by Deidre Berry
“Thirteen! When I had over two thousand?” Kyle scratched his bald head and avoided eye contact. “You should see some of the comments that were left on your wall as they exited,” he said. “Vicious!”
It wasn’t surprising. I knew that Zoë had it in her to be so immature and nasty, and when she dislikes someone, she expects everyone else to fall in line and hate them too.
Clearly, my mistake was in thinking that we had a truly solid friendship. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect to be on the receiving end of Zoë Everett’s hatred.
And speaking of Facebook, it’s probably unnecessary to change my relationship status to “It’s complicated” since I’m sure everyone knows that by now.
“But forget about all that mess, how are things working out with you and this Vance Murphy?” Kyle asked.
“So far, so good. He works long hours and the only time we really see each other is when we run into each other in the bathroom, or the kitchen.”
Which reminded me of the incident that occurred earlier that morning.
I had jumped up early and got dressed to go get some coffee and a couple of lemon bars from Starbucks. I thought it would be a nice gesture if I checked with Vance to see if he wanted anything, and when I knocked on his bedroom door, it swung wide open. I peeked in the room and saw that Vance had just gotten out of bed and was stretching, with his body chiseled and ripped up like Adonis.
He was also butt-naked, and his morning wood was enormous. Oh, my God, what a big ego! Vance looked over and saw me standing in the doorway, and we were both so shocked that I just said “Sorry!” and closed the door behind me.
Kyle laughed after I relayed the story to him. “And that’s how you left things?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I nodded, “pretty much. . . .”
“Well, it should certainly be interesting when you two see each other again!”
“I know, right? Akward.com!”
“Hmm . . . so is that a situation you wouldn’t mind getting to know better?” Kyle asked with a cheeky grin.
“Who, Vance? Oh, hell, no! He’s a decent-looking guy and everything—very kind and thoughtful, but he’s totally not my type.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know. . . . stuffed suit, kinda dry . . . and even if there were some chemistry there, which there certainly is not, the fact that Vance is a friend of Donovan’s automatically rules him out.”
“Wait, stop the damn presses!” said Kyle, holding his hand up. “It’s because of Donovan’s thoughtless, greedy ass that you’re living under a cloud of suspicion, and without two quarters to rub together. Now you’re running around here with your weave all busted up—yet you’re still loyal to the man?”
I patted my head self-consciously, hoping my tracks weren’t showing because they sure as hell were slipping.
“Look, my lack of interest in Vance has less to do with loyalty to Donovan and everything to do with having morals and values. My motto is: If I have ever slept with anyone you know, and vice versa, then you and I can never be. So there, Mr. Man, take notes and learn!”
“To each his own, but as for me, I would definitely take it on a case-by-case basis,” Kyle joked. “So what are you going to do when they track Donovan down and bring him back to face the music? Are you going to support him through the whole court process or what?”
“Wow . . . I don’t know. I’ve been so busy trying to figure out how to pull myself up out of this mess that I haven’t thought about it. I still care about Donovan and I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, but if I do support him during the trial, it will be as a friend and not his girlfriend,” I said. “I mean . . . why? What even possessed him to take all those people’s money like that?”
“Yeah, that was some cold, calculated shit that he pulled,” Kyle said. “And with a smile on his face too.”
“And don’t think that white America isn’t saying, ‘See what happens when black folks get in these positions of power?’ ”
“We told you they can’t be trusted!”
“Which is just one of the reasons why I’m so pissed at Donovan,” I said. “Because we had countless discussions on what he perceived to be the black man’s burden in corporate America, which is when they open the door and give you a seat at the table, you can’t fuck it up. We have to represent so that we all can go further. And what did he do?”
Kyle said it with me. “He fucked it up!” Donovan had the golden opportunity to go down in history as a brilliant financial wizard. Instead, he would forever be known as the biggest black Wall Street swindler of all time.
