Man Curse

by Raqiyah Mays

  “This isn’t gonna work,” I said. “We’re just . . . different.”

  His eyes flooded with tears; he was like a giant teddy bear begging for a hug.

  “Beenie was nice,” I said, glancing at his picture on my wall, phone cradled next to my ear. “I shouldn’t have done that to him.”

  “Yeah, well, we were stupid in those days,” Meredith said, as I stared at a picture of her, Doreen, and I dressed as sexy cats at the junior-year Halloween party. “I mean, it is what it is. But breaking up with a nice guy like Beenie wasn’t you. That was Doreen and her peer pressure. She was so mean and fake. Negative and manipulative. I’m glad we’re not friends with her anymore.”

  “Amen.”

  “Although . . .” Meredith’s words trailed off.

  “What?”

  “I heard she just got married.”

  “Doreen? To who?”

  “Your old boo.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Jason Novack.”

  I glanced at a group picture of the girls’ and boys’ track teams. The lone white guy, in the middle of a group of brothers, was Jason. At six-four, he was not only the tallest in the school but one of the most popular. A junior who’d made his way to being a standout starter on the boys’ varsity basketball and track teams, he hung out with all black guys, listened to hip-hop music, and seemed more like a brother with soul than a white boy with Czech roots. He wasn’t known for dating anything other than blondes until the day his sister Jennifer gave me a ride home after track practice. Since our after-school schedule coincided with that of the basketball team, Jennifer scooped Jason up and dropped me off on the way to their house. I’d never noticed him until he opened the car door for me, grabbed my bags, and escorted me to the steps of my porch. Before then, he’d been just a beige blur in the hallways. But the flirting turned to late-night phone calls, in-school letters, and a card and carnation on the day he finally asked me to be his girlfriend.

  Things began well between us. On rare days when we didn’t have practice after school, I’d go to his house and laugh as he’d sweat. Exuding nervous shivers, he’d turn red as I took advantage of being more experienced than him; I was his first sexual encounter. I sucked on his neck and slowly kissed his lips. I pushed myself onto his body, pressuring him to have sex with me. His pale skin would turn reddish purple with a short, sixty-second suck to the neck. And I loved it, enjoying the power of control over a boy who hadn’t gone all the way with anyone other than himself. He fell in love, calling me nightly to share his heart. Things changed when he invited me over to meet his parents one evening.

  “So, Meena, what does your mother do?” His mom asked this while cutting her chicken into tiny pieces. “I believe Jason said she works in finance. She deals with money, I assume?”

  “Oh, no, she just answers the phones,” I said, dousing my chicken with salt, thinking Mrs. Novack must’ve forgotten to season the food. “But she’s trying to get a new job at another company, ’cause she wants to make more money.”

  “Oh.” She smiled, sipping a glass of white wine. “Well, what does your father do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I haven’t seen him since I was a baby.”

  Silence followed that answer. There was an awkward tension as the Novack family—Jennifer, his mother, and father—looked down at their plates simultaneously. Nervous gas bubbled in my belly. I went to grab the salt again, but Jason’s mother gave me a sharp cut of the eyes that sliced my pride. I slipped back my hands and retracted them into my lap. I couldn’t wait to leave.

  Later, Jason admitted that he’d gotten into a major fight with his parents after his mother began lecturing him about “black people.”

  The only thing I remember him saying about that conversation are the words his mother apparently screamed across the dinner table: “This is a white family!” She threw Jason the subtle reminder when I walked out the door. She reminded him again after seeing his hickies and running from the table in tears. He, in turn, ran the other way, out the house and down the street to a pay phone, where he called me.

