by Deidre Berry
I let myself into the apartment and walked in on Vance pacing back and forth, furiously waving a magazine around, and yelling into his cell phone. “That’s not my problem, Roger, it’s yours. You know as well as I do that this story on Donovan is full of lies and half truths, and I want a retraction in next month’s issue, or you can expect a lawsuit.... You’re damn right I’m going to file it on my client’s behalf!”
Vance handed me the magazine he had been holding, and I immediately saw what all the fuss was about.
It was the latest edition of Black Enterprise Magazine, hot off the presses with the cover story “The Rise and Fall of Donovan Dorsey.”
There was a nice photo of Donovan on the cover, one the magazine had obviously taken from a photo shoot with Donovan a year before for a feature named “Leaders in Business.” In the photo, Donovan was dressed in an immaculate black cashmere suit with a lavender tie.
His crossed arms portrayed confidence, and he stared into the camera with a cocky, one-sided smile that some people could have interpreted as condescending. And they would have been right, because it was.
While Vance raved and ranted on the phone, I sat down on the sofa and read the article from beginning to end.
It was all standard stuff, and it all seemed pretty factual to me.
“What’s the problem with this?” I asked Vance when he had finally finished with his phone call.
“Nothing, but it wouldn’t have looked good for me to sit back and not say anything,” Vance said. “Donovan has the deck stacked high against him right now, so the best way to create doubt of his guilt in people’s minds is to deny, deny, deny, and object to everything.”
“Good strategy,” I said, even though I was thinking that lawyers were some shrewd, two-faced sonof-abitches. Mama Nita always said that they could not be trusted as far as you could see them.
“So, how was your day?” asked Vance in a way that let me know he was about to lay into me about taking his car without permission.
“Hey, I’m sorry about not asking to use your car before taking it, but an emergency came up and I had to get there as quickly as possible,” I said, which was the complete truth, because my hair emergency really was quite critical.
“Okay, well, this is a good time for us to set some ground rules since we are roommates, in a sense. First, no more borrowing any of my cars without permission, and second, all closed doors are to be knocked on before entering.”
“Gotcha!” I said, “But you should know that I did knock on your bedroom door this morning, but I evidently knocked harder than I intended to, and it just flew open.”
“Yeah, that door doesn’t catch all the way sometimes, but from now on, I’ll make sure that it’s closed all the way, and locked on top of that.”
“Same here, but it’s not like I’m going to sneak into your room in the middle of the night and molest you.”
“Well, one can never be too sure,” Vance said cheekily, which cut the tension and made both of us laugh. “By the way, I like your new haircut. It becomes you.”
I ran my hand over my newly shorn locks, and smiled. “Why, thank you,” I said. “And since you’re in a much better mood than when I came in, can I borrow your car tonight for my first day of work at Visions?”
“Visions, the nightclub?”
“Yeah . . .” I said expectantly.
“Oh, no, that’s out of the question. I don’t even drive my cars to nightclubs because that’s when they are more likely to be stolen or damaged in some way,” Vance said, always the lawyer. “As a matter of fact, can I have my car keys, please? I need to go check Lola for any dents or scratches.”
“Lola?” I raised an eyebrow as I dropped the set of keys in his hand.
“Yeah, I name all of my cars. The Mercedes coupe is Lola, because she’s hot and sexy. The Nissan truck is Brenda, because she’s so dependable, and the old-school Chevy is Pauline.”
“Men and their damn cars,” I said, shaking my head.
“It’s no different than women and their hair. Especially black women,” Vance said. “Now that’s an obsessive, love–hate relationship right there!”
“Touché!” I said. “Well, while you go check on Lola, I’m going to go rest up a bit before my shift. Do you mind if I take a catnap in the princess room? It looks so much more comfortable than that cramped little couch—no offense!”
“You mean Sydney’s room? Yeah, I guess it’s okay, as long as you don’t wet the bed.”
Rimshot, ka-boom!
Vance’s cornball lawyer humor was wearing me out even more than I already was. The first half of the day had been very eventful, starting with my fight with Zoë, and then getting kicked out of Helene’s hair studio and pretty much banned for life. That was enough to put anyone’s energy levels on low.
“I assure you, I’m housebroken,” I told Vance before he walked out to go check on his precious car.
Just as I was about to go down for my nap, the house phone rang so loudly that it almost quite literally scared the shit out of me. There was no way that the phone call could be for me, but I picked it up on the second ring, just to get the noise to stop. “Hello?” I said, trying not to sound hostile, but failing.
“Hi, who is this?” chirped a friendly female voice on the other end of the phone.
“This is Eva; I’m a friend of Vance’s. . . .”
I heard the woman taking in a long, deep breath as if she were trying to keep herself calm. “Are you now?” she asked, her voice no longer friendly. “And just how good of a friend are you to him?”
I knew where this was going. I had had the same conversation with other females in the past, but this was Vance we were talking about, so I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, no, it’s not anything like that!” I chuckled. Vance had a body like Terrell Owens and was a good catch for someone, but . . . come on! The guy had zero swag as far as I was concerned. “Vance is just being a sweetheart and letting me live with him temporarily until—”
“Wait a minute, live with him? And whose fucking idea was that?”