After lunch, Kyle and I walked over to Greer’s clothing store, where I watched with envy as he was measured for a custom-made leather jacket with a rock star vibe.
“I remember what that’s like,” I said wistfully as I browsed through the racks that were full of exotic, one-of-a-kind pieces.
“You need to go ahead and sell that fur coat,” said Kyle. “You ought to be able to get at least five grand for it.”
“For a sixty-five thousand dollar coat?” I asked incredulously. “I would be a bona fide fool to take a loss like that. Besides, I have been checking in with Swiss Air every day. Hopefully they’ll find my luggage soon, and I can sell some of those things instead.”
Kyle smirked, trying not to laugh in my face. “Eva, girl, not to be insensitive or anything, but you might as well write that luggage off. Some Swiss bitch bought your stuff hot and is walking around the town square sharper than a porcupine’s spine, honey.”
“Don’t say that,” I pleaded. “I can’t stand the thought of all those beautiful things out there somewhere, lost to me forever. I mean, you should have seen all the stuff I copped in Paris, Kyle. It really was quite impressive.”
Kyle and the tailor looked at me with concern all over their faces.
I had become emotional without even realizing it, and was on the verge of tears.
“Believe me, sweetheart, I understand,” Kyle said quietly, and I sensed that he might have been a bit embarrassed for me, so leave it to Kyle to bring humor to a tense situation. “Now, I know that you don’t have that many clothes left, but fear not, ’cause, girl, I still have some things left over from my old drag days—some fabulous pieces that you will just die for!”
That made me smile. “But Kyle, sweetie, you’re six foot four, two hundred and twenty pounds. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Alterations, darling!” the tailor said dramatically, and we all laughed.
“Besides, clothes aren’t a huge deal. You can always get more clothes and look fabulous in anything you put on, even a flour sack if you so choose,” said Kyle, “but what are we gonna do about this hair?”
“You know what? You have one more chance to crack on my weave, and it’s gonna be me and you!” I laughed. “Now, if it’s that bad, why don’t you help me do something with it? You know you’ve always had a way with my hair.”
“Oh, baby, I wish I could, but I have to be at rehearsals with Killjoy in about an hour, and you know I mustn’t keep the children waiting. Besides, Keith, you know how those little homo-thugs can be, don’t you? They just might cut me!”
Keith the tailor laughed, and nodded in agreement. “Yeah,” he said. “They do act like they have something extra to prove.”
“Nuh-uh, Kyle, I don’t believe you!” I said. “Are you saying that the members of that cute little teeny-bopping boy group are gay?”
“First of all, don’t be fooled, because those aren’t teenyboppers, those are grown-ass men in their twenties who are very well versed on the art of sixty-nine.”
“Ugh, enough, TMI!” I said. “Way too much information and I don’t even want to visualize it!”
“What? Don’t kill the messenger, I’m just stating facts,” Kyle said. “And since you’re all queasy with sensitive ears, I won’t go into any more detail, but let’s just say that if all those swooning and adoring female fans only knew what take
s place before and after the curtain goes up, those boys would have an entirely different audience. The gays!”
Kyle was a dancer who had both the New York City Ballet and Alvin Ailey dance troupe listed on his resume. He also danced lead in several big Broadway productions, such as The Lion King and Cats, and The Nutcracker.
These days, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, Kyle was leaning more toward the choreography side of things, working with veteran recording artists like Janet and Mary J., and on down the line to newbies like the R&B boy-band, Killjoy.
Kyle’s revelation about Killjoy made me wonder just how much of the world’s population was living some kind of illusion, whether it is their lifestyle, marriage, sexuality, finances, and the list goes on and on.
Perception was not always reality, and what you do in the dark really does eventually come out to the light. Donovan J. Dorsey was proof of that.
Clash of the Titans
After lunch with Kyle, I went back to Vance’s apartment and took a long, hard look in the mirror.
