Two Thin Dimes

by Caleb Alexander

  “I’m looking for the former owner of that automobile, sir,” Tameer said politely.

  The clerk snatched the twenty from Tameer’s hand. “Sir? I like that. I haven’t been called sir since…Well, hell, I ain’t never been called ‘sir’!” The clerk let out a high-pitched gasping laugh.

  Tameer folded his arms. “Where is she?”

  The clerk scratched his head. “Well, son, if I remember correctly, they left here, and said they were going to some fancy pants hotel. She said, ‘Here, Mister, you can have this here car, if you forget ever seeing any of us.’”

  “Which hotel?” Tameer demanded.

  “Well, I forgot!” The clerk again let out his high-pitched alcoholic laugh, and began slapping his hands together.

  Tameer pulled out another twenty-dollar bill.

  “Which hotel?” he asked again.

  The clerk straightened up. “Son, I’m a man of principle. The lady asked me to forget they were here, and I agreed. Now, for you to come in here, pull out some money, and think that I’m going to compromise my principles for a measly twenty dollars…”

  Tameer pulled out a third twenty.

  “Well, she did say to forget they were here.” The clerk slowly slid the twenty-dollar bill from between Tameer’s fingers. “But she never told me to forget where they were going. She had me forward all of their business calls and correspondence to another address. Hold on, I’ll get it for you.”

  The La Cantera was something that Tameer had never seen the likes of before. He had seen advertisements in magazines, and once in a while, he had been able to catch episodes of Lifestyles of The Rich and Famous, but nothing could ever have prepared him for what was now sprawled before him.

  The grandeur of the lobby, which shot up several dozen stories, was breathtaking. On each floor, balconies overlooked the massive lobby, and the gigantic, marble water fountains, which stood imposingly throughout the lobby. Water sprouted from the fountains, several stories into the air, all of it neatly falling back down into the fountain’s base, daring not spill a drop. There were massive silk floral arrangements throughout the lobby as well. They were set inside of humongous vases of intricately carved stone. He surmised that one of the vases would cost twice his annual salary, after he finished college!

  The carpeting in the lobby was so thick, that each of his steps reminded him of walking on top of a pillow of cotton. The seating spaced throughout the lobby, was leather covered, with intricately carved legs of wood or gold. Massive silk tapestries draped several of the walls, and legions of uniformed servants fanned throughout the establishment, catering to their guests’ every whisper.

  The guests, of course, were the beautiful ones. Tameer thought them to be lifted straight from the pages of Vogue, GQ, Essence, and EM. The women were young, gorgeous, designer, and toned, while the men were older, conservatively suited, and sported distinguished gray streaks in their immaculately trimmed sideburns.

  The young blonde behind the massive marble-and-cherry service desk was exceptionally friendly. Once he told her his name and asked for the Rochelle party, she acted as though she had been expecting him.

  “Yes, sir, the Rochelle party is here, and I’ve been instructed to have you shown up to their suite as soon as you arrived. Hold on for just one moment, while I buzz a concierge.”

  It was the motel clerk, Tameer thought. It had to have been. The little weasel must have called ahead and warned them. Beverly was smart.

  The elevator was speedy enough, slightly slower than the arrival of the concierge at the desk after the blonde called for service. His instantaneous appearance made it appear as though the establishment employed genies of some sort.

  The double doors to the penthouse suite were of the massive, solid, light-pecan-shaded variety. Their beauty was accented by the highly polished, gold, French-style door handles and gold hinges. To Tameer’s surprise, the doors swung open to reveal a smiling Beverly. She quickly handed his escort an undetermined amount of money, causing him to disappear as quickly as he had appeared downstairs. Beverly waved for him to enter.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” she told him, as he stepped inside of the massive suite.

  “Is Jamaica here?” Tameer asked.

  Beverly ignored his question.

  “I garnered that you would probably not let go that quickly, that easily. My daughter was quite distraught, and judging by your anger at her deception, you were quite hurt. Therefore, I take it, that you have some type of feelings for my daughter.”

