A Hire Love (3 page)

B
lack Love refunded my one hundred dollars on the spot. Mya endured my bitching and complaining all day for two days. When she called to make sure that I at least got my money back, I said, “This is ridiculous. They should have quality men.”

“Fatima, baby, you’re tripping.”

“If I’m paying, at least give me quality service.”

“Looking for a quality man is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Mya smacked her lips. “Have you just been ignoring me for the last nine years or what? Remember all I went through before meeting Frankie?”

“I guess.”

“You’re going to have to manage your expectations or you’re going to be upset a lot.”

“Oh well, let’s just forget it.”

“You can always go the traditional route.”

“The traditional route?”

“Yeah, join some organizations, meet new people, and develop relationships like that.”

“I may as well run a damn marathon, too. That could take forever.”

“The problem is that you want what you want when you want it. Just because you decide you’re ready to date, what, five days ago. You think it just happens?”

“Yeah.”

She mocked Gertrude from Black Love, “Sorry, Fat-a-mah. It might take awhile.”

“I just need to meet someone that’s cool. He doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“Your definition of cool far surpasses most women’s definition of perfection.”

“Mya, I don’t want to talk to you anymore. You’re making me feel worse.”

“That’s not my intention, honey. Maybe you should try some of the online sites.”

“Now that’s what I pay you for. Suggestions, not discouragement.”

“Okay, I forgot. You’d rather be lied to.”

Instead of defending myself, I laughed off the discomfort of her accusation and got the 411 on Internet dating. While I listened to her strategy, I logged onto the first site she suggested. She recommended I post my picture.

“Mya, I can’t. What about the whole anonymity spiel?”

“They don’t know who you are. They just know how you look. You don’t have to give them your phone number. They email you through the website. So, they don’t have your direct email. It’s just a picture. All the people in New York, no one will ever recognize you.” She chuckled. “My picture was out there for three years and no one ever approached me and claimed they saw me. If you don’t put a picture out there, you’ll be wasting your time.”

I performed a search as if I were a man searching for a woman. As I paged through hundreds of profiles, I was amazed at the competition. There were beautiful, successful women sprawled all over the site. You’ve got to be kidding me. If they weren’t embarrassed, why should I be? Before I realized it, I was on the Kodak website uploading photos of me and deciding which one to post.

By the time I got off the phone with Mya, I had written my personal statement and selected what I wanted in a man.

This was much cooler than Black Love. I could select color, height, job description, salary. This is great for us superficial folks just out for a date. When the results returned, my mouth hung open. Several attractive men appeared.

In thirty minutes of posting my profile, over ten guys already emailed me and dozens had cyber-winked. As flattering as their messages were, I wanted to take control and select the men that I wanted to correspond with. While I sent several “thanks, but no thanks” messages back, I chuckled. There is just something about feeling desired, even if you’re not interested.

This was my source of entertainment during the entire day at work. I can’t remember when I’d had so much fun flirting. It was the coolest thing. Immersed in my online rejection correspondence, I pushed today’s deadlines to tomorrow.

Of all the men in my search, there were only two that I was compelled to approach. Something in their profiles stepped off the pages; whether it was the fine smile, salary range, and the arrogance to title his profile “Young and Successful” of one, or the sexy picture and the poetically written personal statement of the other. My enthusiasm slightly diminished when neither had responded and I noticed they both had been online.

When I got home, I checked again, but my inbox was loaded with junk from a bunch of ugly ducklings. What’s up with that? This is just another hoax to play with people’s emotions. Fine men post their pictures just to have their egos stroked.
Hi I read your profile. I thought you were so gorgeous.
In reality, they know they’re not having trouble finding dates. It wouldn’t surprise me if one of them compiled all the emails he had received in a book and titled it, “The Words of Desperate Women.”

It pissed me off that I had subscribed to this. That is, until I walked into the office the next morning to an email from “Young and Successful.” Kia stood in front of me explaining something as my ego was resuscitated.
Thanks for expressing interest. I loved your profile. You’re beautiful. It looks like we have a lot in common. Tell me more about the life of an editor.

Kia posed and waited for me to stop gloating. When I glanced up for her to finish, her eyes danced in her head. I smirked. She quickly altered her expression. “So, what’s up?”

She repeated herself as I planned my email response. She asked, “What do you want me to tell her agent?”

Clueless of whom or what she was talking about, I said, “Tell her…”

“I’ll come back when you get settled.”

