“Hello,” I said quickly. But it’s not Yolanda. It’s a man’s voice.
“Hey dog, whatsup … whatsup … whatsup … my dog,” the man said.
“You got it. Who am I speaking with?” I asked.
“Nigga leave town for a couple months and you forgot ’bout him. Whatsup with that.” I recognized the voice. It’s music-man Monty.
“Whatsup, Monty? I recognized your voice. Welcome back to the city.”
“Did you get my messages?”
“Yeah, but I’ve been busy. In fact, I just got back in town.”
“Where did you go?”
“Chicago.”
“Is it cold up there yet?”
“Not really.”
“What’s this I hear about an injury? You not playing for the Warriors no more?”
“Yeah, that’s right. My playing days are over.”
“Whatcha up to?”
“When?”
“Right now. I’m kinda near you. I just finished dinner at Mr. Chow’s with some of my boys. And I was thinking about dropping by,” Monty said.
“Now’s not a good time. I’m kinda tied up,” I said.
“Who is she? Or is it a he? Either way, if it’s a freak, I’m on the way.” Monty laughed.
“Naw, it’s not like that. Football ain’t the only thing I’ve given up,” I said.
“Whatever … man. You ain’t seen me. I’ve been pumping iron like crazy. Let me stop by,” he pleaded. I wanted to say, dumb mofo—which part of I’m busy don’t you understand? But I just said, “I’ve gotta run.”
Monty added, “Holler at a player when you git some time.” I hung up the phone, flipped on my answering machine, and turned up my music.
Chapter 20
Black folks ain’t shit. It pains me to think and write this, hut sometimes the truth is just the truth. I spent the fourth day of my unemployment at the movies. I went to see Spike Lee’s Get on the Bus. The reason I’m pissed off is because the theater was nearly empty. I went early thinking I was going to have to wait in line to buy a ticket. This don’t make no sense. One of the most important days in the history of Black America is made into a film by an African American man, without the help of white folks, and we won’t support it. Fisses me off big-time. What happened to all the promises we made to each other at the Marchi If half of the brothers who attended the March would have shown up at the movies with their wives, sister, or girlfriend, the movie would have been a tremendous hit. It ain’t like they don’t know it’s out. It’s been in magazines, radio, and Oprah. What else could brother Spike do?
And to make matters worse, about half the brothers at the film were there with white women on their arms. Disrespecting our sisters who were at the theater alone. I can’t figure this shit out. Why we as African Americans can’t support one another in something as positive as the March and the film. Now, had this been a movie about Black folks shooting up other Black folks, then the place would have been packed. Don’t we as a people realize that all Hollywood is concerned about when it comes to films about us is: How much money was made the first weekend and how many niggers were killed.
But I can’t worry ’bout that shit. I got to find me a j-o-b. I love Spike, but he and the other brothers who financed his film are set. Me, well, I think I got about six months before I might have to move back with my moms or to a shelter. Not that I would have a problem living with my mother. I’ve been thinking a lot about moving back to Oaktown, or to Washington, D.C. Maybe it’s time for me to leave Chicago. There is nothing really holding me here but a job I no longer have. I have about $39,000 in the bank and another 20K in a 401 (K) I can use. Thank God that after I got rid of Kelli and paying her alimony I went back to living like I did when I was in college. I have always lived below my means. But I was saving this money to surprise my moms with a house for her birthday-Mother’s Day-Christmas present this year. But I guess she can’t miss something she never had.
I’m trying not to worry about my job situation. I’ve talked to a couple of headhunters who say with my skills, they shouldn’t have a hard time placing me. That’s what they say at least. One firm I’m using probably won’t send me out for a lot of interviews after I asked the women handling my search why they didn’t have any African American headhunters. “We’ve been trying to find some,” she said, sounding like she was looking for some soon-to-be-extinct animal. I started to call my boy at MedMac and tell them what’s going on, why I’m no longer on the account, but I don’t want to fuck up my severance package. For six months of salary, one of the conditions is that I don’t contact my former customers or file any legal actions against the dumb sonofabitches. If they had given me the check in one lump sum, I would have taken the check to their bank, cashed it, and gone directly to MedMac to tell them what time it is.
