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.
Duality
Clocking In Daily
I just typed past page 200 of my novel and my stomach growled. I glanced at the clock in the upper right hand corner of the computer screen to discover my biological clock was accurate, as always. It was lunch time. I saved all the words I typed the last four hours and grabbed my duffle bag to retrieve my hummus and plum tomato sandwich and my thermos of hot green tea.
As I munched my lunch, I could hear Her manservant milling about just outside this huge living room. His duties seemed to keep him lingering around me everyday I came to the loft to write. I could see him in my peripheral vision continually popping his head through the doorway to “check on my progress” as he put it in his heavy punjabi accent. I and my various mental aspects “knew” he was just making sure I didn't steal anything.
When I first came over here a month ago, I was royally pissed off by his treatment of me - overly politeness masking deep seated mistrust. So I began carrying my small lunch in various bags of different sizes which I would stuff with the pages I printed out to edit later at my Auntie's house.
I would chuckle to myself at how frantically his eyes would search the various contents of the living room when my work of writing was over and I was to leave the loft for the day. I often wondered how he would have handled it if I took Her up on her offer and stayed here while I wrote my novel.
After a month of these childish games I grew wary of his negative perception of me. I examined many ways to get him to leave me alone and to my delight found the least violent way in which to do it - music.
Her man servant, whom I internally referred to affectionately as S.S., didn't like the jazz music I listened to when I wrote. Not that elevator music stuff. The older, primordial sounds of Cannonball, Coltrane, Davis and the avant-garde free jazz musings offered by Pharoah Sanders would run Mr. Surinder Singh out the room muttering to himself.
I stared out the window while I slowly consumed my sandwich watching the people ten stories below darting about the city streets. I could understand why the rich and greedy like to live in towering structures. It made the little people existing on the streets below seem really small - insect like and I wondered if that was how my benefactor saw me. I grimaced.
House Sitting
I sit alone in this cavernous room. Alone in this penthouse loft apartment. It seems my duties have expanded from sponsored writer to penthouse caretaker.
Mr. Singh had to leave suddenly to attend a funeral of a close family member in his home country. I would have been happy to continue my writing duties at my Auntie's house forgoing coming to this loft but Ms. De Klerk-Zwart recently acquired a rather large tree like house plant she named “Spot” which needed to be watered every other day. Guess who's to-do-list expanded to include that little task?
Apparently I give off waves of plant positive confidence so I was tapped into service virtually ensuring that I would need to be present in this loft almost every day. Honestly I didn't want to kill the thing. It seemed a shame that it was trapped in doors being how massive in size it was. I secretly hoped it survived it's mistress' return because it would be a hell of a mess to discard.
My charge or “Spot” the Ficus tree was over six feet tall. I admit a sense of jealousy as my height ended at an inch under six feet. I enjoyed being tall and secretly maintained my adolescent wish of being taller. However having passed my mid twenties years ago I had to accept that any further growth spurts were an impossibility.
Last week I got two e-mails at the loft. One was from Mr. Singh, his prose was very formal and very British as he conveyed his apologies at having to delay his return by another week. I knew he would have a few bumps in his travel plans when I saw on the local news about some civil unrest breaking out in his country of origin over a difference of opinion. This disagreement between two political groups in his country caused the national government to basically shutdown which directly affected the airports stranding Mr. Singh as he waited through numerous flight delays and cancellations.
I wished him a safe journey to the proverbial “land of the free” in my response. But I was happy for the reprieve as I figured out what to do with “Spot” who seemed to be shedding once green but now yellow leaves all over the loft.
The second e-mail was from my benefactor and boss, Ms. De Klerk-Zwart. She sent three short sentences: Leaving London off to Milan . Mind Spot until Surinder returns. Looking forward to the first draft. -AKZ.
Nothing I did helped this plant. I thought I killed it by over watering. Then I thought perhaps it wasn't getting enough light so I had to figure out a way to maneuver “Spot” to a sun rich location in the loft. This was definitely not a one-woman job. Spot weighed over a three hundred pounds not counting the massive mound of earth she sat in. Yes I personified “Spot” as a female plant because she was giving me so much grief over her survival and not working with me to ensure it.
Typical chick drama.
I made a trip to a home improvement emporium purchasing a hand truck and strong rope to assist me in moving “Spot”. As you can imaging no writing had been done for a few days and the cost of this caper came out of the advance I had received to write. I was throughly frustrated.
When I was purchasing these items at the home improvement warehouse the store clerk and the store security guard eyed me suspiciously. It was a different kind of suspicious not the typical “oh she's about to steal something” bullshit I normally have to ignore in stores.
