by Donna Hill
Now I’ve been called a lot of things in my day, but a freaking manuscript tops the list! Though I must admit that I’m blushing. “Oh,” is all I can manage. I clear my throat. “Uh, what about you? What do you do besides work and go home with strange women?”
He tosses his head back and laughs from deep in his gut and the sound makes me feel warm inside.
“Touché,” he says, then grows serious. “When I’m not reading rather lousy manuscript submissions, praying to find a diamond in the rough, I mentor a young men’s group on Saturday mornings, go to the gym a couple of times a week, clubs every now and then, hang out with friends…pick up strange women in my spare time.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “You’re a very busy man. Tell me about the kids you work with.”
Randy begins to tell me about the Future Foundation, an organization that visits urban high schools and, through guidance counselor recommendations, partners with young men at risk for failing in school or worse.
“Most of them have no male figures in their lives and the ones who do would probably be better off without them. So we go in there, talk with them, take them on trips, college tours, places out of the city, make sure they keep their grades up and just be there when they need someone to talk to.”
I’m impressed. I stare at him the whole time he’s speaking, and the more I look at him the more he seems to change right in front of my eyes. There really is something to that saying about seeing someone differently. Randy Temple is more than a fine brotha who knows his way around a bedroom—he’s intelligent and caring, and he has a purpose in life.
“Next year we want to start working in the lower grades and hopefully get to some of these young brothers before too much damage is done.”
I nod my head. Listening to Randy makes me question myself. Sure, I provide entertainment, but what else do I contribute to the world? Nada. Hmm, oh well, everyone can’t be a Randy Temple.
“Well, here we are.”
He pulls the car to a stop in front of my building. Oh, did I mention that he has a Benz, black on black and smelling like he just drove it off the showroom floor.
“That was quick.” All of a sudden I’m nervous. But at least I can’t fall down since I’m still sitting.
He turns in his seat to face me and drapes his arm across the back of my seat. Uh-oh.
“I’d like to see you again.”
Gulp.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. How about dinner next Saturday?”
This is where I’m supposed to say, Thanks but I’m busy. “Saturday? What time?”
“How’s eight?”
Gulp. “Sure.”
He grins and my stomach does that funny thing again.
“Can I call you?”
“Uh…sure.” I give him my number, which he promptly programs into his cell phone.
“I’ll give you a call Friday to confirm.”
I bob my head like one of those dumb toys that sit on car dashboards. And then all of a sudden he’s so close to me that his image becomes blurred and his lips are on mine and mine are on his…dayum! Then, just as quick, he’s back in his rightful place behind the wheel and my heart is racing like I’d been running from a potential mugger.
“See you Saturday,” he says. And his voice has that Barry White thing going on.
My panties are wet and I know I gotta go. Now. I clutch my purse and my award and just about leap out of the car. By the time I set my Ferragamos on the ground, Randy has his hand out helping me to my feet. He was so fast it was damn near supernatural. He pulls me right up to him. I hold my breath. He kisses the top of my head.
“Have a good night.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
We stand there facing each other until I finally break eye contact. “Good night,” I mutter. “Thanks for the ride.” I want to run inside my building, but instead I give him my best side and saunter away.
Once upstairs, rattling around in my lonely apartment, I wish that I would have asked him to come up. Instead, I look for a place to put my award, take a shower and spend the rest of the night staring up at the ceiling and wondering what it was like to actually be in a relationship with someone. Hey, if Margot could find someone, maybe I could, too.
CHAPTER 14
“A date? You?”
I glance at Macy and bug my eyes. “Yeah, me, a date. Why in hell is that so unbelievable?”
“Uh, ’cause you don’t date.”
I roll my eyes. “Things can change.”
“Yeah, but you don’t.”
I finish washing the dishes in the sink and Macy puts them away. She’s right, you know. I don’t date, I don’t have relationships, and I stay uninvolved. It was my own personal credo. Over the years it had served me well. Maybe I was getting old.
“Hey, I thought I’d give it a try,” I offer, and shrug like it’s no big deal.
Macy puts her arm around my shoulder. “Look, sis, you know there’s no one out there who wants you to find some kind of happiness more than I do. Right?”
I nod my head.
“Maybe this Randy is the one for you.”
“Kinda scary.”
She grins. “It always is.” She put the last dish in the cupboard. “You want to go over the outline for tonight’s show?”
“Naw, not in the mood. Let’s just wing it tonight.”
“Fine with me.”
We walk into the living room and turn on Judge Judy and spend the next hour laughing our asses off at the stupid people on the show.
“It never ceases to amaze me how folks can get on TV and expose all their business—and dumb business at that.” I take a sip from my glass of iced tea.
“Humph, the same way those dummies write and call in to your show. Fifteen minutes of fame, honey.”
“You got that right. But at least the nuts on our show can remain relatively anonymous.”
“True.”
“Except the other night at the awards…”
“What do you mean?”
I go on to tell her about meeting Margot.
“Get the hell outta here!”
“Yep, in the flesh. I almost peed on myself.”
Macy starts laughing. “I bet you did.”