  Beverly motioned her hand toward a love seat, offering Tameer to sit. He accepted. She turned to a nearby table and lifted a crystal tanker of Scotch, and poured herself a glass. Never one to be impolite, she offered her guest a drink as well. Tameer waved her off.

  “No, thank you, ma’am, I don’t drink. Is Jamaica here?”

  Beverly sat uncomfortably close to Tameer on the love seat, and began to sip from her glass of Scotch.

  “How much will it cost me, to have you forget about my daughter?”

  Tameer shook his head and looked down. “I don’t want your money, ma’am.”

  “I see…you are a hard bargainer.” Beverly nodded slightly. “I’ll tell you what, you name your price, and I’ll write you a check here, right now.”

  “It’s not about any money. I love Jamaica.”

  Beverly threw her head back in laughter, and chuckled in a demeaning manner for a moment, before sipping from her glass of Scotch again.

  “What is your name again?” she finally asked him.

  “Tameer.”

  “Tameer, you are from a low-income housing development, are you not?”

  He nodded.

  “Jamaica was basically raised in Europe, and in the Hamptons. You wear clothing from a rack; Jamaica’s clothes are usually designer originals. You drive a Ford; my daughter is a Ferrari.”

  Beverly smiled at Tameer. “My dear son, you are from two different worlds. Remember what you said to my daughter? To leave you alone and go back to her world? Let her go back.”

  “I was angry, I was hurt,” Tameer replied. “Mrs. Rochelle, I was wrong. I love Jamaica.”

  Beverly shook her head. “But you don’t even know my daughter. How can you love someone you don’t even know?”

  “I do know Jamaica. We talked, and talked, and talked. We shared our dreams, our past, and we very much want to share our future. We want to make one together, Mrs. Rochelle.”

  “You knew her? You shared your past? Young man, you did not even know who my daughter was, until a few days ago.”

  “I didn’t know her name, but I knew who she was. I didn’t know of her fame, but I knew about her dreams. I got to know Jamaica on the inside, the real Jamaica. Not the TV Jamaica, or the Jamaica on stage, but the Jamaica who throws snowballs, rides roller coasters, and dances around sombreros. I got to know the Jamaica who cares about people, who cared about me. I love that Jamaica, Mrs. Rochelle.”

  Beverly leaned back against the love seat, and sipped on her drink. She shook her head slightly as she examined Tameer.

  “You are a smooth one. No wonder you were able to get my daughter to fall for you.” Beverly turned and stared at the coffee table for several silent moments, before turning back to Tameer. “You know, I’m willing to let you write an obscene amount on one of my checks.”

  “I don’t want your money,” Tameer told her again.

  “Why not?” Beverly snapped. “Why are you doing this to my daughter?”

  She turned away from him and exhaled forcibly. “Why can’t you just let her be happy?”

  “That’s what I want. I want to make her happy!”

  Beverly turned and faced him again. “What makes you think that you can make Jamaica happy?”

  “Because I’ve done it before. I’ve made her happy, and she’s made me happy.” Tameer locked eyes with Beverly. “You know she loves me.”

  Beverly closed her eyes for several seconds, and then took his hand into
hers. “Sometimes, if you really love someone, you have to let them go. Sometimes, you have to sacrifice your own happiness, for theirs. Sometimes, you have to love someone enough to let them go on with their life and be happy.”

  “I’ve heard the song.”

  “Don’t be selfish,” Beverly snapped.

  “I love her,” Tameer replied.

  “Why?” Beverly asked him again.

  Tameer stood, and began to pace around the floor of the suite.

  “Because she makes me happy.” He balled his right hand into a tight fist and pounded the air in front of him. “Because Jamaica makes me whole.”

  Beverly sipped on her glass of Scotch again, and stared at him.

  “You’re a shoe salesman?” she asked condescendingly.

  Tameer nodded. “For now. I’ll finish college in May.”

