Authors: Emma Taylor
“You’re playing him,” she said.
“I’m not playing anybody,” I said. “Malik is a friend, and when I make some money I’m going to pay him back. He knows that. I know that it. It’s all good, Hope.”
“All good,” she laughed. “You’re a riot, Vy. Malik is a friend. I got you. How is the restaurant, by the way?” I was in no mood for the sarcasm. She has been criticizing me about my living situation with Malik since day one.
“The restaurant is great, and I’m making like, really good tips,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t believe a word. “Plus, with the hours there, I get insurance, too, so…”
“You just trailed off,” Hope laughed. “Look, I love you, sister, but I have to go. Tell Malik I said ‘hi’.” And with that she hung up instantly. She could joke all she wanted about the fact that I don’t make much as a server because she works at Waffle House and is putting herself through school back home. She still lives with our father in Detroit. The funny thing is that she makes twice as much as me, and I work at a high-end seafood place in Marina Del Rey.
Malik dries his hand and walks over to the record player. He’s wearing khaki slacks and a rose pink polo. On any other man the shirt would look ridiculous, but Malik’s dark skin makes the shirt pop. He’s barefoot, tapping his heel to the beat of another
Kind of Blue
track.
The music echoes throughout the wide-open, spacious rooms of the loft. With his back to me, Malik uncorks a bottle of wine. I watch his biceps bounce while he twists the wine key and drives the cork out. The pop of the cork is the sound of a soft kiss in Malik’s hands. He looks over his shoulder at me and repeats, “How was the bus ride?”
I knew that the topic of me getting home late would come up. It is rare that Malik talks about his feelings, but something told me that he would open up tonight. The adult in me wants to stay true to my needs. I’m out here trying to follow my dream, it’s all I want, and for the first two years in Los Angeles I struggled to pay rent. Looking back, it was a night around Thanksgiving when Malik came into my restaurant. I was working doubles and skipping the maximum amount of classes that I could without lowering my grade.
When I greeted him at the table, I found it strange that such a good-looking man was dining alone. He left his number on the check and the next morning I actually called him. When he answered the phone his voice was so smooth. Although he invited me to go out with him a couple times and, while at first he seemed like the perfect guy, I couldn’t get over the growing feeling that he was trying to buy my affection.
It started with dinner after dinner, and the more time we spent together, the more he was paying for everything we did. Right around the middle of my sophomore year I was stuck between photography equipment for class and rent—and Malik wrote me a check without saying a word.
Malik only ever made one pass at me. We were both gone and I ended it before anything could happen. Since then, he’s never been more than a friend, and we’ve never spoken about our relationship. However, the desire to be something more than a friend to him has always felt like an eclipse in my heart—one side giving in to the ease of life with him, relying on him, and the other side knowing that I need to let go and follow my heart. The last thing I want is to prove Hope right.
Malik laughs and I’m brought back to the sounds of the trumpet. “You’re daydreaming again,” he says. “I asked you how the bus ride was.”
Before I can process an answer I’m taken back to standing on Jefferson with Roman. What would have happened if I had gone with him? What did Roman mean by go to his place and ‘work’?
“The bus was fine,” I say. “I just missed the usual bus I take. Professor Danteridge didn’t like my collection this week, so I stayed after to talk to him about it.” I don’t even realize that I’m lying until after my mouth is closed.
“You should have called me,” he says, filling two glasses with a dark red liquid. “I would have been there in a heartbeat. You shouldn’t be walking around downtown after dark.”
He doesn’t even bother asking about the collection, or what the professor had to say. That’s one thing with Malik—it’s impossible to get him to talk about anything that matters. I can count so many times that I silently tested him, seeing if he would carry on various conversations in the flavor of a meaningful dialogue. Each time I am disappointed. The worst part is that I want to be with a man I can dig deep into—and from what I’ve gotten out of Malik, his aspirations are little beyond money and work. He’s an executive at the company he works for, and they produce decorative linen. There just isn’t much to the man, and when I try to offer up my life as conversation, instead we end up talking about generalities, or things I’m doing wrong.
