Disastrously Fabulous: A Novel of Loves, Betrayals and New Beginnings

by D. A. Prince

  “Of course, ma'am, how can I help?”

  “You have a Wi-Fi network at your establishment?”

  “Yes.” I could hear the curiosity in her voice.

  “Has any of your staff recently, say over the last month, received nude photos from a customer’s phone by mistake?” I asked with confidence.

  “Nude photos? No ma'am, nothing like that.” She sounded confused.

  “Are you sure, Rachel? I’m checking because my husband is claiming that the photos on his phone originated from a mass message on your network.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, ma'am, but I can assure you than none of our staff have received any nude texts from our Wi-Fi connection at work. I hope this helps you settle the matter.”

  I thanked her. My heart sank a little lower. My last hope of an innocent mistake had gone, but I was not surprised. Known that Burt was grasping at straws—his story was full of holes.

  I responded to him.

  “Hi Burt. Just called the restaurant. You are lying to me again. No one has ever received any nude photos there. Why not try honesty? Time to come clean.”

  My hands were shaking – not from nerves, but rather from emotional adrenaline. My body kept from breaking down by sending fresh waves of alertness through my brain.

  Burt was an idiot. I might have bought that crap if I was ten years younger. I had bought into some bad lies in the past, and each of the man I had fallen in love with had brought poignant lessons.

  Now Burt was about to become another lesson. I flopped down onto the bed and closed my eyes. Once again my thoughts landed on my childhood. I needed to understand what had gone wrong again. The only way to do that was to remember.

  I grew up as a reasonably happy child. My parents were both loving and supportive, but I always had a sense that there was more to life than scrimping and saving.

  My grandmother didn't approve of my mother and father’s marriage. It caused contention in the family for quite some time. But there was no ignoring it—they were soul mates. All around me my friends’ parents divorced, but not mine. They belonged together. They knew what it was to love and struggle as one, and I admit—I always wanted that.

  And so I entered childhood with unrealistic notions of love.

  CHAPTER 4:

  Life in Long Island

  “I spent my whole childhood wishing I were older and now I'm spending my adulthood wishing I were younger.”

  ~ Ricky Schroder ~

  As young children my siblings and I started out as Brooklyn locals, living in a two-bedroom apartment not fit for a family of our size. “It’s small, but at least I can keep an eye on you trouble makers,” my mother used to joke, peering at us over her morning newspaper. Our school was just across the road, but that only made us late every morning.

  That apartment block was well kept and clean; nothing luxurious but it was home. With only two entrances it was our perpetual playground. We screamed around the hallways in our roller skates, knocking on our neighbors’ doors then vanishing from sight. When you have nine siblings, a simple game like that can quickly turn into a disaster—everyone wants their turn.

  We were those rowdy Jamaican kids from 3F, and proud of it. Despite our circumstances, there was always laughter and fun in our home. If one of the kids was not back for dinner by 5 o’clock, my mother walked the eight flights of stairs to the incinerator room below where our neighbors sometimes trapped various members of my family. Payback, I think, for the gross harassment of having kids knocking on your door just for fun.

  “Dang it, how many times do I have to tell you kids not to skate in here! You’re like mice that keep coming back for the cheese,” my mom would say releasing us from our temporary prison.

  “It is good exercise though, Mommy,” we replied with fits of laughter. Sometimes my brothers got trapped there just to hear my mom grumble about it. She never realized what we were up to.

  We all went to Coney Island to the beach one weekend, and brought back a bag full of live crab.

  Always up to mischief—and realizing that crabs were not very compliant or fun playmates—we smashed them with a hammer on the kitchen floor, to my mom’s horror. Then, we were off to bed for what was supposed to be a lovely fright-free evening. That was the first time I learned that crabs are pretty tough, and they seek revenge when you smash them.

  As we were sleeping that night in our usual arrangement, me and my two sisters on a queen-sized bed—a half dead crab scuttled under the door into our room. I woke to my sister’s scream of terror as it made a beeline for our pillows. That crab didn't survive the second attack wave, but we acquired a lot more respect for crabs after that.

  Then one morning, our Brooklyn paradise came to an end. We woke to the sounds of vigorous packing and a shocking announcement—we were moving to Long Island. Far removed from the inner city, Long Island was a small middle class suburb in New York where my father managed to find us a three-bedroom home with a basement.

  The glee on my parent’s faces put us all at ease, but we were sad to leave. Our lives had been in Brooklyn. I said goodbye to my best friend, and an important part of my childhood—and we headed to our new suburban lives, far from the trappings of inner city poverty, crime and mischief.

  As it turns out, my dad found us a nice middle class house, surrounded by nice middle class people who smelled of lavender and hairspray. We didn’t like them. My siblings and I were suspicious at how well-behaved everyone was. Plus, the move came with sacrifices. My father had always been frugal, but now he was counting pennies like an insomniac counts sheep.

  Yet somehow, he managed to keep it light and cheery despite the sacrifices he made to move us there.

