by Tia Williams
“Billie!” she yelled, throwing her hands in the air. “Vida! Where are you going?”
All three whipped around and rushed over to Renee.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said Billie. “You hate me!” She gave Renee a hug. She was breathless. “I’ve been all over this city today. I’ve lost all sense of direction.”
“It’s okay. But I’ve been standing out here forever, and me and this ticket guy are about to go at it.” The ticket guy made a face at her, and Renee sucked her teeth at him.
“Oh, girl, calm down,” Vida said, giving her a kiss. Everyone was accustomed to Renee’s difficulties with self-important bouncers.
“What’s up, Git?”
“Just tryin’ to be me.”
Renee rolled her eyes; she had little patience for Git TaSteppin. “All right, let’s go in.” They each handed the grumbling guy $20 and entered the theater.
Inside the tightly packed space was a small stage with large speakers on either side, blaring DMX. On the stage was a wooden stool. Rising diagonally from the stage were pewlike rows, which seated a cross section of twenty-something Manhattanites. There were black bohemians from Brooklyn, white bohemians from the West Village, hip-hop music industry players, and poetry café heads. A handful of square-looking newspaper reporters from various Metro sections pretended to jot notes on their steno pads. Billie and Renee stood behind the last row next to a group of carefully thugged-out Asian-American NYU students (raised on Eric B. and Rakim, Wu-Tang, and Jay-Z, they went to great lengths to prove their street credibility, from wearing the hottest kicks to saying things like “word life, that shit’s fresh, yo!”). In unison, they nodded their heads to the pounding bass. One of the guys watched Billie struggling with her shopping bag and said, “I’m sayin’, shorty, you need some help?” He smiled, revealing expensive gold fronts. Billie assured him she could manage.
“For real though, Billie, what’s in that bag?” said Vida. It was clinking and clanking.
“Perfume. A million bottles of perfume for an article I have to write this weekend. And a gift from an event. Either of you want a green Fendi baguette?”
Vida wrinkled her nose.
“What am I going to do with that?” Renee never wore colors. “Actually, Moses’s mother’s birthday is next month. She loves loud things. Like one of those birds that are drawn to anything that sparkles.”
“This is perfect, then.”
“How was your day, girls?”
“Crazy busy,” said Vida.
“Plastic but productive,” said Billie.
“Your eyes are glazed over,” noticed Vida.
“I’m postmigraine.” Vida made a concerned face, and Billie waved it away. “How was your day, Renee?”
“I’ll let you know in an hour and a half!” she said excitedly, as the lights went down.
The music changed to Nice & Smooth’s old school classic “Sometimes I Rhyme Slow.” Jay Lane walked out onto the stage to cheers and applause. He was wearing a faded red T-shirt over a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. He was tall, lanky, and brown. A dreadlocked girl in the front exclaimed, “Mm-mm-mmm!” He grinned and called out, “What’s up, y’all?” Somebody yelled, “Chillin’, playa! How you livin’?” Jay scratched the back of his neck and replied, “Shit don’t look too bad from here, nahmean?” One of the Asian boys nodded and muttered, “True, true.” The clapping eventually died down, and the music faded out. Jay shot the shit with the audience and looked generally bashful for a couple of minutes. Then he turned into someone else.
He took a loooong drag from an imaginary spliff and leaned back. Slowly, he exhaled. He slumped on the stool, silent, balefully shaking his head. The audience could almost hear a blues guitar wailing in the background. He took another drag and gazed scornfully at the audience. In a grave, smoked-out voice he announced, “Biggie stole my rhymes.” The crowd burst into laughter. He launched into a rant and rave about how everyone he’d ever known capitalized off of some enormous talent he had. The local pimp recruited all his ex-girlfriends because they were so dope he knew they’d make a fortune. The boy he used to play basketball with on West Fourth got recruited to Georgetown only because he copied his killer crossover. He went with Jennifer Lopez when she was chunky. He griped on and on and on until midsentence, Jay paused and turned back into Jay. Exasperated, he yelled (along with most of the audience, who chanted the line by heart), “Man, coulda, woulda, shoulda. NIGGA, GETCHA OWN HUSTLE!”
