Visions
Visions was only about three miles from the pay phone where I had made the call, but my feet had started to hurt so I hailed a cab for the short ride over to the meatpacking district where Amanda had told me to meet her.
As my taxi pulled up in front of the club, I saw that Amanda was standing outside the club smoking a cigarette. She was not what you would call a conventional beauty, but she was striking nonetheless at 160 pounds and close to six feet tall. Amanda Sardi was a big girl, but she was also a sweetheart who would give you the Dolce & Gabbana blouse off her back. The first thing she did when she saw me was smile, flick her cigarette in the gutter, and run over to give me a warm hug.
“Eva! Omigod, girl, how have you been?”
“I'm good, but I've been better,” I said, kissing Amanda on both cheeks. “You're looking good!”
Dressed in all black with gold accessories, Amanda was as hip as always in skinny jeans, Balenciaga gladiator heels, and a short, fox-fur jacket over a sequined halter top.
“You too cute as ever!” she said, fluffing my weave, which I knew good and well was a hot mess. I had gone to sleep a couple of nights in a row without wrapping and covering my hair properly, and it had disintegrated into a frizzy, tangled mess.
I usually got my hair done at least once a week, but due to my extended overseas rendezvous with Donovan, it was way past time to sit down in Helene's chair and have my weave tightened up.
The problem was, I couldn't afford it.
Helene's arm-and-a-leg prices were now way too rich for my blood, but my hope was that my meeting with Amanda would change all that.
“C'mon, let's go kick it like old times,” Amanda said, as she took me by the hand and led me inside Visions where Cuban music pulsated into every nook and cranny.
Visions' nightclub was one of those exclusive, bottle-service-type clubs with a star-studded crowd, super-tight security, and flat-screen televisions mounted all over the place. It was a large lofty space with brick walls, red leatherette chairs, and slate tiled floors.
Amanda's personal table was perched high up on a balcony overlooking the rest of the club, where we sat drinking key lime martinis and eating spicy Indian food that her in-house chef had prepared.
Clearly, being boss lady has its privileges.
“So,” I said. “I'm sure you've heard what's going on with Donovan, right?”
“Yeah, I read the papers, but look . . . Regardless of what anyone else believes, I don't think you had anything to do with it. I tell everybody, âI know for a fact that girl has a heart of gold, and she doesn't have it in her to be in on a scam like that.' ”
“Awww, thank you, Mandy,” I said, “That's sweet!”
Amanda shrugged. “Hey, I'm Italian, and when you're a friend of mine, you're a friend for life. So as a friend, how can I help you out?”
“Well, long story short, I need a job . . .
and . . .
I was thinking that it would be a win-win for both of us if I started promoting parties at your clubs,” I said.
Party promoting is very lucrative, and one of the few legitimate ways that I know to earn a substantial amount of cash in a short amount of time.
The deal is that the club owners let promoters use their club to invite friends and other partygoers to party for the night, and in exchange the promoter gets a certain percentage of money from the night's profits. It would be like forming a partnership, and my money woes would be over.
Amanda took a sip of her cocktail, then looked at me in the most loving and sympathetic way. “Eva, I love you and all, but absolutely not. First of all, my clubs are hot all on their own. And second, who would come?”
“I have tons of friends with money, and what I could bring to the table is the more flavorful urban element that love to pop bottles and buy out the bar.”
“Look, I'm Italian, but I'm no racist. It's just that, I'm not so sure I want that make-it-rain type of element in my clubs. We tried it already, and the shootings, and the fights, and the lawsuitsâ” Amanda sighed as if the very thought of an “urban” crowd wore her out. “Trust me, I've learned that a mixed, balanced crowd works best for everybody. Besides, promoting is based mostly on popularity, and no offense, Eva, but you're popular right now, but not in a good way.”
“I've been out of the country and out of the loop for a minute, but dayum! The streets are talkin' like that?”
“Yeah, it is what it is. People talk,” Amanda said, “but the good thing about stuff like this is that people eventually forget. I mean, look at Eddie Murphy. No one looks at him anymore and automatically thinks transvestite hooker.”
We continued to debate for a few more minutes before striking a deal. I would be a party hostess at Visions where it was possible to make upwards of two thousand dollars a night. l breathed a sigh of relief and hugged Amanda, happy that she was willing to help me get on my feet.
She was always super-cool, which is why the biggest conflict we had back when we shared a two-bedroom in Chelsea was that she literally said, “I'm Italian” fifty times a day, and her inflections ranged from pride to where you weren't sure if you were being threatened or not.
“We Italians are as thick as thieves. . . .”
“I'm Italian, Fuhgeddaboudit!”
“Hey, I'm Italian, whaddaya want me to do?”
“It's an Italian thing, you wouldn't understand. . . .”
I couldn't take it. Being proud of your heritage is great, but at least once a week I would have to scream, “Okay, you're Italian! Sheez . . . I get it!” Amanda and I toasted to old times, and to the fact that we would be working together starting Friday night. Salute! (That's
Italian,
you know.)
