by Candice Dow
“Why? I’ll pay them the appropriate scale. This is a professional job.”
“Whatever. You shouldn’t have to pay for love.”
“That’s just it. It’s not about love. I just need a handsome man around that treats me well and can help make the everyday hustle a little easier. Someone to take out the trash. Someone to bring me flowers.”
She added water to the seed fermenting inside of me. “Someone who knows how to treat a woman.”
“See, it’s the perfect plan.”
Clearly she thought I was bluffing as she egged me on. “You definitely should write a damn script, because men up here have no clue as to how a man should treat a lady.”
“I am going to write it.”
As if she was distracted by something, her voice lowered. “You’re crazy.”
“No, we’re crazy, because you’re going to help me.”
“Whatever.”
As we sat on the phone, I jotted down some important characteristics of my leading actor. I pulled up my Story-Weaver software. Under the character description I entered RN for the main character’s name. I giggled at my homemade abbreviation for real name. Didn’t want any slip-ups at the wrong time. Could you imagine the scene? I’m at a banquet with my hired partner and I erroneously tell someone his name is Jacob. We’re pretending we’re in love and one of my business associates interrupts the scripted scene: “Hey, Jacob.” My partner doesn’t answer to the given name or his response is delayed. Nope, he always has to be on point. As I typed the script, Mya cleared her throat, “What are you doing?”
“Okay, listen. He has to always, under all circumstances, treat me like a princess. He has to be over six feet tall. Two-hundred-twenty pounds to two-hundred-forty. And more important than the physical, he must exemplify the four key characteristics that constitute a good man.”
“Oh, so now there is a science to a good man?”
“No, not a science. More like a blueprint.”
She howled. “Trust me. There is no blueprint that can separate a man from a good man.”
“Patience, respect, understanding, and honesty. Those ingredients create the perfect recipe for the perfect man.”
Just as it exited my mouth, I titled it, “The Perfect Script.”
“That sounds like something straight off the pages of one of your little novels.” We laughed and she said, “Did you not hear me when I said that I was just being facetious when I suggested this?”
Ignoring her reluctance to consort with me, I continued: “He’ll be a successful entrepreneur who dabbles in real estate and a diverse set of other lucrative investments.”
As I spat out the requirements, I imagined her rolling her eyes in her head. “Fatima. Maybe you should go out with a shrink and not a man.”
“Whatever. I don’t think this is crazy at all.”
“That’s even more reason why you should see a shrink.”
“Stop!”
“You should stop. I think the whole idea is selling yourself short.”
“No. I’m just hiring help. My heart belongs to Derrick. No one will ever add up anyway. Don’t you get it?”
“Fatima, I’m not telling you it’s easy, because dating is one of the hardest things you’ll have to do, but you will find love again.”
“How many times do I have to say I’m not looking for love? Can you at least try to understand where I’m coming from? Please.”
“I guess.” She chuckled. “Let me go, sweetie, I have some work to do.”
“Okay. Promise you’ll think about my script.”
She sucked her teeth. “Promise me you’ll refill your Prozac.”
“That’s busted. Talk to you later.”
Although I had tons of work to do, I was submerged in developing this script. Each time I would attempt to shut the screen down, something else would pop into my head. I created scenes around frequent events, such as dinner dates. I listed my favorite restaurants. His part of the script was to play the man who knew me so well, he ordered my food.
RN and Fatima are at dinner at a four-star restaurant.
RN has just pulled out Fatima’s chair.
RN:
(speaking to waiter): We’ll have your most expensive bottle of Merlot.
WAITER:
Would you like water?
RN:
She’ll have water, no ice with lime.
I gave guidance on what to do when planning dates, giving gifts and being supportive.
Fatima is at work and receives a gift from RN; handwritten sentiments are her favorite. She opens the gift and calls RN to thank him.
FATIMA:
I wanted to thank you for the gift, but, more important, the note.
RN:
Sometimes words describe my feelings best.
FATIMA:
Don’t make me blush.
RN:
I’ll try my best.
While I stroked away at the keyboard, Kia came in and startled me. “Hi, Fatima. You have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay. I’m coming.”
Mornings:
Coffee should always be brewed. He should never forget to tell me to have a great day.
When I noticed Kia’s silhouette in the doorway, I huffed. She smiled and sang my name. I rushed to write an after-work scene.
Fatima is in a taxi after a long day at work and RN calls.
RN:
Hello, Fatima. How was your day?
FATIMA:
It was hard.
RN:
Baby, we can talk about it at dinner tonight.
After saving my script, I rushed from my office. While the marketing team discussed strategies for one of next month’s releases, I scribbled in my notepad. What to do when Fatima’s sad? How to act with her family? What kind of dates does she enjoy?
