every experience
be it bad or good
teaches us a lesson
or at least it should
mr. right
turned out to be mr. wrong
learn from your mistakes
keep the faith
press forward, sista
move on
dry your tears
wipe your eyes
find the strength
look inside
don’t call him
don’t see him
don’t play one sad song
block his cell
delete his email
look ahead, my sista
just move on
love yourself
take care of yourself
and if the need arises
sista, please yourself
do a check up
from the neck up
say a prayer
sista, hold your head up
cause one day you’ll have all the joy your heart can hold
and then you’ll be glad you pressed forward
and so thankful you moved on
After I finished reading, I felt choked up. I was closing the show for the last time. I hesitated for a second, then I let it go.
“Good night, Chicago,” I said emotionally. “Thanks for allowing me into your homes, your hearts, and your minds— peace.”
Mitch quickly turned on the studio lights and came running over. He was holding a bottle of Dom Pérignon and two glasses. He shook it up and then popped the cork. Champagne sprayed everywhere.
“Congratulations, Julian,” he said, as he poured it over my head. “You’re finally escaping this concentration camp!”
“Yeah, it took me over ten years, like Shawshank Redemption, but I finally made it,” I laughed as I wiped the Champagne from my eyes.
He poured two glasses and handed me one.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” he said. “To the most outspoken, talented, and arrogant son of a bitch in talk radio.”
“Hear, hear!” I said as we tapped glasses.
“Now, I wanna propose a toast. To the man who has given me inspiration, motivation, and die-rection. Here’s to you, Mitch.”
We toasted again. Then there was an uncomfortable silence. I had dreaded this moment all week.
“You know, Mitch, I’m sorry I couldn’t work out a deal to take you with me. You know how much you—”
“Look, Julian,” he interrupted, “this is your time—your season. You were born for this. Besides, I’ve got a big deal I’ve been working on. I only wish Carmen could’ve been here to share this moment with you.”
“Yeah, me, too.” I stared at her picture on the console. “She’s the reason I stuck with this raggedy-ass station for as long as I did.”
Mitch walked over and put his hand on my shoulder. He was a short man, standing about five six. I towered over him at six three, but he had a charismatic way of speaking that demanded attention.
“It’s been two years, Julian. When are you gonna let it go?” he said in that fatherly tone. “You said it in your poem, life goes on! Why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself and start taking some of your own advice?”
“Look, Mitch, dating is not high on my list of priorities!” I said as I pulled away. Then I started packing up my equipment. “I’m moving to Houston in two days. I just want to finish packing, have a farewell drink with Eddie at Club Nimbus, then get the hell outta here!”
“Sounds like a plan, Julian.” He poured himself another drink. “But you know as well as I do, Sharon was right; you are alone. You should’ve asked her out—she’s obviously single,” he added sarcastically. “Tell you what, why don’t we see if she’s still on the line?”
Mitch reached for the button on the console. All five phone lines were lit and my microphone was still on.
“Cool out, Mitch!” I grabbed at his hand. But he managed to press the speakerphone button for line two. There was a sudden click, then a dial tone.
“It’s best that she’s gone, anyway,” he said as he backed away from the console.
“And why is that? Not that I care.”
“Because Samantha will never allow another woman into her life, or yours, not until she learns to accept that you are a man—with needs.”
He sat his Champagne glass on the console and headed for the door.
“Where you goin’?” I walked toward him holding my glass. “I thought we were celebrating tonight.”
“I’m going home to my woman—what about you?” he said as he opened the door. “I really hope you find what you’re looking for in Houston, Julian.” Then he turned off the lights and walked out.
As I watched the candle wax slowly melting away, I thought about what my father told me before he died: “Son, money can buy a lot of things in this world, but it can’t buy back time.” As I stood there in the dim silence of my spiritual ambiance, I had to face up to the reality of what Mitch said. He’s right, I thought to myself. Samantha was too possessive and I was only making matters worse by not having a life of my own.
I gathered up the rest of my things and placed them in my gym bag. Before I put away the picture of Carmen, I looked at it. Then I spoke to it.
“You know I’ll always love you, Carmen, but it’s time for me to move on with my life!” I said as tears rolled down my face. “My mind needs it, my heart needs it, my soul needs it. And I ain’t gonna lie, baby, my body needs it, too.” I laughed.
I kissed her picture, then placed it into my bag. “You’ll always be my queen.”
On the way out the door I blew out my jasmine-scented candles and put them inside my bag. At that moment, I decided it was the only baggage I was carrying with me to Houston.
Chapter 2
SATURDAY MORNING I was awakened by the sound of a horn blowing. I turned over to check the clock on the night-stand. It read 8:15 A.M. When I looked out the window, there was a huge van from the moving company parked in my driveway. The driver was a tall black man. He was wearing white socks, blue jean coveralls, and a straw brim. “Damn, that’s country!” I said to myself. The two other men, one black, the other Hispanic, were busy unloading empty boxes.
I put on my robe and slippers then went to find out why my daughter, Samantha, hadn’t heard the commotion. “Sam,” I yelled. “Where are you?”
