The Business of Lovers

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  “Our mothers could easily pass for sisters.”

  “Yeah. Seeing your mother look so much like mine surprised me. Both were educators who had fallen for a businessman on the rise. My mother is smart and beautiful and vulnerable at the same time, almost sad and glamorous all at once. After I found out about you, I was scared to meet you.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “Fear of rejection. You were surprised and happy to know you had an older brother.”

  “I showed you all of my comics.”

  “Yeah. We sat down in your room and you were so excited to show me all of your comic books. You had at least five hundred comic books in a box. Every Saturday I’d come by to pick you up, and André would look at us, see us about to walk to the corner store to get cookies or whatever, and start to cry because he wanted to go with us.”

  “You picked him up.”

  “He clung to me. I asked your momma and stepdad if André could go with us because you were my brother and André was your brother, so that made André my baby brother too. I went from being an only child to having two awesome brothers. I lived for Saturdays. Had to take y’all and show my younger brothers off to everybody.”

  “We went everywhere you went. Barbershop. Hoops. Track. Piano lessons. Singing lessons. Dance lessons. We did what you did.”

  “Sure did. André could barely walk, but he was right there, trying to keep up.”

  I said, “You showed up at my doorstep forming a link that shaped our lives and didn’t even know it.”

  “Caused drama with all the parents. All the lies had to be confronted because of me.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Fuck them for lying. You were more adult than the adults.”

  I wanted this conversation with Dwayne Jr. regarding Dwayne Sr. to end as abruptly as it had started.

  He took a breath. “Anything else going on with you? I’ve been gone too long and came back stressed out with my head up my ass. Was just so focused on Frenchie and Fela that I forgot the world don’t revolve around me.”

  I regarded my older brother, felt like confession was good for the soul and was about to finally tell him I’d been sick for a few months, but was better, much better, and like him, I had my own bills to catch up on. I wanted to tell him how I needed to get back to my full-time job now that I was off the magical juice from City of Hope and Kaiser, but I wasn’t one to complain. He hadn’t told me that Frenchie was having a hard time until he had to, and Fela knew I was a text message away, yet he never reached out. Men were like that, none more than the Duquesne men. Black men were like that to the grave. We were treated as adults from the womb and seen as warriors with no weaknesses. We suffered in silence, handled things on our own. We didn’t really sit around and powwow our problems over wine at a pity party. We just handled it. We were about solving issues, not pointless conversations that offered no solutions.

  He saw things his way; Frenchie saw them hers; same as I saw things my way and Coretta saw things hers.

  He said, “Fela asked me why I didn’t marry his mother. That question hit me hard.”

  I asked, “Why didn’t you marry Frenchie? I mean, you did knock her up. Legit question.”

  “Loved her, but I knew I’d miss being in the arms of a black woman.”

  “That’s not why.”

  “But it’s an ingredient in the soup somewhere. I would’ve missed Eigengrau too much back then.”

  “Is there a word for that?”

  “Word for what?”

  “Should be one for longing for the love of a black woman.”

  “Should be. Would have helped me describe my issues to my therapist.”

  “In German, Fernweh means ‘feeling homesick for a place you’ve never been to.’ Can’t say I’ve ever suffered from that malady, but there should be a word for the psychological condition, for the strong feeling, of needing to be in the arms of a black woman again, if not for the rest of your life, then only for one night.”

  Seconds passed before he said, “Part of being free is the freedom to choose who you love.”

  “I know.”

  “I knocked up Frenchie and destroyed Eigengrau. I destroyed her love for me.”

  I said, “Eigengrau was a smart one. Not many actresses have advanced degrees.”

  “She was Dorothy Dandridge and Lola Falana wrapped in one.”

  “She was a hot one.”

  Dwayne exhaled. “I loved Frenchie, but I was already suffering from Eigengrau withdrawals. Hard to explain that shit. I was with Frenchie and missing Eigengrau day and night, but I still loved Frenchie.”

