If This World Were Mine

by E. Lynn Harris

  Once we were airborne, John removed the mask and the earplugs. When I asked where we were headed, he said I’d know in a couple of hours and told me not to bother asking the flight attendants, because they wouldn’t tell me. So I just sat back and enjoyed the latest issues of Essence and Sister 2 Sister magazines and orange juice the attendants offered. John had this pleased look on his face like he was really pulling one over on me. I looked over at the passengers sitting across the aisle from us, hoping for a newspaper or some type of sign that might let me know where I was headed. No such luck. After we had been up in the air a couple of hours, the flight attendant came over and whispered something to John, and he put the earplugs and mask back on me. It took me a few minutes to get my bearing once we had deplaned, then I smelled the sweet scent of food. Creole food. I was in one of my favorite cities and the birthplace of Leland. I wanted to call him right away and say, “Guess where I am, baby-boy?”

  A driver met us at the baggage claim area and whisked us into a waiting limo. Inside I found a dozen red roses, a bottle of champagne, and a note saying welcome to an evening of magic. And it was. We checked into a suite at the beautiful Windsor Court Hotel, right outside the French Quarter. After a few minutes of a little hugging and kissing, John and I headed for a workout at the New Orleans Athletic Club. We worked out for about an hour and then came back to the hotel, showered and changed clothes, then headed for dinner at the Commander’s Palace, a renowned restaurant located in this great old house. Dinner was different from anything I had ever experienced. John had arranged for us to sit at the captain’s table, which actually meant the kitchen. Our table setting of fine china was in the center of the busy kitchen on a butcher-block cutting station. There we were served samples of everything that left this wonderful kitchen. Every time the chef would put something on our plate, he would describe its origin and how it was prepared. We sampled everything from beef to lobster. A wine steward served us a different type of wine with each entree. It was simply exquisite.

  After dinner John had a horse and carriage waiting in front of the restaurant. We strolled the Garden District and viewed the beautiful Victorian houses. It was humid and the bugs were out, but I didn’t mind a bit. The driver gave us bits of New Orleans history and pointed out the hotel where Tennessee Williams finished his play A Streetcar Named Desire. We got out of the carriage and walked for about an hour around the French Quarter, which seemed packed with visitors.

  When we got back to the hotel, he had both tea and champagne waiting. We took separate showers, then listened to the music of Sherrie Winston and Cassandra Wilson while we talked. John attempted a move by letting his hand slip to my left breast, but I was able to keep him at bay. But I was tempted, especially when he walked out in nothing but some form-fitting Versace boxers. His body brought to life a pair of underwear the way few men could. It looked like he was also trying to hide a couple of packages of Now ’n’ Laters in his fancy underwear. He saw me look, but fair’s fair: I caught him looking at my chest when I came out wearing a peach satin nightgown. I was glad I didn’t bring my little-girl cotton gown, what I wear every night at home, plain and simple. Whenever he would try to make his move, I would engage him in conversation or bring him over to the terrace and point out one of the many strange people walking around the French Quarter. I know I’m sexually attracted to him, but it will be on my terms, and only when I’m good and ready.

  John likes talking to me and hearing himself talk. Sometimes when he talks it seems like he’s saying things he never shared with anyone. It makes me feel special and I try and return that feeling back to him. I don’t know why, but I’m not so surprised that someone so handsome still might be insecure about certain aspects of their lives. Before we knew it, daybreak was coming and he fell asleep in my lap, just like a little baby. I woke him and we got in the canopy bed. The closest we came to doing the do was when he wrapped his large legs around my body and drew me close to him. But that was as far as he went. He was tired and so was I.

  The next morning we went for an early morning run and stopped at the Café du Monde, a cafe across from Jackson Square, where we enjoyed sugar-drenched beignets and flavored coffee while sharing parts of the local newspaper. I couldn’t help smiling as the sunlight began to fill the cafe and everything just filled with warmth—me, John, the whole wide world.

  Chapter 10

  Dwight sat in his small cubicle in the Wrigley Building staring at his black computer screen with the orange screen saver, asking: Has it changed your life yet? He was mad. Dwight started to pick up his phone and call his mother, but realized she was still at work and might not understand his anger. He started to call Henry, one of his basketball-playing buddies, but thought he would have to explain everything he said, and he never knew who might be eavesdropping in his office. Dwight started to simply grab his gym bag and leave early to work out some of his steam, when he noticed his journal sticking out of it, inviting him to express his anger on its pages.

  I don’t care when white folks try and fover each other in business. They do it all the time. But when they try and pull that shit on a brother and try and get me involved—then that’s when I have to say to hell with the bonus and stuff and speak my piece.

  I got a situation going on like that in my office. I just came out of a meeting with a sales representative and his manager. I know in this office the salesmen and their managers run the shit. It’s that way in most organizations that’re trying to sell something to other companies. Employees look to them like they’re some kinda gods. The secretaries perk up when they walk in and they get the best parking spaces and no one ever questions their 500-dollar lunch and dinner tabs. But if the real truth be known, most of them don’t know jack. Just bullshitters who’ve faked their way to the top and are getting paid big-time to f over people. It’s the good ole boy network in its purest form. That’s one of the main reasons I won’t consider ever going into sales—I’m not a bullshitter. I have to say what’s on my mind. Salesmen will say whatever they think you want to hear.

