by Donald Welch
“Papi, I can’t,” she said in a low tone. “You know I’m at work. And tonight’s my girl’s bachelorette party.”
Whatever he said next made her giggle like a teenager, because she sighed heavily after hanging up, shook her head, and said, “Lord have mercy.”
Nicole waited for her tongue-lashing, but to her surprise, Zenora said nothing, so she decided to speak first.
“Zenora girl, I know I’m late. I’m sorry.”
Zenora didn’t respond, and after the pause that followed, Nicole continued.
“I overslept. That’s never happened to me. I had a terrible, restless night with the craziest shit in my head and the weirdest dream. If Rocky hadn’t called me, I’d still be asleep. Obviously, I was more tired than I thought. I actually went to bed early last night. I know it’s no excuse, but it’s the truth.”
Silence.
“Z, I’m sorry. Damn!”
“Girl, I haven’t said anything to you, so why are you trippin’? You’re in the chair, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but you’re giving me the silent treatment.”
“Please, I got my mind on Ernesto. I’m not thinking about you.” She smiled.
“You had your eye on him for two weeks now. Isn’t he working on the building across the street?”
“Yes. We’ve been playing cat and mouse with each other ever since. In fact, our first official date was the other night, and girl, let me tell you, my ‘space heater’ hasn’t been the same since!”
“You are so crazy.”
“He wants to hook up tonight, but I told him about the party and that there was no way I could slip out now, because my girl, who was running late for her hair appointment, is in the chair now. And because we’ve been friends for years and she’s getting married tomorrow, I’m going to let her slide this one time.”
“Okay, okay, I knew you’d get it all out. You have officially read me, but thanks, girl, I really appreciate it. And, oh, could I ask one more favor? Could you squeeze me in for a pedicure, too?”
“Girl, you are pushing your luck. Be glad you’re getting married tomorrow. Otherwise I’d make you reschedule.”
Raising an eyebrow while running her fingers through Nicole’s hair, Zenora teased, “I thought maybe Alan came through last night and ‘touched you up,’ and you just couldn’t get it together this morning.”
“I wish. No we both decided that we would stop seeing each other at least two days before our wedding because there’s so much to do on both our ends. We’ll do all of our catching up on our wedding night. Besides, his parents are staying over at his place, and he knew Valerie was going to be at my spot when she got in town for the wedding.”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot about that. How is she? It’s been a couple of weeks since we spoke.”
“She’s fine. She’s arriving today after meeting up with her Realtor.”
“How’s that comin’ along? The last time we spoke, she was closing the deal on the building. I’m really happy for Val. That girl has always wanted to open her own business.”
“True.” I added, “She has always admired you and Keisha for owning and operating your businesses.”
At that moment, Marcella interrupted their private girl talk. “Zenora, Vanessa Bell Calloway is on the phone. She wants to know if it’s possible to fit her in around five p.m. today? She just got word from her agent that they will need her on the set tomorrow.”
“All right, Mo, tell her five o’clock it is, but to leave her cell phone in the hotel room ’cause she’s on the phone more than the operator.”
Marcella laughed and then returned to the front desk phone to confirm the appointment with Miss Calloway.
“Vanessa Bell Calloway, huh? I didn’t even know you knew her, Zenora.”
“I don’t. Not really, anyway. Star Jones Reynolds turned her on to me. She’s one of her best friends and is now in Philly filming the new M. Night Shyamalan movie. You know all his films are done here.”
“Vanessa should be working more,” I said. “She’s so underrated.”
