by Tia Williams
“I’m sorry, I own a high-end spirits shoppe”—he said the word with such flourish that it sounded like it was spelled the French way—“so wherever I am, I always laser right in on the wine selection.” Jimmy chuckled and reached up to slap Eric on the back. “You did a great job, young man.”
Jimmy made his way back to Jenna’s side, and they launched into a private conversation.
Eric looked at Tim. “Son.”
“I believe he was trying to clown you, young man,” said Tim. “You want me to get Carlita to beat his ass?”
“I’m supposed to help her close with that pretentious dick?” Eric said, thoroughly disgusted. “Jimmy Crocket. How am I not gonna call him Jiminy Cricket?” Tim laughed, loving this.
“I need a drink,” said Eric.
Everyone was seated in Jenna’s living room, while Lula made the rounds with a tray of prosciutto-and-mint wrapped asparagus. They party had broken off into smaller groups, with everyone embroiled in separate conversations. Jenna and Jimmy stood together by the new side chair; Billie, Jay, Tim and Eric were on the couch, and Carlita and Elodie shared a love seat.
As Eric chatted with Billie about the upcoming presidential election, keeping one eye on Jenna and Jimmy. He was supposed to be on matchmaking duty, but it was all he could do not to pelt that asshole with asparagus. But he had a job to do. This night was about helping her bag the second date. So, he excused himself and walked up to the pair.
“…so yes, I’ve almost completed transforming the basement of Brews & Bottles into a gallery,” Jimmy was saying. “Upscale and rustic, but with warmth. Like a man cave in Milan. Actually, ‘Milanese Man Cave’ isn’t a bad name for the space.”
“Wonderful idea,” said Jenna. “Brooklyn is such a hotbed of talented artists looking for exposure.”
“Indeed. For my grand opening, I’m showing my friend’s arfe paintings. You know what arfe is, right?”
Jenna groaned inwardly. Jimmy was one of those oh-so-plugged-in New Yorkers who asked if you’d heard of something before just telling you about it—thus putting you on the spot, making you feel like silly if you hadn’t.
“Arfe? No, I can’t say that I’m familiar.”
“They’re paintings created using coffee. It’s a blend of the words art and café. Arfe is a portmanteau, which is when two words combine to make a new one. Like jazzercise.”
Jenna looked like she wanted to cackle and cry at the same time. Eric was intervening at the perfect moment.
“Hey,” he said to the pair.
“Hi!” Jenna was so grateful to see him. “Eric, did you know that you and Jimmy are both Guyanese-American?”
“Oh, word?”
“Yes,” said Jimmy. “Can you speak patois?”
“No, but I understand it. Everybody’s grandma was Guyanese in my neighborhood when I was a kid.”
“How often do you visit?”
“I’ve never been, but I’ll get there one day. I hear it’s beautiful.”
“You’ve never met your family on the island? Don’t you value your roots? Eric, you haven’t lived until you’ve physically laid down on the ground in the land your people come from.”
“I don’t know anyone in Guyana,” said Eric, mildly. “My people come from Brooklyn, dude. I’m not laying down on Nostrand Ave.”
Jimmy looked at him with sadness and pity.
“Sooo Jenna,” Eric said, changing the subject, “I don’t know what’s in these hors d’oeuvres. But I think we need more, they’re delicious?”
“Indeed,” Jimmy said. “What’s your recipe?”
“Oh I didn’t make them! The one time I tried to cook for a party I stir-fried pork in Pine Sol.”
Eric laughed. Jimmy didn’t.
“Wait,” said Eric. “You can’t just leave that there. Explain.”
“I reached for what I thought was the Olive Oil, but it was Pine Sol. I swear the bottles looked exactly alike.”
“So, you poisoned your guests.”
“That girl is poison…” sang Jenna.
“Never trust a big butt and a smile, Jimmy,” said Eric.
“I only have one-half of that equation, so everyone’s safe.”
Eric and Jenna chuckled to each other. Jimmy watched their two-person skit, generally confused.
“Jenna, you’re not living well if you’re not cooking well.”
“But she sings BBD songs in sequins,” said Eric, helpfully.
“Who wouldn’t find this woman irresistible?”
“I’m hopeless in the kitchen,” said Jenna. “And it doesn’t help that I have the palette of a kindergartener.”
