Chapter Five
Darren finished his errands, saw a few clients, and headed to the gym. He ran two miles on the treadmill, hit the weights hard, and then headed home to shower. As he walked into his condo, he played music overhead as he again ran bathwater. “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood was playing overhead. Darren secretly liked this tune and laughed to himself as he thought about what black people would say if they knew he listened to country music from time to time.
Darren loved R&B, rap and a host of black music. He also secretly had a love for tunes by many of today's country artists. To Darren, country music was nothing more than blues set to a different type of music.
Darren saw six clients today. Each one ended up writing him a check for at least 1000 dollars. It was now six o'clock in the evening and he was exhausted. Talking to clients was always draining. The average person had problems such as the economy, behavioral problems with their kids, or relationship issues. Celebrities and the city's elite had deeper issues going on that stemmed all the way from childhood.
One client he saw today had been using steroids since he was fourteen. Now he had the body of a powerhouse linebacker, but a penis the length of a crayon. He had a beautiful wife and kids, but most days his body was incapable of functioning sexually, and as such, he would become frustrated and beat his wife.
Another client that he saw today was yet another pro athlete with a drug issue and out-of-control behavior. This included running from the police, racing his cars on Lake Shore Drive, and also beating on women. He almost always paid the woman off that he beat, but the athlete knew there would be a time that he would go too far and one of his victims wouldn't want money. It would be just a matter of time before someone, or some advocacy group, would want to see him in jail.
Another client had an addiction to high school girls. Yet another client had a problem with gambling, and the last client that he saw today had a more intriguing issue. He was addicted to escorts. His case was the most harmless and the least difficult that he had today. This behavior was obsessive, but not necessarily destructive, because of the money that the client made. It was this case, however, that Darren found to be the most fascinating of the day.
The client in question was almost always seen in Chicago's high-society magazines as a playboy of sorts. The man was in his mid-forties. He was handsome and he drove the finest cars, ate in the finest restaurants, and had the finest women on his arm. It turned out that many of the women on his arm who looked like models, were actually escorts.
Darren was surprised that a man this handsome and with his stature would even use an escort service. The client's rationale was simple: He paid for a service, the woman provided that service, and there were few complications.
According to the client, he could pick the women online, or as a member of the VIP club he could have a private showing in his home, which he had done from time to time. Many of the women made 1000 dollars an hour or 5000 for the entire evening. According to Darren's client, it was worth every penny.
No drama. No courting. No arguing. Simply the company of a beautiful woman, stimulating conversation, and as much sex as a man could stand. Shit, it's like an all-you-can-eat buffet with the perfect foods, Darren thought.
Darren asked the client in the session earlier today what his problem was if he was so happy with the service that was provided. The client explained that between the cost of Viagra and the cost of women every other night, he figured he had a problem. He wasn't going broke, but at five thousand a night, four or five nights a week, by fifty-two weeks in a year, he was spending close to one million dollars a year on just courting women. Darren thought to himself, Are you kidding me?
Of course he couldn't say that out loud. Again, Darren's opinion had no place in therapy. However, he did find this case quite interesting. He and his client worked on his compulsive behavior and discussed his issues with greed and obsession with sex.
As weeks passed, they came up with a plan to wean the man off the escort service. The first step was to cancel his VIP status. The next was to use the less expensive women, and perhaps only see a woman once a week. The third step was to get into other activities or hobbies such as running, tennis, going to the gym or something that he used to do years ago that he didn't do anymore. Darren surmised that the client needed a healthy outlet; something legal that could keep him focused.
Darren then asked the client when was the last time he asked a woman out on a date. A real date. Surprisingly, it had been quite a few years. Darren asked the client if it was because he lacked confidence. The client stated he simply didn't have the time. His company was one of the top in the nation and to keep it on top he had to give the business all his focus.
His board of directors and chief financial advisors told him they thought the escort service was a great idea. The financial department looked for ways to write it off. As far as they were concerned, it might have cost the company a million dollars, but the client was a multimillionaire and the company was making billions. It was an intriguing story, one that stayed on Darren's mind long after the session was over.
