Disclaimers: See Chapter 1. Any other comments can be sent to me at bironel@gmail.com
Synopsis: A novella about the an insanely wealthy white woman's search for her soul mate and the debt ridden black woman writer, with a vivid imagination, who tries to keep out of her way.
Taking a Meeting
Brown ankle boots, with a side zipper and buckle and a 3” heel strike the ground of the subway platform to a soulful cadence weaving through the throng of straphangers. The stride suggests a confidence the owner of the handsome boots, falsely projects.
Nailah Brown climbs up the stairs of the subway station towards the north-western edge of the great park at the center of the city. Her destination: a ten-story light red brick building across the street from the park five blocks away. She walks past luxury apartment buildings with snotty doormen in faux security costumes and speciality shops catering to very eclectic tastes.
Nailah wraps her brown knit gloves fingers around the strap of her canvas messenger bag, which hangs across her almost six foot tall frame. Her matching brown knit cap stretched slightly over her soft cloud Afro. Her earlobes prevent long silver hoops from succumbing to gravity's whims while they gently swing to the beat set forth by the tall woman's well booted feet.
Nailah clearly sees the building in which Amanda De Klerk-Zwart lives-two blocks ahead, spanning an entire city block.
The pre-war architecture of the red brownstone building surrounded by a low cast-iron fence and elaborate hedges and manicured shrubs. The building sculptures were covered with angels and sculptured vines. A “green goddess” weathered verdigris copper face is set above the large tinted glass modern doorway.
That “green goddess” and her masonic “green” masonic tribe decorated many of the buildings she walked past. Nailah notes that these ancient sentries protect the “downtown” mortals and pondered why they were conspicuously absent in the plans for buildings erected for less moneyed and browner masses living further uptown.
It seems to her that her neighbors needed more protection from the indignities of urban living then the well heeled, lighter hued and pocket flush people who called this area of the city home.
As Nailah approached the building she entertained herself with mental projections of “liberating” these ancient guards to employ their services uptown:
Night. The sexier version of Nailah is perched on the roof of a twenty-story luxury pre-war building, her slender gloved fingers holding high-tech binoculars to her keen dark brown eyes. Her targets are a series of gargoyles frozen since their creation. Silent stone sentries instantly ready for whatever is to come.
Ten floors below them is the elaborate carving of a “green god.” The one Nailah had chosen this night, under the cover of a new moon, to awake. She choose the “green god” instead of the many goddesses adorning numerous buildings, thinking that in this patriarchal world, a god would get more respect than a goddess.
Besides, a disrespected goddess might take her ire out on the one who has disturbed her rest: females can be that irrational sometimes. Nailah, if she is anything, is practical – especially in her daydreams.
A purple sky: a wind bellows up and a light rain escapes from darkening purple clouds.
Nailah pulls the ancient scroll from her shoulder pouch, along with a packet of sacred earth obtained from holy, consecrated land and a book of matches.
Standing before a strong blue flame which defies the wind and is fed by the rain, surrounded by a circle of blessed black earth. Nailah recites an ancient ritual spell. Upon the last word uttered, a great rumble shakes the massive building. Alternating car alarms puncture the night air.
The gargoyles awaken first, their stony grimaces fully animated with a purpose. As they emerge from their eternal sleep, building bricks drop menacingly from to the ground below, nearly missing a woman walking her dog, an angry Shiatsu and a male jogger - who narrowly escapes oblivion as he jumps aside after he removes the earphones of his iPod.
The “green god” unwraps his massive body from around the building displacing more bricks.
The buildings residents are confused by the the unexpected movement of their dwelling. Some of the tenants hang out of their apartment windows to witness the spectacle.
Others escape the dancing building, spilling into the street below - a flow of humanity - to turn, crane their necks to the heavens and witness the impossible. In the distance, above the piercing car alarms, a fire truck and emergency crew sirens grows louder.
With a stony crown of leaves upon his head, the “green god” stands the entire height of the twenty-story building his large stony eyes peering over the roof edge looking at Nailah and the gargoyles. The four gargoyles bow at the “green god's” countenance.
Nailah walks toward the giant stone god who regards her. The “green god” lifts his arm knocking more of the building down to the street below in the process. He presents his open palm for Nailah to step onto - which she does. The “green god” flexes his thumb perpendicular to his palm. Nailah grabs onto the thumb as the “green god' turns away from the building where he was once frozen in time.
