by D. A. Prince
Now it was about the decisions that I made. Unfortunately, being an impulsive teen also made me a poor decision-maker. I was not prepared for the world or anything in it. I had to teach myself to survive.
Following my father’s advice, I took a permanent job in a furniture company where the sales floor smelled of artificial air freshener and piped music chirped relentlessly.
The uniform I had to wear was stiff and unflattering, and I felt like someone had stuffed me into a pillowcase. Whenever I tried to spruce up the look with a scarf, a brooch or other personal touch, the manager told me off.
The job was boring to the point of soul-destroying, but I worked extra hard to make the furniture buying experience exciting for my customers.
I refused to let the dull drudgery dim my light, but looked forward to the day when I would be able to leave. Either I would move up through the ranks, save money and eventually go to college, or I would get a big break as a model. I was still doing modeling gigs on the side. That flame burned bright in me, and I was ready to jump at the first sign of success.
Every day my positive attitude expanded, and my confidence grew. In that soul-destroying place I found a way to see the light in the darkness. I could sparkle wherever I was. Then one day, destiny came knocking.
A tall, dark and handsome man noticed me from across the salesroom floor.
I didn’t know it yet, but he would become my first lesson in love.
CHAPTER 6:
My First Kinda Love
“My first love, I'll never forget, and it's such a big part of who I am, and in so many ways, we could never be together, but that doesn't mean that it's not forever. Because it is forever.”
~ Rashida Jones ~
That lying player Barry was a tough lesson to learn. I was a teen, fresh out of high school and working my first dismal, disappointing job when he strode confidently into my life.
At more than 6 foot, Barry was a tall Nigerian man with brown skin and dark eyes. He was quite a bit older than me, but not so old that I didn’t find him instantly attractive from across the salesroom floor.
I looked up, and there he was, staring right at me with his penetrating eyes. There was something alluring about his gaze. He held himself with such confidence and swagger than even I had to look away after a few seconds.
Barry looked like a cross between an underwear model and an African prince. If that wasn’t enough, the moment he saw me he cut off the salesman off he was talking too, excused himself, and approached me instead.
He took my hand in both of his. “Pleasure to meet such a blooming flower in such an unexpected place.” I giggled like a school girl. He reminded me of the music industry types, with his clean white shirt, a sports jacket and expensive slacks. I could instantly tell that he was rich!
I flushed at his charm and touch. “Can I help you with something?”
“You surely can. I would like to buy many things, and then perhaps take you on a date this evening?” He leaned down and kissed my hand. I inhaled his aftershave – something luxurious with notes of sandalwood and musk. It was done.
That day he spent several thousand dollars on furniture and appliances, giving me a hefty commission to match. We set a date for that night, but nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen. Until that point, I was an inquisitive middle class Jamaican girl trying to work my way through life.
I had tasted wealth through the people I met, but never directly experienced it for myself. I rushed home to tell my sisters all about the African prince I met at Seaman’s. He was going to pick me up at 8 o’clock, and sent me a message telling me to ‘dress up.’
I was screaming inside, while my sisters were screaming on the outside. I tore off my work uniform and dumped it in the floor. He wouldn't see me in that stiff sack again.
I tried on dress after dress.
“Chill,” my sisters advised me. “He’s not going to take you to Red Lobsters.”
At last, I settled on a sheer number that was classic and classy.
A knock on my bedroom door some time later, and I was ready. It was my mother. “There is a very enthusiastic and charming gentleman outside in a limousine for you, Crystal,” she said.
My sisters squealed in excitement, huddled around the front window, peering out to see him and the limo he drove in.
I greeted him, and his eyes lit up. When he took my hand, his grip was warm and confident. Together we walked to the white stretched limo, where the driver opened the door for me.
That evening we drank exquisite French champagne in the limo before we even arrived at the restaurant—an exclusive spot reserved for the rich and famous only. They greeted him like they knew him well.
More than that, because I was with him they treated me like royalty, even though I was wearing clothes from Walt Whitman Mall. Barry made me feel like the center of the universe, like I was the most special, unique and extraordinary women he ever met. The impact of this was that everyone around us treated me the same way. I quickly fell in love.
At dinner that night, we spoke about many things. I was too young and too enamored by his attentions to realize that I should have been paying more attention to the things he was not telling me. “I am a businessman in the sales trade, but I also procure rare items for wealthy clients,” he said over another glass of the rare Dom Pérignon champagne.
Barry was an impressive man. I took in everything he said so completely that I didn't stop to question any of it. I am sure now that Barry adored that about me. “Tell me about yourself,” he said as our Kobe beef fillet arrived. All of my initial shyness fell away, after being marinated in the godly broth of champagne and shots.
“I’ve been modeling for a few months, and working with my aunt’s growing fashion brand. Nearly Yardy, you may have heard of it.” I tried to sound like I did indeed have some life experience.
Barry was a good listener and a smooth talker.
