“But you left St. Petersburg to start an acting career in New York City.”
“A year ago!”
“It takes time.”
“Or it doesn’t happen at all!”
“Is that about Alexandria?”
He wiped his face against the sleeve of his T-shirt. “A few days ago, I ran into Alexandria in the hallway, and I told her about my life and career in Florida. Alexandria said she was coproducing a Broadway show about Latino people in Florida!” He added quickly, “So, of course I asked her for an audition.”
I sat back on the sofa. “What went wrong?”
He sniffled. “When I didn’t hear back from Alexandria about an audition, I accidentally ran into her again—after I camped out at her apartment doorway all day yesterday.” Sighing, he added, “And madam coproducer again promised me an audition. We even talked some more about my family in Florida. But today she wanted nothing to do with me.”
I gave him a hug. “I guess you can’t compete with a TV star from LA. Sorry, buddy.”
Resting his head on my shoulder, he slobbered into my ear. “I’m a has-been before I ever became a once-was.”
I grasped his wide shoulders. “Victor, give it more time. You were terrific as Agent Orange Spray in that Off-Off-Broadway musical about the Vietnam War. And you were really good as the leaky condom in that public service announcement on STDs.”
He whined, “But I just missed out on a Broadway show!”
“There will be other Broadway shows.”
“Not when I know one of the producers.”
“Knowing a producer didn’t help you in this instance.”
“Clearly. And Alexandria had promised me an audition!” His eyes seemed to double in size as he gasped for air. “Oh no. I think… I’m going to have… a panic attack!”
“No, you’re not!” I rose and pulled him to his feet. “Look me in the eyes.”
Victor obeyed my command.
“Other opportunities will come along with other producers, directors, and writers. But for now, do you know the best remedy for feeling rejected?”
He shook his head and sprayed me with tears.
“Helping other people—like your best friend.”
Still gasping, he asked, “What do you… want me to… do?”
“Stop thinking about Alexandria’s play and follow me.” I led him out of the apartment. “Count each step going down.” As we made our way down the three flights of stairs to the basement, Victor followed the technique I had read about in a magazine for relieving a panic attack. By the time we reached the basement, he was in better spirits. When we reached the player piano, I said, “Aunt Nia said I can have this. It was left here by the original owner of the building. We need to get it up to my apartment.”
He laughed ironically. “You and me and which professional piano movers?”
“Victor, we’ve both been working out at the gym.”
“To attract men, not to move pianos.”
“Since it hasn’t achieved the former, let’s see how we do with the latter.” I bent my knees, braced my back, and lifted the front end of the pianola. “Take the other side.”
He obeyed orders again. “How are we going to get it up to the third floor?”
“In the same way you’re going to become a famous actor and continue warding off panic attacks—one step at a time.”
Victor and I lugged the piano up one flight of stairs, rested and swore, and then we hauled it up the next flight. By the time we arrived at the third floor, we were both soaking wet, gasping for air, and swearing more than Catholic kids after going to Confession. Finally, we squeezed the pianola through the doorway of my apartment and placed it in the living room between the bookcase and fireplace.
Victor leaned on the pianola. “You owe me for this, Andre.”
“How about staying for dinner?”
His stomach growled. “You twisted my arm.”
“Which goes along with your twisted mind.” I led him to the front door. “Wash up, change your clothes, and get back here in an hour. My aunt is joining us.”
Pausing, he asked, “Does she know any producers?”
“No, but Aunt Nia was once married to Treyvon Purnell, a professional football player.”
“Not my field. But I’ll come for dinner.” He slumped out of the apartment.
I summoned up my last ounce of energy and headed down the stairs again. Arriving at the first-floor landing, I spotted Milo Archer, the college kid renting the loft apartment on the fourth floor, standing in the hallway. His arms were covered with tattoos, and his pierced ears, nose, and lips were laden with silver spikes. Practically bursting with rage out of his ripped gray T-shirt and jeans, he shouted to the ether, “Revolution!” Then he stormed out of the building.
