Getting to the Good Part
RAVES FOR
GETTING TO THE GOOD PART…
“With its deliberate accessibility, stylistic strength, and emotional force, GETTING TO THE GOOD PART takes us on a surrealistic journey into a world brilliantly characterized by Lolita Files.”
—Philadelphia New Observer
“Entertaining along its tour of New York’s hot spots and the candid close-up of the inner world of two girlfriends…. Files gives the novel a solid stamp of reality.”
—Black Issues Book Review
“Reesy Snowden is a sister with a certain sumthin’ sumthin’ and Lolita Files does an incredible job of weaving yet another spin on [her] often chaotic life. Writing in her ever-funny and sassy way, Lolita layers the complexities of friendship when love takes center stage.”
—Sharony Andrews Green, author of Cuttin’ the Rug under the Moonlit Sky
“A ‘must-read’… Lolita Files is a master at telling it like it is. Her writing is romantic, sexy, and, well—just plain hilarious.”
—Kimberla Lawson Roby, author of Behind Closed Doors
“Feisty and candid.”
—Library Journal
“Funny and energetic and will keep you hanging on to the very end… . Lolita has surpassed all the hype her work has received and has taken GETTING TO THE GOOD PART to another level.”
—Franklin White, author of Fed Up with the Fanny
“Lolita once again presents laugh-out-loud humor about the relationships between best friends and the survival of their emotional gymnastics. I love this story because I know it well!”
—LaJoyce Brookshire, author of Soul Food
“Written in Lolita Files’s uniquely frank and fresh voice.”
—Lisa Saxton, author of Caught in a Rundown
… AND FOR SCENES FROM A SISTAH
AND LOLITA FILES!
“Spunky… energetic… a tale of the adventures of two cosmopolitan women of spirit and passion.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A sassy, rollicking tale.”
—Miami Herald
“Irresistibly readable… hilarious. A highly entertaining debut… [a] light, ribald satire. Striking characters, sexy action, a breakneck pace, and laugh-out-loud humor… [and] dialogue that crackles with energy. Misty and Reesy are memorable and likeable characters, and their interactions with men linger in the mind like hot gossip.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“Files is one author who’s no joke with the pen and pad—the girl is BAD. If I were you, I’d pick up a copy, because a story as good as this won’t stay on the shelf for long.”
—La Vida News
“Solid writing… Files has an excellent ear for dialogue… . She develops characters with the best of them… . This is a good book. Like I said, the sistah can write.”
—Atlanta Metro
“Laugh-out-loud funny… an outrageously funny romp… . An entertaining story about two thirty-something, dynamic, professional black women who make no bones about wanting it all and go to extremes to get it… . Treat yourself.”
—Dayton Daily News
“Ladies, Scenes from a Sistah is a must-read. It’s funny, sexy, and a book you and your girlfriends can truly relate to.”
—Terrie Williams, president and founder, The Terrie Williams Agency, and author of The Personal Touch
“Scenes from a Sistah is as sexy and exciting as it is real and emotional. Lolita’s words sing the songs of so many sistahs too often silenced in the expression of their eroticism. What a refreshing change of pace. Sing on, my sistah.”
—Jill Tracey, entertainment reporter, Tom Joyner Morning Show
Also by Lolita Files
Scenes from a sistah
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1999 by Lolita Files
All rights reserved
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2693-8
This book is dedicated to my goddaughter,
Courtney Rolle
for being such a beautiful and inspiring ray of sunshine in my life… even from a distance.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First of all, I say “Thank God” for blessing me with the opportunity to realize my own possibilities, and, therefore, so many of my dreams.
Secondly, to all those wonderful people who have always been in my corner, to those who recently discovered my corner and parked themselves there to cheer for me, and to those who root from the sidelines… I give you love up front. Just in case I fail to mention you by name, know that I have infinite appreciation for all you have done for me.
Special thanks to:
Cecil D. Rolle—for all the initial enthusiasm and support that helped get me on my way.
Jackie Jacob at Warner Books—a multi-talented wonder who was there for me from the very beginning. I’m glad I can call you my friend.
