In the case of Nicole, Kyle had been right. My being truthful cost me a chance at happiness. But how long would that happiness have lasted before my sexuality would have caused her more pain than my early admission? Maybe my timing had a lot to do with it. I did reveal myself to her during a very difficult period in a hospital just doors away from her dying best friend and shortly after we’d made love for the first time without protection.
I’d decided I had to tell her at that exact moment rather than risk the chance that somebody else might tell her to protect himself, the somebody being my first male lover, Kelvin, husband to Nicole’s best friend Candance. I still secretly hoped that one day Nicole and I would sit down and talk, face to face, about our relationship and what future, if any, we had. I wanted the chance to explain my life in more detail, so she would understand that it wasn’t something she did or something I planned. I believed very strongly that my chances for a long-term relationship were greater with a woman than with a man, but I thought Nicole deserved something better and maybe Jared offered me something I hadn’t dreamed possible. He was, like Nicole, one of the most extraordinary human beings I had ever met.
Jared’s infectious smile was a welcome sight. He was all decked out in a crayon-red polo shirt, tight and outlining the muscled contours of his chest. I could see this despite the fact that he was wearing a cotton T-shirt under the polo. Jared was one of those guys who always wore a T-shirt no matter what, an undershirt that I was certain was tucked tightly into his jockey underwear. It could be the dead of summer and there was always that T-shirt and Jared looking cool, calm, and collected. The T-shirt and Jared’s smile caused a big grin to break out across my face.
“What up?” Jared asked as he gave me a big bear hug.
“You the man,” I replied.
“How was the trip? Did you miss me? Of course you missed me,” Jared asked and answered confidently.
“Didn’t think about you one second,” I teased.
“Yeah, right. Cool. So did your business go as planned?”
“Business? Oh yeah. Business was great.” I quickly recovered.
Jared and I stood by the steel-gray carousels, just looking and grinning at each other as assorted luggage rolled by. In this enormous airport it seemed as though we were the only ones there. There was an unnatural stillness surrounding us—the two of us acting very bashful.
“How much luggage did you take?” Jared asked, breaking the silence.
“Luggage?” I quizzed, suddenly realizing that all my luggage was on my shoulders. “Oh shit,” I laughed. “I forgot I didn’t check my luggage.”
“Niggah, pleeze. What are we standing up here looking stupid for? Let’s drive,” Jared said.
“Whose car did you drive?”
“Yours, of course. It’s much nicer and the females notice me more when I drive it,” Jared observed.
I didn’t respond as I walked side by side with Jared through the airport, out the sliding glass doors, and toward the parking lot. Jared picked up the pace, allowing me to catch a glimpse of his backside in clinging white jeans. His rapid steps made it clear that he wanted to get to the car before me. I thought about Jared’s comments regarding women and my car. Yes, I had to admit that my royal blue BMW 535 attracted a certain amount of female and male attention, but did Jared say female to throw me off or was that the real deal? It wasn’t that Jared had never mentioned females before. He had a great admiration for the female form, but so did I. He never spoke of women in a derogatory fashion or by body parts. Jared was always very respectful as though he were speaking of his mother. I appreciated that. I had spent enough time to last a lifetime with men who always referred to women by names usually reserved for female dogs.
As we approached my car, I could tell that it had been waxed. I mean the car was shining so brightly that I could see my reflection even while I was several feet away from the door. I couldn’t recall the last time the car looked so good, with the exception of the day I purchased it.
“Jared, what did you do to my car?” I asked.
“What do you think I did? I gave it the cleaning it so desperately needed.”
“Oh shit. Man, it looks great. Thanks a million.”
“No problem. Get in. Since I cleaned it I’m going to drive it.”
“You don’t have to say it twice,” I said as I reached for the door handle on the passenger side.
Just as I was preparing to sit down I saw a little gift box, neatly wrapped. Two plastic champagne glasses were lying over the glove compartment.
