God's Gift to Women

by BAISDEN, MICHAEL

  “Am I the only black person here?” she said.

  “Look, Sam, Clover is a good school and they have the best music program in the city,” I told her. “You’ll do just fine if you stop worrying about skin color and remember why you’re here.”

  “I know the speech, Dad. I’ve got to be twice as good as white people if I want to succeed.”

  She kissed me on the cheek, then nervously stepped out of the car.

  “If you have any problems, go see the principal, Ms. Bell. Believe it or not, she’s black.”

  “For real?” Her whole demeanor changed and she seemed more relaxed.

  “Yeah, for real! Now, have a nice day and I’ll be back to pick you up at three-thirty.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll take the school bus home like everyone else,” she said confidently. “If I can survive Chicago public schools I think I can handle Clover Academy.” She slung her backpack over her shoulder, thrust her fist in the air, and yelled, “Westsiiide!”

  As I watched her brown skin clash against the sea of whiteness, I realized I was in for a similar experience at the radio station. WBMX was white owned and operated. That was often the case with urban radio in America. One of the few exceptions was Radio One, owned by Cathy Hughes. Most black folks still don’t know that the nationally syndicated Tom Joyner Morning Show and The Doug Banks Morning Show are owned by ABC. But Tom and Doug taught me that you have to play the game in order to get what you want. My real concern was whether or not WBMX would honor my request for a black producer. I wasn’t being racist, but we black folks have a unique way of relating that other cultures can’t understand. For example, if a white or Hispanic person greeted you by saying, “Whassup, my nigga?” all hell would break loose!

  I had all that on my mind as I merged onto the crowded I-59 freeway. I had allowed an hour’s travel time to get to the studio, which was located in an office building off I-610 and West-heimer Road, two blocks away from the Galleria mall. But after driving bumper to bumper for fifty-five minutes I was only halfway there. I counted three car accidents between Bissonnett Road and Hillcroft, and that was just on the northbound side. The traffic was made worse by gawkers, which is a polite word for nosy-ass people. “This puts the Dan Ryan Expressway to shame,” I said to myself.

  By the time I arrived at the studio, the clock on my dash read 9:55. The building was thirty stories high and looked as if it was made completely out of black glass. As I drove into the underground parking, I had to shield my eyes from the sun’s reflection as it bounced off the silver WBMX marquee.

  Once I found a parking space, I pulled out my organizer to confirm my meeting with the general manager. The notation read: MEETING WITH MR. HARRIS—10:00 A.M. I took pride in being punctual, so I checked myself out in the mirror, then opened the door preparing to make a mad dash. Just then a white BMW with tinted windows came barreling into the space next to me, nearly knocking my door off. I was pissed. After I looked over my car to make sure there was no damage, I waited at the rear of the BMW so I could curse the driver out.

  When the car door opened, a smooth, long brown leg extended outward. The rest of her looked just as good as she stepped out of the car. She had on a fitted beige business suit and wore her hair short but stylish. In her right hand she carried a brown alligator briefcase, in her left, a cell phone. She set off her corporate look with a pair of conservative black-framed glasses that did nothing to take away from her lovely brown eyes and natural beauty.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “You just about tore my door off when you pulled in.”

  “I’m so very sorry. Is your car okay?”

  “It’s fine, but—”

  “Sorry to cut you off, but I’m in a hurry. Have a nice day.” She began running toward the elevators.

  I grabbed my organizer off the passenger seat and took off in the same direction. I caught up with her just as the elevator doors were opening. I wanted to introduce myself, but I had to catch my breath first. Just as I was about to, the doors opened onto the lobby, which was two levels up. She rushed out of the elevator toward the security desk. There were three people already in line waiting to sign in. She stared down at her watch, showing her impatience.

  “Good morning, Dr. Ross. I see you’re running late again,” the security guard said to her.

  “Good morning, Joe. Yeah, the traffic on I-10 is a nightmare. If it gets any worse, I’ll need a helicopter to get to work on time.”

  “Well, just give me a second and I’ll get you on your way.”

  I could understand her impatience. Joe was moving so slowly it was irritating. He was a thin, gray-haired white man who looked at least seventy years old. His uniform was pressed to a T and his shoes were spit shined. He wore a thick black utility belt that was cluttered with an assortment of keys, a black nightstick, a pair of handcuffs, and a gun. Who in the hell is this old fart going to arrest? I was thinking.

  “I’ll be right with you, sir,” Joe said after making eye contact with me. He must have noticed I was getting impatient, too.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but could you hurry it up? I’ve got a ten o’clock meeting with Mr. Harris at WBMX.”

  “Mr. Harris, huh?”

  “Yes, I’m Julian Payne. My name should be on your list.”

  “Oh, Mr. Payne, nice to meet you, sir!” He dropped everything and gestured for me to come to the front of the line. “Mr. Harris is expecting you. Let me see your ID and you can go right up!”

  He handed me a pass, then directed me toward the tower elevators. Dr. Ross was noticeably perturbed. I guess she didn’t appreciate having to wait in line while I was escorted through. I made sure to take my time walking toward the elevator. I wanted to get another look at those lovely brown eyes and that tight skirt. I figured I was already running late, so why not make the most of it?