Tired of random cracks about the state of my raggedy-ass weave, I wondered just what to do to remedy the situation.
Should I spend my last few coins on a nice lace-front wig, or take my chances and go to Supercuts. Hell, does Supercuts even do weaves?
I used several of my pay-as-you-go cell phone minutes to call Helene for an appointment for a full weave. No, I still did not have the funds to afford her services, but she owed me one. I remembered how she was always saying that because of all the clients I had helped bring into the salon by way of referral that I was entitled to a complimentary hairdo—free of charge.
I do not know if it was just something for Helene to say at the time, thinking that I would never actually hold her to it, but it was time for her to pay up.
“I’m sorry, Eva, but Helene is booked solid for the next three months, but we will definitely call you if an unexpected opening comes up in her schedule,” said Liz, Helene’s receptionist and right-hand woman.
“What? That’s new! Since when has Helene ever been too busy to squeeze me in?” I asked. “Hello?”
I didn’t get an answer, because Liz had hung up on me, which was also a first. What the hell was going on?
If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought that I was being blackballed from the salon, but I gave Helene the benefit of the doubt since she had been doing my hair for years. Not only was I a good, paying customer, but the total sum of money that I had given her over the years was more than enough to have paid for that new shiny Lexus that she recently bought.
Convinced that it was all just a misunderstanding that would be cleared up once I got to the salon, I borrowed Vance’s car once again.
Helene Lamar’s Hair Studio is a loud, lively place, but when I walked in all the chatter came to an abrupt halt. Including staff and clients, there were about thirty women in there, most of whom I had chatted with on several occasions, and they were all giving me the stank-eye as if I had personally done something wrong to each and every one of them.
“Nobody speaking today?” I asked jokingly, and I could have sworn I heard crickets.
The tension was so palpable, you could dip it with a spoon.
Liz was manning the front desk, and became so nervous when she saw me that she spilled her coffee all over her work area. Liz averted her eyes and wouldn’t even look me in the face as she mopped up the mess she had made. She was an older woman in her late fifties and brought to mind one of those fraggles from the Fraggle Rock show that was on back in the day.
“How are you today, Liz,” I asked cheerfully. “Is it the coffee that has you so jittery?”
Finally, Liz forced herself to smile and meet my gaze head-on.
“Oh, Eva, hey . . . !” she said as if she had just noticed me standing there. “I’m sorry you made a trip up here for nothing, but like I told you on the phone, Helene is booked up so far into the future that I have no idea when we can get you in.”
“I understand that.” I smiled. “And that is exactly why I want to speak to Helene myself.”
Without further ado, I marched back to the private room where Helene works her magic and walked in to find her with needle and thread in hand, sewing hair into Zoë’s head.
“I told you that she was the type of bitch who couldn’t take a hint.” Zoë sneered, looking up at me through the weft of hair dangling in her face.
“You’re damn right, Zoë, and since we’re all here why don’t you tell me what it is you think I need to know.”
“Okay, cool! I think you’re a basic, bottom-feeding bitch, and I can’t wait until you and your shyster-ass boyfriend get everything you deserve!” Zoë said, practically foaming at the mouth. “I should have known better than to let some common, trashy bitch like you infiltrate my clique.”
“Let me tell you something, you shallow, idiotic bitch! I considered you a friend, and there is no way that I would have allowed you to invest with Donovan if I had known what he was up to. The truth is, you made a bad business decision and now you’re looking for someone else to blame besides yourself and Donovan,” I said, taking note that everyone in the salon was ear-hustling, and some women had even come out from under their dryers to listen to the exchange I was having with Zoë. “For the record, I didn’t have anything to do with that shit, and I’m as shocked and pissed off as everybody else. Now, all you nosy, backbiting heifers go run and tell that!”
Zoë jumped up and swung at me, barely grazing the side of my cheek with her fist. It didn’t hurt. Love taps is what we call them back in Chi-Town, but it did make me angrier. I grabbed a handful of Zoë’s hair, twisted it around my hand, and pulled for all I was worth.