  “Can we have money to go to the movies, Dad?”

  “What? Movies? Why would you want to go to the movies when you have cable? Your own private luxury television, no strangers around to interrupt the story and all the popcorn you can eat? Forget going to the movies…the fun’s right here!”

  That man could make a dollar stretch like it was rubber. “Don’t you worry about that movie; we will make our own theater experience tonight.” And he always did. Even though we didn’t have what others kids had, we never felt like we were missing out.

  Moving to Long Island was an adjustment for all of us. It took me a while to realize that the kids there were not overly fond of immigrants. The friends I made didn't come from stable homes; most of their parents were divorced. This further entrenched the idea of love and solidarity in my mind because of my parents.

  When our first Christmas in Long Island arrived, my siblings and I wanted nothing more than a Christmas tree. Our hearts were set on a tall, towering tree we could decorate together and stand in the living room of our new house, like any other family on the block.

  We summoned up the courage to ask my dad, and, in his usual frugal spirit he gave us what we wanted without having to spend so much as a dollar.

  “A Christmas tree?” he said, surprised that we were asking, “Our yard is full of them! We must have five or six of them out there. Pick the one you like best and we will decorate it later on.”

  “But dad, can’t we have one for inside?” we begged in unison.

  “It’s not necessary to kill the tree to enjoy it. If we leave it outdoors, we can use it again next year.”

  And that was that. We gathered in the snow later that evening as the sun was starting to sink in the sky. We hung tinsel and a few brightly colored Christmas balls on some of the heavy pine branches of the tree. Each of us took turns to add a decoration, and afterwards we stood back and admired our handiwork.

  It was the most authentic Christmas tree I have ever decorated in my life. All the store-bought trees at the most expensive stores couldn’t replace the brilliance of that one. The next morning, it was covered in snow—and we noticed some of the costlier Christmas decorations
had been ferreted back inside by my father.

  It didn't matter, the tree looked wonderful outside of our home that Christmas—the colors peeking out from the snow, the tree broad and leafy, completely unaffected by our offerings of shiny paper and cardboard cut-outs. My mother and father were always the lights in our home, so we didn’t need any for the tree. That, and my father insisted that there was a perfectly good street lamp lighting the decorations a few feet away. We sang Christmas carols at the tree on Christmas Day and for the first time since we left Brooklyn, we felt at home.

  School in Long Island was something of a culture shock. Our new middle class lives were challenging enough without encountering some of the hostility from other students for our ‘foreign’ status. It always blew my mind how silly this was—the only difference between them and me was when our families immigrated to America.

  Everyone in some way or another was from somewhere else. It was hard enough being black in a new country, but with our obvious Jamaican accents there was no hiding where we came from. I learned to ignore the whispers and the stares in the hallway until the novelty wore off and the kids found someone else to talk about.

  One of the most glaring differences was how African-Americans threw the word ‘nigga’ around. Used as a term of endearment and used often, it was a strange word to hear when in our Jamaican home—it was never used at all. I couldn't help but find it offensive, as did all of my siblings when we started to make friends.

  I never got used to hearing it, even when the rise of rap music in the nineties made it the most popular and commonplace term to use in certain circles, and found it mildly offensive, even when it was used casually by close friends. There were better words available in the English language to express fondness and unity.

  The black community in Long Island didn't care about our opinions of course, and so we fell in line, made friends and generally sought out mischief wherever it was hiding. It didn’t take my sisters and I long to realize that if we wanted to fit in, we needed to stand out. This became a particular problem for us, because our father never had any extra money.

  Fashion was important for popularity, and so we learned how to shoplift items from our local stores. At the end of the day after school, we visited different shops in the area, sneakily boosting them of their goods. How else were we going to look fly? With so many siblings, items of clothing were recycled more times than they could survive.

  My parents would have killed us if they ever found out what we were doing. Our teen years in Long Island were eventful and lean, peppered with plenty of misadventures and common teen mistakes. My sister and I figured out a system that we could use if we wanted to sneak out to parties.

  My mother, trusting as she was, expected us to do well at school, to always have our homework done and to pass all of our classes. This expectation was supported by my father, who often exploded into long-winded rants about ‘American opportunity’ and getting ahead here. Both my parents expected us to take the opportunities we were given so that we could make better lives than they experienced back in Jamaica.

  It was a great idea, but it meant that my mom didn't bother to check on us very often. It was assumed that were always trying our best and working to be better. This left room for my sister and me to sneak out at night to see our friends, or to go to parties wherever they were happening. We hid in the bushes, waiting for my mom to leave for work so that we could run inside, clean up and get to school.

  “Shh! Shhh! She’s coming!” my sister would say and silence would fall on our hiding spot. We would track Mom until her car disappeared out of the driveway and we were in the clear.

  “I am so not going to school today, I’m still a little drunk,” I would tell my sister. We rushed upstairs and cleaned up, and were never caught.

