by Tyree, Omar
D shook it off. “Not yet. Do you know where he is?”
Susan shook it off as well. “He didn’t answer his cell phone when I checked in earlier.”
“I guess we’ll all see him at the same time then.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
There was an empty pause for a moment with nothing left to say. Chelsea stood there quietly, observing and listening. And she could feel the jungle fever between them, or at least the fever coming from D. Susan had no such energy.
Finally, D asked her, “So, which guy in here is your boyfriend?”
Susan smiled broadly, much wider than Chelsea thought she would.
“Ahh, I don’t have time for those. I’m just trying to put in my dues in the publishing industry right now. Maybe later.”
“Do you date?” DeWayne asked her next.
“Umm . . . occasionally.”
She even answered that question cheerfully. However, D was cautious not to go overboard. He still had to work with her. So he backed down and let her go. He had asked her enough already.
“All right, well, I’ll see you back at the office,” he hinted.
“Okay.”
As soon as the assistant editor walked off, Chelsea stared DeWayne down and laughed at him.
“You want her bad, don’t you?” she teased.
Double D laughed and admitted it. “Man, don’t I ever. I’m rolling over in my bed at night thinking about fucking with her.”
“Well, go for it then, and stop girlin’. You’re a man aren’t you?” Chelsea snapped at him. “Why you get all soft around her? I hate when guys do that shit. Now that was phony.”
DeWayne laughed it off, embarrassed by it. She had him stuttering and everything.
“Oh, I’m, I’m saying, man, you can’t, you can’t do that with them white girls. They’ll get you into trouble.” D wasn’t trying to go back to jail anytime soon for anything foolish or lustful. So he planned to keep the white girl in his dreams alone.
But Chelsea continued to laugh at him. “Oh my God. Now that’s some punk shit right there. The king of urban street lit is scared to get his?”
D shook it off, grinning from ear to ear. “Come on, man. Now if you wanted to give me some, I wouldn’t be scared of you,” he challenged back.
“Yeah, because I’m not a white girl. But it sounds like you still stuck with that scared nigga mentality. She got you in here shook.”
DeWayne looked around them to see if anyone was listening. He said, “Yo, seriously, calm down with all that.” Chelsea had outdone herself and was playing past his cool level. Fortunately, she knew when to stop. Then she leveled with him.
She whispered, “Straight up, I like that soft white bitch too. She real happy. She make me wanna go lezbo. Maybe we can do a ménage on her ass,” she hinted.
Hearing that, D’s whole disposition changed. He leaned back and grinned.
“Now that’s what’s up.”
Darlene approached the Imperial Room in the downtown Soho section of Manhattan, New York, as a wave of anxiety rolled through her body. This was it, the publishing world behind closed doors. You had to be invited in to experience it.
Vincent asked her, “Are you ready?”
She was startled by his question, while in the middle of a daydream. She wondered how the publishing world would receive her.
“Oh, yeah, I was just ahh –”
“Daydreaming,” Vincent filled in with a laugh. All authors daydreamed. He was quite used to it.
“You just stay close to me in here, okay? And you let me do most of the talking. That will raise your cookie points in the industry,” he advised her. Then he smiled. “Everyone wants to know who the new girl is with Vincent.”
Darlene smiled back at him, but she was already thinking about making a quick run to the restroom to text Tony their location.
The organizers at the front door knew him on sight.
“Hey, Vincent Biddle, everybody’s been in here waiting for you.”
“Well, the wait is over,” he announced.
They walked into the large, crowded, well-lit room together and attracted eyes as if they a magnetic force field around them. At a solid six-foot four, Vincent’s superior height added to his magnetism. And Darlene’s cuteness toped the cake with the necessary icing.
“There’s the man of the hour,” an onlooker commented. Jackson Smith had completed his grand entrance an hour ago. And even Jackson owed allegiance to Vincent. Vincent was the man who signed him and guided him to publishing stardom.
Watching his grand entrance from across the room was Brittney Enis, an up and coming editor in her own right at the rival house of Impact Publishing. She was an early thirties African-American in a short and stylish natural, and she was one of the few minority editors still left at a major publishing house. A tough American economy, the break-out of hundreds of self-published authors, and the competition of small-run houses had caused a rash of downsizing in the industry, particularly with African-American editors and content. But Vincent loved it that way. He was the last black man standing with any significant voice of power in American literature.
