by Deidre Berry
I advanced toward Annette calmly, without saying a word.
Reading my mind and body language correctly, she made a run for the intercom built into the wall and frantically pressed a call button: “Gary, get in here NOW!!” she screamed as if she were about to be killed.
Gary was Annette’s butler-slash-bodyguard-slash-part-time-lover, and by the time he made it into the room, I had tackled her to the floor like Ray Lewis and it was Queens versus Chi-Town round one. Ding-ding!
To his credit, Gary didn’t throw me out as forcefully as he could have. Instead, he scooped me up into his big, solid arms and carried me outside, past all those expensive-looking broads who were watching and whispering out the sides of their mouths.
God Bless the Child
Lucky for me, lawyers keep notoriously long hours and Vance hadn’t made it home from the office yet by the time I returned to the city from Scarsdale. I parked his car in the exact spot I’d found it and walked out onto the avenue headed to the post office over on Canal Street. There, I forwarded my mail from the Central Park West address to the new P.O. box that I paid thirty dollars to rent for six months.
Afterward, I wandered into the super-deluxe twenty-four-hour CVS that people were so excited about and couldn’t seem to get enough of. I went in there for just a couple of personal items like apricot body wash and carrot oil for my scalp, but ended up going on a mini, and I mean very mini, shopping spree in the cosmetics/skin care aisle. Sephora it wasn’t, but hell, lip gloss is lip gloss, and the Cover Girl Queen collection has some awesome shades of eye shadow that really compliment my skin tone.
I also bought one of those cheap pay-as-you-go cell phones. It was a far cry from my beloved iPhone, which I considered to be the best invention since Spanx and the oxygen facial. But it was now function over style, whereas before, it had been the other way around.
You know you’re doing bad when a purchase of $78.52 hurts your pockets. My attempt to retrieve my stolen goods from Annette Dorsey was futile, and still left me with next to nothing to sell toward helping me get back on my feet.
Four hundred and forty dollars was all I had left to my name, so the HELP WANTED sign in the window of a bakery where I distinctly remember a pizzeria used to be the last time I’d been in the area really caught my attention.
Watching my grandmother work as hard as she did gave me an appreciation for the almighty dollar, and luckily I had never been one of those people whose pride would not allow them to perform certain jobs they felt were beneath them. The truth is, you have to crawl before you can walk.
A bell dinged overhead as I stepped inside the small mom-and-pop establishment, whose only customer was a guy seated by the window drinking coffee and working a Reader’s Digest crossword puzzle.
“Welcome to Belle’s Bakery, how can I help you?” asked the man behind the counter. I was taken aback for a moment when I saw him, because black-owned businesses were a rarity in this part of town.
“Hi. I actually came in to inquire about the sign in the window.”
“You sure I can’t get you something else?” he asked, laughing at his own joke. He was tall, good-looking, and shall we say “fluffy” the way most bakers tend to be, which was probably due to an overabundance of carbs. “Seriously though, do you have any professional baking experience?” he asked.
“No, but I’m a fast learner and I’m really good with customers.”
“Oh, yeah? And I’m sure you have a brilliant personality too, right?”
Again with the jokes. One thing was for sure, if I got the job he would be fun to work with.
He said his name was Steve. Belle was his mother, and she had been out on sick leave for a few weeks due to a mild heart attack. God willing, Belle would return to work within the next month or so, and she would make the final decision as to who would be hired.
After filling out a job application, Steve looked it over and said, “You haven’t worked in almost three years? Is this right?” He was judging me. And that made me not want to tell him the truth, which was that I had been luxuriating on an extended vacation thanks to a wealthy boyfriend but was now forced to fend for myself.
So I lied. “I’m just coming out of a marriage, and yes, it is time for me to support myself. . . .” I said wistfully, and rubbed my eyes as if trying to hold back tears.
Steve backed off, and even gave me a sympathetic pat on the back. “Hey, I know what that’s like.... You’re gonna be fine, trust me.”