“That would be good.”

I replied promptly. After a few emails, he asked if we could instant message. After consulting with Mya, I downloaded Yahoo! Messenger and BackInAction chatted real time with Young and Successful. By noon, I knew that he lived in Brooklyn, worked for Morgan Stanley, no kids, never married. If he was actually the person in his photo, he was also fine. We even discussed the death of my husband. Our correspondence was loaded with thought-provoking topics. By the end of the day, he asked if it would be okay to have a real conversation.

After consulting with Mya, I agreed. He told me he would call around ten and he kept his promise. I picked up like I’d known him for years. “Hey, Young and Successful.”

“Ms. Fatima. Please call me Nate.”

Our real chat was equally as enticing as our cyber-chat. We disregarded the divide-and-conquer rule and talked for over an hour. His appealing voice made me eager to meet him in person and we agreed to meet for drinks the next evening.

Mya willingly accompanied me on the date with “Young and Successful” just to provide real-time coaching with managing my expectations. When we arrived at the empty happy hour, I realized I’d picked the wrong club on the wrong evening. The techno-music attacked me the moment we entered. We had fifteen minutes before he arrived, so we ordered drinks to take the edge off. He walked in at seven-thirty on the dot, and Mya nodded.

His tailor-made suit impressed me and his nice teeth added to the package. He introduced himself and appeared distracted by Mya’s presence. I said, “Nate, this is my girl, Mya. I asked her to tag along. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. It’s cool. I don’t know about you guys, but this music is driving me crazy.”

Mya said, “It’s killing us, too.”

“Why don’t we get out of here and go somewhere else?”

We shrugged our shoulders and followed him out of the club. He paid for the ride to the next spot, but it didn’t appear he gave the driver a tip. Then again, maybe I’m just suspicious.

We found a loveseat to accommodate all of us and I conjured up a discussion about love and relationships with hopes to gain insight on the male perspective. He touched my leg occasionally as he spoke. As my body became reacquainted with the touch of a man, I realized how much I missed it and how much I longed for it. Mya and I exchanged approving nods throughout the conversation. The game isn’t so bad. After two dates, I met someone that I could definitely consider seeing again.

When the check came, I looked at it. Mya looked at it. Nate didn’t as much as glance at it. Mya put her credit card inside the folder. I clutched my purse. Nate seemed unfazed. The waiter asked if we were ready. Mya said, “No, not yet.” She leaned over me and dangled the folder in Nate’s face. “Did you see the check?”

“Fatima’s going to take care of me.”

I smiled. Mya’s neck rolled. “No, she isn’t, because I’m taking care of her.”

He repeated, “And she’s taking care of me.”

I giggled while he kidded with Mya. She rolled her neck again. “I know you better be joking.”

“I paid for the taxi over here.”

Mya said, “Are you friggin’ kidding me?”

My knee tapped his knee. “Stop playin’.”

“You can get me tonight. I’ll get you next time.”

My blood pressure began to elevate. Did he really believe there would be a next time if I took care of him tonight? There’s no way in the world he was serious. I said, “You’re funny.”

Mya huffed and puffed in my ear. When the waiter came, she handed him the check. Up until the waiter carried the check away and Nate didn’t chase him down, I thought he was a prankster. Turns out that Mr. “Young and Successful” was more like a wankster.

Mya and I sat with our arms folded, waiting for the waiter to return with the receipt. He had the audacity to tug on my arm. “What’s wrong?”

If he didn’t know, damn if I planned to offer him an explanation. He asked, “Would you like to dance?”

“Do I look like I want to dance?”

“What happened?”

Mya chimed in, “You.”

“For real, Fatima. Tell your girl to mind her business.”

Mya stood up and said, “Get my card. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

When she stormed away, he said, “Your girl is trippin’.”

“Am I missing something here? Did you just eat and drink and not offer a penny? Now, my girl that paid for everything is trippin’?”

“I asked you to take care of it.”

My eyes rolled in my head. “But I didn’t say I would.”

“Well, it was obviously not what I thought it was.”

“I just met you. What are you talking about?”

He sucked his teeth. “I mean, you approached me.”

I sat stunned. Words to dispute his claim never came. Anger percolated in me as I thought about spitting in his face. The waiter returned with the receipt and Mya’s card in just enough time to save me from being hauled away in handcuffs. I signed Mya’s name and stomped away.