“You could say that about so many others,” Zenora remarked, “like Angela Bassett and Lynn Whitfield, two gorgeous, talented actresses that Hollywood rarely uses. When Angela got the Oscar nomination for What’s Love Got to Do with It, everyone assumed it would open up so many doors for her. Same thing with Lynn’s Emmy win for The Josephine Baker Story, but the offers didn’t come. Keisha and I had this conversation last week while she was getting her hair done. As always, you know she came in here armed with some rag magazine in tow. There was an article called ‘The Hollywood Blackout: Where Are Our Black Actresses?’ I mentioned that if Angela and Lynn were white, not only would they be gracing the covers of People or US Weekly magazines regularly, but they would have tons of film and TV offers to choose from. Now being forty-plus women, they’re routinely reduced to secondary parts and nonleading roles. Even the black filmmakers are only hiring them as aunts, mothers, and neighbors, when in fact, not only are these women talented, but they’re beautiful and sexy as well. Now Goldie Hawn, Sharon Stone, and Susan Sarandon work all the time and are offered sexy leading roles. Hell, Diane Keaton was practically nude in the film Something’s Gotta Give.”
Zenora was on a roll. “Keisha got invited to an Oscar-viewing party the year Halle Berry won for Best Actress. During Halle’s speech, she spoke about Hollywood embracing her and accepting her into the community and how she was so happy. Hell, we were all happy for her! But crazy-ass Keisha was like, ‘Bitch please, let’s see how many major films you get after tonight when yo’ ass can command the same paycheck as them heffas like Cameron Diaz, Jodie Foster, or Gwyneth Paltrow.’”
“Hmmm, Keisha’s right,” Nicole said. “Halle does work, but not like they do.”
The salon’s front door opened and closed like an automatic revolving door, causing Nicole to remark, “Z, if this keeps up, you’re going to have to open a third shop to accommodate your clientele.”
Zenora just smiled. “Girl, if I have my way, my plan for this time next year is to just sit back and let the business run itself.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, girl. I’m getting tired. I’ve been doing hair since I was fourteen, working part-time in my aunt’s makeshift salon that she ran from her house in North Philly. I’m thirty-two, and as young as that may be, there’s a whole lot more of this great big world I’d like to see and experience. Getting time off for something like that is difficult in my business.”
“Well, that’s what you get for being so good at what you do. What will your personal clients do? There are a lot of sistahs that will not let anyone touch their heads but Zenora Blakey. It’s your fault that you have us all spoiled.”
“As flattered as I am, baby, you’re right. But there’s got to be more for my life than doing hair. And it’s funny you mentioned a third shop, because I’m looking into that now.”
“That’s great, Z. Really.”
“Yes, I’m going to do it for Rocky. I’ll let him run the whole shop and even allow him to come in as part owner just to set him up.”
“Zenora, that’s a wonderful gesture. Have you told him yet? He will be beside himself.”
“No, I haven’t. I want to get it for his birthday. That boy is my sweetheart. He definitely has my back and deserves an opportunity like this.”
Rocky had been Z’s ever-faithful office manager and assistant for years. As Nicole looked at him, she thought he resembled a younger version of the singer Prince. With his delicate features and big doe eyes, one would assume he played the submissive role in relationships, or the “bottom,” as they say. Everyone believed Rocky when he talked about his escapades. He never said them in a boastful Look, bitches I can get your man kind of a way, but he shared them more like it was girl talk, and Nicole had often witnessed men waiting outside in their cars for Rocky.
Rocky would say, “Yes, I’m a queen, and I might dress femme, but I gotta dick, too, and I do more
with it than pee. So if some man thinks he’s just gonna flip me over and run up in me and I don’t get my turn, his ass is crazy.” Rocky was not one for role-playing when it came to sex.
“Hell, no, Ms. Nicky, I am an equal-opportunity employer here. We do everything equally or it don’t get done. Unless, of course, it’s LL Cool J. That papi could definitely have whatever he wants if he went that way.”
Nicole had to agree with Rocky. Even at forty, LL could give a lesson or two to brothas on how to act, look, and perform, especially some of these younger rappers and Hollywood types that think they have it all. That it’s just about them.
Zenora said, “It’s so sad that so many hairstylists go from shop to shop and year to year, never really owning any more than what’s in their styling case. No matter how good a hairstylist is, you won’t find one who doesn’t dream of opening his or her own shop. But the likelihood of that happening is slim. Most end up fifty-five years old, working two or three days in someone else’s shop, dressing ridiculously, wearing outlandish makeup, and doing some heads on the side at their house just to make ends meet. I’m not going to let that happen to Rocky.”