I left Belle’s Bakery with a spring in my step. No, Steve didn’t hire me on the spot, but I still came out with more than I had going in, which was a concrete and tangible prospect.
“I still have a few more interviews to do, but we’ll let you know something one way or another within the next couple of weeks” were Steve’s parting words to me.
Good enough!
Before, everything looked either black or gray. But now that I was in a better mood, it was like I could see color again. The oranges, pinks, and purples of the setting sun, and the red, yellows, and electric blues of neon signs on the avenue, which was vibrant and alive with activity.
I wasn’t ready to go back to Vance’s apartment just yet, so I decided to take the longer, scenic route. I crossed the street at Franklin and Hudson streets, quite sure that Robert De Niro had just passed me in the crosswalk. I did a double take and although I couldn’t see his face, the body language said that it was De Niro. Love him! Not only for his stellar acting talent, but also because he has always been unabashedly down with the swirl.
I actually used to stomp through this part of town quite regularly back in my early days in New York, and found the TriBeCa neighborhood to be quite charming. Cobblestone streets, quaint shops, and a world-class restaurant on every corner. What’s not to love?
Oh, and they make movies around there too, which explains why there are goo gads of movie theaters to choose from.
I walked past the Landmark Sunshine Cinema, my favorite because they offered a variety of options from old classics and international films to documentaries and cutting-edge independent films.
Donovan and I had gone to the Landmark once to see Sometimes in April, and he’d made it a miserable experience, because he viewed hanging out downtown as slumming it.
Even though he had been born and raised in Queens, Donovan J. Dorsey had eventually evolved into a bona fide snob. He hated being around what he called “pretentious artsy motherfuckas” who dressed as if they were literally starving artists, with their paint-splattered clothing, ripped jeans, plaid shirts, and those damn black Fedoras with the red feather stuck in the band.
Donovan avoided downtown like the swine flu, and identified more with the uptown crowd who lived in their own exclusive world—the one he had introduced me to after we had met. It was a world of fashion mavens, socialites, entrepreneurs, and people who were on the fast track in the music industry and corporate America. In hindsight, even that had been a “chess move” for Donovan, because uptown was where the big money was.
Speaking of that night at the Landmark, Donovan had also gotten on my nerves because he swore that there were rodents running rampant throughout the theater. “Did you see that?” he had whispered every two minutes, pointing in the direction where he’d supposedly seen a mouse or some other creature whiz by. I didn’t actually see the alleged varmints, but there was an undeniable squeaking sound that proved Donovan’s claims had some merit.
Continuing my little sightseeing adventure through the TriBeCa neighborhood, I passed a bar called Tutti Fruity where a brawl had spilled out onto the street. Burly chicks in flannel shirts were shoving each other around and trying to smack each other in the face. A little farther down from the fray was a rough-and tough-looking female wearing a white wifebeater, Timberland boots, and a doo-rag. There was a toothpick stuck in her mouth, which she took out to lick her lips and say, “Sup, Ma?”
Security!
No judgments, I’m just saying . . .
I
read the novel back in high school, and to be honest, I’m not the least bit interested in playing around in another woman’s Rubyfruit Jungle.
After passing a couple more clubs, I found the name Amanda Sardi had popped into my head. Amanda was a former roommate who since the days when we roomed together had managed to make a name for herself as the “empress of nightlife” after opening several successful clubs throughout the city. She was also the darling of all the New York papers, and while we weren’t BFFs, we were close enough that I knew that I could count on her for a favor if I needed one.
Since my contact numbers for Amanda had been lost along with my iPhone, I stopped at a corner pay phone and asked information for the address and phone number of each of Amanda’s clubs: Visions, Compound, and the ever popular Chateau.
After writing down the information, I called Compound first.
“Hi, is Amanda Sardi there by any chance?”
“And who wants to know?”
“This is Eva Cantrell, an old friend of hers.”
“Hold on. . . .”
