“Excuse me, miss. You need some help with them bags?”
She turned to find an African-American man, about her own age, standing in front of her. A set of earphones sat on top of his designer cornrows, and by the way he was bopping his head, he was probably listening to music even while addressing her.
“Yeah, bro. I can use some help,” she said with a gracious smile. “Thanks.”
He looked at her quizzically, removed the earphones, and stared even more intently, then gave her the rake of the eyes. “Oh shit,” he finally said with a loud laugh. “You a sista! Damn, you got that Mariah Carey thang going on for real, yo. But damn, shortie, even Mariah ain’t got them baby blues like you.” He stepped back and rubbed his chin while taking a better look at her. “Yo, ma, you really had me fooled. What? Your daddy white or you moms?”
“Neither. They both have white blood and they passed a lot of it on to me,” Shanika said, her hand on one hip as she appraised him.
His lightweight New York Knicks jersey and his baggy jeans—which looked like they were about to fall off his skinny hips any minute—were clean even if they weren’t expensive, and his Air Jordans were at least three years out of date. His mocha-colored face was clean shaven, and his eyes were bright. He didn’t look like someone trying to rip her off, but then you never know. But hell, she didn’t want to be hauling the luggage around on her own. “So you still wanna help me now that you know that I’m as black as you?”
“Aw hell, naw. You may be a nigga, but you sure as hell ain’t black as me, shortie,” he said with a wide grin that revealed all thirty-two of his pearly whites. “Yeah, I’ll carry your bags. And I won’t even charge you. I woulda if you was white for real, though.” He picked up her bags. “What’s your name, shortie?”
“Shanika.”
“Oh yeah, you a nigga for real, huh?” He let go another one of his loud laughs.
“What’s yours?”
“Jason. So which way you going?”
“I’ve got to find a taxi.”
He nodded his head toward the right. “This way, shortie. And I know you gonna hit me off with them digits, yo. Where you live?”
Shanika had to trot to keep up with him. “Detroit. I’m just up here for a job interview.”
“Shit, ma. Well, good luck. It’s tight as a mug out here. I been looking for a J-O-B for a minute now.”
“Damn, it’s just as hot and humid out here as it is in Detroit,” she complained as they walked out the station and onto the street. “I’m going to melt out here.”
He gave her a sideways glance and chuckled. “Oh, you that damn sweet, you like sugar, huh? I hear ya, shortie. Where you heading now? A hotel? Which one?”
“No, I’m staying with . . . with my aunt in Long Island,” Shanika lied as quickly as she could.
“Yeah? Well, I got a crib in the Bronx, but if you gonna be in the city for a while, maybe I can take you out? You ever been to the 40/40 Club?”
“Jay-Z’s club?” Shanika’s eyes widened. “No. I’d like to, though.”
“Well, maybe we can hook up tonight then, yo. My man be working the door and he’ll let us in.”
“Yeah, Jason. That’d be cool.” Shanika smiled to herself. There was no way she was going to waste her time on an out-of-work scrub who cruised the train stations to carry women’s bags in hope of tips and had to depend on his friends to get him into clubs for free. But as long as he was carrying her suitcases, she’d play along.
She reached up to wipe some perspiration from her brow and all of a sudden felt a drop of water plop down on her forehead. “Oh God, don’t tell me it’s going to rain!”
A clap of thunder splitting the air, followed by a sudden downpour, answered her.
“Shit,” Shanika muttered while pulling up the collar of her blue linen suit jacket. She tapped Jason on the shoulder. “How much farther do we have to go?”
“The corner of Thirtieth and Eighth, girl. It’s the best place to flag a taxi. Right up at the corner.”
It took them less than a minute to walk to their destination, but in that short time Shanika was soaked almost to the skin, as was Jason, although he didn’t seem to mind. What did seem to faze him was when yellow cab after yellow cab whizzed by him without stopping. Shanika stood under the canopy of a store with her luggage, impatiently tapping her foot as she watched him. When the fifth taxi passed him without stopping, she grabbed her bags and ran over to the now embarrassed and frustrated man.
