by Deidre Berry
“It’s not much compared to the grand total of my debt, but I want you to have this,” I said, sliding three one-hundred-dollar bills across the table. “And thank you again for coming through for me the way you did.”
“We’re friends.” Tameka shrugged. “You would have done the exact same thing for me if I needed it.”
I certainly would. And if I didn’t have whatever she needed, I would try to move heaven and earth to get it, because that is just what real friends do for one another.
Looking at Tameka just then, I realized that life is too short to waste time with superficial friendships.
People like Zoë Everett do not know the meaning of the word, and only want to be connected to you if the association can raise their profile and status in some way.
Just in the relatively short time that I had been in that circle, I had seen many a “friend” come and go, acquired and discarded the way most people go through toothbrushes. Every two to three months, it’s time for a new one.
When it came to chicks like Zoë, there was no such thing as BFF, only BFFN (Best Friend For Now)
Sure, she had been a blast to hang out with, but like Kyle said, friendships should have more depth to them than just hanging out and having fun.
Genuine friends like Tameka and Kyle added depth to my life and were irreplaceable. They also served as reminders that true friendships continue to grow, even over the longest time and distance, and we don’t have to change friends if we understand that friends change.
Survival of the Fittest
Because I needed as many jobs as I could get for the time being, I stopped in to Belle’s to check the status of my application, and to pick up some tasty treats for my coworkers at Visions. Call it bribery, sucking up, or whatever you want, but when you are the new girl in any situation, bringing in fresh baked goods is a great way to win friends and influence people.
On my way in, I noticed that the HELP WANTED sign was no longer in the window.
“Welcome to Belle’s Bakery, how can I help you?”
This time it wasn’t Steve who asked the question when I entered the bakery, but a short, pretty woman in her early fifties who I assumed was Belle herself.
“Hello, my name is Eva Cantrell, and I applied for a position a couple of weeks ago. Has the position already been filled?”
“Yes, my son Steve told me about you, and you’re every bit as cute as he said you were,” she said, offering me her hand. “Hi, I’m Belle.”
“Nice to meet you!” I said, shaking her hand.
“No, sweetie, the position hasn’t been filled and it won’t be filled after all,” Belle said. “You see, all of that was Steve’s doing. I had a little heart trouble, and he wanted to bring somebody in and train them so that I wouldn’t have to work so hard, but the truth is, I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to keep the doors open around here.”
There was so much pain in her eyes when she said those words that I instantly wanted to reach out and give her a hug. I only stopped myself because I know that everybody is not the ‘hugger” that I am.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said. “You have a great place here, and I would really hate to see you go.”
“Well, thank you, sweetie. This little bakery was a lifelong dream of mine, and I never saw losing it this way, I’ll tell you that.” Belle went on to explain that she was a widow whose husband had left her a substantial insurance policy. Per her husband’s stipulations, Belle opened the bakery with part of the money and invested the rest with Dorsey Capital Management. One million dollars. Gone.
Belle’s money woes, she believed, were the direct cause of her recent “heart trouble.”
And it was all because of Donovan Dorsey.
Standing face-to-face with one of Donovan’s victims was surreal, and the magnitude of what he had done hit me in a devastating way.
Not only had Donovan stolen from the super-rich, he had also stolen from a sweet, hardworking woman whose first, and probably only, million came from the death of her husband. I thought of how utterly unfair it was for Donovan to have swindled this poor, sweet woman out of her husband’s legacy, and I started to cry.
“Oh, no, don’t cry for me, sweetie,” Belle said, coming from around the counter to give me a comforting hug. “I’m going to be all right, because God doesn’t give us more than we can bear. Besides, I got family down in North Carolina where it is much cheaper to live. But if I can give you a bit of advice, it’s never put all your eggs in one basket.”
“But I just can’t stand how the rich keep getting richer and it’s almost always at the expense of decent, hardworking people who are just trying to make it for themselves and their families.”
“Unfortunately, it’s the way of the world, at least it’s been that way since I can remember, and I’ve been around for a while,” Belle said, “but you just have to remember that you can’t control what happens to you, but what you can control is your reaction to what happens to you. Remember that, all right?”
I nodded and dried my eyes. “I’m sorry to fall apart in the middle of your shop like this, but I’m going through some things myself, so I’ve been overly emotional lately.”
“No, no, don’t apologize, that’s fine by me. I have found that it’s best to cry if you need to, when you need to, for as long as you need to,” Belle said. “Holding it all in is what gets you in trouble.”
I felt so much genuine warmth coming from her that I gave her a hug before I left and promised to drop in on her from time to time, just to say hello.
Frenemies
“Well, well, well . . . look who we have here, hustlin’ drinks like the two-bit barroom bitch I always knew you were,” Zoë said when I approached their table. It was her, Bianca, Sandra, and Pilar, and they had come to Visions specifically to give me a hard time.
“Is this your dream job?” Sandra snickered, with her titties hanging all out as usual.
“Your mother must be so proud to have a cocktail waitress in the family,” Bianca said, with her suspect ass.
I kept smiling, determined not to let my temper get the best of me.