I knocked on her bedroom door, the way I always did. We promised to respect each other’s privacy. When there was no answer, I went in. Just as I expected, she had on her headphones with the music blasting. She was also wearing my long-sleeve denim shirt; it was her mother’s favorite. She must have taken it out of the box, because I had packed it the day before. Her back was to the door, so she didn’t see me coming.
“Boo!” I shouted.
She jumped, then spun around with her hand over her heart.
“Daddy, you scared the mess out of me! I hate it when you do that!”
“Well, I hate it when you listen to that rap music. Didn’t I tell you not to bring that garbage in this house?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Samantha, don’t play the dumb role, you’ve got the volume turned up so loud I can hear those filthy lyrics a mile away.” I pushed the eject button and removed the CD. “Jay-Z? Don’t tell me. This is a jazz group—right?”
“It’s not mine.” She tried to sound convincing.
“I don’t care who it belongs to. I don’t want you listening to that trash, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, go downstairs and open the door for the movers. And put my shirt back where you found it. I don’t want you to mess around and forget it.”
As she walked by me, with that pitiful look on her face, I popped her upside the head.
“Ouch! What was that for?”
“That’s for lying to me. Now, take your narrow behind downstairs.”
As I looked around her room, I thought about all the good times we use
to have playing hide-and-seek and one, two, three, red light. It was the only home Samantha had ever known. We moved in back in ’93, Sam had just turned three. I smiled as I looked around the room at the posters hanging on the walls. When she was five the walls were covered with Barney the dinosaur and Sesame Street characters; a huge poster of Big Bird used to hang over her bed. Samantha thought it protected her from the bogeyman.
When she turned ten the posters had changed. Big Bird and Ernie had been replaced by Usher, Destiny’s Child, and Alicia Keys. She really loved Alicia’s music. It had rekindled her interest in playing the piano. “Thank God,” I said as I looked at the poster of Li’l Bow Wow. “We definitely have enough rappers.”
As I was walking out of her room, I heard the phone ring.
“I got it!” Samantha yelled from downstairs. I figured it was one of her girlfriends, so I went back to my bedroom to get dressed. I pulled out a pair of jeans and a Fubu T-shirt. Before I got dressed, I admired my physique in the full-length mirror on the closet door.
“Julian, you need to lay off of those Krispy Kremes.” I pinched an inch of my love handles.
It was easy to gain weight in the radio business. Sitting in one spot five days a week, four hours a night had expanded my waistline and everything else. I tried to keep it in check by playing ball and hitting the weights as often as possible.
“Never let your stomach get bigger than your ass.” I began doing crunches. “There’s nothing a woman hates more than a man whose butt is bigger than hers.”
I did two sets of fifty and then I admired my four-pack in the mirror. At thirty-nine I had accepted that my six-pack was gone forever. I flexed one last time by doing my Bruce Lee impersonation from Return of the Dragon. “Whaa!”
At that moment, I heard snickering in the background. It was Samantha. She was standing in the doorway watching me flex in my drawers.
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Jackie Chan, you have a call.”
“For your information, that’s Bruce Lee,” I said, feeling embarrassed. “By the way, I thought we agreed to knock before entering.”
“Yes, Bruce—I mean, Dad.” She laughed. “But you were screaming so loud I thought you fell in the shower.”
“Just give me the phone, you little comedian. Who is it?”
“It’s Denise. She’s looking for Uncle Eddie.”
“Thank you, my little secretary.” I slowly closed the door. “Good-bye.”
“Whassup, Li’l Sis?” It was a nickname I had given her after three years of putting up with Eddie.
“Hey, Julian, how you doin’?”
“Everything is great, with the exception of dealing with Sam’s preteen hormones. She’s going through that stage where she’s starting to like boys.”
“Judging by our conversation a minute ago, the boys are starting to like her, too.”
“Yeah, she’s turning into a real fox. If her breasts get any bigger, I may have to break out the shotgun.” I laughed. “Now, enough about Sam. Whassup? Don’t tell me you and Eddie fell out again!”
“No, we’re doing okay. It’s just that I came home early from my business trip and he’s not here. I called his cell phone and the studio but I can’t reach him. Do you know where he is?”
I knew exactly where he was, the Park Avenue Motel. It was one of our hangouts in the old neighborhood. Eddie was still a regular. But coming up with a good lie at eight o’clock in the morning wasn’t going to be easy, especially since Eddie was a photographer.
“Oh, yeah, Eddie had a photo shoot on Lake Michigan at sunrise. I believe it was for a magazine ad for sunglasses, sunscreen, or something like that.”
“Is that right?” She sounded unconvinced. “Well, you can tell Mr. Sunscreen that he’d better bring his butt home before I block him out of this house by changing the locks!”
I covered my mouth to keep from laughing. We both knew that story was lame as hell. But I kept my composure and tried to change the subject.
“Okay, Denise, I’ll tell him. By the way, are you coming to Club Nimbus with Eddie tonight? I’d love to see you before I leave town.”
“Of course I’ll be there. You know I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“Now, you do understand that I only expect to see you and Eddie, right?”