“What’s this?” I asked, trying to conceal my smile.
“Welcome back, my niggah,” Jared smiled.
“Man, you’re something else.”
“Go ahead, open the box.”
I threw my luggage in the backseat, quickly snapped my seat belt on, and started to rip open the small box. Moments later I saw there was nothing but tissue paper in the box and I looked over at Jared, who was picking up speed to enter the freeway heading toward downtown Atlanta.
“There’s nothing in here, Jared,” I said.
“Hold up. Look under the seat first.”
I felt under the seat and with my slight touch out rolled a bottle of Cristal champagne.
“Open it. Let’s celebrate you getting back safe and the end of the holiday.”
“Okay, but what about the box? Wasn’t something supposed to be in there?” I asked greedily.
“Yes, I got tickets to the Braves game tonight, but I didn’t pick them up. They’re at the will-call window. That’s the second part of the surprise.”
“Jared, that’s the shit. You know this will be my first Braves game. In fact this will be my first professional baseball game ever.”
“I know that. Pops told me.”
“But my birthday is weeks away. How are you going to top this?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just pop the cork and let’s do this.”
I quickly popped the cork of the champagne bottle. I was as excited as a kid going on his first ferris wheel ride at the fair. The Braves were the hottest thing in Atlanta; only Braves tickets were hotter. I love all sports, but only started to appreciate baseball after moving to Atlanta. It was impossible to live in Atlanta and not get caught up with the Braves and here I was going to a game. I balanced the plastic glasses and slowly poured the golden-colored beverage.
“Maybe you shouldn’t drink and drive,” I said in a protective tone.
“I know, but just a tiny sip to celebrate. We can finish it at your place before the game.”
“Cool,” I responded.
I inhaled the champagne’s sweet aroma and began to sip it slowly, rolling it in my mouth and letting it glide over the surface of my tongue and then down my throat. I couldn’t ever remember champagne tasting so wonderful and exhilarating. I smiled at the fact that Jared had called my father Pops.
Jared, with a warm gleam in his eyes, sped down Highway 85 North as I relaxed and observed Atlanta’s phallic skyline and enjoyed my pleasant laziness. I began to hum along with Vanessa Williams’s “Save the Best for Last,” as the song blasted over the car stereo. Atlanta was enjoying a bright warm day and the air seemed startlingly clear and pure. I rolled down the window so that I could smell the brisk air and continue to savor the moment.
Two
Seconds after I first opened my eyes in the morning, the phone rang. I quickly grabbed it before the answering machine came on.
“Praise the Lord, Nicole girl,” Sheila exclaimed.
“Praise Him, Sheila,” I replied.
“How you doing?” Sheila asked.
“I’m blessed. How about you?”
“I’m blessed too, girl. Let’s get started.”
“Okay.”
“You got anything special you want to pray for today?”
“No, not really. I have an audition later on this afternoon, but I’m not that excited about it. What about you?”
“No, nothing special. Let’s j
ust thank Him and send one up for those who need it.”
“Okay. Why don’t you start.”
Sheila’s voice went from its light tone into a very serious and reverent pitch. As she prayed over the telephone line, I stood and pulled myself up from my queen-sized bed and reached for my lilac robe. I closed my eyes and felt a slight chill over my body from Sheila’s words as she rapidly thanked Christ for the many blessings He had granted. I thought about all the things I wanted to say when it was my turn to pray over the phone lines.
Sheila and I had been prayer partners for about two years. There were only a few days since we’d started praying that we’d missed. I met Sheila in the SAG (Screen Actors Guild) office one day when she was posting a notice for a prayer partner. I had no idea what a prayer partner was, but I was going through a difficult time and when she explained it to me I was instantly sold.
“Nicole?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to thank the Lord for?”
Without responding, I went into prayer, thanking Christ for waking me up and thanking Him for the positive day I was about to have. A few minutes into the prayer I forgot that I was standing in my bedroom in my nightgown and robe. I felt as though I was in church. Sheila responded regularly with, “Yes, Lord … thank you, Lord … yes, Lord … thank you.”
