Getting to the Good Part Page 10

  Admittedly, I wanted to hear her say “Bump that hoe,” but, of course, she didn’t.

  In fact, I would have truly been surprised if she had. But she did ask me all about how the show went.

  She sat there on the phone, excited and intrigued, oohing and aahing as I described the music, costume changes, and crowd response.

  It felt so good to be talking to her. I was able to share my moment with somebody who genuinely cared about me and never, ever judged me for what I did.

  Matter of fact, Grandma Tyler was the only other person on the planet, other than Misty, who I ever confided in about my days as an exotic dancer.

  She wasn’t even shocked. She just laughed about it and said, “Tweety, baby, do yo’ thang!!”

  I never had to worry about her telling my business to Tyrene.

  “Trust me, Tweety… yo’ secret’s safe wit’ me. And you ain’t got to always fret ‘bout what folks gon’ thank. That’s just life, and either you got one, or you dead.”

  Hearing that always made me feel good.

  “You know,” she’d add, “I know some thangs ’bout yo’ mama and daddy that would make your life look like teatime with the Queen. So don’t you let them bother you. They done raised some hell in they day, and now they tryna ack all high and mighty. But them some rapscallions if there ever was any!”

  Only Grandma Tyler could say rapscallions and make it sound worse than muthafucka. At least, you knew that’s how she meant it.

  And nobody else in the whole wide world called me Tweety but her. It was our little thang, and I loved her for it.

  When I was a baby, she would pick me up and coo, “Look at my little piece of yella sunshine! Just as tweet as she can be!”

  When I began to walk, she said I scampered around like a little bird, barely able to hold up my big yellow head. Tweet became Tweety. For obvious reasons.

  And Grandma Tyler and me became spiritually connected for life.

  Yeah, I thought, looking out the second-floor window at three little brown boys coming out of the bodega downstairs, Grandma Tyler would definitely dig my new place.

  I leaned my palms on the sill and breathed in the balmy Harlem breezes. I liked to open the windows, let the fresh air in, and listen to the noise my people made as they passed up and down the street. I had put planters in the windows and filled them with pansies, fresh herbs, and plastic windmills. I hung a chime just above the planters.

  It was paradise, people, I tell you. No lie.

  All right, all right. So I’ll bet you’re wondering how I was able to do it all. Just up and move, just like that. Get a crib overnight. Check in, easy as you please, and set up shop all lahdee-dah and so carefree.

  Well, let me tell you . . .

  I broke down and cashed in one of those stipends.

  Money’s money, and I needed it. End of subject. Put a period on that bad boy.

  Forget about strength of conscience and taking the moral I’ma-do-this-by-my-damn-self high ground. All that shit flew out the window like a loosed pigeon when it got down to it.

  Desperation is desperation. I needed to get away from Misty Fine. And, uh, wouldn’t you know it, there happened to be some money sitting around, calling out my name, begging me to take it.

  And I ain’t deaf. My hearing is twenty-twenty like a mug.

  I told myself that it wasn’t like my folks were actually supporting me. I was going to put the money back, little by little, from my earnings in Black Barry’s Pie.

  The stipend was for ten thousand dollars.

  Yeah, that’s right.

  Four times a year, my parents sent me a check for ten thousand dollars. Like I mentioned before, I always invested it, choosing to make and pay my own way in the world.

  But a couple of days after that mess with Misty, one of those checks, the summer disbursement, happened to arrive.

  Right on time.

  It was like manna from the heavens.

  I’d been trying to figure out how I was going to scrape up a way to get the hell out of that free space at the Milano. And as close as I was to Grandma Tyler, asking her for money was never even an option or a thought.

  Tyrone and Tyrene took care of her, and my grandmother deserved every penny she got. She spent years baby-sitting white folks’ kids and cleaning houses just so she could raise my mama and put her through school.

  Nope. I definitely couldn’t go to her for money.