I used to privately joke that I'll plan go into stores with a sheet over my head to hide my race so I could shop in peace. That fantasy was totally blown out the water after 911.
As I took out the cash to pay, I realized that I did look like I was buying items to make use of for a serial killing crime spree. But I wasn't white or a male so I didn't fit the prototype of a serial killer. It occurred to me that the bullshit my race has gone through over the years, you know the lynchings, the double standards, the disenfrantisement across all human activities, if my race hadn't begun serial killing en masse yet it's a forgone conclusion it ain't gonna happen henceforth. I do like how Mr. Singh's utterances have peppered my inner voice.
Once I got the purchases to the loft, the security guard had to mention that I have to sign out any items I remove from the loft. What's with this constant idea that I want to steal something? I haven't stolen anything in my life and I've developed a thick skin to deal with all the stealing FROM me that has occurred in my life.
The very people who blast me because they think I have an unearned sense of entitlement seem hellbent on being entitled to use me as a scapegoat for their own shadow selves. There's a story in there somewhere and if “Spot” could cut me some slack I'd weave it into my novel.
After I ensured the guard that I was bringing and leaving not boosting and taking, I went upstairs in the elevator unmolested. Even though my benefactor was across the ocean being herself in a foreign city, I didn't move a muscle as one of my favorite R&B singers, Chaka Khan belted out a danceable tune over the elevator PA system. She probably had a video tape recording my every move for her future entertainment.
Once I got settled up in the loft, it took one hour to get Spot on the hand truck. One hour of sweat, cursing and tears. I know I had to have lost weight during that delicate procedure. A good fifteen pounds more or less.
I used the ropes to secure “Spot's” branches to limit any damage to them during the short move close to the window. Once I settled “Spot” in her new resting place I had to find a broom and dustpan to gather up all the yellow leaves and dirt left behind in a trail from one area to the other.
Days later things turned for the worst as Spot's health deteriorated as she dropped leaves almost everyday. I took to sleeping over on the red couch just to keep and eye out on her condition. I researched the internet for clues about what was wrong with her and I visited numerous plant stores in the city to ask for advice, all of which was conflicting.
-----
A complete week had gone by and I hadn't written a word. I wasn't blocked for ideas I was overly preoccupied with this attention whore plant!
I had to get a handle on things so I asked my Auntie for help. She wasn't anymore knowledgeable about plants but I thought she may have stumbled across some experiential knowledge about plants she temporarily stored away in her memory.
The only tidbit from my Auntie which proved to be a gold mine for “Spot's” survival was that plants respond positively to sound. Auntie suggested I needed to talk to it and perhaps play music for it. Well the talking wasn't too much of a stretch since I cursed at the thing since day one. Now I had to adopt a less abrasive voice. As for music it seemed Ms. De Klerk-Zwart had a vast collection of music. I choose items from both the classical section and the jazz section. I liked classic Spanish guitar so I played some of that and I loved Cannonball Adderley so I played a lot of his music. Then to mix it up I played some Radiohead and Porcupine Tree for variety.
Both “Spot” and I liked this arrangement. I began writing again and she stopped dropping leaves like a petulant two-year old. Every morning I spoke to her thanking her for hanging on until her mistress returned from wherever she was at the moment.
I even read some of my novel to “Spot” out aloud. The plant was a good judge of prose. She'd drop a leaf when I over used cliches or mixed metaphors.
Spot and I got along famously until she decided to do a very outside tree-like thing, totally dismissing that she was now an inside plant. Both Surinder Singh and Amanda De Klerk-Zwart took exactly two months to return from their travels which was enough time for me to be ten pages shy of the first draft of my novel and for “Spot” to decide to bear fruit.
Figs to be exact.
Then all hell broke lose. As I recount this sordid tale I claim total innocence of the events which followed.
An Early Return
It was a sunny, hot afternoon. Once I walked from the subway station to the loft I was totally wet from sweating so much. It was a good thing I brought with me a second tee shirt to slip into once I got up stairs.
As soon as I entered the loft it was really a difference in the temperature. The cooling system must have blasted arctic temperatures over night. It took me two hours to find the thermostat and turn it off.
Once the climate stopped creating goose bumps along my arms I greeted Spot who didn't seem too bothered by the temperature drop but she did have these figs dangling from almost everyone of her branches. I opened up the window to generate some fresh air in the living room and turned on the music Spot and I both enjoyed.
After an hour of typing I was distracted by a low hum sound. I tried to ignore it getting lost in the denouement of my novel. Then it was a loud hum by my ear. I jumped out of my skin it was so freakishly annoying. I knew some sort of insect had entered the living room through the window and was prepared to send it off to “bug heaven” with a rolled up copy of Architectural Digest in my tight fist.