“I’m just having a hard time getting all my work done, or…” I search for anything to say. “…Or maybe I’m having a hard time making quality work. My professor said—”
“Look, Vylette,” Malik interrupts. “If you’re having trouble balancing things, you can always take some time off at the restaurant. I’ll help you sort everything out, you know that.”
He hands me the glass of wine. With his glass to his lips, he takes a slow sip, and I know he is listening to Miles on the trumpet while he thinks. The way he can lose himself in his thoughts and in the music inspires me—it’s what connected us as friends in the first place. We used to go through bottles just listening to old records. Something in me wants to stop time for just a second, embracing the still image of my life here. Though I don’t consider this apartment my home, I still feel comfort in the way Malik welcomes me into his.
“Would you like a glass?” he asks, grabbing the bottle and rotating the label to show me that it’s Ravenswood, my favorite zinfandel.
“How can I resist?” I answer, sitting down on the opposite side of the couch. It’s always easier to give in and say yes, than tell him how I really feel. I want to keep talking about school. I want to understand the confusion roiling inside me. As I sip the dark red wine I let the raspberry and plum notes settle on my tongue. After five years of drinking, it finally doesn’t burn anymore.
When I drain my glass, Malik refills it, and I listen as he talks about the decorative linen business. The wine only enhances the resentment I feel while Malik goes on and on. I have to work tomorrow morning and still finish an online lab tonight, but as soon as I say something he’ll remind me in his own subtle way that he’s the only way I’m able to do all this. Maybe if I drink the second glass fast, I’ll be able to ride the little buzz until the end of the night. I’m not the woman he thinks I am, but I’m also not the woman I think
I
am.
***
From Friday to Sunday I serve for half of the day and finish homework the other half. This week I’m scheduled a Sunday lunch shift and I realize that today is Super Bowl Sunday just as I’m walking through the eight-foot tall doorway of The Brewery. I’ve worked here for four years and at this point I’m on autopilot while I wait tables, but working Super Bowl Sunday in a craft food and beer restaurant is like the doomsday of all shifts.
Hours pass and the shit show of a restaurant proceeds as planned—a mess of late, if not barely cooked food and people complaining about the time it takes for their beer to come from the bar to their tables—not to mention the constant barking and cheering during every single play of the game.
I look forward to five hours from now, when I’ll be on a bus home, listening to my film professors lecture on film versus video on my headphones, and ready to spend the night relaxing, getting my real work done. When I graduate in May, I’m going to open a photography studio. That’s what these shifts at the restaurant are for, because even on days like these when my apron’s covered in malt vinegar and ketchup, I still make well over the average dollar per hour. On top of my loans I’ve been able to save a little on the side, with Malik’s help of course.
An hour before I get to walk out the door my boss, a short gray-haired man with glasses and a tie, comes up to me snapping his fingers. “Vylette,” snap, snap. “Hello. Earth to Vylette,” snap, snap. I’m carrying a tray of nine different beverages and he’s trying to stop me in the middle of the dining area. “Your guest needs you at table four,” he says. “I’m going to need to you to pick up the hustle, okay?”
He walks away but I try to call out loud enough for him to hear, “I could use a little help, please.”
Through the clamor of the guests screaming, he says something to me while walking away that sounds like, “I’m not here to do your job for you,” snap, snap.
***
I’m out the door at 4:30 on the dot but I have to sprint to catch the bus. I haven’t even had a second to take my apron off and I’m pounding at the bus door while it rolls away. Thankfully the bus driver has mercy on me and opens it. I climb the stairs and put my dollar into the toll machine.
“Thank you,” I say, catching my breath.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Take a seat, please.”