  When the elevator came, I held the door open until Dr. Ross was on. Once she was aboard, we both reached for the button for the twenty-fifth floor. Our hands touched.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  “No problem,” I replied. “No problem at all.”

  There were two other people already aboard. One of them pushed the button for the tenth floor. I assumed they were together because they were standing too close not to be. Sure enough, when the door opened they both walked off in the same direction. When the doors closed, I cleared my throat.

  “By the way, I never did get a chance to formally introduce myself. My name is Julian Payne.”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Payne. I’m Terri Ross.” She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you. And may I say, you are the most well-dressed radio personality I’ve ever seen. And you smell good, too. What is that—Givenchy?”

  “I’m impressed. It’s nice to meet a woman who can appreciate a fine cologne,” I said to her. “But you’re not half steppin’ yourself, Doc. You’re lookin’ good in that linen outfit. I’m sure your patients can’t wait to see you.”

  “Just because I have a Ph.D. doesn’t mean I have to dress like a librarian.”

  “So, Terri, I see you work on the twenty-fifth floor, too. Do you work for the station?”

  “No, I just sit in with the jock on Monday mornings to give advice on relationships, sort of like Dr. Phil on Oprah. But I do work in the building. I have a practice on the fifteenth floor.”

  “How convenient,” I said with a flirtatious smile.

  Just then the doors opened on the twenty-fifth floor. We stepped out and began walking toward the studio. Although we were both late, neither of us seemed to be in a hurry.

  “So, Terri, would it be okay if I called you sometime? Maybe we could do lunch?”

  She paused, then reached inside her purse. I was hoping she was looking for something to write her number on.

  “Here, take this.” She handed me a card. It read THE GENESIS FOUNDATION.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s the number of my foundation. I run a shelter for batt
ered women.”

  “And?”

  “I would appreciate it if you would mention it every now and then during your show. We need all the donations we can get.”

  “So, what about your personal number?”

  “Mr. Payne, I don’t do celebrities. That includes ball players, entertainers, producers, and especially radio personalities.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because women throw coochie at them like Frisbees! And like most dogs, they try to catch all of it.” She pretended like she was snatching objects out of the air. “Have a nice day, Mr. Payne.” Then she walked away.

  “There are exceptions to every rule, you know,” I yelled at her.

  I was disappointed by not getting her number, but I could understand her point. Dating a man in the entertainment industry could be rough on a woman. To this day, I don’t know how Carmen put up with it for as long as she did. When we met I was eighteen years old and working as an intern. Every week I had VIP passes to night clubs, concerts, and sporting events. The women were always eager to get to know me. Sometimes they wanted free tickets or to be introduced to the jocks. But many of them just wanted to have sex so they could brag to their friends that they screwed someone who worked at a radio station. We use to call them “radio ’hos.”

  After I picked my ego up from the floor, I walked down to the studio and pressed the button for the receptionist. Terri must have had some kind of access code, because she entered without any delay.

  “WBMX, may I help you?” a soft professional voice inquired.

  “Yes, this is Julian Payne. I’m here to see Mr. Harris.”

  She buzzed the door and I walked in. Right away I was impressed. The foyer was brightly lit with metal-framed posters of the radio jocks hanging on the walls. My picture was the last one on the end. I could smell the newness of the highly buffed hardwood floors and the freshly painted ceilings and walls. Even the receptionist fit in perfectly. She was a young black woman with a bright smile. She wore a peach blouse that accentuated her caramel complexion. She wore locks and had a wrap on her head that reminded me of Erykah Badu’s.

  “This is a long way from WTLK,” I said, loud enough for her to hear.

  “We’re glad to have you aboard, Mr. Payne.” She extended her hand. “I’m Janet Jackson.”

  “Yeah, and I’m Tito,” I laughed.

  “I’m serious, my name is Janet Jackson. You wanna see my driver’s license?”

  “No, I’ll take your word for it,” I told her. “Look, Janet, would you happen to know the woman who just came in?”

  “You mean Dr. Ross. Yeah, I know her. She’s been working here at the station for about two years.”

  “Is she single?”

  “Mr. Payne, let me save you some time and energy. You do not want to mess around with that sistah!”

  “Why, is she married?”

  “No.”

  “Is she involved?”

  “No.”

  “Is she a lesbian?”

  “No!”

  “Is she a man? ’Cause if she is, that’s the best damn operation I’ve ever seen!”

  “No, she’s not a man,” Janet laughed. “You are so stupid.”

  “Then what’s the deal? I’d like to get to know her. She’s beautiful! And she has a quality that most women lack nowadays.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Class!”

  “Well, Mr. Payne, I’ll tell you another quality she has that most women lack nowadays and that’s high self-esteem and low tolerance for game playing.”

  “What is it with you Texas women? You presume that every man is either a playa or a dog?”

  “Because nine out of ten are, especially the men in this business!” Janet said. “Over the last two years I’ve seen more drama at this station than on a Jerry Springer marathon.”

  “But you don’t even know me. How could you—”

  At that moment her phone rang.