As I brought my prayer to a close I opened my eyes and glanced out my bedroom window. A light rain was falling. “Wrap yourself up, girl. It’s raining cats and dogs out there,” Sheila instructed with the tone of a mother.
“I will. You have a blessed day,” I responded.
“I will. I’ll talk with you in the morning.”
As important as Sheila was in my life, we hardly saw each other. She was married and lived in Brooklyn with her husband and little boy. We went to different churches but it was hard to imagine my life without her despite her tendency to be quite self-righteous at times.
I went into the kitchen of my small one-bedroom apartment and put up the kettle for my morning tea. I walked back into my bedroom and watched the rain run down the window of my Upper East Side apartment.
Outside, Manhattan rushed, bumped, and shoved toward a new day. I saw taxis splashing through the street and listened to horns blaring loudly with impatience. I pressed my nose against the condensation-covered window and watched people scurrying along the sidewalks under umbrellas, women in soaked tennis shoes, men with damp folded newspapers and briefcases bravely facing the rain bareheaded. The pace and energy of the city were that of the previous sun-soaked day.
The phone and the teakettle seemed to shriek at the same time. I rushed back into the kitchen, grabbed my cordless phone, and clicked it on.
“Hello.”
“Hey, girl.”
“Delaney. What’s going on, girl?”
“You know, the same ole same ole.”
“What time are you leaving your apartment?”
“In about thirty minutes. Are you going on that audition?”
“What audition?” I quizzed.
“You know. The douche commercial. I understand it’s a national.”
“I just know my agent isn’t sending me on a douche commercial.”
“You better work grand Broadway, diva. I’m scared of you. It must be nice to be able to pass up shit,” Delaney laughed.
“Naw, girl. You know what I mean. Is this one of those commercials where they’re going to shoot two? One with a white girl and the other with one of us?”
“You know I don’t know and I don’t give a damn.”
“Well, I think I’m going to pass. Sam probably didn’t send me up for it. I’ve got to read a sitcom script she sent over.”
“That’s cool with me. Less competition. Lord knows I ain’t got no problem with people knowing that my pussy is fresh and clean,” Delaney giggled.
“Girl, you’re crazy!”
“And hopefully about twenty thousand dollars richer when I get this commercial.”
“Good luck. Call me when you get back.”
“I will, darling. Talk to ya.”
“Oh, Delaney.”
“Yeah.”
“What about step class?”
“I’ll be there.”
“I’ll see you there if I don’t hear from you.”
“Okay, girl. See ya.”
My hot water was now lukewarm. I placed the tea bag into my favorite pink coffee mug and popped it into the microwave. I started the shower and thought about my conversation with Delaney. Who did I think I was passing up a shot at a national commercial and why hadn’t Sam told me about it? I mean I was constantly getting on her about sending me out on more commercial calls. Lord knows, years ago I would have jumped at the chance at any product. It wasn’t as though I would be competing against Delaney. We had completely different looks and the casting agents probably already knew what look they were going for. I had lost track and didn’t know if this was the dark-skinned Naomi Campbell-look or the light-skinned Troy Beyer-look week. If Sam called at the last minute and insisted I go on this audition that would clue me in that they were looking for my type. With the rain still coming down, I would have to contend with my hair. The hot tea and a hot shower sounded so much better—besides I didn’t feel like rejection so early in the week.
After my shower, I pulled my hair up, rolled it into a ball, and curled up on my sofa, teacup and script in hand. I smiled at the thought of Delaney telling the casting agent that she didn’t care if the world knew her stuff was clean and fresh. They would hire her on the spot. That is if the casting agent had a sense of humor. A realistic question in my business.