“You may think you do,” said Jimmy. “Surely you just haven’t been exposed to different cuisines.”
“No, I’ve traveled the world, tried everything. But I always come back to chicken fingers,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Unacceptable. I’ll take you to Queens, and introduce you to the Indian, Malaysian, Serbian and Ethiopian restaurants there. You need someone like me to transform you into a proper foodie.” Jenna smiled haltingly. She always wished she were a more adventurous eater, but she just wasn’t. She didn’t need a man to ‘transform’ her.
Eric grimaced. This set-up was so awkward. If he didn’t want to smack Jimmy with his fedora, he’d feel almost as bad for him as he did for Jenna.
“So,” he said, changing the subject again, “you own a liquor store?”
“Upscale spirits shoppe.”
“Yeah, you did say that. Jenna, have you been there? You love a good cocktail.”
“She should visit my new shoppe, near my condo in Williamsburg. Really, if you live anywhere else in the borough, you’re not a real Brooklynite.”
“You always speak in absolutes,” said Eric. “You have a rule for everything?”
“Without rules, the world slides into chaos, young man,” he said, and then turned toward Jenna. “Anyway. I’m in a high rise on the East River. I sit on my terrace with a glass of Bouzeron Aligate and my first edition of Walt Whitman’s Crossing Brooklyn Ferry and just vibrate. You must see this book, Jenna. You may think you’ve read masterpieces, but you haven’t had an elevated reading experience until you’ve laid your hands on this.”
“You know, I do remember a Guyanese word,” said Eric.
“Cunumunu. Excuse me, I’m gonna get a refill.”
And then he bailed.
“What does cunumunu mean?” Jenna asked Jimmy. He looked at her, his lips pressed together tightly. “Fool,” he grumbled. “It means fool.”
After Eric refilled his drink, he wandered toward Tim. Carlita and Elodie discovered they had a love of cooking, and they’d plopped down on the love seat together. Jenna and Jimmy had joined Billie and Jay, where they began an earnest conversation about wealth and their lack of it.
“How will I ever make enough to own real estate again?” asked Jenna. “I don’t even have any investments!”
“Who does?” asked Billie. “We live in the most expensive city in the world.”
“Fidelity.com, Jenna,” said Jay. “Put a tiny bit into funds every month. The real estate situation is tougher. If you didn’t buy years ago, you’re almost ass-out.”
“Real estate isn’t emphasized in the black community,” said Jimmy.
“It’s true,” said Jay. “Hasidic Jews indoctrinate their toddlers in the value of owning the space they live in. They own Brooklyn. Billie, I’ve been thinking of doing inner city seminars about mortgages, loans, etc. Maybe to at-risk seventh graders.”
“Honey, can we get through appetizers, first?” asked Billie.
“Jenna, what are you looking at?”
She leaned in close to Billie, whispering, “Listen to Eric and Tim.”
They were waving their phones at each other and having the world’s most animated debate about… well, it wasn’t clear.
“Nah, I won,” said Tim.
“I won,” said Eric. “You can’t beat me at Zel
da, fam. You’re forgetting how I relieved you of your LeBron P.S. Elites?”
“They’re garbage anyway. Check the Jordan 11 Breds.” Tim pointed out his spic-and-span clean kicks. “Fire.”
“Lightweight fire.”
“My followers need to witness this crispiness,” said Tim, angling his phone in front of his sneakers for the perfect shot.
“All eighty-nine of your followers,” snorted Eric, snapping a pic of his boots. “When you get seven hundred and thirty-two likes off your reflection in a puddle, I’ll entertain you.”
“Selfie your waves and see who’s winning. Waves on swim.”
“Your birth mother’s half-Mexican. Your waves are disqualified.”
Jenna looked at Billie, her eyes wide.
“What are they even talking about?” she whispered. “A video game?”
“Yeah, Prisoner of Zelda’s a classic,” said Jay. “And incidentally, I’d murder them both.”
“We’re discussing investments,” said Jimmy, “and they’re photographing their shoes.”
Jay chuckled, listening to them. “It’s crazy, the whole world wants to be those two. I just did a reading at the Sorbonne, and the Parisians have a saying, ‘Tres Brooklyn.’ The sneakers, the slang, the swag; it’s so aspirational. Madison Avenue markets directly to the hip-hop generation. They don’t know their own power.”