  So when the disbursement check arrived in the mail, I studied that bad boy long and hard.

  Pay to the order of Teresa R. Snowden, it read. Ten Thousand Dollars and No Cents.

  I stared at the check. If I didn’t cash it and use it to get on with my life, I’d be the one who had no “sense.”

  So I took that check, deposited it into my checking account, and reveled in what it felt like to be a little bit liquid for a minute.

  Wasn’t a bad feeling, I have to admit.

  I spent a lot of time knocking my parents for being such capitalists. But let me tell you, it felt damn good going out and being able to get what I wanted and needed. When I wanted and needed it.

  I asked around of some of the dancers in the show about places for rent. I told them that I preferred something in Harlem.

  Believe it or not, Donovan, with his fly, horny ass, was the one who hooked me up. He knew of a spot not too far from his own building that had just been reno’d.

  It was right in the mix and hustle and bustle of Harlem. The rent wasn’t even as high as I expected it to be.

  At first, I wasn’t sure if I wanted Donovan to know where I was living. But heck, available space is available space. It wasn’t like he was going to be able to just come up in my place and take the punani.

  You can’t take what ain’t up for grabs.

  I got the place for nine hundred bucks a month. I paid the landlord five months’ rent up front, plus all the requisite deposits.

  When the dust settled, I still had a bunch of money left. I went to Ikea and bought myself a couch, two chairs, a dining table and some of those cute little knickknacky things they sold to coordinate with your home.

  I went to a few more places and picked up new towels, plates, utensils, and some colorful mugs and glasses. I stocked my home with food.

  I was able to get all that stuff, and still I hadn’t touched the money I was getting from my gig in Black Barry’s Pie.

  I was as happy as a tick on a toe. You couldn’t tell me nuthin’. I was in my own crib. I was doin’ my own thang, and I was makin’ myself a little piece of change dancing on stage in an off-Broadway show.

  My life was on the incline. Wasn’t nothing but positive things ahead.

  I was ready for the new. Out with all the old, including Misty Fine.

  I had washed that triflin’ heffah of an ex-best friend right outta my braids.

  “You excited about the concert tomorrow?” Julian asked.

  He stood there, sweaty, a towel draped around his neck. In his right hand, he held a towel for me.

  “Am I?!” I breathed heavily, taking the towel from him. I was exhausted from that morning’s workout. I’d just finished up an hour of high-speed walking on the treadmill.

  Julian and I had begun working out together. In a very short period of time, he had gone from dissing me to praising me, to stopping to have idle chitchat with me during rehearsals and backstage, to having lunch. He had now officially become my friend.

  Every weekday morning, at the crack of dawn, I met him around the corner from the theater, and we hopped it over to his gym. I liked the place, so I decided to join as well.

  (Using some of that stipend money, of course.)

  He had just finished the early morning aerobics class, and he stood there in his tights, with his ever-present bulge, the picture of physical fitness. He wasn’t even breathing hard, and that morning class was an advanced level set that didn’t take any prisoners.

  Julian was looking at me kinda funny.

  I mad
e a grand gesture of lifting up my arms, sniffing at my pits.

  “What are you doing?” he asked with a laugh. “You are so foolish!”

  “Wondering why you’re looking at me like that, checking to see if I’m stank!”

  I stepped off the treadmill, and the two of us proceeded to head out. We walked down the street, sipping on Evian, duffel bags in hand.

  “So why were you just looking at me like that?” I asked him again.

  He appeared to be struggling with what he wanted to say.

  “C’mon, negro,” I pressed, “spit it out!!”

  “I can’t go to the concert with you tomorrow,” he blurted.

  “What do you mean, you can’t go?!” I screeched. “They’re your tickets!”

  “We have a show tomorrow, remember? And it starts at eight… same time as the Maxwell concert. Gordon might trip a little if both of us book.”

  “Oh God, Julian! I had no idea the concert started so early! I figured I could go after the show.”

