Six
“…And over here is your desk,” the HR lady shows me to my desk. It’s hidden in a small nook where I’m not visible to anyone and I have a feeling that’s intentional. I guess they are playing Hide the Negro here.
When I arrived to the firm, I found out there’s six of us, three girls and three guys, and we intern on set days. I learned I’ll be there Mondays and Wednesdays.
After a mandatory video on sexual harassment and a brief overview of the legal firm, the HR head showed us around the monstrous campus. Even though it’s located in the middle of Downtown L.A., it seems to be in its own world. It has a coffee store, a full-service dining area, a gym, and even a meditation room.
I guess if you’re a high-powered lawyer, you might need to clear your mind every now and then.
“I’ll have IT get you set up. I strongly ask that you don’t use the internet for anything other than checking email. The lawyers here are going to keep you plenty busy so I doubt you’ll be able to do much more than that.” She instructs. “Do you have any questions?”
I have a ton but I don’t think any of them would be remotely appropriate, so I’m going to keep it cute and mute. “Not really.”
“Very well,” she gives me a tight smile, at least I hope it’s a smile. “Enjoy your first day.” She quickly leaves.
Just like that, I’m on my own. I sit down at my desk and look around. It’s just a basic desk with the computer, speakers, and some notepads. I open and close various drawers to see if there’s anything in there. It’s completely bare. Awesome. I guess I’ll be making my way to the supply room.
I leave a small note on my desk letting anyone know I’ll be back in a few minutes and that I was in the supply room. I gather my key fob and temporary ID badge and trudge my way clear across the big-ass floor to get supplies.
I quickly turn the corner and run into a brick wall of a man, who promptly knocks me on my ass. I promptly check to see if the wig is secured on my head and it is. Whew!
I struggle to get up when I feel the softest hands help me. “Are you okay?”
I felt him before I saw him. As I glanced up, I saw the most beautiful brown eyes looking down at me.
He was a tall white man, well over six feet, with chiseled cheekbones, a muscular, lean body, and a stature that said he was not to be fucked with. He had a silent, yet exquisite masculinity about him. Take him or leave him. No negotiation.
The energy shifted between us, and my brain felt scattered. As he helped me up, I became more aware of his power, his magnetism, his scent of earth and rain. He was dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit, yet he owned the design, as if he was custom-made.
His eyes bore into me and my mouth felt drier than the Sahara. My heartbeat quickened to a staccato beat and my breath was struggling to keep up. He was a young man, not my age, but probably younger than 30.
“Are you okay, Keisha?” He asks.
He knew my name. I didn’t know his. Hell, I didn’t know who the hell he was. “Um, yeah…” I manage to say. “…I’m fine…” I tried to search his face for some sort of remembrance of who he was. I had no clue.
“I’m glad,” he smiles and I see perfect white teeth. No grills. No bling. Just a great orthodontist. “I hope you enjoy your first day here.” He smiles again and rejoins his group.
I turn around and watch Mr. Man leave. He knows me yet I have no idea who he is. But his stature said I will get to know him very soon.
~~~~~~
As my day wrapped up, I occasionally thought about Mr. Man. I didn’t see him for the rest of the day so maybe he was a visitor. But it made no sense. Why would a visitor know my name and specifically, know it was my first day?
It doesn’t matter. I kept myself busy learning about some of the cases I’ll be helping the other lawyers with and jotting down notes. I was excited to finally have real world experience by interning at a legal firm.
It was already nighttime by the time my day ended and the time change still fucks me up. I’m still trying to get used to the sky being damn-near pitch black when it’s only 5:30. I don’t know if it’s climate change but I do know it’s bullshit.
As I walk in the parking garage and head to my car, I notice a Bentley SUV slow down beside me and the windows roll down.
It’s Mr. Man.
“Keisha,” he smiles again and I feel weak in the knees, “how was your first day?”
“It was good,” I nod, becoming more aware of my surroundings. Other people are in the garage and heading home, but it still feels awfully strange to talk to someone who I still don’t know who he is and how he knows me.
“I’m glad to hear that. I’m glad to hear when anyone has a good day here.” He nods. “Take care now. See you on Wednesday.” He takes off.
I stand dumbfounded in the middle of the garage. Who was he? And how did he know my schedule?
~~~~~
“Did he ask for your number?” Tasha asks.
I shake my head as I dig into my In-N-Out cheeseburger. After I arrived home, I tell Tasha about my day and most importantly, Mr. Man.
I wish I could say I paid attention to my internship and I didn’t care about Mr. Man at all, but trust was, I did. Too much. I could still smell his woodsy cologne, feel his baritone vibrate through my body, and remember how soft his hands were when he helped me up.
Immediately, my inner thot started to dance and do the freak-nasty. My calm, good girl remained focused at the internship. I ain’t about to embarrass myself in front of all of those white folk.
I’m supposed to be watching my weight and not eat so much red meat but fuck it. Sometimes a sista needs a cheeseburger to save her life. “I don’t know who he is. I wouldn’t give my number to just anybody, no matter how fine the dude is.”
“What about Jalen?” She asks.
“What about Jalen?” I repeat.
“Aren’t you two dating?”
One of Jalen’s other chicks posted a pic on her IG, talking about how much she loves her some him. And of course, the hashtags:
#hemybaby
#itsusagainsttheworldbabe
#justmeandmboyfriend
I bet Tupac is rolling around in the grave right now, looking at that post and going, ‘You’re using my lyrics with that nigga?’