  I understood the battle in his heart. “You see Eigengrau at the Santa Monica party?”

  “I saw her. I went over to her. Told her I was happy for her, then nodded and walked away.”

  “Pregnant. Married. She’s moved on.”

  Dwayne took a moment, overwhelmed. “My therapist. I need to schedule a session.”

  “For now, keep talking to me. Talking to me is free, though I will accept donations and tips.”

  “I need a professional. My stuff runs deep, way deep, too deep. Black men are abandoning their young like T. rex, and even though I’m trying to be a good dad, I’m still doing it all wrong for some reason.”

  “Man can’t work the job you have and be home at the same time. Same for André.”

  “What I do is all I know how to do, and doing anything else would leave me depressed.”

  I wanted to ask him about being let go from his last tour, but I didn’t. He’d have to bring it up. Boundaries. I just knew that I had two brothers who were entertainers, and show-business people were a special lot.

  I said, “Your script.”

  “I’m not changing it.”

  “You were right. Don’t gentrify your creation. You were right, and I was wrong.”

  “What in the Samuel L. Jackson is this?”

  “It’s pro-black to the bone. If they still see being black as being radical, then be radical. Don’t sell out. Don’t limit your imagination to match their version of us. We need that voice. We need your black perspective. First things first, though. You said you need to get your head right. How much is a therapy session or two?”

  “As much as it costs to talk to a lawyer, except lawyers cost more because they charge to answer e-mails, DMs, or texts. I get charged for every freakin’ second, and it’s rounded up to the next half hour.”

  “Just to listen to you talk about the same shit you’ve been talking about for fifteen years?”

  “You don’t understand therapy. Not many black people do.”

  “I do understand. I need to find a Groupon and get a few sessions for myself.”

  He exhaled. “I’ll be okay, Brick. I’ll be okay.”

  I gave him money. A stranger had paid me for sex, and I gave that money to Dwayne like I was trying to get rid of it, like it didn’t have the value of real money because of how it was earned.

  I said, “You can either talk to somebody or get Nephew’s water and lights turned on. It’s up to you, and if you choose the latter, don’t put my name in it. Say it all came from your pockets. I want you to be his hero.”

  He pushed the money back to me. That was a first. I told him to hang on to it and decide.

  I said, “If you have it this time next week and your pockets are hot, give it all back.”

  We sat there a moment, him considering his options. Finally, he took the money.

  Dwayne went to the piano, performed a song from Phantom of the Opera to calm his anger and angst. The café was packed. A few people went and sat on the big red sofa near the piano, up front for the concert.

  This get-together at Hot and Cool Cafe had been my idea. I had used Big Brother as a cover because I had hoped to see someone else. Uber-for-One hadn’t left my mind. No matt
er what I had done, no matter how I had evolved, or devolved, she was on my mind every day. I asked one of the owners if the beauty in the Uber for one had been back. They remembered her but hadn’t seen her. I wished she had dropped a glass slipper.

  A text came in from Mocha Latte letting me know all was well in Newport Beach.

  For her it would be a night of champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

  André whipped up on his yellow-and-red BMW. He parked right out front. He had an apple booty rocking pink-and-red high-heel motorcycle boots on the back. That wasn’t Nameless. This body was a little bit fuller, had a touch more this, that, and the other. When she dismounted and took her helmet off, I saw the same flaming red-and-yellow hair I’d seen on a hot number wearing short white pants back at the Viceroy in Santa Monica. The thick, sweet-breasted, full-figured, bad-bodied brown girl dressed in tight jeans and a yellow hoodie with African kente prints.

  Dwayne had also noticed André’s arrival and returned to the table. I asked him, “Who is she?”

  “Joëlle.”

  “What happened to Nameless?”

  “They had a big blowout in Santa Monica. Joëlle showed up uninvited. Came to see André. Nameless showed up uninvited. Came to see André. He left with Joëlle. It was a butt-ugly moment.”