RN and Fatima are walking through Central Park after a date. The night is breezy. Fatima folds her arms. RN takes his jacket off.
RN:
Here, put this around you.
FATIMA:
I’m okay.
RN:
Please, I want you to put it on. You seem a little chilly.
FATIMA:
Thank you.
RN:
I have to take care of my baby.
Before the meeting was done, I’d filled up two pages. As I perused the notes, I shook my head. Well, what matters most is that I’m paying for this service, so maybe I can get what I deserve.
Fatima is having a bad case of PMS and she asks RN to get her pizza at 3 AM. RN smiles.
RN:
Whatever the little lady wants.
By the time I met Mya for drinks four hours later, my script was near completion. I handed her the printout of the first draft. “Read my script.”
She looked at me from the corner of her eye. “Didn’t I tell you to take your medication?”
“Stop! That’s not funny. You know that stuff almost made me crazier than what I am.”
“If that’s the case. You’re right. Maybe you shouldn’t take it.” She flipped through the pages. The excitement on her face didn’t complement her monotone voice. “’Cause you’re really going off the deep end with this.”
I propped my elbow up on the bar as I watched her become engrossed in my words. The rapid pace in which her eyes shifted confirmed that if nothing more, it was a good read. As her body language mellowed, I knew she had fallen victim to my plot.
“So, you’re really serious about this, huh?”
“Yeah. Are you going to help me?”
“How long is the gig?”
“Um, just until this lonely feeling goes away.”
“That could be a long time. How long are you willing to pay for love?”
“For company.”
“Shit. If you’re paying scale, I’ll be your company.”
My nose wrinkled. “Um, if this is a twenty-four-hour-a-day job, what is the appropriate scale?”
“I just don’
t think anyone is going to take this serious.”
I yanked her arm. “Just tell me.”
“It’s kind of hard to explain. Scale is based on the type of work: TV; commercials; film. And film is broken up into three different levels: low-budget; mid-range; full-budget.” She took a deep breath. “I just don’t know where this falls in.”
“So, you’re interested?”
“I mean. It sounds fun, but I’m wondering how we work the contract. Will anyone take us seriously?”
“Okay, we’ll draw up a six-month contract and rate it like a low-budget film.” As I watched her slip deeper into my drama, I scooted up in my chair. “What do you think?”
“You’re looking at about three hundred dollars a day.” She used the calculator on her cell phone. “That’s about fifty-five K for six months. You’re crazy.”
“That’s the money I get from Derrick’s estate. That’s not even touching the insurance money.”
She giggled. “Well, hell! Let’s go for it. We could make this a reality show.”
“No, I’m not down for that. We’re not going to have me all posted up on network TV. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Hey, we may as well get paid for it.”
“Whatever. How are you going to cast the actors?”
“Oh, hell no! I’m not casting anyone. You are,” Mya said.
“How am I supposed to do that?”
She sipped her drink. “I’ll have a call out for men that match your description tomorrow. For the guys that I like, but don’t make the cut, I’ll tell them about this opportunity and see how many of them are down. You can set up your own casting. You know what you’re looking for better than me.”
I put my arm around her neck. “What would I do without you?”
She gyrated her slim hips like Lil’ Kim and chanted, “Who gon’ love you like I do? Huh? What?” She raised the roof with her hands and her large bangle jingled to the melody. “Who gon’ treat you like I do? Huh? What?”
Scene 5
RASHAD
Trying to become an actor should be described as the test of a man’s humility. Things I swore I would never do, I find myself willfully submitting to on my quest for stardom. An Asian lady stood over me, waxing every strand of hair growing from my torso. I squinted to avoid screaming as she ripped out the follicles. How many men would tolerate this torture?
When I walked into the casting for an underwear commercial, my question was answered. I wasn’t the only buffed, hairless Black man in the room. As I surveyed the competition, I was confident about my chances. Though I long to one day have a respectable role in a major film, it seems directors love me more the less I have on. Often I want to scream, “Damn it! Does anybody see that I really have talent?”
When I auditioned, I thought for certain I’d nailed it from the expression on the casting director’s face. Her large hazel eyes pierced through me as if she wanted to indulge in me for dessert. I sat in the waiting area for the first-round decisions. Several guys walked out with their heads hung low. As a matter of habit, I always give my competition a head nod.
When I was called into the room, I entered stoically. It will take more than rejection to destroy me. The casting director sat alone in the room. I searched for her cohorts. She chuckled and twirled her finger in her naturally curly sandy brown Afro. “It’s just me. I’m Mya.”
