by iiKane
The sting of the slap awoke his pride and made him think about what K.B. had said.
“Yo … I’m not runnin’ from them niggas. We mighta took ‘em fast, but they took it to another level. Now it’s our turn,” he spat coldly, his grey eyes looking like sheets of ice.
Stephanie took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then replied, “Well, Georgie … either way you’re gettin’ out of this car. Either to get on the bus or get the hell out of my house.”
“Pssst, whateva,” he shrugged and opened the door. He put one foot on the pavement with every intention of following with the other, but he didn’t. He sat there. He teetered on the edge of being a victim of fate or a captain of destiny, contemplating the leap. As soon as he opened the door, Stephanie wanted to reach out and grab him to stop him from getting out, but she knew that she had to let him make the decision on his own. For her, it felt like the moment that being a mother all those years came down to. If he got out, she would see it as her failure as much as his.
She saw the bus turn the corner in her rearview mirror; it drove past and came to a stop four car lengths from where they were parked. Georgie glanced up and saw the people standing around. Some began to hug and pick up luggage as others gave off a different set of hugs.
Deep down, beyond the pride that continued to throb in his chest, his mother was doing what he couldn’t do. She was saving him from himself.
“So I’m just supposed to leave with the clothes on my back?” he asked, without turning around.
It wasn’t until he spoke that Stephanie realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled, but fought to keep her reply even and relief free.
“Your bags are in the trunk.”
He briefly paused.
“So you’re just puttin’ me out like Oran ‘Juice’ Jones, huh?”
Stephanie had to laugh, in spite of herself.
“Boy, get out my car,” she responded, pushing him out.
They both walked around to the trunk. Stephanie unlocked it. Inside was a suitcase, a large duffle bag and a portable cassette player. He loosened the tie on the duffle bag and saw a cornucopia of sneakers.
“Ma, you pack my blue Jordans?”
“Yes, Georgie, I packed all them ugly things. And when you gonna get some real shoes?”
“Ma, I’ma miss graduation!”
“You graduated, that’s the important thing. They can mail you the piece of paper,” she replied.
He nodded pensively. She saw the apprehension and gave him a long, tight hug.
“Don’t worry, baby, you’re doing the right thing,” Stephanie assured him.
He took a deep breath and looked around.
“Philly just ain’t gonna be the same without me.”
“We’ll try to manage.”
“Bye, Ma.”
“Oh, the ticket!” She ran around to the driver’s side and got the ticket and a greasy paper bag, then handed him both.
“Cheesesteaks,” he chuckled.
“So you don’t forget where you come from,” she winked.
He kissed and hugged her again.
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
He gathered up his stuff and started to walk off.
“Ma.”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Why we ain’t got no relatives in Bel Air?” he smiled, alluding to the popular TV show The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
Stephanie exploded with laughter.
“You are so crazy! Go! I love you!” she sang, blowing him kisses.
As the bus pulled off, Georgie sat back and watched the city peel away, fading like the credits at the end of the movie. He felt a great burden lifting from his shoulders realizing that sometimes when it seems that our hand is forced, it’s because we’re forcing our hand. But like the song says, you’ve got to know when to fold them. Georgie snuggled back in the seat and fell asleep.
As soon as he stepped off the bus at New York’s Port Authority bus terminal, he was greeted by the sounds of popular Brooklyn rapper Notorious B.I.G.’s debut album Ready To Die being played from every storefront and stoop, spilling from apartments and car windows. All different tracks from the album played simultaneously in a cacophonous symphony.
“Only in New York,” he mumbled to himself as he waded into the sea of people ebbing and flowing around him. He kept his bags tight to himself, because the old man on the bus had said repeatedly, “Pickpockets! Beware of pickpockets!”
The sun was just going down, making it more difficult to see faces in the shifting waves moving around him. He started to look for a pay phone, when he heard, “Georgie! Georgie, over here!”
The voice sounded…odd. Like a woman, but not quite. He followed the timbre and his eyes landed on his uncle…aunt?
“Michael?” Georgie said, astonishment invading his tone.
“Michelle!” Michael replied, holding out his arms so that Georgie could get a good look at him.
Michael looked like his older sister, Stephanie—especially with the long, flowing wig, form-fitting miniskirt, fishnets and spiked heels. Georgie couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Surprise!” Michael tittered nervously.
“No doubt,” Georgie chuckled.
“Come on, let me help you with that. I’m double parked,” Michael urged, grabbing the portable radio and the paper bag.
“It was two cheesesteaks in the bag. Mama sent ‘em; I only ate one.”
“I can’t eat that, I’m watching my figure,” Michael replied demurely.
Georgie didn’t know what else to say but “oh.”
As they approached Michael’s Honda, he noticed a gorgeous dark-skinned chick in the passenger seat.
“Damn Unk, I mean…who that in the car?”
Michael smiled knowingly.
“Easy Shug, I don’t think she’s your type.
It took Georgie half a beat to realize what he was trying to say. Then it hit him and he got mad at himself for being fooled. When he got in the car, his suspicions were confirmed.
