Thirty minutes and two Harlem mojitos later, Dior’s mood finally began to mellow. She started swaying her shoulders to the soulful jazz and looked around the bar. This place really is nice, she thought. I really am glad I stayed. She looked over at the bar, then did a double take. Was that the girl who lived above her squeezed in at the bar? What was her name again? Tamara?
Things are looking up, after all, Dior thought happily. Who needs a man? Sometimes sisterhood is all it takes.
TAMARA MURPHY
by Daaimah S. Poole
January 3, 2008
Tamara Murphy profiled in the mirror, striking pose after pose before finally settling down and squinting closely to apply just the perfect amount of black eyeliner to her beautiful brown eyes. Once she was satisfied with her eyes, she started to touch up her cheeks with a rose-color blush that accented beautifully her golden wheat skin. She then went back to striking poses. Yes, she decided, she looked good. The brown wrap dress clung tightly to her voluptuous body.
At twenty-eight she had no complaints about her extra proportions that were passed on from her mother, Beverly, and grandmother Joan. She was a bit on the thick side, but she was far from fat, and she knew how to work what she had and she worked it well. She pulled as many men with her size 14 as any of her size 3 friends. She spun around, letting the hem of the dress twirl around her as she surveyed her body and sprayed her signature cologne True Star.
The ringing of the cordless phone interrupted her daily morning routine.
“Hello,” Tamara answered.
“You better get your butt up. You’re going to miss your flight,” Tamara’s mother yelled in her ear loudly, hurting the inside of her ears.
“Mama, I’m getting ready now,” she said as she stepped away from the mirror.
“What time does your flight leave?”
“I have to be at Hartsfield by ten. My flight leaves at eleven thirty.”
“Girl, you need more time than an hour and a half at the airport. You have to go through security and all of that.”
“Mama, nobody flies out on Wednesday. I’ll be just fine,” Tamara said, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. She loved her mom, but sometimes she could be such a mother!
“You know your grandmother’s still upset you’re leaving,” her mother whined.
Tamara smiled. It was her mother who was having fits about her only daughter moving hundreds of miles away, but like always, she put the blame on Tamara’s grandmother.
“I’m sure she’ll get over it.”
“I don’t know, Tammy,” her mother said with a sigh. “Oh, Tamara, how could you do this? Why would you take a position all the way in New York City? And taking an apartment in Harlem of all places!”
“Mom, this is a great opportunity for me.”
“I know but it is just so far, and you didn’t even see your apartment yet. How about if it doesn’t look like the pictures and it is rat infested? You know what they say about Harlem.”
“Mom, you watch too much television. The broker assured me that it’s a beautiful place and she sent me dozens of pictures of it.”
Just as she expected, her mother changed tactics. “But if you go to New York, how will you meet your husband and get married?”
“There are plenty of men in New York. And besides, I’m not ready for marriage.”
“You should be ready for marriage, you’re twenty-eight and tapping on thirty,” her mother said with authority.
“Mama, I’ll talk to you later. I have to finish packing.”
“Tamara, you’re not finished packing?” her mother exploded.
“I’m just about finished,” Tamara said as she looked at the last of the empty suitcases laid out on the bed.
“Well, do you want me to take you to the airport at least? I can drop you off on the way into the city.”
“No, Nicole is taking me. I’ll be fine. I’ll call you once I get settled. Okay?”
“Okay, please be careful,” her mother said.
Tamara sighed into the phone. She couldn’t understand why her mother was acting like she just had decided to move. Like she didn’t know for the last three months that she had accepted a job offer in New York City. Like she didn’t just have a going-away breakfast a few days ago New Year’s morning.
“So I have to get ready. Okay?”
“I can bring you some breakfast,” her mother said hopefully. “You should have taken one of these pies with you. They probably won’t have any good food up there.”
Tamara rolled her eyes. She loved her mother’s cooking and she would miss it, but she was not about to carry a whole apple pie on the plane with her.
“Mom, please stop. I will be okay!”
