Playing Hard To Get

by Grace Octavia

  “Busy?” he said. “Well, I see you weren’t too busy to get that mortgage paid.”

  Tamia felt his words dig into her gut like a dagger. She’d hated the idea of taking money from him to buy the place. But managing both Charleston’s expectations of how his lady should live, and her own needs to have something that marked her arrival in the city, she cowered and took the deal. Her father, who’d offered to provide the down payment for a two bedroom in Greenwich Village, was suspicious and said the decision would haunt her someday.

  “I can give the money back, if you want it,” Tamia said shortly.

  “That’s most of your savings.” Charleston’s voice was still cold. “And how will you pay it next month?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know you don’t know.”

  “So, then why would you bring it up?” Tamia looked at Charleston and she was so angry now, he was the one who felt the dagger.

  There was no comeback. The embarrassment in Tamia’s tone made Charleston’s wielding of power seem small, childish.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just wondering why I can’t seem to get any time with my girlfriend. I mean, Naudia tells me you’ve been hanging out in Harlem with that Malik character. What am I supposed to think?”

  “I haven’t been hanging out with anyone,” Tamia answered. “I don’t know why my assistant would tell you that. I’ve just been going to the center. They have yoga classes and I even took this meditation seminar. It was—”

  “Meditation?” Charleston frowned. “What the hell do you need that for? That’s why black people take naps or go to church.”

  “It’s not like that.” Tamia laughed and while she was looking at Charleston, she was seeing the image of Malik’s bare, straight back as he demonstrated the breathing pose before her. There was no need to mention that he was the teacher…and she was the only student.

  “Oh, that’s not what it’s like?” Charleston faked laughter and stopped suddenly. “Well, what is it like? No…what is he like?”

  “Him?”

  “Come on. I’m not stupid, Mia. Some ghetto nigga with dreads and a knapsack has you using your bank card to take cabs back and forth to Harlem every day. What is it? A fantasy? You wanna fuck a hoodrat? I could understand that. I really could. I’ve had some.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Are you crazy? Wait, have you been looking at my bank statements?”

  “Take this as a warning,” Charleston said softly, as if he was reciting a prayer. “Don’t let your fantasies fuck with your future. The case is a dog and you need to act that way. Your nose is wide open, but you can’t smell your dog’s shit.”

  The car stopped in front of the office and Tamia sat speechless as the driver came around to open her door.

  “I’ll be coming by later,” Charleston said cheerfully when the door opened.

  Top Seven Signs It’s Over

  If a man ever tells you that he just decided to break up with you “today,” know that it’s a lie. Breakups are like bread—they take time to rise to completion. Whether it’s a divorce or the conclusion of a college cohabitation, the dissolution of a romance is a process—one that, unfortunately, the other party often isn’t privy to. While you may not know your significant other is trying to flee the coop, there are some signs to look out for before you come home to find the locks changed, the dog missing, and an envelope from the courthouse on the steps.

  7. He wants space: If he asks for an open relationship, he already has one. If he asks for space, he needs it to put someone else in it. Translation: “I want you out of my space.”

  6. You’re getting two-word answers: If you suspect something’s up and he says, “I’m fine” or “It’s cool” without trying to make a change, pack your bags. Translation: “I’m fine…but you’re not!”

  5. He’s very busy: If he’s not President Obama, he has time to see you. He can sleep over or meet you for a twenty-minute cup of coffee next to his job. Translation: “I’m too busy for you because I’m looking for a new place.”

  4. She’s just a good friend: And so were you! If she’s calling and he’s running out, pack your bags and get out of there. Translation: “She’s just a friend now….”

  3. He’s too tired for sex: Sometimes it’s true—but most times it’s not. If he doesn’t want to get it on, it’s because he doesn’t want to handle the sexual baggage when he finally gets the courage to say, “It’s over!” Translation: “I don’t want to have sex…with you. But maybe you could call the girl from tip 4….”