“Please to meet you, Mya.”
I grinned in celebration. Her face elongated and her high cheekbones protruded as she took the regretful deep breath. My confidence fizzled, before she said anything. “You will not be proceeding to the next round.”
This part always bothered me, because the constructive criticism was never constructive. It was always that you’re just not what we’re looking for. How can a man improve when no one can say what’s wrong?
After her thirty-second pause, I stood and extended my hand. She obviously had no advice. She continued, “Have a seat.”
She covered her face. “This is so embarrassing.”
Don’t tell me this lady wants to sex me up after seeing me in my underwear. She was much too slim for me, but still I smiled. “Go ahead. Say what’s on your mind.”
“Okay, I have another opportunity that you might be interested in.”
I scooted up in my chair. This was my kind of criticism. She explained, “It’s kind of out-of-the-ordinary, but it’s still acting. The pay is equivalent to the base scale for a low-budget film.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it’s a six-month contract, subject to renewal.”
“What film? What company? Tell me all the details.”
“It’s sort of like reality TV.”
“That’s cool.”
“If you were to get the part, you would be playing the boyfriend of a young lady who is tired of dating losers.”
I chuckled. “Okay. Will it be aired? What’s the object of the show?”
“Well, it’s kinda like reality TV without the cameras.”
“Get out of here.”
She shook her head and grabbed a folder. “She plans to cast sometime this week. If you’re interested, let me know and I’ll get you on the schedule. And please, do not discuss this with your agent or any other actors.” She winked. “This is a side job where you make all the money. I’ve hand-selected you, because my instincts tell me that you’re a really cool guy.”
“I appreciate this. My lips are sealed.”
This job sounded like a dream come true. Get paid for reality. Who could beat that?
When I got home and opened the folder, I flipped through the script. I was convinced that the main lady was the casting director. Had the dating scene gotten so bad that beautiful women now had to pay men to act like their man? Sadly enough, I wouldn’t know. I’d been out of the mix since my last girlfriend gave me the ultimatum of choosing her or my acting career. My mother raised me to believe that a man should take care of his woman and knowing that I wasn’t in the position to provide for a woman like I should, I let her walk. No woman should have to sit around and watch a man dream. Nor should a man sacrifice his dream to be with a woman. If he doesn’t have his stuff together, he needs to be alone.
The scenes outlined how the man should react to various situations. Most of these things should be second nature. Before I buried myself in the remainder of the script, I called Mya and told her to put me on the schedule. I said, “You can tell everyone else to stay home.”
She chuckled. “I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to do that.”
While she gave me the details, I scanned my closet and planned for attack. She told me that the main character, Fatima, would like to be referred to as Ms. Barnes during the casting. I asked, “Is Fatima her real name?”
“Yes.”
I prayed this young lady was as cute as her name. Her adorable little comments in the script made me anxious to meet her. The thought that she felt deserving of this treatment intrigued me more.
Scene 6
FATIMA
Mya scheduled five actors to meet me at a midtown restaurant thirty minutes apart. I sat alone reading over the portfolios of the prospects. Even I had begun to think this was a ludicrous idea, but it was too late to reconsider because Number One was about to walk on stage.
Before I pulled out my makeup compact, I took a deep breath. As I powdered my nose, I frowned at my reflection. What the hell are you doing? He doesn’t have to find you the least bit attractive.
I gave the host a heads-up that I’d be here for awhile. While I sipped on a glass of Merlot, I drummed on the table.
When I saw the host direct Pee-Wee Herman to my table, I choked the stem of my wineglass. I ducked down and peeked over my shoulder. Is there any way I could hide out until Number Two arrives? I bit my bottom lip. Then, I realized this is no blind date where I have to sit here and smile at some poorly dressed man. My script dictates what I like my man to wear and he was out of character. By the time he reached the table, my expres
sion should have shooed him away. He extended his hand and I scrutinized his outfit. A plastic replica Prada belt sat inches below his chest and strangled the waist of his straight-legged slacks. Dense collections of lint were scattered all over his shirt. He should have vacuumed it.
We shook hands and he raised mine and planted a kiss on it. “Please to meet you, Ms. Barnes.”
I nodded, but didn’t tell him that I was pleased as well. When we sat, I flipped through my copy of the script and ignored his icebreakers. I found the section on Attire and Style and turned the paper around so that he could see. “Did you read this section?”
“Yeah, I noticed you specified a stylish guy, but it says only dress shirts in the blue family or white.” He curled up his nose. “That’s not so stylish. I figured I’d break out with a little pastel. You know, embellish a little.”
Did he just pop his collar? He needed to bring it down a notch, one collar at a time. I stared through him.