“You must be Georgie,” the person said in a feminized male voice, then turned around and offered a limp-wristed hand expecting Georgie to kiss it. Instead, Georgie yanked on one finger like it was a cow udder.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Yvette.”
“You sure?” Georgie thought as he rested his head on the glass and wondered what strange planet he had landed on.
Michelle lived in a small apartment on West 16th Street, near Greenwich Village. As soon as Georgie walked in, he was startled by two mannequins—one female and one male—clothesless and right in front of the door.
“What the fuck?!” he snapped, jumping back.
Michelle giggled with a playful flair. “They don’t bite, Georgie. They’re Yvette’s. She’s an aspiring designer.”
“Yvette live here, too?” Georgie asked with concern, looking around. The apartment really wasn’t large enough for three people.
“Long story, but no. She’s moving to LA to open a boutique, but her lease ran out and the dates don’t match up,” he waved it off. “Anyway, you get the picture.”
Michelle took a pack of Newport 100’s out of her purse and lit one with a pink lighter, her eyes following Georgie’s movements while he sat his things down.
“So what do you think?” she inquired, trying to keep the edge of anxiety out of her voice.
Georgie shrugged and glanced around at the cramped, but stylish place.
“I mean, as long as you ain’t got no roaches, we good.”
“No, I mean about me.”
Georgie looked up and at Michelle. She was holding the cigarette like his mother did, wrist splayed, palm up, cigarette smoke curling over fingers, the crossed arm propping up the elbow. In fact, she was a spitting image of his mother, except that she was about three inches shorter. The resemblance made Georgie smile warmly.
“I’ve got an uncle that looks good in heels. No big deal.”
Mich
elle blurted out in laughter, but Georgie could see that it was more from relief than humor. She inhaled then let out a steady steam of smoke, as she propped on the arm of the couch.
“Thanks Georgie, I needed to hear that.”
“Why?”
“I just didn’t know what to expect. I was afraid you might freak out or something. Haul ass back to Philly and tell the family.”
“What? Nobody knows?”
Michelle shook her head slowly, looking at Georgie pleadingly.
“And I don’t want them to. Not yet. Please Georgie, I know how close you are to Steph, but…”
Georgie help up his hand.
“Breathe, yo. I won’t tell her.”
Inhale. Sizzle. Exhale. Vapor.
“Thanks Georgie, again.”
“But I think you’re wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Momma loves you. The family loves you. But now, it’s like they don’t know you, you know? You’re lettin’ them love who they think you are, and that’s not fair to them,” Georgie explained.
Michelle looked pensively at Georgie.
“I never looked at it like that.”
“What did they say at work when you exploded from the closet,” Georgie joked.
Michelle snickered then leaned over and flicked the ashes into the ashtray on the coffee table.
“I work at the Village Voice. I’m cliché.”
“Huh?”
“Tongue in cheek.”
“And why do you wear that wig? Did you cut your hair?”
She reached up subconsciously and ran her fingers through it.
“No, but you know how our hair is, so it’s hard to find somebody to do anything with it.”
Georgie winked. “You found somebody.”
She started to say it again, but hated to be so redundant.
As soon as her circle of friends saw what Georgie had done with Michelle’s hair, he was bum-rushed with a flood of requests.
“I want it too!”
“Can I be next?”
“Do me!”
Some of them were even talking about hair, too. However, it wasn’t only Michelle’s gay friends. Several hookers lived and worked around Michelle’s neighborhood, so it wasn’t long before Georgie had the nickname “the Hooker Hook-her Upper.”
Michelle threw Georgie a coming-out party, tongue firmly in cheek. “He even styles wigs, too!”
Michelle’s apartment was packed, as Usher’s song, “Think Of You” provided rhythm for love and laughter. Georgie was in his element, streaking and tinting, perming and weaving, doing what he did best: make women beautiful.
“Oh my Georgie, you must have and extra chromosome or something!” Yvette gasped playfully, admiring in the mirror what Georgie had done to her wig.
Georgie chuckled. “So I take that to mean you like it, huh?”
“Like it? I love it! I love you,” Yvette cooed, winking and blowing a kiss to the mirror.
He took it in stride as he glanced around, taking in his work as the women paraded around the room.
“Am I next?”
Three words…three little words. But in those three little words, thick country molasses dripped and lightening flashed through the Southern sky in his mind. Her country cadence—slow, deliberate, sensual and assured—had him stuck even before he turned his head and saw her face.
She was the color of Camay soap, if Camay had been born. Her hazel eyes had a cat-like slant that made her look mischievous and bold. Her gaze never wavered as she looked into his eyes, almost as if she were hypnotizing him, long enough to steal his heart. Georgie let his eyes travel further south, taking in her pert, luscious breasts and petite, curvaceous figure squeezed into a leopard print mini dress that had her popping out everywhere.
Georgie licked his lips then replied, “Shit, from where I’m standin’, you can be always.”
She giggled demurely.