I should take the money I have, move my ass back home, and start my own business. Something in the community, like teaching brothers and sisters about computers and how to use them. But what if my peoples didn’t support my business? Didn’t want to learn about something new. I know that would piss me off more than the shit that went down at my gig. There are a lot of African American people in the world like Riley and Selwyn, who feel if it ain’t white, it can’t be right. Won’t give a brother a chance if their life depended on it. When I confronted Selwyn about this a couple years ago, he gave me some lame excuse about choosing the best one for the job, without reference to color. He sounded like a white man, only he was a brother I thought I knew. I guess he learned that at Harvard.
I haven’t decided if I’m going to tell the group what happened with my job. I’ll probably just tell them I’ve decided it was time for a change. I’ve bugged Riley, Leland, and Yolanda long enough. They’re not gonna change. But maybe I’ll change. A change in employment, locale, and friends. They probably won’t even notice I’m gone.
Chapter 21
I wandered uneasily around John’s apartment for about a half hour, staring at the phone. I needed to call Riley. She had left four messages at my apartment and two with Monica at my office. From the messages she left on my home answering machine, I knew why she wanted to talk with me. Was she going to open up for Goodfellaz? The answer was still no.
Instead of calling Riley, I sat on the sofa and finished my cold cheeseburger and washed it down with a swallow of diet Pepsi. The autumn afternoon sun painted the living room with soothing shades of ivory and gold. I tried to take my thoughts away from Riley and thought about the meeting I had with a record company executive Lajoyce had arranged for me. The record company wanted me to consult a member of a popular R & B act who was thinking about announcing that he was gay at the same time he was launching a solo career. The executives wouldn’t tell me the name of the group or the member in question. I was one of three media specialists they were considering. I did discover he wasn’t coming out as some noble gesture, but because members of his own group were threatening to make the information public because of what one record executive described as petty jealousies. A major music industry magazine was preparing a front-cover exposé on the group and its gay member. I started to call Leland and tell him about the meeting, but I knew he’d ask what I had done about Riley.
For a moment I thought I was ready, but as soon I picked up the phone I felt the need to use the bathroom, where I suddenly had a strong desire to read John’s sports magazines sitting in a wicker basket. When I came out, the sun was retreating and I was praying that John would turn the key to his apartment, giving me the excuse I needed. But he said he’d be in late, after meeting with his agent and his two-hour workout. I noticed a scrapbook in one of John’s bookcases, so I spent some time looking at pictures of John when he was a young boy. He was, of course, very cute, but he wasn’t smiling in any of the pictures. He must have been wearing braces or something. After skimming all the reading materials in the house and looking through the scrapbook twice, I decided it was time. I wanted to see how I looked, but I didn’t see any
mirrors in John’s living area. I guess when you looked like John, you didn’t need mirrors. I took a long, careful breath, reached for the phone, and dialed Riley’s number. She picked up on the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Riley, how are you doing? I got your messages,” I said.
“Yolanda girl, I’m so glad to hear from you. I’m so excited about singing. I think I’ve lost about ten pounds from nervous energy,” she said.
“How is everything in Chicago? Are Ryan and Reggie loving Hampton?” I asked, ignoring her enthusiasm.
“Oh, Chicago is fine. How long have you been gone? Ryan and Reggie are fine.”
“What are you doing right now?” I asked.
“Just sitting here in my office, writing checks to several charities Selwyn and I support.”
“You should make a check out for my charity,” I teased.
“What charity is that?” Riley asked.
“The I’m-a-broke-bitch foundation.” I laughed. It was nervous laughter, but Riley joined in. “Yolanda, you’re so crazy. That’s what I love about you, honey.”