“You’re a great boss, Z,” Nicole said.
Zenora’s voice took on an odd edge as she asked Nicole, “So, have you seen or spoken to Tisha?”
“Not in a few weeks,” Nicole said. “Why?”
“Oh, no reason.” Just as abruptly, Zenora changed the subject.
“You know, Nicky,” Z said as she studied Nicole’s head, “you really don’t need that many more highlights put in.”
“Really?”
“No, it will start to look fake. And besides people know that you get your hair done by me, so they would think I was crazy for putting more in.”
Two
You Drive Me Crazy
SHE THOUGHT to herself that she didn’t have a name anymore. She was just known as a crazy bitch, stupid woman, or ugly cow. Even she forgot her God-given name at times. It was Tisha Grant Perkins.
Roland’s grip tightened around her neck. Tisha tried to calm herself down, but she started to slip into darkness.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Roland’s blaring voice commanded. His voice faded in and out, and Tisha wasn’t sure if it was because she’d trained herself to tune him out or if she was losing her hearing after the many blows he had just delivered to her head. She forced her eyes open in order to obey his orders. “Why is it that you can’t ever do what I ask you to do, huh? One simple fuckin’ request, and you can’t fuckin’ do that!”
Tisha thought to herself, Ask? When did Roland ever ask her to do anything? He never even asked to marry her; he told her they were getting married.
“Why, Tish, why? I have told you time and time again, heavy starch in all my uniform shirts. And every week when you bring them back from the cleaners, it’s the same shit! No fuckin’ starch!”
He loosened his grip enough for her to be able to form words. “Ro-Roland, I—I told them to put extra starch in the shirts.”
A tear ran down her cheek, which seemed to enrage him even more, and without warning he backhanded her across the face so hard, she flew across the room.
“What the hell is yo’ ass cryin’ for? It’s my fuckin’ shirt. I’m the one who should be cryin’. You crazy bitch!”
Tisha heard his footsteps come toward her, the hardwood floors in the bedroom magnifying the sound. She braced herself for more abuse, but instead, Roland knelt down and jerked her face around until their eyes met. Grasping Tisha’s chin so roughly that her teeth hurt, he pulled his wife close.
“You know what? From now on, I’ll take my own shirts to the fuckin’ cleaners.”
The scent of liquor on his breath was so strong, it momentarily paralyzed her. With his other hand, he softly brushed the hair out of her face. Tisha wished he wouldn’t, because her hair blocked her vision. The less she saw of him, the better.
“I just want you to try and do better, that’s all. That’s all I fuckin’ want: for you to do better. Be the wife I married. Do you understand?”
Tisha nodded and promised that she would try harder.
Roland stared at her with tears welling up in his eyes and said, “I love you, girl,” then gently kissed her on the lips.
Tisha had the urge to throw up but wouldn’t dare—it would mess up his shirt.
Roland’s cell phone rang, breaking his focus. He grabbed it from his pants pocket, and the expression on his face told his wife that he recognized the number.
“Yo, let me hit you right back.” The caller was not satisfied with that answer, and Roland repeated his message more firmly: “I said I’ll hit you right back.” He slammed the phone shut.
Tisha figured that it must have been one of his many women and wondered if he treated them the way he did her. They probably got the royal treatment, and she got the job of taking his shirts to the cleaners.
He grabbed his keys off the dresser and walked out. Tisha couldn’t move. No, of course, she could move; she just didn’t want to. Lying between her bed and nightstand, she kept still. The sound of Roland descending the stairs grew more faint. Tisha counted all thirteen steps until he hit the landing. After hearing the front door open and close behind him, she listened for the sound of the lock turning. He’s gone. Oh, how she wished he was really gone. Like dead gone.