I laugh myself. “But you know what? As much as it was shocking and embarrassing, it really got me thinking…”
She frowns. “About what?”
I blow out a long breath as I try to put words to my thoughts. “A lot of these people write in really wanting help and I make fun of them, tear them apart.”
“Girl, your show is about shock and entertainment. You never claimed to be an expert or psychologist. What do they expect for free?”
I chuckle, but for the first time it isn’t really funny.
“Word on the street is that management is going to be making more changes.”
“Yeah, so I hear. I kinda thought they were done.”
“Me, too. We don’t have anything to worry about, especially after you just landed yet another statue.”
“And still kicking butt in the ratings.” I take a bow.
“Holla!”
We high-five and laugh the rest of our way through Judge Judy.
When me and Macy arrive at the station, everything is at its usual high-pitched intensity. Folks are buzzing around, music is playing and it’s all good. I’m glad Macy and I decided to go freestyle tonight. That’s what keeps my juices flowing—the unexpected.
Just as I turn the corner to head to my tiny, tiny office, I get waylaid by Mr. Bigshot himself.
“Good. Here you are.”
I force myself to smile. “Evening, Mr. Bledsoe.” I try to move past his rotund frame without success.
“Please come to my office.”
“Can’t this wait until after the show? I need to prepare.”
“Ms. Newhouse, if it could wait, I would have said, Come after the show.”
Condescending doesn’t adequately describe his tone
. For someone of his size, he practically pirouettes around and continues down the corridor. I make a face behind his back and dutifully follow.
“Please close the door.”
I do and take two baby steps inside the inner sanctum.
“Ms. Newhouse, I’ll get right to the point. There was a meeting with the board of directors following that…episode with the near suicide.”
I definitely don’t like where this was going. I fold my arms and brace my weight on my right side.
“Uh-huh.”
He clears his throat. “It was decided…unanimously, that tonight will be your last show. After this evening, your contract will be terminated. We will, of course, give you due compensation.”
The room shifts to the left and gets hot as hell. My head started to pound. “Say what?”
“You’re being let go, Ms. Newhouse.”
I rock my neck. “Let go? I have the highest ratings of anyone in this place. I just got another award.”
“That notwithstanding. We feel that the reputation of this station is more important than ratings and…awards.”
Well, I’ll be dammed. “So let me get this straight. You’re firing me.”
“I’d rather phrase it…releasing you from your contractual obligations.”
I sure as shit wish he would say, Sit down, ’cause I feel like I’m going to pass out.
“Your paperwork has been drawn up and you can pick it up from my secretary after your show.”
I felt like telling him to meet me in the parking lot after work, but that would have been going too far back to my roots. I lift my chin. “Fine. On my behalf, I just want to say…”
“Yes, Ms. Newhouse?”
“Kiss my ass.” I spin around and walk out of the room before I burst into tears and really make a fool of myself. I think I might have knocked someone against the wall as I fly down the hallway, but I don’t care. I feel as if every eye in the place is on me and they know that I’ve been canned.
I storm into the control room, where Macy is getting set up.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
I huff and puff, pace a few times before I can get the words out.
“Joy, you’re scaring me.”
“I just got fired.”
“What!”
I collapse into the nearest seat. “He fired me.”
“Why?”
I recount what Fatso told me.
“I can’t believe it. Tonight is the last show, just like that?” She snaps her fingers.
“Looks that way.”
“Shit!” she sputters and sits next to me. “What are we going to do?”
I love that Macy says “we.”
I turn to look at her and then an idea forms. “Sis, if we’re going to go down, we’re going down in flames, and I’m taking WHOT with me. Forget the bleep button tonight. We’re going all the way live! You hear me. Pass me that bag of letters.”
Lightning fast, we tear through the letters and find just the right ones.
“You sure you want to do this?”
“You damned right I’m sure. Lock your door. Don’t let anyone in. Understood?”
Macy nods her head and I dart out to get ready. I get settled behind the mic after locking the door and turn toward Macy on the other side of the glass to give her a thumbs-up. She gives me the ten-second count. Okay, folks, it’s showtime.
CHAPTER 15
My theme music winds down. I take a deep breath. And I’m live.
“Hey out there in radio heaven. You’re just in time. This is Joy Newhouse all up in your house with tonight’s edition of On the Line. I have some real treats for you tonight so hold on to your seats, grab that glass of wine and get ready. But before I get into our first letter of the night, I want to let you all know that tonight is my last night on the air. Yeah, you heard me. I’m out. You’ll probably get something like easy-listening music or one of those brothers with the deep voice playing love songs all night.” I laugh. “But it’s all good. It’s been a blast. And so without further ado, let’s get tonight on and popping.” Before I can even launch into my first letter, the phone lines are lit up. No calls tonight. I had thangs to do. I spread the letter entitled Chocolate Cho Cha out in front of me. I can barely contain myself.
Dear Joy,
I’ve been listening to your show regularly for quite a while now, and there’s something about you that turns me off. No need to get hostile, because there’s also something about you that fascinates me at the same time. You know how it is with us women. We see something in another sister that we’re lacking, and we want some of it for ourselves. Usually it’s something we’d be better off living without like jewelry or some expensive-ass shoes we can’t afford. For some it’s long hair, for others it’s perky breasts and a big ass or a pricey new car.