“Humph!” Yvette grunted, then rolled out of the seat, her eyes along with it.
Georgie took her hand and helped her sit down, then stood behind her as they looked at each other in the mirror. It was then that he finally noticed that she had a short page-boy cut.
“I’ve never said this before but uh, I don’t know what to do. You’re perfect just the way you are,” Georgie remarked.
Her smile blossomed into a blush.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Their gaze danced with one another in the mirror.
“What do you have in mind?”
The teasing tip of her tongue appeared between her teeth, giving her expression a naughty little girl quality.
“We’re talking about hair, right?”
They both laughed.
“I want you to do your magic. I’m gonna close my eyes, and when I open them, I want to be transformed,” she requested.
Georgie took it as the challenge that it was, but he was definitely up to it.
“No problem.”
She held his gaze, licked her lips, and then closed her eyes.
“Have your way with me,” she smirked.
Georgie studied her features in the mirror: her button doll nose, sensually rounded chin and kissable cheekbones. He admired her cut, knowing that he could’ve done better, but acknowledging the good job that was done.
“Okay, well to do this right I’m gonna need to ask you a few things.”
“Like?”
“Like for starters, your name.”
“Anya.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
“Thank you. It’s African. It means ‘waters of life.’”
Pause.
“Did you say something wet?” Georgie smirked.
Anya giggled.
“Stop. You’re gonna make me open my eyes.”
“Where are you from?”
“Georgia,” she said so sweetly that Georgie swore he could smell peaches.
“Georgia? Ain’t that where they make peaches? You one of them peaches?”
“You don’t make peaches, you grow them,” she replied, her tongue caressing the “t” in “them.”
“Oh, my bad, so you grown a peach, huh?”
They shared a laugh.
“Georgie,” someone called out.
“How old are you?” he asked Anya.
“Twenty-two.”
“Georgie!”
“Somebody’s calling you.”
“Baby, whoever it is, they can’t be as fine as you,” he charmed.
Anya blushed and bit her bottom lip, subtly playing with a brother’s emotions.
As he worked, they talked, learning the things each other were eager to share.
“How old are you,” she asked.
“Twenty-one.”
“No you’re not,” she laughed.
“How you figure?” he smirked.
“Michelle,” she replied as her proof of age.
“Yeah, well Michelle just ain’t seen me in three years.”
The crowd thinned, the music played on and Georgie did his thing, until he finally said, “Okay…you can open your eyes.”
Anya did, and once they focused on her new look, her mouth fell open in awe.
“What’s the matter? You don’t like it?” he questioned, with just a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“No, it’s not that. It’s…wow. I didn’t expect this.” She gasped.
The people, still there, gathered to gawk.
“Oh my God, this is so hot!”
“Damn, why you ain’t do my hair like that?”
“Orange?!”
But it wasn’t quite orange. It was peach—an almost sherbet peach—simultaneously soft and subtle but bold and daring. He had captured her spirit perfectly, even down to the flicks of frosted white in her bangs and sideburns.
“Peaches and cream,” he whispered close to her ear as he gazed into her eyes in the mirror. “That’s what a grown peach looks like.” Anya tried not to squirm in her seat
as she felt the bass of his voice strumming her spine.
“Now tell me you like it?”
“I like it,” she replied.
He smiled then let his lips brush her cheek as he stood up. Anya stood on wobbly legs, but hid it well. She placed a $50 bill in his hand then balled his hand over it.
“Thank you. I’ll call you when I need, um…a touchup,” she remarked, but her eyes said much more.
Georgie watched her walk away, that ass—juicy and jiggling under that leopard dress—stunned him until she headed out the door. Michelle and Yvette approached.
“I see you met Anya, our Southern-Belle-in-Residence,” Michelle snickered.
“You know she a prostitute, right?” Yvette huffed, arms folded across her chest.
Georgie turned and looked at her with a cold gaze that only softened around the edges as he snickered and remarked, “Aren’t we all?”
Despite her jealousy, Yvette couldn’t help but laugh at the statement.
“I know that’s right!” Michelle hooped, giving Yvette a high five. After the laughter subsided, Michelle added, “Yvette has some good news for you. Tell him, girl.”
Yvette turned to him, excitedly.
“Well! I have a friend, his name is Christophe, and he owns one of the hottest salons in Manhattan. I’m talking about rich Fifth Avenue bitches, you hear me?! And he is going to absolutely love you!”
Georgie nodded, taking his good fortune in stride because he perceived success as inevitable.
“No doubt.”
The salon was on Central Park West and was nearly 5,000 square feet, with at least fifteen chairs. The whole place was done up in glass, fish tanks, marble floors and royal blue accents. It looked like the lobby of an expensive hotel that happened to have salon chairs in it.
As soon as Georgie walked in with Yvette, he knew this was where he was destined to be. Or so he thought.
Looking around, he could just smell the money. Most, if not all, of the customers and stylists were White. Even though he didn’t have a lot of experience doing White folks’ hair, he had no doubt that he would master it in no time.
