by Belvin, Love
After long deliberation, I came to the conclusion that I had to free-ball it to the house in Pasadena. I’d hoped I wouldn’t get into an accident on the 10 or 405, be taken to the hospital and surprise the nurses.
About forty-five minutes later, I was pulling into my driveway when I noticed something in front of my door. When I got out of the car and approached the door, I saw there were flowers…about six dozen of them. I knew automatically who they were from. I pulled an envelope from one of them and my suspicions were correct—Tara. I wasn’t in the mood to even think of her. Leaving the flowers where I found them, I strolled into the house. I checked my home voicemail and again, the same messages from the cells. I called the club to announce my soon arrival and had them order food, I was starving. I cleaned up—again to feel fresh, dressed and got out of dodge.
Jumping on the 110, I headed to Sunset Blvd in Hollywood. When I arrived, I was taken by the amount of people out and nearly blocking the entrance. Most of them were gorgeous women. The more I saw the angrier I became. I knew this wasn’t a good idea! I went in and scanned the main room. There were three levels at Cobalt but I recalled my manager telling me that only the first floor was being used tonight. I went up to the administrative area that was on the third floor. My office oversaw the entire main room and faced the stage.
From the time I entered the reception area, all eyes were on me waiting to take cues from my demeanor. I wasn’t in the best of moods that night. Hell—I hadn’t been in good spirits in months. Because I was aware of my disposition caused by my life’s unhappy state as of late, I tried to develop a conscious to be as pleasant as possible to the staff.
Tracy, my assistant manager, had Filemina’s Soul Food waiting for me. As I walked into my office she was unloading the “to go” order onto the plate at the table next to the window that provided the view of the club. My stomach growled louder than a motherfucker.
I greeted everyone and asked for a rundown of the evening. Tracy, a dark-skinned, petite woman with a punk-rocker Mohawk haircut, informed me that I had quite a few messages—most of them from Tara. To change the subject I asked about tonight’s function and how that was flowing. She assured me everything was running smoothly and on time. I went into the bathroom located in my office, on the opposite side of the conference area, to wash my hands so that I could eat. I sat down to feast on baked catfish, macaroni & cheese, candied yams and cabbage.
“Ms. Filemina had Johnny put some peach cobbler in there complimentary,” Tracy said while tapping on her electronic tablet.
“Okay, thanks.” Ms. Filemina had always been gracious to my staff and me over the years. We’ve always thrown her business anytime we could.
Kareem, the club manager, came in with a few housekeeping questions and updates that I provided direction on. In the middle of my last sentence to him I hear, “Yo, Divine! The crew is coming through tonight. We need to meet about ‘dis basketball league we tryna’ start in Inglewood. You asked me to line ‘em up and ‘dis was the best time. ‘Dat alright wit’ you?” Petey came in announcing as he gave me love by way of dap.
My brows knitted as I tried to recall authorizing such an arrangement. Petey was my man, a hundred grand. I’ve known him for about fifteen years. He was ten years my senior but always kept it fresh. His loyalty was unrivaled. He did a ten-year bid in Detroit and moved to L.A. to take care of his ailing grandmother. We crossed paths in the streets, he attached himself to me and we’ve been that way ever since. Everywhere I went, he went. For every thousand dollars I made he earned five hundred dollars. When I started legitimizing my game I stuck him anywhere I could on the payroll to make sure he ate legally. We’ve been through so much together—shoot outs, stick ups, deals gone bad, unwanted pregnancies, births, even a marriage which, was his, of course.
The craft that Petey mastered was playing his position. He didn’t mind supporting my leadership. That’s the problem with most hustlers in the game, they get greedy. What they don’t know is that everybody can’t be in the lead. If your man has a talent and is making money, don’t try to undercut him to make more; use his knowledge, skills, and leadership to get us bread. Most importantly don’t focus on getting more than or as much as him. As long as you’re eating and eating well in proportion to him, you’re good. If he’s making sure money is in your pocket and you’re living well—leave it be and play your position. Everybody don’t shine the same brilliancy. Everyone isn’t born with an equal amount of talents. You use yours and let him use his so that the two of you can get that cake. Petey understood that right away. For every three properties I had, he had one, which he preferred. No competition, no hate, no betrayal—all love.