Mya stood by the door, pissed. She cursed his existence as we hailed a taxi. I apologized and offered to pay for his portion. “You don’t have to pay for that loser. Bad enough you wasted your time getting cute tonight.”

“Yeah and just to think, he was this close to a second date.”

“He’s obviously gotten away with that kind of behavior, because he looked at us like we were out of touch. Women must really be desperate.”

I laughed. “You ain’t lying about that. It’s really rough out here, huh?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Men don’t have standards anymore and women are just accepting it, huh?”

“Basically.”

“I quit.”

She laughed. “You have to stay in the game or you’ve already lost.”

“What’s the purpose if everyone is a loser?”

“There are good men out here. It just takes time. It’s like searching for the perfect dress. You know?”

I pouted. “A dress can’t eat and drink and not pay the bill.”

“Silly, you know what I’m saying. Sometimes you have to try on a lot of dresses before you find what you’re looking for. And sometimes, you go right in the store and the perfect dress is right there, but you can’t take for granted that it’ll always happen that way.” I sucked my teeth and she stroked my hair. “It’ll get better.”

W
hen I got home, I removed my profile from the dating website. Mya called when I got to work to see if I’d really thrown in the dating towel.

“Tima, you just have to be patient. It might take awhile.”

I laughed. “It’s not like I’m looking for a husband. All I need is a damn stand-in. Is that asking for too much?”

“A stand-in?”

“Yeah. Someone who can be emotionally supportive. You know, the way Derrick used to be.”

“Sweetie, Derrick was sprung. You’re not just going to leap out here and find that in one week.” She sucked her teeth. “The only way you can guarantee that is if you write a damn script and get some starving actor to play the role.”

She laughed hysterically. The great idea siren alarmed in my brain. A big smile splattered across my face and my large eyes shifted. “Mya, you’re brilliant.”

She sucked her teeth again. “Girl, please.”

“No. That makes perfect sense. I need to write a script.”

“Fatima, don’t play.” She chuckled. “I was just being facetious.”

“No, but it’s the best idea you’ve come up with this week. I’ll write the script. You can call your agency contacts to get some actors to come out for an audition.”

“Stop joking, girl. I’d lose my job playing games like that.”

“Why? I’ll pay them the appropriate scale. This is a professional job.”

“Whatever. You shouldn’t have to pay for love.”

“That’s just it. It’s not about love. I just need a handsome man around that treats me well and can help make the everyday hustle a little easier. Someone to take out the trash. Someone to bring me flowers.”

She added water to the seed fermenting inside of me. “Someone who knows how to treat a woman.”

“See, it’s the perfect plan.”

Clearly she thought I was bluffing as she egged me on. “You definitely should write a damn script, because men up here have no clue as to how a man should treat a lady.”

“I
am
going to write it.”

As if she was distracted by something, her voice lowered. “You’re crazy.”

“No, we’re crazy, because you’re going to help me.”

“Whatever.”

As we sat on the phone, I jotted down some important characteristics of my leading actor. I pulled up my Story-Weaver software. Under the character description I entered RN for the main character’s name. I giggled at my homemade abbreviation for real name. Didn’t want any slip-ups at the wrong time. Could you imagine the scene? I’m at a banquet with my hired partner and I erroneously tell someone his name is Jacob. We’re pretending we’re in love and one of my business associates interrupts the scripted scene: “Hey, Jacob.” My partner doesn’t answer to the given name or his response is delayed. Nope, he always has to be on point. As I typed the script, Mya cleared her throat, “What are you doing?”

“Okay, listen. He has to always, under all circumstances, treat me like a princess. He has to be over six feet tall. Two-hundred-twenty pounds to two-hundred-forty. And more important than the physical, he must exemplify the four key characteristics that constitute a good man.”

“Oh, so now there is a science to a good man?”

“No, not a science. More like a blueprint.”

She howled. “Trust me. There is no blueprint that can separate a man from a good man.”

“Patience, respect, understanding, and honesty. Those ingredients create the perfect recipe for the perfect man.”

Just as it exited my mouth, I titled it, “The Perfect Script.”

“That sounds like something straight off the pages of one of your little novels.” We laughed and she said, “Did you not hear me when I said that I was just being facetious when I suggested this?”

Ignoring her reluctance to consort with me, I continued: “He’ll be a successful entrepreneur who dabbles in real estate and a diverse set of other lucrative investments.”

As I spat out the requirements, I imagined her rolling her eyes in her head. “Fatima. Maybe you should go out with a shrink and not a man.”