Me and my big mouth. I had said way too much, and I didn’t even know who I was talking to. “Look,” I said, “I really think you need to talk to Vance—”
“I damn sure will be talking to Vance about this!” she said, before hanging up in my face.
I clicked the off button on the handset, thinking that whoever that chick was, Vance had his hands full dealing with her. Whoo! Attitude and drama times ten! I didn’t know if she was his girlfriend or what, but Vance had my sympathies, because in just the short amount of time I had talked to her, she had managed to irritate the hell outta me and give me a throbbing migraine.
I could only imagine what it was like dealing with her face-to-face for more than two minutes.
Afterward, I went into the room fit for a princess, where the bed was as comfortable as I had hoped it would be, and fell fast asleep shortly after my head hit the pillow.
I don’t know how long I had been asleep, but when I woke up there was a mean, angry mug standing over me shouting, “Vance, I knew you were lying! I thought you said she looked like Forest Whitaker with a bad weave!” I could tell by the voice that it was the same snitty chick I had talked to earlier on the phone, and I thought here we go again! As if I hadn’t already had enough drama for one day.
It would be my third physical altercation in less than a week, and none of them were fights that I started. Well, except for Mama Dorsey, and I am sure we can all agree that one was completely justified.
“Think about it, Candace,” Vance said. “If anything was really going on between Eva and me, don’t you think she would be lying in my bed instead of Sydney’s?”
“And that’s another thing!” shouted crazy Candace. “Why the fuck is she laying bare-ass naked in my daughter’s bed? Oh, you best believe that I’m burning these sheets!”
Oh, so she was the baby’s mama. Poor Vance, having to deal with her deranged ass for the next fifteen-pl
us years.
I had taken my jeans off and was standing in front of those two wearing just a thong and a T-shirt, so technically, I wasn’t bare-ass naked.
“Listen, Candace,” I said. “Vance is a really great guy with a big heart but we are not physically attracted to each other, and believe me, there will never be anything between us on that level.”
Candace must have believed me, because she smiled and said that she just did not want Sydney coming over to visit an unsafe and unwholesome environment. “A mother can never be too careful, you know,” she said.
“It’s all right, all is forgiven,” I said, “but if you two will excuse me I have to get ready for work.”
It had been a while, and I didn’t realize how much I missed saying those words until I said them. It felt good. I was about to start raking in some major cash, so hopefully it wouldn’t be long before I was able to get my own place. That in itself would be a dream come true, because the only real security there is, is that which you can provide for yourself.
Hostesss with the Mostess
Since Vance selfishly refused to let me borrow his car to get to work, I had no choice but to take the bus. As luck would have it, I only had to wait several minutes before the number 6 bus came along to take me down to the meatpacking district.
It had been years since I had stepped foot on a bus, and I had no idea how much it cost, which pissed off the people behind me waiting to get on.
“How much is it?” I asked the driver, who jerked his thumb toward a laminated sign that listed the fare as $2.25, coins and metrocards only.
I didn’t have a metrocard so I rummaged through my purse for change.
“What’s the fucking holdup?” shouted one of the people behind me.
“I’m looking for change!” I shouted back, which caused some of the more seasoned riders to snicker and shake their heads.
Ahhh . . . public transportation.
I hate everything about it, from the stickiness and the germs to people looking warily at each other, wondering where they were going and what their story was.
The most annoying thing besides the various body odors coming at you from all directions is that everyone, and I mean everyone from the oldest to the youngest, is yakking on their cell phones all at once.
And in the day and age of iPods and other MP3 devices, there is still at least one Radio Raheem toting around a ghetto blaster cranked up to the max, playing disparaging, woman-hating lyrics.
Bitch this, ho that, suck this, and get down on the floor and crawl like a dog . . . Exhausting!
Sometimes it feels as though the black man has waged war against us. After all that we have done for them, and all we’ve been through together, this is how they treat us? How about lifting us up, singing our praises, and calling us “Queen”? Then again, I guess that wouldn’t sell very many records, now, would it?
No one says a word, unless it’s something nasty like, “What the hell are you staring at?” or “Hey, you just stepped on my fucking foot!”
Instead, everyone takes turns sighing impatiently until the bus finally reaches their stop. My stop was one block away from Visions, because I didn’t want anybody to see me getting off.
“Hi, you must be Eva!” said a cute, perky blonde who introduced herself to me as Heather. Heather and I had arrived at Visions’ employee entrance/ the back door, at the same time.
“Yes, I’m Eva,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” Heather said. “We’re gonna make tons of money tonight. Did you see that crowd?”
I had. Out front, there was a long line of well-to-do hipsters waiting to pay the cover charge of fifty dollars for men, and thirty dollars for women.
Heather rang a doorbell, and seconds later a tall, thin guy with a shiny bald head and a goatee opened the door.
“Hey, Paul,” Heather said. “This is Eva.”
“Ah, Miss New Booty!” Paul said with a laugh.
“Poor girl,” said Heather. “She hasn’t been here for a full minute yet, and she’s being sexually harassed already.”