“Petey Crack!” I sang as I suddenly recalled our agreement to meet that evening. “That’s cool, man. Do you have an agenda?” I quizzed. I had to. What people know about me is that I wear two faces. I’m a hustler to the bones but I hustle during the day with a suit and at night with loose denim and Timbs, so to speak. At times, my day gig spills over and I demand the same etiquette in the street as I do in the boardroom. Now, Petey was planning to have these goons up in Cobalt, which isn’t usually the case because they’re not the type of clientele this establishment was intended for. I have a club in South L.A. for that type of energy. If the meeting would be here, he would need to move it efficiently. That meant he needed a plan and the agenda would do just that.
“You know it, yo!” Petey beamed proudly.
“Alright!” I went back to finishing my Filemina’s.
“Let me run it down to you and you let me know if I need to change something, a’ight?” Petey grabbed a seat next to me at the small round conference table.
We sat and talked for a little while about my plans of starting a basketball league in Inglewood. I thought it was necessary for the high school-aged boys who were the most at risk for gang recruitment. Gangs were actually recruiting kids in grade school but I preferred the older guys because I thought they’d be easier to work with. I had to seek approval from the older G’s out there before proceeding with this. We would, after all, be using their local basketball court. That process was smooth because I’d been cool with them over the years from running a club and bodegas around the way. In the early years, we had a few run-ins but when they saw I was no punk and was willing to go toe-to-toe they started to respect me. Those were some of my darker days. The streets don’t allow for many pleasantries or peaceful negotiating. You’re forced to do some things that can haunt you for years to survive. But no matter what, with this venture, I had to respect their turf.
There were a lot of dancers in the building. Many of them were women who were fine as hell. Many of the moves on the stage reminded me of those seen at the Drop It strip club that Petey owns down in the Watts. One chick had moves I’m sure I’ve seen at a nude bar.
Later on, the crew came through for the conference Petey arranged. He led the meeting, I gave my input and we closed. After we were done, a few of them stayed around to chitchat. Lil’ Mikey yelled from the window, “Yo, look at this bitch! Yo, she bad as hell, yo.”
We all gathered at the window and although his delivery was callous, he was right. The woman on stage was a fucking banger. She danced to that song from back in the 80s—the one that sounded like Prince but there were actually women singing. Something about, “Living in a fantasy…Do you think I’m a nasty girl?” She was extremely sexy – mildly sized boobs showing a little cleavage, tiny waist and a plump ass—thick in all the right places like an hourglass. Although the song was suggestive, she swayed with class. There were no stripper moves going on in her dance. It was just a showcase of tasteful body expression. We all watched until the song was over and she left the stage.
“A’ight, it’s time to roll out, now!” Petey announced over the vulgar verbal appraisals and usual male banter.
Respectfully, they immediately filed out. I went to use the john right after they exited and while I was at the sink, my phone vibrated. I dried my hands
and checked the number. It was Tara. I let it go to voicemail. The thought of her made me want a drink so I went down to the bar. As I got off the elevator, I threaded through the crowd of people and made my way to the bar. That’s when I noticed the beauty, who we watched dance from my office, had won second place. She was on stage accepting her prize behaving rather modestly, quite a contrast to her on-stage minx persona. I laughed to myself thinking she deserved first place with those moves.
I ordered my drink and exchanged a few pleasantries with one of the bartenders we’d just hired. I walked around the floor to get a feel of the crowd. As I made my way toward the entrance I heard a little rift-raft. That’s when I saw Lil’ Mikey making a comment to the beauty from the stage, something about if she wanted to make some money to call him. I immediately thought to myself, Never again will these dudes come here. They can keep that bullshit back at home!
