The Rolexxx Club - Anniversary Edition

by Meta Smith

  “Damn, you speak French?” Desiree asked her, impressed.

  “That wasn’t French, that was Creole, which is French-based. But to answer your question, yeah, I speak French too and, of course, Spanish. I’m Dominican and Haitian.” Ginger shrugged her shoulders like her multilingual skills were no big deal. “But anyway, my girl DeeDee can hook you up at the crib. She lives in Carol City, not far from us. She’ll roll through around 9:30 to hook us up. So let’s grab some shoes from next door and get a move on.” Desiree was impressed at how easily Ginger made things happen.

  They went next door to Nurielle and bought shoes to match their ensembles. Ginger knew the salesgirl, so she hooked them up with two-for-one Sergio Rossi stilettos. Desiree was ecstatic at the purchase of three-hundred-dollar shoes. She’d never had any quality shoes that weren’t sneakers. And as for clothes, she’d owned Lady Enyce and Mecca and Baby Phat and the like, but never foreign designers. Now she was going to step into a club on the beach looking like she stepped out of a fashion magazine instead of the Source magazine.

  “Don’t worry about the money you spent,” Ginger said. “I can sew. I’m going to bootleg some of their shit for us. Today I just felt like shopping. I figured you’d like it too.”

  “Like it? I love it! I’ve only seen clothes like this in videos. But I’m sure glad you can sew. Who knew how much ripped-up T-shirts and old jeans

  with crystals on them cost?” Desiree replied.

  “Yeah, they’re buggin’ with their prices, but I can’t blame them. Tourists spend money like it’s water here. And the reason you’ve seen clothes like this in videos is because this is where they get a lot of the wardrobe for videos. They shoot one damn near every week here. Matter of fact, you could be in some, I’m sure.”

  “Me?” Desiree asked, shocked. “Yeah, you! You could model.”

  “But I’m kind of short. I’m not white or six feet tall or skinny,” Desiree objected.

  “Girl, please. You’re prettier than all those girls. You look like me, remember?” Ginger teased.

  “Well, why don’t you model? You’re tall.”

  “To make a long story short, I’ve been there, done that, and don’t like it. I’m a control freak, and when you model, you don’t have any control over anything.”

  “I don’t see how anyone could not like getting paid to be pretty. I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

  “Well, you’ll have your chance. I know a few people if you’re really interested. But shit, you’ll surely meet someone who’ll claim they can make you a star. I guarantee it. Just be careful. A lot of these so-called agents are full of shit and will get you hooked up in a lot of bullshit,” Ginger warned.

  “Well, I’ll let you help me. I can trust you.” Desiree smiled at Ginger. “Shawty, don’t trust anyone. Not here. Sleep with one eye open. Don’t

  get so caught up in the glitz and glamour of this beach, or it will eat you alive.”

  “What about you?” Desiree eyed Ginger suspiciously. “What about me?” Ginger quipped.

  “Can I trust you?” Desiree was serious.

  “Sometimes I don’t even trust me,” Ginger replied, and headed for her

  car.

  THEY PULLED UP TO GINGER’S HOUSE AT THE SAME TIME AS

  DeeDee. Desiree took note of DeeDee’s hooked-up Acura and crisp denim jumpsuit. Her hair was laid out in a stylish, short cut and dyed a mahogany hue. She sported long acrylic nails with designs and crystals on each finger, and her hands were adorned with gold and platinum rings. DeeDee was iced out and jeweled up, making Desiree wonder how the

  hell she was gonna do anyone’s hair. DeeDee pulled a large aluminum case and a duffel bag out the trunk of her car and teetered on her high-heeled boots toward the house.

  “Sak passé?” DeeDee greeted Ginger.

  “Ma boulé,” Ginger replied in the traditional Creole greeting. “Come on back.” Ginger led DeeDee and Desiree to the Florida room at the back of the house. In a corner she had a mini beauty salon, complete with a barber’s chair, shampoo bowl, and hair dryer. The station had a huge art deco mirror and contemporary lighting. Desiree’s jaw dropped.