Brittney had her own personal history with Vincent. He had been her early mentor, and their relationship had ended on a sour note. But at the moment, she was more interested in his young companion, Darlene Krause. She recognized the aspiring author immediately. Darlene’s manuscript had landed on her desk, and she was indeed talented, but under Vincent’s wing, she could easily be forced to become rushed, desperate for attention, and ultimately strung out for the next big hit in a game of impossible numbers. So Brittney became immediately protective of her, and she schemed up a plan to offer the young woman some pivotal industry advice.
“He’s forever the show off, isn’t he?” Jill Miller commented beside her. She was Brittney’s fellow editor at Impact, a middle-aged blonde from Boston, who was still hip and urban enough in her own right to maintain her youth. They stood there together in their sharp, dark business suits, observing everything. They understood that it was all a part of a hyped show, and a necessary evil of the industry.
Brittney smiled, but she remained reserved with her public opinions.
“He does what he does,” she offered of Vincent with a shrug.
She was acutely aware that there were not many black professionals left in publishing, or at least those who were still comfortable with their jobs and able to offer solid contracts for new black books and writers. After a golden decade of new African-American authors, from Walter, Terry, Bebe, E. Lynn, Eric, Omar, Michael, Sister, Zane, Mary, Vickie and Carl, the pickings were now slim, and errors were no longer to be afforded, so heads began to roll left and right from powerful publishing positions.
And although Brittney did not agree with many of Vincent’s methods, until there were more black editors qualified to challenge or replace him, she was leery of speaking out against his success or character. In a land where race, economics and opportunity remained as serious issues, Vincent’s failure as a black editor, for whatever reason, could ultimately lead to her own failure. So she continued to root for him, even while protecting herself and others against him.
“What are you thinking about, Brittney? I can always tell when you’re mulling something,” Jill pressed her.
Brittney waved it off. “Oh, girl, I’m just . . . you know how I do. Everything’s on my mind at once.”
Back across the room, Darlene was overwhelmed in the spotlight. All of the beaming industry eyes on her made her feel as if she was melting.
Oh my God, I have to use the bathroom, she panicked. She really had to go now. It was no longer about just texting Tony her location. The overexcitement in the room made her really have to pee.
She squeezed Vincent’s left arm gently and said, “I’ll be right back.”
He grabbed her arm with his and said, “Hold it.”
Darlene hesitated. “Umm . . . I have to use the restroom.”
Vincen
t said, “I know, but hold it. You’re a big girl, right? You know how to hold it, don’t you?”
She stood there in suspended animation as the publishing industry crowd moved in on them.
“Hey, V, it took you long enough to get here.”
“Who’s this? Are you an author?”
“She reminds me of Zadie.”
“Oh, she’s prettier than Zadie. And I hope nicer.”
“So, what are you working on?”
They sure didn’t hold their tongues in that room. Darlene didn’t know if she was ready for it. She needed some coaching and priming. But Vincent loved it. It was the type of attention all authors needed to have. Either that or they wouldn’t sell. It was a new reality TV era, where you had to be seen and talked about to move product. The product couldn’t do it on its own anymore. There was just too much competition out there for the consumer’s attention and dollar.
Seizing the moment, Vincent told them all, “She’s the next hot topic.” He spoke the words with confidence, whether he believed them or not. Sometimes you had to speak reality into existence.
The crowd began to clap and congratulate her instantly, believing in Vincent’s word.
“You go, girl!”
But Darlene felt like hurling. He had totally caught her off guard with it. How was she to respond to that?
Overhearing their celebrated editor promoting some new, high-yellow, mixed breed before even speaking to them, Chelsea and Double D turned to stare at each other.
“This motherfucker,” D grumbled.
“I know, right,” Chelsea agree.
They both felt like old news and didn’t like it.
Standing next to her husband near the bar, Natalie clapped along civilly, but she didn’t feel comfortable with it either. A new young author likely meant less attention on her books. Again.
Filled with four drinks from the evening, her husband even commented on it.