What I assumed to be a harmless bug was in fact a wasp. A wasp with the personality of Clint Eastwood in those spaghetti westerns I loved as a child. Which would explain why the glass coffee table was cracked, the two lamps on the desk broke on contact with the wood floor and why “Spot” dropped all her fruit some of which I slipped on. My resultant fall cause the rest of the damage I was too dazed to catalogue when I hit the wood floor tailbone first then the back of my considerably hard head.
A painful flash of white light.
That was the exact moment when both Mr. Singh and Ms. De Klerk-Zwart returned to find me semi-unconscious on the parquet floor being cursed out by a Wasp flying around my head and a shocked Ficus tree.
When I came to complete consciousness the window was closed shut, the room was cold again, the fruit on the floor sat on a new coffee table in a glass bowl and Mr. Singh was tidying up the living room. Ms. De Klerk-Zwart was in her customary spot at her massive desk reading over my manuscript.
I sat up. I thanked Mr. Singh who must have gotten me to the couch off the floor. He expressed his thanks to me for my wish of his safe return and for keeping “Spot” relatively safe. Then he left the room. I reached around for my hooded sweat shirt when she spoke:
Amanda: I helped you to the couch.
Nailah: You did?
Amanda: Why so surprised? I do work out regularly.
Nailah: It's just that you're so shor-
I immediately shut up. If I wished I were taller, someone as height deprived as she was, would probably have a major complex about it.
Amanda: I'm so what? I'm not that much shorter than you.
Nailah (pridefully): I'm almost six feet tall. Sorry about the mess. I have a bug phobia.
Amanda: There is nothing irrational about fearing wasps. Trust me about that. (Changing the subject) You've accomplished quite a bit but this ending doesn't have the punch it needs. It's very flat.
Nailah: I know but plant sitting initially seemed to require all my energy. I rushed the end but I have an idea how I want to wrap the story up.
Amanda: Good. Good.
She closed the laptop where she was reading the manuscript in progress.
Amanda: I would have thought taking care of a simple plant wouldn't have been too much responsibility. They stay in one place and you only have to water it. That's not as much trouble as say... a child.
Nailah: What little you know. First that's not a plant it's a tree. A heavy tree. You owe me 372 dollars and 57 cents by the way. Second, trees bear fruit whether you expect them to or not which attracts insects. Third if you don't want insects as roommates there's gonna be trouble. Taking care of any living thing is a hassle on way or another.
Amanda: How'd you manage if it was such a drain on your resources?
Nailah: Spot and me found a space of common interest.
Amanda (corrects): Spot and I. What would you have in common with a plant?
Nailah: Good music.
Amanda was about to respond when Mr. Singh returned.
Mr. Singh: A call on your private line Ma-am.
Amanda: I'll take it in the kitchen Surinder.
He left the living room soon after. Amanda arose from her chair.
Nailah: I could leave the room if you like.
Amanda: No this won't take long. He just likes to make my calls seem more important than they really are. It probably concerns my getting Surinder home.
Nailah (Easily impressed): You got him out of that civil war?
Amanda (winks): Surinder has been with me since I was a teenager. He knows all my secrets so I couldn't let him languish over there.
Amanda leaves to take her call and Nailah ponders about the considerable influence her benefactor has wondering if she'd financially support Nailah's quest to end debt slavery world wide. After a moment of contemplation, Nailah laughs to herself content to put these ideas in her novel.
The “To Do” List
In the living room of the loft, Amanda and Nailah are sitting on opposite sides of a long red couch. Amanda sitting bare foot, cross-legged is reading a newspaper and Nailah, pen in hand, works on a Sudoku puzzle.
Amanda looks up from the newspaper, rubs her eyes then looks over at Nailah. Her tired eyes roam Nailah contemplative form. Nailah was waiting at the loft for an acquisition editor from the publishing house Amanda discussed earlier to pay a visit. The editor wanted to meet with Nailah since she was seriously considering signing Nailah on as a new author.
Amanda: I think I want a baby someday.
Nailah doesn't look up from the Sudoku puzzle. In fact she found three more numbers to place in the empty squares. She enters them quickly with her trusty black pen.
Nailah: Good luck with that.
Pause.
Nailah: I want a motorcycle.
Amanda places the newspaper down on her lap.
Amanda: That's too dangerous isn't it.
Nailah, having completed the Sudoku puzzle, looks up at Amanda.