Lil’ momma spit back some vicious shit back to him, though. It had his boys laughing. Once she finished she continued out the door with some guy she appeared to be with. She looked over at me and I noticed her eyes. Though covered in dark make-up, they were a captivating crescent slant. From her hair, I could tell she was the “Nasty” song girl even though she wore more clothes off stage. Her face was just as fine as her body. She was a beautiful caramel shade of brown with plump lips and a slender nose. She was the total package. I got a kick out of the way she rolled her eyes at me just before storming out. I didn’t understand what that was all about but I brushed it off and went about my business.
My phone vibrated again. It was Tara again. I put the call straight to voicemail again, but decided to go upstairs to call her back. I’d have to face her sooner or later.
~~~~~~~~~~
Rayna
About two years had flown by and found me graduating from Cal State with my Master’s degree in Physical Therapy at the top of my class. I was extremely proud of myself and couldn’t believe it was finally over. As I walked off the field there was Michelle holding little Erin who was chanting, “Aun-Tee Na-Na! Aun-Tee Na-Na!” Also present was Richard, a friend of mine. I thought it was so thoughtful of him to come and support me.
“So what are you doing to celebrate tonight, Ms. Rayna? By the way, I love your new hair color!” Michelle beamed as she bounced the tot on her hips.
“Well, I do have a dance off tonight that I’m excited about.” With that thought came all the little nuances I had to do to prepare for it.
I started taking dance classes when I moved into my own place. Between work and school I needed an outlet and to stay in shape. I had taken a dance course for an easy credit in undergrad and told myself that I would take it up recreationally once I graduated and I did. I started out with Salsa and that’s how I met Ricardo, better known as Richard. He was fairly good looking and attentive. The only problem was he had no personality. Michelle had her hopes up for my Latin love. She figured it would be good if at least one of us was getting some. Michelle felt she was out of the game because she wasn’t ready to have men around Erin. And I, quite frankly, just hadn’t found anyone of interest.
I was dating a patient’s nephew from the practice just to find out five months down the line that he was bisexual. I thought, No, not another one! At any rate, Richard was good company but it seemed like he was hiding something…almost like he’d had another life.
“Will you be attending with her, Richard?” Michelle asked while placing Erin in her stroller.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been invited,” he responded in his thick Latin accent as he eyed me suspiciously.
I knew what Michelle was trying to do. She was trying to put me on the spot so that I would ask him to come. The truth of the matter was I preferred to take on my hobby alone with unknown spectators. I never invited Michelle to a class or event so I certainly wouldn’t ask Richard.
“Michelle, Richard is just as informed of my rule as you are. I don’t invite people I know to see me dance. This hobby that I’ve taken on is very private, self-gratifying, and therapeutic.”
As I spoke those words with conviction I used my eyes to emphasize the message to Michelle before turning to Richard, “Now what you can do to commemorate this milestone in my life is take me out to lunch. How does that sound?”
“Very good.” I couldn’t ignore his bright and very attractive smile.
After lunch, I parted ways with Richard and went home to take a much needed nap. I got up, showered and started practicing my number, fighting nervousness and excitement at the same time. I loved to dance and had been told by many that I was pretty good. I didn’t think I was so good to start choreographing but it felt good moving rhythmically to music. It was an art far more than repetitious movement; it was a therapeutic experience.
As I gazed at myself in the mirror, I realized how much I appreciated my body. I was wearing grey tights with a white fitted tank exposing the contour of my figure. The time I spent on my body had paid off, but I still had those little imperfections here and there that kept me working harder. I believed in working out and staying physically active. Other than a little bulge in her mid-section, this is exactly how I remember my mom was shaped before… I didn’t want to complete the thought. My eyes began to swell. I immediately switched gears and grabbed my heels to start practicing.