  I wanted to understand him and not be offended. I knew this was his parents’ ignorance and no fault of Jason’s. But at seventeen, I didn’t know how to deal with what I felt. Embarrassment? Shame? I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t get over the reality that I was dating a child of racists. The anguish and emotional uncertainty of having never dealt with racism projected my anger onto Jason with a fury of mean insults. I began to act out toward him, the way my mother treated me: nagging, complaining, verbally abusing, and publicly humiliating him about everything—from his clothes to the way he walked. Suddenly he became a corny white boy in my eyes, not cool enough for me. Not deserving of my respect and attention. Becoming aware of our differing skin tones brought on embarrassment. Suddenly I noticed people staring at us. We’d walk in empty spaces, and I’d drop his hand when anyone we didn’t know approached. And eventually, I broke up with Jason, publicly, so everyone would know, picking a loud fight in the hallway and berating him in front of the school. The result was a beet-red shade I’d never seen his face turn. He hung his head low and ran into the boys’ locker room. We never spoke again.

  “Jason Novack . . .” Meredith’s words trailed off. “I will never forget that breakup. That boy almost cried in the hallway. He really loved you.”

  “I know,” I said with a sigh, staring at an old Valentine’s card he’d written that still hung on my wall. “I still feel bad about that. But his parents . . . they messed everything up. What the fuck? Do you think that’s man-curse shit?”

  “No, that’s racist shit.”

  “How does a bitch like Doreen get to marry a nice guy while I keep attracting these assholes?” I said, shaking my head back and forth.

  “Well, she got pregnant. And you know he’s Catholic. He’s likely doing what he thinks is the right thing.”

  “What? Pregnant?” I sighed, staring at my visionary poster. “I don’t know. I’ve got to figure this shit out. I need a new job. I need a new man. I need to move out of this house.”

  “You need a new perspective,” Meredith said, cutting me off. “’Cause this man curse is all in your head. You made your goals. So believe, wait, and they’ll manifest. Do you believe you can have what you dream of?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you will. It’s that easy,” she said, “Power of the mind, Meena. You’ll see.”

  “Birthday number twenty-five,” I said, closing my eyes to pray. “Dear Lord, thank you for the day. Please bless me with success, happiness, and love. Amen.”

  The next morning I overslept. A night of partying with Meredith left a hangover that made the sound of a chiming phone rock me awake with a throb of my head. In what seemed like an early-morning haze, my phone echoed from a faraway place deep down in the black hole known as my pocketbook. I messily dug in my bag, looking for the cell. Pulled it out. Dropped it. Slowly picked it up. Stretching my eyes wide to see the fuzzy vision of a 212 number. Who could be calling me from New York? Bill collectors? No, that would be an 800 number. Maybe it was Dexter calling, taking a trip to the city to get me back? No. Fuck him. Then it hit me: Buzz.

  Buzz had been the hottest magazine on the entertainment scene the past year. I remember seeing their TV commercials; covering everything from music and fashion to TV and film, Buzz was always on the pulse of what’s hot and not. Thanks to a hookup from her cousin, Meredith and I had volunteered two summers ago during their Buzz music seminar week. Picked as gift-bag stuffers for a celebrity fashion show, she dragged me as her plus-one to all the hot parties, where we brushed shoulders with celebrities, drank free liquor, and grabbed expensive swag bags. Loving the fast, superstar lifestyle, I made business cards at Kinko’s with my name and number and handed them to everyone I met.

  “Hey, well, here’s my card,” I’d say to
whomever I bumped into at the bar. “If you’re looking for a good assistant, let me know.”

  Stuffing bags at the Buzz office, I walked around and passed out my contact information. Smiling. Talking. Chatting. Making sure each person at that magazine knew my name. And for every business card I received, I sent a personalized follow-up e-mail to touch base. Three months ago, I had submitted my résumé in reply to a job-listing e-mail I’d received from someone I’d met at the seminar. Buzz was searching for an executive assistant. A few weeks later I was called in for an interview, but I’d nearly given up hope after several follow-ups and no returned call. But now, ninety days later, maybe they were finally getting back to me.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Hellooo.” I let the oo ring out like a morning cheer. “This is Meena.”

  “Meena Butler, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Meena, this is Denise Banor from Buzz magazine. How are you?”

  “Hi, Denise!”