“Man, I hate these whack racist mofos,” he grumbled, averting his eyes from hers. “If we was uptown, I could catch a gypsy cab with no problem.”
“Look. Thanks, but I got this, okay?” Shanika tried to keep her voice soothing, but she was just tired and edgy and she knew it came through in her tone. “You can go ahead. I’ll catch it myself.”
“Naw, shortie, I got this.” He tried to wave her off. He put his hand out as another yellow cab approached and it, too, passed without taking a second look in his direction. This time, however, the cab had to stop only three feet away because of a red light. Shanika watched as Jason stomped through a puddle to get to the car.
“Get in!” he yelled as he tried to snatch the door open. The driver was too quick, though, and snapped the automatic locks on. Shanika shook her head as Jason proceeded to kick the tires, then pummel the cab’s trunk.
Just then another cab neared her and she quickly put her hand in the air. The cab stopped promptly in front of her and she snatched the door open and struggled to get her two suitcases in the backseat before Jason noticed.
“The Ramada Inn at Thirtieth Street and Lexington Avenue,” she hurriedly told the driver.
“Hey, yo!” Jason was tapping on the closed passenger window of her cab. “Whatcha doing, Shanika? What’s up with this?”
She waited until the cabdriver put the car in gear before rolling down the window. “Sorry, I’m running late. Thanks for everything, though.”
She didn’t bother to look back as the cab pulled into traffic. She supposed she should have felt a little guilty—after all, Jason was trying to help her and she jumped ship as soon as he turned his back. But, she reasoned, it wasn’t her fault that taxis don’t like picking up black men in midtown New York City. She’d always heard it was so, in the movies and sometimes on television news specials, but this was the first time she’d actually seen it. But then again, this was the first time she’d been in New York. Obviously, they didn’t have as much of a problem picking up a woman. The thought that it was because she was mistaken for a white woman suddenly occurred to her, but she quickly pushed it out of her mind.
“Did you know that man, miss?” the cabdriver—an East Indian—asked her in a West Indian accent after a few minutes.
“No. He helped me upstairs from the train station with my bags,” she said simply, while still looking out the window.
“Train station. Penn Station?” The driver peered at her through the rearview mirror, sizing her up.
Shanika nodded.
“Where you coming from, miss?”
“Detroit.”
“Your first time in New York?”
Shanika nodded again.
“Well, miss,” the driver said as he made a hard right turn onto Thirtieth Street, “you should be very careful. You were lucky. Very lucky. A lot of those people make a living hustling nice young ladies that just come in town. It’s the way they were raised. To try and rip off people. Easier for them than to try and find work. They want to rob people or sell drugs, the lot of them, miss. And their women aren’t much better. They sell their bodies or have babies so they can get on the public welfare. And they spend all of their time in the beauty salon.” He smiled to himself, confident that he’d solidified his tip. Out-of-towners always appreciated advice such as this.
Shanika’s eyes widened. Okay, she had gotten the cab because the driver thought she was white. It wasn’t the first time she’d benefited from looking white and she didn’t feel bad abo
ut it. After all, she didn’t pretend to be white. She wasn’t trying to pass or anything; she’d never do a thing like that. Never. But normally, when she was mistaken for white and someone talked negatively in her presence about African-Americans, she would hurriedly—and haughtily—announce her true heritage. But . . . well, she didn’t think the cabbie would throw her out of his car, but he just might. And she was so tired, and already rain drenched. And even if he didn’t do that, he might do something like trick her and drive all around New York to get to the hotel, which might only be a few blocks away, since she already said this was her first time in New York. No, it was best to be quiet. And of course she didn’t have to contribute to the conversation.
“But then there are a lot of them in Detroit, aren’t there? In fact, I’ve heard your city is full of them,” the cabbie continued. He had obviously taken her silence for agreement.
“Them?” Shanika asked.
“Yes. Niggers. The blacks”—he waved his hand in the air as if about to concede something—“or African-Americans.”
