a shouting match, but you know I didn’t want to show out in front of my kids.”
“You tell him things have been a little rough?”
She nodded. “And I let him know that I’m tired of being patient and I’m talking to an attorney. A Jewish attorney at that. I don’t want the white man all up in my biz, but like my momma used to say, when a nigga don’t do right, call Mr. White.”
“You’re taking him back to court?”
“I don’t want to. But a sister gotta do what a sister gotta do.” Gerri tsked. “So, I’m going to have to keep working my other paper route twice a week. That extra cabbage is really making a difference.”
Dana was single, no kids. Gerri was the one with two kids and an ex-husband, a profile that was damn close to mine. For a few seconds I wished that Gerri had sashayed in the room first. Empathy would live in her corner. Maybe. But then again, maybe her plate was already too full.
A tall brother peacocked his way across the room, tapped her on the shoulder, then leaned in and smiled like he was auditioning for a Colgate commercial.
He said, “Mind if I talk to you for a minute?”
“Do I know you?” was Gerri’s stiff reply.
“Not yet.”
He had a reddish complexion, built like a solid oak tree, goatee trimmed, hair short and texturized to make it look curly, dressed head to toe in Tommy Hilfiger jeans, shoes, probably had on matching Hilfiger drawers. The walking billboard had jumped right into the flow of our verbal intercourse, burglarized his way into our conversation.
His name was Jefferson. He was the proud manager of the rap group Dangerous Lyrics, which was about to hit the stage in the back. He bragged, told Gerri how the group had just got back from Atlanta. They’d won a talent show for HOT 97, had a big after party at someplace called Plush.
Chris Tucker. Holyfield. Chilli. Miki Howard. In the middle of his flattery and nonstop macking he dropped a lot of names.
Gerri asked him, “Ain’t you kinda young to be playing me so close?”
“I ain’t young. I’m twenty-six.”
“Well, this chunk of Little Rock is thirty-six.”
“Damn, you don’t look no more than twenty-one.”
“Thanks, but look. Let’s not waste time. I’m divorced with two kids. My daughter is in middle school. My son is sixteen, almost your age. What you wanna do, come over and play Nintendo with him while you baby-sit?”
“Hey, age ain’t nothing but a number.”
“In some states it’s ten-to-twenty singing jailhouse rock.”
“Five minutes, that’s all I ask. Let me buy you a drink and we can talk, and in the end if you wanna step off, cool.”
He didn’t back away. Stood in front of her like he had been appointed the spring to her summer. Six foot five, thick, and when he strutted, most of the sisters looked like they were ready to start throwing him their panties and keys to hotel rooms and charge cards.
Jefferson took Gerri’s hand, pulled her away from us, got her a glass of wine, hemmed up in a private spot, and got his mack on.
When they left Dana smiled, looked the young buck up and down, let her eyes dance to a rhythm of envy and delight, then made a sexy, humming sound.
I asked, “What was that all about?”
“What?”
I mimicked her scandal-lust humming.
She laughed. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
While me and Dana tainted our souls with a strong and smooth French Connections, I played the role and hid from my memories, told Dana I was a black man working hard every day, as single as a dollar bill, no kids, no ex-wives, no problems. With every word I dug my hole deeper. Dana shifted closer, gave me serious eyes, said she had the same résumé.
Dangerous Lyrics took the stage. A group of five girls. Most of them barely looked legal. All dressed in tight-tight black pants made of that trendy, stretchy-tight material that let you know where a woman’s panty lines are. Colorful halter tops—satin lying across their majestic breasts—made them look like rainbows above the waist. All of them with nicknames like Big Leggs, Goldie, Butter Pecan, Pooh Bear, Chocolate Starr.
Butter Pecan stepped up like she was the leader of the crew. From her looks, her nickname was based on her complexion. The D.J. kicked on a preprogrammed tape. People stepped back and the group found some space on the tiny wooden dance floor, danced with the same ferocious