Heat

by Geneva Holliday

  I peeked down the long corridor. All was quiet, but I still tiptoed my way toward my office. I had to be as careful as possible—one of those overenthusiastic brown-nosing employees trying to make points with Anja could be lurking behind any one of those closed office doors.

  I reached my office, slowly opened the door, and ducked in.

  Whew!

  Hurrying into the bathroom, I turned on the shower full blast. Just as the bathroom was starting to fill up with steam, I caught sight of myself in the wall-length mirror and almost fell over in shock.

  My skin coloring was two shades darker than usual.

  Raising my hand to my face, I pressed my index finger against my cheek and slowly allowed it to travel down to my jaw line. A clean line appeared. I was covered in grime.

  Jumping into the shower, I scrubbed myself almost raw, and when I was done in there, I leaned over the granite sink and brushed my teeth until my gums began to bleed.

  My weave was dripping wet. I didn’t have a blow dryer, so I dried it best I could with the large and thirsty towels Anja had had brought in special from Thailand.

  It wouldn’t be a problem, really; I’d had my hairdresser sew in the wet-and-wavy synthetic hair—a change from the bone straight I’d been sporting all winter.

  I lotioned my skin with Kiehl’s body cream, sprayed my neck and wrists with Marc Jacobs’s newest fragrance, and then wrapped the moss-colored towel tightly around me and walked into my office.

  “What the fuck!” I yelped.

  LaTangie was hovering over my desk, her hand resting on the papers in my inbox.

  “Oh, I thought I heard the shower running. I was just going to check to see if…um, the pipes had broken.”

  What kind of lie was that? This girl was dealing with the master; she had a lot to learn.

  I just glared at her.

  She gave me an innocent smile before her eyes crawled over me. “Wild weekend, huh?”

  “Get out,” I ordered, walking toward the door and pulling it open.

  LaTangie didn’t say a word; she just batted her long lashes at me and sashayed through the doorway. Me, I slammed the door shut so hard, the vibrations could be felt out on the sidewalk.

  I’d been trying to get down to Accounting for hours, but Anja was in Mexico, shooting me e-mail after e-mail concerning her Memorial Day extravaganza.

  By two o’clock, I’d taken care of most of her requests and so headed down to the twenty-eighth floor, where Human Resources and Accounting were located.

  “Chevanese,” Myra Goldberg, a walleyed, frizzy-haired multiracial sister greeted me, “how are you?”

  “Fine.” I was curt; I just wanted to get to the business at hand.

  “Now, on the phone you said you wanted to get an advance on your paycheck, right?”

  I nodded my head and focused my vision over Myra’s shoulder and on the potted ficus. I hated looking dead-on at Myra. The first time I’d ever met her, it freaked me out, because I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or the empty space beside me. I kept looking to my right and then found myself moving to my right in an attempt to put myself directly in her line of vision. Apparently I was; it just didn’t seem that way to me.

  “Yes.”

  “How much are you hoping for?”

  “Hoping”?

  “Seven hundred dollars.”

  My take-home after tax and health insurance was usually about $1,081.00. I hadn’t opted to contribute to the retirement plan. Shit, I needed all my money now. Who said I would live long enough to retire!

  “Hmm.” Myra sounded thoughtful as she pecked away at the keyboard before her. “Give me your social, please.”

  I called it out and ticked off in my mind the New York City hotels that Anja had a good relationship with. They were all luxury properties. I could probably finagle a room for about fifty dollars a night. Maybe I’d even stay for a week or two. I’d show Noah, throwing me out, putting his hands on me like I was some bi—

  “Well, it seems, Chevanese, that you’ve got quite a few creditors garnishing your paycheck, including Uncle Sam,” Myra advised in a tight voice. I could tell right then that she was not fond of people who could not handle their finances.

  “’Scuse me?” I said, leaning forward.

  “The. Federal. Government.” Myra’s tone was clipped, and when she leaned back in her leather chair, for a moment I swear her eyes lined up perfectly.

  “Not only them, but”—Myra leaned forward again, her index finger poised over the Enter button on the keyboard—“American Express”

  Enter

  “Citibank Visa”

  Enter

  “Lord and Taylor”

  Enter

  “Saks Fifth Avenue”

  Enter

  “And of course your Melu-Melu membership.”

  My mouth went dry. They were all garnishing my check at the same time?

  “That can’t be right,” I said in a weak voice. “There’s a law…” I racked my brains to remember. “Only two garnishments at a time or something…” I faded off.

  The room began to swim and I felt like I was going to faint.

  Myra leaned back in her chair again and folded her hands across her pudgy stomach.

  “That used to be the rule, but it changed right along with the bankruptcy laws last year.”

  Yes, yes, I was going to faint.

  “How much,” I squeaked. “How much can I get?”

  Myra’s right eye moved slowly to the screen. “Well, in total, your garnishments add up to nine hundred twenty-four dollars and twenty-five cents, leaving you with a take-home pay of one-fifty-six seventy-five.”

  I passed out cold.

  Noah

  i don’t know how long the music went on like that, but I finally took two Tylenol PMs, stuffed some cotton into my ears, pulled the pillow over my head, and eventually fell off to sleep.