“Whatever. I don’t think this is crazy at all.”

“That’s even more reason why you should see a shrink.”

“Stop!”

“You should stop. I think the whole idea is selling yourself short.”

“No. I’m just hiring help. My heart belongs to Derrick. No one will ever add up anyway. Don’t you get it?”

“Fatima, I’m not telling you it’s easy, because dating is one of the hardest things you’ll have to do, but you will find love again.”

“How many times do I have to say I’m not looking for love? Can you at least try to understand where I’m coming from? Please.”

“I guess.” She chuckled. “Let me go, sweetie, I have some work to do.”

“Okay. Promise you’ll think about my script.”

She sucked her teeth. “Promise me you’ll refill your Prozac.”

“That’s busted. Talk to you later.”

Although I had tons of work to do, I was submerged in developing this script. Each time I would attempt to shut the screen down, something else would pop into my head. I created scenes around frequent events, such as dinner dates. I listed my favorite restaurants. His part of the script was to play the man who knew me so well, he ordered my food.

I gave guidance on what to do when planning dates, giving gifts and being supportive.

While I stroked away at the keyboard, Kia came in and startled me. “Hi, Fatima. You have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. I’m coming.”

When I noticed Kia’s silhouette in the doorway, I huffed. She smiled and sang my name. I rushed to write an after-work scene.

After saving my script, I rushed from my office. While the marketing team discussed strategies for one of next month’s releases, I scribbled in my notepad. What to do when Fatima’s sad? How to act with her family? What kind of dates does she enjoy?

Before the meeting was done, I’d filled up two pages. As I perused the notes, I shook my head. Well, what matters most is that I’m paying for this service, so maybe I can get what I deserve.

By the time I met Mya for drinks four hours later, my script was near completion. I handed her the printout of the first draft. “Read my script.”

She looked at me from the corner of her eye. “Didn’t I tell you to take your medication?”

“Stop! That’s not funny. You know that stuff almost made me crazier than what I am.”

“If that’s the case. You’re right. Maybe you shouldn’t take it.” She flipped through the pages. The excitement on her face didn’t complement her monotone voice. “’Cause you’re really going off the deep end with this.”

I propped my elbow up on the bar as I watched her become engrossed in my words. The rapid pace in which her eyes shifted confirmed that if nothing more, it was a good read. As her body language mellowed, I knew she had fallen victim to my plot.

“So, you’re really serious about this, huh?”

“Yeah. Are you going to help me?”

“How long is the gig?”

“Um, just until this lonely feeling goes away.”

“That could be a long time. How long are you willing to pay for love?”

“For company.”

“Shit. If you’re paying scale, I’ll be your company.”

My nose wrinkled. “Um, if this is a twenty-four-hour-a-day job, what is the appropriate scale?”

“I just don’t think anyone is going to take this serious.”

I yanked her arm. “Just tell me.”

“It’s kind of hard to explain. Scale is based on the type of work: TV; commercials; film. And film is broken up into three different levels: low-budget; mid-range; full-budget.” She took a deep breath. “I just don’t know where this falls in.”

“So, you’re interested?”

“I mean. It sounds fun, but I’m wondering how we work the contract. Will anyone take us seriously?”

“Okay, we’ll draw up a six-month contract and rate it like a low-budget film.” As I watched her slip deeper into my drama, I scooted up in my chair. “What do you think?”

“You’re looking at about three hundred dollars a day.” She used the calculator on her cell phone. “That’s about fifty-five K for six months. You’re crazy.”

“That’s the money I get from Derrick’s estate. That’s not even touching the insurance money.”

She giggled. “Well, hell! Let’s go for it. We could make this a reality show.”

“No, I’m not down for that. We’re not going to have me all posted up on network TV. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Hey, we may as well get paid for it.”

“Whatever. How are you going to cast the actors?”

“Oh, hell no! I’m not casting anyone. You are,” Mya said.

“How am I supposed to do that?”

She sipped her drink. “I’ll have a call out for men that match your description tomorrow. For the guys that I like, but don’t make the cut, I’ll tell them about this opportunity and see how many of them are down. You can set up your own casting. You know what you’re looking for better than me.”

I put my arm around her neck. “What would I do without you?”

She gyrated her slim hips like Lil’ Kim and chanted, “Who gon’ love you like I do? Huh? What?” She raised the roof with her hands and her large bangle jingled to the melody. “Who gon’ treat you like I do? Huh? What?”