  “Yes, sir, he just walked in. I’ll escort him down to the studio myself. Bye.” Janet came from behind her desk and began walking toward the back offices.

  “This way, Mr. Payne.”

  “Don’t be so formal. You can call me Julian,” I said as I followed a few feet behind her.

  “‘Mr. Payne’ will do for now. I haven’t decided if I like you yet.”

  On the way to see Mr. Harris, we passed by the studio where Terri was doing her spot. Our eyes met through the soundproof window. I didn’t want to appear too interested, so I tried to look away, but I couldn’t, and neither could she. I was about to wink, but decided not to. It seemed too childish. So I did what came naturally. I smiled. Once I passed the window I turned around to see where Janet had gone. She was already down the hall watching me watch Terri. When I caught up to her she directed me down a narrow corridor to a corner office.

  “Thank you, Janet Jackson.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Tito!”

  As I was about to head down the corridor, Janet cleared her throat, loudly.

  “Is there something else you wanna say, Ms. Jackson?”

  “I know this is none of my business, and you were right, I don’t know you from Adam.” She had one hand on her hip. “But I do know Terri and she’s a very special person. Not only is she my mentor, I consider her to be a friend.”

  “And you said that to say … ?”

  “If you ever hurt her, I’ll make your life a living hell! Have a nice day.” Then she strutted back to her desk.

  I stood there for a second thinking to myself, Did I miss something? But I quickly shrugged it off and refocused on my meeting with Mr. Harris. I wanted to find out if his attitude had changed since we signed the contract. Sometimes white folks will kiss your ass to get you to sign on the dotted line, but once you do, they show their true colors. I tried to be optimistic as I knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” a smooth masculine voice said.

  When I entered, Mr. Harris was seated in a high-back leather chair facing away from me.

  “Hello, Mr. Harris. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Well, if you paid more attention to the time and less to Dr. Ross’s ass in that tight skirt you wouldn’t be so late. I saw you staring at her on the security camera!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Surprise!” He spun around in the chair and revealed himself. It was my producer Mitch from WTLK. “Whassup, you outspoken, talented, and arrogant son of a bitch?”

  “Mitch! What the hell you doin’ here!”

  “I told you I was workin’ on a big deal. Well, this is it!”

  “Man, this is too good to be true, the Green Hornet and Kato in Houston, Texas. Aw, shit, we can’t lose now!” I rushed over and put him in a bear hug.

  “Just remember, I’m the Green Hornet and you’re Kato! Now let me go, boy!”

  “I guess these white folks aren’t all bad after all,” I said. “Check out this studio!”

  The room was laid out with stylish furnishings, high-back leather chairs, solid oak countertops, and a console that was state of the art.

  “If you think that’s something”—Mitch opened the blinds—“check out this view.”

  The studio was located in the corner of the building, which provided views in two directions through windows that extended from the floor to the ceiling. On one side was the overcrowded 610 freeway. On the other was Westheimer Road where the Galleria mall was located. I could read the Neiman Marcus and Lord & Taylor signs as if they were right in front of me.

  “WTLK never had a view like this.”

  “WTLK didn’t have a view, period. Didn’t have a microphone that worked or a toilet that flushed, either.” Mitch laughed. “I’m just glad I can stop sticking those damned names against the window like Martha Stewart.”

  “Speaking of Martha Stewart, I can’t wait to decorate this place. I’m gonna put my Yolonda Adams poster over here. My Sade poster over here,” I said as I walked from wall to wall. “And my jasmine-scente
d candles there, there, and there!”

  “I’m glad you’re so eager to get started, because I’ve got another surprise for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Instead of starting next week, the schedule’s been moved up. We start at ten o’clock tomorrow night.”

  “Say what?”

  “That’s right, we going on the air in exactly”—Mitch looked down at his watch—“thirty-five hours and twenty-six minutes.”

  “Damn, that soon? I’ve got a thousand things to do. I’ve got to get my music together, come up with some relationship topics, find a baby-sitter for Sam, and I’ve got to—”

  “What?” Mitch said.

  I checked the console to make sure the power was on, then I shuffled through the cassette racks to see if I could find the song I wanted. When I found it, I tried to pull it out.

  “Watch out!” Mitch yelled. He ran over and grabbed the rack as it was falling toward my head.

  “I knew it, I knew! These white folks spent fifty million dollars to buy a station and couldn’t spend five lousy bucks to make sure the damn racks don’t fall down and kill a brotha.”

  “I was gonna warn you, but you didn’t give me a chance.”

  “You better get this fixed before somebody gets hurt and sues both our black asses,” I laughed. “Now, where was I?”

  I put my headphones on and loaded the music into the console. I pushed a few of the wrong buttons at first, but I finally got it set up.

  “What are you up to?” Mitch asked.

  “Well, you’ve been nagging me about finding a nice girl, so I decided to take your advice.”

  “I hope you’re not talkin’ about who I think you’re talkin’ about.”

  “You saw her, too, huh?”

  “You know I did. I met her two months ago when I was here to interview for the job. That woman is fine as wine!” We gave each other a high five. “Boy, if was a few years younger, um, um, um!”