My Best Friend and My Man (7 page)

I
am
a queen.

Queen.

—9—

D
EMETRIA

“So, queen,” I
say, changing the
subject. “What you wanna talk about? Anything else on your mind?”

She smiles. “I want to talk about work.”

“Work?”

“And the guy who attended the March of Dimes planning meeting.”

“There were a lot of guys who attended our meeting.”

“But none like this one.”

“Vee, what are you talking about?” I ask her.

“Well, he’s the distinguished gentleman who came to the meeting a few minutes after it started. I remember he actually blushed like…he felt embarrassed. I thought that was endearing.”

“Ahhh, okay. I’ve seen him before. You want to push up on that?”

“Well, not saying all that. I barely know him except for an occasional run-in. But I didn’t notice a wedding ring, so my curiosity is aroused.”

“I’ll bet that’s not all that’s aroused,” I say, smirking at my girl. “Well, go for it. Step up to him.”

“I plan to, I am. I just don’t want to seem overly aggressive. So far he hasn’t approached me. I mean, he’s friendly but just says hey and keeps going, like he’s always in a rush.”

“You call that an excuse?”

“Oh, Demetria,” she whines.

“Look, I don’t know anything about this man, but I’m positive one of my many sources can give me the four-one-one.”

“No, I don’t wanna take that approach, either.”

“Well, I can tell you like him. You’re blushing. Be careful, Vee. You know nothing about him except that you’re attracted to his blushes—you don’t even know his name.”

“Oh, I do, it’s Seaphes Hill. I looked him up on the employee directory. He’s an architect.”

“Hmmm. An architect. Very nice. Means he’s educated and has money.”

“Yeah, but will he be interested in—”

“Stop it, girl, yes. You’re a queen, remember? Queens can have anyone they want. From the limo driver to the prince. A queen has her pick. Jeez, I’m gonna have to slap this into you for you to get it.” I am just playing with my girl, but her low self-esteem is starting to get on my last nerve.

“Okay, Demetria, pretend like you’re me. How would you approach Seaphes?”

“I’d walk up to him and hold out my hand, and say, ‘Hi, forgive me for being forward, but I’m Veron Darcey. I work in Finance and Administration. I just wanted to compliment you on that sharp-looking suit you’re wearing. It really makes you stand out so much I couldn’t help but come say hi. And you are?’”

“Okay, so men don’t mind the direct approach.”

“It depends. Check him out first. Just watch him without letting him know you’re watching. If he’s the type that looks you directly in the eye, go for it.”

“God, I’m going to need a rule book. Oh, speaking of, I’m about halfway done with
Why Men Love Bitches,
and I love the heck outta this book. I think I’m learning. Like the day I hung up the phone on Ferris, he was so shocked. He kept calling back. He didn’t hear my voice in real time for days. He left me like ten voice mails. I loved hearing him beg and whine. He even started singing me a song on one of the messages.”

“And how’d that make you feel?” I ask her.

“Powerful. In control. Like I was being pursued.”

I smile and nod at my friend. “You wanna keep feeling like that?”

“I sure do.”

“Then keep doing what’cha doing. Don’t forget. You’re the queen, the boss, the head bitch in charge.” I hop up from her bed. “Where’s your book?”

“Right next to the toilet. I’ll go get it.”

Vee rushes back, plops on her bed, and opens the book. “I
love
this part. ‘Never start what you don’t want to continue.’ That’s genius. I know I used to date a man named Woody. And I made the mistake of making him some oatmeal with raisins and walnuts one morning. Oatmeal turned into homemade biscuits or waffles with strawberries and whipped cream. And when I’d beg him to give me a break and take me to IHOP, his punk butt refused to do it. Said my cooking would put IHOP outta business.”

“And like a fool you believed him, huh?” I ask.

“How’d you know?”

“Easy. I know how women think.” Like I said before, Veron is the old me. The dumb me who had to turn smart. I shiver when I recall how desperate I used to act. A man disrespecting me was like the Detroit Lions not making the play-offs. It’s just something everybody expected. So once I got sick of the routine, the routine had to be overhauled and I forced myself to change. And I have to be careful because I don’t want to revert back to my former self. I’d rather die than return to who I used to be.

“Well, anyway,” Vee continues, “I had to grab the rules book, take my yellow highlighter and highlight the hell outta that one sentence. Because I plan to start out how I want to end up. I am not following my instincts from now on—each move will be carefully planned. I am making a list of what not to do.”

“That’s a good start. Like what don’t you want to do with your new man, Seaphes?”

She blushes, but recovers. “Yep, my new man, Seaphes. That’s right.” She stops for a second. “Oh my God, now I’m getting nervous. I feel like I’m scheming to get him. He’s supposed to chase me, not vice versa.”