That was a good sign. Amanda was always on the go, and hard to track down because she had this nervous, frenetic energy that suggested she’d already had the nervous breakdown but was too busy to notice. After putting me on hold for several minutes the person on the other end of the line came back and said, “Amanda said to tell you that she’s on her way over to Visions—you got a pen? I’ll give you her cell number.”
Visions
Visions was only about three miles from the pay phone where I had made the call, but my feet had started to hurt so I hailed a cab for the short ride over to the meatpacking district where Amanda had told me to meet her.
As my taxi pulled up in front of the club, I saw that Amanda was standing outside the club smoking a cigarette. She was not what you would call a conventional beauty, but she was striking nonetheless at 160 pounds and close to six feet tall. Amanda Sardi was a big girl, but she was also a sweetheart who would give you the Dolce & Gabbana blouse off her back. The first thing she did when she saw me was smile, flick her cigarette in the gutter, and run over to give me a warm hug.
“Eva! Omigod, girl, how have you been?”
“I’m good, but I’ve been better,” I said, kissing Amanda on both cheeks. “You’re looking good!”
Dressed in all black with gold accessories, Amanda was as hip as always in skinny jeans, Balenciaga gladiator heels, and a short, fox-fur jacket over a sequined halter top.
“You too cute as ever!” she said, fluffing my weave, which I knew good and well was a hot mess. I had gone to sleep a couple of nights in a row without wrapping and covering my hair properly, and it had disintegrated into a frizzy, tangled mess.
I usually got my hair done at least once a week, but due to my extended overseas rendezvous with Donovan, it was way past time to sit down in Helene’s chair and have my weave tightened up.
The problem was, I couldn’t afford it.
Helene’s arm-and-a-leg prices were now way too rich for my blood, but my hope was that my meeting with Amanda would change all that.
“C’mon, let’s go kick it like old times,” Amanda said, as she took me by the hand and led me inside Visions where Cuban music pulsated into every nook and cranny.
Visions’ nightclub was one of those exclusive, bottle-service-type clubs with a star-studded crowd, super-tight security, and flat-screen televisions mounted all over the place. It was a large lofty space with brick walls, red leatherette chairs, and slate tiled floors.
Amanda’s personal table was perched high up on a balcony overlooking the rest of the club, where we sat drinking key lime martinis and eating spicy Indian food that her in-house chef had prepared.
Clearly, being boss lady has its privileges.
“So,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve heard what’s going on with Donovan, right?”
“Yeah, I read the papers, but look . . . Regardless of what anyone else believes, I don’t think you had anything to do with it. I tell everybody, ‘I know for a fact that girl has a heart of gold, and she doesn’t have it in her to be in on a scam like that.’ ”
“Awww, thank you, Mandy,” I said, “That’s sweet!”
Amanda shrugged. “Hey, I’m Italian, and when you’re a friend of mine, you’re a friend for life. So as a friend, how can I help you out?”
“Well, long story short, I need a job . . . and . . . I was thinking that it would be a win-win for both of us if I started promoting parties at your clubs,” I said.
Party promoting is very lucrative, and one of the few legitimate ways that I know to earn a substantial amount of cash in a short amount of time.
The deal is that the club owners let promoters use their club to invite friends and other partygoers to party for the night, and in exchange the promoter gets a certain percentage of money from the night’s profits. It would be like forming a partnership, and my money woes would be over.
Amanda took a sip of her cocktail, then looked at me in the most loving and sympathetic way. “Eva, I love you and all, but absolutely not. First of all, my clubs are hot all on their own. And second, who would come?”
“I have tons of friends with money, and what I could bring to the table is the more flavorful urban element that love to pop bottles and buy out the bar.”
“Look, I’m Italian, but I’m no racist. It’s just that, I’m not so sure I want that make-it-rain type of element in my clubs. We tried it already, and the shootings, and the fights, and the lawsuits—” Amanda sighed as if the very thought of an “urban” crowd wore her out. “Trust me, I’ve learned that a mixed, balanced crowd works best for everybody. Besides, promoting is based mostly on popularity, and no offense, Eva, but you’re popular right now, but not in a good way.”
