I had since expanded the line with mugs, journals, and T-shirts. The line also included cards and calendars with beautiful African American women of all different shapes and colors. I had several cards with young models wearing T-shirts with Greek symbols, which were a big hit at the black colleges and universities. My products were carried in every state except Idaho, Utah, and Montana. A few years ago, Celia designed an Internet site that increased business by almost 35 percent.
“Do you think we have a shot at Wal-Mart?” I asked.
“Yep, I do. Their card buyer is this beautiful Hispanic girl named Christy. We really hit it off, and she’s working with her boss to bring me to Arkansas to do a card-buyer presentation to Wal-Mart. You can retire in your early forties if we get this account,” Celia said with a wink.
“We’ll both be able to retire,” I agreed as I looked over the report and started humming, “Money, money, money,” as Celia drank from her mug and bounced her head from side to side to my tune.
“What is that I smell?” I asked as I walked into my outer office. It was a little after ten o’clock.
“I got up early this morning and made these just for you. That’s why I was running a little late,” Ms. Gladys said. Gladys Singleton was the office manager and mother figure to both Celia and me. A sixty-four-year-old widow who looked forty and still dressed like she was running for campus queen, Gladys started working for me when I stole her away from Douglas High School. I was there giving a presentation on how I started my business, and I was impressed with the way she carried herself and how a single look from her cowed a rowdy male student into sudden silence. I could tell she was a “don’t start nothing, it won’t be nothing” kind of teacher.
After my presentation, we talked for over an hour about how she had reentered the teaching profession at age fifty-five after her husband died suddenly. Gladys had met her husband her freshman year at Tuskegee Institute in Alabama and had two adult sons whom she was estranged from because of their ongoing drug problems. I could see the pain in her eyes when she told me how her sons had stolen her wedding rings and pawned them for drugs. A week before her husband died, he had planned to use his retirement savings to get the rings back.
I gave her my card and told her if she was ever in the market for a new job, I would love to hire her. I was happy and surprised when, a month later, Gladys walked into my office and announced, “I’m not about to allow those little bastards to make my last years miserable.” I hired her on the spot.
“Now, Ms. Gladys, I told you, you don’t have to do that,” I said as I peeked into a wicker basket full of blueberry muffins. I smiled and inhaled deeply.
“I know you already had one of them bagels with all that fattenin’ stuff on it. You know you shouldn’t eat eggs unless they come straight from the farm,” she said. “Taste one of these muffins. I put in some walnuts I cracked myself.”
I took a bite and said, “This is the best blueberry muffin I ever had.”
“I thought you said your mama could cook.”
“Yea, but not muffins like these.”
“Little Miss Celia wanted to take one, but I told her we had to wait until you had one first.” She shook her head. “I tell you, I don’t know what to say about these young girls today. Don’t she know menfolks get first shot at the food?” Ms. Gladys said.
“And I’m sure you reminded her of that.” I smiled as I picked up another muffin. This would cause me to run an extra twenty minutes on the treadmill, but it was worth every step.
“I have to remind Celia every chance I get. Did you see that dress she has on? Of course you did, you a man. Can I get you some coffee to go with your muffins?”
“Sure, with lots of cream.”
“Now, Chauncey, baby, I know how you like your coffee. You just go on into your office and get busy making up new cards or whatever it is you do in there. I’ll be in there in two shakes.”
“Thank you, Ms. Gladys.”
“No problem, baby.”
When he opened up his mouth to sing, all the girls (and a few guys) pinched each other and giggled. They weren’t laughing because he couldn’t sing. They were simply doing what girls do when they see a cute boy. I heard one girl whisper, “He’s so fine, he’s bound to be a pimp or a preacher when he grows up.”
Sweet D was a boy of many talents. Before he arrived in town, I never had competition when it came to being the choir director’s favorite. But it looked like I did now. D seemed to have everything.
“In my home, over the-re. Where my Lord he did prepare,” he sang in a tenor voice as clear as a spring day.
“In my home,” he continued, and I began to worry about what song I could sing the next time I did a solo to outshine my new rival.
After practice, I watched him mesmerize Taylor Dillard and her running buddies with banter about living in the big city of Atlanta. To look at them, you would have thought he was commenting on their beauty, the way all three of them were batting their eyelashes and covering their mouths like they were white southern belles at a debutante ball flirting with the black wait-staff. He caught me staring at him again as I had on the basketball court, and as I had a few days after that while he drank a Coca-Cola with salted peanuts at the bottom of the bottle, shirtless (six-pack clear and present) at the Texaco service station. All I needed to do was go over to him, use my postpuberty deep voice, ask what was happening, and give him the black-power soul shake. But I didn’t have to do that. After Taylor and her crew left the church, he walked over toward the organ where I was sitting, pretending to study the keys.
“So I hear you sing, too,” he said.
“Yeah. I sing a little,” I said without looking at him.
“Do you play, too?”
“Play?”
“Yeah, the organ.”
“A little.”
“Play something for me,” he said. It wasn’t a command but rather a request.
“I can’t do that,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Dr. Owens, the minister of music, don’t like us kids playing with his stuff.”