“Okay, okay. Call me as soon as you get off the plane.”
“I will,” Tamara promised before pressing the Off button on her cordless phone. She looked around her empty tenth-floor condo. She couldn’t believe all her furniture was gone and that she was actually moving. She was excited, yet part of her was a little scared. But it was too late to change her mind. The movers had already come and were on their way up north. Even if she wanted to, there was no turning back now. Atlanta was her home. However, she was leaving home to go and conquer the unknown.
The unknown being New York City, a dream town for anyone in her line of work. Her mother and grandmother insisted on calling her a party girl, but she was actually a prominent club and party promoter.
New York would be refreshing because Atlanta’s scene was becoming saturated. There was somewhere to go seven days a week and every well-known guy on his campus called himself a party promoter. They all thought they were CEOs of their own record label and they were always name-dropping, saying, “Tyler Perry is my man.” “Usher came to my last party.” Or “Me and Jermaine Dupri be hanging out together.” It had taken Tamara almost six years, but she had finally broken away from the pack and made a name for herself as the most successful promoter in the ATL. Her big break came when she managed to talk herself into a job promoting a big event for the Atlanta Falcons’ season opener.
Over the years she had learned the right amount of kiss-butt tactics to get the right people at her parties, and she went all out for this one. She lured her athletes, rap artists, models, and film stars in with the promise of VIP treatment, complimentary bottles of champagne, and pretty girls. She paid radio hosts to slip up on air and talk about her exclusive party. Tamara knew when people heard the word exclusive they automatically wanted to be included. She invited all Atlanta’s elite, and they all showed up. So many, in fact, that some pretty prominent people had to be turned away. That one party made her the official “It Girl.” After the big write-up the event got in the Atlanta Constitution she was booked for two years and began getting corporate accounts and doing album release parties. People were begging her to work for them because they knew if she promoted a club it was sure to be packed with every celebrity living in the city, as well as any who might be visiting at the time. Tamara was living high as the star of Atlanta’s nightlife.
Then, just three months ago, she was offered the job of a lifetime by no less than the famous Harold brothers.
Everyone in the country knew the duo, thanks to the big write-ups they’d gotten in Black Enterprise, Ebony, and Jet magazines.
Maurice Harold was the older brother; he was thirty-six, married, with one son. Then there was Kendall Harold, who was thirty-three, single, with no children. They were raised by their father and stepmother in Newark and worked for their father’s grocery store as boys. Maurice was the hardworking one, and had a master’s degree in business from the prestigious Wharton School. Kendall was the party boy. Still, they made a powerful combination. After finishing school they had struck out on their own, with their father’s blessings, and were now successful real estate investors and owned several restaurants and bars in Chicago, Detroit, and Baltimore. Now they were opening a new nightclub in New York, and when they started asking around for s
omeone to promote their latest enterprise, Tamara’s name was one that came up time and time again. So they contacted her and asked her to promote the new club, which was called Onyx Lounge and was opening in six weeks on February 13, 2008.
Having already conquered Atlanta, Tamara was ready for a change, and she couldn’t wait.
Tamara looked out the window and reflected on the success she’d received since graduating from Clark Atlanta University five years before. Still, with all her achievements, she hadn’t been able to impress her mother or grandmother. They could never get past the fact that at twenty-eight she was still single, and were constantly trying to hook her up.
But Tamara didn’t trust her mother’s or grandmother’s selection of men. They both had been married multiple times. If they couldn’t get it right for themselves, how could they get it right for her?
Tamara’s mother was Mrs. Beverly Murphy Johnson Halston Matthew. She had walked down the aisle three times and also been divorced three times. Then there was her grandmother Joan. She was the first-generation serial marryer. She has been married four times. She was sixty-four when she married her fourth husband, James, in November. He was twenty years her junior and looked like he could be a distant cousin of Denzel Washington. Tamara loved her mother and grandmother, but did not want to end up like them. Both women desperately always needed a man. They needed men to escort them to all the social events that they attended. They needed a man to hang a picture on the wall or just to take out the trash. Tamara wanted to one day marry, but she would not make it her life goal or the center of her universe.
