Man Curse

by Raqiyah Mays

  “Girl, it’s me, Carmen! Remember we worked the Buzz music seminar? Summer of ’96? All those damn gift bags we stuffed? You were with your friend.”

  My face went blank before suddenly attempting to cover.

  “Meena, remember when we got lost trying to find the Puffy party ’cause we were so damn high off some weed your friend had gotten from some Jamaican?”

  Still nothing. I think the weed was affecting my memory.

  “Remember I used to break-dance?”

  Slowly it all came back. Carmen Mercado, the skinny Puerto Rican mami from the Bronx. She had a deep, beautiful voice that she’d use to bust into a rap at the drop of a beat. I remember at one party, she began dancing in the middle of the floor better than most B-boys in music videos. She was the one who always set it off. But that Carmen was a skinny, flat-chested, five-two girl who dressed like a boy. Now she was a busty bombshell advertising all her assets.

  “Yeah, I know I look different,” she said, looking down at her body. “I had twins. And an idiot husband for six months. So that’s three kids. Gained a lot of weight.” She sucked her teeth. “Left his lazy ass. Now I got a girlfriend, gay and proud.”

  I busted out laughing. “You look fine,” I said. “Although all the cleavage and tats made it hard for me to remember. But you look good. All thick and sexy.”

  “Thanks, mama,” she said, smiling. “You got the gig, huh? That’s hot! We gotta go to lunch, yo. I can tell you everything about this place.” She rolled her eyes and adjusted her headset as the phone rang. “Good morning, Buzz magazine.”

  I was impressed at how her slang and voice morphed from Webster Avenue, Bronx Boricua into eloquent, college-bred professional. “Absolutely, sir,” she continued in her nonregional diction. “Let me transfer you.” She gave me a wink, knowing her power, playing the game. “Good morning, Buzz magazine. Mr. Jacobs, how are you, sir? How was your long weekend? I assume fabulous?”

  “Miss Meena Butler.”

  I turned around to see the source of the voice behind me. Stepping off the elevator was the queen herself, Denise Banor.

  “Hey, Denise!” I didn’t mean to sound so excited. But I was. I had a job working for the most powerful editor in the entertainment business. “Cute shoes!”

  “Thank you, lady,” she said, grabbing the New York Times off Carmen’s desk. “You ready?”

  “Yup.”

  “Cool, come on.”

  We walked through the couch area. She whizzed past Sean, stopped, and did an about-face.

  “Mr. Sean Baxter,” she said with a half grin. “Bright and early.”

  “Well, when I have a meeting with the queen, I aim to be on time.”

  “Good, now if we could just get you to do that with your assignments, we’d be good.”

  Sean shot a quick, embarrassed look at me, and then said to Denise, “Um, yeah, I’m on that. That’s why—”

  “Sean, I just got in. Lemme get settled, show this girl around, and I’ll have her bring you down. This is Meena Butler, my new assistant.”

  “Yeah, we met,” he said, shaking my hand again. I plastered a big grin on my face.

  Denise squinted her eyes. “Okay, missy. No fraternizing with the help. Let’s go.”

  She turned for the stairs and I was at her heels, taking one last peek at Sean as I walked downstairs. At the bottom was a scruffy man, with an unshaved goatee, dirty Timberland boots, and a New York Giants jersey hanging to his knees.

  “Griffin, this is Meena Butler, my new assistant.” He shook my hand. “Please give her whatever she needs for the desk.”

  Denise informed me, “Griffin runs the mail room. Sometimes that reggae he plays is too loud,” she said. “But whatever you need, call him.”

  I nodded.

  She pulled out her key card and opened the door. Inside was a large room filled with cubicles. Some empty. Others occupied and cluttered with old magazines, empty boxes, Xerox paper, and outdated computers. A few folks popped their heads over the top of the divider. Others stood stiff as Denise whizzed by. It was like a scene from The Devil Wears Prada where Meryl Streep’s character scares the office straight, stopping all idle chitchat. Denise dressed like a Vogue editor: slinky black Chanel dress, mile-high bright red stilettos, and a large vintage Gucci bag that matched the Gucci scarf swinging from her neck. But unlike Vogue’s editor in chief, Anna Wintour, she was abruptly sassy, with a warm, down-to-earth mix of sarcasm that melted any ice some might assume she’d convey.