“Who’s gonna tell?” he quizzed. I looked at him, and he smiled and said, “Not me.”
My stomach started grumbling and I jumped up from the bench. “I better not.”
“Okay, some other time.”
“Sure. We have a piano at home. Maybe I can play for you there sometime. Can you play?” I said.
“No, but maybe you can teach me,” he said with a smirk. “What’s your name?”
“Chauncey. Chauncey Greer.”
“Nice to meet you, Chauncey. They call me Sweet D. I just moved here from Atlanta.”
“Why did you move?”
“It wasn’t my plan. My pops left town years ago and my mama wasn’t working, so one of her cousins told her we could come live with her until my mama got on her feet,” D said.
“Oh,” I said, wondering where his father had gone.
“Who do you live with?”
“My mama, daddy, and I have a sister and a baby brother.”
Sweet D was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Sounds like a real family. Like Leave It to Beaver.”
“Naw, we’re not like them, but maybe you can come see for yourself.”
“Are you inviting me over?” he asked, sounding surprised. “Man, that’s cool. Most of the dudes have been really shady except for the guys I play ball with, and they don’t invite me over because they ’shamed they live in government housing,” D said.
“Let me check with my parents, but I’m pretty sure it will be okay,” I said as I started out of the church.
“Cool. Just let me know.”
“I will,” I said, waving good-bye and wondering why my heart was pounding and sweat was dripping down the center of my chest.
CHAPTER FOUR
I poured some pale pink sautéed shrimp over a plate of hot pasta, and the phone from the downstairs concierge rang. My dinner guest was on time.
&
nbsp; “Hello,” I said.
“Mr. Greer, this is Tad from the desk. I have a Sir Skylar here. May I send him up?”
“Sir Skylar?” I laughed. “Yeah, send him up.”
I pulled a bottle of Merlot from the bar, opened it up to breathe, and then pulled out two wineglasses from the cabinet and set them on the granite countertop.
I took the Caesar salad I had made earlier from the refrigerator, looked around the kitchen-dining area, and declared myself ready for entertaining one of my best friends, Skylar Demond Roberts.
I’d met Skylar after I started my company and did an appearance on the local Good Morning A-T-L show. He was the makeup artist. Even though I have never been the type of person to walk up to someone and say, “Hello there, I’m Chauncey and I sleep with men,” Skylar immediately clocked me by quipping, “So, how many young boys’ hearts have you broken, Mr. Tall, Chocolate, and Handsome?” We’ve been friends ever since.
We’re quite different. Skylar embraces everything about being gay and hasn’t missed a black-gay-circuit party in years. Every year he treks to Washington, D.C., Los Angeles, Chicago, and Miami, where he tells me the finest black gay men in the country converge for a weekend of nonstop partying. He lives to fall in love, if only for a week or two. I live to avoid it. He laughs out loud every time I invite him to join me for church and teases me that I’m on the GL (the God Low). Meaning that the way I curse and love sex, he was certain that God didn’t even know my name. I wasn’t ashamed of my faith, but I did get tired of trying to explain to people how I could have sex with men, still believe in God, and consider myself a good Christian or at least a work in progress.
The doorbell rang, and I checked on the brownness of the bread in the oven before I rushed to the foyer.
“Chauncey, darling, darling,” Skylar said as he swept in wearing a tight knit pullover with a fake fur collar and a large black leather bag thrown over his shoulder.
“Let me take your wrap.” I inspected the dark brown fur and wondered why Skylar was wearing something like this in the summer—in Atlanta, in early July.
“What did you whip up? It smells great, like garlic,” Skylar said.
“Just some shrimp scampi. I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m always hungry, and you know I love to eat, despite what my schoolgirl figure will tell you.” Skylar twirled around the room. He was about 5'7" and slim, with sharp features and the small waist of a high school twirler.
“Come on, let’s eat. Would you like some wine?”
“Do you have any beer?”
“I think I have a couple of Coronas,” I said.
“Oh, no—on second thought, that’s way too butch. Just give me a little white wine,” Skylar said quickly.
“How was your weekend?” I asked as I grabbed a half-bottle of Riesling from the back of the fridge.
“Fabulous. I had a date with another horse-dick boy I met on the Net. We spent the entire weekend together, but of course he has a lover—wife or something. I forget. I just know I most likely won’t see him again,” Skylar said as he took a seat at the counter.
“Are you still doing that online stuff?” I asked.
“Don’t try to high-hat me, Chauncey Dion Greer. Need I remind you that you tried it, too?” Skylar said.
“But I didn’t meet anybody,” I said, recalling how excited I was when I got my first response to my Internet ad. But I became quickly disenchanted when my date didn’t look anything like his picture.
“Your standards are too high, but you’ll get lonely one night and you’ll be pulling out that computer for comfort,” Skylar said, and laughed.
Maybe he was right. I didn’t consider myself lonely, and with my growing business, the gym, and church, I led a full life. The guys I communicated with over the Internet all seemed like such losers—they regularly used fake pictures or listed themselves as tops but sounded like California Valley Girls over the phone. Besides, I saw enough half-naked boys every day in photos of models and wannabes who submitted pictures to be the next discovery of CBCC.