  There was something about hiding in a bush, and going out to parties at night that made us feel clever. Breaking the rules was fun

  “Do you think Mom will ever catch us?” I asked my sister one day.

  “No, she’s always too busy rushing off to work—she trusts us. And Dad goes to manage the buildings so early we actually don’t have to come back until after school, if we wanted. But we mustn’t skip school too often or we will totally get busted.”

  Long Island probably never experienced anything like us before!

  CHAPTER 5:

  Modeling Times

  “One of the things that fascinated me about modeling was that you had the freedom to look any way you wanted.”

  ~ Veronica Webb ~

  High school started getting easier for me, because I bloomed into a beautiful young woman.

  “You can have anyone you want, Crystal,” my aunt assured me. “Pick a good one.”

  Boosting was not a permanent solution to my financial problems, so I took on a job that I knew I could do well—modeling.

  I took on part-time modeling gigs and discovered I had a gift: the power to pose. I got regular jobs and enjoyed myself, but my options were limited because I wasn’t the specific type in demand at the time.

  While still studying, I got a second job that I could do in conjunction with my modeling career. Through an employment agency, I secured work with music companies – first in the marketing department, then as the executive assistant.

  I had grown up listening to hip hop legends like Public Enemy, LL Cool J and Run DMC, The Beastie Boys, and now I was meeting some of the big names in the hip hop business as part of my job.

  It was a fun office to work in, and being around ambitious people made me want to do better in my own life. I hustled back then, attending castings, working hard at the office job and studying where I could. I loved every day.

  But I was still a student as well as a part-time model, and couldn’t give the job the commitment and competence my employers expected, so the good times came to an end.

  However, I had caught my first glimpse into a life less ordinary, and I was hooked. As rewarding as my modest childhood had been, I was suddenly aware of all we missed out on because we didn't have much. Money, it seemed, was the thing that mattered most.

  My aunt had started a fashion business in Jamaica, specializing artfully distressed denims. Her enterprise was a success, and the Nearly Yardy became a must-have brand.

  Modeling the Nearly Yardy outfits got me the attention of a big model agency, and soon I got bigger and bigger jobs.

  But I wanted more. I was drawn to the spotlight, to people with wealth and power. I wanted to be one of them, and I set out to achieve this.

  My looks would open many doors for me. People treated me with respect, as if I knew a secret hidden from the rest of the world. “There’s something about you girl,” they told me on set, “whatever ‘it’ is, you got it.” I decided to make the most of it.

  Modeling gave me access inside exclusive events and to incredible people. Being good in front of a camera helped me to feel confident. Every time I was scheduled for a shoot, I was energized for days, tripping from the attention and the adrenaline of being great at something that was what most thilknk of as easy. I was a natural.

  When I spoke to impressive people, I learned how to casually name drop and elevate my status in their eyes. This, combined with a bubbly personality and great looks was really all it took to find myself among some of the most influential people of our generation.

  Being around musicians and superstars made me feel like that life was not only possible, but probable if I worked hard at it. I was in the right place at the right time. The Big Apple. The City of Dreams. It was in front of me, and I watched as it glided by.

  In high school I was one of the super cool kids. Then, I graduated. Like most kids my age I had no idea who I wanted to be in the world. I knew that I wanted wealth and success. I was not yet sure how I would go about getting it.

  So, the day after my high school graduation my father I sat down at our glas
s kitchen table where Dad was sifting through some paperwork while eating his favorite dish, oxtail with rice and peas.

  “Dad? Can I talk to you?” I asked.

  His eyes flicked up from the page he was signing in black pen. “Sure baby girl, I could use a break from these infuriating tenants.”

  My father’s favorite pastime was complaining about the state of some of the buildings he managed in Brooklyn. His tenants there all paid late, trashed the apartments and were not fit to live in a cardboard box, in his opinion. “They don’t know how good they have it,” he often said.

  That afternoon I was after real world advice. My head was full of dreams, and my heart was full of joy. But high school was over, and I had no idea what to do with my time.

  “School’s done now,” I started. “I have to decide what I am going to do. I thought that maybe I could go to college and study something.”

  He surveyed me over his glasses. “Few people are sure at your age. Why do you want to go to college, when you can get a job right away?”

  “I thought that college might give me better opportunities,” I said feebly.

  “To do what? Earn money? Child, you just need to get a job for that. Do you know what you want to study?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then I suggest you get some life experience first. You are young. If you want to study, then you should. But you'll have to earn it for yourself.”

  “So I should get a job right away?”

  He put his pen down. “Crystal, there is no point studying when you don’t know what to study. You are an adult now. You need to find yourself work. Once you have a job and a better idea what you want, you’ll be able to save for the right studies. You and your ten siblings will all have to make your own way in the world.”

  What he said made sense. With so many sons and daughters, my father wouldn't be able to provide a college education for us all. Whatever happened in our lives would be up to us! My parents had brought us this far—my father was clear on that message.