  “Good morning, everyone,” she said, walking to the center of the cubicles, stopping to stand in an empty aisle with a large cabinet in the middle. Atop it sat a fax machine and a tray of scattered, disorganized cover sheets and confirmation pages. “I want to introduce you to Meena Butler, my new assistant.”

  The office cheered and clapped.

  “About time,” said a tall, skinny man with a purple ascot. He had one hand on his hip and the other in his blazer pocket. “That temp was the worst. Can I get a meeting now?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “We’ll do that today, Francois. Now, some of you may or may not remember Meena from working the Buzz music seminar. She’s visited periodically, so she’s already been a member of the family. You know she’s solid, because I hired her. So if she looks lost in the corridors, please help her out. Okay?”

  Some nodded their heads affirmatively. A few looked me up and down, analyzing my outfit, studying, probably wondering how long I’d last. I planned to stay for the long haul. I was confident on the outside. But insecurity shook my nerves. Everyone at Buzz seemed so fashionable and fly. White, stiff, clean, uptown Nike sneakers. Fly knee-high boots. Fresh new Gucci bags, Prada this, designer that. And here I was wearing the flyest outfit I could afford from The Limited—a pair of khaki-colored pants in the winter and a striped black, white, and brown shirt to match. My shoes were cute black heels with a tiny bow at the top that tilted to the side. I got them from Bakers—affordably fly, thank you very much.

  “Meena,” said Denise, grabbing my hand. “Lemme show you my office and where you’ll be sitting.”

  She headed down a hallway, waving at passing offices. Some had music blasting from doorways opened to messy, disorganized desks. Others were meticulously clean with layouts of the magazine adorning the walls. Another office was covered with large color proofs showing pictures of the magazine, models, and celebrity types, with large red pencil marks circling unflattering parts of their bodies.

  Denise walked me into her zone. Half of the office was covered in magazines, old issues of Buzz with pages turned, ripped out, and curled at the corners. Some magazines looked as if they’d been read a million times, others were crisp and clean. Stacks of paper sat messily atop her desk next to empty water bottles and coffee cups with lipstick on the rims. Pencils, pens, markers, mail, tissues, makeup-stained proofs—Denise’s desk looked like the inside of my purse.

  “I don’t expect you to clean my office. You’re not my maid,” she said, taking a seat. Throwing her purse on an anonymous pile of papers, she glanced at the computer and moved the cursor back and forth. “I don’t want an assistant who wants to be a secretary forever.” She picked up a proof and peered at it in distaste. “I want someone who wants to grow with the company and do bigger and better things. Not saying being my assistant is not a good thing. But it’s just a start for you. You’re talented. That’s why I hired you. I remember your hustle at the Buzz music seminar and it was fabulous. That’s the kind of energy I want you to bring with this job.”

  I nodded affirmatively.

  “Just two words of advice for you. One: Don’t tell my business. Everything in my life and what I tell you is confidential. Never tell anyone where I am. And two: Don’t tell your business. Everything in your life is confidential. This is a small industry. Word travels fast. You don’t want people all up in your
shit.”

  She looked at me straight-faced with her arms crossed.

  “You got all that?”

  “Yeah. I got it. I don’t like people in my business anyway. If I tell you something, it’s because I don’t care if you know. I’m careful with what I share.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now, Griffin is out there setting up your desk. He’ll bring you a computer and show you how to log in, set up Outlook, and how to use the phones. If my door is closed, it means I’m busy. Only you can knock or buzz me to check if I want to be seen or take a call. If it’s an emergency, definitely knock.

  “Right now, I need you to put your bag down and lock it in the file cabinet. Not saying people here are thieves, they’re not, just always be safe. Then go upstairs, get Sean, and bring him down. Afterward, go to the business department, get your paperwork done, your key card programmed, and then I need you to make copies of a few articles, hand out some memos, and check my voice mail. At eleven, we’ll have an editorial meeting, I’ll need you to take minutes. After that, we’ll go to lunch and . . .” She paused. “Do you need to write all this down?”