  André came in and pulled Dwayne back over to the piano. They started playing “Stairway to Heaven” and I flipped both of them off. Left alone, his girl sashayed to the counter, placed an order, then sat down at a bistro table at the other side of the café, smiling as André sang with Dwayne. She was totally enamored.

  I went to them, joined in on the keys, asked, “How’s it going, André? Looking tired, bro.”

  “Shit. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, twice on Saturday, thrice on Sunday.”

  Dwayne chuckled. “The new temporary one won’t give you a break.”

  I asked, “What she do?”

  “She was a double-E major at Berkeley.”

  “Double-E majors come built like that nowadays?”

  “She’s smarter than she is fine. Smart, nerdy, cosplay-loving girls are the best in bed for damn sho’.”

  We all high-fived one another.

  I said, “Dwayne, show André your script for that Stanislavski-level movie you wrote.”

  “There better be a leading part for me in that bad boy.”

  I motioned. “It’s in his bag; chillax here and read it to your new girl.”

  André told me, “Call Mom, Brick. She hasn’t heard from you in a few days and you know how she gets.”

  I nodded. “Will call her later.”

  “She wants us to fly out there for a weekend so we can go fishing again.”

  “With the Afro-Mexicans?”

  “Our people, Brick. Whether we speak Spanish or not, they’re part of the diaspora, and our people.”

  Dwayne dug into André’s pocket, pulled out his wallet, and took three hundred bucks. He handed the money to me, then took another five hundred dollars, put the cash in his pocket, and tossed André his wallet back.

  Dwayne proclaimed, “Now you owe me seven hundred, André. Brick, we’re even Steven.”

  * * *

  —

  WHILE MY BROTHERS talked, I took André’s keys, grabbed his helmet, and took off on his iron horse. It was his turn to deal with Dwayne. I zigzagged the neighborhood to avoid the construction for the Metro train and headed toward Wilshire, suit coat flapping in the desert air. Then I took it another twenty minutes to the 105 freeway before heading back toward Hot and Cool, with one thought stuck in my mind. Christiana had me booked, and the day for that date was almost here. Penny was ready to get out, same with Mocha Latte, just as I had fallen in.

  I’d become an accidental escort. Four times I had been paid. That was four times more than 99.99999 percent of the men on earth. The first time had been accidental, a setup, a test, but any occurrence after the first time had to be seen as intentional. I’d become a reluctant gigolo and had no idea how this shit had happened. At first, I was driving Penny to make sure she was safe. Now I was like Penny, had become a regular in Vegas. I understood how Penny had felt the first time. I understood why Christiana saw this as the way to salvation and redemption. I understood why it disturbed Mocha Latte but she kept answering the calls when they came in. It was nothing I wanted to do all my life. But the money had come so easily. Every dollar could be tax-free. It paid more than buying and reselling wine. Even paid more than my old white-collar job, the one my master’s degree garnered me.

  As I white-lined my way through traffic and dodged potholes as deep as a ditch, I passed more homeless encampments than I could count. I wondered how much fucking it would take to pay all of my bills and break even.

  CHAPTER 39

  BRICK

  THE PEEPHOLE AT the presidential suite went dark. A kaleidoscope of flaming butterflies danced inside my stomach. I should’ve turned and hurried for the elevator. The door opened, and I faced a familiar Amazon, the gorgeous politician I had seen at the hotel bar with Mocha Latte, a woman who was as shapely as Big Barda. She looked me up and down, no smile. Maybe she didn’t recognize me, or her taste in escorts had changed. Just in case, I had a novel in my hand. That was our signal. The book was 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami.

  In a tone that said she was the boss, she snapped, “Both candidates are sycophantic.”

  She wasn’t barking at me. The dignified woman wore a blinking earpiece and was sipping white wine as she yakked on the phone, free hand flying like she was either Italian or landing ten planes at once.