Why did she have to say she loved me, I thought. I spent another five minutes with friendly conversation, though delicately avoiding any mention of Riley’s singing. I mentioned the top secret media planning session I was working on, and we talked a few minutes about where Dwight was going to hold the next group meeting. It was his turn, and we knew he’d never have it at his apartment. Riley said, “I just hope it’s in a safe place.”
“I know that’s right. Remember that time he had it in this hole-in-the-wall barbecue joint on the West Side?”
“Yes, girl, Selwyn was so mad at me for taking his new Lexus up there.”
“I think Dwight’s growing up. Maybe he will choose a place close to downtown.”
I was tempted to end the conversation by talking about Dwight, but Riley wasn’t having it. “So, Yolanda, have the people made a decision yet? Did you let them listen to my tape? Am I going to sing?”
I started to say, please, one question at a time, but I blurted out.
“Riley, you’re not going to sing.”
“I’m not?” she asked softly.
“No, I’m afraid you’re not up to it.”
“Is that what they said, Yolanda? Did they tell you why?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“Then why can’t I sing?” Riley pleaded.
“Because your voice isn’t strong enough,” I said.
“Who said that?” Riley quizzed.
“I did … I mean they said that,” I stuttered.
“Who said it, Yolanda? Who said I couldn’t sing?” Riley asked. A bitter edge had entered her voice.
“No one said you couldn’t sing, Riley. We just decided to go with someone else.”
“Did you take up for me, Yolanda? Didn’t you tell them how important this was to me?” Riley asked as if she were accusing me of incompetence.
I didn’t know what else to say. My face became glazed with sweat and there was a long silence. My heart was beating fast. Finally I heard Riley say, “Yolanda, are you still there?”
“Yes, Riley, I’m still here.”
“Did you tell them?” It sounded like she was crying.
“Why is this so important to you, Riley? You have so much else to do. I mean, with your charities and your writing. Your poetry has gotten so much better,” I said.
“So you’re saying I can’t write poetry either. Yolanda, I thought you were my friend. Now I get the impression you think I can’t do diddle. No, I bet you think I can’t do shit.”
I had never heard Riley use a curse word. Even when all of us would use them, Riley never did.
“Riley, calm down and listen to me. I was thinking about you when I made this decision. It’s tough performing for the public. I think you should consider getting a vocal coach and working on your singing. That is, if singing is what you want to do with your life.”
“What’s wrong with my singing? You think you know every damn thing. Your life is so perfect, you’re so perfect. I need this opportunity, Yolanda, and I thought as a friend you’d see this. But you’re so concerned with your own little perfect life that you can’t see how miserable my life is,” Riley wailed.
I was in shock and didn’t know how to respond. I decided to take another deep breath before I lost my composure. I wanted to choose my next words carefully, but Riley didn’t give me the chance.
“Yolanda … Yolanda,” Riley yelled.
“Yes,” I said softly.
“You don’t ever have to worry about me asking you for nothing. I’ll make it on my own, and I’m sure a perfect person like you has no need for a no-talent friend like me.”
“Riley, stop it. You know that’s not true. You’re overreacting.”
“You don’t know me. You don’t know what my life is like.” Riley started sobbing so hard that her words became incoherent.
“Riley … Riley,” I said. But Riley didn’t answer. For a few minutes all I heard was crying and then a dial tone.
What to do? Who to call? I started to call Riley back, but I figured she needed to calm down. I called Leland and got his answering machine. I left a message but didn’t leave a number since I hadn’t cleared it with John. I called Sybil, but she was combing Devin’s hair, and I told her I would call back.
“Are you all right, Yolanda?” Sybil asked.
“I’m okay. It’s a friend I’m worried about.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I need to work this out myself. Kiss the kids for me.”
“I will. But, you know if you need me, I’m here, big sis.”