“I love youth energy,” said Jimmy. “That’s why I’m a silent deejay at warehouse parties in Greenpoint.”
“I’m sorry,” said Billie. “Silent what?”
“It’s where the revelers wear special headsets, and I deejay directly into their ears. The whole room is dancing in total silence.”
“But why go out?” asked Jenna. “Why not just listen to music alone in your bedroom?”
“Because…there’s no one to witness your movement expression,” Jimmy said with a healthy amount of ‘duh’ in his tone. “It’s so rad.”
“Well, radness is its own reward.” Jenna downed her Pinot and wondered if she’d ever had sex again.
On the other side of the room, Carlita and Elodie discussed the organic revolution.
“I’m very organic,” said Elodie. “Grass-fed everything. Farm-to-fork.”
“I try to cook healthy, but that shit’s expensive. Why I gotta pay more for food that has less in it? No nitrates. No gluten. No fat.”
“Carlita, you are a motherfucking philosopher.”
“My cousin used to say I was like Yoda. Like, I’d just say nothing for mad long and then bust out with a gem. One Thanksgiving, I announced that since my veins were green, it must mean I have Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle blood.”
Elodie laughed. “I took my niece to see the original movie, like twenty years ago. I thought Michelangelo was so sexy.”
“He is. I love Michelangelo. And Blasians.”
Elodie raised an eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you a flirty little nugget.” Tossing her hair behind her shoulders, she whispered in Elodie’s ear, “Hashtag, me and Tim ain’t even that serious and I’m bisexual.”
“I see.” She raised her chin in the direction of Carlita’s long, Times New Roman printed nails. “I thought you lady lovers kept short nails. For obvious reasons.”
She waved her fingers in the air, bit her bottom lip and purred, “Press-ons.”
Elodie grinned, and then looked around to see if anyone had overheard. That’s when she saw Eric across the room, shooting Jimmy murderous glances.
“Hold that thought,” she said to Carlita, and went over to Eric.
She inserted herself between him and Tim.
“God,” said Tim. “If I wasn’t taken, I’d say we should go somewhere and molest each other until we bleed.”
“You come up to my belly button, sir.”
“And that’s a problem, why?”
“I need to chat with Eric. Go see about your girlfriend. She misses you.”
“My Achilles heel is hypersexual-but-needy women,” grumbled Tim, heading off.
Once he was gone, Elodie said, “You don’t look happy.”
“I hate that dude so very much. He’s so many levels of offensive.”
“Yeah, I have no patience for aging hipsters. If you’re going to dress like One Direction, you can’t have grey hair and paunch.”
“Tell me I didn’t overhear him say he’s a silent deejay. How reprehensible is that?”
“It is, but our opinions don’t matter. It’s about Jenna’s.”
“But…he’s talking over her, he’s pretentious. He keeps telling er shit, instead of listening to her. She can’t be with a guy like that.
I just want what’s best for her.”
“You sure that’s all it is?” She brought her voice down into an even lower whisper. “You don’t realize how you look at her, do you?”
Eric cringed, drawing away from Elodie. He read her expression to see if she was serious. She was.
“It’s not even like that. Jenna’s my homie. I don’t appreciate it when any of my friends get disrespected. That’s all.”
“Okay, babe,” she said, sighing. “Just do me a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“If that’s the case, fix your face.”
CHAPTER 15
As Eric reeled from Elodie’s epic misinterpretation, Lula reappeared with a tray of eensy crabcakes nestled in miniature filo cups.
“These are so delicate and beautiful,” said Billie. “Like tiny party favors.”
“I brought some party favors,” said Tim. “Anyone want a little Molly before dinner?”
“No,” said Eric tensely. “No, we don’t want.”
“That club drug? Well…I don’t know.” Jenna wrung her satin-gloved hands.
“I’m dying to try it,” said Elodie. “Come on Jenna, don’t act like you weren’t the E queen of 1995.”
“Please, I had one ecstasy incident at Limelight where I spent five hours rubbing my face against a piece of Styrofoam. The rash was abominable.” Jenna touched her cheek. “What does tripping on Molly feel like?”