“Earth to Chauncey,” Skylar yelled.
“What?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I asked you how was your weekend?”
“The usual, nothing special,” I said.
During dinner, Skylar chatted about some guy he was writing in prison (when it came to keeping a man, Skylar left no stone unturned) while I thought about what I had to tell him.
After dinner, I made tea and Skylar and I moved to the patio to enjoy the view of downtown Atlanta. A couple glasses of wine convinced me I was ready to share with Skylar my recovered dream to sing. I hoped he’d be supportive.
“So what are you working on?” I asked as I placed a berry-brown leather scrapbook under my chair.
“Another fucking makeover show, and trust me when I tell you I am sick and tired of trying to convince some short, nappy-haired, overpermed ghetto bitch that she doesn’t need a weave,” Skylar said. He was now an executive producer for Good Morning A-T-L and had a staff of five working for him. The only time he did makeup was when one of his favorites, like Patti Labelle or Jill Scott, was on the show.
“But aren’t those shows popular?” I asked.
“Yes, and they pay the bills.” Skylar took a sip of his tea and eyed the scrapbook I had brought out to the patio.
“Then I guess now is not the time to ask you to consider doing an executive makeover on Celia. We have a big presentation at Wal-Mart, and I want her to have a more professional look,” I said.
“Can I get rid of the weave and those microbraids?”
“That’s up to you two, but she got rid of the braids.”
“And the too-short blue jean skirt.” Skylar laughed and then asked, “What’s that?” as he pointed to the scrapbook.
“Something I wanted to show you. It’s a little secret from my past,” I said as I picked up the heavy book and handed it to Skylar. He opened it and looked at the first few pages, and his eyes grew big.
“I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“I noticed how you’re always talking about how models bore you, and yada, yada. You used to be one of them.”
“You think I used to be a model? Get real,” I said.
“Oh, now, don’t be so modest. Look at that face, those eyes. Honey, you could put Tyson what’s-his-name on a boat back to the Islands selling fruit if you decided to strut the runway. Maybe I should suggest to the general manager that we do a show like Miss Tyra Banks, but for men. You could be my first winner and we both could make millions, since I would be your agent.”
“Stop talkin’ shit and finish looking at the book.” I got up and walked through the sliding glass door to put on some music.
A few minutes later, Skylar’s laugh and shouts blended with Luther Vandross’s soulful voice. I stuck my head outside the door and asked what was funny.
“You were in a group? And you were the star? Look at you on the cover of Right On magazine and JET!” Skylar said.
“I wasn’t the star, but we were quite popular,” I said as I sat down next to Skylar. I glanced at some of the yellowed newspaper clippings about the group, photos with me smiling and sporting a high-top fade like the other group members.
“All of you guys were fine. I would have had to give you all some. Who is that?” Skylar asked, pointing to one of the guys as we sat on a sofa in the lobby of some fancy hotel in Chicago.
“That’s Barron,” I said.
“And him?” Skylar asked as he pointed to the guy in the middle.
“Darron.”
“Were they related?”
“Twins.”
“And my, my, who is this cutie? I bet you two didn’t like each other because you were both trying to be the best-looking one. What’s his name and where do I find this rump shaker sho’ ’nuff baby maker?” Skylar asked.
I looked at the photograph and a flood of memories covered me. I was speechless for a moment.
“Cha
uncey, honey, who is he?”
I took a deep breath, looked at the photograph and then at Skylar. “That’s Sweet D.”
“Hmmph…I bet he was,” Skylar said.
I got up from my chair and stood close to the railing in silence, studying the city like it was a map that had come to life.
“So why the big secret?” Skylar asked.
I continued my survey, turning my attention to the cars, which looked like Matchbox toys from twenty-two floors up.
“Chauncey!” Skylar shouted.
“What?” I said as I turned quickly to face him.
“Why did you keep this a secret? This is fantastic. I remember the remake of Since I Lost My Baby,” he said.
“It’s not a big secret. It’s just a part of my life that’s over,” I said.
“So why did you show me tonight? Are you guys getting back together? Can I be a part of the group?”
“Can you sing?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood, already knowing full well that Skylar couldn’t carry a tune in even his most expensive leather bag.
“You know I can’t sing, but I can shake my tail feather,” Skylar said as he stood, did a little dip, and then did a Beyoncé-inspired booty shake as he slapped his left cheek.
“You’re crazy.”
“Yeah, I might be crazy, but you still haven’t told me why you made me take a trip down memory lane. Did somebody die?” Skylar asked.
“What?”
“Where are these guys? What are they doing? Are they gay or straight?”
I hesitated for a moment. “They were straight and I haven’t talked to them in almost twenty years. Our last performance was at the Regal Theatre in Chicago in 1988. I haven’t seen them since,” I said.
“Oh, honey, we need to get another bottle of wine, because I know there is a story here,” Skylar said as he sat back down on the metal chair.
I Say a Little Prayer Page 3