Nailah: I know… one minute they're these colorful fast little things darting here and there then years later CRASH!… the crumbsnatcher grows up to be a closed minded fascist scheming, since day one, to get your ass in a nursing home or worse is bound for college and you're the co-signature on millions of dollars in loans so junior can flip burgers or be an honorable slave… I mean unpaid intern.
Amanda: What the hell are you talking about?
Nailah: Kids. They're economically deadly.
Amanda: Why do I try to have conversations with you when you're content to have conversations with yourself?
Nailah: Lively ones at that.
Amanda: No nimrod! Motorcycles are dangerous.
Nailah: No they aren't.
Amanda: Yes they are.
Nailah: Nuh.
Amanda: Why are we having this adolescent conversation?
Nailah: ...just giving you a taste of things to come. But you're rich so…
Amanda: Talk about close minded.
Nailah: ...conventionally you'll need to invest nine months initially in to this project, once the deed in done, of course. I'll send out prayers to the donor…
Amanda: I resent that.
Nailah: You're considering a life changing event so you'll need all the help you can get… especially at your age.
Amanda: Only twelve seconds before your mean comments… a new record for you.
Nailah: Don't hate the truth...recognize it.
Amanda: And what ancient sage spewed that nonsense? Snoopy the Dog? P Diddles? GE?
Nailah: The man is named Jay Z. GE was some electronic company. Actually, I overheard that pearl from a wino down in the Bowery. Besides I don't listen to any old minstrel anthems.
Amanda: Amazing!
Nailah: Yeah I said it- come on everyone knows today's rap music is yesterday minstrel show served up for white boys in the ‘burbs.
Amanda: Foul mouthed, you don't like white people, you detest rich people - I don't know why I'm even considering you. Besides what grown man calls himself Jay Z? That's okay when you're a teenager. When you're pushing past thirty, it seems pathetic.
Nailah: I don't trust, liking or disliking has nothing to do with it. Actually I'm a classical misanthrope. So all humanity is fair game. Considering me for what?
Pause.
Nailah: Of course that doesn't make sense to you. Me either. To men, a nickname lends a certain street cred. Considering me for what?
Amanda: Street cred for whom, bowery winos?
Pause.
Amanda: I want a kid, remember?
Nailah: Good luck with that.
Amanda: Talking to you makes me dizzy.
Nailah: That may be a genetic defect. You sure you want to pass that on to the next generation?
Amanda: At least your insults aren't the usual cliches.
Nailah: So what are you considering me for?
Amanda: I want to experience motherhood.
Nailah: Well I don't happen to have any kids of my own so... I can't sell one to you. Nor will I be a surrogate mother. There isn't enough money in existence for me to do that.
Amanda: What if I paid you ten million dollars?
Nailah: Nope.
Amanda: Ten million?
Nailah: Did I stutter?
Amanda: Twenty million?
Nailah: No.
Amanda: You didn't even think about that. Twenty million dollars - no strings attached is a lot of money.
Nailah: I wouldn't do that for 100 gazillion dollars.
Amanda: You could buy anything you wanted in the world with that amount of money.
Nailah: Except those nine months back. See the most precious thing on earth is time not money - once time is gone, that's it. You can always get money. When the working poor realize that - really realize that - you rich folks who successfully exploit them now, are gonna be sitting in a leaky canoe without paddles on a shit river.
Amanda: What a lovely mental image. Well I suppose it's on to plan B.
Nailah: If I was your plan A you must of forgot slavery was amended in 1865.
Amanda: No dear 1863.
Nailah: Educated about African American history, white and rich too??? Your cool stock shot up three points.
Amanda: Only three?
Nailah: No flirting with the only one in the room who DOESN'T think you're special.
Amanda: You don't stay too long in the past.
Nailah: If you're always looking back you'll cause accidents in front of you. You're older than I thought!
Amanda: Stop insulting my age!
Nailah: You're the one obsessed about being over thirty. I'm kinda looking forward to my forties. Besides who called whom nimrod? As a vegan, I am a poor huntress and I'm neither foolish nor the architect of the Tower of Babel .
Amanda: It was a term of endearment.
Nailah (ignores her): Well I'm off to Goggle some Ducati's while we wait. I wonder if I could get the blue one from the sale of the book?
Amanda silently watches as Nailah rises from the couch and quickly exit the living room.
Warning Signs
I could not believe it. I was looking at a miracle. It wasn't that I just reach a milestone turning forty today. Nor was it that I finished the first draft of my novel. My miracle was that my student loan account online showed that the amount currently due was zero dollars and no cents!
I kept refreshing the webpage to make certain that it wasn't an aberration. I waited three hours before I called the 1-800 number to inquire about the status of my account, understanding it would take some time for the transaction to be updated across the system. It probably would take many business days but the mechanical voice on the other end of the phone confirmed the information on the webpage: I am debt-free!
