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| Get Into it... |
“Well, Jaquan knows
that I'm not having anymore babies for his raggedy ass.
He couldn’t have
thought - I mean, we already have two - one in a bassinet and the other on the
floor, next to the bed we share; the kind that pulls out from his mom's couch -
kind of bed.”
I guess I woke up in
the middle of a conversation. The second voice assured me that this
conversation wasn’t mine:
“You know, I grew up
sleeping on the floor. It really isn’t all that bad - it’s
good for the back. Listen, they are already here, what can
you do? Your only responsibility is to do the
best you can for them. If the best you can do is have them
sleeping on the floor, what?"
I heard a sob from my
left side, which was where the initial voice I had heard came from.
"Stop crying,
Jeannette! This probably ain’t even the last time
we will be doing this - considering you didn’t take the option for the birth
control… again.”
“Jaquan doesn’t like
the way birth control makes me taste.
If I get on it,
he'll know and he won’t eat me anymore… that’s the best part.”
I hear a long sigh
from, this time from my right - the girl who didn’t identify herself, but
wasn’t Jeanette.
“Jaquan needs to
focus on feeding the babies that you have, instead of gorging himself on you
while his babies eat Doritos –"
“Loreana, stop trying
to play me. The kids get a veggie with every meal.”
“Dipped in expired
dressing,” Lorena stated too pointedly for
Jeanette’s taste , as I felt a quick motion and breeze by my feet.
I just shifted to
the right, so I could take in the action on the left while maintaining my
‘unconscious’ ruse.
Jeanette stood over
Loreana, whose eyes widened a bit too much in surprise for someone who had so
much to say about vegetable dipping preferences.
“That his mother’s
house, it ain't got shit to do with me - and you know that,” Jeannette hissed.
And then, just as
expected, Loreana folded. “My bad, Jay…. My bad…” with both hands
up, like she was submitting to the police or something, but smiling.
“I was joking, Jay -
relax yourself. It isn’t that serious.”
She looked up at
Jeanette, like she wasn’t afraid of what could happen if she stood behind her
statement about the woman’s surviving two.
But I knew she was.
I ,maybe better than
most, I know exactly what fear smells like.
Apparently the
nurses at Planned Parenthood do too; three of them came rushing over.
The blue reclining
patient chairs were divided by blue curtains in groupings of three.
So I just continued
to be sleeping, when they converged upon my group.
“
Everything good,”
asked a short, black nurse, with a short afro.
She seemed the most
calm.
“Do we have an
issue,” asked a wispy blonde nurse, with a pony tail, to the black nurse.
“Get back in your
seat, before you rupture,” said a red-headed one in a pink uniform - unlike the
nurses blue scrubs - to Jeanette.
“If she gets up
again, give her some cookies and ginger ale and send her to the waiting room -
to whomever is waiting…. we don’t have time to be babysitting,” said the black
nurse to the red-headed assistant.
The two nurses
left, while the assistant stayed close by - keeping an eye on everyone, I
suppose.
Jeanette mirrored my
quiet thoughts in her next statement to Loreana, "Babysitting?
But all the babies
are dead."
“Shut up, Jay!
Just chill the hell
out until I'm ready to go. We're each others' escorts - remember.
Don’t be silly and
have us banned from here, it’s not like we can go back to The Bronx next time
we have an ‘issue’. And you know you can’t call Jaquan to
come get you. So… just sit tight.
Just sit tight.”
***
“Mrs. Wright,”said a
firm voice. A voice that seemed to come out of
nowhere.
“Mrs. Wright.”
This time I heard
it clearly and when I blinked down, I saw a pair of Manolo Blahniks.
I had seen so many
of them in my line of work, that I was pretty clear when I was viewing an
authentic pair of, what the hood called, red bottoms, from the top.
There were definitely
it!
I blinked rapidly, while thanking God this man hadn’t
fucked up years of dental maintenance -when he got all violent.
There would be no
way for me to stand here confidently, ready to pass the appraisal, these places
make, when deciding whom and what to take seriously.
I waved the curls
that escaped the hair pins confining them into a French roll of curls behind my
ear, and stuck my hands out for a proper business greeting:
She responded with a
firm shake before quickly scanning and fanning through a few papers in her left
hand.