Besides, too many men were very intimidated by her work. Seeing a man groupie is not pretty. Have you ever seen a guy scream and jump up and down like a teenage girl when she meets her idol? Tamara knew this firsthand; she’d seen it way too many times, and always dropped the guy immediately afterward. Then she met Donovan, a successful thirty-year-old attorney, at a charity auction. He worked for a law firm downtown and he lived in Buckhead and drove a Lexus SC430 convertible. He seemed supportive of her work, but not overly interested. He made it clear from the beginning that he was into her, not what she did for a living. They became kind of serious immediately. But the more involved they became, the less work Tamara did. Donovan would even tell her she didn’t have to work her little job because he could take care of her. He even began complaining about her hours and said that he didn’t like her going out every weekend. Although Tamara was in love she wasn’t going to stop her life for him. Donovan wanted someone waiting for him at home. When she wasn’t always available, there was an argument. They were together six months before eventually falling apart.
He didn’t understand why she left him, because her mother and grandmother loved him and had already begun calling him son. If she would have let them have it their way they would have planned a summer wedding at the Piedmont Room in a garden tent. And after the fabulous wedding they would have planned a beautiful honeymoon in Barbados. They would even have named her daughter and even picked out what the baby girl would wear home from the hospital. Then two years into Tamara’s perfect marriage they would call and tell her that she needed to leave him. Their reason would be that he was not spending enough time at home. They would tell her what divorce attorney to use to make sure she got hefty alimony payments. Then they would invite her to get-togethers to complain how men ain’t shit. She’d seen the cycle so many times she knew it by heart, and was glad she escaped it.
Donovan was a year ago and since then she hadn’t dated anyone seriously. She didn’t have the time. The last thing Tamara was trying to do was settle down with one man. Her goal in NYC was to date like a man and not get caught up on one.
She suddenly glanced at her watch. Time was moving quickly; it was already 9:15. She had about forty-five minutes to finish packing. She scurried around her place picking up what was left of her belongings and throwing them into her suitcase. Nicole would be on time—she always was.
Forty minutes later Tamara looked down at her ringing phone and its flashing red screen. Nicole’s number was blinking. Tamara picked up. Without saying hello she answered, “I’ll be right down.”
“Hurry up,” Nicole yelled in Tamara’s ear.
Tamara took one last look around her place and closed the door. She walked to the elevator, dragging her two large black suitcases behind her. Nicole waved at Tamara to hurry up while talking on her cell phone. Nicole had on dark blue skinny jeans with flat-soled brown boots and matching scarf and hat. Her curly dark brown hair stuck out a little. Tamara dragged her luggage as fast as she could, which wasn’t fast enough for Nicole. She momentarily took the phone away from her ear and finally yelled, “Come on.”
Once Tamara reached Nicole’s Nissan Sentra she popped the trunk for her and helped her load the heavy bags in the car. She gave her a fast sideways hug and ran to the front seat. Tamara opened the door and entered the car and put on her seat belt. Nicole was on the phone arguing with someone. Tamara sat back and looked one last time at her building. She then tuned into Nicole’s heated conversation.
“What do you mean?” Nicole screamed. “I don’t know about all that. What are you talking about?…Yeah, well, if that’s the way you want it, fine. Well, Rahsan, you know I wasn’t like that when I met you. Well, I can’t change who I am. No, I won’t. Listen, I’ll talk to you later,” she said as she turned on the radio and snapped the phone shut. The Frank Ski Morning Show was blasting.
“Forget him,” Nicole said aloud.
“Forget who? Who got you all worked up this morning?” Tamara asked as Nicole’s window wipers swayed, cleaning the light rain off the windshield.
“Nothing, it’s just that guy Rahsan.”
“Rahsan?”
“That guy from my grad class. Rahsan.”
“Okay, okay, I remember who he is. So what’s the problem?”
“Well, I’ve been dating him three weeks and already he’s talking that mess.”