  “Yes. I was valedictorian at my high school, graduated from Princeton and Harvard Law. Yes, I saw online where professors described me as being off-the-charts brilliant. Yes, I won the US debating nationals. I argued cases in front of the Supreme Court. Will I run for president? We will see.”

  As she did her interview, she inspected me, the next words for my ears only.

  She said, “I need your identification. Two forms of ID, both with recent photos.”

  I handed her my driver’s license and passport. She put her call on hold long enough to snap photos of my identification with her phone; then she handed me a sheet of paper and a black Movado pen.

  She said, “An NDA must be signed before we proceed with this interview.”

  I put the book down, signed the NDA, then handed the legal document back to her. She compared the signature to the signature on the license, then handed my identification back to me. As I put away my driver’s license and passport, she went back to her call.

  The clock on the wall said it was 5:11 P.M. An hour from now this would be over.

  She motioned for me to follow. The hotel room was an ostentatious display of power and wealth.

  I wanted to back out of this deal. But the money had been paid in advance. I’d been bought and paid for.

  “Yes, I know the system. I grew up in the system. My mother was incarcerated, my father MIA. When elected, I will make the proper changes and will be the champion for all of our displaced children.”

  I waited, hands folded in front of me like I was still an usher at church.

  She said, “Use the photo that was e-mailed to you. The one where we are all in white shirts on the rocky shores of Devil’s Bridge in Antigua. The Atlantic Ocean is behind us. Because I’m Antiguan, that’s why.”

  She objectified me with her eyes and snapped a finger at me. That meant she wanted me to follow the next part of the instructions. I eased out of my suit coat and took my clothing off, leaving only my boxers.

  She whispered her command: “Everything.”

  The client watched me strip to my b-day suit as if to prevent me from stealing anything. I was smooth like a bodybuilder, didn’t have any body hair now. For seconds that felt like minutes, I stood nude with her evaluating me in my most vulnerable state. I exp
ected her to come over and check my teeth for cavities. Maybe check my prostate too.

  She snapped her fingers again, motioned for me to come over to her like I was her Solomon Northup.

  While she ranted about a senate race, about the lead she had over her opponent, she took my limpness in her hand, inspected it for cracks, pimples, and faults. Her hand was cold from holding her wine. My instructions had been to enter the room and not talk. If she approved of what she saw, if she was as thrilled now as the first time she’d seen me at the bar at the hotel near LAX, she would take it from there. That done, she let my cock go and sashayed away, still ranting, hands waving, landing planes. The money had been paid in advance. I wasn’t sure how it would have worked out if she had looked at me and didn’t want what I had to offer. She looked back at me, nodded as if to say what she saw matched what she had ordered, then did a bevy of rapid finger snaps and motioned toward the bathroom.

  “Shower.”

  I headed for the fancy bathroom. It was luxurious, cavernous, had a chandelier, a large bathtub, an enormous shower, his-and-hers sinks, and fixtures that cost more than a hilltop house in Chino.

  “Be sensual.”

  I turned the shower on. Set the temperature to 105. I was naked, self-conscious, and nervous.

  She hung up the phone and walked into the bathroom. She stripped, put everything on wooden hangers. Her body confirmed she was a thousand-dollar-luxury-wax type of woman. She slipped on a shower cap, then eased into the shower with me. She rubbed my chest. It was smooth. She touched my cock again. I imagined that once the pace of asses had been paid, their clients felt like they owned them, could touch them anywhere, any way they desired.

  “Bathe me. Wash away my stress, my anger, my disappointments.”

  I lathered her, cleaned her body, washed between her legs and the crack of her firm ass. I cleaned her so good she held the wall and moaned. I touched her between her legs, rubbed her right there, and she moaned louder, softened up, transformed from being as hard as diamond to being as pliable as gold. The pit bull became a kitten; her moans were girly, young, velvet soft. She stood on her toes, gave me space to fill her with two fingers, and cooed a silky coo.