  “Really?” He had surprised her. “What is your major?”

  “Business. Business and literature.”

  Beverly recoiled. “Why?”

  “Because I want to get a good job. Because one day I want to own my own business.”

  “Why literature?”

  “I love poetry.”

  “Do you write?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well…let me hear some poetry.”

  Tameer shook his head. “No.”

  The answer startled her.

  “No?” she repeated. No one had told her no in a long time. “Why?” she demanded.

  “Because I’m not in the mood.”

  Beverly wanted very much to call him an arrogant bastard, but Tameer was a heathen. You do not lose your temper with heathens, she reminded herself. They could react in some very unpredictable ways. She settled for asking him a different question.

  “What type of business do you want to have?”

  “Financial services. I also want to open up a small shop, and import African art.”

  “What kind?”

  “Masks, Sub-Saharan masks. Sculpture also, and some plate carvings, and paintings as well.”

  “What areas, what tribes?”

  “Any and all. It’s all beautiful.”

  Beverly sipped from her glass again, and then sat up. “I’ll give you the money to start your business.”

  Tameer turned to her and stopped pacing. His hand caressed a silk flower that was part of a massive floral arrangement sitting on top of a desk, in the corner of the expensively decorated suite. He knew what she wanted, and what the offer would entail. He asked her aloud, anyway.

  “If I leave Jamaica alone?”

  Beverly sipped from her glass. “Those are the terms.”

  Tameer stared at Beverly, locking eyes with her. “What have I done, to make you despise me?”

  Beverly shook her head slowly from side to side. “I don’t despise you. You seem to be a nice, educated, attractive young man, with a bright future.”

  “But?”

  “But I love my daughter.” Beverly leaned forward in her seat. “Do you have any children?”

  Tameer shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

  Beverly placed her glass on top of the coffee table before her.

  “When you have children, you will understand what I am about to say.” She leaned back into the love seat, crossed her legs, and placed her hands over her knee. His attention was drawn to her fingers, where her rings sat forth prominently, displaying their various diamonds of extremely high quality.

  “When you have a child, you want the best for that child, always. I have always given my children the best, and raised them to expect nothing but the best. I didn’t raise my daughter to marry a shoe salesman, and live in tenements. I want the best for her, do you understand?”

  Tameer walked silently to the oversized leather chair, adjacent to the love seat. He sat down slowly, and stared off into space while rubbing his lower lip with his index finger.

  “I see,” he said to her, while shaking his head. “You feel I’m not good enough for Jamaica.”

  Beverly slowly lifted her glass of Scotch and sipped. “It’s nothing personal, Tameer, I’m a mother.”

  She was right, Tameer told himself, he wasn’t good enough for Jamaica. He had nothing to offer her, nothing at all. He was from the Courts, he was poor, and he had always been poor. Jamaica had wealth, stardom, beauty, everything. Like Beverly said, Jamaica wasn’t raised to marry a shoe salesman, and live in tenements. Jamaica was raised in Europe, and the Hamptons. She had always been wealthy, and always would be. Jamaica would marry well, she would marry someone who had as much, or even more, to offer. Someone from…a fine family…

  Tameer smiled. He couldn’t help but smile. He now knew what P.J. had done. Slowly, Tameer’s head rose, until his eyes once again met Beverly’s.

  “I know that you think I’m not good enough for your daughter. I think you’re right. I’m not good enough for your daughter, in fact, no one is. Not the great kings of France, not the warrior chiefs in Africa, nor the angels in Heaven.”

  Beverly began reciting the verses along with Tameer. They were the words that a young man with a borrowed silk ribbon tie, had spoken to her grandfather some thirty years earlier. She knew them by heart.

  “I know that I don’t have two thin dimes to rub together, and I may never have two thin dimes to rub together. But I guarantee on my honor, that your daughter will never know it, nor suffer for it. And I swear to you, that I will love her for the rest of my days.”