“What mess?” Tamara asked.
“He said that I should stop perming my hair.”
Tamara laughed and managed to get out a “What?” between giggles.
“Yeah, isn’t he crazy? He is trying to turn me into an Afronconic or something.”
“You mean Afrocentric.”
“Yeah, Afrocentric, Afroconic, whatever, same thing. So I told him I like weave and I get a touch-up every six weeks. This is how you met me and I’m not changing. He’s a vegetarian, too! I tried those soy burgers. I stopped eating meat in front of him, but my hair, that’s where I draw the line.”
Tamara shook her head at Nicole’s latest rant, but knew it was only a matter of time before Nicole flipped the script on her. She was always amazed how Nicole would switch her style of dress and attitude for whatever man she was dating at the moment.
Changing the subject, Nicole said, “So, what’s up with you? How do you feel about leaving? You are going so far away.”
“I’m a little scared, but I’m ready. I still have all my contacts here and if I ever want to come home I can. But how many times will I get a chance to go to New York and take over?” Tamara said to Nicole while still convincing herself that she was making the right decision.
“That’s true, but I’m still going to miss you.”
“You’ll be okay.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll move north after grad school!”
As they approached the airport, Tamara’s stomach began to turn and she became a little dizzy. However, she took a long, deep breath and closed her eyes and said a little silent prayer. When she opened her eyes the car had stopped and she had arrived at the airport. She gathered her luggage and gave Nicole a firm hug. Tamara then took a five out of her wallet and handed it to the skycap who assisted her to baggage check. She checked her luggage, grabbed a coffee, then sat down and sipped her coffee until her flight was announced.
The first thing that greeted Tamara as she exited the airplane in La Guardia International Airport was the cold we
ather. She was not dressed appropriately for the weather at all. The cold wind was blowing through her dress. She would have to wear the big coat she packed. She had no idea where baggage claim was, so she followed the other passengers off her plane. They all seemed to know where they were going. They were walking fast and she tried to keep up with them. There were people everywhere, all shades and colors, walking by speaking different languages. Some with slanted eyes; others with wide eyes. Some of the people were looking like they ran the world and others just as lost as she was. She continued to follow the passengers from her plane to baggage claim. Tamara claimed her bag and then went and stood in the taxi line. Ten minutes later an older brown gentleman pulled up. He grabbed her luggage and asked her if she had any more bags. He opened her door and she took a seat. There was jazz playing lightly on his radio. He opened his cab partition window and asked her where she was going.
“One hundred and nineteenth Street and Malcolm X Boulevard,” she said to the driver.
“You are going to Harlem, huh?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Are you visiting?” he asked
“No, I just moved here.”
“From where?” he asked.
“Atlanta,” she said.
“Atlanta? I have family in Savannah.”
“Really?”
“Did you go to Spellman down there?”
“No, Clark Atlanta,” Tamara responded as she stared out the window looking at her surroundings. She didn’t want to be rude, but she didn’t have time to make small talk with him. She had calls to make. She looked in her planner in search of her new landlady’s name and telephone number.
After a twenty-minute ride Tamara raised her head and noticed the rows of houses and apartment buildings on each block that she passed by. The houses were very large and so close together. She had arrived in Harlem. There was a lot to see. They rode down 125th Street, and it was just like she’d always heard. Even though it was in the middle of the afternoon and most folks should be at work, the street was crowded with people walking around, heads held high and looking neither left nor right as they strode down the block. Street vendors stood in front of tables filled with books, CDs, jewelry, socks, gloves, just about anything, and yelled for people to stop and take a look. Huge billboards hung over the top of buildings, with pictures of celebrities endorsing sneakers or announcing a new CD. On the corner was a young girl with pants so tight they looked like they were painted on, screaming on a guy with pants that hung so low on his hips they looked like they were going to fall off. The couple looked like they were getting ready to come to blows, but no one even stopped to look. Yeah, Tamara, thought. I’m really in Harlem. And I love it already.
Diamond Playgirls Page 7