  This white salesman (we don’t have but one brother in sales and he’s a Tom—never even talks to me unless he has some technical question) I usually work with, Barry Slaughter, wanted me to sign off on this proposal for over three million dollars worth of new equipment for this client. All the sales proposals have to be signed off by a sales engineer, basically stating that the equipment the company is proposing will work together and do what the sales representative has promised. On a deal like this, the sales rep will make a killing in commissions (in this case over 50K) and sometimes, not always, the sales engineer—that’s me, who’s responsible for installing the equipment and working with the customers will get some type of jive bonus. The sales rep is the one who gets the Cubs, Bears, and Bulls tickets, and who can actually claim a day on the golf course as a full day’s work.

  The reason we had this meeting was because I refused to sign off on this proposal and I think Barry needs it to make quota or else his ass might be looking for a new job. The customer is one of my favorites, MedMac, an African American medical information service company that started out small, a family operation. But over the years they have grown tremendously and recently went public and had sales of over $75 million a year. I like the president and the MIS director, who’s a young brother who worked his way up from a programmer. This was one of the few accounts that I really looked forward to visiting, so I was all for installing new equipment. It made me feel proud to see what Black people could do when we put our minds on something constructive. MedMac was one of the things I loved about Chicago—that being so many African American businesses were thriving here despite a white mayor and his cronies.

  Well, Barry is trying to sell them a lot of equipment they don’t need and won’t need until five or maybe even ten years from now. At the bare minimum they need about $750,000 worth of equipment to add to their existing computer system. When I told Barry this, he looked at me with a smirk and said, “I kn
ow they don’t need all this equipment, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them. I got a mortgage to pay.” I start to tell him I didn’t give a flying fuck about what he had to pay, he wasn’t going to fuck over the brothers to pay for his house out in Arlington Heights or wherever the fuck he lived. I didn’t go off on him, I just told him I wasn’t going to sign off on the proposal.

  Next thing I know they’re beeping me while I’m in a meeting and telling me to get back to the office right away. When I get back, he and his boss are jumping up and down saying I got to sign this and help them convince the customer they need this equipment. When I tell them no, they said something like I’m not being a team player and this isn’t going to look good on my next evaluation and raise. I tell them I don’t care. They can write and say all they want about how I’m not a team player—but they can’t ever say I don’t know my shit when it comes to computers. I still study hard to make damn sure of that.

  One of the reasons I left Digital Plus was for bullshit like this. I thought a smaller computer company wouldn’t try and mess over their customers to make quota. Now, I ain’t saying they did that at Digital Plus, but there were a lot of politics when it came to assignments, and if a salesman didn’t want you on his accounts, then your ass was gone. The real reason I left Digital Plus was because of all the money I was able to collect when they were downsizing. I figured I could use that money toward building my mom a new house real soon. I remember how she thought I was crazy leaving a good company like Digital Plus, no matter how much money they were offering me to leave. I told her they were all the same and if they wanted to pay me money to not have to look at my Black ass—then it was, see ya, I’m outta here.

  During the meeting Barry and his manager pointed out that I hadn’t taken this stance before, that I knew they usually recommended more equipment for a customer for backup and I had signed off before. I countered with the fact that the equipment was more than enough for backup. The customer had spent over three million the year before on a new system. I started to tell them I didn’t really care when they were messing over each other. Then they tried to imply that I was doing this because the customers were African American, but they didn’t have the nerve, so they said something about maybe I was too close to this account. I got so mad at what they were trying to pull that I went further than I should and told them, not only was I not going to sign the proposal—but if they went over me and brought another engineer on the account, I would go to the customer directly. They knew I had a great relationship with MedMac, and this was one of the few customers old Barry couldn’t sell shit to on the golf course. When these brothers did lunch, it wasn’t at some fancy downtown restaurant, but maybe Glady’s or Army and Lou’s.

  After I made the statement, they both looked at me like I had gone postal, threatening to bring in the branch manager and the vice president and recommend my immediate termination if I did such a thing. I told them do what you must—but that’s the way I feel about it and you guys ain’t going to f over the brothers, and I walked out. I’m just waiting for them to make their next move. I’ve made mine.

  Riley was preparing to turn on her computer and send a poem to her secret admirer, when Selwyn walked in. His presence surprised her. Selwyn never came into the office when he knew Riley was there; usually he would take his laptop or his work into the library. But there he was with his clean-shaven nutmeg-hued face, looking a bit tired in his white shirt and tie. Then his first question shocked Riley even more.

  “I’m thinking about going up to Hampton for a football game and check in on the kids. Are you interested in joining me?” Selwyn asked. Riley was noticing how gently he was smiling.

  “Excuse me?” Riley said as she moved a white sheet of paper over the yellow legal pad where she composed her poetry. She didn’t feel like having Selwyn patronize her by asking to hear her latest piece of poetry. In recent years, the only time Selwyn asked Riley about her poetry was when he needed her to do something for him, like dress up nicely and attend a party of one of his partners.