Before leaving, Darren took the client's membership card away from him. The goal was to take a step each week away from the escort service, and one step toward finding a real woman to have in his life. The client's goal was to find a real woman; someone that could provide more than a service to him.
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A real woman. Ain't that something? Here I am telling someone how to get their love life together, and here I am with no one to call my own, Darren thought to himself.
Darren had money, good looks, a great car and now, a great career. He had women that pursued him doggedly. He had great physical chemistry with some women. He had amazing friendships with others. Getting a woman in his bed was no problem. Giving a woman his heart . . . that was something altogether different.
He acted tough on the exterior, like nothing bothered him. He acted like he was happy. On the outside looking in, he was. He was the type of man who seemed to have it all together. Many men would kill to live his lifestyle. Still, every day for more than a few years now, at least once a day he found himself thinking about her, and what she might be doing.
Darren eased into the tub and reflected on his day. His last client told him he thought it would be a good idea if Darren learned how to play golf. It was one of the things that the man hadn't done in years and it was Darren's suggestion that the client go back to an activity that he used to love doing.
The client was pushing hard for Darren to learn how to play. Apparently, golf was not only a place where high-profile men made business deals. It was also a place where men shared their deepest, darkest secrets. It was kind of like the barbershop.
Darren's last client told him that he could make a killing financially if he secured clients from some of Chicago's more elite golf clubs. The client even offered to buy Darren a membership and introduce him to some of Chicago's upper-echelon businessmen.
Darren asked his client to give him some time to think about it. The prospect of making more money was becoming more and more appealing, and already he was leaning toward giving in and telling his client yes.
Darren made a little over 100,000 dollars a year after taxes. If he met up with friends of his client, that figure could easily jump up to a million in a year or two. He was making money hand over fist and was making more and more contacts each week. At the rate he was going he might be able to one day afford escorts like his client did. Not that he was thinking about doing such a thing, but the concept was interesting. There was just one thing: Black men don't pay for sex, right?
Chapter Six
Korie, pulled up in front of her first client's homeâa five-bedroom, five-bathroom, and three-car garage home. She was impressed; it looked magnificent. Korie often got excited when she saw a house that she really wanted to decorate. For her, sometimes seeing a home and all the possibilities that it offered made her as giddy as a schoolgirl.
Her heart sank in her chest when she saw the '88 Chevy Impala out front with the chrome rims on the car. Her heart sank even deeper when she saw the beat-up minivan that was on the side with chrome spinners on its wheels. The rims had to be worth more than the van itself. As she chirped the alarm on her car, she let out a heavy sigh as she thought one thing; Niggas.
This couple was recommended to her by a friend of a friend of Jayna. That was why Korie agreed to see the house. She explained that her fee was 2000 dollars. The couple on the phone stated that money was no object. That being the case, Korie scheduled the appointment for 1:00
P.M.
She hoped in her heart of hearts that her gut feeling was wrong. She hoped that she wouldn't ring the bell and some country or ghetto-ass black person answered the door. She hoped that the car that was in the front belonged to the couple's son and the van perhaps belonged to a friend of the couple's son.
She rang the bell. From the inside she heard, “Shaniqua, get the door!”
Damn, she thought.
Whoever it was that yelled was right there in the living room. Whoever it was obviously decided that it was not his job to get the front door. Seconds later, a heavyset black woman with bronze-colored skin and blond highlights answered the doorâin a house robe.
Yep . . . country or ghetto . . . or both, Korie thought.
“Uh, hi. My name is Korie. Are you Mrs. Underwood?”
“Yes, I am. You must be the interior decorator lady.”
“Uh, yes, that would be me,” Korie said with a half smile.
“Well, come on in, girl!” Her tone was inviting; loud, but inviting. Quite country, Korie thought.
The woman hugged Korie as if they were age-old friends. Korie reluctantly hugged back. At first she was apprehensive about working with the couple. As she saw the house, she wanted more and more to have the responsibility of decorating it.
On the couch was an overweight black man who resembled the eighties rapper Biz Markie. He was playing PlayStation 3 on a plasma-screen television in his robe and slippers along with two of his friends. One of them was most likely the owner of one or both of the cars in front.