Truth or Consequences
The next afternoon, I met Kyle for lunch at Cornelia Street Café in the West Village. It was his treat, of course, because the lunch I could have afforded would have included the words
value menu.
“See! I had no doubt whatsoever that you were a resilient bitch!” Kyle said, raising his glass in a toast. “And when I say bitch, I mean that in the fiercest, diva definition of the word.”
“Cheers!” I said as we touched glasses.
It was my first time seeing Kyle since the night of my birthday party at the Rainbow Room, so we had a lot of catching up to do.
“And I truly believe that's why Amanda has been so successful, because she has a kind heart and is a true friend,” said Kyle, “but that heifer Zoë is another story, honey.”
“Why do you say that? What have you heard?” I asked, despite the fact that I didn't want to be reminded of how someone I thought was a friend could turn on me so quickly, but as the old saying goes, “You knew it was a snake when you picked it up.”
“It's not what I've heard, it's what I know! Look at this. . . .” Kyle pulled out his cell phone and showed me a message that Zoë had sent out on Facebook to all of our mutual friends.
There is no doubt that you all have heard about the enormous investment scam that our so-called mutual “friend” Eva Cantrell has been involved in along with her fraudster boyfriend, Donovan Dorsey. I, as well as many of you, have been a financial victim of Evaâ²s deceit, which just goes to show just how disgusting a human being that she really is. Subsequently, I have removed Eva from my entire network. Clearly, she is no friend of mine.
You being a mutual friend, both in real life and on Facebook, would mean that I would still have some connection to Eva Cantrell, and I will not allow that. So this message is my request that you decide by Friday whose side youâ²re on, and who you want to be friends with. Itâ²s either team Zoë or team Eva. There can be no riding the fence on this one. Your friendship means a lot to me, but Eva Cantrell needs to be removed from the picture altogether, and if you choose to remain connected to her, then I must sever you from my circle of friends as well. Please decide on this at your earliest convenience, because I will promptly begin removing people still connected with Eva ASAP.
Thank you, your friend (I hope!)
~ Zoë
“Oh, she is really tripping!” I said, handing the phone back to Kyle.
“But the tragic part is, it worked. Have you checked your Facebook page lately?”
“At a time like this? Facebook is the last thing on my mind,” I said. “I haven't even thought about it, truthfully.”
“Well, FYI, you're down to about thirteen friends. There's me and Tameka, of course, and the rest are your friends and family from back home.”
“Thirteen! When I had over two thousand?” Kyle scratched his bald head and avoided eye contact. “You should see some of the comments that were left on your wall as they exited,” he said. “Vicious!”
It wasn't surprising. I knew that Zoë had it in her to be so immature and nasty, and when she dislikes someone, she expects everyone else to fall in line and hate them too.
Clearly, my mistake was in thinking that we had a truly solid friendship. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect to be on the receiving end of Zoë Everett's hatred.
And speaking of Facebook, it's probably unnecessary to change my relationship status to “It's complicated” since I'm sure everyone knows that by now.
“But forget about all that mess, how are things working out with you and this Vance Murphy?” Kyle asked.
“So far, so good. He works long hours and the only time we really see each other is when we run into each other in the bathroom, or the kitchen.”
Which reminded me of the incident that occurred earlier that morning.
I had jumped up early and got dressed to go get some coffee and a couple of lemon bars from Starbucks. I thought it would be a nice gesture if I checked with Vance to see if he wanted anything, and when I knocked on his bedroom door, it swung wide open. I peeked in the room and saw that Vance had just gotten out of bed and was stretching, with his body chiseled and ripped up like Adonis.
He was also butt-naked, and his morning wood was enormous. Oh, my
God,
what a big ego! Vance looked over and saw me standing in the doorway, and we were both so shocked that I just said “Sorry!” and closed the door behind me.
Kyle laughed after I relayed the story to him. “And that's how you left things?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I nodded, “pretty much. . . .”
“Well, it should certainly be interesting when you two see each other again!”
“I know, right? Akward.com!”
“Hmm . . . so is that a situation you wouldn't mind getting to know better?” Kyle asked with a cheeky grin.
“Who, Vance? Oh, hell, no! He's a decent-looking guy and everythingâvery kind and thoughtful, but he's totally not my type.”
“And why is that?”
“I don't know. . . . stuffed suit, kinda dry . . . and even if there were some chemistry there, which there certainly is not, the fact that Vance is a friend of Donovan's automatically rules him out.”
“Wait, stop the damn presses!” said Kyle, holding his hand up. “It's because of Donovan's thoughtless, greedy ass that you're living under a cloud of suspicion, and without two quarters to rub together.
Now
you're running around here with your weave all busted upâyet you're still loyal to the man?”
I patted my head self-consciously, hoping my tracks weren't showing because they sure as hell were slipping.
“Look, my lack of interest in Vance has less to do with loyalty to Donovan and everything to do with having morals and values. My motto is: If I have ever slept with anyone you know, and vice versa, then you and I can never be. So there, Mr. Man, take notes and
learn!