  “Oh, yeah, I should.” I rummaged through my pocketbook. “Lemme just find a pen.” I looked inside, pushing aside the random papers and makeup and receipts, dollar bills, wallet, tissues, everything I needed for my bag. But I could feel Denise’s impatience. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her face, twisted and staring, as a tiny smirk opened her mouth.

  “Take this,” she said, holding up a purple pen. “And use this notepad. When we’re done, go get your supplies from the mail room.”

  I grabbed it and wrote everything down, speaking out loud as I scribbled. “Sean, supplies, copies, minutes, key card, paperwork, messages, meeting at eleven, minutes, lunch.” Then I looked up. “But not in that particular order. I just wanna make sure I jot it all down before I forget.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, you’re gonna work out. I gotta check my e-mails. So you go handle that, get Sean, buzz me thirty minutes after he’s been here, and when it’s ten forty-five, give me a heads-up so I can get ready for the meeting. And close the door behind you.”

  I left the office, placed my bag in the file cabinet next to my desk, and, before heading to the lobby, I scoped out my cubicle. A dirty, bland white, with dust outlining where the computer was to be placed. Still I smiled, because it was mine. My area. A spot at Buzz magazine. A warm, tingly thing did a rhythmic happy dance in my stomach, making my cheekbones stretch with wide contentment, making me exhale with sighing relief. Maybe I could be happy.

  Chapter 13

  Sean Baxter. Writer.

  His card, with a Brooklyn address and 718 area code, had a brown recycled look and feel to it with a cute pen-and-pad logo. I unfolded the edges, wrinkled after a tumble in my purse, and stared at the words that scrolled across the bottom: Thinking. Dreaming. Creating.

  I’d heard that writers were intellectual types—smart, well read, full of worldly knowledge. At the time, I’d never dated one. I didn’t know if the stereotype was true for any writer other than myself. But after meeting Denise, the staff of scribes at Buzz, and Sean, the wordsmith description seemed to be true. I was happy to be among like-minded people.

  Sitting on the train back to Jersey, watching the outline of trees blow in the dark, a momentary doze led my mind to drift. A dreamy vision of me sitting at a laptop, pregnant, feet propped up on a wicker stool, computer nestled on a small stand. And there I was, tap-tapping keys, two hundred pages along, pounding letters into my next bestselling manuscript. The nanny would call, letting me know my son had been picked up from school. At six, I’d make dinner. At seven, my soul mate would arrive home from work. And at seven thirty, we’d have family dinnertime. By ten, my husband and I would be laughing, talking, foreplaying into passionate lovemaking. That was true north. A dream I knew would come true. But who would play the role of soul mate? Sean, perhaps? He was a cutie, knew the entertainment business, and wanted to take me out. I wondered, Maybe I should call him. The thought lingered as my phone buzzed with a new text message: In the morning, stop at Guy & Gallard and order a fruit platter for the meeting tomorrow. Pay for it with the credit card when they arrive. Denise, EIC.

  Seconds later it buzzed again.

  Oh, and good work today. Your first day at work and you represented. So happy to have you on the Buzz team. Gnite.

  And then a third buzz.

  Hey beautiful, so when are we goin out? Italian? Chinese? French?

  It was Sean.

  I texted back: How about tomorrow after work?

  Sean: Ok. Let’s do La Petite Maison. Lincoln Square. 730p.

  Me: Ok. :+)

  The next day. 6:45 p.m. Buzz offices . . .

  I was sitting at my computer, waiting for Denise to finish her meeting so I could leave. Trying to stop myself from watching the clock, I watered and adjusted the fern next to the computer. Looked back at the clock: 6:47. Shit. I needed to leave by seven to get to the restaurant on time. On tarot.com, I began reading the plethora of Aquarius horoscopes offered: daily scope, love scope, monthly scope, weekly scope, feng shui tip of the day. I got up, went to the bathroom, and stared in the full-length mirror. My white skirt flared at the bottom. Short and sweet, it crept above my knees in a schoolgirl fashion. My matching top had spaghetti straps embroidered with small gold flowers crisscrossing the shoulder blades. I touched up my brown shimmery lipstick, pranced back to my desk, and prayed the meeting would be done. I could hear the editors loudly debating.