Jacquatte Rolle—for bearing with me on this journey of self-discovery; for staying fixed and ever-present.
Michael Cory Davis—the coolest discovery I’ve had in 1998 (okay… so it was actually the end of 1997, but I’m rounding up). Thanks for being the a2 to my b2. As a result, we’re creating a whole lotta c2’s. Here’s to more screenwriting together, to making movies, to more Falmouths and Ft. Lees, to sitcoms and big budgets, to cross-countries and El Segundo-ing. For being my creative match.
Maxwell—’nuf said ’bout you, so “don’t ever wonder.” You already know I think you’re THE BOMB on a grand scale. You be inspiring people to write books and stuff. Keep making that fantastic music… I just might squeeze out a few books more!!
Lillie & Arthur Files, Sr., Arthur Files, Jr., Eric A. Brackett, the Brackett and the Files clans, Carolyn Brackett (the most positive-minded person I know), Mary and Willie Davis (and the whole Atlanta clan), Sharlyn Simon (Big Up, Doug!!!), the Rolle Clan (Dr. Cecil & Annie Rolle, Gary & Katrina and family, Angie & Tony and family, and Jenifer, Melanie, Justin and my Goddie, Courtney), Jenean Amber (’zupgirlfriend!!), The Davis Family in Brooklyn, Lisa “Brownie” Brown, Kim and Cody, Bryan Keith Ayer, Suzette Webb, Jonathan and Julian, Antoine Coffer and my “Live Twin” Teresa Coffer of Afrocentric Books in St. Louis, Cheryl, Doris, Michelle, Taura, and Cassandra at Warner Books, Clara Villarosa for taking me under your wing the way you have, Marty & Monique Fleming-Berg of BCA Books (& Dinky), Shonda Cheekes and the rest of the clan—Moms, Calina and Ramzari (my babeez), and Warren, R. Malcolm Jones and family.
E. Lynn Harris—for being a Godfather to us all, and all my author friends—Eric Jerome Dickey (twin), Omar Tyree, Victoria Christopher Murray (my girl), LaJoyce Brookshire (my Libra sistah… ’zup, Gus and Tony!!), Franklin White, Blair S. Walker (you nut!!), Kimberla Lawson Roby, Van Whitfield, David Haynes, Lisa Saxton, Sheneska Jackson, and Sharony Andrews—for this great bond that we have created amongst us. We all have each other’s backs. This is the way it’s supposed to be.
Jill Tracey, Karla Greene, Troy & Rejeana Mathis, Eric Saunders, Rod Crouther, Lee Eric Smith, Rodney & Johnika Lee, Brenda Alexander & Family, Frank Jenkins and Family, Harry C. Douglas, Jr. and the Douglas clan (Pamela, Willie Mae, and Harry, Sr. and Rachel), Sherlina, Brenda, Vernette, Rhonda and Michael Ware, Mommy German, the Brown Family, the May-weathers, The Williams, Bernadette Andrews and fa
mily, Andrea and Patrick, and all the old crews, Dr. Joseph Marshall, Jr., Christine Saunders, Carol Ozemhoya, Kim Bondy, Bo Griffin, Yvette Miley, Olive Salih and Alison Tomlinson, Pamela Crockett, KathyAnn Saleem (where are you?), Leroy Baylor, Michel Marriott, Kevin Cowan, Darryl “Double D” Davis, Louis Oliver, Abdul Giwa, Jr. M.D., Bruce McCrear & the B’ham Crew, Bryonn Rolly Bains, Dedan Baylor and the whole Baylor clan at Make My Cake.
The Florida Connection—Janet Mosley of Tenaj Books, Jackie Perkins at Montsho, Felecia Wintons at Books for Thought, Naseem Barron at Nefertiti, D.C. at Afro-n-Books-n-Things, and Akbar at Pyramid Books.
Shondalon and Sundyata Ramin of RaMin Books in New Brunswick, N.J., Shelly and David Jones of Mirror Images Books and Toys in Charleston, S.C., Faye Williams and Cassandra Burton of Sisterspace & Books, Kiki Henson.