When I arrived at the basement, I grasped the player piano bench. Then I made my way up the stairs, pausing again at the first-floor landing. Victor stood in front of apartment 1A with tears streaming down his full cheeks.
Alexandria was next to him. Now she wore a gamboge blouse and rust skirt. Offering him a tissue, she asked, “Why are you crying?”
Victor wiped his face. “I think you know why.”
Smiling, Alexandria said, “You must be mistaking me for my twin sister.”
“You’re Alexander?”
“Yes. From 1C.”
“Why are you dressed like your sister?”
Alexander smiled. “Habit, I guess. We played this way as kids growing up.” He cocked his head. “Does it bother you?”
“No.” Victor added, “I think you look very nice.”
“Thanks.” Alexander rested a hand on his shoulder. “You still haven’t told me why you’re crying.”
Victor nodded. “Alexandria promised me an audition for her show.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“It would have been, had it happened. Instead they cast an actor from LA.”
“Ah. Sorry.”
“Thanks.” Victor continued to pout.
Alexander said, “I’d audition you if I were producing a show.”
“Are you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Oh.” Victor sulked.
Alexander offered him a warm grin. “I’m sure rejection isn’t easy. But I’m guessing it’s part of an actor’s life.”
“Especially this actor.”
“I’m a lawyer, and I’ve faced my share of rejection too.”
“By clients?”
“And judges or juries when I lose a case.” Alexander squeezed his shoulder. “Unfortunately, life is full of rejection, no matter how much we try to avoid it.”
Victor sighed. “I didn’t even try to avoid it.”
“Alexandria should have kept her promise.”
Victor nodded. “Agreed.” He started off. Then pausing, he said, “I’ve lived here a year, but I’ve never talked to you. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.” Alexander winked at him. “Let’s try to correct that for the future.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
They shared a smile.
Denis Sokolov entered the building. When he spotted Alexander, Denis said, “Alex, we need to talk.”
I found it odd that Denis Sokolov called both his wife and brother-in-law “Alex.”
Alexander said to Victor, “It was nice talking to you.” Then he led his brother-in-law into apartment 1C and closed the door after them.
I was glad Victor seemed in better spirits. So I carried the bench up to my apartment and placed it adjacent to the pianola. Then I hurried to the bathroom for a quick shower. In my bedroom, I slipped on a violet polo shirt and jeans. After making my way to the kitchenette, I pulled the feather duster, furniture polish, and a cloth out of the lower cabinet. Back in the living room, I cleaned the pianola and bench until the dust and cobwebs disappeared and the wood shined. “You’re beautiful, player piano!”
Next, I hit the kitchen to make Aunt Nia’s favorite desse
rt. I didn’t bother cooking the entrée, since I knew inviting my aunt to dinner meant she would bring all the food.
Soon after, with my peach cobbler still in the oven, we were all seated in my dining alcove enjoying Aunt Nia’s succulent mango smoothies, okra with shrimp, skillet cornbread, twice-baked yams, maple-roasted brussels sprouts, and coconut milk-braised collard greens. Victor lamented about Alexandria Popov Sokolov reneging on his audition. When his tale of woe was completed for the evening performance, Victor wiped his eyes with the cloth napkin and placed it on the table dramatically. I was surprised he didn’t rise and take a bow.
Aunt Nia shook her head. “I don’t like that woman.”
I had never heard Aunt Nia speak against one of her tenants. “Why don’t you like Alexandria Popov Sokolov?”
“She seems cold and haughty,” Aunt Nia replied.
I said, “Maybe she’s shy.”
Aunt Nia groaned between bites. “Not with the men in the building.” She slid to the edge of her seat. “And her twin brother, Alexander in 1C, isn’t much better.”
“What do you have against him?”
“He leaves his door unlocked, playing music, and he slams the door as he goes in and out.”
“He seems like a nice guy,” Victor interjected. When my aunt looked at him inquisitively, he explained, “Alexander found me earlier in the hallway upset about my audition. He was nice to me.”