  “I know,” he said. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought those tickets. I didn’t want to miss out. I should have known damn well there wasn’t no way I could get off to go see Maxwell.”

  I walked along in silence. Freaking. Fuming. Flipping over the fact that I wasn’t going to get to see my favorite singer in the whole wide world perform.

  Julian must have read my mind. Or felt my fumes, one.

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t go,” he said in a serious tone. “You can always get one of the alternate dancers to stand in for your part.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. That could work. I really wanted to see my man Maxwell at Radio City.

  “You think so?” I asked. “I mean, it won’t create any problems, will it?”

  Julian shook his head.

  “No. That’s why they have understudies and alternates. Just don’t make it a habit of missing a lot of shows and mess around and get replaced.”

  I snickered.

  “Please. You know seeing Maxwell is about the only thing that would make me skip out on Black Barry’s.”

  We dipped inside a diner on the corner. A tall, blond waitress led us to a booth. She looked dog-tired.

  “Thanks,” I said to her.

  She very quickly walked away. I turned my attention back to Julian, who sat across from me.

  “So how are you going to be able to handle not seeing Maxwell? You love him just as much as I do!”

  Julian smiled, looking up past me. I followed the direction of his eyes. Our waitress had returned.

  “What can I get you?” she droned in a sad-sack sort of a voice that made no pretense of trying to be friendly. Homegirl looked like she had just pulled a thirty-hour shift.

  Julian deferred to me to order first.

  “I’ll have a large orange juice and a blueberry muffin,” I said. “He’ll have the same.”

  “Oh,” he said under his breath, “so you think you really know me now, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  The waitress waited on him to confirm.

  “I’ll have what she’s having,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Would either of you like coffee?” the waitress sighed.

  She looked so pitiful, I felt like getting up and fetching our order for her.

  “Could you bring two cups, with cream and sugar?” I asked pleasantly.

  “How about if I just bring a pot?” she countered in an exhausted tone.

  “That’s cool,” I replied.

  She turned and walked away.

  “Damn!” Julian laughed. “She’s too tired to even pour the shit! She’s just gon’ bring us a pot and let us have at it on our own!”

  “Leave her alone,” I defended, thinking of how hard Grandma Tyler slaved, serving other folks all those years. “Some people work really hard for their money. We don’t know what her circumstances are. Besides, there are already cups on the table. It ain’t gon’ kill us to pour it ourselves.”

  Julian was shaking his head.

  “You never cease to amaze me, Miss Thang. Just when I expect you to go off about something, you suddenly turn into Mother Teresa.”

  The waitress came back with our muffins, juice, and a pot of coffee on a tray.

  “Here’s the cream,” she groaned, plopping it down. “Sugar’s on the table.”

  “Thanks a lot.” I smiled, hoping to send some good feelings her way.

  My good feelings missed her completely, and ricocheted off the wall somewhere back near the kitchen.

  “Oh well,” I mumbled. “So anyway, as I was asking you before, what are you gonna do about missing the concert? You love Maxwell just as much as I do.”

  “I’ll manage. Besides, it’s cool. Tonio really wanted us to see him together, so maybe he and I can see him some other time.”

  “I thought you said he was trippin’,” I commented, pouring us both coffee.

  “He’s always trippin’,” Julian replied.

  I nodded, pouring in cream and opening a packet of sugar.

  “What are you gonna do with the other ticket?” I asked.

  “Have you made up with your girl yet? What’s her name… Misty?”

  I jerked my neck so fast, it almost snapped.

  “What?! No, you didn’t ask me that! Negro, please! That girl is his-tor-ree! You hear me?”

  “I hear you,” he mumbled, picking at his muffin, “but I don’t feel you.”

  I glared at him.

  “It’s not a matter of whether you feel it or not. I do. She dogged me. She’s toast. End of subject.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm, hell,” I replied. “So stop talking ‘bout her, ruining my good day. As a matter of fact, let’s make it like

  Pharaoh did in The Ten Commandments. ‘Let the name Misty Fine be stricken from every mind, lip, and tongue…’”

  “You are sooo ridiculous.”