My editor Caryn Karmatz Rudy, Nancy Coffey, my Warner publicist—Anita Diggs, Larry Kirshbaum for all the love and support, Pat Houser, Yvette Hayward, The Sorors of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Inc., and all the book clubs that have supported me, and continue to do so every day.
CONTENTS
RAVES FOR: GETTING TO THE GOOD PART…
ALSO BY LOLITA FILES
COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I LIKE THE WAY YOU WORK IT
GOOD NEWS TRAVELS LAST
NEVER NO TIME TO PLAY
A STAR IS SCORNED
LET’S JUST DIS AND SAY GOODBYE
UPTOWN SATURDAY NIGHT
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCKIN’ ON HEFFAH’S DOOR
RETURN OF THE MACK
LET THE SIDESHOW BEGIN
COME ON AND TAKE A FREE RIDE
O, WHAT A TANGLED WEB
LIKE WHITE ON RICE
STANDING ON THE VERGE OF GETTIN’ IT ON
FOR WHOM THE BELLS TOLL
THE WEDDING BELL BLUES
ONE MONKEY DON’T STOP NO SHOW
ALLOW ME TO EXPOSE MY COLON
YOU DA BEST, DADA
I LIKE THE WAY YOU WORK IT
Check baby, check baby, one-two-three-four! Check baby, check baby, one-two-three!”
My heart was percolating like my grandma’s raggedy old coffeepot as I chanted the words to Wreckx-N-Effect song “Rump-shaker.” It was booming all around me, pouring from the speaker system.
The sound echoed throughout the empty theater, blending with the crazed patter of dancing feet moving with synchronized rhythm across the much-scuffed wood floor of the stage.
There weren’t a lot of frills in the Nexus Theater. Nestled on West Twentieth Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, it was a tiny little thing that was a far cry from the glitz and glimmer I’d anticipated.
There were none of the dramatic red velvet curtains and elegant balconies I envisioned would serve as backdrops for my grand stage debut. The place was hollow and naked.
Strictly utilitarian. About as bottom-line as you could get.
Plain wooden seats, a stage, a no-nonsense curtain that was just a few threads shy of being deemed burlap, some random fixtures here and there, and the obligatory backstage area.
It was all prop and circumstance. If circumstances called for props, then that’s when you got ‘em. Otherwise, the place was as scaled-down and threadbare as they came. Just a few steps above the size and status of a high school auditorium.
(Okay, maybe it was a little bit bigger. But damn, not a whole lot.)
I glanced out in the direction of the empty audience seats as I made my moves. All I could see were the shadows of three men. Who were they, and what were they thinking?
I didn’t care. My adrenaline was blowing up.
I boogied across the stage. Sweat trickled down my body, streaming over my teeny-weeny deep blue tank top and working its way down the small of my back. My spandex shorts clung to every curve of my perfectly tight booty, and I was waving it ‘round for all the world to see. My clothes were discreetly, provocatively, sweaty in all the right places.
I couldn’t have planned it any better.
I wanted to get the part in this production bad. Real bad. If I got it, it meant a whole new life change for me. I was going to try my hand at dancing for the stage, maybe even Broadway.
What was I talking about? Bump maybe… definitely Broadway!! Why would I stop at just a small-scale production? Hell, I’m Reesy. Everything I do is over-the-top.
And if I was going to try my hand at this, it was going to be over-the-top, or not at all.
Not that this was going to be a small-scale gig. I mean, if I got the part, it was going to be a pretty big deal.
But it wasn’t Broadway. That was still a loooong ways away.
There were two parts up for grabs, and there were six other women dancing alongside me, all of us shaking our asses like our lives depended on it. But, as far as I was concerned, those heffahs weren’t even there.
It was all about me. I was gonna get one of these roles, dammit, if it was the last thing I ever did.
Still singing in my head, I zooma-zoomed in the poon-poon.