“Oh, I am sorry for
the confusion…” she scanned her paper work again.
The second time
unnerved me a bit. I'm always looking for a cue on when to
break out and try something else.
After all, I don’t
get my money on what many would consider 'the up and up', and you never know when
the ‘boys’ will come a calling. Just as I started to back up to gather
my things and leave, while there was still time, she placed a hand on my arm.
“Ms. Wright.
Is that right.
Did I get it this
time?”
I nodded.
“She pivoted and
waved her hand, to indicate that I should follow her.
So, I did.
She didn’t stop
talking:
“I must've spoke with
your mother on the phone.”
I knew she hadn’t.
My mother wasn’t
involved in any of my affairs. Certainly none like this.
I couldn’t have
even asked her:
“But, Ryndra Marie
Wright, just where do you get enough money to purchase an apartment in NYC?
Where do you work?
In cash?
Jeorge, do you hear
this? Don’t you hear me asking you a
question?”
Yeah, my mom wasn’t
about that - not even in this instance, at its most excusable and necessary
time. But, if this realtor wanted to believe
that I had been sent by mother to handle business, if this made her most
comfortable, who was I to fuck with her comfort?
She had her
answers. At least, she had the answers that were
going to get her to get done what I needed.
I was finding more
and more often, that was all I needed to give people - nothing more - nothing
less. Just enough to get 'it'-whatever it was-done.
“Yes, Mrs. Rosen,
that was my mother who called earlier - she was unable to make it in because,
you know…”
“Yes, she’s probably
working. My services don’t come cheap.“
Mrs. Rosen then
looked me over; taking me all in: from my petite frame to my Tom Ford blue
pleated skirt suit. I stood there, watching her watching
me; without letting her know that I was observing her.
Something else I learned
in my line of work. Clearing my throat to indicate that it
might be time to offer a morning refreshment of sorts - I figured I would be
clear on just what she had surmised about me, based on her offer choice.
The more choices
she offered, the more assured I would be that she saw just what I intended her
to see: The daughter of a rich, but busy family, here to handle business on
their behalf.
Business that, if handled properly,
could net her a pretty sizable commission.
Brown Harris and
Stevens’s, the first of three various realty firms I had chosen to work with,
only lists properties valued at over three quarters of a million dollars, and
its reps always require a 15% commission.
That meant, at the
very least, her efforts would net her $112,500.00, if I was good for it.z
“Water or tea, Ms.
Wright “ she sang clearly, and I thought surprisingly loudly considering we
were in a private office versus a bus station.
Until I saw a
blonde peering from behind an office pillar, seemingly listening for my answers
quite intently.
My mistake, people
wearing genuine Blahniks don’t ever serve ‘the tea’ anywhere.
“A fruit tea, with
honey and two lemon halves, please.”
I took a breath,
looking around the room. I thought about the commission of over
100,000$ :
“Also, could you make
sure the lemon halves are coated with brown sugar and - I turned to look at the
blonde to make sure I was within the asking range.
The fact that her
eyes and ears seemed at "attention" was enough of a confirmation that
I was well within range. “And if you have fruit, some oatmeal…
steel milled oats, and croissants, that would be great.”
As an aside, to
explain why I needed what I needed, I turned back to Mrs. Rosen, "My
mother had me rush over via car service to make this appointment."
Without missing a
beat, she smiled, “but of course.
It’s terribly early
and we have a lot of work to do; anything you need.”
“Lanessa,” she
declared. Again, the blonde stepped into my
peripheral.
“Where is your pad,”
she sneered.
When Lanessa returned
with her legal pad, she again turned to me:
“What would you like
dear? Be as specific as you wish…”
I turned to Lanessa,
and ran down a moderate list: enough to look like someone who knows what she
wants, but not enough for this Lanessa person to feel like I was entitled and
possible do some trickery to my food.
On the walk into
Ms. Rosen’s office, in passing Lanessa's office-cubicle thing, I saw a
certificate of some sort on the wall.
It looked
suspiciously like the one in Mrs. Rosen's office, but it wasn’t framed or
anything fancy, like Mrs. Rosen's.
I was trying to
work out just why Lanessa was running errands versus helping to sell property,
when my thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Rosen's singing:
MOOD
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