  “I’m heading east. I’ve got to see a client in Washington, D.C., and I thought it would be nice if we rented a car or hired a driver and went to see the kids,” he said.

  Riley wanted to ask him why now, almost a month later, instead of the opening of school as they had planned. Was there some other motive? Were the partners at his firm the ones actually requesting her presence? They did that on occasion.

  “I don’t know if I’m going to be available. I’m waiting to hear about a singing engagement.”

  “A singing engagement?”

  “Yes. I might be singing at Park West,” she said proudly.

  “With who?”

  “Solo.”

  Selwyn looked at Riley like he wanted to walk over and put his hand over her forehead and see if she had a fever. He stayed leaning in the doorway and his curiosity got the best of him and he asked, “So when did this happen?”

  “It’s not official yet, but I’m pretty certain I’m going to get the gig. I’m just waiting to hear from the record company executive,” Riley said. Selwyn placed his hand on his chin and walked closer to his wife. Maybe something in her eyes would let him know if she was serious.

  “So you’re going to sing? That’s wonderful,” he said, facing Riley and the black and chrome desk he had picked out when Riley told him she wanted her own office at home. As distant as Selwyn could be with his emotions, he always tried to provide Riley and their children with any material possession they requested. Selwyn scratched his itching back against the doorway in a right to left sliding motion and began to unloosen his gold and blue tie. He was staring at his wife. Selwyn removed his oxford red glasses and rubbed his eyes in a defeated gesture.

  “Is there something wrong, Selwyn?” Riley asked.

  “No, I guess I’m just a bit surprised,” he said.

  “Surprised at what?” Riley asked. She wondered if he was surprised that she was charting out a life of her own or that she was going to sing in a top spot like Park West.

  “Just surprised that you’re turning down a chance to see the kids. I know you must miss them and I thought you enjoyed visiting Hampton,” he said.

  “I do miss the kids. But they’re not kids anymore, and besides, I talk to them every other day. When’s the last time you’ve talked to them?”

  “At least once a week. I talked with Reggie just yesterday and Ryan has my 800 number that she uses often,” he said.

  “Who knows, I don’t have the exact date. Maybe I will be able to go. I have to make sure it doesn’t interfere with my rehearsals,” Riley said. She was thinking, maybe her dreams about a Hampton reunion with her husband might happen after all. But she also questioned if she desired such a return to the place they fell in love.

  “Let me know,” Selwyn said as he lowered his tall and lean body into a blood-red leather chair. “I’m going into the library and look over some work before I call it a night,” he said.

  “I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll call you and leave you a message on your 800 number,” Riley said.

  “Do you have that number?” Selwyn asked, trying to recall if he had given his wife one of the plastic cards with his personal 800 number.

  “No, but our daughter does. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember,” Selwyn said.

  I could tell from my caller ID box that Yolanda wasn’t phoning from Chicago, so when I picked up the receiver I said, “Miss Yogi … do you still have any clients in Chicago, and if so when do you see them?”

  “Whatcha talking about, boyfriend? How do you know I’m not right down the street from you,” she laughed.

  “You forgot. I’m Black. I got caller ID,” I joked.

  “I know that’s right. Busted! I’m back in New York, but I’m working.”

  “Working what? Or should I say working whom?”

  “That too. How ya doing?”

  “I’m doing fine. How is Mr. Wonderful?”

  �
�Just great. Matter fact, I’m waiting on him right now. He going to pick me up when he leaves the gym,” Yolanda said.

  “Why didn’t you go with him? Afraid you might show him up?”

  “Naw, from what I’ve seen, he has nothing to worry about,” Yolanda said.

  “So you still holding on to your stuff? As Uncle Doc would say, you keeping that wax paper over your sweet potato pie?” I teased.

  “Trust me, honey, I’ve got aluminum foil over my pie. How is Uncle Doc?”

  “Fine. Crazy as ever. I was hanging out with him a few nights ago,” I said.

  “Tell him I said hello,” Yolanda said. I told her I would, and then I noticed a brief silence, which usually meant she had something important she needed to ask me.

  “So whatsup?” I asked.

  “I have a little favor I need to ask you,” Yolanda said shyly.

  “Why am I not surprised? I’m listening.”

  “You know the next meeting, which is this coming Sunday, is supposed to be at my place. And, well, I’ve been so busy with my new clients in New York, and, well, would you switch with me and take September? I know it’s short notice, but it would be a big help,” Yolanda pleaded.

  “Is that all?” I thought she was looking for man advice.

  “Yes, that’s all,” Yolanda said.

  “Sure, Yogi. I can do that. All I got to do is call Uncle Doc. Tell him to fry up some extra wings on Sunday and go pick up a loaf of light bread and we’ll be set,” I said.

  “Thanks, baby-boy. Miss Riley will be too through with all those wings she says she don’t like to eat,” Yolanda said.

  “Speaking of Poetic Justice, have you decided what you’re going to do?”

  “I have decided that she won’t be singing at a showcase I’m producing. I just haven’t figured out how I’m going to tell her. You want to do me one more small favor?”