In opposition to the will of the police and city emergency crews, all the stony animated miracles begin the their journey uptown. Woe to the unaware as all buses, cars and such things are pulverized to their material of origin as this version of the ancient “green giant” takes his first and only walk.
The next day news crews are amazed as they report to a shell shocked city the evenings events:
A handsome news reader speaks: “One stone rendering of a celtic god and his four accompanying gargoyles “decide” to leave their posh digs for a city project uptown, the Lionel Hamilton Houses, where they have added themselves to the minimal decorations of the federally built, maintained and crime ridden building.”
“To the amazement of the project tenants, crime which occurred for years without interruption on the premises has swiftly diminished in frequency over a matters of days.”
“For some reason the neighboring drug dealers and other criminally bent are reluctant to ply their wares in full view of the projects newest residents. It seems that everyone in the project agrees that the stony sentries are always watching.”
Always watching.
Nailah chuckles to herself. Her favorite past time has quieted down her rapidly beating heart and quelled the sweat glands in her hands. She can't understand why she is so nervous.
No apprehensive.
Why did she suddenly feel like she was a ladybug who had unknowingly ventured into spider web when she crossed the threshold of the building: A luxurious building with red brick, terra-cotta, and verdigris copper web with a handsome and surprising pleasant doorman.
Nailah thinks: Note to self - in next life must definitely be rich.
As Nailah walked to the metal elevator door as directed by the friendly doorman, she wondered why she wasn't required to sign a security ledger. She enjoyed her adolescent ritual of signing the names of various cartoon characters in the security log-in sheets of the various building she was requested to sign. Thanks to her, Bugs Bunny, the Tick and Abbey Lincoln aka “Numbuh Five” visited many buildings around the city.
Nailah regarded her appearance in the reflection of the shiny metal elevator doors. She is pleased that she presents a neat appearance. Nailah plans to use the $50,000 advance to pay off as much of her $60,000 debt as possible. The rest that's left owed - screw it. She didn't have any heirs or assets. She wished she had a bit extra to leave her Auntie.
Her escape plan was still in effect but she was at a lost how to accomplish this feat. There seems to be some essence coded in one's DNA for self-preservation, as she tried a few - unsuccessful attempts. Most importantly, Nailah didn't want to needlessly suffer nor cause her Auntie any unnecessary pain.
It has to be an accident. But how? A part of Nailah felt guilty about not holding up her end of this strange bargain she agreed to with the annoying, rich white woman. Nailah was certain Ms. De Klerk-Zwart could find a ghost writer to finish the book. Perhaps take credit for writing it herself. As far as Nailah was concerned this ladybug hopes to get the check for the money today and execute her final solution.
As the medium brown woman pondered these dark thoughts, the elevator doors opened and she step inside one fashionable brown ankle boot after the other.
Inside the elevator, the same shiny, reflective surface on the outside was on the inside giving Nailah four different views of her neat self. Over the PA of the elevator music was piped in.
Cool music.
As Nailah subtly moves side to side to the music of Stevie Wonder's As , she regards each and every version of herself, in four directions. Nailah begins singing the lyrics to the song.
As the song builds to a crescendo lead by a jazzy organ solo and the accompanying bass line, Nailah brakes out into a full dance amusing herself until the elevator reaches the top floor.
The elevator doors open on the top floor. The music continues, the dancing abruptly ceases. Game face on, Nailah emerges from the metal cocoon. The elevator is at one end of the corridor. There is a long corridor with marble tiled floors and wood panel walls which lead to a single red door.
One door.
One apartment.
An apartment which dimensions span one city block. Letting these factoids germinate in her grey matter, Nailah has an insightful thought: Damn this chick is rich!
One loud slightly insecure knock, following by two “I hope no one is home” gentle taps on the red door are responded to by the sounds of three locks opening and the genuine smile of a warm elderly Asian bald male which reaches his dark black eyes under salt & pepper bushy eyebrows.
The red door is opened wider allowing Nailah to enter the spacious and opulent hallway with it's parquet wood floors.
The walls are decorated with art pieces which looked like they belonged in a large museum.
The Asian gentlemen takes Nailah ¾ coat, hat and gloves to secure them elsewhere in this warehouse called an apartment loft. Left with only her messenger bag, Nailah is able to look at all the artwork in the hallway.
