Lots of young families were relocating from the City to the diversity of Brooklyn, seeking the valuable appeal of a having a backyard and street parking. Gentrification had changed the landscape of Brooklyn, making it almost impossible to afford anything within ten subway stops of lower Manhattan. The lower class was being pushed out of Brooklyn and into the Rockaways, making it a stressful forty-five minute subway ride into the City.
Somewhere around Bedford Avenue the landscape changed from coffee shops and wine boutiques to Crown Fried Chicken, Golden Krust Caribbean Bakery, Chinese takeout, liquor stores, African hair braiding salons, barbershops, check cashing spots and hundreds of bodegas.
We eventually arrived at our destination, a small brick building off of Fulton Street, after drooling over the real estate. It seemed a little out of place compared to the monstrous brownstones lining Macdonough Street, but my building was declared a historic landmark since it was built back in 1944.
Activity buzzed all around with elderly Jamaican women doing laundry, nasty garbage trucks picking up refuse in the middle of the afternoon, blocking the street, and young kids still playing the ancient Brooklyn game of skelly. A symphony of Buju Banton and Bob Marley filled the air from a variety of nearby apartment buildings, not to mention the faint smell of weed mixed in. Brooklyn was the Costco of marijuana and you could easily find a plethora Kush, Sour Diesel, Purple Haze, Orangina, Chocolate Thai, Beef and Broccoli, and even the government grade G-13. Friends would often offer to take me on vacation to Jamaica, which I wasn’t really interested in because I figured that I was living in Kingston already.
We haggardly unloaded garbage bags full of my clothes from the U-Haul. I probably should have just started fresh and bought a whole new wardrobe, but there were some old t-shirts and jeans that I had grown attached to and wanted to keep. Since I had gained some weight I figured I would keep my old clothes as a measuring stick for the kind of shape I was in and motivate myself to get back down under 200 pounds. It wasn’t only women who were trying to fit in their old clothes. Guys did that as well.
“I don't know what you needed this big ass U-Haul for, all your stuff is in garbage bags,” Caesar teased.
“I know. He could’ve moved in a cab,” Khalil chimed in. The two of them laughed hysterically like that was the funniest shit ever.
“Whatever. I like to travel light.”
“I don't think you had much choice since Kennedy owned everything. But you still got this raggedy ass couch.”
“And the knife and fork she left you. What type of sick bitch leaves you with only a knife and fork?” Caesar asked.
“A hurt, sick bitch. That one was personal. I mean, she even took the carpet off the floors!”
“Anyway. You're going to like Brooklyn. This is where all the artists and hip people kick it now,” Khalil said.
“And the homos, too,” Caesar added.
“That's not true.”
“You would know.”
“How the fuck would I know?” barked Khalil.
“Just drop it,” I urged the Odd Couple comedy duo.
Caesar made it a point to tease Khalil about his sexuality any chance he got. It wasn’t Khalil’s fault that he had soft, feminine-looking features, dressed well, and was into theatre. People would always ask him if he were wearing eye liner and he would respond angrily, “What man wears eye liner besides Prince?”
We walked down the urine-soaked steps to my side entrance. Bums used to use the stairwell as their own private bathroom, so I made a mental note to post a sign warning: “This isn’t a fucking bathroom! I don’t piss on your shopping cart, so give me the same respect! -Occupant.
I was beginning to feel claustrophobic just from the walk down the narrow hallway into the basement apartment. I struggled to get the door open, but finally did to behold the one-room apartment. Not one bedroom, one room! A studio would be considered spacious. But what did you expect for $988.00 per month in New York? Nonetheless, I didn’t care because I saw nothing but potential. I would hook it up with rustic black leather sectional, flowing white chiffon curtains, and small accents of red via roses, candles, and abstract artwork.
The fellas looked at each other, then burst into laughter again.
“Go ahead. Get it out.”
“No problem,” exclaimed Khalil. “This place is so small you can turn the channel on the TV while you're sitting in the bathtub.” What bathtub? I thought.