Three hours ago, I pressed the choice to transfer the entire amount $61396.10 from my personal on-line checking account Amanda had set up for me from my advance to the money hungry student loan shark agency which purchased my loan from the financial office of the school with whom I originally made the loan agreement.
In one minute I went from in debt to debt-free.
Ecstatic, I jumped up away from the lap top and did a happy dance vowing to myself if I can't buy the item, service or knowledge in one payment I'd learn to live without it or save up to make it a one-payment purchase. That was my mantra going forth “One Payment Purchases” no more buying shit over time!
Then I gleefully broke out into this deranged tap dancing which was fueled by the fact that suicide wasn't in my immediate future. Truthfully I didn't want to do it but was resigned to its inevitability the way one is to paying taxes, paying rent and knowledge that eating fast food will either give one “the runs” or “stop the need to go” entirely. Personally both physical states are unacceptable IMHO.
Next I vowed to curtail this annoyance of monthly payments. Paying for things monthly sucked and I never thought it was a habit that indicated maturity. It indicated gullibility at being fiscally manipulated by folks more greedy than me.
Having recited my personal economic mantras, I was happy to finally be free. I looked at Spot who seemed to pick up on my mood as I noticed her growing more fruit. Seems Spot and my benefactor were on a “gotta reproduce wavelength” which I didn't begrudge either of them experiencing. A tree's gonna do what she's gonna do. You live with it. As for my human benefactor, I can't fathom what was the urgency for her to parent someone. That was a lifetime of work in which the risks outweighed the benefits.
Additionally, children aren't necessarily grateful for being nurtured, they feel entitled to it. Then there's also the inherent dangers which are out of the control of any parent's best wishes. Like potty training, the addiction to the word “No”, the breaking of expensive personal items, the dating, and the future prospect of once again being in debt for the sake of one's progeny. These were salient reasons why I wanted no part of the matter. I was happy as a debt-free woman who wasn't defined by her need to procreate. I won't have anything to do with it so I keep my thoughts on the matter to myself.
I needed to celebrate both my birthday and the turn in my fortune so I planned to spend the day exploring the city, perhaps take in a movie and have dinner at one of my favorite restaurants. I wrote a note of thanks to Amanda for all her assistance with the book and my economic situation.
My day started off on the right foot for a change when Amanda left me a note that my book was read by an acquisition editor of a popular publishing house who liked it and wanted to take me on as a new writer then I was able to sever my ties to the student loan agency. I planned to send that student loan agency a note to remove my e-mail and mailing address from their marketing lists. Our relationship was at an end and I was dumping them. I never want to hear from them again. Paying off my debt was all the closure I needed. I want my relationship with them to be a distant memory.
I packed up my belongings, shut off the lap top and walked out of Amanda's loft into my new and improved life.
-----
People can find ways to memorialize anything. Even sex. I shuddered a bit after I stepped out of the Museum of Sex . I fancied myself a woman of the world but damned if I didn't take copious notes.
I never knew there were so many positions, techniques and clothing with the purpose of getting one's rocks off. No that's not quite right is it? Men get rocks off. What do we women get? I supposed rocked!
I laughed out loud startling two teenage boys with their ritualistic clothing of psuedo-rebellion: baggy jeans hanging below the buttocks with dingy boxers showing, bigger hoodies, loud colored sneakers. The quintessential male teenage uniform!
I laughed even more when I saw a balding man who had to be fifty years old, if he was a day, wearing the same uniform. But I didn't count him out of my mental musing as a potential for trying out my new found “get rocked” knowledge. I smirked realizing this day was getting better each moment.
I decided a great action packed movie was in order and directed my footsteps to the first Cineplex Theater I happened upon.
-----
Having settled for a gory horror flick, Nailah paid for her single ticket and walked to the concession stand to peruse the menu for snacks. The concession attendant ignored Nailah's presence content to gossip on his cell phone instead.
The concession attendant was a young Latino male with overt feminine tendencies wearing a ridiculous hat and matching overly tight tee shirt. Having made a selection, Nailah clears her voice and aims her stare at the teenager.
Concession Attendant: Look girl I gotta get back to the day job. I'ma call you for a ride later. Peace.
He disconnects his call.
Concession Attendant: You ready?
Nailah: Do those Twizzlers have any animal products in them?
The Concession Attendant looked at Nailah as though she had two heads. Nailah wondered if the young man had an attention problem staring off into space like he was doing.
Concession Attendant: I never heard of an animal called a Twizzler. It's just candy.
Nailah: Processed candy so it might have animal products in them.