Music plays in the background. Strange tinny music with a female screaming in some foreign language - giving Nailah a slight headache.
The artwork was contributing to the pounding in her head too. On closer examination most of these pieces depict various scenes of sexual depravity, some of which included animals. At the center of the tapestry is a women in white who seems to be orchestrating the events unfolding on the fabric. This woman reminds Nailah of a disturbing dream she had the night before.
Disturbed but not surprised by the subject matter, Nailah dismisses the naughty works of self-expression with a haughty eye and neck roll followed by a hard to duplicate chirp of the tongue. People have maimed themselves in past attempts to duplicate this maneuver.
One tapestry depicts a scene of cannibalism as well of sexual exploits of every position conceivable. Nailah is determined to get her funds elsewhere if this rich woman is the gatekeeper to a one way ticket to hell. The headache wasn't helping her judging mood either.
The Asian man hadn't returned and the lady of this joint hadn't made an appearance so Nailah decides to retrieve her belongs and blow this popsicle stand. Nailah walks into an adjacent room where a large ebony black desk rests in front of a large window with a large thin stylish black laptop computer rests in its center.
Along the wall is a red leather couch in front of which is a oblong oval dark glass coffee table on which numerous magazines are stacked.
The large tech chair swirls away from the window to face into the room - a chair containing a bare foot Amanda De Klerk-Zwart wearing jeans, baby blue tee-shirt with a picture of a disembodied hand with the index, middle and ring finger raised over a caption which states: read between the lines and a mischievous smile.
Amanda: You like the paintings?
Nailah: Look I'm not feeling so hot. Why don't I just drop this off and go home.
Amanda: What's wrong? Is it the music?
Nailah rubs her eyes and messages her temples to convey her discomfort.
Amanda picks up an ultra thin, state of the art, design award winning remote control from the top of the massive ebony black desk, and aims it at the stereo unit.
With one click, blessed silence.
Amanda: So you don't like Bjork?
Nailah: Who?
Amanda: That's who we were listening to - Bjork. Have a seat.
Amanda pushes a chair away from the desk towards Nailah with a single French manicured big toe. Nailah ignores this gesture, relieved to be in silence again, and sits on the edge of the long red couch, a considerable distance from the desk.
Amanda: I thought you like music.
Nailah: I wouldn't describe those sounds as music.
Amanda (laughs): You certainly enjoyed the music in the elevator.
Nailah (grimaces): You were WATCHING me!
Amanda: You can learn a lot about a person when they are by themselves in a confined space. If you had exhibited any questionable behavior Surinder Singh would have been instructed to dismiss you.
Nailah: Who??
Amanda: My Zen golf advisor / chef / right hand - you just met him.
Nailah: Oh.
Amanda: Okay so Bjork no Stevie Wonder yes. Let's go over the notes I have for you.
Amanda gets up from her chair, picks up a legal pad and walks to the couch handing it to Nailah who places her closed messenger bag onto of the coffee table. Nailah reads through the numerous pages of handwritten notes.
Amanda: You didn't tell me what you thought about the art work in the foyer.
Nailah: Disturbing.
Amanda: Go on.
Nailah: There isn't much more to say... except that that one painting reminded me of a dream I had. It probably was a premonition.
Amanda watches as Nailah quickly scans through her pages of notes.
Amanda: I didn't think you were superstitious.
Nailah: It's not superstitious it's being observant. Not everything can be explained by rulers and calculators. The dream was about a witch - a face stealing witch.
Amanda: That's not a dream that's a nightmare!
Nailah: Who are you telling? I stayed awake all night after that trying to analyze it until the sun came up.
Amanda: Do you remember any of it?
Nailah puts the legal pad down on her lap and stares into space - recalling the details of her nightmare.
Nailah narrates: In my dream, I woke up a bit late as I looked at the digital clock on the wall. It read 11:15 A. M. I had wanted to rise earlier but it is what it is. I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom to begin my ablutions.
Amanda (interrupts): Ablutions?? Who talks like that?
Nailah: Do you want to hear about it or not?
Amanda: Please “do” go on.
Nailah narrates: In my dream, I turned on the faucet then looked in the vanity mirror and was startled at the strange woman looking back at me.
I watched as the steam from the water filling the sink clouded the mirror with mist obscuring that strange face.