“Alexander is a lawyer.” Aunt Nia poo-pooed him. “He was probably looking for potential new clients in the building.” She took a swig of her smoothie to wash down the food. “And Alexandria and her husband, Denis, were late paying their rent last month. He’s a struggling mystery novelist, so I could understand him having money problems. But Alexandria is a successful businesswoman. So, when I spotted Alexandria in the hallway a few weeks ago, I asked her about the rent. Only it wasn’t Alexandria. Same long blond hair, crystal blue eyes, thin figure, and long legs. But when I spoke to her, she replied, ‘I’m not Alexandria. I’m Alexander. From 1C.’ So I asked him why he was wearing his sister’s cherry business suit. He said, ‘It’s what we do sometimes.’ And then he went on his way.”
I said to my aunt, “How Alexander dresses is his business.”
“True, but he didn’t have to be cocky about it.” Digging back into her food, she added, “And Alexandria is racist.”
I choked. “How do you know that?”
Aunt Nia put down her fork. “When I finally found Alexandria, the real one, and I asked her about the rent money, she said, ‘My husband pays the bills.’”
Victor cocked his head. “That may be sexist, but it doesn’t sound racist.”
“It isn’t.” Aunt Nia explained, “But when I asked Alexandria why her husband pays the bills, she asked me, ‘Are you married?’ I told her I’m divorced. She replied, ‘I can see why.’”
I stifled a giggle. “That’s not racist, Aunt Nia.”
“No, but her final comment was. She said, ‘It must have been rough for you being a single mother. I’m guessing you had trouble paying the rent at some point.’ As if all women of color are poor single mothers! Not to say there is anything wrong with being a single mother or poor. But Alexandria evidently thinks there is!” Aunt Nia folded her thick arms over her ample chest as if a prosecuting attorney finished with summation.
I cleared my throat. “Aunt Nia, the Sokolovs have lived here five years. Since I was in your apartment until I was twenty-one, Alexandria probably thinks you’re my mother.”
“I am your mother!” Aunt Nia shot me a haughty stare.
“Of course you are.” I kissed her cheek. “But you’re not my birth mother.”
Aunt Nia took my hand and told the story I’d heard so many times. “When the police came to my door… about your parents and your little brother, I thought my life had ended. I don’t think I ever cried so loud or for so long. My husband had left me, and I was totally alone without my baby sister and the family she adored. I thought about ending my own life. But then the social worker brought you to me.” She blinked back tears. “My little nephew, only four years old. You couldn’t understand why your mommy, daddy, and brother were gone. But when you saw your Aunt Nia, you ran into my arms, and you didn’t want me to let go.” She wiped a tear off her cheek. “And I never have.”
I squeezed her hand. “You’re right, Aunt Nia. You’re my mother.”
She smiled.
Victor added, “And you can be my mother too.”
Aunt Nia chuckled. “I can’t be a mother to everybody in the building.”
“But you love all of us.” Victor added, “Like we’re a family.”
Aunt Nia grunted, “As long as people pay the rent on time.” She added under her breath, “And they don’t insult me.”
“Did the Sokolovs ever pay their rent?” I asked.
She nodded. “Two days later. But I still don’t like her.”
Recalling what I’d seen in the hallway, I said, “I think the Sokolovs are going through a rough time. Maybe we should give them a pass.”
“I’m with Aunt Nia.” Victor continued to wallow in his audition woes. “I don’t like anyone who reneges on an audition promise.”
Aunt Nia ended his pity party. “There will be other auditions, Victor. And acting isn’t the only thing in the world.” Turning to me, she added, “Music isn’t either, Andre.” Wagging her finger at us, she continued, “The trouble with you boys is you aren’t dating.”
I explained, “We tried that once. It didn’t work.”
“I meant dating other people!”
Rubbing my forehead, I replied, “I recently dated a couple of guys from the gym.”
“And?”
“They fell in love—with each other.”
“And forget me dating another actor.” Victor was totally oblivious. “Most actors are so self-centered, and they’re such drama queens!”