“I’m only joking, of course. This is a fun place to work, so you’ll find that we laugh and joke around a lot here,” Paul said to me. “Come on in, ladies. The pre-shift meeting is about to start.”
I followed Paul and Heather into a large office that had MANAGER marked on the door. There were five other women waiting inside, and I noticed that they were all wearing the same skimpy outfit: black short-shorts and a tight black T-shirt that had VISIONS written across the front in purple.
“Everybody, this is Eva,” Paul said. “She’s our new VIP hostess, and the friend Amanda told us all about.”
The other ladies smiled and waved, but the energy I got from most of them was Great, just what we need around here, another bitch taking tips away from me!
After Paul introduced me to everyone, he ran down the half-price drink specials for the night, which were vodka and cranberry juice, Ciroc and Red Bull, and three hundred dollars for a three-liter bottle of champagne.
There had been a huge awards show earlier in the evening, and all of the VIP tables were reserved by some serious heavy hitters. Paul dropped names like Bono, Diddy, and Lenny Kravitz, and some of the other ladies went gaga over just the mere mention of some of the names.
I wasn’t impressed. I had met plenty of them before and had concluded that some of the biggest assholes in the world were celebrities. Except when it comes to Prince Rogers Nelson, I just don’t get fan worship. At all. They were just regular people whose jobs just so happened to have landed them in the spotlight.
After the other girls left, Paul had me stay behind so that he could give me my uniform and a crash course on how to be a successful and popular party hostess.
Basically, my job was to get the party started and to keep the party going by persuading customers to buy bottles of champagne and liquor. The bigger the bottles, the better it would be for my pockets at the end of the night. Not only was I working for tips, but as a special favor to me Amanda had agreed to give me 12 percent of the total of my combined bar tabs at the end of the night, compared to some of the other hostesses who were only getting around 8 percent.
Since everybody loves to show off their club pictures these days, I was also expected to play photographer and party with my guests by encouraging them to dance and whoop it up.
It sounded like so much fun, I could hardly wait to get started.
Paul showed me to a small locker room where I changed into my uniform, which I must admit I filled out very nicely. I followed Paul out into the club, where it was so dark and crowded, you could not tell the famous faces from just the average Joe.
Paul’s parting words to me as he left me in my section of the VIP area was to “Keep smiling, keep your energy up, and have fun!”
My party hostess cherry was broken by a bachelor party of six who were all great guys and excellent tippers. Four hundred dollars just to smile and look pretty and keep the drinks coming? I could get used to that!
Overall, my first night working at Visions was successful. I raked in a little over three thousand dollars, but like Donna Summer said, I worked hard for that money. From eleven PM to four AM, I’d had to deal with folks who should have been popping Altoids instead of more and more bottles of alcohol, and I’d had to deal with a few touchy-feely assholes who obviously thought that buying out the bar entitled them to grab all the ass and tits that they wanted.
“This ain’t that type of party, sweetheart!” I told one boozed-up loser, who thought it was funny to lift my skirt up every time I passed by him. I threatened him with my pepper spray, which he thought was even more hilarious. Having had enough of him, I signaled for the bouncers to take care of the guy, which they did, immediately.
My pockets were definitely fatter by the end of the night, but I came away feeling like there was a whorish quality to being a party hostess.
There was no sex involved, of course, but I still had to sho
w off my body, stroke egos, make people feel good, and pretend that I was dealing with the most wonderful and interesting people in the world, yet in the back of my mind I was counting my dough.
Start Snitching
I spent Thanksgiving day with Tameka and her three boys. Besides the noise and the multitude of toys underfoot, Meka had a beautiful five-bedroom townhouse in Gramercy Park that I couldn’t believe that Jamal was trying to force her and the kids out of—the heartless bastard. He was really taking Tameka through unnecessary changes, talking about selling the townhouse and setting her up in a smaller, much cheaper apartment.
Tameka can’t put a decent meal together to save her life, so she hired a caterer to do all of the cooking for the holiday. Being that she was from High Point, North Carolina, dinner was a Southern feast that included Cajun turkey with wild mushroom and oyster stuffing, green rice, yeast rolls, and Waldorf salad. Scrumptious! I could get with everything on the menu except for the chitterlings, which Tameka insisted were delicious when doused with hot sauce and accompanied by cole slaw.
“No, thanks!” I said, moving the proffered plate of pig guts out of my face.
“Girl, where I’m from, this is good eatin’! You just don’t know what you’re missing!”
“Yes, I do,” I protested. “I’ve had chittlins before, it’s just that my grandmother made me stay up half the night cleaning forty pounds of that disgusting mess for Thanksgiving one year, and I vowed right then and there that nary a chitterling would ever pass my lips again.”
“How old were you?”
“About eleven.”
“Umph!” Tameka shook her head as if I had her deepest sympathy, then proceeded to devour the chitterlings herself. “You sure you don’t want a bite?” she asked, with chitterling juice running down her chin.
“Yeah, I’m good.” I frowned, and it was a comical moment, with both of us sitting there shaking our heads at each other as if we just didn’t get the other’s point of view.
