“Thursday, I just want to apologize. This was not what I intended when I invited you to be a part of my sh—” Amirah may not have been done talking, but Thursday thought she was.
“You knew I’d get embarrassed when you brought me on the show with Armaad,” Thursday vented as she reached deep down to her pinkie toe, drew up all of her strength, and as if she were one of the Williams sisters, used her hand like it was a racquet. Thursday exhaled loudly as her hand connected to Amirah’s face and followed her to the floor.
The crew members got excited, and the crowd yelled the way Chris Tucker and Ice Cube did on Friday. Ironically enough, they were taping on a Friday. The camera was all up in Amirah’s face, catching her eyes blink as she faded in and out, feeling the after effects of that blow. The cameraman pointed the camera at Thursday and called after her. Thursday promptly threw up the inappropriate finger and walked out with her sparkling stilettos, satisfied that she did not break her nail in her confrontation with Amirah.
Chapter Two
Order in this House
“I can’t believe that chick slapped me!” Amirah vented as she stormed to her dressing room. The first lady wasn’t too far behind her, as were a few members of her production team. Amirah took a seat in front of the mirror and leaned forward to get a good look at her face.
“Please tell me what that was about,” the first lady demanded as she took a seat next to Amirah.
Amirah looked closer in the mirror. Her lip was a little puffy and her face was swollen on the left side, but other than that, she was okay physically. “I don’t know, Mrs. Slate. I can’t explain what happened or why I feel like someone on my staff deliberately tried to set me up, but I do know that this is not how this ministry is supposed to work.”
Amirah continued to inspect the damages done to her face. She was glad that Mrs. Slate wasn’t caught up with her title or position at the church. She didn’t have to “First Lady this,” or “First Lady that.” Mrs. Slate would suffice.
Mrs. Slate wasn’t scared to get her hands dirty as she got up and helped Amirah as the tears continued to fall from her face. “We all make mistakes, and unfortunately, this is one of yours.”
“I bet you want to cancel my show, don’t you?” Amirah asked from the comfort of Mrs. Slate’s shoulders.
Mrs. Slate lifted Amirah off of her thick frame. She never got down to the slender one hundred and thirty-five pounds the doctors and most vain people in society thought was ideal for her five foot four inch frame, but she was happy because she’d birthed and raised four of the children she had with pastor, plus the two they adopted. She was used to nurturing people, and Amirah found that she was no exception.
“Now why would I do that?” Mrs. Slate instinctively wiped the tears from Amirah’s eyes like she were her own daughter. “Everyone makes mistakes, and now you’ll have an opportunity to fix yours. At Gospel United Christian Center, we focus on uplifting and motivating people through the Word of God. We have no reason to cancel your show. Normally, your show is part of the outreach ministry that shows the world exactly what we are.”
“I bet they are Instagraming and creating memes of me being slapped—”
“Let them insta-meme you,” Mrs. Slate cut her off. “Yes, I was upset, but I will be even more frustrated if you don’t lead the damage control and restore order on your show.”
After a few seconds, Amirah realized that Mrs. Slate was right. She picked up her smart phone and sent a group text: Meet me at the studio in one hour. She was going to find out who, where, what, when, and why did the show go the way it had. Amirah intended on restoring order on her show.
There was an uncomfortable silence as Amirah and the crew watched Amirah land on the floor for the umpteenth time on the local news station. Her worst fears had come true—someone had wasted no time getting the footage on YouTube and tagging her Twitter account. Thursday was on Twitter and Facebook talking about how she was glad she finally got her chance to beat up Amirah and couldn’t wait for another opportunity to do it again. Thursday took it so far as to issue a challenge for a rematch.
Amirah had never met Thursday before. She couldn’t possibly understand what she’d done to piss Thursday off. All Amirah knew was that she thought she was trying to use a Christ-centered version to mend Thursday’s relationship with Armaad. Amirah also heard rumors that Armaad and the dude that came with him got into a physical altercation, and both of them had to go to the hospital for minor injuries. Tarsha had tried to commit suicide and lost the baby in her attempt. She was still in the hospital trying to recuperate.