Aunt Nia grinned like the Cheshire cat. “Actually, Andre, you have a date Saturday night.”
I nearly lost my dinner. “With whom?”
“The new vice principal at your school,” she replied with a wink. “He’s picking you up at seven. It won’t be a long trip, since he just rented the apartment downstairs.”
“You set me up on a date with Preston Steele?” I asked.
Aunt Nia nodded. “He said you were ‘very nice.’”
Victor glared at me. “You never told me about him!”
“There’s not much to tell. Preston recently replaced our old vice principal, who went on maternity leave,” I explained. “I barely know him.”
Aunt Nia waved away my concern. “He’s attractive, educated, and has a good job. When I showed him the apartment, he mentioned coming from the South, so he doesn’t know many people in this area. When he told me where he works, I told him you’re my nephew—and you live upstairs. He asked if you were single. I said you were. After he smiled, I asked him to pick you up at seven. Right after I told him that cute story about how you ran into the living room at five years old, naked as a jaybird, shouting, ‘I went woo-woo standing up!’”
Victor giggled. “On your date with Preston, you can show him how you urinate standing up.”
The sweat ran down my back. “Aunt Nia, I’ve hardly said two words to the man. What if we don’t have anything in common?”
Aunt Nia chortled. “You both work at the same school and live in the same building. You can start there.” She grabbed my arm. “And if he tries anything frisky on the first date, he’s going to answer to me.”
Turning the tables on my aunt, I said, “How come you haven’t dated anyone since your divorce? It’s been twenty-five years.”
“I know how many years it’s been! And I haven’t dated anyone because I had to raise you.”
“What’s your excuse now?”
She pointed to the pianola. “Any grown man who lugs that thing up three flights of stairs still needs supervision.”
“That’s for sure,” Victor s
aid, rubbing his lower back.
Glaring at him, she added, “As does anyone who helps him!”
“Time for peach cobbler.” Making my escape, I headed into the kitchenette to serve the dessert.
Aunt Nia called out from the dining alcove, “Make it à la mode.”
I replied, “You’re lactose intolerant.”
“Just in my own apartment.”
After we finished dessert, I thanked Aunt Nia and Victor again for helping me with the pianola. At the front door, she kissed my cheek. “Don’t stay up all night playing with your new toy, like you did when I got you that Ken doll.”
“I was six years old.”
“Which explains a lot,” Victor said.
I gave my buddy a hug. “Thanks for picking up the rear.”
Aunt Nia grabbed Victor’s ear. “No off-color remarks from you, mister.”
He rubbed his sore shoulders. “No worries. It’s a hot bath for me. And a good cry about the audition and the end of my career.”
After they were gone, I cleared the table, did the dishes, and made my way through the living room to the balcony door. Once outside, I enjoyed my favorite time of day—sunset. The sky swirled bursts of scarlet and amethyst, as if the sky gods were modern artists. I glanced over at the balcony of 3B next door and couldn’t help noticing Leander Bryce inside conducting his usual nightly routine. He was quite muscular, with auburn hair and beard and a prominent nose. Wearing only boxers and a white T-shirt, the thirty-three-year-old college film professor cleaned the lenses of his cameras. Then I enjoyed watching him complete a series of exercises with hand weights: squats, curls, reverse curls, bent-over row, flies, and dead lift. As usual, he smiled and waved, and I happily returned both. Though we weren’t friends, Leander was a pleasant, quiet neighbor. Not to mention, he was incredibly hot. I enjoyed watching him, and he seemed to enjoy watching me enjoying him.
Since the sky had turned cobalt, I stepped back inside my apartment and finally had the opportunity to play my pianola. Sitting on the bench, I placed my feet on the pedals and pushed down. The 1924 Gershwin song, “Someone to Watch Over Me,” filled the room. At the last verse, the room suddenly became ice-cold. The lights flickered, and the smell of champagne permeated the air around me. I shot up from my seat in fear. As I raced toward the front door, I heard a silky masculine voice behind me. “What are you doing in my house?”
The Player Page 2