  “You have a beauty salon in your house?” Desiree asked, shocked.

  Ginger laughed. “It’s only one station.” DeeDee began removing assorted jars, bottles, combs, and brushes from her bag and case.

  “You’ve never been back here?” DeeDee asked.

  “Lil’ Desiree is just moving in. I’m taking her under my wing,” Ginger explained.

  “You gonna be on her Web site?” DeeDee inquired as she got to work doing the ladies’ hair.

  “Nah. Desiree got more potential than that. She’s gonna do big things. I can feel it,” Ginger answered for Desiree. Desiree couldn’t contain her smile at the compliment.

  “Y’all going to Groove Jet?” DeeDee asked, snapping her gum as she combed a bleaching solution through Desiree’s hair.

  “Yeah. You know that’s my spot,” Ginger told her. She was sitting under a hair dryer, her hair in large curlers.

  “I thought you would be working tonight. Ain’t Coco’s the spot on Tuesdays?” DeeDee asked.

  “Yeah, but I needed a little break. I’m taking my little protégée out to the beach with me, let her see how it’s done here in the Bottom,” Ginger explained. Desiree liked the sound of that: her protégée. No one had ever acted like she had any potential before.

  “Well, break her in slow,” DeeDee joked, then began to chat with Ginger in Creole.

  DeeDee hooked both of them up with Doobie wraps and did Desiree’s color within two hours. Desiree was amazed to see Ginger break her off with two hundred dollars for the service.

  “Let me give you something,” Desiree offered, fishing in her pocket for a hundred-dollar bill, but Ginger refused.

  ‘’I’m gonna do your makeup now, okay?” Ginger informed Desiree, pushing her hand away Desiree smiled in appreciation and followed Ginger into her bathroom.

  Ginger pulled a huge aluminum train case containing a ton of cosmetics from a closet in the bathroom suite and motioned to Desiree to sit in the dressing table chair. Ginger arched Desiree’s slightly bushy eyebrows and applied makeup to her clear, smooth skin, explaining what she was doing while she did it, so Desiree would be able to re-create the look on her own. When Desiree finally saw herself in the mirror, her hair full, wavy, and bouncy, and her features highlighted with just the right amount of makeup, she was shocked.

  “See what I meant? You were cute before. Now you’re beautiful,” Ginger

  said. Desiree gave her a great big hug, which caught Ginger completely off guard.

  “Thank you, Ginger, for everything!” Desiree spoke with sincerity, her eyes slightly misty. No one had ever taken the time to teach her how to style her hair or put on makeup. No one had ever taken her shopping for pretty and fashionable clothes. It had been so long since anyone cared.

  “No problem, shawty” Ginger hugged Desiree back, thinking that Oprah and all those other talk show hosts must feel just like she did when they did makeover shows. Every once in a while, it felt good to do something for someone else, Ginger silently admitted. But she wasn’t going to make it a habit.

  They got dressed and hopped back into the BMW. Ginger’s home looked so beautiful in the moonlight, little foot-lights illuminating her tile driveway. Desiree felt like she’d been on the go nonstop but was loving every minute of it. In a short twenty-four hours she had found a great place to live, had come up on some funds, had a whole new look and a new best friend. Desiree vowed to herself that she would have a whole new life in Miami, a glamorous life. She had a clean slate. No one knew who she was or where she had been. In Miami she was going to be somebody. It was obvious by the way things were falling into place for her.

  WHEN THEY HIT THE STRIP, DESIREE WAS AMAZED AT HOW

  different everything looked. Gone was the laid-back casualness she’d seen earlier that evening. After dark, Miami came alive. Exotic c
ars were jammed bumper-to-bumper on the strip. Women paraded the streets in skimpy fashions. There was a line outside of every club they passed.