Concession Attendant: You got something against animals?
Nailah: Love animals just don't wanna eat them.
Concession Attendant: Oh you're one of those people.
Nailah: Those people??? What sort of people?
Concession Attendant: Holier than thou health nut annoying anti-hamburger people.
Nailah: You got some nerve judging me! You who should have no reason judging anyone considering what you are!
Concession Attendant (hands on his hips): What are you talking about?
Nailah: I can't believe a gay man is judging my lifestyle!
Concession Attendant (rolls his neck and snaps his fingers): Just because I'm in touch with my inner female doesn't make me gay. I get more women in my bed than most men. As a black woman you should be ashamed of leaning so heavily on stereotypes. Do you want the candy or not?
Nailah: I'll pass.
-----
While lame corporate sponsored pop music played over the PA of the dimly lit theater, Nailah settled into her seat - exact the middle seat which was ten rows away from the screen. She looked around and was pleased to find that she was the only person in the theater.
As the preview trailers of other movies started, Nailah took out small bottle of water she concealed before entering the theater, opened it and took a healthy swig. She noted which movie trailers she was interested in seeing and which ones could wait until she brought them off the Chinese lady who sold the bootleg DVDs on the train she rode to her Auntie's house.
Nailah propped her feet on the back of the seat in front of her and relaxed as the main attraction began.
-----
When I left the movie I was disappointed and seriously considered asking for my money back. The movie title said 1000 corpses. 1000! I'm not so ghoulish as to delight in the dismemberment of characters but a deals a deal. The title I paid ten buck for read: 1000 corpses. For a two hour movie that's about 100 bodies hitting the proverbial floor for each dollar I spent. A decent deal if you ask me.
However, there were only four corpses in the entire movie and I'm certain they shot one dead body three times with different camera angles and lighting. So there was possibly only two corpses in that faux 1000 corpses movie.
I was so miffed at being outrageously duped out of my ten rapidly depreciating American dollars I didn't notice the elderly white woman who I bumped into spilling her super sized beverage and large popcorn in the process.
Nailah: I'm so sorry. Let me buy you another.
Elderly Woman: I shouldn't be eating this stuff anyway.
Nailah: That junk isn't cheap. It costs almost as much as a decent meal. Let me spring for your movie then, which one were you going to see?
Elderly Woman: That 1000 corpse one looks interesting.
Nailah: It isn't worth the price of admission.
Elderly Woman: Why?
Nailah: There were only four corpses and I'm seriously questioning if three of them were the same one.
Elderly Woman: If you were able to focus on the body count the story probably wasn't very good. What else is good, I wonder?
Nailah: That superhero one looks interesting.
Elderly Woman: Then I'll try that one. Care to join me? I sent my home attendant away. I'd like the company of someone who doesn't have to be around.
Nailah: Sure why not I like a “good guy thrashes bad guys” kinda movie.
Wow! Not all old folks are mean and scary. Some can actually be fun to hang out with if you overlook the menthol smells, the slower reaction time and the ubiquitous guttural sounds they make when they stand from sitting too long or when they sit from standing.
I often wondered how their knees make those cracking sounds? I found out the elderly woman's name is Josephine. Jo for short. She has an estranged adult daughter who lives overseas, a basset hound named Zeus, who thinks he is human and a home attendant, named Pascal, whom she thinks steals food out of her pantry from her wholesale deliveries.
We both thought the superhero movie was kinda lame. Especially the romantic interest. Somehow these alien super heroes are always biologically compatible with human females and they never have to worry about personal hygiene. Not a bad gig if you're an alien male superhero.
We decided to take our movie centric conversation to a small cafe a few block away from the Cineplex. I didn't mind spending the time with Jo as she preferred to be called because her stories were hilarious. I couldn't stop laughing. I think she really enjoyed spending time with me because I wasn't being paid to “babysit” her.
Her most interesting stories were about her estranged daughter, “ She whose name will not be uttered”. Seems the ungrateful wench tried to put Jo in a nursing home when Jo's husband, her father died. The money grubbing kid stole the family fortune and left her mother with just enough to get by. I knew having kids was a nuisance.
I shared my recent exploits so I told Jo the story of how I met Amanda, the progress of my book and Amanda's current need to breed. However, Detective Nailah wasn't as comfortable giving up the info to a stranger and internally chastised me:
Detective Nailah: I have a theory that I thought of twenty seconds ago. We just met this old white woman, like three hours ago. She could be an axe murderer or an identity thief. No one would suspect an old chick.
I did what normally do when this aspect of myself speaks to me: I ignored her.