It was great having a close friend in the business whom I didn’t feel I had to compete with. Delaney was very talented, but she had a different niche from me. She was constantly being booked for rap and R&B videos and often referred to herself as a “video ho.” She was an excellent dancer, classically trained, and an expert with hip hop steps, a dance style I never was able to learn. She’d left the Dance Theater of Harlem over a year ago when cutbacks had forced them to cut out a major part of their season. And since Delaney couldn’t depend on commercials and videos, she, like me, knew the major word processing packages, just in case. She was also an excellent makeup artist and had worked as a dresser in several Broadway shows. Her brownish-yellow skin tone, rail-thin body—with a black girl’s behind—and short curly haircut made her a favorite among video casting agents and rap artists. The ironic thing was Delaney held a strong aversion to rap music and the men who sang it; said they treated women like crap, although that wasn’t the word she used. Delaney had a colorful vocabulary. She was more at home with Dianne Reeves, Patti LaBelle, or Patti Austin, but those divas rarely used women as attractive as Delaney in their videos.
Aside from the both of us being in the business, Delaney and I had little else in common, that is if you overlooked the fact that we couldn’t live without each other. Delaney was from the greater Northwest, having been raised in Seattle before moving to New York at eighteen to study at Julliard and later to dance full time with DTH. She said she wasn’t college material and deplored beauty pageants with the same antipathy she felt for rap music. Faith wasn’t high on her list of priorities and she constantly kidded me about my morning prayer calls with Sheila. Delaney once said, “Many people attend church but very few understand.” Made a lot of sense when you thought about it.
She didn’t appear to be preoccupied with getting married either. She had dated several guys, but none of the relationships seemed serious. Maybe the wanting to be married was a Southern girl trait. When I advised her to make sure she asked them the gay questions and their HIV status, she instructed me to lighten up. “That nigger, Weymon, Raymond, or whatever his name was, really fucked you up! Not every good-looking black man is a sissy.”
The use of words like sissy made me wonder if Delaney was homophobic but then I would think about how tight she and Kyle were and dismiss the thought. But then again, everybody lov
ed Kyle. Also some of the guys she hung out with from the shows were definitely gay. But she had a point, I needed to lighten up. I couldn’t let my failed relationship with Raymond shape the rest of my love life, something I was working on with the help of Dr. Huntley. I realized I had mixed feelings when it came to gay men, especially black gay men.
I’d started seeing Dr. Vanessa Huntley shortly after Candance died. The first year we worked on my grief about Candance’s death, but then slowly turned to my relationships with men, my shaky relationship with my mother, and my own lack of self-confidence.
Initially I saw Dr. Huntley twice a week but I had recently cut back to once a week. I hadn’t told anyone I was seeing a psychiatrist. It was the one secret I kept to myself. My daddy used to always tell me to keep a secret for myself. It wasn’t that I was embarrassed about seeing a doctor. Anyone could understand the need for professional help after what I had been through, but I felt needing professional care said something about my religious beliefs. I had been taught and for the most part believed that prayer and faith could solve any problems I faced. But in the early weeks following Candance’s death and my breakup with Raymond I felt I needed to talk to someone I could see.
The rain had stopped and the sun drenched the city when I finally finished the silly sitcom script. I glanced at the mute television and realized from the soap opera on the screen that it was close to three o’clock. I had less than an hour to get over to the West Side for step class, my appointment, and dinner before heading to the theater and another night of wishing that Renee wouldn’t show up and I’d finally get the chance to once again do what I loved and was being paid to do.
I debated on my mode of transportation and decided to catch a taxi, since I was wearing my workout clothes. I placed a change of clothes in a garment bag and headed downstairs.
Even though I taxied to the health spa on Seventy-sixth and Broadway, Delaney had gotten there before me and was right in the front row. She saw me come in and signaled me to join her up front. I hesitated because I didn’t want anyone tripping. I guess Delaney could sense my reservations so she yelled, “Nicole, come on up. I saved this spot for you.”
Just As I Am Page 3