All three men looked to be in their forties, and all three looked as if they would struggle with completing a job application. Korie tried hard not to be judgmental, but she thought to herself, sometimes you can just look at a man and see that he has little if any potential. None of the three men looked as if they had any potential. They each looked as if they had already peaked in life.
Korie tried to ignore the men as she toured the rest of the house. The men each looked up at her as if she was a piece of meat and they were carnivores. The looks they gave made her feel uncomfortable; as if they each were undressing her with their eyes. Still, she ignored them and followed Mrs. Underwood into the grand home.
The house had a two-story foyer, a two-story family room, and a two-story state-of-the-art kitchen with a hearth room. It had a front and rear staircase, and a stunning master suite with both a huge fireplace and master bathroom inside. There was also a second kitchen in the home, a wet bar, a wine cellar, a theater room, exercise room, and a circular drive.
At first glance the house had to cost at least three million dollars. It was Korie's dream house, and even she couldn't begin to think about buying a house this expensive. It was immediately obvious that the couple was living way beyond their means.
“Wow, you really have a lovely house.”
“Thank you.”
“So if you don't mind my asking, what does your husband do for a living?”
Korie couldn't help but to ask. Based on what she saw in the living room versus what she was looking at in the home, something in this picture just wasn't clicking.
“You mean where the money came from.”
Mrs. Underwood's tone was sharp, but not sharp enough to be rude. It was a tone that suggested she had heard that question before. It was becoming more and more obvious that the Underwoods had no business in this section of town.
The house was grand, but the furniture was cheap. The couch looked as if it came from a storefront on Chicago's west side. Many of the accessories, towels, and accents of the home reeked of flea market values. There were dishes in the sink, pots and pans with the Teflon scraped off the bottom, and curtains where there should have been drapes. Then there was the distinct smell of hog headcheese on crackers, leftover food that was fried rather than grilled, and cheap accessories that were nailed into the walls. Just looking at the place, it was clear that they needed help decorating. It was also clear that they did not fit the area that they were living in.
Most people from the hood had champagne taste and a malt liquor budget. The Underwoods seemed to have a champagne budget and malt liquor taste.
“Mrs. Underwood, I didn't mean anything by my questionâ”
“Sure you did.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on, sister, you know what I mean. I bet you are wondering how someone like me and someone like my husband could afford a place like this. Everyone else we've called to help us out pulls up to the house and are all smiles until the moment we open the front door. Everyone wants to know how people like us ended up out here. No offense, but your face gave you away the moment I opened the door. It's obvious that you are wondering how we get to live out here and you probably can't afford to live out here yourself.”
She was right. Silence fell between the two women. Korie decided if they were going to work together, she needed to keep things real.
“Well, to be honest with you, the thought did cross my mind.”
“Thank you for your honesty.”
“So can I ask? How did you all come to live out here?”
“Well, I don't mind telling you, we're lottery winners.”
“I see.”
Figures, she thought.
“You don't think we belong here, do you?”
She spoke as if she had heard this a million times before.
“Let me ask you this, how much money did you win?” Korie decided to be more direct.
“A million dollars, after taxes.”
“And how much did you put down on the house?”
“My husband put down a half-million dollars.”
Korie thought to herself, a half-million dollars on a house that cost almost three million? This is a setup. This is one of those deals where some finance company probably raped them on the paperwork.
The taxes alone would have them in bankruptcy court inside of a year. Korie knew they wanted an interior decorator, but they needed a financial advisor. The Underwoods were in over their heads, and had no idea what was in store for them in the immediate future.
Korie didn't know a lot about finances, but she did know that there was no way the Underwoods would be able to maintain a mortgage on a three-million-dollar home. She wondered why no one had talked to them before about the mistake they were making. They shouldn't have even been able to get financing on a home like this.
Korie remembered something that he used to tell her all the time. A million dollars is not a lot of money. A million dollars is nothing if you don't make it work for you. That's what he would say.
“So, will you help us decorate the house?” Mrs. Underwood asked.
“No. No, I'll do something better for you.”