“Reverse psychology can get a man to do the things that you want him to do. Don’t even sweat it.”

“Okay. So I am going to have a conversation with him for the first time in my life, this week. Because you know we have another planning meeting. The March of Dimes Walk America event is coming up and we’re going to organize that for our unit.”

“Well, I can’t wait to meet this guy. Anything to get your mind off that weak-ass Ferris.”

“Ahhh ha, you never hold back when it comes to men, Demetria. And I love you for it.”

“I got cha back, girlie.”

Vee’s phone rings. She blushes when she looks at who it is and makes a silly-looking face.

“Screw off, asshole,” I scream at the phone. “She don’t want cha. She’s a queen.”

“And that’s why he’s calling me.”

“Yep, that’s why the lame-o is calling you. And what do you do when a lame-o calls?”

“I don’t pick up.”

“Why?”

“Because I am busy. I have a life. I keep myself unavailable and do things only if it fits into my schedule.”

I start clapping. “Go ahead, girl. And when will you be available, Vee?”

“In the year two thousand never.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

And we high-five.

—10—

S
EAPHES

Because I don’t
let things bother
me, I am asked to do favors for people a lot. Things like watching my infant nephew while my sister goes to a bridal shower. Or holding the elevator for some women who are so busy gossiping they aren’t ready to hop in when the door opens. Or helping comanage the March of Dimes Walk America campaign for several departments within the City of Houston. I might be kind of a sucker, actually. No, I was probably asked because everyone at work heard that my nephew Tupac (don’t laugh) was born prematurely. He weighed only three ounces. But now he’s almost eight months old and is doing fine. He’s a little trouper. He’s spit up on me several times, so we’ve bonded. I can’t abandon him, even if his mom can. And if she wants to go hang out with her friends so she can ooo and ahhh over her girlfriend’s bridal gifts, that just means Tupac and I get to hang out.

Really, I am honored to be involved with this fund-raising campaign. We’re about to go into a brainstorming meeting to figure out clever ways to get people to part with some cash, so we can help out babies like little Tupac. I hope they hurry up, though. Almost lunchtime. My stomach is growling, and I’m in the mood for some heavy grub, since I didn’t have time to get breakfast this morning.

“Hey, you guys, let’s get this meeting started,” Ursula Phillips says. She’s a fine-ass administration manager who wouldn’t throw a bucket of water on me if I was on fire.

“First I want us to come up with different ideas on how to raise money for the March of Dimes,” Ursula says. “I’ll just jot down your ideas on the whiteboard. There is no wrong answer. Just toss out something. I want to ask every single person in this room, so we won’t leave anyone out. Okay, Percy, you go first,” she says to Percy Jones, an intern who works with me in Engineering and Construction.

“How ’bout we do a bootleg video sale? You know, how we’ve already seen the video and know we not gonna watch it no mo’?” he asks looking around the room as if anyone else is stupid enough to admit they actually buy bootleg movies. I shoot him a look—as a black professional, he’s got to learn how to behave in certain settings so white people won’t think we don’t know how to handle ourselves in professional situations.

“Hmm, interesting,” Ursula says without writing down Percy’s idea. “Next, how about you, what’s your name?”

“Veron Darcey with Finance and Administration.”

“Great. What’s your idea, Veron?”

“Well, people love to eat.”

“Amen, sista,” says Percy with his loud, ignorant-sounding voice.

“And I love to bake. I’m great at making carrot cake. I’m sure we could sell loads of baked goods twice a week until the campaign is complete.”

“Hmmm, sounds good,” Ursula says. She smiles and writes down
bake sale
.

Ursula continues going around the room, jotting down various ideas like selling Beanie Babies or raffling off tickets for corporate-sponsored small electronics items and department-store gift cards.

“Good, thanks, people, I love it. Let’s take a moment to vote on the top two fund-raising picks based upon all the ideas you’ve given today. We’re almost about to get outta here for lunch,” Ursula says.

She distributes notepaper, and we jot down our top two picks.

I walk up to the front of the room and stand in front of Ursula, holding out my paper toward her. She’s busy writing.

“Just put it on the desk, please.”

“But what if I prefer you to take it from me?”

“Look, Seaphes—”

“Oh, since when were we on a first-name basis?”

“Mr. Hill, if you don’t mind, I’m busy,” she says with sharpness in her voice that makes my cheeks turn red. I can tell the room has gotten quieter and my stomach is growling even louder.

“Uh, well, I didn’t mean any harm,” I tell her in a soft voice. But she still won’t look at me. And I don’t know why I’m letting this bitch talk down to me.

“I need to talk to you directly after this meeting,” I tell her.

“I don’t have time for—”

“You don’t even know what I want to say.”