  Tameer’s glance fell to the coffee table, while Beverly placed her drink down on it. Her tiny fist furiously pounded the air in front of her.

  “Goddammit, P.J.!” she shouted. She quickly turned to Tameer and pointed her finger at him.

  “That was a low blow. A low blow! And you know what, that man…ooooh, that man!” Beverly burst into laughter. “My God, I love that man!”

  She turned to Tameer again, and nodded her head slowly. “He kept his promise. He loved me, he still loves me, and I have never suffered. Never!”

  Beverly rose quickly, and wiped her moist hands onto her black Chanel pants legs.

  “It wasn’t that long ago, you know? Before you were born, but it doesn’t seem that long ago.” She lifted her glass from the coffee table and took a long drink. Visibly shaken, she smiled at Tameer. “P.J. and I were so poor, we shared a Volkswagen while we were in school. He cleaned floors, and I waited tables. But I loved that man so much, that I never actually knew just how broke we really were.”

  Beverly’s shaking hand rubbed her quivering lips.

  “Goddamn you, P.J.!” Again she turned toward Tameer. “He told you that on purpose, you know that? That smart bastard! He knew…he knew, that’s why he told you that.”

  Beverly exhaled loudly, and took another long drink from her glass of Scotch. Her thoughts drifted to a small apartment in Cambridge that rested above an equally small Chinese restaurant. She recalled how her clothing constantly reeked of stir fry and soy sauce, and how she would stay up at night studying, using the light from the brightly lit neon sign outside of their window. It all made her smile.

  The apartment was always cold, and stayed empty. But it hadn’t mattered then, the emptiness gave them more room to dance. P.J. would grab her, twirl her around, and hold her close as they listened to the latest Motown hits out of Detroit. They had a special spot on the floor that creaked just so, with every rock and with every twirl. P.J. got a splinter in his knee when he knelt down and proposed to her a second time, on that cold, knotted, splintered floor. Beverly smiled, as she thought of the yellow marble that P.J. had glued to a base that he had fashioned out of a piece of tin. He promised to replace that ring with a real one someday, and he did. He did. He kept his promise, and he loved her. She had never suffered.

  “My daughter’s in Miami boarding the cruise ship, Empress of the Seas. Go to her.” She turned to Tameer, and exhaled again. “Go and dance with my daughter.”

  “What?” Tameer asked. He wasn’t sure if he had heard her correct
ly.

  “Go to her,” Beverly repeated. She pointed her finger at him. “But you better love her! You better…”

  “I do, and I will,” Tameer interrupted.

  “You don’t have much time,” she warned him.

  “I…I don’t have the money to fly there, and I sure in the hell don’t have any money for a cruise!”

  Beverly walked to the telephone, lifted it from its cradle, and began dialing. “Tameer.”

  “Yes?”

  “Hand me my purse.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Beverly gripped the telephone tightly and shook it. “Damn you, P.J.!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The ship’s massive horn blew a thunderous honk across the docks of the disappearing port. The once large crowd of family, well-wishers, and gawkers, slowly began dispersing and returning to their work-a-day lives. Jamaica, standing alone on the balcony outside of her cabin, slowly turned and rejoined LaChina inside.

  “Well, we’ve put to sea,” Jamaica told her.

  LaChina peered up from her game of Solitaire. “That’s what ships do, you know.”

  Jamaica sat down upon the king-sized, pillow-topped bed, smashing LaChina’s spread-out cards. She exhaled loudly, to emphasize her boredom.

  “Hey, fat ass!” LaChina cried out. “You’ve smashed my cards!”

  Jamaica gave no response.

  “Okay, that’s it. That’s it!” LaChina sat up from her prone position on the bed. She stood, and quickly walked around the bed to the side where Jamaica sat.

  Jamaica stared into LaChina’s eyes. “You mean, we aren’t having fun yet?”

  LaChina tilted her head to the side. “Ha, ha, you’re a barrel of laughs. Well, at least I know you’re still breathing.”