”
“To each his own, but as for me, I would definitely take it on a case-by-case basis,” Kyle joked. “So what are you going to do when they track Donovan down and bring him back to face the music? Are you going to support him through the whole court process or what?”
“Wow . . . I don't know. I've been so busy trying to figure out how to pull myself up out of this mess that I haven't thought about it. I still care about Donovan and I don't want anything bad to happen to him, but if I do support him during the trial, it will be as a friend and not his girlfriend,” I said. “I mean . . . why? What even possessed him to take all those people's money like that?”
“Yeah, that was some cold, calculated shit that he pulled,” Kyle said. “And with a smile on his face too.”
“And don't think that white America isn't saying, âSee what happens when black folks get in these positions of power?' ”
“We told you they can't be trusted!”
“Which is just one of the reasons why I'm so pissed at Donovan,” I said. “Because we had countless discussions on what he perceived to be the black man's burden in corporate America, which is when they open the door and give you a seat at the table, you can't fuck it up.
We
have to represent so that
we all
can go further. And what did he do?”
Kyle said it with me. “He fucked it up!” Donovan had the golden opportunity to go down in history as a brilliant financial wizard. Instead, he would forever be known as the biggest
black
Wall Street swindler of all time.
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After lunch, Kyle and I walked over to Greer's clothing store, where I watched with envy as he was measured for a custom-made leather jacket with a rock star vibe.
“I remember what that's like,” I said wistfully as I browsed through the racks that were full of exotic, one-of-a-kind pieces.
“You need to go ahead and sell that fur coat,” said Kyle. “You ought to be able to get at least five grand for it.”
“For a sixty-five thousand dollar coat?” I asked incredulously. “I would be a bona fide fool to take a loss like that. Besides, I have been checking in with Swiss Air every day. Hopefully they'll find my luggage soon, and I can sell some of those things instead.”
Kyle smirked, trying not to laugh in my face. “Eva, girl, not to be insensitive or anything, but you might as well write that luggage off. Some Swiss bitch bought your stuff hot and is walking around the town square sharper than a porcupine's spine, honey.”
“Don't say that,” I pleaded. “I can't stand the thought of all those beautiful things out there somewhere, lost to me forever. I mean, you should have seen all the stuff I copped in Paris, Kyle. It really was quite impressive.”
Kyle and the tailor looked at me with concern all over their faces.
I had become emotional without even realizing it, and was on the verge of tears.
“Believe me, sweetheart, I understand,” Kyle said quietly, and I sensed that he might have been a bit embarrassed for me, so leave it to Kyle to bring humor to a tense situation. “Now, I know that you don't have that many clothes left, but fear not, 'cause, girl, I still have some things left over from my old drag daysâsome fabulous pieces that you will just die for!”
That made me smile. “But Kyle, sweetie, you're six foot four, two hundred and twenty pounds. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Alterations, darling!” the tailor said dramatically, and we all laughed.
“Besides, clothes aren't a huge deal. You can always get more clothes and look fabulous in anything you put on, even a flour sack if you so choose,” said Kyle, “but what are we gonna do about this hair?”
“You know what? You have one more chance to crack on my weave, and it's gonna be me and you!” I laughed. “Now, if it's that bad, why don't you help me do something with it? You know you've always had a way with my hair.”
“Oh, baby, I wish I could, but I have to be at rehearsals with Killjoy in about an hour, and you know I mustn't keep the children waiting. Besides, Keith, you know how those little homo-thugs can be, don't you? They just might cut me!”
Keith the tailor laughed, and nodded in agreement. “Yeah,” he said. “They do act like they have something extra to prove.”
“Nuh-uh, Kyle, I don't believe you!” I said. “Are you saying that the members of that cute little teeny-bopping boy group are gay?”
“First of all, don't be fooled, because those aren't teenyboppers, those are grown-ass men in their twenties who are very well versed on the art of sixty-nine.”
“Ugh, enough, TMI!” I said. “Way too much information and I don't even want to visualize it!”
“What? Don't kill the messenger, I'm just stating facts,” Kyle said. “And since you're all queasy with sensitive ears, I won't go into any more detail, but let's just say that if all those swooning and adoring female fans only knew what takes place before and after the curtain goes up, those boys would have an entirely different audience. The gays!”
Kyle was a dancer who had both the New York City Ballet and Alvin Ailey dance troupe listed on his resume. He also danced lead in several big Broadway productions, such as
The Lion King
and
Cats,
and
The Nutcracker.
These days, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, Kyle was leaning more toward the choreography side of things, working with veteran recording artists like Janet and Mary J., and on down the line to newbies like the R&B boy-band, Killjoy.
Kyle's revelation about Killjoy made me wonder just how much of the world's population was living some kind of illusion, whether it is their lifestyle, marriage, sexuality, finances, and the list goes on and on.
Perception was not always reality, and what you do in the dark really does eventually come out to the light. Donovan J. Dorsey was proof of that.