I wiped the condensation on the mirror surface away and it was thick like clear, cold slime, sticking to my fingers. I shook it off flinging it into the sink and looked back at the face staring back at me - not my face.
Yeah those were the pj's I put on the night before and the acne mark on my neck was still there. Even in my dreams remnants of adolescence mocks me.
I breathed and a mist of air escaped from my nose and mouth. I shivered and hugged myself. I touched the face - it's nose, it's cheeks, watching fat tears roll. My sadness grew resentful. What the heck happened? Where was my face? The one I lovingly created crinkles in the corners of my eyes when I smiled or that disappearing / reappearing dimple when I was bashful. Where was the that mischievous glint in my eyes or those tiny neat rows of teeth I polished with pride after almost every meal - my minty morning ritual?
I heard my Auntie milling about the house behind the closed bathroom door and realized when she saw me she probably won't recognize me and think I was a home invader.
I looked down at my pj's again. A sick home invader who likes to wear other peoples pj's. I panicked: If she doesn't shoot me with her legally registered beretta - I'll probably spend the rest of my life in prison trying to avoid being violated by women of questionable histories. The thought made me sick to my stomach. Why me?
I stuck my head through the small crack when I opened the door. My Auntie was walking towards me! She stopped in front of the bathroom door, looked at my strange new face and asked: I'm making tea you want a cup?
I was dumbfounded! She acted like people change their appearances everyday! I looked at her - she looked at me. We blinked then she shrugged her shoulders and walked away. I emerged from the bathroom truly annoyed. I followed her and asked her if she noticed anything different about me.
She asked if being unemployed was making me depressed. She told me if I needed to “talk with someone” she would cover any of the expenses. I couldn't believe how blase she was about the change to my face. I was irate and pointed out that I didn't wake up looking the same as I did when I laid my head down last night. She told me I look the same as I've always looked. The same? Was she high? Was she sick? I gently placed my hand on her forehead to gauge whether she had a fever or not. She slapped my hand away and asked again if I wanted tea. To which I replied NO!
But after a millisecond of reconsideration I meekly accepted any cup of green earl gray with one dollop of thyme honey. We never have clover honey in the house. No matter the crisis, I do have my standards.
Amanda (interrupts): What is it with you and tea? Is it like Superman has his Kryptonite?
Nailah: Kryptonite cripples Superman. Tea invigorates me. It inspires me. It warms me. It makes me - me. It's my thing.
Amanda: Go on.
Nailah narrates: When the tea kettle whistled I remembered our family photo albums! That was the proof I needed that something had happened to my face.
Amanda (interrupts): Were you horribly disfigured?
Nailah: No. The face which was grafted on mine was okay it just wasn't my face. I put a lot of years into my face. I made it expressively mine. I know folks today are surgically altering themselves right and left to be sexier or look younger but I liked my face and I wanted it back the way it was but first I had to prove it was missing. With my Auntie acting like nothing radical had happened all my protests would have landed me in an insane asylum.
Amanda: Those institutions have been closed since the early 80's you'd just be homeless on the street.
Nailah: What's with your homeless fixation? Is that a rich person thing? Anyway, I got those photo albums down to prove to my Auntie what had happened to me.
Amanda: Are you always so… Sherlock Holmes-ish in your dreams?
Nailah: Awake or not my deductive mind is always on the job. You ask quite a lot of questions yourself.
Amanda rose from the couch and padded over to her desk. She rifled through some papers to retrieve a package of gum. She stuffed to pieces in her mouth and wordlessly offered Nailah some. Nailah declined.
Amanda returned to her seat, sitting cross-legged with her elbows resting on her knees and her head cradled in the palms of her hands. Chewing demurely she leaned closer to Nailah and blew a large gum bubble before popping it.
Nailah: Do you want to know what happened next or not?
Amanda (chewing): This is all riveting. Do go on.
Nailah narrates: When I got the photo albums from the living room I opened them and got an even bigger shock. Every photo of me was blurry. Every photo of me from childhood on was blurry.
What the heck was going on? On closer examination the only face blurry in every photo was mine. Everyone else was clearly the way I remembered them sharp and clear. I yelled out loud.
My Auntie rushed to the living room to find out what was wrong. Armed with a broom and bug spray she erroneously thought I saw a mouse or even worse a… cockroach. Ewww.