“I’ve been out of the country and out of the loop for a minute, but dayum! The streets are talkin’ like that?”
“Yeah, it is what it is. People talk,” Amanda said, “but the good thing about stuff like this is that people eventually forget. I mean, look at Eddie Murphy. No one looks at him anymore and automatically thinks transvestite hooker.”
We continued to debate for a few more minutes before striking a deal. I would be a party hostess at Visions where it was possible to make upwards of two thousand dollars a night. l breathed a sigh of relief and hugged Amanda, happy that she was willing to help me get on my feet.
She was always super-cool, which is why the biggest conflict we had back when we shared a two-bedroom in Chelsea was that she literally said, “I’m Italian” fifty times a day, and her inflections ranged from pride to where you weren’t sure if you were being threatened or not.
“We Italians are as thick as thieves. . . .”
“I’m Italian, Fuhgeddaboudit!”
“Hey, I’m Italian, whaddaya want me to do?”
“It’s an Italian thing, you wouldn’t understand. . . .”
I couldn’t take it. Being proud of your heritage is great, but at least once a week I would have to scream, “Okay, you’re Italian! Sheez . . . I get it!” Amanda and I toasted to old times, and to the fact that we would be working together starting Friday night. Salute! (That’s Italian, you know.)
Truth or Consequences
The next afternoon, I met Kyle for lunch at Cornelia Street Café in the West Village. It was his treat, of course, because the lunch I could have afforded would have included the words value menu.
“See! I had no doubt whatsoever that you were a resilient bitch!” Kyle said, raising his glass in a toast. “And when I say bitch, I mean that in the fiercest, diva definition of the word.”
“Cheers!” I said as we touched glasses.
It was my first time seeing Kyle since the night of my birthday party at the Rainbow Room, so we had a lot of catching up to do.
“And I truly believe that’s why Amanda has been so successful, because she has a kind heart and is a true friend,” said Kyle, “but that heifer Zoë is another story, honey.”
&n
bsp; “Why do you say that? What have you heard?” I asked, despite the fact that I didn’t want to be reminded of how someone I thought was a friend could turn on me so quickly, but as the old saying goes, “You knew it was a snake when you picked it up.”
“It’s not what I’ve heard, it’s what I know! Look at this. . . .” Kyle pulled out his cell phone and showed me a message that Zoë had sent out on Facebook to all of our mutual friends.
There is no doubt that you all have heard about the enormous investment scam that our so-called mutual “friend” Eva Cantrell has been involved in along with her fraudster boyfriend, Donovan Dorsey. I, as well as many of you, have been a financial victim of Eva′s deceit, which just goes to show just how disgusting a human being that she really is. Subsequently, I have removed Eva from my entire network. Clearly, she is no friend of mine.
You being a mutual friend, both in real life and on Facebook, would mean that I would still have some connection to Eva Cantrell, and I will not allow that. So this message is my request that you decide by Friday whose side you′re on, and who you want to be friends with. It′s either team Zoë or team Eva. There can be no riding the fence on this one. Your friendship means a lot to me, but Eva Cantrell needs to be removed from the picture altogether, and if you choose to remain connected to her, then I must sever you from my circle of friends as well. Please decide on this at your earliest convenience, because I will promptly begin removing people still connected with Eva ASAP.
Thank you, your friend (I hope!)
~ Zoë
“Oh, she is really tripping!” I said, handing the phone back to Kyle.
“But the tragic part is, it worked. Have you checked your Facebook page lately?”
“At a time like this? Facebook is the last thing on my mind,” I said. “I haven’t even thought about it, truthfully.”
“Well, FYI, you’re down to about thirteen friends. There’s me and Tameka, of course, and the rest are your friends and family from back home.”