“I know, Syb. I know.” I hung up the phone and, just as I was about to let go of the river of tears I was struggling to keep in place, John walked in the door, looking tired and carrying a gym bag. He greeted me with a kiss and asked me how my meeting went. That’s when I lost it. I started crying like a baby, telling him about my conversation with Riley.
“Don’t cry, Yolanda. I can’t stand to see you cry,” he said as we moved to the couch. “Your friend Riley will have to get over it herself. You did what you had to do. Doesn’t she realize this is your business? Didn’t you tell me she had a rich husband supporting her?”
“But I hurt her badly,” I sobbed.
“You didn’t do it on purpose,” John said. “You did what you thought was best.”
“What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to go in the bedroom. Get undressed. And then you’re going to let me give you a soothing bubble bath. After that I’ll give you a massage and I’ll rub all that tension from your beautiful body,” he said. It sounded wonderful, though I didn’t think even John could change the way I felt. I had hurt a friend.
The tears had stopped, but a rush of anger swept over Riley again. She sat silently in the library’s gathering darkness, staring at a centerpiece of white tea roses her maid had arranged earlier in the evening. Riley absorbed the silence, reflecting back on her phone call with Yolanda.
How dare Yolanda tell her she couldn’t sing, Riley thought. Singing and writing poetry were the two activities that Riley did on her own, without the direction of her domineering mother or her over-anal Selwyn. But now one of her best friends and sorority sister was trying to take even that away from her.
Riley noticed the full brandy decanter and started to pour herself a drink, but quickly decided not to plunge herself into self-pity by mixing alcohol with anger. She wanted to talk with someone and share her anger, but the realization that she didn’t have a single person to call brought tears to her eyes once again. She couldn’t call her mother, because Clarice would probably tell her Yolanda was right and she needed to get on her knees and beg Wanda Mae to give her her job back. Selwyn was at the office, and although he seemed more attentive in the last couple of days, Riley wasn’t certain how long this would last. Calling Dwight was out of the question, because Riley knew he didn’t really care
for her, and was probably the one who had convinced Yolanda she couldn’t sing. Leland, she felt, would listen, but would probably suggest Riley seek professional help. The phone interrupted Riley’s thoughts, and as she leaped to answer it, she prayed it was Yolanda calling her back to tell her she made a big mistake.
“Hello,” Riley answered breathlessly. “Hello, Riley.” It wasn’t Yolanda. It was her husband.
“Selwyn.” Her voice could not hide any more disappointment.
“Yeah, are you all right?”
“Why do you ask?” she asked, wondering if he really cared.
“You sound like you’re out of breath,” Selwyn said.
“I was on my treadmill,” Riley lied.
“Oh, I see. By the way, in case I haven’t told you, I’m really proud of the way you’re sticking with your new exercise program. Maybe this spring we can start to work out together,” Selwyn said. Riley didn’t respond. “Riley, are you still there?”
“Yes, Selwyn. Are you at the office?” Riley was wondering what Selwyn was getting at. Didn’t he hear she wasn’t interested in what he had to say to her?
“Yeah, but I was calling to see if I could bring you something for dinner. What do you have a taste for?”
“I’ve already eaten. Sire broiled me some fish,” Riley said. Apparently the good Selwyn was still in Chicago.
“Well, I’m going to stop somewhere and grab something. I’ll see you when I get in?” It wasn’t like he was making a statement, but a hopeful question. Riley started to give him one of Ryan’s favorite retorts and say whatever, but she just mumbled okay and hung up the phone.
Riley decided to retreat to her office and write a poem describing how she felt. That would help, she thought. When she turned on her computer, there were no messages from Lonelyboy, but Riley decided to send him a message anyway. She thought about giving him her phone number and asking him to call, but realized Selwyn might answer the phone. Riley was thinking about what message she should send, when she noticed the poem she had recently discovered. This was it, she thought. Riley hit the keyboard rapidly:
If This World Were Mine Page 18