“Oh, lord, here we go again with The Speech.”
“That’s right, you know where I’m going with this,” I said to her. “Promise me you won’t try to hook me up with another one of your strong, independent, corporate-type girlfriends.”
“But Julian, I’ve got the perfect girl for you this time. She’s single, no kids, owns her own business, and she’s got a great personality.”
“Whenever a woman says her friend has a great personality, it usually means she’s ugly.”
“That’s not true, she’s a very beauti—”
“Stop right there, Denise. Can we get together for once without you playing matchmaker? Is that too much to ask?”
She paused. I could practically hear her pouting. “Okay, okay. But one of these days I’m gonna hook you up with Ms. Right,” she said. “Good things always happen to good people.”
“Bad things happen to good people, too—just look at the ten o’clock news.” I laughed. “Now let me go so I can finish packing. I’ll see you tonight. And I do mean only you! Bye, Li’l Sis.”
“Good-bye, Julian, you old party pooper.”
As soon as I hung up the phone I began looking through the Yellow Pages for the number to the Park Avenue Motel. Once I found it, I dialed the number. The phone rang ten times before someone finally picked up.
“This is the fabulous Park Avenue, what’s your pleasure?” a man announced in a raspy and familiar voice.
“Old Man Johnson, is that you?”
“Yeah, this is Mr. Johnson, who the hell is this?”
“This is Firebird. Remember me?”
It was a nickname he had given me back in my college days because of the type of car I drove.
“Firebird?” He pondered. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“Maybe this will help you remember: I had a burgundy Firebird with a personalized plate that read CHICAGO. My real name is Julian Payne.”
“Oh, Julian!” he said excitedly. “How you doin’? It’s been years since that car of yours was parked in front of room one thirty-five.”
“I can see you’re still just as sharp as ever. You used to memorize every car that drove into your lot—make, model, and license plate.”
“Yeah, but you were always one of my favorites. I listen to your show every chance I get. Sorry to hear that you’re leaving town.”
“Well, life goes on,” I told him, then I got to the point. “Look, Mr. Johnson, I’m looking for my friend Eddie, you know, the photographer?”
“I know who you talkin’ ’bout, boy. That young man is one of my best customers.”
“Is he there now?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s here. At least his car is still parked in front of his room.”
“Could you ring his room for me?”
“I’ve already tried three times this morning to give him a wake-up call,” Mr. Johnson said. “I was gonna knock on the door but he had the Do Not Disturb sign on. I figured he was still gettin’ busy.”
Something was wrong. Eddie was a womanizer and a cheat but he was a regimented one. He made it a habit to be home by eight o’clock whenever Denise was out of town on business, just in case she came home early. The only exceptions were when he was sloppy drunk.
“Look, Mr. Johnson, I’m on my way,” I told him. “Whatever you do, don’t let anyone into that room!”
“Okay, Julian. But are you sure you don’t want me to check it out?”
“No, just wait for me to get there.”
I quickly put on my blue jeans and T-shirt, then grabbed my car keys off the dresser.
“Sam! Come here!”
“I’m coming!” she yelle
d while running up the stairs. When she stumbled into my bedroom she was nearly out of breath.
“Yes, Daddy?”
“I’ve got to make a quick run. I want you to go down to your friend’s house until I get back.”
“Can I go?”
“Not this time, sweetheart, it’s business.”
“You’re going out on business wearing blue jeans and a Fubu T-shirt?”
“Just do what I tell you, young lady. I’m the parent, you’re the child! And make sure your luggage is packed—you’re spending the night at your grandmother’s.”
“But why? I thought we would spend one last night together in our house!” She began to cry.
“Look, Princess, all the furniture will be gone, there won’t be anyplace to sleep,” I told her. “And besides, I’m going out tonight.”
“With who?”
“Don’t you ever question me about where I’m going!” I said, raising my voice. “You’re my daughter, not my wife.”
Samantha ran off to her bedroom with tears pouring down her cheeks. It really hurt to speak to her that way, especially while staring into those beautiful brown eyes—her mother’s eyes. I thought about going after her to apologize but I checked myself. It was time that I started acting more like a parent than a friend.
I was feeling good about myself. So good that I grabbed her Jay-Z CD and my portable player on my way out the door. As I sped off with the music blaring, I was worried less about Sam and more about Eddie. He had a history of sleeping with his clients and picking up strange women at the club. I was praying he hadn’t run out of luck and gotten himself killed by some deranged bimbo.
Chapter 3
I ARRIVED AT the Park Avenue Motel late that morning. The place seemed unchanged since my college days. The soda machine had the same dents on the front. I must have kicked that piece of junk a thousand times, trying to get my quarters back. The window shutters and doors were the same dingy lime green color. I doubted they had a fresh coat of paint since ’85. I couldn’t help laughing as I looked up at the neon marquee. It read WELCOME TO THE FABULOUS PARK AVENUE, and then, in small letters, hourly rates available.
“I guess this dump would seem fabulous if you’re drunk as hell and horny at one o’clock in the morning,” I said to myself.
God's Gift to Women Page 2