Detective Nailah: Fine be that way. Just remember when this old broad was young, racism was overt and in your face and by the looks of her, she probably thrived during those times.
Man I can be a pain in the ass some times.
Jo and I spent the next hours chatting over our early dinner. I had such a good time I didn't realize how much time had gone by. We left each other vowing to meet again to see more movies, after Jo cryptically advised me in my dealing with Amanda, “No one does anything with expecting something in return. What people tend to want from us is more of a sacrifice for us than what they are willing to give up in exchange.”
Salient points if you ask me.
“What we've got here is failure to communicate”
As the train pulled into it's last station stop, all the passengers disembarked. Nailah was the last person to exit the train. She walked along the subway platform towards the train exit.
Once outside the subway station she waited at a connecting shuttle bus shelter. She looked at the digital clock on her cell phone as she recalled the huge fight she had with Amanda almost five hours ago.
-----
Nailah returned to Amanda's loft to retrieve her manuscript notes that she accidently left behind. She wanted to rework the last chapters of her novel incorporating the new ideas she brainstormed when she worked at Amanda's earlier that day.
Nailah rang the loft door bell and was surprised that a strange man in formal butler attire answered the front door and not Mr. Singh. The strange butler looked down his large hawkish nose at Nailah noting that her casual attire was out of step with the rest of the guests at the loft.
Formal Butler : May I help you?
Nailah: Where's Mr. Singh?
Formal Butler : With whom do you wish to speak?
Nailah: I don't need to speak with anyone. Earlier today I left my notes in the living room and I came back to retrieve them.
Formal Butler : Ah yes the writer. I was told you might return. There is an event in that space tonight. However your materials have been placed aside. Come in and wait here. I'll have someone retrieve your belongings.
The formal butler snaps his fingers and a young woman dressed as a maid appears.
Formal Butler : Retrieve the envelope for this woman from the study.
The maid nods and quickly scampers away.
Formal Butler (addressing Nailah): I'll leave you here.
Nailah waited in the hallway. She heard the conversation of a lot of female voices in the living room over that weird music playing softly that she heard when she first came to Amanda's loft many months ago.
A few women came out of the livingroom wearing next to nothing but ornately designed bras, undies and painfully high heels.
The two women seemed dazed as they walked into the large foyer. Nailah noticed they were so high they didn't even notice her as they sauntered past her towards the rest room off the corridor of the foyer.
Two more women, exited the closed doors of the living room. One young tall blond white woman was being led around by a gold chain attached to a black leather collar around her neck by an shorter older dark haired white woman. Neither of which had on enough clothes on to cover a small child between them.
Nailah recognized the tall Blond with the leather choker on, she was the Publisher and Managing Editor of a famous Woman's Rights Rag.
Hood Rat Nailah:. Ain't this some bullshit. These strumpets have nothing better to do on Saturday night than to humiliate each other in ways they probably protest against if men were doing it to them during the week.
Nailah jumps feeling a hard jab of a singer finger tip on her shoulder. Nailah turns to face the irate older Brunette women holding tightly to her human leash.
Short Older Brunette (addressing Nailah): Why are you standing out here? They are running out of the- what a minute…
The older Brunette stares up at Nailah to see her clearly. Nailah backs away from the intense scrutiny.
Short Older Brunette: I don't believe it! That wily fox! She finally did it. How much did you cost?
Nailah: What are you talking about?
Short Older Brunette (addressing Nailah): Just look at you. I didn't think she'd do it. In fact I was certain that I beat her. I collected all the pieces last go around and that cheeky hell spawn sneaked you in at the final count.
Nailah: No one has brought me. I'm not for sale.
Short Older Brunette: Amanda get out here! I can't believe it. You won bitch!
Nailah (repeats): I'm not for sale.
Short Older Brunette (winks at Nailah): Honey we're all for sale. Some just don't know their asking price.
Before Nailah could reply, the large doors to the living room open again and out saunters Amanda in a red sari with matching head wrap accompanied by two very attentive women dressed as greek slaves.
Amanda: Pamela, what the hell are you bellowing about? I was about to have my body apricot body scrubbed.
Pamela: You devious thing! How did you find the last game piece? I couldn't find one with a reasonable price point. So you had to have cheated. Or... I bet you bedded this wench that's how you did it! I should have known that your public refusal to take on the lesser ethnics for lovers was just a ruse! I've never known you to go against your preference before. Clever strategy.
Nailah: Wait one minute! I AM NOT HAVING SEX WITH THAT WOMAN! (Addresses Amanda): Where are my notes? Give them to me and then I can leave you deviants to your weirdness.
Amanda: So judgmental you are.