“But Iâ”
“Trust me, sister, the last thing you need right now is an interior decorator.”
Korie wanted to call him. She wanted his advice. Truth be told, she just wanted to hear his voice. This situation would be the perfect excuse to call him. After all, he was the educated one, the one that was financialy savvy.
It had been years since they last spoke. She still had his number in her phone and wondered if it had changed. She would never call him. She was too proud for that, but wasn't too proud, however, to make sure that she kept her same number all these years. Korie might have changed cell phone carriers, but she kept her number. She kept her number because deep down inside she longed for him to call.
Once they said good-bye, he never called her again. He was too proud, too arrogant. To call her would be a sign of weakness. She too was a strong and proud black woman. She didn't need a man. She never did. She never would. She may not have had a formal education, but she knew the meaning of hard work. She knew what it meant to struggle and what it meant to go hungry, but one thing she didn't know how to do was give up. She wanted to use this excuse to call him, but instead she called her girlfriend; she called the one person who always had her back.
Korie called Jayna and asked her to meet her at the home of the Underwood family. In the meanwhile, Korie continued to tour the grand home. An hour later, Jayna was at the Underwood home. She had the same first impression that Korie had. Jayna knew immediately why Korie called her. Minutes after getting there, she was explaining to Mr. and Mrs. Underwood why putting a half-million dollars down on a three-million-dollar home was foolish.
Jayna explained that one third of lottery winners who had won a significant amount of money went bankrupt within a few years. She also explained that with a three-million-dollar home, the taxes would eat away at them after the first year alone.
Jayna explained to Shaniqua and her husband, who was hardly listening, that they needed an attorney, a financial consultant, and above all else, they needed to get out of that home as soon as possible, despite having no equity in it. Shaniqua's husband wasn't listening to the advice.
His position was, we asked you here to decorate, not to lecture us.
He spoke as if his pride was hurt. He spoke as if he hated being ignorant about financial matters. Most of all, Korie and Jayna got the impression that Mr. Underwood did not appreciate the counsel of women. He struck them both as the type that was ignorant and sexist; a man who was ignorant of his own ignorance. When his language began to become abusive, Jayna, Korie, and Shaniqua went outside for a sister-to-sister talk.
“Mrs. Underwood, we're just trying to keep it real with you. I don't know what lifestyle you all came from, but whatever style it was, you will be back to living that exact same way if you don't make wiser decisions about your money. You need to get out from under this house immediately and try to live within your means.”
This was Jayna's advice and it was sound advice.
Mrs. Underwood understood everything that was being told to her. She understood that the taxes alone would be a problem; it was clear by the look on her face, however she was living before, she didn't want to go back to that lifestyle.
It was also clear by the look on her face that her husband held the purse strings. The look on her face said it all. There was no way in hell that her husband would listen to two women, and let them advise him on how to conduct business. Qualified or not, Mr. Underwood would not heed counsel from two black women. Something about their strength made him feel visibly insecure.
Korie felt sorry for Mrs. Underwood. Jayna, however, had a look on her face as if she were deep in thought. She then had a look on her face as if she had an epiphany.
“Mrs. Underwood, did your husband specifically give you any money?”
“He gave me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He kept two fifty and he put the rest on the house, why?”
“I'm going to be your personal financial advisor. In the meanwhile, you need to try and convince your husband to get a smaller home. You can get a nice home for about two hundred thousand once you sell this one.”
“Isn't it going to be hard to sell this house?”
“It is. But I have a friend that might be able to help you.”
Jayna got on her cell phone and walked toward her car to talk with someone. Mrs. Underwood and Korie walked toward Korie's car. A single tear streamed down Mrs. Underwood's face at the prospect of downsizing. It was written all over her face that this was the house of her dreams; hell, it was the dream house of many women.
“It's a really beautiful home. It's my dream home, Ms. Dillion,” she said. Her face was worn and weary at the prospect of losing such a beautiful place.
“It's indeed beautiful. It's very nice. But you'll drown in this house if you stay.”
“I know. It's just that no one I have ever known has ever had a home like this. Our friends and family have been out here. They will all look at us funny if we downsize. How can we face them if we give up this house?”