Any Way the Wind Blows (4 page)

“Basil, whatsup?”

“Trying to bring in some new business. What’s that?”

“The competition is bringing in some new tools. Look at this,” Brison said as he handed me the pamphlet.

“This is smooth,” I said as I looked at the photos of athletes, both male and female, touting the services of PMK Management, one of the largest sports agencies in the country. PMK had made overtures to buy XJI, and we’d turned them down cold.

“You think we should do a brochure like this?”

“You bet. This is the shit. Something we can leave with potential clients. Make sure they won’t forget us.”

“I’ll contact an advertising agency before I leave this evening.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“How’s it going with Daschle?”

“He’s now a signed, sealed and delivered first-round pick,” I said as I exchanged dap, the brotherman’s hand-tap, with Brison.

“That’s great news. So I guess you win the bet?”

“What bet?”

“Don’t you remember? We said whoever signed the first client of the new year would get the largest office when we move,” Brison said. Nico, our other partner, had convinced Brison that maybe we should move to a large suite of offices in the Times Square area. Rent in the area was off the hook, and sometimes I worried that we were moving a little too fast. We had already moved once in the last year to accommodate additional support staff.

“Aw, yeah. Cool,” I said as I shook my head, recalling our friendly wager.

“Is Daschle still here?”

“Yeah. He’s in my office. I think we need to get him with George real quick before old boy spends all his money before he’s drafted.” George Douglas handled the finances of most of our clients, even though a lot of them resisted his advice.

“Let me guess. He wants a car for himself. One for Mama. A car for his childhood friend, Pookie, and a car for his girl.” Brison laughed.

“You got it.”

“How long is he going to be here?”

“I can keep him for a couple of days. He’s already dropped out of school.”

“Where’s he staying?”

“I think at the Hudson.”

“Okay, I’ll place a call to George’s office and try to arrange a meeting tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thanks, Brison,” I said as I headed back to my office. When I reached for the door handle, I heard Brison’s big voice call my name.

“Basil.”

“Yep,” I said as I turned around.

“Way to go. Looks like you’re going to have another bang-up year. Before you know it, we’re going to be buying up the competition.”

“And you know that,” I said with a confident smile.

• • •

W
hen I got home from hanging out with Daschle, I was checking my e-mails when I ran across one from someone with the screen name SWALZ. The e-mail address wasn’t one I recognized, so I started to delete it, but instead I opened it and began to read:
Hey Mister Sex Pro Football Star: When was the last time you kissed the boyz and made them cry? Whose heart are you holding hostage now?

So I wrote back,
How are you doing, Yancey? I was wondering when I would hear from you. Glad to see you’ve joined the world of technology … Basil
.

I checked a few more Web sites like the football rating service on CBS SportsLine.com. They had Daschle rated as an 9, which was great because it meant he would definitely be a number-one pick. I spent about ten minutes checking out the ratings of a couple other players I was interested in representing and was getting ready to sign off, when I decided to check my mail again. There was another e-mail from SWALZ. I clicked it open and read:
Yancey? Who dat? A man or a woman? And just so you know, this is not Yancey. … But I’m watching you, heartbreaker
.

I chuckled and said, “Yeah right” to myself and clicked off my computer.

W
hen I was a young girl growing up in Jackson, Tennessee,
Soul Train
was my way of learning what was going on in the rest of the world. I heard songs that weren’t played on our local radio stations. I learned the latest fashions and the newest dance steps. I dreamed of being a
Soul Train
dancer, moving my way down the line, causing both admiration and envy. When I dreamed of being a singer, I imagined Don Cornelius with his huge Afro interviewing me and saying, “Let’s give it up for Miss Yancey Braxton.”

That was a long time ago, so I was shocked when my manager told me I was doing the show. Not because I didn’t think I was good enough, but because I didn’t realize it was still on the air.

On my last day in Los Angeles before I left for New York, I taped two songs at the
Soul Train
studio. The first was the title track, “I’m Not in Love,” and then I brought the house down with a dance version of “Any Way the Wind Blows.” It was obvious from the reaction that most of the crowd knew what I was talking about. But I wanted to wave
my magic wand over the rest of the crowd and tell the ladies with questionable-looking male dance partners, “Y’all not listening to this song, ladies.”