After an hour or so I began to get dressed. My color for the evening was black. I dressed in black sequin mini shorts and corset with the fishnet stockings. I had to get some work done to the new silver sequin platform I’d purchased for the contest. They were nice platform dance shoes with straps added to protect my ankles. I applied my makeup with emphasis on my dark smoky eyes. I’d put a jet-black rinse in my hair the night before to mystify my look for the show. I was on!
That night was my first dance-off. A dance-off is where the local dance leagues in L.A. would showcase their best dancers in a competition. Dance-offs could go statewide. Last year my team’s rival team, One Step, took home the district title as best dance team. The One Step team won a trophy and five thousand dollars. Their winning dancer Wendy was the bomb. There was some backlash because she was a former stripper but not enough for the judges or the association to rescind their decision. From what I’ve been told, most of the dancers were reformed exotic dancers or NBA cheerleader-rejects. Hell, the association was comprised of current and washed up choreographers and background dancers from music videos! It tickled me when I heard the MCs give the resume run down for the judges and team choreographers. Some of them worked with artists that I’d never heard of or artists that only did two-step moves in their videos and at concerts.
The more impressive ones were those who had worked with Janet Jackson, Britney Spears, and Paula Abdul. There were even a few a couple of months ago that were background dancers for Beyoncé and Missy Elliott. At the last event, I could have sworn I saw Fatima Robinson, the famed choreographer that has worked with Michael Jackson, Aaliyah, Prince, and many others. She was so low key and in the cut that I couldn’t be sure. There were plenty of scouts available for aspiring video dancers. But for me this was just a hobby.
I loved the atmosphere. My choreographer, Jimmie was great. He was a forty-nine year old, African American, flaming dancer. A knee injury prevented him from continuing his dreams. He showed us pictures of Broadway plays he starred in and famous figures he’d been associated with during the height of his career. And he loved me. He’d call me The Lost One Found using no nicknames for it.
“Arch those fabulous arms, The Lost One Found!”
“Heels up high, The Lost One Found.”
“Chest out, The Lost One Found.”
“My goodness, boast those boobies, The Lost One Found!” he’d say to me.
As soon as I arrived Jimmie trilled, “You’re finally here, The Lost One Found! There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” as he examined my makeup to be sure it was in tip top shape for the performance. He pulled my arm into a room where other girls from my team were either preparing for th
eir performance or assisting someone who was. I smiled as he towed me through a crowd of half-naked people and never took a breath while talking. He stopped at an attractive middle-aged man with beautiful brown skin and an alluring smile. He had vanity built into his full cheeks and dark mustache.
Jimmie continued while holding my hand and patting it gently every few seconds while speaking, “Frankie darling, I would like you to meet my leading lady of the evening. The number she’s doing tonight should only be attempted by seasoned professionals, but will be gracefully performed by this charming, medical professional who only dances to fulfill some back alley dream of hers. I’ve named her appropriately, The Lost One Found. She’s lost in purpose but found in this gift.”
He then turned to me and said, “Honey, this is a dear, long time, long lost friend of mine…the ultimately talented, Mr. Frank Gatson.”
“Hello, Mr. Gatson.” I pushed out with a wide smile. I didn’t know who this man was.
“Nice to meet you, dear,” he responded as he gazed over me intensely from head to toe in assessment. It made me very nervous. I quickly turned my head towards Jimmie to break the awkward gape.
“Okay, my dear, you must prepare for your debut. I’m expecting fabulous results on that stage tonight. Frank just stopped in to say hello and I thought I’d introduce him to you people. Run along and meditate, The Lost One Found!” I could tell he thought I had a clue of who that man was.
The event was held at a club called Cobalt on Sunset Blvd in Hollywood. I didn’t want to tell Michelle it would be here because she’d been talking about this place for months now saying that we really need to come. It was one of the hottest clubs around. Too bad this was a weekday and I couldn’t gauge the type of patrons who frequented it. She said the owner was a young tycoon who was buying up lots of property in L.A. including a recreation facility in Long Beach City that has prime space available for a prospective location for the physical therapy practice.