He turned everything into an opportunity to flirt and flatter. “Why have you taken a job at a furniture company?” he asked me, a broad smile on his face. “Surely a beauty like you doesn’t belong there.”
“I’m just trying to get along until my modeling career takes off,” I told him. “My parents didn’t have the funds to send me to college, so I decided to get a job and save for it myself. Though… truthfully I have no idea what to study.”
“I understand. I am a self-made man. A few years ago, I didn’t know what to do with my life either.”
Barry ordered us the third bottle of champagne, which blew my mind. How precious was this guy? “The trick is to do what you are good at. I am good at selling things. you'll find out what you are good at one day. In the meantime, you don't have to rush it. In Nigeria, a beauty like you would never have to work a day in her life.”
That night was a fairy-tale. It changed my perception on what my life could be. I always dreamed of falling in love with a romantic man—but a rich, romantic man was a new idea completely. I was on the inside of something great, and I never wanted it to end.
He was the perfect gentleman and dropped me off at home in the limo. I spent that night telling my sisters all about him and the magical evening we enjoyed together. For the first time since working at Def Jam, I felt alive.
Barry was my first intoxicating love. Romance quickly sprang up between us and we saw each other more and more often. He would often send his limo to drive me around, and I felt like a queen in New York.
Each time I saw him, it would get better. Barry was the kind of man that always got what he wanted, but was also very private about his business dealings. Barry often got up and disappeared to talk on the phone, or would randomly leave a dinner for an hour or so. It didn’t matter. When he returned he always made it up to me—things were intense.
Barry made sure that he lavished me with attention, gifts and the best of every
thing. He gave me so much that I dedicated all my time to making him happy. I learned fast that he loved to have fun, and so I became the central source of that fun. Wherever we went, we did it with a carefree attitude. Money was never an objection, and so there were no limitations. It was the most exciting thing I ever experienced.
About my job I cared less and less. My performance suffered, and when my company was forced to downsize, I was the first they fired. I was glad to go. My teenage brain was filled with nothing but thoughts of Barry and the next time we would be together.
The point arrived where we decided to travel, and now that my job was not holding me back, I could do whatever I wanted. He took me on lavish trips to California, Beverly Hills, Maryland, and Washington DC. We traveled to Lagos, Nigeria, which was an absolute adventure.
I had found my one true love, or so I thought, convincing myself and that the dream was our lives would never end. He was happy as long as he was the center of my world. I gave Barry everything, my time, my love and my body. I believed in him, and I dreamed of the day when he would propose and my life would be perfect.
Barry supported my delusions. He was a master at making me feel like the most desired woman in the world. We spoke of true love, of marriage and of running away together. This was my first experience with being swept off my feet by a man. It wouldn't be my last but it was the benchmark for future encounters.
Soon, I was spending Barry’s money for him, and he loved it.
It was a whirlwind, and toxic. We did everything in excess. That should have been a red flag for me. Instead I made excuses when things didn't seem or feel right. I wanted the romance with Barry to last forever.
If we got married, I wouldn’t have to work, I’d focus on college and he would pay for it. Or even better, I didn’t have to go to college because we would always have resources. Thoughts would race through my mind, and I felt blessed beyond reason.
Then came the day when what Barry and I were finished. The way it ended was something I could never have foreseen or even imagined. It was so far removed from the man that I thought I knew. As it turns out, I didn't know him at all. The smooth operator and flashy lifestyle that made me fall for him were the very things that tore us apart.
Barry was a fraud!
CHAPTER 7:
Probation and Club Tibet
“Liberalism, above all, means emancipation—emancipation from one's fears, his inadequacies, from prejudice, from discrimination, from poverty.”
~ Hubert H. Humphrey ~
I enjoyed a lot of good times with Barry, my African prince while I still believed everything was real.
We hired a rental car while out in Florida on one of our lavish trips and I was driving back to the hotel to meet him with a few bottles of alcohol. Suddenly blue and red lights flickered behind me, and the threatening whoop of the police siren told me to pull over. I did.
In my mind I was just another citizen on the roads, trying to make my way back to the man I loved. Why were they bothering me? A burly, bearded police officer took one look at the alcohol on the front seat and asked me to get out of the car. “Why?” I asked, not sure of my rights. Could they treat me this way without cause?
“Miss, get out of the vehicle,” the bearded officer repeated. He didn’t have a friendly face. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Move slowly. We are going to search your vehicle.”
“What do you mean search my car? What is this about? Why did you pull me over?”
My teenage mind had not grasped the concept of racial profiling just yet, and I refused to get out.
He yanked the door open and grabbed my arm to pull me out. Outraged, I yelled a profanity... a big mistake. He handcuffed me while the other policeman searched the car.
They found nothing, but this only made me protest even more. My big mouth! I should have held my tongue. They pushed me into the police car and took me back to the station, charged with obstruction of justice and driving without a driver’s license. The charges were trumped up – it was my mouth and my color that had landed me in the cell. I’d forgotten my driver’s license in a different hand-bag back at the hotel.