“Lord have mercy on you,” one of the crew members said after they watched the footage.
Mercy was one of the motivators for the founding of The Amirah Dalton Show. Amirah had always faced rejection in one way or another. She was considered a little thick at five feet ten and one hundred and eighty-six pounds. Amirah had always been a reject in one way or another. She was too fat to be in most beauty pageants and too small to be considered a “big girl.” She was too poor to be in social organizations like Jack & Jill or the Links. Never welcomed in the poetry slams because as well as she could write her own material, she could recite others with the best of them.
The worst offense was when some trifling chick she used to call her friend stole her manuscript. This “friend” watched her labor over that book for nine months. Amirah sent the book to her with the understanding that the “friend” would review it and get it back to her. She made two or three minor changes, submitted the book to the publisher as her own, and when the book became a smash hit in the beauty salons and the black-owned bookstores, the “friend” got her name on the Essence bestsellers list.
Amirah tried to take that chick to court, but her “friend” used her advance and part of her royalty check to get a good lawyer, and their money always kept her from getting anywhere to pursue her case. Because of her “friend,” Amirah had severe trust issues, and she stopped writing altogether. Thoughts of completing other manuscripts came to mind, but every time she thought about it, she grew bitter.
The Amirah Dalton Show was a therapeutic release from that dream. She took the concept she put in one of her unpublished manuscripts and built the show around a Christ-centered version of The Oprah Winfrey Show and The Rikki Lake Show. When she first brought the idea to her outreach ministry and the leaders of the church, they were skeptical, until she showed them the footage she did of the pilot show she filmed in her living room.
Amirah amazed the church leadership with the fact that she took the money she got from her ex-boyfriend, who was trying to make a name for himself hustling on the streets, and invested it in cameras, equipment, and wardrobe. When she got the job at Shiloh Christian Academy as a teacher, she saved every extra dime she could get her hands on and put money on his books and in an account that belonged to her ex-boyfriend’s mother to ensure that she paid back the money.
Aside from the church, Amirah’s first advertisers were businesses owned by former and current drug dealers. It wasn’t ideal, but she took the money knowing where it came from. After her first season, Amirah gave internships to high school students around the Asheville-Greenville-Spartanburg area. Through her show, Amirah helped them to gain exposure and be prepared when they studied communications- and broadcasting-related majors in school. Her students, in turn, worked for local affiliates as production assistants or in other areas.
Amirah even looked out for the black college students from around the state by giving them the kind of experience they would never receive at a television station. Of course, she worked those interns, but in the end it all paid off. A few of them were now popular disc jockeys on R&B and hip hop stations nationwide; some of them appeared on television stations in their neighborhoods, and one of them was even on BET.
That’s black star power.
After doing her show for three years, Amirah had helped twenty-two students achieve their dreams of working in broadcasting and film. Two o
f her students had success as independent filmmakers who produced a variety of web series on YouTube and were making serious money from the advertisements their shows garnered. She and her friend Aja also owned a local children’s entertainment company and would often dress as clowns and perform around town. So, in her eyes and those of her pastor’s, the wicked money she took from the drug dealers was well invested in children to keep them from idolizing those same people.
Amirah’s fan base came from those who knew her as a no-nonsense teacher at Shiloh Christian Academy in Asheville and those who remembered the fearless around the way girl who grew up near the old Atkins High School, which was now Winston-Salem Preparatory Academy @ Atkins. In her old stomping grounds, Amirah was still hood. When she went to visit her old neighborhood, she still talked to the old ladies and men who sat on their porches and saw any and everything that went on. Amirah was legendary for the boldness she possessed in walking up to some of the most dangerous drug dealers and hustlers and asking if they would quit selling on her block. Folks thought she was crazy, but every now and then she’d get a couple of them to move if they saw her walking down the street.