“Good evening, my name is Eva and I will be your server for the evening. What can I start you ladies off with?”
“You can start me off with two million dollars, bitch!” Zoë said, causing her cronies to laugh at my expense.
“Anything else?” I asked cordially.
“No, that’s it,” Zoë said, folding her arms and staring me down. “I’m just going to sit here and wait patiently for my money, because I know you have it stashed away somewhere. Now run along!”
Then the heifer snapped her fingers at me, like I was her dog or indentured servant.
Still, I sucked it up and let it slide. When I turned to walk away, I was pelted with ice chips, and when I turned back around, they were all sitting there as if nothing had happened.
I didn’t know which one of those bitches threw the ice, but I did know who was responsible for all the unnecessary animosity toward me. I grabbed an ice bucket and dumped the cubes right on top of her 30-inch Indian Remy Body Wave in Jet Black.
It was an involuntary reaction, it really was, but Amanda was not the least bit sympathetic.
“I still got love for ya, Eva,” Amanda said. “But I’m Italian, and I’d fire my own mother if she fucked up my money the way you did tonight!”
And that was the end of my career as a party hostess. Grand opening, grand closing.
Imitation of Life
“Don’t tell me you lost that damn job!” said Kyle after I explained the ordeal that had just unfolded. “How you gonna let Zoë, of all bitches, mess with your money like that?”
“Anyways.” I sighed. “I didn’t call to get fussed at. You’re obviously at home, so I’m on my way over.”
“Uh, wait a minute, Miss Girl. How do you even know I’m in the mood for company?”
“I’m not company, I’m family.”
“
If you insist. . . .” Kyle sighed like he was being put upon. “But I’m starving, so please don’t come empty-handed.”
“I’ll bring the food if you have the wine.”
“Done.”
It was close to midnight when I left Visions, and bitterly cold. I caught a cab uptown to Talay Restaurant where they serve the perfect fusion of Thai-Latin cuisine. Figuring that Kyle and I would share everything like we normally do, I ordered the crispy shrimp and plantains with sweet chili aioli, crab cakes with Thai basil mayonnaise and baby greens, and the Thai-Mex chicken quesadilla. Nothing quite eases the pain of being fired like stuffing yourself with good food and good drink.
Kyle lived in Harlem, in a renovated tri-level brownstone on 119th and Third. He greeted me at the door dressed in burgundy silk pajamas, looking like a black Hugh Hefner, only gay.
“Aww, my baby got fired?” he asked, kissing me on both cheeks.
“Yeah,” I pouted. “I figured this was the best place to come to lick my wounds.”
“Well, come on in, girl! You’re just in time—Imitation of Life is about to start.”
“Which version,” I asked. “Black-and-white or color?”
“Black-and-white, of course! Now, I love both versions, but Louise Beavers and Claudette Colbert served the drama back in nineteen thirty-four, honey!”
“I beg to differ, only because black-and-white films are like visual tryptophan to me. There’s just something about them that make me sleepy.”
“Well, not tonight, because if you fall asleep on me I’m gonna put hot sauce in your mouth like we used to do back in the day.”
“Ooh! You remember that? Our sleepovers used to be so much fun.”
“Yeah, those were the days. Ah, to be young and carefree again.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, because I’m still young, but carefree? Now that would be nice.”
I loved visiting Kyle’s place, which is very warm and welcoming when his partner Irwin isn’t home, which fortunately he wasn’t. The two of us never quite hit it off. Probably because when he and Kyle started dating, Kyle always referred to Irwin as “trade” and was initially only interested in him because he was a sales associate at Bergdorf’s men’s store and could get deep discounts on clothing, label whore that he is.
Now, just three months later, Kyle claims to be genuinely in love. I don’t buy it. Irwin is five years younger than Kyle, and I always thought he was using Kyle for his nice home and stability. In that case, they were using each other, and a fair exchange ain’t no robbery, but in my eyes, Irwin is still trade, and trade does not deserve respect.
When his dancing and choreography days are officially over, Kyle plans to reinvent himself as an interior designer, which he certainly should because his home was an oasis of serenity and a showplace of refined tastes.
Kyle had a lot of Japanese-inspired furnishings, and had decorated the brownstone in neutral tones of chocolate brown and peach, with gold and red accents.
“Oh, and you brought the good stuff!” Kyle said, looking thoroughly delighted that I had brought food from Talay’s. “You always did have good taste.”
“I guess you taught me well after all, huh?”
“I helped, but you’ve always had it, my dear.” Kyle patted me on the cheek like Glenda the Good Witch. “You may have needed a little guidance here and there, but trust, you’ve always had it.”
Kyle took the bag from me while I took my coat off and hung it in the hall closet. I followed him into the living room where there was a warm glow coming from the brick fireplace, and he had already set up place settings on the large glass coffee table, along with a bottle of white wine.
We sat down Japanese-style on soft, comfortable floor pillows and watched the classic mother–daughter drama unfold on TCM.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” I said when the movie got to the part where the daughter kicks her poor mama out of her life, “that Sarah Jane sure was one ungrateful-ass bitch!”
Kyle just nodded, trying to hold back the tears.