No one would miss him; that’s for sure. Well, maybe his mother and sister, but maybe not. His mother had been bedridden for three months and was in the final stage of Alzheimer’s. She didn’t even know who she was, let alone her son. Grace, his sister, took care of her. Well, sort of.
Two weeks ago, Roland and Tisha drove to his mother’s home to check on her condition. Tisha opted to stay inside the car because his visits usually lasted no longer than fifteen or twenty minutes. A short time after Roland entered the house, Tisha could hear his voice from outside, accusing his sister of neglecting their mother, whom he found wearing a urine-soaked diaper and lying on a bed stained with feces.
Grace argued, “She just got like that. If you don’t like the way I take care of Ma, then you bring yo’ faggot ass over here every day and take care of her, muthafucka!”
Grace got even louder, and Tisha assumed the whole neighborhood could hear the conversation. “What you think? I’m just s’pose to sit my ass up in the fuckin’ house all day and not go out at all? You mus’ be out yo’ goddamn mind, nigga. I just went down to the fuckin’ store to get my ass a pack of cigarettes.”
“Well, why didn’t you ask Mr. Manley next door to come over and watch her?” Roland yelled.
“I ain’t got to ask nobody no muthafuckin’ thing. Like I said, the bitch just peed. She was dry when I left for the store. Now if I ain’t doing such a good fuckin’ job, then you take the bitch over there to yo’ house.”
Tisha heard a door slam and wondered how many times the neighbors on this North Philadelphia street had witnessed all the ruckus that came out of the Perkins house. Carlisle Street was a very neat block in that crime-ridden area, and its residents took pride in their properties. Although many nearby streets had abandoned buildings, boarded-up homes, and drug traffic, Carlisle Street was definitely one of the exceptions. Many people cringed at the thought of living or working in North Philly, but there were quite a few blocks, like this one, where neighborhood respect and safety were high priorities and Clean Block posters and Neighborhood Watch signs were displayed on many of the corners. If there was one eyesore on Carlisle Street, it was the Perkins family home.
Melba Perkins had three children: Albert, Grace, and Roland. While Roland never said much about his childhood, Grace once told Tisha after many glasses of whiskey that their brother, Albert, was shot and killed during a drug buy in 1998.
All three children had different fathers, who were absent in the home during their upbringing. “We didn’t have any daddies, but we sure had a lot of ‘uncles’ in our lives. We had to stay in our rooms whenever an uncle came to the house. We kne
w they weren’t no relations, just Momma’s boyfriends,” Grace said.
Their mother was a notorious numbers runner all the way up to her childrens’ late teens. She delivered the winnings and picked up the daily bets from customers in a territory assigned to her by Mr. Big. Melba earned the reputation as one of the best runners in his organization. Everyone was aware she carried money from the pickups, but thugs knew not to give Melba any trouble. Mr. Big didn’t play nice if anyone attacked his workers or took his money. It was “hands off Melba,” and that message was for the street thugs and the police. The numbers money fed and clothed the Perkins kids through most of their years before Alzheimer’s took their mother’s mind.
Tisha came from a different background than her husband did, but her love for him helped her to overlook their shortcomings. Early in their relationship, Grace joined Roland and Tisha at a local club for a friend’s birthday party. It didn’t take Tisha long to realize that she was in some rough company. The evening turned into a disaster when Grace got drunk and started a fight with one of the waitresses. That was her last and only outing with Grace Perkins.
Grace and Roland never did get along, although Grace did love her liquor and weed. All ninety-eight pounds and five feet of her was cutthroat, conniving, and downright mean. Plus her coarse attitude made it difficult for her to keep a job. But for some reason, she liked Tisha, which was rare, because Grace didn’t like too many people, not even her brother.
“You’re too good for Roland, ’n’ what the fuck you see in that sad muthafucka, I’ll never know.” Grace resented Roland’s bossiness and verbal attacks, but he was no match for her. All hell broke loose in that house whenever he stopped by, especially if she and Roland had liquor in them. Their mother always took Roland’s side and left the cleaning, errands, and nursing tasks to Grace.