It was also a special day because I met one of my favorite television performers, Shemar Moore, the host of
Soul Train
, and a star of the only soap I watched,
The Young and the Restless
. When he gave me a kiss on the cheek and whispered, “You look damn good, girl,” I wanted to tell him we’d both look better on each other’s arm.

The bad part of my day came when I returned home and Malik started pleading with me not to leave. When I told him I didn’t have a choice, the record company was calling the shots, so I needed to be in New York for a couple of months, Malik tempted me with my own Beverly Hills apartment and an audition for the remake of
Sparkle
.

“Sparkle’s
being remade
?
That’s one of my favorite movies! You think I could play Sparkle?”

“Not Sparkle. That role’s already been cast. I think it’s one of those A or B girls. You know, Aaliyah, Brandy or Beyoncé. But you’d be perfect for the role of Sister, because you’re beautiful, sexy and a woman who can sing her ass off,” Malik said. Who did he think he was talking to? First, he was saying I was too old to play Sparkle, but just the right age for the older sister. Maybe it was just a twisted ploy to get me to stay in Los Angeles, but I had a song to promote, and not even an all-black remake of
Gone with the Wind
was going to keep me in Los Angeles.

“So can I come see you in New York?” Malik asked.

“It’s a free country. Look, I’ve got a flight to catch. Call
me on my cell if you need to reach me,” I said as I gently pushed him out of the door.

While I was packing for my trip back to New York, I thought about my mother and how much she would have enjoyed the day I had. Not for me, but for her. The other day, an older black receptionist at Motown said, “Your parents must be so proud of you.” I looked at her and smiled and said, “I hope they are.” The truth is I never knew my father, and my mother, well, Ava’s story is more than just a story, it’s a miniseries. We
all
have baggage in our lives thanks to our parents. Some of us carry it in a change purse and others use a U-Haul. Me? I need a double-wide mobile home.

M
y friend Wylie David Woolfolk III is the kind of guy who can sometimes put on airs, but when he’s drinking, he’s always the life of the party. Wylie loves his “
cock
tails,” as he calls his libations. He’s a church queen and is always trying to talk me into going to service with him on Sunday morning and Wednesday evening prayer meeting. I am not into churches and all those hypocrites who pack them. Wylie comes from one of the most prominent African-American families in San Antonio, Texas, which was hard for me to believe since I had never heard of any well-to-do black families from Texas, period. His father and mother had created some magic potion hair product called Jeheri Juice Swirl, right before the hairstyle became popular and made millions. Looking at some of Wylie’s pictures from his youth lead me to believe they used the poor child as a human hair tester. Wylie told me he gets a chill anytime he sees someone wearing his or her hair in a jeheri curl. “Then stay out of prison,” I had jokingly warned him.

Sometimes it seems like Wylie is bragging when he talks about the private schools he attended. Not to mention the
Jamaican nanny who raised him, and the annual trips abroad he and his sister took with their parents. He graduated from Southern Methodist University and Columbia’s J school. He’s a partner in an up-and-coming public relations firm handling books and entertainment and he speaks three languages, actually four if you count moogie, the language of B-boyz in New York City and its surrounding boroughs. I knew he sometimes talked about his family’s wealth just to make himself feel good. He suffers from time to time from LSE (low self-esteem). LSE is a common thing in the black gay community, so many of us struggle to find something to brag about. I remember a time when intelligence was considered hot in a man. Then you’d meet someone who couldn’t spell cat (even when given the
c
and the
t)
and you’d suddenly find yourself dumbing down just for the dick. Today it’s beauty, sex (which means a big dick or a mesmerizing ass) or wealth. Rarely does someone have all three, and a lot of the gay kids I know have none of the above. Wylie does have a heart as big as Texas. Besides the free meals, he’s always sending me books (which I never read) and CDs. I knew when we met he was interested in me for more than friendship, but I made it perfectly clear he wasn’t my type. Maybe it was the gym shorts he wore that reminded me of a little girl’s pleated skirt. He’s somewhere between mildly attractive and cute. That’s cool with me because I don’t have to worry about who’s going to be the beauty on duty.