  “That is not Buzz magazine,” said Denise. “I’m not going to have a feature on some chick famous for sleeping with lots of rappers.”

  “But she’s hot right now.”

  “She does look good,” somebody else chirped.

  “She’s a whore,” Denise snapped back. “What talent does she have other than being able to fuck rich MCs?”

  “Well, I heard she was starting a new fashion line,” Francois, the style editor, sang.

  “Oh, that’s original,” Denise shot back. “If y’all want this chick on the cover, tell me something I haven’t heard before. You better wow me.”

  “And I heard she’s got a new perfume coming out,” someone else added.

  “Called what?” Denise asked, giggling. “Eau de ho?”

  Everyone laughed, including me; I let out a small snicker that I tried to catch by muffling and clearing my throat.

  “Meena! Meena Butler!”

  I jumped with each syllable of my name that Denise enunciated. Hopping up out of the chair, heart beating quickly, I shivered into her office.

  “Meena,” she said, “have you heard of Abby Tulip?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think of her? Would you read a story about her?”

  “Well . . .” I paused, searching for the politically correct thing to say. “I, um . . .”

  “Meena,” Denise said with an impatient exhale. “First rule of journalism: Be honest. Speak your mind. Be an opinion maker. Speak the fuck up.”

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Everything I need to know about Abby is in the tabloids. She used to be a porn star. She sleeps with all the rappers, actors, ball players. And now she’s got a new album, lingerie line, and perfume coming out. She cut her hair off bald, and copycat girls are cutting theirs off, too. I think she’s a horrible example to women who want to make it in this world without sleeping around. I think she’s a floozy and I have no interest in her at all. I don’t care about her. But I did hear Playboy was putting her on the cover. Buzz is always the first to the hotness. So I’d be surprised to see you come behind a magazine known for showing naked women.”

  “Tell us how you really feel,” Francois said, smiling. He looked at Denise and added, “I like this one.”

  “That’s why I hired her. She’s honest, knows the magazine, and she gave us the lowdown
. Sam, why didn’t we know she’s on the next Playboy cover? That’s your job. Are you not the music editor?”

  “Well,” he said, sweat beading above his eyebrow. “That’s not confirmed.”

  “It’s a rumor we need to investigate. I hired you to stay on top of that kind of shit. We were about to put this little naked girl on our cover after a tramp magazine like Playboy? That would have killed us! And then I would’ve fired you.”

  Denise looked at me. I held my breath.

  “Thank you for that, Meena. That’s all. You can leave now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She got up and closed the door as I walked out.

  Smiling, I unlocked the file cabinet, grabbed my bag, logged off, and speed-walked to the elevator before Denise changed her mind. Time check: 7:05. My date awaited.

  Chapter 14

  Sex with Sean was amazing. As his pelvis jutted out, back and forth, he thrust his package inside me. He rolled his back in a way, with slopes and peaks and valleys arching me into a shape that rolled with him, like a rowboat, over and over through rapids and shores far away, sailing my insides to a place where I could soar with the wind, feel the warmth of the sun, shout and scream. I could moan without the fear of someone hearing. I could moan in a way that felt like a fabulous, sweaty workout that tensed, stretched, and worked the muscles. It was so beautiful and wonderful. So wet and sticky; I oozed with sensual satisfaction between my legs that seeped down, dripped on the thigh, and lathered tiny hairs on my vagina into white, wet follicles filled with excitement, lust, love, and passion. I felt his fingers below. Inside my pussy. One. Two. Three. Pushing. Shoving. Digging. Twisting. Gushing. I whimpered a tiny yelp of delight and nudged forward so he could dig deeper, far enough for fingers to touch my uterus, to puncture deep and push it to the side so he could reach my heart. Touching it slowly and poking it with a reminder that the connection between mind, body, and soul can come with the best orgasmic release that blows up inside you and bursts like the hot ash and flames of a volcano. It’s not just a sexual connection or the release of endorphins that connects you heart to heart. It’s the synergy of a mind-to-mind connection. A yearning of mental stimulation that morphs into emotional love. That can turn the simplest chance meeting into an eternity of togetherness, of unity of enlightenment, and growth, and happiness. A lifetime of one. Being one because of the unity of two. So wonderful. So beautiful. Sex.