Well, I’ve got all that. The half-white woman looks, the tantalizing black-woman curves, the bling and the bank accounts. Now, Joy, I’ve seen what you look like, and I’m not saying you’re hard on the eyes or anything, but you’re definitely not me. I mean, you would probably be considered attractive in some circles, and I happen to love my sisters in all shades and sizes, but unlike you, I’ve got the kind of face you see plastered on magazine covers. Most times people get so awestruck by my looks that they go out of their way to accommodate me based on my physical appearance alone. So what could a woman like you have that I might need? Why in the world would I need to write to you?
It’s your confidence.
Okay, by now you’re probably thinking I have some fuckin’nerve talking about you like I’m all that and you’re below average. Isn’t it a trip how we can just up and insult folks and then turn right around and need them for something? But I said I was beautiful, not prideful. I’m ashamed, damn it, not arrogant. I come to you humbly, and submit my situation before your personal counsel because God knows this thing I’ve been wrestling with is big. Big, goddammit. I’m talking BIG. Big.
You see, I’m what you would call a freak of nature, although you’d never know it by looking at me. Like my mother and grandmother, the eyes are green and the cheekbones are high. I stand a sweet five feet, ten inches tall with one of those onion asses that can bring water to the eye. My skin is light and clear, and I have that long, jet-black hair that some black people call “good” but has never been anything other than just hair to me.
My darkness started when I was almost twelve. I was spending two weeks at a summer camp for privileged girls. It was the first swim day at camp and the lake water was cold as hell for late June. About a dozen of us were laughing and shivering as we crowded into a wooden changing area and began stripping out of our wet bathing suits and changing into dry clothes.
We were in various stages of undress when it happened. I wasn’t one who had bloomed early—I’d exploded. Some of those little white girls had arms and legs like sticks, while I had a plump bottom, some nicely rounded breasts, and more than a few strands of sleek black pubic hair. I’d taken off my bikini top and shaken my firm breasts free, and had just wriggled out of my wet shorts when a loud shriek split the air.
I looked up along with the other little girls, puzzled. A tall, blond-haired girl from the Pocono Mountains was hopping up and down and pointing her crooked white finger, and to my horror, she was pointing it straight at me.
“Oh my GOD!” she shrieked, shaking her head and grimacing around a mouth filled with shiny silver braces. “Gross! What is that?”
Every eye, including mine, followed the line of her pointing finger, which ended at the triangle between my curvy thighs.
“What?” I whispered, lowering my gaze and looking down between my own naked legs. One of my cousins had gotten her period a few months earlier, and I was just about to be overjoyed that perhaps my first period had come on while swimming. But it hadn’t. I glanced down. As usual, my vaginal lips were long and protruding. Fleshy. Floppy. Hanging low. My eyes traveled to the two thin, neat vaginal slices between the blond
girl’s legs. Firm. Tight. Pretty. Quickly, my eyes scanned the room for verification. My pussy was right! Hers had to be wrong! I looked from naked triangle to naked triangle, and what I saw completely demolished every bit of self-esteem that my eleven-year-old self had ever possessed.
“Now that’s disgusting,” said Fiona, backing away. She and I were the only two black girls in our cabin, and we’d formed an early friendship and alliance. “You oughta stop touching yourself down there,” she said, wrinkling her big brown nose. “You’ve stretched your coochie out like taffy.”
I was floored. Sure, my meaty skin sweated and got chafed down there a lot, and once in gymnastics class somebody jokingly asked me if I had a dick stuck in my tights, but I’d never seen another girl completely naked before so my body had seemed perfectly normal to me.
But the eyes don’t lie, and Fiona was right. None of the other girls had such thick folds of flesh wadded between their legs. No one else had so much meat hanging down there that they had to spread themselves wide open just to pee. As I looked between my legs at what had, in an instant, become the ugliest thing I’d ever seen, my entire childhood fell away and my spirit suffered a shameful death. I hated myself.
Now, Joy, please don’t ask me all the obvious questions. I’ve seen you in action and you’re smart enough to fill in some of the blanks. Yes, my mother should have taken time to see a doctor, but she was terrified about exposing my problem.
“The world will shame you,” Mama moaned through tears. “Anybody who so much as hears about this is gonna shame you, darling.” She hugged me close to her breast. “Listen to me, sweetie. You have to keep this to yourself.” She pulled up my panties and smoothed down my skirt. Then she sat my big old self on her lap and rocked me as we cried together softly. “You have to keep this to yourself. Unless you want what happened at that camp to keep right on happening forever. It won’t be just little girls who point and laugh and look at you all nasty, either. Men. Boys. They’ll all make you cry. I heard about a lady who lived with something like this in France a long time ago. They put her naked in a cage and sold tickets so folks could poke fun at her night and day. No. Your mama won’t have nobody treating her baby like a monster and laughing at you like some freak on a stage. You just keep this thing to yourself, you hear me? Not another soul must ever know about this except me and you.”