“This place is so small you have to go outside to change your mind! Just kidding, man. At least it's yours. And think of all the fine dime pieces you'll have coming through,” Caesar reminded me as he stared out the window. “Like that bitch across the street,” he said, referring to a tall, dreadlocked sista who was walking her Pomeranian. We rushed to the window to lustfully undress her with our eyes like a bunch of seventh grade boys during recess.
“Does every woman have to be a bitch to you? Was your momma a bitch?” Khalil asked.
“First of all, if you say anything about my momma, I will kick your ass. And secondly, yes, she was a bitch! My daddy told me so. You need to get the estrogen out of your blood and stop acting like a sissy.”
“Your momma!” responded Khalil. It was still the universal trump card when it came to ending arguments and starting them.
“What did I just tell you?” Caesar fired.
Too much playing around. I had to stop it. “Guys, please. Must we go through this every time?” I decided to change gears, so I changed the subject. “Who hung the clothes in the closet?”
“Me. Why?”
I took Caesar to the closet, which is only a few feet away in the small studio.
“Look how you've got my shit hanging all erratic,” I screamed. "Color palettes go in order from black to green to brown to blue to khaki. And from right to left.” I also had a job selling suits in the mall when I graduated from college. I learned all the intricacies of displaying clothes and incorporated it into my own closet.
“You anal motherfucker. You wash clothes every three weeks, let dishes pile up, and can barely remember to take out the garbage.”
“That was when I was staying at your place. This is how I do things at my place.”
Unfortunately, people usually treat their own property better than they do others’ and I was no different.
Is Beyonce’ Fine?
I awakened the next morning to my empty apartment and a raging hard-on. It had been a long time since I experienced either.
It was ironic that the indication my marriage was over was an empty apartment and now the indication that I had achieved independence finally was once again an empty apartment. Caesar always advised me never to move in with a chick, especially if your name isn’t on the lease, because she could get pissed off and throw your ass out at a moment’s notice, causing me to end up crashing on his couch. He was right. I hadn’t lived on my own since my short residency in Los Angeles ten years ago. But it didn’t matter to me because at least I had my own shit again.
I slept on a twin mattress on the floor that I borrowed from my old bedroom at my parents’ house. I bought two plates, two bowls, two glasses, two forks, and exactly two knives, just in case I had company. If Cez and Khalil came by at the same time, one of them would have been assed out.
I staggered into my kitchenette and grabbed the carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. I drank half of it right from the carton, in particular defiance to my dad who would have a shit fit when I did that. That is one of the benefits of having your own shit.
I opened the Venetian blinds, then the window to take in my first morning in Brooklyn. The hustle of commuters scampering past my window headed to the subway got me motivated. It reminded me of the opening credits to Laverne & Shirley as I could only see people’s feet passing by since I was in the basement apartment located beneath street level. The minivans and landscapers of suburban life were replaced by nannies, street sweepers, and crack heads.
I must admit that it wasn’t e
asy getting to sleep last night because two crack heads were arguing outside my window at 3 o’clock in the morning over a bicycle that they had “found.” While I looked out the window I could see that there was a variety of commuters hustling to the subway station on Utica Ave. They fluctuated from young, white college grads commuting to Wall St. to African American women in their black, blue or gray Anne Klein business suits headed for midtown.
The laughter of our beautiful Black children, could be heard as they exuberantly rushed for the bus. Not the school bus, though. Kids in New York rode the city bus to school. I could see their dreams, their innocence, their potential etched across each child’s face. I felt a sense of pride I hadn’t experienced ever before. I loved the energy of Brooklyn and needed the change of pace. This was the right place for me. Today was my first day of working in Manhattan, so I had to make sure I looked sharp. Look sharp, be sharp! That’s what my father always said.
I took a cold shower to wake up since I had nervously tossed and turned all night in anticipation of today. I couldn’t believe I was actually here and how far I had come. I was a little scared. But fear is good, and it’s also a liar. It’s an acronym for False Evidence Appearing Real. I could do this. And I could do it well.