Amirah was the one who called the police when the neighbor’s music was up too loud or if they were partying way too late. Amirah was Neighborhood Watch because she watched everything from the comfort of her living room or bedroom window. In Asheville, she was no different. So, she shocked everyone when she went to North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University and majored in business education instead of criminal justice. Amirah became a teacher instead of the police officer some swore she was imitating.
Amirah’s first guests were some of the very people she used to see hustling on the block—those who turned their lives around and went to school or became advocates in her community. She got her best ideas from interacting with everybody.
Before she was on YouTube, Amirah made use of the public access television networks in Winston-Salem and in Asheville. When there was money for it, she did special shows on the local channels to draw attention to issues she felt were important. Once she built her channel on YouTube and made costly improvements on her Web site and became active on Facebook, Twitter, and other social media avenues, Amirah became a hood celebrity.
Naturally Amirah had a love/hate relationship with most of the influential people in the community. The church leaders loved when she paid tithes and offerings, even though she didn’t belong to their places of worship. Amirah saw that some religious leaders in some churches really wanted the fame and power associated with being men of God to elevate themselves, not Jesus. The civic organizations didn’t mind inviting Amirah to their functions to bring her audience to their causes, but in the same breath and oftentimes at the same event, they’d let her know they thought her show was trash.
Amirah’s love for the hood ran deep, and the hood loved her back. She took the mothers in the area out on Mother’s Day and let them thoroughly enjoy themselves. Amirah arranged for children whose parents didn’t have a lot of money to have memorable Christmases, and she gave a lot of money anonymously.
Amirah prayed that all of the hard work and positive influence that she had in the community hadn’t gone down the drain with the backlash of recent events that occurred on live television.
Chapter Three
Miss Me with That
Mateo banged on the rust-colored door that led to Sonic’s room. He could hear the traffic pick up as people made their way on Tunnel Road. Heaven’s Inn was like most motels on the strip, built in the sixties with a one-story L-shaped layout. The light blue paint on its exterior was the only thing modern about the building. A neon green sign featuring a teepee and the word motel in the middle of it drew in spectators who were hoping for a good quality room with cheap rates.
Mateo could see Sonic’s white 1996 Toyota Corolla with a gold trim still parked in the space in front of his room. Its smooth tan interior was well kept, and Mateo and Sonic got a lot of compliments and a few offers from Toyota fanatics who were in awe that the car looked like new. Mateo remembered when they picked out the car eight months ago, before he started working at Heaven’s Inn. The car belonged to an older man in Greenville, South Carolina, and he only drove it to church, the grocery store, and to see his grandkids in neighboring Spartanburg every now and then. Since Sonic had the car, he’d only added ten thousand miles to the fifty thousand the Toyota had when he purchased it.
Mateo was sure the other guests at Heaven’s Inn heard him, but he didn’t care. He turned around and could see the cars moving around in the parking lot and that Tunnel Road was getting busier as morning traffic started to pick up.
Ever since Mateo, Sonic, Hammer, and the staff from the motel were beat down and shot at six weeks ago, Mateo spent part of his days as his friend’s unofficial bodyguard. Of the three of them, Mateo recovered the fastest. He was in and out of the hospital in two days. Sonic and Hammer’s injuries were more severe, their stay lasting almost a week. Still, Mateo had a funny feeling where the bullet had entered his leg. His steps were a little slower, because even though the bullet didn’t hit a bone, the flesh wound was still tender. He walked with a limp as a reminder of his earthly wound.
Mateo put his face to the door, hoping to hear some Kiki Sheard or J. Moss blaring from Sonic’s laptop. Not one heavenly note could be heard, but the melody from Katy Perry’s “Dark Horse” echoed loud and clear from one of the cars that passed by. Mateo knew that Sonic couldn’t have gotten a ride to work. Mateo was a little frustrated because he figured he could’ve stayed a few extra minutes in bed if he hadn’t gone down to check on Sonic.