Nailah: Why because you see me as a “lesser ethnic”? Let me give you both some insight. People like to be in groups. We all end up in these separate collectives mostly by accident but we like belonging to them and we like to compare our groups to other groups to find the others lacking and our group worthy and special. Even a group of homeless, toothless, armless, eyeball-less people will find another group they believe they are better than. That's mankind in a nut shell. So just give me my notes and I'll let you nuts get on to your nuttery.
Pamela: Your lover/game piece is quite the philosopher.
Nailah frowned. Amanda smiled coyly.
Detective Nailah: It good karma to think of the less fortunate before giving in to one's base nature of nastiness. I do try to not “go there” in the vernacular of the streets but sometimes folks will take you on a journey you hadn't planned to take. The liberation from this madness is when you decide when and where to jump off.
Nailah: I think it safe to venture that if I were so bent, none of you would be my soup du jour. There ain't enough narcotics nor money to make any of you crazy dames attractive or me that desperate.
Amanda: Now that's the sort of stuff I want to see in your chapters. Earthy stuff. None of that highbrow technically correct crap you like to fall back on.
Pamela: What's going on here?
Amanda: I didn't win the game… yet.
Pamela: Well who is this creature then?
Amanda: My protege.
Pamela: You are actually going through with it?
Nailah: What are you two talking about?
Amanda: Pamela is speaking out of turn.
Pamela: Oh right, mums the word. You have to let me know how it goes. It's is all very exciting.
Nailah felt a tightening of her throat, a throbbing across her forehead and a burning acid pain in the center of her chest - just under her rib cage.
She knew she was dying.
She knew the cause of her death was the unspoken between these two women of weirdness that pertained to her and the violation of her civil rights.
Nailah grimaced that being in the throes of imminent death didn't give her ample time to avenge herself of the obviously obtuse oppression her personage was undergoing. As her hand rose to her chest, covering the spot where self-immolation was certain, given the rising heat she felt there, Nailah resorted to the tried and true past time of daydreaming where she could exact her revenge:
Wearing an Angela Davis full blown afro and a colorful dashiki over bell bottom jeans and black combat boots, Hood Rat Nailah approached the two white women hostages who sat under a harsh spot light, gagged and tied to the chairs they sat upon. They looked light menacing versions of Amanda and her older party guest/friend, Melanie.
The Hood Rat Nailah spoke to the two women to explain the progressive political action before her: Hood Rat Nailah: Some of my female ancestors probably had to work/deal with/avoid killing some of your female ancestors because contrary to popular belief we aren't naturally inclined to violence as you'd like you like to think. We're for the most part are a peaceful people driven to violence due to your inherent tendency to promote a vexed state in others and you ghouls get off on that stuff. Come to think of it, that probably accounts for the permanent scowl of many a sistah's faces today. Isn't amazing how response to unnecessary annoyance can be passed through the DNA like that! I digress. As I roll up my sleeves I want to stress that you all shouldn't take this beat down personally. It's just retroactive therapy.
Hood Rat Nailah lays down a classic beat down that even the master Gordon Lui would be proud of. Bruce Lee would probably be clapping in the aisles at revolutionary Nailah's martial arts skill.
After the cloud of dust settled from the one sided melee, Hood Rat Nailah couldn't understand why someone was calling her name.
Amanda was snapping her finger in Nailah's face but that act didn't produce any snapping sound.
Nailah was additionally perplexed to see the women she just beat to a pulp standing over her with no physical marks of her martial art triumph on their overly exposed bodies.
As Nailah shakes her head to get her bearings, she realizes the throes of death was an anxiety attack, as she finds herself sitting cross legged on the floor of the foyer and a clear glass of liquid appears in her face.
The filled drinking glass was being offered to Nailah by one of Amanda's greek dressed attendants, while the other was fanning her hands at Nailah, who bushed the annoying flapping appendages aside.
Having remembered the muddy discussion of people being for sale and exploitive game playing, Nailah refused to consume anything as she quickly rose to her feet.
The maid from earlier returned the the foyer with a large manila envelope in her hands.
Nailah looked that the maid, the envelope she carried and then at Amanda who seemed to be speaking English in a very low voice and very slowly. Amanda's mouth seemed to move out of sync with the low sounds coming out of it. Like those dubbed martial arts movies.
Nailah blinked to clear her vision then looked at the envelope again before taking it from the maid.
Nailah quickly stood, turned to walk away but was stopped by a hand on her forearm.
A concern darted between Amanda's green eyes and aimed it at Nailah, who pulled away to leave the loft. With her hand on the door knob she turned back to Amanda and focused her most cogent thought, I'm not for sale , before shutting the door behind her as she left.