Before the hour-and-a-half show was over, Jay had inhabited five more characters. He turned into a teenaged girl who locked herself in a room for days, quitting crack cold turkey. He became a ninety-year-old man on a Bed Stuy stoop, watching a group of boys about to fight (“knives in hand, shackles in place”). He was Flexuality, a frighteningly untalented writer of erotic poetry, and a self-described “Adontis.” Most amazingly, he became a little boy who was so ignored that he’d convinced himself he was invisible. And, clearly as a reaction to the Village Voice article, he was an eager reporter trying to “Angry Black Man” him. At the end of the interview, Jay collapsed to the ground, having been fatally “sound-bitten.” The Metro journalists in the audience looked uncomfortable.
Jay Lane seemed to be these people. It was as if he was jumping into their skin. He had boundless manic energy—he was up and down, on his feet, animated, then withdrawn. It was an eerily perceptive, insightful, dead-on performance. Yet somehow, it never felt preachy or maudlin. Even at the show’s most harrowing moments, he would insert a pop-culture reference or a tongue-in-cheek tone. The audience never got that self-conscious “this is the serious part” feeling. And it was obvious Jay Lane was a writer. The way he strung words together was abstract but almost technical. The show was amazing. When Nutz & Boltz ended, Renee, Vida, and Billie were all knee-deep in epiphanies.
Renee decided he was going to be the next literary sensation.
Billie decided he was going to be her husband.
* * *
• • •
Most of the crowd was filing out, but the reporters and a small group of admirers lingered, hovering around Jay. A cameraman was taking a picture every five seconds.
“That was so hot! Oh my God,” exclaimed Vida.
“I know. All right, listen,” Renee, Miss Bottom Line, said to Vida. “What’s my approach? Everyone’s bumrushing him, and I don’t want to look desperate.”
“Please! Like you’ve ever looked desperate,” encouraged Vida. “Go up to that man, give him your card, and it’s a wrap.”
“Okay.” Renee took a deep breath. “I’ll be right back.” She coolly walked down the stairs, very Strictly Business with her sexily mussed shag and Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. She split the crowd and approached him.
Vida was giggling at Renee, who had gently shoved a reporter aside and was shaking Jay’s hand. “Look at this girl. Who’s gonna say no to her?”
Billie said nothing. She hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. She was outrageously embarrassed. She felt as if it was all over her face. Her chest was hot and her heart was racing. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. This feeling was completely foreign to her.
Vida looked at Billie and raised her eyebrows. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Headache, huh?”
Billie found her voice and lied. “Yeah, I’ve been fighting this migraine all day. I don’t know…” She trailed off and shrugged. She wanted to leave.
“All right, just breathe.” Vida fanned her hand in front of Billie’s hot face.
Then something terrible happened—Renee and Jay came up the aisle toward them. Billie tried to look busy. She assigned herself the task of fiddling with her earring.
Renee was radiant. “Everybody, meet Jay Lane, who’s having lunch with me on Monday.” Vida told Jay how much she had enjoyed the show, and awarded him a congratulatory air
kiss. Git said, “Sup, son?” dapped him up, and resumed his head bobbing.
Jay turned to say hi to Billie and paused. They caught each other’s eye for a split second (did she imagine it?). Billie’s stomach hit the floor. He shook her hand, and she said, “I’m Billie, you were great,” and felt like an asshole.
“Your name’s Billie? What’s it short for?”
“Nothing, just Billie. Billie Burke. It’s so bubblegum. Like I should be on TRL,” she said in a stupid, laughy voice.
“Billie Burke? You know that’s the actress who played Glinda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz, right?”