  2. He doesn’t want to go: If you don’t see his friends, family, or coworkers anymore, there’s a reason. Now they’re collateral damage. He doesn’t want to hurt them when he hurts you. Translation: “I’m not going, because I don’t want you to be with me!”

  1. He says, “It’s over!”: While this is a no-brainer, it’s surprising how many women stick around after a man says she shouldn’t. Refer to point 16 of the BAP Declaration of Independence—Pack light and never stay where you aren’t wanted. You can’t change him. Translation: “No, like, for real…It’s over! I’m calling the police!”

  

  After seven days of the silent treatment from her husband, Tasha and seven boxes of her most prized possessions were busy building a new relationship in an old home. Wrapped in anger at everything, Tasha spent most of her time cursing Lionel for not seeing the big picture and convincing herself that one day he would see it and come crawling back to her, a baby girl on either hip as he smiled and remembered the life they used to have in this place.

  Did she miss her children? Of course she did. So much so that she dreamed of being with them and when she woke up, she wasn’t ever really sure which part of her life was the dream. And she was partially sad when she realized which one was. But she kept telling herself that in order to have them with her forever the way she wanted to, she had to lose them for a little while. It was a part of her plan. Lionel’s season was over and he was with them full time, alone, day in and day out. He’d never had them alone like that. Didn’t know about the night feedings and fussy naptimes. How Toni would spontaneously faint if she couldn’t get gum in the checkout line at the supermarket and Tiara would send vomit shooting across the room like a projectile missile if he overfed her just one ounce of milk. And once he was tired of playing Daddy Dearest, he’d realize he couldn’t have the family he wanted without the wife he’d walked away from. And she was in New York.

  But there was another side too. The side of free mornings, manicures that lasted more than two days, listening to music as loud as she pleased, and planning to do whatever she wanted.

  Sipping on martinis at Lelabar with Lynn, Tasha thought of how chic and young and alive she must look to people walking by. Her hair in a bun and cocked to the side of the back of her head, she had on couture jeans and a cozy cowl-neck sweater. It was understated and cool. She didn’t look like she was trying to belong. She just did.

  As promised, Lynn had invited her out to talk about the idea of them joining forces and starting their own marketing team after she built up her contacts working with the Knicks. Tasha was so excited to have an “in” in the industry. The way artist management and PR went in entertainment, once you were out, you became a dinosaur no one wanted to touch. It didn’t matter what you knew or who you knew, leaving was a sign of defeat and no one wanted to work with the defeated. While she didn’t know why Lynn was so interested in working with her, Tasha’s ego wanted to believe it was based on the small reputation she’d made working with Lionel. And really she didn’t have time to think about that anyway. She had to work the opportunity. She had to see what ideas Lynn had. What she wanted to do. What they could do together. But so far, they’d had two martinis and tapas and all Lynn had talked about was other people.

  “Can you believe that? That Mr. ‘Put It Down on Me’ got both of those girls pregnant at the same time? Senator Long’s daughter and that actress?” Lynn said and Tasha
realized she hadn’t been listening to anything she was saying. “Now, Long won’t admit the guy’s the father, but I pledged with his daughter’s best friend and she said it’s true. They had pictures of him with the baby up on Facebook!” Lynn was oozing with excitement, her eyes sparkled beneath Lelabar’s dim light. Tasha could tell that she was the kind of person who loved to know things and share them with other people. A gossip. Not any kind of gossip—a black gossip—a bossip who gathered bits and pieces about every who’s who in the black “in” crowd and spread it up and down the coast. “God, these men are a trip. If you want to get your freak on, just let your lady know. Maybe they could’ve shared him.”

  “Maybe they could’ve killed him.”

  “You’re crazy!” Lynn giggled. “Things aren’t that dramatic anymore.”

  “Dramatic? He got them both pregnant! He deserves to get his ass cut!” Tasha said.

  Lynn nearly choked on her drink.

  “Natasha—”

  “Tasha.”

  “Sorry. Tasha. If you’re serious about working with these people you have to know that things have changed. It’s not…2000 anymore.”

  “2000? You make it sound like that was a century ago.”