I had the “be sharp” part finished now it was time to work on the “look sharp”. I wore a three-button, single-breasted, navy, pinstriped hand-me-down Michael Kors that Caesar donated to me. I set it off with a pair of camel-colored Bruno Magli wingtips that I borrowed from Caesar as well. Luckily for me, we both wore a size 12. The only place I had any choices to make was in neckties. Should I sport my orange Hickey Freeman or would that be too bold? Maybe the lime green Versace’? I decided to play it safe and settled on the burgundy Ralph Lauren.
The new and improved Dapper Carter swaggered down Madison Avenue with a revitalized pep in my step. I loved Madison Avenue. All the top boutiques were there. Calvin Klein, Cartier`, and Gucci on one side of the street. Dolce`, Armani, and Cavalli on the other. You can say what you want about New York chicks not being approachable, but you can’t say that New York women don’t dress their asses off. They had a superior sense of style, and why shouldn’t they? N.Y. is the fashion capital of the world.
I noticed the businessmen wearing name brand Hugo Boss and Armani suits and I wanted that. They say that “clothes don’t make the man, the man makes the clothes.” I had that going for me at least. I looked pretty good in everything….when I don’t weigh 240 pounds. So until then I needed to make some dough. I smelled the success in the air and I could not wait to be a part of it…
After a few minutes of fawning over my new atmosphere, I finally arrived at my destination, The Fitness Depot, the one-stop shop of the fitness equipment industry selling high-end, commercial-quality exercise equipment.
Right off the bat I noticed how the other salesmen were in great shape, much better than I. I made a mental note to get my ass back in shape! I immediately spotted the store manager, Mike DeLeo. He was two hundred and forty pounds and a former linebacker for the New York Jets. I was a Jet fan growing up and actually remember when he played. He welcomed me enthusiastically to what he called "fitness heaven."
I liked how the store was neon-ed out and the salesmen were dressed in khakis and knit golf shirts, showing off their professionalism. I noticed in other companies that the salesmen were a bit younger and they were wearing track pants and tee shirts. They were trying just to make money instead of making equipment sales a career like I was. The best thing about sales was that there was no earning ceiling. The harder you work, the more money you can make. It was the only profession in which anyone could be successful if they worked hard, and it didn’t require a college degree.
Mike’s office looked like an NFL General Manager’s office, adorned with NFL paraphernalia and pictures with old New York Jet teammates from the '80s. I coolly sat across from him at his glass desk. I always had ice water in my veins and was confident that I could bag any job I wanted. Confidence will take you places you never thought you could go. And I reeked of it. Once he found out that I was a former college athlete, all I had to do was show up and do what athletes do best. Play up the fact that we are team oriented, goal driven, highly motivated, competitive, and a proven winner. Corporate America loves that shit. He pitched to me that Fitness Depot was the number one fitness equipment retailer in the world, grossing over eight million a year out of this store alone. All I was interested in was whether or not I could make six figures.
“Does a bear shit in the woods? Is Beyonce’ fine? Will the Yankees win the World Series?”
“Yes, yes, and no. I like the Mets.”
“Yeah, you're right. I'm a Mets fan too. You can do six figures as long as you remember the number one rule of sales. Do you know what that is?”
“Of course. What real salesman doesn’t? A-B-C. Always Be Closing.”
“My man. This is pretty much an all boys club, so just like the boys over on Wall Street, we go out a lot after work. You got a lady?”
“No.”
“You don't have a fella, do you?”
“Do I look like I'd be with another man?”
“In this city, you never know. Looks got nothing to do with it. How come no woman?”
“I just got divorced.”
“Been there and done that. You got to keep it moving. Making some money should help ease the pain.”
Mike and I were on the same page. We walked out onto the sales floor just as a stylish , middle-aged woman entered the store and meandered around the treadmills. She seemed interested enough but was lingering around the entry level $500 treadmill.