It was terrifying in that crowded holding cell, with its windowless walls, stained mattress and faint reek of vomit and urine. Unless I could raise bail money, I would get transferred to the women’s annex prison with real criminals.
I contemplated calling my father, but discarded that idea.
“Why do you need bail money?” he would say. “You got yourself in there. I didn't send you! There is a place to sleep, food, and facilities. Your problem, it’s like a hotel in there.”
Or worse, he would help me, depleting his savings to take me out. I would forever feel guilty about that.
Luckily I had boyfriend to call.
Barry got it done—he sent the $2,000 bond release easily and set me free. I was so grateful.
The comforting feeling didn't last. About a week later, our relationship came to an emergency stop
It was a ordinary day. The sun was shining. I was in a great mood listening to some beats on the radio on the way to Barry's house. From a distance, those same red and blue lights flickered menacingly at me. The closer I got, the more my heart sank.
Police. On-lookers. Yellow police tape. What was going on?
I pulled into the driveway and found the house cordoned-off with tape. Stark black words on yellow plastic warned, Crime Scene – Do Not Cross.
I phoned Barry at once.
“Hello, girl.” His voice sounded smooth and unconcerned.
“The police are at your house. What’s going on here, Barry?” I asked him, my nerves on edge.
“Trust me, babe, nothing is going on. This is all a big misunderstanding. I was not involved here, but the police are looking for me. I can’t get some of my stuff. Would you go inside and fetch a few things for me? Don’t tell the police you have had any contact.”
Of course I agreed. I picked my way through people into the house, explaining that I was Barry's girlfriend. This didn't have the impact I wanted. A policewoman sat me down and filled me in.
The house was ransacked. Everything was gone, there was nothing to collect. Worse yet, some kind of violent encounter had happened there.
The policewoman’s eyes filled with dark concern. “Do you know where Barry is?”
I shook my head, in fright. Then the story came out.
The FBI was everywhere. People were taking photos of rooms, scrapes on the wall and collecting bits of evidence as I barely heard what the police woman was saying to me.
“Barry is a well-known drug dealer, a very dangerous man. Did you know that?”
I shook my head.
“He and his wife fled this morning, and the FBI is looking for him…”
Drugs. Dealing. Wife?
I couldn’t grasp what she was saying. It was as if she was talking a foreign language I didn’t understand.
The woman took my details and told me someone would come around to my house to question me later on in the week. With that news, I staggered off, in a non-reality of epic proportions.
Gradually, understanding trickled into my consciousness: Barry, the drug dealer. Barry, the married man. Barry, the liar.
Every moment I spent with him I had been ‘the other woman.’ Every second we shared together was a lie! Sure, we liked to party, but drug dealing? What had I gotten myself into?
Memories knocked and demanded admission. All of those times Barry left dinners to take secret phone calls, the way he spent money—it all made sense now.
As I closed the door of my car, tears flowed down my cheeks like Niagara Falls.
I had believed Barry to be my Black knight sent to save me from a life of boredom. Like an emotional vampire he fed off my youthful dreams and lust for excitement. I felt betrayed down to my core.
F
rom that day, Barry vanished. He never came back, and I never went looking for him.
Barry taught me my first valuable lesson of love: men lie.
I resolved to be a lot more careful about whoever I fell for next time.
The aftermath of Barry's lies left me in a funk. I felt like Cinderella who, after dancing with the prince, had been cast back into a life of servitude raking cinders.
At 21, I decided to get a more exciting job, and bluffed my way into a bartending position. How difficult could it be to pour drinks?
When a massive crowd pressed in at the bar, dozens of people at a time shouting for drinks I never even heard of, it dawned on me that confidence and charm might not be enough. I stared blankly at the woman shouting, “Get me a Shirley Temple, a side car and three mudslides.”
To me, Shirley Temple was a fifties actress and mudslides were a natural disaster. My boss watched for an hour, then took me aside. “Crystal, that’s the second time you have given a customer vodka and orange juice instead of what they asked for.”
An hour into service and I was demoted to waitress, and I resolved to be the best waitress ever. I could hold a tray and look great writing orders on the little notepad. I could rock the ugly green apron. But I could barely get the orders at one table right, never mind five.
I hung onto the job just long enough to pass as a significantly below-average waitress, and to meet my second love, Tad. Everything about him was raw and real, so different from Barry.
Tad was outspoken and bold. He danced hard and partied harder. Once again, I found myself being courted by a tall, dark and handsome someone—only this time he was around my age—better, I thought. I spent months saving to buy my first car, a Honda Accord, with no help from my parents. Eventually I traded up to a 325i BMW.
Tad drove a BMW as well, and soon we were two BMW drivers in the throes of young love. My schedule became increasingly full as we dated, but we were both ambitious and wanted more out of life. Those were the planning years. I worked hard and dreamed of one day becoming a famous model or actress.