  I woke up at ten and went into the bathroom for my morning piss. Still groggy, I made my way back to my bedroom, pulling the cotton from my ears as I went. Outside my window someone had started bouncing a basketball.

  Snatching open the shutters, I peered down onto the sidewalk and saw that it was one of the young men from last night. He was now dressed in a blue and white Sean Jean sweat suit. The red do-rag was gone, and I could see clearly the gleaming cornrows that covered his head.

  I watched as he bounced the ball between his legs, spun around effortlessly, and shot into an imaginary hoop. On the street sat a white Bronco. The windows were rolled up, the interior cloudy with smoke.

  Why was this boy in front of my house bouncing his ball? He lived right next door—what was wrong with bouncing it in front of his house?

  I closed the shutters and went to take a shower.

  By the time I’d bathed and dressed, the ball bouncing had stopped and the Bronco was gone. The block was peaceful and I sent a quiet praise of thanks up to the Lord as I cracked two eggs and watched the yolk drop down into the frying pan.

  After my breakfast cooked, I turned on WBLS and listened to Steve Harvey act the fool as I buttered my toast. My thoughts sailed to Will and what he’d said about Merriwether needing to see me.

  This thing with my new neighbors had almost made me forget about that. Now as I picked up a slice of bacon and bit into it, the conversation floated back to me.

  I don’t know what Merriwether thinks she and I have to talk about, I thought as my eyes fell on my cell phone, which rested before me on the kitchen table.

  I was curious as to what she wanted to tell me. Maybe I would call her, but not today…but soon.

  Steve Harvey made a joke at his cohost Jackie’s expense, and Nephew Tommy broke down with laughter. I laughed along until I heard screaming outside my window.

  It sounded as if someone was being murdered! I leapt from the table and flew to the front door. Not thinking about my life, I snatched the door open and stepped out.

  No one was being murdered. Well, not in the
homicidal way. What was happening, though—in front of my house—was what looked like a double Dutch tournament.

  There were six girls, ranging in age from about ten to eighteen. From what I could make out from the screaming that was going on, the fat girl with Afro puffs had had her jump already and was refusing to take her turn at turning the rope.

  The one with the long blond braids, who couldn’t have been more than eight years old, was swinging her index finger in Afro Puffs’s face and inviting her to kiss her “black ass.”

  This was insane. Weren’t these kids supposed to be in school?

  Three of the six girls had hoisted themselves up and onto the fence, using it as a bench.

  I was seething when I started down the steps.

  The fence was as old as the house—over one hundred years—and I was sure that the weight of their fat Big Mac–eating behinds would send it toppling over.

  “Excuse me,” I bellowed.

  All eyes turned to me.

  “First off, do you mind? This fence is not for sitting.”

  The three girls sucked their teeth and slowly changed their position from sitting to leaning.

  “It’s not for leaning either,” I said.

  Rolling their eyes and cussing softly, they went to lean on one of the parked cars.

  “You all are from that house, right?” I said, flinging my arm to indicate the house next door.

  The girls didn’t respond. Must be a family trait.

  “Then why aren’t you playing in front of your house?”

  No one said anything, but after a few cut eyes and hisses, they moved the few feet to the front of their house and the game started up again.

  Satisfied, I went back inside.

  I would have to talk to the mother. I’m not going to live like this, I thought as I removed my plate from the table.

  Just as I was preparing to wash the dish, the thumping sound of the basketball started up again, this time mixed with the heavy bass of a Ludacris cut, combined with the sound of children playing.

  I stormed to the window and saw that the tournament had moved back in front of my house and the NBA wannabe had returned, as well as the Bronco.

  The Bronco’s doors were wide open, and the young men inside puffed on their joints and delighted in watching the ripe behinds of the young girls roll, bounce, and shake with every turn of the rope.

  I watched on in disgusted awe until the sound of the telephone ringing broke my trance.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Noah.”

  “Zahn?”

  “Yes, how are you?”

  “I-I’m fine, and you?” We were being so formal with each other. I hated that.

  “I’m fine.” Zahn’s response came in scratchy waves from New Delhi. He was still mad, I could tell from his tone. “And how are things in NYC?”

  I didn’t want the first conversation I had with Zahn since leaving England to be filled with complaints, but I so wanted to tell him about my neighbors from hell and how with every day that passed they seemed to be multiplying.

  “Good, good.”

  “How are the girls?”

  “They’re fine.”

  There was a long silence. I knew Zahn wanted to know if I’d thought further about the adoption situation, and to tell the truth, I hadn’t. In fact, in light of the million and one children living next door to me, I’d come to the conclusion that I hated children. Well, at least bad-ass ones.

  “Have you thought any more about what we discussed?” Zahn finally asked.

  I sighed heavily. I certainly didn’t want to go down that road again. “Zahn,” I said, my voice filled with irritation, “I just don’t think that I am cut out to be anyone’s parent.”

  I was being honest. What more did he want from me? If this would be the deciding point on whether or not we remained together, then so be it.

  I loved that man’s drawers and I would probably be a mental case for a year or so, but hey, I would get over it. Life goes on, don’t it?