“Got a little test for you. What price range of treadmills would you show her?”
“I will do you one better.”
I walked over to the sixty-year-old woman and began to demo treadmills for her. Mike nodded his head approvingly.
Mrs. Whitney wore a tight, black cashmere sweater with black leggings reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn. Being fully clad in black from head to toe gave her a slimming effect that I’m sure she was aware of. She never got a chance to use her Wellesley education or her law degree from Vanderbilt because she married Upper Eastside money. There were scores of women just like her residing on the Upper Eastside.
I could tell she worked out too. She was well preserved, thanks to Botox, liposuction, and breast implants—the trifecta. She had no extra skin hanging off her well-toned triceps and her legs were still well-developed, indicating she walked a lot, which most New Yorkers do.
She flirted with me incessantly as I demonstrated every treadmill in the store from the $500 cheapies to the $8,000 Cadillacs of treadmills. She enjoyed the attention I was giving her and truthfully I was good at it. I charmed my mother’s friends for years.
What I lacked in salesmanship, I made up for in personality. After forty minutes or so of shooting the breeze about everything from the best restaurants in Paris to the Rodan exhibit at the Met, I eventually closed the deal for Mike and sold her a middle-of-the road $2,500 tread.
I was feeling myself since I had closed the deal before I had even officially been hired. Not to mention Mrs. Whitney asked me if I would come by personally to “show her how to use it.” Mike and I both knew what that meant.
As much as I had impressed the store manager, he was equally unimpressed and decided to give me my first lesson in sales and take me to school. “This is the difference between making seventy k a year and making a hundred k. Look at her shoes. Those are five hundred dollar Ferragamos. Her handbag is Chanel, about nine hundred dollars. Her watch is Bvlgari. Estimated value is $8,000. And how big do you think that rock on her hand is?”
I shrugged my shoulders unknowingly. It reminded me of how I would be chastised by my father.
“Ten carats. She can afford the high-end eight thousand dollar treadmill all day every day and twice on Sunday.”
He was right. I nodded my head in agreement.
“Some people call the
knowledge I have being metro sexual, but do you know what I call it? Mortgages. Car notes. Vacations in Cannes, Tuscany, and Monte Carlo
I saw his point. He was dead on and that was how I wanted to live my life.
My Momma's From South Carolina
I started shopping at the most expensive supermarket in Brooklyn. Whole Foods took off like a rocket and everyone was into what they were putting into their bodies.
The store was immaculate, a prerequisite for any grocery store I was going to patronize. It was on Flatbush Ave. in Park Slope, which used to have a dominant Hispanic population, but was replaced by a new Farmer’s Market crowd. It carried organic this, fresh that. It killed me how you couldn’t find any fresh fruit and vegetables in the hood, but there was a Whole Foods located in any area that’s been gentrified. It’s like they think the only way Black people liked our vegetables was overcooked and over seasoned.
I methodically pushed my cart down the immaculate aisle, absorbing the transformation from high saturated fat products to organic and non-processed foods stocking the shelves. I chuckled about how the shopping cart wheels worked correctly in this store unlike the wobbly, Achilles tendon smashers that screeched around the Shop Rite I was used to shopping at in Hillside.
I turned down the produce aisle of the store, stopping in the meat section to examine several cuts of pork chops. A lean, healthy, classy young woman in jeans, flip flops, and a Columbia Law sweatshirt, wandered next to me. She looked brainy and it turns out that she was. She graduated magna cum laude from Boys and Girls High School in Brooklyn, magna cum laude from Howard University, and magna cum laude from Columbia Law School. I only graduated thank you laude from Rutgers. She was beautiful and when our eyes met it really was love at first sight. I always knew.
Every girlfriend I ever had, I knew that we were going to be a couple the first time I laid eyes on her. Maybe I should try something new seeing as though none of those relationships seemed to work out too well. But I wasn’t going to start now, not with this girl. She had this quirky little smile she did out of the side of her mouth right before she was about to dig in your ass.
Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating Page 5