I explained to her as I took the weapons out of her hands that the pictures in the album were changed. She looked at them turning page after page until she reached the end of the album. Then she looked at me and said nothing was different from the last time she looked through them. I told her that every picture of me was blurry. She replied I never could keep still whenever someone snapped my picture.
I was dumbfounded again until I noticed a picture of me as a child sleeping. How could I possibly moved so much while sleeping to make my face blurry? Auntie replied that Uncle Leo, who probably took the picture, wasn't the best photographer, especially after an afternoon cocktail.
I replied that the face of the stuff toy tiger in the bed next to me - the one I was sleeping with - can clearly be seen. She looked at it again and then sighed. She smiled and told me I'd have to take it up with the woman down the street. Which woman, I asked her. The woman who took your face, she replied.
Mouth agape I couldn't believe it. Then I asked: Who are you? She replied: Your Aunt.
My foreign eyes narrowed. I looked at the bug spray and the broom wondering which one to use when I realized a more appropriate question. I asked: Who were you yesterday? It replied: A cockroach.
Then to push my freak out meter to red alert levels she turned into a giant cockroach!
Holy metamorphosis! I hate cockroaches! So I did what I normally do in these situations: I screamed my lungs raw and ran around errantly spraying the bug stuff until I remembered to run out the room toward the bathroom to lock myself inside.
I sat on the edge of the tub coughing and crying. It was gonna get me! Then I heard a knock on the bathroom door. I actually answered: Who is it? The thing replied: Me. Can I come in?
What?? There was no freaking frak way I was gonna open that door and let that giant bug in! I forgive you for trying to poison me, it replied. I wasn't trying to poison you I was trying to kill you - you Aunt stealing insect! As you can tell my fear was giving way to being hot - jalapeno hot!
I'll take you to the woman who took you face if you wish, it spoke. Cockroaches don't speak english, I exclaimed, so I can't / don't / won't hear you. Go away! Leave me alone.
It didn't respond for some time. But I heard it scurrying across the floor outside the bathroom door.
Then I'll send her to you, it replied. I wondered what that meant until all the wall tiles fell away until the bathroom was no more.
I sat on the edge of a white tub in the middle of a white void. I stood clutching my bug spray just in case and looked around. At the far edge of the void was a building that looked like a palace. I figured out quick that was possibly where the chick was who stole my face and replaced my Auntie with a nasty bug.
Oh we was gonna have words, believe that. So I stormed off towards the palace.
It was impressive in a excess waste of space sort of way. But palaces are just that - vast amounts of mostly unused space filled with artwork no one will see for those who practice the faith that sharing anything is a dirty word to be expunged from all dictionaries aka neo-conservative privatizing junkies. Don't hate the truth if it applies to you.
There were one hundred and eight stairs I had to climb to get to the large front doors. When I reached the doors they opened. Inside my mind I screamed: This is a trap! I saw this scene in countless movies. Lucky for me I had my trusty bug spray and it was nearly full of poison. Oh goody.
As I stepped across the marble threshold, I heard zen like music playing. I looked around but didn't see any musicians. I walked through the long blue hall lined with black marble columns towards a garden.
In the garden eight black women wearing elaborate cornrow hair styles like crowns of hair and brilliant kimonos were playing the zen music on traditional Japanese instruments. They didn't notice me as I moved carefully through the garden.
A voice spoke out from behind a large curious rose brush: Welcome to my home. I looked at the rose brush which had roses of every color growing on it but none were duplicated. Your home, I snorted, or did you steal this too? I had an instinct for who exactly I was dealing with.
This woman slowly emerged from behind the roses. A tall white woman wearing a white kimono, with white hair wearing MY FACE! My face looked bizarre above her white neck. My eyes. My nose. I love my nose! Gimme back my face! I cried.
Witch: This is my face. The one you wear is yours.
Nailah: I didn't agree to this exchange. I had no say in it - so I want my face back. And I want it back now!
Witch: What is the alternative?
Nailah: What?!?!
Witch: Your demands suggests an alternative outcome if I don't comply. What will you do when I decline to return this face that I've grown attached to?
Nailah: Don't test me witch.
Witch: That is exactly what I intend to do… test you. I'm curious what you will do.
I can't be held responsible for what I did next after a total disrespect for my sensibilities. These are the reasons why I like to keep to myself. Others tend to piss me off to my limits and then I react impulsively. Destructively.