  “Usually, it isn’t this hectic during the week. But since the Super Bowl is here, everyone is out and about.”

  Ginger enlightened Desiree about South Beach. “This is Washington,

  where we were earlier. See, there’s Metro. There’s a bunch of clubs on this street. There’s Cream all the way down there on Sixth; there’s Glam Slam, Prince’s old club, which is closed right now. I think someone is about to buy it, though, and do something new. There’s also Liquid and the Living Room; there’s Chaos, which is my personal favorite, and the Cameo Theater. There are more clubs spread out here and there, like Penrod’s and Amnesia. Plus, there’s this new spot called the Bar Room. Oh yeah and Alonzo Mourning’s Club Onyx, but I’m not sure if it’s open. Just don’t go to Club Cristal. Everyone says it’s fun, but it’s way too ghetto in my opinion. You gotta be real careful in joints like that. A lot of niggas from the club be up in there, so why would you want to go anyway? You gotta go where the hot shit is. The tourists that come over from Europe and South America be havin’ major paper. I’m trying to roll like that, so I go where they go. For example, restaurants are fun, and nice places to see and be seen. There’s a lot to do on the beach. You’ll get to know it well soon enough. Plus, I’ve got to take you to Coconut Grove. Oh and Bermuda Bar up in Aventura. Plus, there are a couple of spots like Baja’s, the Chili Pepper, Manhattan’s, Christopher’s, and the Brickhouse up in Broward. That’s Fort Lauderdale and Pembroke Pines and Hollywood, but you’ll see all that soon too.” Ginger was pointing left and right, rattling off details like a tour guide.

  Desiree’s head was swimming with all the information, her pulse racing with excitement. Everyone looked so beautiful and in shape. The people were glamorous and just seemed to have flavor. This was what the hype was all about. South Beach. Desiree could dig it.

  “Damn, there seems to be a lot of clubs,” Desiree remarked.

  “Oh hell yeah! That’s what we do in Miami. We kick it. This week is going to be real fun. We’re going to work, but we’re going to play a little harder. You said you wanted to meet a baIler. If it doesn’t happen this week, it’s never going to happen. I’m gonna school you on how to run these niggas.” Ginger headed away from all of the action and made a couple of twists and turns, then left her car with a valet in front of Groove Jet. There was a line, and a big bouncer stood guarding a velvet rope.

  “Damn, we’ve got to wait in line?” Desiree pouted. She was ready to party.

  “Ha!” Ginger snorted. “I don’t do these kinds of lines. The key is to walk to the front of the line like you belong in there. If you act like you belong in line, like you deserve to wait and plead to get in, that’s how these people will treat you. Look confident,” Ginger instructed. They strolled to the velvet rope. The bouncer did not acknowledge them right away, but

  when he did, he smiled and asked them to take their IDs out. They went to another doorperson, who glanced at their IDs using a flashlight, then handed them two VIP wristbands.

  “We don’t have to pay?” Desiree whispered to Ginger.

  “Not when you look like us. Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes we will definitely have to pay. Shit! Sometimes we’ll have to pay out the ass, but it’ll be worth it. Just enjoy yourself.”

  Desiree was amazed at how many people were out kicking it on a weeknight. There was a live band that was playing some funk, accompanied by a DJ who provided an occasional scratch or break beat. It was different than anything Desiree had seen personally, though she was sure that in Manhattan there had to be something similar. After the band finished their set, a new DJ appeared and took over, spinning hip-hop. Desiree and Ginger drank apple martinis and danced until the club closed at 5 a.m.

  They repeated the ritual several times that week at other venues. They attended a private party to celebrate the opening of the Bar Room on Thursday; checked out Amnesia on Friday after they’d had drinks at the Marlin, and went party hopping and strip cruising on Saturday.