I had seen the movie several times before, and every time I always came away wishing that I had a mother like Annie. She loved Sarah Jane more than oxygen, but all Sarah Jane wanted to do was pass for white, even if it meant never having anything to do with her mother again.
Sarah Jane did not realize how lucky she was to have such a loving mother until it was too late and Annie was dead, while I had a mother who, for all she knew, could have had a dead daughter.
Hanging out with Kyle that night reminded me of the old days back in Chicago when we would eat and watch movies together. Only, instead of eating gourmet, it was always some ghetto-ass meal like chili mac with melted cheese, or hot dogs and pork ’n’ beans. I was twelve and Kyle was around fifteen when we really started hanging out.
The two of us bonded over the fact that we were both orphans whose biological parents had left us to be raised by relatives. Kyle always was a wise old soul, and whenever I would break down and cry to him about my missing parents, he would comfort me with, “Just remember, Eva, when your mother and father forsake you, the Lord will take you up.” At the time, I wasn’t exactly sure how that Bible verse applied to me and my situation, but as Kyle broke it down to me, I imagined that because Gwen and Bernard had walked away and left me, God put a force field of protection around me, and no matter how bad things got in life, somehow, someway, I would be sustained and I would always land on my feet.
Hell up in Harlem
I awoke the next morning to find a big brown cat perched on the arm of Kyle’s sofa where I had slept. “Hey, kitty-kitty . . .” I said, wondering exactly when it was that Kyle had gotten a cat.
I stretched, and wiped the sleep from my eyes. Then I froze.
Kyle doesn’t have a cat, because he’s allergic to them.
I took a second look, this time noticing that the kitty cat had beady red eyes, a pink pointy nose, and a long skinny tail with no fur on it.
A chill ran through me as I realized, That ain’t no damn cat!
I jumped up and screamed at the top of my lungs. “Kyle! Get in here, quick! Help!”
I started throwing magazines, pillows, the remote control—ever ything I could get my hands on at him, but Mr. King Rat just looked at me like he didn’t get what all the fuss was about. And he sure as hell wasn’t scared of me.
Finally, the humongous rodent jumped down off the couch and walked off. Mind you, this particular rat did not scurry away like most of them do. He simply walked off as if he had seen all that he had come to see, and was over it, and buh-bye!
I had heard that the rats up in Harlem are a different breed. By all accounts, they are larger and more ferocious than you would normally find in other parts of the city, and like their human counterparts, the rodents in Harlem have their own distinct swagger.
Kyle came running downstairs wielding a baseball bat and a pellet gun.
“What is all the screaming about, somebody break in?”
“No, it was a supersized rat! He was on the other end of the couch when I woke up—just chilling!”
Kyle looked at me and laughed. “Chile, all that noise over a little old rat? Hello! This is Harlem, baby. You’re gonna see a rat or two every now and then. It comes with the territory.”
“Well, hell, I didn’t expect for him to wake me up and practically ask what’s for breakfast!”
“There he is . . . ,” Kyle said, noticing that Mr. King Rat was under the dining room table. He raised the pellet gun, aimed carefully, and popped him a couple times in the side. Only then did the rat scurry away like rodents were supposed to. “Ha ha, got him! I betcha his ass won’t be back! Now, you want grits or oatmeal?”
For breakfast, Kyle made smoked turkey sausage, cheese grits, and toasted slices of walnut raisin bread.
We watched the Channel 7 news while we ate. According to the meteorologist, a cold front was moving in from Canada and snow was in the extended forecast.
“And to think,” I said, buttering my toast. “This time last year I was packing my bags for an island Christmas. Now there’s not even going to be a Christmas this year.”
“Girl, hush, there’s always a Christmas. It’s just up to the individual to count their blessings and remember the reason for the season.”
“That’s easy for you to say because you have a great career, and this big, beautiful home,” I said. “And by the way, what are your plans for the holidays, Mr. Man?”
“I’ll be in Miami. . . . ” Kyle winced as if he expected me to punch him.
“Miami! See?” I reached across the table and playfully rung Kyle’s neck. “Talking about ‘count your blessings and remember the reason for the season’ when you’re gonna be shaking your jelly all up and down South Beach on Christmas Day.”
“No, honey, you got it twisted. Killjoy has a concert and a video shoot, so I will be working.”
“In the sunshine, enjoying the palm trees, and kicked back on the beach, and yachting in eighty-degree weather with a cold, frothy cocktail or two. . . .”
“Well, hell, work is work no matter where you do it!” Kyle laughed. “But seriously, Irwin isn’t even coming with me, so right there you know that should tell you that this is not a pleasure trip.”
“Where is Irwin, by the way?”
Kyle sighed and shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. He didn’t call or come home last night, so I suspect that he’s back up to his whorish ways and is somewhere laying up with rough trade. That is the way he likes it, you know.”
“Hmm, moving on!” I said. “You know, I’ve been doing some thinking, and if I can get the money together, I just might go back home for Christmas. I want to see Mama Nita even if she doesn’t recognize me.”
“That’s wonderful, but just make sure you come back,” Kyle said. “And don’t go hooking up with that Jayson Cooper, and settle down and start having babies.”