Vida started laughing, and Renee exclaimed, “He’s good!” Billie could tell they suspected Jay was flirting with their innocent Billie, which they found delicious. Neither one of them realized the state she was in. Save disastrous Shawn, they’d never known her to catch feelings for anybody. And they’d learned not to bring up the subject with her.
“I know. Very few people catch the whole Wizard of Oz connection.” She was aware this sounded haughty and didn’t know how to fix it. His eyes met hers again and lingered a beat too long.
Meanwhile, Git was looking at him suspiciously.
“Where I know you from, man?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jay. “You from here?”
“Naw, Illadelph.” Philadelphia.
“I don’t know, I never been to Philly.”
They looked hard at each other. Slowly, a look of recognition crossed Jay’s face.
“Wait, wait, you ain’t Bone’s cousin? TyJuan?”
To the girls’ surprise, Git burst out laughing. “J-Nut? From Myrtle Ave.? Naaw!”
“What the deal, baby!” They gave each other an enthusiastic hug and pounded each other on the back. Billie, Vida, and Renee shot each other amused looks. Taiwan?
“Wait, how do you know each other?” Vida was kind of annoyed. She’d never inspired this much emotion in Git.
“I grew up in the same building as his cousin Bone,” said Jay.
“And I’d come out there every summer till I was, like, what, thirteen? Fourteen?”
“Yeah, yeah. Shit, it’s been that long?”
“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” said Git. “Man, you was a crazy motherfucker! How’d you end up here? Look at you, on fuckin’ Broadway and shit!”
“It’s a long story, man, a long story,” Jay said, changing the subject. “How long you been here?”
“For a minute,” said Git. “You know, I got some rhymes and shit. Tryin’ to get that demo tape, cut a few tracks, whisper in some ears. Get this thing started.”
“Word? Your shit’s hot?”
“I mean, I got a little flow.”
“Lemme hear it.” Jay looked like he wanted to laugh.
“Aww, come on, man. Don’t blow up my shit.”
“Naw, for real. Freestyle. Look, if you’re really tryin’ to do this, you gotta be impromptu about your shit.”
Git thought about this. He looked at Vida.
“Man, I ain’t got no beats.”
“Come on! Do it! Look, I’ll beatbox.” Vida was excited. She channeled DJ Tri and expertly began spitting a mid-tempo beat into her hand. They all nodded their heads, hyping him up. Git started feeling it and launched into his rhyme.
“Fuck watcha heard it’s Git TaSteppin
Only shoot words ain’t got no weapon
Believe that nigga you a fucking fool
Your flow is bull
Don’t hate me cuz I’m beautiful
It’s my intention to squash your bitchin
I’ll pluck your chickens
I’m Richie Richin’
Your pimp is slippin’
You get no tip and
I’m blazin, amazin, stop hatin—you’re shallow
While you were beatin meat I fucked Meadow Soprano”
“Oh shit!” they all cried out simultaneously, and burst into laughter. Hysterical, Jay pounded Git on the back and said, “Your shit’s all right, man, your shit’s all right. And you got the Human Beatbox over here.”
“Stick with me, baby. I’ll take you places. Show you things.” Vida’s personality was now busting at the seams.
“Git, you just blew my mind,” said Renee. “I didn’t know you spoke.”
“Go ’head,” muttered Git shyly. He was embarrassed.
Billie was still giggling, grateful for the comic relief. Now she wanted to go before Jay looked at her again. She gave Renee a subtle “it’s been a long day” look.
“All right, Jay, we’re not going to keep you,” Renee said smoothly. “Think about what I said, and I’ll see you on Monday, okay?”
“No doubt, no doubt.” He said his goodbyes, took Git’s cell phone number, and headed back down to the dozen or so people waiting for him. As Billie headed toward the safe haven of the exit, she mustered up the nerve to sneak one last glance at him. When she turned her head she saw that he was staring at her. Staring. She froze and left.