  “It kind of was,” Lynn said, pretending to pout. “Think about it. I was in junior high school in 2000…and so were the guys we want to represent. The ballplayers, the rappers, the R&B thugs…Hell, the ones that are just signing to the pros were hardly out of elementary school.”

  “So what are you saying? I’m old?” Tasha said, cocking her head to the side and looking at Lynn squarely.

  “Not old…just not up to speed on how we’ve…how black people…have grown,” Lynn said. “Look, like…you all used to vacation in Hilton Head…Martha’s Vineyard…right?”

  Tasha nodded.

  “We’re in South Beach now. We’re not buying mansions in the Hamptons anymore. That’s been done. We’re buying yachts. We’re spending the summers in South Africa, working from our laptops—if we’re working at all.”

  “I hear you,” Tasha said. “But nothing you said explained how those two women were supposed to share one man and no man got cut.”

  Tasha laughed but Lynn gave a secretive snicker.

  “That’s changed too. The lines are blurry…. Some women just get down…men do too.”

  “Get down? Like share men?”

  “Share men…share women…share men and women. They party. They have a good time,” Lynn explained. “We don’t have all of those restrictions anymore. We’re open-minded.”

  Tasha frowned at this explanation.

  “That’s just the way things are,” Lynn added, sipping the last bit of Tasha’s martini. “And like I said, if you’re going to work with this crowd, you have to be open to it.” She leaned in toward Tasha. “There’s money out there. You want a yacht? Your own yacht? We can get it. We sign five or six of these young boys and we’re on it. And I’m not talking pipe dreams. I’m talking real progress. You want fame? Money? Power? We can get it all.” Lynn looked in her eyes. “Together.”

  “Well, I get that. Fine. You have to understand your clients in order to represent them,” Tasha said. “But let’s talk about representing them for a minute. What kind of business are we going to open? What’s the plan? The projections?”

  Lynn laughed and fell back in her seat, holding her chest.

  “There’s another thing,” she said. “We don’t talk business over brew. We’ll get to that later. I just want us to mesh and get to know each other first.”

  “But you said—”

  “Can you come to a party with me?”

  “A party?” Tasha asked.

  “Yeah, some wigs21 are having a rooftop party. It’s a great way for you to come out and meet some of the new industry people—some of my contacts.”

  “That sounds okay,” Tasha agreed. “When is it?”

  “In two weeks or something,” Lynn said. “I’ll add you to the FB invite.”

  “FB?”

  “Facebook…”

  “Oh, I don’t have a Facebook,” Tasha said. “I don’t want people all in my business. Google me if you want to see a picture.”

  “Tasha,” Lynn called, as the waitress slid the bill onto the table, “you have to—”

  “Okay, I get it,” Tasha said, shrugging her shoulders and then reaching for her purse to pay the bill.

  Lynn grabbed her arm.

  “No,” Lynn said softly. “I’ll pay the bill. It’s my pleasure.”

  

  There was a grown man, an old, frail man with a long gray beard, wearing nothing but what appeared to be a diaper, sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, playing a gong. Tamia wanted to explain this situation, this visual, to herself in another, more spiritual way, as she was sitting in a meditation class Malik invited her to, but really that was all she could come up with. Grandpa, in a diaper, on the floor, making a bunch of noise. Now, she was leaving out the big bird the man had painted on his chest in white paint, how ashy his knuckles were, and the fact that the rest of the empty room where Malik had been teaching capoeira the day before was full of other grown people, who were also sitting on the floor and watching and listening to this but not saying a word.

  “You okay?” Malik whispered, bending over to Tamia. They were both sitting upright, with their hands placed lightly over each knee in the standard meditation pose. The man, whom the other people in the room seemed to enjoy calling “Baba” or “Babatunde,” told them to search for enlightenment. And then he went off to play the gong. That was thirty minutes go.

  No, she wasn’t all right.

  “Is he going to do anything else?” Tamia asked. “I wanted to meditate but I need help. Isn’t he supposed to be teaching us something? I could be doing this at home.”