  Denise Banor was the new editor in chief of Buzz. She’d written for all the mainstream magazines in the country, had interviewed nearly every major celebrity on earth, and was queen of the publishing world after her fiction novel became a bestseller. I remember her being one of the less snooty ones at Buzz. She never talked down or made me feel like a peon, never gave me the once-over look that most in the industry would give. Denise was warm. Familiar. Cool. And I was honored to have received her call.

  “Meena, I’m sorry it took so long for me to get back to you,” she said, Busta Rhymes playing in the background. It was a song I hadn’t heard before. Had to be new. “We just closed our biggest issue of the year, and—”

  “Is that a new Busta Rhymes song?” I cut her off, regretting it the moment I opened my mouth. But I couldn’t help it. I loved hip-hop, and if there was anything I knew, it was rap music. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cut you off.”

  “No, it’s cool,” she said, laughing. “Yeah, a new single that drops next week. You like hip-hop?”

  “Yeah. When Disaster Strikes is one of my favorite albums at the moment.”

  “Good. You need hip-hop knowledge if you’re gonna work with me. But I need an assistant ASAP. I want you. If you’re ready . . .”

  I didn’t know how to answer. Stuck in shock, the moment slowed down.

  “Hello?”

  “Um, hello,” I replied. “Um, yes.”

  “Meena. You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to work for me? Help me get things right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you come in tomorrow to fill out paperwork?”

  “Yes.”

  “I assume as my assistant you’ll be saying more than ‘yes’?”

  “Yes. Ooh, I mean. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . um . . . wow! Yes! I can start whenever. I am so ready. Thank you so much, Denise.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, cracking up. “But I’d rather you thank me by being a great assistant and holding me down.”

  “Oh, I will. I’ll be the best ever.”

  Chapter 12

  The next day, I was up at six and on an eight o’clock train to New York City. I sent a quick e-mail to Merrill Lynch, letting them know I’d found a full-time gig in lieu of the freelance work they offered. And the best part was that I didn’t have to be at work until ten, per entertainment industry hours. But I wanted to get there early. Squeezing between a small, skinny Indian man with a pocket protector and a large, bald white guy with a beer belly, my legs curled to the side in a ladylike position. Hardly able to move, my knees knocked with one passenger. My bag brushed stomach fat. But I didn’t care. I was going to work for Buzz magazine. I was going to be in “the industry.”

  The New Jersey Transit train pulled into Penn Station. I bustled my way through the fast-moving crowd onto a platform that spilled out of the train tunnel and onto the cold, icy February street. Pushing my way through everyone, I became part of a marathon of hungry, workforce runners vying for the top position. Speeding to escape the freezing wind that slapped our backs and pushed us along. I slipped my way onto Eighth Avenue. Bumped into one man. He nudged me with his shoulder. Tripping, I stepped on the foot of a lady. She whispered an insult. And in a domino effect I fell forward into someone new.

  “Oh my God.” I sighed in frustration, pausing on the sidelines and telling the man I bulldozed as I picked up his dropped book, “I’m sorry.”

  When he turned around and stood up straight, time stopped.

  He was like a god, sparkling on the outside. The sun’s light shined on him with such beauty and ease, bouncing off the muscles that protruded through his shirt. Cornrows tightly braided, neatly crisscrossing back into fine, ripe elements. His eyes glistened as he looked down upon me. My face was confused, in awe. Mouth numb, partially open, eyes stretched in a rush of excitement.

  “You all right?” he asked, his voice smooth and relaxed. Assured and calm.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I just feel like I got brushed up into a tornado or something. And I didn’t mean to step on your shoes. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, nothing polish won’t take care of.” He pointed down Eighth Avenue. “You headed this way?”

  “Yeah,” I said, walking. “I’m a few blocks that way.”

  “Well, I’m going in the same direction, so I guess I’ll be watching you stumble down the street.”

  “Probably. I need to pack my sneakers tomorrow. Thought I’d be cute today, but I obviously need better traction to handle these folks in New York.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Jersey.”

  “Oh yeah? Me too. I live in Brooklyn now. Was visiting my family this past weekend in Newark.”

  “For real? I was born at Beth Israel hospital.”