The mechanical groans of the bus jolt everything forward and I grasp the cold metal rail to catch my balance. There are plenty of empty seats, and I’m guessing it’s because most people are somewhere watching the end of the game. The serving gods looked down on me today because I cleared out all my tables before the game ended and made good money. Although I had to sell my old Taurus to put toward tuition, I don’t mind taking public transit. Everything here is so different from my home back in Detroit, yet sometimes it feels like I’m living in a parallel universe.
As I take my seat, I untie my apron, fold it up, and put it into my book bag. My camera sits at the bottom of the bag like a lonely little animal begging for attention. I keep my bag in a locker at work because I like to have it with me. You never know when the inspiration will strike, or when you’ll stumble across a once-in-a-lifetime image.
The USC campus fails as inspiration and, besides, I need new material for my collection due this week. It’s rare that I venture outside of campus, but something in Los Angeles is calling me right now. I look out the windows while the bus cruises eastward down Washington and get lost in the rows of palm trees, mountains in the distance, and sea of people—all shapes, sizes and color. In Detroit I felt like a stereotype, but here I am starting to feel more like I blend in.
The two other people on the bus are an elderly Hispanic woman, and an Asian teenager with giant headphones on. I’m in front of both of them, but they are both totally unaware of me, lost in their own worlds. The woman has a giant smart phone in her hands and she’s laughing to herself about something. The teenager, on the higher platform on the bus, is gazing out the window but I watch him tap his hand to the beat he’s listening to, as if concentrating on the percussion line. As much as I would love to snap a few photos of their faces, I hold back. It is so difficult to capture people in their natural habitat. As soon as they see the camera in front of them they put on their personas like masks, covering up who they really are.
When the bus prepares to stop for downtown Culver City, I see a mural outside the window. Something lifts me out of my seat—it’s the instant need to photograph it. I was originally going to the computer lab at campus, but the artist in me wants to go with my gut, and I have a good hour or two of photographing while there is still light.
As I step off the bus, downtown Culver City is like a feast for the eyes. There are so many photo opportunities, granted any kind of thematic collection has probably already been done before. Still, I can’t get over the chic design of the entire area, and it inspires me to be the artist I came here to be. There is an alleyway that leads past a pizza place and a bar, and behind them is a parking garage. The patios are full of people celebrating the win, and I’m glad I’m not working here. Both places are twice as crowded as The Brewery.
I pull out my camera, an old T2i my dad found second hand and gave to me for Christmas. When I handle the machine I treat it like a priceless piece of equipment, gentle with every touch or flick of the shutter, even though the other students in my class would call it a clunker. By the golden hue in the sky, I estimate about an hour of prime lighting. With the strap around my neck and the lens cap off, I let loose and begin snapping at the murals on the alleyway and parking garage walls.
I am fascinated by the small, seemingly meaningless things around me, such as the mural with only two of the Three Stooges, and the simplicity of the zoetropes aligned down the alley. It feels good to be away from campus and Malik’s for a while. Part of me doesn’t want to graduate and just keep taking classes under the safety of my student loans.
My father and Hope thought I was crazy for moving across the country to study art at 23 years old. I told them I thought they were crazy for pretending to be happy working miserable jobs in Detroit. At least here I could find boundless work as a photographer—if I can prove myself, that is.
In moments I realize the potential for some amazing cityscapes available from the top of the garage. The structure of the garage itself is, for some strange reason, picturesque to me—beige and red bricked. There is a storefront in the alley down the way, and even more murals painted on the walls. Once I’m inside the parking garage, I take the steps and run my hand along the rifle green railing.
Once I reach the top, I see the Culver City hotel and Tara, the old white façade house-front they used in
Gone with the Wind
. It still amazes me that none of that movie was shot in Georgia. Last week my father told me about how they were filming a big action movie in Detroit. His attitude toward it wasn’t very positive, but people out here are welcoming. They don’t have a choice, as long as the production is legit.