  “Excuse me,” a woman called from behind, rolling her eyes at the fact that they were talking.

  “Peace, sister,” Malik said, bowing his head and turning back to Baba.

  “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be meditating on…the beach, the rain forest, the mountaintops…I need him to give me something,” Tamia whispered and then as if he’d heard her, Baba jumped up like a man a quarter his age.

  “Children, Afrikans, Soul Trekkers, Free People,” he called, his voice more mellifluous, yet also stronger than she’d thought by looking at him. “Your body moves to the sound of the universe. The sound in space. In order to connect with your body, to create new matter, to expel illness and hatred and evil from your body, you have to be tuned in, to be plugged in to the universe. My Baba lived for 115 years because he could meditate to that sound. He cleared his body of illness and evil. Your Baba is eighty-seven and I have walked through the woods, climbed mountains, and brought more than six hundred children to their lightness.”

  “Baba?” Tamia repeated, leaning over to Malik and thinking of how amazed she was that Baba was eighty-seven. He didn’t look two days over sixty-five. “Is that his name?”

  “No. His name is Peter, but we call him Baba—Babatunde. It means ‘Father,’” Malik answered.

  “What is inside of you that needs healing? That needs new matter? We die a little every day. We must replenish those dead cells. We must reconnect with the Creator of the universe. The Creator of all things. We do this by connecting our bodies to the rhythm of the universe.” While he was standing, Baba bent over and hit the gong.

  “Ohhmmm,” everyone called out in unison. “Ohhhmmmmm.”

  “What?” Tamia said.

  “Ohm,” Malik answered her. “It’s the sound of the universe. The sound out in space.”

  Tamia looked at him.

  “It is!” he said.

  “How do you—”

  Tamia hadn’t realized it but Baba had walked around the circle and was kneeling behind her.

  “Lean into my hand,” he said, cutting her off.

  She was about to say no but her back just rolled toward Baba’s hand on its o
wn.

  “Ohhhhhhmmmmm,” the class called out. “Ohhhmmmmmmm.”

  Not knowing what else to do, and to avoid the fact that she was now laying back on the hand of an elderly man she didn’t know who was wearing less fabric than she had on her bra, she hummed along.

  “Ohhhhmmmmmm.”

  “You have a broken heart,” Baba whispered into Tamia’s ear. “It has tried to kill you.”

  Tamia’s heart flipped in the way it usually did when she’d heard bad news. But this wasn’t bad news. It was just a shock. The truth.

  She turned to ask Baba something, but he was already gone—back up at the gong.

  “Hey, king,” Ayodele said, gliding into the room as if only air carried her feet. A size two, she was wearing only a knitted bra and mudcloth harem pants—which Tamia called MC Hammer pants. Half of her body was exposed, and Tamia kept thinking she probably had on less clothing than the hookers in the street right outside, but no one said a thing. She sat in the empty space on Tamia’s other side.

  “Greetings, Ayo,” Malik said, straightening his back and glancing toward Ayo. Although her breasts were hanging out for all the world to see, Tamia noticed that he looked her right in her eye.

  “Ohhhmmmm,” everyone hummed with the gong. Yet Ayo leaned over Tamia and giggled with Malik about something that had happened in the kitchen earlier. And hahahahaha, wasn’t it funny how this and that happened.

  Tamia turned and looked at the woman who had shushed her, but she wasn’t doing anything now.

  “Why would they put soy sauce on it?” Ayo said, giggling with Malik. “Everyone knows you can’t do that! Right?” She looked at Tamia.

  “Oh, Ayo, do you remember my attorney? Her name is Tamia.”

  “Oh,” Ayo said. “I thought I recognized your beautiful eyes.” She kissed Tamia on the cheek and it was just enough sweetness to make Tamia know that she’d hate this woman for the rest of her life.

  “Ohhhmmmmm,” Tamia droned on with the rest of the people in the room to drown Malik and Ayo out. “Ohhhhmmmm!” Somehow she’d become the loudest and fastest in the room, leading everyone into an unceremonious aria.