  Rather than work the strip clubs, Desiree and Ginger entertained at a few private parties. Some were held by businessmen, but a couple of them had been for professional athletes. They were always paid one thousand dollars up front for dancing. They made a few hundred more in tips. Then if there were men who wanted special attention, they would provide it with one stipulation: only one man a night. That always started a bidding war for their services, the men’s natural competitive instincts kicking in. Men always wanted something that they thought they couldn’t have. Desiree wanted to screw all night and collect as much cash as possible, but Ginger explained to her that they weren’t some cheap hos to get run up and done up. They didn’t, however, mind the exchange of ass for cash, if – and only if – the price was right. They earned a couple thousand a night for a couple hours of work, and a few humps and pumps from a man with money to blow and an ego to feed. They managed to arrange their work and play schedules so that they transitioned seamlessly; the week felt like one giant party. The pinnacle of the week was when they attended the Super Bowl with some fat cat lawyers they’d “entertained.” Desiree felt as if she were dreaming, because in one short week her entire life had changed.

  Desiree was becoming addicted to the rush she got when a stack of money exchanged hands. It was almost like an aphrodisiac to hear the

  rustle of bills being counted. Ginger told Desiree what men wanted and what they liked sexually and otherwise, and how to get them to come up off the dough. She taught her where the rich men were, and what to say to them. Ginger seemed to have a different approach for every type of baIler: white, black, Latin, young, old, street, corporate, old-money, new- money. Desiree absorbed every bit of information that Ginger gave her like a giant sponge, because Ginger had the goods to back up all her talk. In Desiree’s eyes Ginger had made it, and she was going to make it too. Desiree realized that Ginger had been very right about her potential when at the end of the week she realized she’d made over ten thousand dollars.

  CHAPTER 4

  February 1999

  P

  ACK YOUR BAGS, PICKNEY. WE GWAN TO ST. THOMAS, mon!” Ginger bubbled in a Miss Cleo-fake, Caribbean accent as she

  bounded into the house, her arms full of bags. Desiree sat on the couch scribbling furiously in a notebook and eating chips while she bobbed her head to music blaring from a set of headphones. Ginger sat next to her and pulled the headset away from her ear.

  “Did you hear me?” “No.”

  “What are you doing?” Ginger craned her neck to get a peek at Desiree’s notebook.

  “Nothing, just doodling,” Desiree said, snapping the notebook shut.

  She turned the headphones off. “What did you say?”

  “I said pack your bags because we’re going to St. Thomas!”

  “We are? When? Why?” Desiree bombarded her with questions, jumping up from her position on the couch, chips spilling everywhere. She’d been to the Dominican Republic, but only once, and that was when she was a little girl. Aside from that, her travels had been limited. Now she was going to the Virgin Islands! She was so glad she’d met Ginger. She’d been living with her for only about a month, but the woman was truly broadening her horizons.

  “We can leave tomorrow. The club is paying for our ticket over and

  our first night’s hotel,” Ginger explained.

  “You mean that there are strip clubs in the Virgin Islands? We’re going to work?”

  “Of course! Remember I got the soup there that helped cure your hangover?” Ginger was talking a mile a minute.

  “Yeah, I remember, but-” Desiree started.

  Ginger cut her off. “Why did you think I was over there?” Ginger rolled her eyes toward the heavens and put her hands on her hips.

  “Vacation?” Desiree responded.

  “More like a working vacation,” Ginger clarified.

  “
Oh. Well, that sounds cool. Tell me about the club.” Desiree grabbed Ginger by the hand and pulled her onto the couch. She imagined the club to be lush and tropical, maybe with no ceiling or roof like one of her favorite nightclubs, Amnesia.

  “Well, the club looks like shit: concrete floor, wooden benches, a tiny little stage with a pole.”

  Desiree’s bubble burst. It didn’t sound like anything to be excited about. “Uh, okay. So do the men have a lot of money?”

  “Some do. Most don’t. We’re not gonna make a g a night.”

  “Well, if we’re not gonna make our paper, why are we going?” Desiree furrowed her brow.