The growl of his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten anything all morning. He walked back to his motel room to see what he had in the refrigerator. It was bare. He didn’t get paid again until the following Tuesday. That meant no going to the local café or fast food restaurant for a quick breakfast. Mateo shook his head at the realization that once again, he’d have to eat the continental breakfast served by his employer. Like him, the four other people on staff that rotated between front desk and janitorial duty all lived in one of the rooms at Heaven’s Inn, and Hammer was helping them all obtain some form of stability before they moved out into the “real world.”
Mateo gave the quaint efficiency he called his room a once-over. The modern Asian-style décor shined as he noticed clean dishes on the counter of the kitchenette. The updated bathroom reeked of the bleach he’d cleaned it with earlier. To his left, Bibles, daily devotions, and older Victor L. Martin, K’wan, Joy Deja King, and Dutch novels were stacked neatly on the edge of a sand-colored desk. A table-sized calendar with his schedule and other important appointments took up the bulk of the tabletop. The two Sealy queen-sized beds were identical, with red sheets under comforters with a black, red, and silver design. The bed was made military-style, just like he would have to make the others in a couple of hours. The curtains, which complemented the comforter, concealed his room from the outside world. Dirty clothes that he had to take to the laundry down the street were overflowing from the basket—but not one article of clothing touched the floor. Shoes neatly lined the wall. In the bathroom, an array of personal supplies lined the sink. His personal stash of dollar-store cleaning supplies were at the bottom of the sink, and the door that connected his room to another room of similar size was bolted shut. Mateo and Sonic had a room in between theirs that was usually empty, but many of Heaven’s Inn’s twenty-four rooms were occupied by the night’s end. They spent so much time in each other’s rooms that they could’ve been roommates.
While none of the other maids and janitors stepped into his room, he always made sure it was neat, just in case they did. Satisfied that his room was presentable, Mateo headed out the door. He walked on the sidewalk that led to the entrance of Heaven’s Inn and saw the man he was looking for had just taken a seat in the front lobby. Sonic had taken a bite of the turkey bacon on the plate of food in his lap. While watching him chew, Mateo n
oticed Sonic got a space to fill in what used to be a missing bottom front tooth. A clear cup with orange juice in it was at his feet.
Another couple entered the lobby and took a seat on the plush green couch with their food. Sonic’s plate of turkey bacon, boiled eggs, a bagel, blueberry muffins, mixed nuts and fruit were about to topple the Styrofoam plates. Aside from a few patrons sitting at one of the tables, the dining area was empty.
Sonic’s navy blue spikes gave him the look of a punk rocker instead of a man of God. He rocked the spikes because he had the same name as Sonic the Hedgehog, and before he was saved, he thought the hair helped him embody the character. Liking all things Sonic, the drive-in restaurant that bore his same name was his favorite place to eat.
Mateo looked at the white Christ-centered shirt that was ripped at the sleeves and the dingy, grayish-colored jeans that did a horrible job of concealing Sonic’s wafer-thin frame. His iced-coffee-colored skin, compliments of having a black father and a white mother, looked beaten.
“Sonic, what happen—” Mateo expressed concern for his friend but was interrupted by the couple’s thunderous laughter. Mateo looked at the television monitor and could see they were being entertained at the expense of a full-figured, well-kept woman being backhanded by a slender woman who resembled the rapper Trina. Mateo shook his head at their lack of maturity.
“Sorry. I had to spend some time with God.” Sonic could barely be heard over the laughter and his chewing on a bagel. Sonic picked up the napkin and wiped the cream cheese from his mouth before taking a sip of orange juice. “I woke up early and went to the top of Town Mountain Road and got a breath of fresh air and some peace and quiet. When I got back, I was hungry and decided to get something to eat.”
Mateo had been to the top of that mountain before too, mainly to get into some mischief, but he could relate to what Sonic was saying.
Try a Little Tenderness Page 3