She sighs and finally looks at me. “You’re right. Whatever you need to say, say it now.”

Other people are now bringing up their fundraising choices, which Ursula gladly retrieves with a smile and a soft “thank you.”

“Fine then. Why are you so mean?” I ask in a quiet voice.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I barely know you, and you’ve always had a nasty attitude. I just want to know why.”

“I’m sorry, but this is not the time or place.”

“You just asked me to say whatever I needed to say right now,” I say, my voice increasing in volume more than I expect or want.

“Hey, hey, now you two quiet it down,” Percy cuts in. “We trying to get up outta here.”

I hold my tongue and slither back to sit down, my face red as some Georgia dirt.

“Okay, sorry, everyone. It is getting a little past twelve. So I’ll just e-mail the results to the group this afternoon with further instructions. Thanks for your time and participation. Have a great weekend.”

Ursula begins scooping up papers, her head lowered while she stares at the table. Most of the meeting participants jump up immediately, flying out the door and loudly gabbing about nothing.

“Damn, she was the bitchiest bitch I’ve ever seen. Don’t even waste your time on that sista.”

I look up. It’s that carrot cake baking woman. She has one hand on her hip and a book lodged under her arm. Only word I can make out in the title is
bitches.

I glance at Ursula, who’s still pretending to gather her stuff, obviously waiting for me to leave before she’ll look up.

“Yeah, I hear ya,” I say to the woman. “She’s got issues. So, what’s that you’re reading?”

“Oh, this,” she says, blushing. “I’m a member of a book club, and this is what was picked. It’s pretty cool. Gives great info about men and women and our relationship challenges.”

“Oh, yeah.” I glance at the book she’s holding up. “Shoot, I could’ve written that book,” I say, looking back at Ursula, who is now talking to Percy.

“I’ll bet you can,” she says, flirtatiously. “You look like you probably know a lot about relationships.”

“Yeah,” I say, taking a closer look at this woman. She’s standing an arm’s length away from me, appearing bored and casual. She’s killing the dress that she’s wearing; it’s purple, my favorite color, and shows off a great pair of legs in black leather boots. All that makes me wonder what’s underneath the dress, and I have no idea why my mind is going there about her so soon.

“Well, women are something I have a lot of dealings with, but I don’t always understand them.”

“Mmm hmmm. In what way?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Huh,” I say. “Well, take for example my bonehead sister. She has a good man at home, the father of her child, but she still has to party every Friday night like if she doesn’t the world is coming to an end. Dude always lets her go, too.”

“‘Lets her’?”

“I mean he doesn’t ever tell her he has problems with her going. Probably because she starts whining about how she’s stuck in the house all day and needs to get out and be around someone that she can hold grown-up conversations with.”

“Ahhh, she sounds like a mom with a young kid. First-time mom?”

“Yeah.”

“Figures.”

“You got kids?” I ask.

“Mmmm, why do you ask?”

I cough and clear my throat.

“I mean,” she explains, “I was hoping that my figure doesn’t suggest that I have kids. That’s what I meant by my question. You see my hips are wide and sometimes people think I got my wide hips from kids. The answer is no—I was born with these suckers.”

I laugh and nod approvingly. I look back up at Ursula, who’s actually following Percy out of the room.

“Hey, you wanna do lunch?” I ask the woman a little too loudly.

“Really?” she asks, eyes widening. Then she catches herself and looks nonchalant. “Uh, shoot, I would love to but I forgot. I promised to meet a friend.”

“Well, hmmm, okay, it was nice talking to you. Do you have your card on you? I’ve run out.”

“Hold up a sec, let me look.” She fiddles around in her purse but pulls out nothing.

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “I’m all out, too.”

“Oh, well. I guess I’ll stop hogging your time so you can go meet your date.”

“It’s not—well, I guess it is getting late. See ya later, Seaphes.”

“Okay, I gotta run too—I need to drain the vein.”

“Excuse me?” she asks, looking confused.

“Men’s room,” I mouth.

She laughs and blushes, and I take one step forward, then stop.

“You know,” I say to her, “in the old days no one depended on handing out business cards. If they still wanted to continue a conversation or further get to know someone, they wrote down numbers on a piece of paper.”

“Uh, yeah. Why don’t you give me your number?”

“Are you going to do anything with my number?”

She looks like she’s about to say something again, but catches herself. “Why, you want me to use it?”

“Listen, you look pretty in your dress. Your legs really stand out in that outfit. I want to see you wearing that one again.”

“Ah ha. Thanks,” she says, allowing a grin to spread on her face.

“Here, take my number,” I say and hand her a receipt I used to scribble my cell number.

“Thanks again. I gotta go,” she says, holding the receipt.

“I gotta go, too,” I tell her and rush into the men’s room.

What was
that
about?