I'm never proud of it and in fact my abilities to inflict justified suffering on the rude, the selfish, the sadistic, and the down right mean and hateful tends to take it's toll on my conscience during the aftermath. I guess that's why the doused the flames I burned that witch and her zen musicians with. As you know bug spray not only a poison, it's also flammable.
The zen players didn't survive but that witch was shocked. She sat amidst the ashes of her musicians, their instruments, her kimono and her hair. The surface of her skin was ashen gray and she was now bald. I was pleasantly surprised I didn't damage my face.
She blinked my eyes at me then slowly stood.
Witch: Must you resort to destructive violence?
Nailah: I know of no other kind. You doubted my power…
Witch: That display wasn't power child! That was rampant undisciplined energy without direction. You want to display power. I'll show you power!
My mind screamed: Oh freak!
As she waved her hand across her body she donned a royal blue kimono. Guess she has a thing for all things Japanese. Then she held her hands down pointing towards the mound of musician ash.
From it grew a tree, a golden tree, fully formed and mature. It's golden leaves swayed in a slight breeze the witch generated as she walked around it. The leaves made chime sounds as they brush against each other. Musical chime sounds.
I expected to be obliterated, which would have severely disrupted my plans of retrieving my face. She impressed me. There was no way I could match her abilities.
Nailah: Alright, what do you want in exchange for my face back?
Witch: Oh now you're willing to negotiate? Well forget it! You'll never get this face back so get used to the one you have now!
Nailah: I apologize for my outburst…
Witch: Outburst! You destroyed my musicians! They were unique! Do you know how long it took me to train them? Of course you don't! How long it took me to find them? I search every urban dwelling on earth and found the right ones. They were perfect. They performed harmoniously. That project took me ten years! Not ten of your years. Ten of mine! Then in the blink of a borrowed eye you go and destroy everything. I should destroy you but it is more fitting that you suffer with that face instead.
I was truly remorseful. I wish I wasn't so impulsive when angered but I've been this way since I was a child. I don't see or think straight when vexed. I begged the witch to reconsider. I would do anything to get my face back.
Witch: Anything?
Nailah: Within reason.
Witch: You aren't in any position to impose conditions!
Nailah: I won't do anything else that's destructive in order to get my face back. If you want that then I'm willing to let go my claim to it.
Witch: Well spoken child you've learnt quickly.
Nailah: What are you talking about?
Witch: That was the test not your impulsive response but you reaction to the potential consequences. I've taken from you now you must retrieve something for me.
Nailah: I'm not a thief.
Witch: All I need you to do is get a book. An inconsequential book.
Nailah: That's it? A book? You took my face to get a book! You could have just asked! I can get any book you want. I know many online book dealers who sell out of print titles. I have a wish list of books I want to get when I come into some extra money.
Witch: From where does this fountain of confidence spring? What is it source? You know not, very well child, for your face you'll give me the Malleus Maleficarum.
Nailah: What's that?
Witch: The bane of my existence. Get me the Malleus, Type Artist and I shall return your face.
Nailah: You steal faces but can't get a some pamphlet?
Witch: It is hidden from me.
Nailah: If you can't find it how can I?
Witch: It is closer to you than me.
Nailah: What is it - some sort of cosmic remote control?
Nailah narrates: The witch approached me, mocking me with my smile which didn't reach my eyes. Nose to stolen nose she opened her mouth to speak and a spray of frozen mist escaped followed by her words:
Witch: At the tip of your pen, with your fingertips hovering over plastic letters, it lies in your imagination.
Nailah narrates: Then I woke up, drenched in sweat. As I took a shower to refresh myself I realized that I was entering into a deal which wasn't in my best interests.
I could hear Detective Nailah and Hood Rat Nailah clapping enthusiastically.
Amanda: What the hell is a Malleus Maleficarum?
Nailah: How should I know?
Amanda: So you expect me to believe that dream was about our arrangement not being in your best interest? Please that was probably the result of something you ate late. I get indigestion when I eat hamburgers late at night.
Nailah: I lean towards vegan.
Amanda: That dream was probably your subconscious warning you about Malleus Maleficarum whatever that might be. Did you look it up?
Nailah: I did not go to the dictionary to look up meaning because I never use dollar words in twenty-five cents situations.
Amanda: What?
Nailah: That witch stole my face! My identity!