“So, what does that mean for you?”
Natalie shook her head and ignored him. They had enough to worry about already. They’re expensive mortgage was overdue, and her next royalty check wasn’t due for another three months.
Thomas and Arnold eyed each in the back, still standing in their private, executive huddle.
Arnold asked, “Do you know about her?” He sure didn’t.
Tom took a sip of his red wine. “I do now.”
We’ll talk about it next week at the office, he figured.
Susan looked, smiled and clapped her hands.
She’s pretty. I look forward to working with her, she mused.
Jackson thought Darlene was hot too. He was so hypnotized that he casually ignored the Esquire magazine editor who interviewed him. He just couldn’t wait for his introduction to the new talent.
“Excuse me. What was that?” he asked the grinning editor. A man was a man, and they all understood when the scent a young woman had their attention. Esquire magazine featured “the women we love” in every issue. Maybe Darlene would strip down from her clothes and fit the bill for Esquire at some point. She was sure curvy enough, and automatically enticing.
He said, “It’s okay. I understand. Take a minute.”
Lauren Grandeis gave the announcement her attention as well.
Hmm, I wonder if he’ll want me work her book. She’s pretty enough for media. And she’s young!
All that and more went on around the room while Darlene stood their frightened to death and holding her pee.
Oh my God. I don’t believe this. I have to peeeee!
Brittney stared into her face from across the room and knew that she was unprepared for it all.
She probably had no idea he was going to do that, she assumed. She could read the surprise all over the young woman’s flushed face. It was Vincent’s MO to surprise people. He viewed it as a game of unexpected emotions. He was peculiar that way.
Finally, Darlene broke away from him before she embarrassed herself in the room and wet her panties. She was already moist from the anticipation of the evening. It was all natural for a girl.
She suddenly raised her hands to the crowd, shook her head, and announced, “I’m sorry all, but I’ll be right back.”
She handed Vincent her plastic bag of leftover food from Harlem and dashed toward the back corner of the room, praying that the restrooms were there. And the crowd of publishing professionals broke out in laughter.
“Awww, the poor girl had to gooo,” someone joked.
Darlene had established a moment in time for them without even trying. It was the stuff of human legend. But Brittney saw it as the perfect opportunity to make her move.
“I have to go myself,” she told her co-worker with a chuckle.
“Do what you gotta do, babe.”
I will, Brittney told herself. I’ll tell her who I am and offer her my card to call me whenever.
By the time she made it through traffic to the restroom, the young aspiring author was behind a stall, taking care of her business and texting Antonio Martinez. She was so excited, she decided to follow up her text with a phone call and whispers.
“Oh my God, you have to get here. You’ll never guess what just happened?”
Brittney overheard her with a smile.
Yeah, I think I like her. She’s genuine.
She waited patiently for Darlene to walk out of her stall. When she finally did, Brittney was all business with her.
“Oh, hi. Sorry,” Darlene apologized for the wait. She assumed the stately woman was next to go. But the editor had something else in mind, especially while they were still alone inside the bathroom. How likely was that to happen at a crowded event of women and an open bar? So Brittney moved fast to take her stance.
She smiled and said, “After you wash your hands, I’m gonna give you a business card with my cell phone on the back to call me whenever. Okay? This can be a very tricky industry and I’m just here trying to help you. So keep this card with you and always have your own group of advisors.”
Darlene measured the seriousness in the woman’s face and got it. She was looking out for her, big sister to little sister; plain and simple. Her straight-laced, business dress code and demeanor said nothing otherwise.
She nodded thoughtfully and said, “Thank you.” She washed her hands, dried them, and took Brittney’s card.
“Just watch yourself,” the editor warned her as another woman walked in. When she added nothing in the woman’s presence, and walked out without another word, Darlene realized, instinctively, that it was their little secret. So she waited for more time alone before she read the card to herself.
Impact Publishing
Brittney Enis
Editor
She read the email address and phone numbers at the bottom of the card before she froze and thought about it.
Oh my God. Impact Publishing. That’s TWO of them! Now I can tell my agent to start a bidding war.
Obviously, she wasn’t that wet behind the ears. But little did she know, the publishing game was only just beginning.