  “Wow, me too. Maybe we were babies in the same ward. And now we’re reunited,” he said, straight-faced. “Although, wasn’t everybody in Newark born at Beth Israel?”

  I laughed but stopped short. Careful not to crack up too loud and make him think I was trying too hard. We talked and walked all the way to the Buzz building.

  “This is my stop,” I said, wincing on the inside, hating that I used a cliché film line. “It was nice meeting you. What’s your name?”

  “Sean. Sean Baxter.” He grabbed my extended hand, held it for a few moments. “You work in this building?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which floor?”

  “Fourth.”

  “Interesting,” he said with a furrowed brow. “That’s where I’m going.”

  “Buzz magazine?”

  “Yeah, I have an appointment with the editor in chief.”

  “Interesting.” I grinned. “So do I. What do you do?”

  “I’m a writer. What do you do?”

  “I’m the editor in chief’s new assistant. Nice to meet you.”

  We stared at each other. Marinating on the moment.

  “Hmmm,” he said, opening the door for me. “Interesting.”

  “Talk about six degrees of separation,” I said, giggling. “I mean, I thought the world was bigger.”

  “No,” he said, not smiling, rubbing his goatee. “It’s not.”

  When I looked at him from the side, he was still furrowing his eyebrows. Serious, perplexed, in deep thought. We were silent the entire elevator ride up to the Buzz offices.

  Stepping off the elevator was like walking onto the set of a TV show. Large, colorful framed photos of celebrities lined the walls. Each had been featured on Buzz covers. Will Smith, Tom Cruise, LL Cool J, Mary J. Blige. A neon-blue light outlined the reception area. Ceilings and floors glowed with a fantastic blue haze. Long, black couches curved with every slope of the oval room, forming a U-shape design. A sixty-inch flat-screen TV flashed a mix of music videos, fashion shows, and movie trailers. Mas
e, Puff Daddy’s newest protégé, blasted from speakers jutting out of the corners of the ceiling.

  “Here’s my card,” Sean said, as he nodded at the receptionist. “Although I’ll probably be seeing you again.”

  “And here’s my info,” I said, digging in my bag, anxiously feeling around for my card. But I couldn’t find one. “Hold on a minute, I know I packed them.”

  I took the bag off my shoulder, set it on a table, and began desperately digging past tissues with lip imprints, pens missing tops, dirty brown envelopes with cell phone bills inside, a raggedy checkbook with the top page falling off, strands of hair, old panty shields falling out of the pink packaging, empty sandwich bags, hairpins, and makeup containers—and then, deep inside a hole ripped through the lining, I felt a card.

  “Here ya go,” I said, passing it to him. “Sorry it looks a bit bent, it’s my last one.”

  “It’s cool,” he said, checking it out. “It’s got all the info I need, Miss Butler.”

  I smiled, watching his tall, lanky body casually stride to the couch and sit down. He crossed his legs into a manly, ninety-degree angle and flipped open an old issue of Buzz. Pointed at the table of contents, his fingers were beautiful, long and precise like his body. Probably like his . . .

  “Excuse me . . .” The receptionist’s voice snapped me back to reality. “Who are you here to see?”

  “Oh, I’m, um . . . sorry.”

  “I know.” She laughed. “He’s a cutie. Beauty and brains.”

  I suddenly began to sweat. Red flowed to my cheeks. Taking a deep breath, I exhaled. “I’m here for Denise Banor. I’m Meena Butler, her new assistant.”

  “Ohhhh! Hey, mami!” she said, smiling a toothy grin. “Remember me?”

  I looked at the receptionist carefully. Her yellow arms had two tats apiece. One near her shoulder read “Nay-Nay.” Around her wrist was a hemp leaf. On the other arm was a vine that twisted around the muscles to just above the elbow. She wore a rhinestone butterfly ring with rainbow colors. Her long, black, shiny hair was cut to frame her round face. And her cotton midriff top was cut low enough for cleavage, highlighting the cat paws protruding from the neckline of her teeny white V-neck T-shirt. I didn’t recognize her.