“It elevates the fun. Makes you want to spoon the universe,” said Eric. “Not that I’m suggesting we do it.”
“And Jenna,” started Jimmy, “it’s called rolling, not tripping.”
Eric whispered to Elodie, “You really expect me not to knock this motherfucker out?”
“Shhh,” she said, realizing that Molly might be exactly what this awkward dinner party needed. “I’m making an executive decision. Molly us, Tim.”
Tim pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed a white pill all the guests. Eric noted Jenna’s pained, “oh no, what’s happening, this wasn’t the plan, this wasn’t THE PLAN” expression and, even though he was dying to pop a Molly or three, he passed.
Eric saw Jimmy watch him as he turned down the pill. So when Tim offered him one, he passed, too. This made Eric hate him more.
A half an hour later, Jenna was attempting to corral her guests to sit for dinner, but no one was paying attention. With their comically motor-mouthed conversations and smile-y, silly energy, dinner was the last thing on anyone’s mind.
“I want to dance, dance, dance,” wailed Elodie. “Carlita, wanna dance with me?”
“I always wanna dance!”
They spilled out of the love seat and fast-danced to the slowest song ever, Adele’s “Someone Like You.”
Tim tuned in and exclaimed, “What’s Jenna playing? Adele? That big bitch? Sorry, I’m officially on deejay duty now.” He scrolled through iTunes on his phone. “Old school? Should I play some Big? Nah, Kendrick goes harder.”
“Kendrick’s hard,” said Eric, “but he’s not harder than Big. Also, you’re not on deejay duty.” He snatched the phone from Tim.
“I vote for Big,” said Jay, who then launched into his favorite Biggie Smalls opening line. “LIVE FROM BEDFORD TUYVESANT, THE LIVEST ONE…”
On cue, Carlita, Elodie, Tim and Jenna’s upstairs neighbors (paper thin walls) joined in to yell the n
ext line, “REPRESENTIN’ BK TO THE FULLEST!” Then, Tim grabbed his phone back from Eric and cued up the legendary rapper’s “Unbelievable” at the highest decibel. Carlita was twerking, her luscious ass shaking in double time. Elodie hopped behind her, and Tim in front of her, the three of them creating a wiggly Carlita sandwich. Jay rapped into one of Jenna’s Diptyque candles, pretending it was a microphone. Eric sat on the couch, his face in his hands.
“What am I looking at?” Jenna gasped. “Oh my God, Elodie’s slapping Carlita’s ass! How did this night go off the rails so fast?”
“Look at my husband, reliving his youth. He’s been having an early midlife crisis, all because he has four grey hairs. I think it’s distinguished, but he feels like Morgan Freeman.” Billie grabbed Jenna’s hand and kissed it. “Oh sweetie, I feel sooo gooood. I’m so happy. I love my friends. Let’s go play with makeup!”
“I always thought Biggie was too mainstream,” said Jimmy, watching the impromptu dance party. “I was more into obscure Seventies funk-jazz ensembles, like Betty Wright’s band.”
“Of course you were,” snapped Jenna. She had lost patience with Jimmy Crockett. She caught Eric’s attention, gesturing for him to come over.
“I take full responsibility,” he said. “I knew Tim would get everyone too turnt the setting. Look at the professor! Shit’s wild, yo; I almost wanna get it on film.”
“I need your help,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Can you get everybody to the table? My chicken’s congealing!”
Jimmy watched this transaction and tipped his fedora over his eye, Robert Mitchum-style. Before Eric could open his mouth, he stood and shouted, “Time to eat!” He walked around the room, trying to herd everyone in the direction of the table. Everyone kept dancing, ignoring the Baby Boomer in Justin Bieber’s outfit.
“Not yet!” screeched Elodie.
“Tim, put on some trap music so I can get my life!” said Carlita.
“Everybody chill and come sit down,” said Eric, in an authoritative voice. “I’m starving and I heard dinner’s delicious, so I’m holding each of you responsible if you keep it from me. Elodie, put on your left shoe. Tim! Unhand Carlita’s breasts. Pull it together.”
Finally, one by one, they filed over to the table, tittering and perspiring. Eric looked at Jimmy archly; Jimmy folded his small arms across his chest and glared back.