Helene is a big, strong woman, so she was able to break up the tussle single-handedly. Without breaking a sweat, she pinned my arms behind my back like an arresting officer and hustled me out of the salon and onto the sidewalk.
As a teenager, I was kicked out of school a couple of times, out of movie theaters, and even a city bus for being too rowdy with my little friends, but this was a new, embarrassing low.
“Look, Eva, I’m sorry about all this because I believe you, I really do, but you have to understand that this situation that your boyfriend is involved in is deep. It’s like September eleventh, where if you weren’t affected personally, then you at least knew someone who knew someone else that was,” Helene said. She went on to say that not only had Zoë invested and lost her entire trust fund to Dorsey Capital Management, but that Zoë’s parents also invested heavily with Donovan and have also been so financially ruined by this that they refuse to discuss it publicly and have quietly put Zoë’s grand apartment in Manhattan’s Turtle Bay on the Sotheby’s auction block.
“That’s absolutely horrible,” I said, “because I love Zoë’s parents and I love her too, but this is some bullshit, Helene. You mean to tell me that I can’t even come here to get my fucking hair done?”
Helene sighed, looking like she was literally stuck between a rock and a hard place.
“Unfortunately, that’s just the way it has to be right now, because I can’t afford for my business to be tainted by having fights all up in here like what just occurred,” said Helene, parting my scalp with her fingers to access what was going on with my head.
“It’s a mess, right?”
“Mmm-hmm . . . but listen, maybe when things settle down and are all sorted out, say in about a year or two, then you can come back and I’ll welcome you with open arms, because you know, you my girl!” Helene laughed, trying to bring some humor to the situation that was anything but funny.
Helene gave me a farewell hug and left me standing on the sidewalk. I felt lost and alone, like a little girl abandoned in rush-hour traffic. Figuratively speaking, it was like yet another death. Helene and I had been more than just hairstylist and client. We confided in and supported each other through our ups and downs, highs and lows.
I had dutifully brought Helene organic chicken soup from W
hole Foods after both of her fibroid removal surgeries, supported her through the death of her father, and was a shoulder to cry on when Luis, her Latin lover, maxed out all her credit cards and then left her for Kitty, who had been one of her top stylists at the salon.
No worries. My stress levels were at an all-time high, and my self-esteem was at an all-time low, but I was not going to cry, and I damn sure wasn’t going to let these people break me. I jumped back in the Benz and drove over to Essence Hair Salon, a Dominican spot up on Flatbush Avenue and Eastern Parkway, where I had heard that Liza, the owner, was legendary for whipping hair into a frenzy.
She did not disappoint.
After a lengthy consultation, I told Liza to do what she does best as far as cut and style goes, and she immediately went to work.
None of that sitting around leafing through magazines for an hour before Helene even bothered to touch my head.
It cost me fifty bucks and two hours of my time for Liza to take down my old, busted-up weave and to wash and deep condition my natural hair and cut it into a bone straight, asymmetrical side-swept bob that was tapered in the back, which was a look I would have never asked for but was glad she decided that’s what was best for me. My new hair was a mixture of contemporary rocker chic and was reminiscent of Salt-N-Pepa in the “Push It” video. It was low maintenance, but still cute and stylish.
It was freeing for me. One less thing to worry about and I loved it!
Oy Vay!
I felt good after getting my hair done, and was excited about my party-hosting debut at Visions later that night, but the feeling did not last long. I pulled Vance’s Mercedes into his building’s parking garage and was horrified to see that the white Nissan truck that he used as his everyday vehicle was parked in the empty spot that the Mercedes should have been in.
I was so busted.
Vance worked long hours and usually did not make it home at least until around eight PM, and it was only a little after six o’clock. I didn’t know Vance that well, but I figured something major must have happened to cause him to come home early.