“I call them African-Americans, and, yes, the city is predominantly African-American. But I’m sorry I don’t view them the same way as you.” As soon as she said it, she was sorry. Not because she now worried about repercussions, but because in defense of her race she had distanced herself from it. Just by using the word “them” instead of “us.” She had never done that before. Her face reddened and she quickly looked out the window so that the driver wouldn’t notice her expression in his mirror while she silently asked God to forgive her.
“Here we go. The hotel is right in the middle of this block. And, I don’t want you to think I’m a bigot. I may have sounded like one, but I’m not. Some cabdrivers won’t even pick them up because they’re scared. But I will, as long as it’s daylight. That’s why I pull the day shift on this job so I don’t have to play bias against them. I do hate it when they get in and want to go to Harlem, but I’ll even take them there,” the driver said, hedging his bets since she made that remark about calling them African-American. He was an unbiased driver, as far as he was concerned. He wanted a tip from both liberals and conservatives.
“That’s mighty white of you,” Shanika said quietly while taking out her emery board and peering at her nails. She glanced in the rearview mirror and noted with satisfaction that the driver had a shocked expression on his brown face. She couldn’t resist pushing it a little further. “You’re East Indian, aren’t you?” she asked innocently.
“I certainly am.”
“That’s what I thought. But you have a West Indian accent,” she said slowly. She suddenly brightened her face. “Oh, I bet you’re from Trinidad! You’re a coolie!”
The driver’s face darkened, and he said nothing for a moment.
“You are a coolie, aren’t you?” she pressed further. “My mother was raised in Trinidad,” she lied, “and she told me the East Indians who lived there were called coolies. She even had one as a nursemaid.”
The driver pulled in front of the hotel. Was she trying to play him for a fool or was she the fool, he wondered. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “You do know that ‘coolie’ is not a very nice word, don’t you, miss?”
Shanika widened her eyes and put her hand to her mouth in a show of shock. “Really? No, I didn’t know. I learned it from my mother. Is it racist, then?”
“It is,” the driver said darkly, realizing she’d, indeed, been playing him for the fool.
“Oh, my goodness,” Shanika said, continuing her act of innocence as she dug her wallet out of her handbag. “I guess it’s like calling a black a nigger, then? I’m so sorry. How much do I owe you?”
“That would be five twenty-five,” the driver said sullenly.
She handed him a five-dollar bill and three dimes. “You can keep the change. And don’t worry about helping with my bags,” she told him as the hotel bellhop opened her door. “Have a nice day.”
Even the elevator ride up to the Paxon & Green offices was awe-inspiring. Detroit had its share of skyscrapers, and Shanika had been in a few of them, but never before had she traveled in an elevator to the forty-second floor of a building. The doors opened and she found herself facing a huge mahogany reception desk underneath a large sign that read paxon & green—public relations. She took a deep breath before approaching the white woman behind the desk, whose suit looked like it cost three times the amount of hers.
“Good morning. I’m here to see Mr. Kadinsky,” she told the woman in her most polite voice.
The woman, who could have been Gwyneth Paltrow’s older sister, smiled up at her. “And good morning to you, dear. Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes. For nine-thirty. I’m a little early.”
The woman looked at the appointment calendar and the smile that had seemed to be a permanent fixture on her face was replaced by a small frown. She flipped a page, then another one, then looked back up at Shanika. “I’m sorry, but your name isn’t Miss Jenkins, is it?”
Shanika nodded. “Yes, it is.”
The woman’s brow furrowed. “Miss Shanika Jenkins?”
Shanika sighed inwardly as she nodded. She’d been through this scene so often that it felt like a time-worn comedy skit. She knew the woman wanted to ask about her name, not her ethnicity. White people always questioned the name rather than the ethnicity, not understanding why parents would give their child such a black-sounding name. However, they were usually too polite to ask. She sure as hell had hoped, though, that the skit wouldn’t have replayed at the most important job interview of her life.
