat. “It’s show time at the world-famous Galleria! I could get used to boostin’ Houston.”

  “Everybody is so nice down here,” Do’ Re Mi says, hugging Aqua and Angie. Since we left New York, Do’ Re Mi hasn’t said one word about her foster mother, Mrs. Bosco, or her ten foster brothers and sisters. I get the feeling she is happy to be with us, and away from all that foster-care madness. No matter how much my mom gets on my last nerve, I’ll never understand what Do’ Re Mi goes through on a 24/7 basis. Never.

  “Yes, ma’am, they are nice,” Aqua says proudly. “I mean, we’ve got a few crabs in the barrel, but mostly everybody is real good people.”

  We decide to prowl around the mall in our new cheetah Stetsons, causing a stir in a Minute Rice second. A group of boys hanging around the mall starts shouting out to us.

  “Isn’t that the guy who was at the benefit?” I ask, pointing to the redhead in the bunch.