• • •

D
espite my better judgment, I decided to go to an OS (old sissies) dinner party with Wylie. The party was just what I expected, a bunch of old unattractive sissies with
boy-toy dates, putting on airs and drinking too much. There was only one woman, and she was wearing a big blond wig and a tight dress that held life-threatening breasts.

The party was in a brownstone on Strivers Row that would have been spacious except for all the antiques this man had crammed in there. The host, Lester Williams, owned several dry cleaners in Harlem and the Bronx. He was a tall, thin, balding man, with bad teeth and humming breath. I noticed just how stank his breath was when he came up to me and moved his eyes over my body like a barcode scanner.

“So what do we have here?” Lester said to me while balancing a cigarette in one hand and a wineglass in the other.

“Are you talking to me?”

“Baby, as good as you look, who wouldn’t want to talk to you?”

I was looking good in my white leather pants and body-hugging, pumpkin-colored sweater. Lester was standing closer to me than I felt was socially acceptable, but I let it go since he was the host.

“That sounded like a compliment, so I guess I should say thank you,” I said.

“Oh baby, I only tell the truth. I’ll get right back with you, but I see some of the other guests have arrived. Now, if you need anything, just wink, and I’ll feel it, no matter what part of the house I’m in.”

“Thank you, but I’m not that hard to please.”

“And neither am I, especially after a few cocktails,” Lester said, dissolving into laughter and swooping across the room with a feline quickness.

I always felt a certain sadness when I went to parties like this, because in many ways they predicted my future. Being old, gay and alone. Most of the older gay men who had survived the AIDS crisis had lost lovers and friends. The only way it seemed they could enjoy male companionship was by flaunting their material possessions. I saw many of them cruising Mount Morris Park with furs and jewels, hoping for quick sex with some young boy exploring his sexuality or a blue-collar married man looking for anonymous sex. Sometimes I despised straight folks for having so many options for real love.

I asked the bartender for a glass of red wine, and gave a polite smile to two men. One young, one old, one pretty great-looking, and the other so-so. They were also talking about some of the popular television shows.

“Have you seen
Queer as Folk?”
the younger man asked.

“I watched it once,” his friend said. “I think they should call it
Queer as White Folks
, since I haven’t seen any black people on the show. Last time I checked, there were black men in Pittsburgh.”

“I guess it really is a homo version of
Friends
, since there aren’t any black people living in New York on that show either.”

“At least on
Will and Grace
you see black folks every once in a while. When I heard Gregory Hines was going to be on the show I got so excited, ’cause I thought Will had jungle fever. But I ain’t mad at Grace for having the fever.”

I walked around slowly, sipping my wine and watching Wylie and Lester move from group to group as Jill Scott’s amazing and soulful voice covered the room. When I’d
finished my wine, I was heading back to the bar when Lester rang the dinner bell. A crystal one, of course.

When the server lifted the steel covers off the entrée, I realized Wylie had had one
cocktail
too many. His voice didn’t sound like the professional voice I heard when he was trying to impress people with his education and wealth.

“Oh my, my, look who’s here. Miss Chicken! She is everywhere. I mean, you can be at the White House having dinner with the president and who’s there … Miss Chicken. Honey, you can fry her, bake her, grill her, boil her, wing her, poach her. I mean, the bitch is
fierce
. You can be at yo auntie’s house and who’s there? Miss Chicken … there she is. Fried golden brown. You want to lose weight? Who you gonna call? Miss Chicken, boiled without her crispy coat, will do the trick. You want to impress your trade into thinking they getting something fancy, then throw some extra spices on Miss Chicken and maybe a can of concentrated orange or pineapple juice and she becomes a delicacy. Now, Miss Fish, you can’t take her everywhere. Miss Chicken is the one. When was the last time you ate some boiled fish? I don’t think so. And nobody beats that bitch Miss Chicken when she’s fried. I mean, when was the last time you seen Church’s fried fish? So, honey, let’s give praise where praise is due,” Wylie said as he raised his glass. “To Miss Chicken, the fiercest fowl around.”