Amanda: Interesting. You even dream dramatically. Still not interested in completing this novel?
Nailah shoots a sharp look at Amanda both amazed she moved so close to her so unaware and that she voiced Nailah thoughts - until she read these notes. The story would be improved - she could hear the characters of the novel awaken to speak to her from the ideas generated by Amanda's numerous suggestions and queries.
Amanda: Got the fever back I see.
Nailah: What fever?
Amanda: To create. Us lesser morals settle for the pleasures of decent fucking. But you artistic types burn for a different passion, a different act of creation - to emotionally and mentally fuck as many people as possible.
Nailah: Must you relate everything to sex acts.
Amanda: And must you refuse to have anything that has to do with the parts of life that are sticky, messy, smelly and passionate?
Nailah: You don't know me to judge me like that.
Amanda: You'd fail miserably at poker. Don't get defensive, I didn't say you were devoid of passion. Your passion is in creating stories. You probably do this like the rest of us breath - it's automatic but you haven't figured out how to get it from hobby to life sustaining career. That's where my job - I'm the bridge.
Nailah: These notes are quite good and I'll admit I didn't think you'd understand anything I wrote nor be able to make this better-
Amanda: There always a but.
Nailah: I can't continue without some sort of payment.
Amanda: I wouldn't have suspected that you possessed a status quo mind.
Nailah: We have a contract which states that as the work on the novel progressed, I would be receiving $50,000. I consider three chapters a significant progression.
Amanda: But… you could easily disappear with the money and I'm left with three chapters of an unfinished novel. I can't shop that.
Nailah: Perfect.
Nailah stands up from the red couch, pondering her next response. I need to settle my accounts! The alternative is to work on the book. “Bare toes” here made improvements with her many queries. If I get the money and leave the project unfinished that wouldn't settle well on my conscience.
If I finish this book all I may get is the $50,000. I'd need a bit more to settle all my accounts. However, being $10,000 in the red isn't as bad as $60,000. When this rich chick steals my work and it's a forgone conclusion she will do just that and make millions in the process - I suppose I could get a McFast Food job to pay off the rest of my loans. But then I'll have to figure out the direction for rest of my life from there. Escape or Tough it out?
Damn it's much easier to do the wrong thing than the right thing. The right thing takes too long and too much work.
So... I guess I have my answer.
Nailah runs her hands through her soft Afro creating a row of narrow furrows through her dark brown hair. Amanda keenly watches as the finger generated furrows quickly disappear as the soft tight curls spring back out reaching out like antennas to the heavens.
Amanda: In good faith I'll have $12,500 deposited into you account.
Nailah: I need to entire $50,000.
Amanda: And what would be the motivation for you to finish? I'm risking more than you.
Nailah: You're risking more than ME??
Amanda: How often do you write each day?
Nailah: I was writing for hours everyday! Even when YOU didn't get in contact with me.
Amanda: And how many hours did you write yesterday?
No response.
Amanda: I'm supposed to give the entire advance to a writer who writes when the mood strikes her?
Nailah: I can adhere to a schedule.
Amanda: Perhaps a change of scenery as well.
Nailah: What are you suggesting?
Amanda: A compromise - you can write here - there's more than enough room. After you complete the changes to the first three chapters and begin the next one in sequence, you'll receive the entire amount of the advance.
Nailah: I'm not moving in here!
Amanda: Why not? I'm rarely here since I travel often and you'll have the run of the place.
Nailah mulled this over carefully: I could just forget all of this and just go along with my plans letting the insurance settlement handle my affairs - except for one tiny problemo - my cowardice.
Amanda droned on about the virtues of her loft as a creative space as I recalled my latest attempts at my final solution:
I thought of the various plans to off myself in an accidental way - but most options lost their appeal. Hanging, I suppose one could misconstrue it to auto eroticism but it could also be concluded that I just off'ed myself invalidating the insurance payoff.
Besides who wants their last look to be one with your oxygen deprived black tongue sticking out of your mouth? Gross.
I drive too well for a car crash. I actually pride myself on my excellent driving. So my pride won't allow for that. I suppose I could get someone to “take me out” but the deal to whack me may be revealed also invalidating my insurance claim for accidental death.
Guns, forget it. Poison, I'll leave that alone.
I ran out of cool ideas so I did what I thought any self-respecting suicide prospect would do - I went to the video store and rented movies to get a great deal of new ideas.