* * *
• • •
Once outside, the group left in separate cabs. Billie, Renee, and Vida all lived in Fort Greene, but Billie was the only one going home. Vida and Git went across town to the suddenly trendy meatpacking district for the Sam C. party. Renee, bound by duty, took a cab to Moses’ cavernous apartment near the Twin Towers. Billie sat in the cab, stiff as a board. She was mortified. Why was she so awkward? Someone like Vida would’ve left with his phone number. Or bound him with her belt and dragged him into a cab.
Billie was halfway across the Manhattan Bridge before she realized she’d left the bag of perfume in the theater.
“Noooo!” she wailed out loud. Of course, now it would look like she left it on purpose. Billie groaned and asked the driver to turn around. She prayed that Jay was gone.
The door to the theater was locked. She knocked on the door several times. There was no answer. Again, she pounded and pounded, but no one came. It was a warm Friday night in the East Village. Lafayette Street was alive with pierced people and foreign hipsters smoking clove cigarettes. She waited for a couple of seconds, raised her hand to knock again, and the door opened. It was Jay. It looked like he’d still been talking with some friends who’d been at the show. They said goodbye and left.
“I figured it was you,” he said to her. “You forgot your bag.”
“Yeah. I…it’s really important. I don’t know what I was thinking! It’s been a really long day.” This involved a lot of gesturing. “How’d you know I forgot my bag?”
He looked at her like she was crazy. “Cuz I was watching you.”
“Oh.”
They stood there for a minute, Jay in the doorway, Billie outside. People were looking at them. She didn’t know what to do. Was he going to bring it to her, or did she have to walk past him to get it? This was so hard.
“Do you wanna come in?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He backed out of the doorway, and she passed him, holding her breath. She heard voices backstage, but the front of the tiny theater was empty. There it was, her troublesome fucking bag, leaning against the wall behind the last row. She picked it up and sighed with relief. Jay sat in front of her on the bench.
“This is really important,” she repeated. The gaping shopping bag was filled to the brim with perfumes, so she realized how flighty that sounded.
“Are you a Mary Kay lady?”
“No! I’m a beauty editor.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“I write about makeup and hair and skincare. For a magazine.”
“Which magazine?”
“Du Jour.”
“Fancy.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
&nbs
p; He nodded approvingly. “That’s hot, Billie Burke.”
Billie kind of half-smiled, half-shrugged. She noticed the scar on his cheek and thought it made him look like, like, a man. More men should have them.
“How come you ain’t wearing any makeup?”
“Do I look awful?”
“I mean, you write about makeup, but you ain’t wearing any.”
“Most beauty writers don’t wear makeup. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because we get sent so much of it, we’re immune.”
“Does that really happen?”
“What?”
“I mean, can you really get so much of something you love that you become immune?”
“I…yeah. Of course.” Billie was nervous. He was looking at her like he knew her.
“That’s never happened to me.”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Nathan’s hot dogs.”
“Okay, you love Nathan’s hot dogs. Could you eat them every day for two weeks?”
“I try to eat one every day,” he said.
Billie cocked her head and wondered if he was lying.
“I can’t cook for shit. And I can’t get enough of Nathan’s hot dogs. Have you ever had one? They’re the right kinda salty, and they got that burned strip running down the middle? Oh my God. Why complicate matters when you got a sure thing?”
“Isn’t that boring?” she asked.
“I don’t get bored.” He stood up. Without thinking, she backed up against the wall.
“I’m frequently bored,” she said.
“I believe it.”
Billie looked insulted. Jay grinned at her, his eyes sparkling like the ones in Japanese animation. He had lashes longer than a man has any right to have. Billie wondered when she could tell him she loved him.
“Do you like tea?” she asked him, wondering what the hell she was saying.
“Do I like tea?”
“Yeah. I have this bag of green tea that someone gave me today. I’ll never drink it, so…” She trailed off and offered him the fussily wrapped bag of tea leaves. It was bound in a frilly pink and green ribbon. “Do you want it?”