  “Okay then, so I have to run.” Zahn’s tone was flat.

  “Okay—yeah, I love—”

  Click.

  He was really angry and he was being unreasonable, not to mention selfish. My feelings weren’t even being considered here.

  I pressed End on the telephone and went upstairs.

  The door to Chevy’s room was open. Something was wrong with the knob, because I’d pulled that door shut I don’t know how many times and it always popped right back open.

  Walking inside the room, I looked around. Nothing had changed—it was still filled with Hefty bags full of Chevy’s crap.

  I shook my head. I don’t know how she slept in there, I thought, as I stepped out and pulled the door shut again. Oh, that’s right, I reminded myself as I headed toward my bedroom. She had been sleeping in my room.

  For a quick second I wondered where Ms. Drama had gone off to. I hadn’t heard a peep from her. She was probably traveling somewhere with her freak show of a boss, Anja.

  I knew she’d turn up sooner or later. Chevy wasn’t about to abandon the love of her life: her wardrobe.

  I walked over to the window and looked down at the children on the sidewalk. They’d drawn a hopscotch board in chalk on the sidewalk right in front of my house.

  The mother, whose name I’d found out was Cupcake, worked for the parks department. I’d spotted her leaving her house around six in the morning, dressed in her green parks department uniform, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.

  The woman couldn’t even leave the house quietly. It seemed as soon as she hit the sidewalk, she’d remember some task she forgot to tell one of her children, and instead of going back into the house she’d yell the child’s name over and over again until he or she either came to the door or looked out the window, after which she’d recite the task and climb into her Hummer, rev the engine three or four times, and then screech away.

  She must be off today, because there she was, puffing on a cigarette, sitting on her stoop, plaiting the hair of a young girl wedged between her fat thighs.

  I looked up. The sky was a brilliant blue; it was a glorious day.

  Moving from the window, I made up my mind that I would not spend the day dwelling on all the madness in my life but would get out and enjoy the sun.

  Geneva

  my hands were shaking—that’s how I spilled the cup of coffee all over that customer.

  It was an accident, and I was apologizing and trying to wipe at his suit jacket with a napkin when he said, “Get away from me, you stupid cunt!”

  And before I knew it, I’d coldcocked him. It was a natural reaction.

  I couldn’t believe what I’d done. I was usually so cool and calm. I didn’t normally allow the customers and their bad manners to get to me. But he called me a cunt, and them was fighting words.

  I tried to help him up from the floor, but he skirted away from me. The flesh around his eye was already turning purple.

  “Mister, I’m so sorry—let me help you,” I said, reaching for him, but he had his cell phone out and screamed, “Get away from me! I’m calling the cops, you fucking crazy-ass cunt!”

  There was that word again.

  I rushed him, throwing myself on top of him and pinning him to the floor. I slapped him twice across his face and asked, “Do you kiss your children with that filthy mouth?” and then I snatched his cell phone from his hand and threw it across the room.

  Some of the other customers ran out of the diner. Others looked around in shock, while still others hurriedly pushed 911 into their cell phones.

  I was mad insane and almost knocked Darlene’s block off when she grabbed me from behind.

  “Hey, hey, it’s me, Geneva,” Darlene wailed as she ducked my swing. She wouldn’t come near me again. Arthur was the one who finally dragged me off the startled man.

  By the time the cops arrived, I was somewhat calm. I couldn’t say the same for my customer, who was on the
floor crying like a baby, folded into the fetal position and three different shades of pink.

  Who was the cunt now?

  After the officers had taken my story and the stories of the customers—and most hadn’t seen the altercation from the start—they asked the victim, Mr. Chambers, if he wanted to press charges.

  I held my breath and waited for his response. To tell the truth, I didn’t even realize that my hands were balled into fists, but Mr. Chambers saw, and maybe the idea of another beatdown is what made him reply, “No, I don’t want to press charges.”

  Chevy

  i came to just as Myra was about to call the paramedics. My eyes fluttered open and locked onto Myra’s hovering face.

  There were a few people in the background, talking quietly among themselves.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I think so,” I said as Myra helped me struggle to my feet. The other coworkers asked how I was feeling. Someone offered me bottled water and another offered me an oatmeal cookie.

  “Do you have low blood sugar?”

  “No.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “Hello, no,” I bellowed as I straightened my clothes. Smoothing my palm over my hair, I said, “I just missed lunch.”

  Myra gave me an incredulous look. The other people slowly moved out of the office and back to their cubicles.

  “So would you like me to cut you a check?” Myra asked, picking up where we left off.

  “Yes.”

  I took that check right to Chase and cashed it. When I returned to my office, I got down to the task of finding a place to stay.

  “Yes, normally we would be able to comp a room for a La Fleur employee, but we’re booked solid. The Cancer Society convention is in town this week,” the woman at the Pierre Hotel told me.

  I called ten hotels and got the same response.

  Where the hell was I going to sleep tonight? I couldn’t bear the thought of riding the subways, and staying at the YMCA was just as unappealing.

  By the time seven o’clock rolled around, I was still seated behind my desk, trying to figure out what I was going to do.