At the video store I walked by the latest releases and went straight to the older action and drama movies. I actually found a few I hadn't seen but nothing to get a cool accidental suicide idea.
Then I strolled down the Foreign film section. French films: had that necessary depressing aspect but much too long; Chinese films: exciting and action packed but consisted of too much gunplay and car chases, which I invalidated previously; Japanese films: now those are some sick flicks! I recalled watching a strange japanese film where this lactating women was having sex with her lover - nursing was part of their sex-play and was the most normal part of the movie. I knew I hit the mother-load when I found a flick entitled: The Suicide Club ! Woo Hoo!
I grabbed the box and got on line to rent it when all of a sudden my inner female detective, I like to call, Detective Nailah, began having a one-sided conversation with me:
Detective Nailah: You do realize once you rent this thing they will have a record of it. Premeditation of a suicide invalidates any insurance payoff.
Damn. I was right. I rushed back to the Japanese film section, wiped my prints off the box with my jacket sleeve and carefully placed it back on the shelf. I left the video store hoping there was no video record of me having been there.
Detective Nailah: You do realize you could probably find that video posted on line somewhere. Get on the internet anonymously and watch it on a computer.
Damn. I'm smart but must I begin every damn sentence with “You must realize…” okay Sherlock Noir, I wouldn't need your black ass if I did realize, would I?
Detective Nailah: You do realize that talking to voices in your head could be considered signs of insanity?
Shut up!
I watched that weird film and the only thing I gleaned from it of considerable interest, was the opening sequence of fifty school girls holding hands while standing on the platform of a train station. Before the train pulls into the station they all jump together in front of the incoming train. What a bloody mess and not in the quaint British curse / slang variety.
The train would do all the work I'd just have to maneuver myself into the right spot at the right time. It would appear as if I accidentally fell.
I could do that.
Not!
I went to every train station and subway in the city and I couldn't do it. At first I thought the roar of the trains coming into the station scared me so I wore earplugs which blocked out the sound.
Then when I couldn't hear the trains coming, feeling them instead as the rumbles under my feet unnerved me. I had to be talked away from my tight hug of a platform column by a homeless man. A column with old chewed gum stuck to it! Yeech!
On my final attempt, I was berated by an older Latina who brazenly complained in Spanglish “That I had better get my black ass “lejos del borde de la plataforma” before I fall and make her late for work”.
I grumbled on my way home.
-----
Amanda: Hello earth to writer - you still in there?
Nailah: Oh sorry I was thinking things over.
Amanda: You don't get seizures do you?
Nailah: No! Of course not.
Amanda: When was your last physical?
Nailah: Why do you need to know?
Amanda: All my potential employees are screened. Pre-existing conditions may render you incapable of completing the work.
Nailah: You want to see if I'm a pot head or have one foot in the grave.
Amanda (winks): Exactly. Although I'm not adverse to a tote now and them.
Why doesn't that surprise me?
Nailah: So when and where do I have to pee in a cup?
Amanda gets up and walks back to her desk. She retrieves a white business card and hands it to Nailah.
Amanda: That's the medical facility I use, personally - they will take good care of you. It will be relatively painless. Just filling out some paperwork and that drug test you so brilliantly described.
Nailah: Define… relatively painless.
Amanda: You hate needles too? I personally think doctors are ghoulish vampires.
They both laughed until Nailah realizes they shared something without her being on guard. The strangeness of that moment shakes her back to her mistrusting mind.
Amanda: Were done for the day. You read over those notes and set up an appointment for your physical. Remember if you need the loft, it's yours and so is the entire advance. Think about it and let me know soon as possible. I'll be going out of town in two weeks.
Thus ended their first meeting. Nailah left the building with her jacket and knapsack bulging with her annotated manuscript and the card still in her hand - relieved the ladybug escaped to live another day.
-----
Amanda slides into her task chair. She flips open a stylish cell phone, pushes a button on it and swirls in her chair to face the window as she listens to the phone ring. From ten stories high, she watches the spec of Nailah walking down the street and disappearing around a corner.
Amanda: It's me. Pause. Her name is Nailah Brown. N-a-i-l-a-h Brown. She should call you to set up an appointment by the end of the week. Pause. The usual - screen for drugs. Pause. Blood test. The psych eval too. Long pause. If the results met all my benchmarks, harvest... four.