“Yes,” she assured the woman. “I’m Shanika Jenkins. I sent my résumé to Mr. Kadinsky a few months ago and I received a telephone call from this office two weeks ago asking me to come in for an interview today.”
The receptionist found her smile and quickly plastered it back on her face. “Of course. If you’ll just have a seat, Miss
Jenkins, I’ll let Mr. Kadinsky know that you’re here. Would you like some coffee?” Shanika declined.
The table was filled with copies of People, Us, Redbook, Advertising Age, Details, and Esquire. Shanika picked one up and started flipping through it, so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice the name of the magazine or the stories inside the issue. Nor did she notice the passage of time.
“Miss Jenkins?”
Shanika looked up, startled. “Yes, ma’am,” she said to the tall African-American woman who stood in front of her. The woman looked like a runway model for Vogue. Her makeup was flawless, and her permed bobbed hair looked like it had just been cut, not a strand out of place. Her blue suit looked like it was Versace, and the lines fit her as if it were custom made. And perhaps it was. The woman exuded an air of elegance and success. Suddenly, her newly purchased white linen suit seemed woefully inadequate.
“I’m Mrs. Randolph, Mr. Kadinsky’s personal assistant.” The woman stuck her hand out, and Shanika hurriedly stood up to shake it. “Art . . . Mr. Kadinsky . . . is in a meeting right now, but why don’t you come into my office while you wait for him and we can talk.”
She’s lovely, simply lovely, Libby Randolph thought as she led a smiling Shanika into a large wood-paneled office with a breathtaking view of Central Park. But so light-skinned, I wonder if that’s going to be a problem. Her inexperience could be overlooked—after all, this is a trainee position—but her physical appearance may be a problem.
“Please have a seat,” Mrs. Randolph said, waving her toward a comfortable padded chair. “Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?”
“No thanks . . . um, no, thank you,” Shanika said nervously. Something told her that this wasn’t just another waiting room. The interview had just begun. Maybe it had even begun as soon as she stepped off the elevator. “I had coffee in the hotel before coming over.”
“Oh, good. At what hotel are you staying?” Mrs. Randolph asked as she settled herself behind the desk.
“The Ramada Inn at Thirtieth and Lexingto
n.” Shanika inwardly cursed herself for not coming up with the name of a more prestigious hotel to impress the woman.
Mrs. Randolph nodded. “That’s a sensible hotel. Centrally located and reasonably priced. Did you fly in town this morning or last night?”
“I checked in yesterday afternoon about five p.m.,” Shanika said, not bothering to correct the woman by telling her that she’d taken the train. No sense in letting her know how broke she was.
“Is this your first time in New York City?”
“Yes, but I already love the city. I mean, I haven’t had much time to look around, but I love the feel of the city. It’s like there’s a sense of excitement in the air.”
“That would be New York,” Mrs. Randolph said with a chuckle. “I’ve been here almost twenty years and I’m still excited about it. I’m originally from Philadelphia. Big city, but not as big as New York.”
“I’ve never been to Philadelphia, but I’ve always wanted to go. I’m sure it’s really nice.” Shoot, I sound like I’m sucking up.
“Yes, it is.” Mrs. Randolph took a sip of her coffee. “I love that shade of lipstick. It looks quite good on you. Is it from the Ebony Fashion Fair line?”
“Well, actually it’s Maybelline, but thank you.” Shanika smiled, knowing this was Mrs. Randolph’s way of letting her know she realized she was black. And quite a classy way of doing it, Shanika thought.
“Now, let’s see. I have your résumé here somewhere. Ah yes, here it is. So you graduated from Delaware State?”
Shanika nodded, then quickly said, “Yes. I majored in public relations and graduated with a 3.6 average. Cum laude.”
“Yes, I see. Very impressive,” Mrs. Randolph said in a voice that made Shanika hope she might actually be impressed. Shanika smiled and stuck her chest out just a little bit. The next question, however, momentarily took the winds out of her sails.
“But you don’t have much of a work history. You didn’t do any internships at all while in school?”
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