I worked my hips and wiggled my butt as I gyrated across the stage, adding my own little flava (The Reesy Special, I like to call it) to the routine the choreographer had taught us to do to the music. I had this way of letting my body go, as flexible as an overcooked noodle, while I got into the groove. This shit was a workout, but I was getting a helluva rush out of it.
I had my back bent, leaning forward, slanging my braids all around my head. Right on cue, I spun around booty-forward, back still bent, and began to wiggle again.
Buttcheeks for dayz.
And from watching the body language of the shadowy male figures that sat in the audience grading our performances, I could see that it was working.
Considering the way one of them had been crossing and uncrossing his legs, something sure as hell had to be going on.
And yes, it was me causing the effect. I had no doubt about that. Sure, those other girls were bad, but wasn’t nobody up there working it quite like me. I could feel it.
No telling what they had been scribbling on their lethal pads with those loaded pens. But whether they liked me or not, I was gonna make damn sure I got a rise out of their asses.
My endorphins doing the bump. I felt like I was about to spontaneously combust.
“That’ll be it, number three.”
I worked my shoulders downward, ass jiggling like Jell-O in the mold.
“Number three, thank you.”
I zooma-zoomed on, singing away in my head.
“Number three, you can go now!”
The girl to my left elbowed me discreetly.
“They’re talking to you,” she smirked.
Sneaky heffah. She was just trying to distract me and make me mess up. I ignored her and kept dancing.
I did my thang, sliding to the side along to the music, my arms waving around over my head in a hula-like dance that had me adding way more hip than the choreographer had planned.
“NUMBER THREE!!”
I sang on under my breath, wiggling my behind.
I was still grooving when the music came to a sudden stop. I was dancing hard, in the zone. I didn’t notice right away that I was the only one moving on stage. My body was racing ahead so fast, that it took all my brain could muster to send it the message to stop. I leaned forward, my hands on my thighs, panting heavily.
The girl who had elbowed me was standing there next to me, staring. She had her hand on her hip. Her mouth was now wide open in a mocking grin. Beside her, the other girls huddled, some of them shaking their heads. A couple of them were laughing.
“Number three?” a heavy voice boomed from the shadows of the theater seats.
I looked down at the piece of white paper stuck to my tank top. A big 3, scrawled in black Magic Marker, stared back up at me.
Oh shit! I thought. They want me!
“Yes?!” I panted excitedly.
“That’s enough,” the voice said dismissively. “Thank you for coming.”
&nb
sp; His words didn’t register at first.
“Thank you,” he repeated.
“That’s it?” I gasped, barely able to breathe from the energy rush I had created. My heart was thumping like it was about to explode.
“We’ll call you,” he said, sounding as empty as I did when I told my random lies to used-up lovers on the phone.
Now ain’t this some shit?!!?!! I thought.
Let me tell you something… I ain’t nevah been dismissed from nothing. I was the one who did the dismissing.
Even when I left Burch Financial, my last job, where I worked as an administrative assistant for my best friend, Misty Fine, it was my decision. I wasn’t fired.
But enough about that. We’ll talk about that later.
Standing there on that stage, giving the audition of my life, hoping to find some new direction as a dancer in the theater, I was now mortified. How the hell were they gon’ single me out from everybody else and tell me to get the hell out?
Those other bitches stood over there, smirks on their faces, just staring at me.
I started to cuss ’em out, but, lucky for them, I was so out of breath, I was barely able to speak.
I rushed over to the side of the stage, grabbed my duffel bag, and fled.
On my way out, I saw the guy who had asked me to come to the audition. He had invited me because he liked the way I danced at the audition for Bubbling Brown Sugar, the first audition I’d gone to after leaving the corporate world.
He was definitely the last person I wanted to see.
“Thanks for coming out,” he said with a smile, his hand touching my back as I passed.
“Yeah,” I replied shortly.
“Don’t look so sad,” he said. “It’s all good.”
“Whatever,” I snapped, just trying to get past him and out of the place.
I shoved open the heavy steel back door that led out of the Nexus. In my hurry to get out, the strap of my duffel bag got caught on the outside door handle.