  “While you bullshittin’… ,” I mumbled.

  He kept laughing as he bit down on his muffin.

  “So what are you gonna do with the extra ticket?” I asked again.

  “Actually…”

  “Uh-oh. I don’t like how that sounds.”

  “Well, Donovan had mentioned to me…”

  “Donovan!!” I shrieked. “Oh, hell no! Ain’t no way I’m going to no Maxwell concert with ol’ stick-and-move Donovan!”

  “He’ll just be sitting beside you at the concert. What’s the big deal?”

  I laughed sharply.

  “The big deal is that Donovan has been trying to make moves on me of late. What better place to come on to a sistah than at a Maxwell concert? I’ll be feeling all good and shit… probably keyed up from watching my man workin’ it on stage. Donovan will kick into overdrive on my ass.”

  He tossed the last bit of muffin into his mouth. For the muffin to be as big as it was, he wolfed it down pretty quickly.

  “So how you know Donovan don’t just wanna groove to Maxwell like you do?” he asked. “Brother’s music moves everybody. Donovan couldn’t get any tickets because the show was sold out.”

  “Trust me. I know Donovan.”

  “Well,” Julian said under his breath, “he’s already got the other ticket.”

  “Damn, Julian! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “You could have asked me first.”

  “You would have said no.”

  I sighed, breaking a piece off my muffin.

  “You’re a pushover for a fine man, you know that? I don’t know why you even give a shit about hooking Donovan up! You know damn well that he’s as straight as a board.”

  “I know,” he grinned. “But you can’t fault me for looking and trying to help.”

  I cut my eyes at him.

  “You ain’t trying to help nobody but your damn self. You’re feeling brother out to see if he’s giving up the cheeks. I’m trying to tell you, it ain’t gon’ happen.”

&nbs
p; “You never know. I’m here to tell you, Miss Thang… you just never know.”

  “Well, I ain’t trying to get with no Donovan. And you need to quit it, too, before I find your friend Tonio and tell him!”

  He laughed and gave a wave of his hand.

  I studied him closely as he sipped his coffee again.

  “Julian.”

  “What?” he asked, looking up at me from his cup.

  “If you had already given the ticket to Donovan, what made you ask me about Misty?”

  His lips curled into a smile.

  “Thought Pharaoh had stricken that name from our lips,” he said with a grin.

  “I was just curious,” I said sharply. “Don’t get flip.”

  “Well, if you really wanna know…”

  “Never mind! You trying to get all sarcastic about it.”

  He held out his palms.

  “Hey, I was just trying to follow your rules. You said don’t mention her, and then you’re the first one to bring her up.”

  “Anyway…”

  “Anyway, nothing. When you asked about the extra ticket, I thought for a minute that maybe you had made up with… you-know-who. It just popped into my head to ask you about it.”

  “Whatever,” I replied dismissively. “Who cares anyway?”

  “Obviously you do,” he laughed. “You’re the one that keeps bringing up her name.”

  Before I could come back at him hard-core, Julian reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a five-dollar bill and two ones. He placed them on the table.

  “You get the tip this time,” he said.

  I reached into my duffel bag where I kept my cash. I had a small wad of green bundled up in a knot.

  Julian eased out of the booth.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “Gotta make moves.”

  “If I hear that one more time!” I laughed, sliding out right behind him.

  “That’s how it goes, baby,” he smiled.

  He walked toward the door. I glanced around for our bedraggled blond waitress.

  I spotted her, over in the corner, barely able to walk as she carried a trayload of food over to some customers.

  “Let’s roll!” Julian called.

  I dropped a ten spot on the table.

  “It’ll come back to me in the universe,” I mumbled to myself.

  “Ten… new messages… are in your mailbox. Main menu… to listen to your messages, press 1.”