I know what I am to Jalen and so does he. If I claim him, I’ll be called a bird and random fools asking me why did I want to be a part of some dude’s harem? So, I never bother. It doesn’t stop the other girls from taking random digs at me, though.
I wish I had the energy to be petty but the way my relationship with Jesus is set up…“Dating is one way of saying it. The apt title is fucking and it’s nothing for Jalen to be concerned with. Besides, he’s busy with the others right now.”
Tasha shakes her head and I hope to Tupac’s soul, she doesn’t fix her mouth to say some bullshit. “You deserve better, Keish.”
“I know this,” I’m surprised she was smart and respectful in her reply, “but until that dude comes, Jalen is it for now.”
“Why are you settling?” Tasha asks. Well, bitch, I could ask you the exact fucking question with Mr. SoundCloud. “What does he have to offer besides a big dick and money?”
“I want you to repeat what you just said and tell me what’s wrong with it,” I reply. My phone interrupts the conversation and I’m thankful for it. When I see who’s calling me, I’m not-so thankful.
My mother.
I quickly swallow my food and put her on speaker. “Hello?”
“Keisha, my baby!” Andrea Harris booms through the phone. Her tone is laced with saccharine and I already have a toothache. “How are you, darling?”
“I’m fine,” I try to make this short and sweet. I know Andrea didn’t just call me out of the blue for nothing. “What’s going on?”
“I’m having a birthday bash at the LIT club tomorrow night!” She cheered. “I want you to come.”
My mother’s ascent to reality-show darling isn’t without drama. She and my dad never married for reasons I’m still not entirely clear about. My father claimed my mother didn’t want to marry him (he’d asked three times) and Andrea claimed she didn’t want to marry someone who wasn’t serious about life.
Now that last point is interesting because Andrea has curiously bounced from rapper to athlete to rapper, often leaving me home with my daddy, while she was out chasing whatever baller could afford her.
She left a long list of victims…erm, partners…in her trail and she finally landed the good enough prize she’s always wanted – King J.
King J is a well-past his prime rapper who’s only known for one hit he actually made as a duo with a guy named King C. They were, of course, known as The Kings. King C went onto become one of the most influential and powerful men in the music industry while King J…well, is the king of ratchet reality.
Have Andrea tell you, King J and her were always meant to be together but I think that’s a bunch of bullshit. King J is also best known for having multiple baby mamas and no one is quite sure how much money that Negro actually has. He’s not broke, but he damn sure ain’t rich. Not by a long shot. Daddy has way more money than him.
Yet, it was love at fat pockets and fat asses between he and my mother. It was only a matter of time before they landed on reality TV and there are talks about them having a spinoff series. Yay.
Tasha is feverishly shaking her head yes but I slowly nod my head no. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Oh, come on! It’ll be fun! There are lots of cute, single guys who will attend.”
I feel the sharp wind of an object flying near my face. Turns out, Tasha threw a shoe towards my direction to get me to change my mind. I’m about to throw a fucking knife at that bitch if she tries it one mo’ gin. “Maybe.”
“Well, in case your maybe turns into a yes, I’ll keep you and Tasha on the VIP list. Is your hair done?”
What hair? Oh, that’s right. Andrea doesn’t know I’m damn-near bald. She gon’ find out soon. “I’ll do something with it. Talk to you later.” I hung up and glare at Tasha’s giddy-ass.
“We gots to go! We gots to go!” She gets up and rushes over to her bedroom where she hastily picks out several outfits. “Which one should I wear? Is your mom going to film? I need to get just right to be on TV! Oh my God, what if some big-name Hollywood producer sees me?”
I shake my head and cuss to myself. I want absolutely no parts of my mother, and here is my black ass dragged to her clearly televised birthday celebration with a bunch of other Black-famous Z-list celebrities that no one but Pookie and them care about.
Might as well make sure my smile is as pearly-white it can be because it’s about to be a long-ass celebration.
~~~~~
When Andrea goes all out for her birthday, she goes all the way in.
I’m sitting in the VIP section of the Sable nightclub off Cahuenga and I’m impressed at the luxury VH1 afforded my mother. Not only was there a red carpet and every internet gossip blogger invited (including the ones that were started literally the night before) but every Z-list black celebrity in town.
All because of Andrea.
My mother has just as many friends as she does enemies. It’s not a question as to why. Before there was Supahead, there was Andrea the Vacuum Cleaner. I don’t think I have to explain what that means.
What I should explain, however, is how some niggas thought because my mama got down like that, I should as well. I guess my Daddy and his 9 mm he keeps strapped taught them niggas I’m not the motherfucking one, two, or three.
I’m sipping Ace of Spades champagne, feeling like Beyoncé in that Nicki Minaj video, and just having a good time. Andrea is happy and taking selfies with everyone, and the DJ’s are slammin’.
Tasha went off to dance with some dude who ain’t SoundCloud and I’m just enjoying my marinara sticks alone. Okay, this is not bad. Maybe some good might come out of this night. Andrea isn’t being an asshole and I’m chillin’.
And you know what that means? I just hexed myself and this entire night.
“I’m so glad you made it, baby!” Andrea smells like she had a bottle of Ace of Spades by herself. I think I smelled her before she walked over. She’s giggly and happy, and shit. I can’t be mad. It’s my mom’s 39th birthday so I think it’s awesome she’s celebrating.
“I do wish you wore a wig tonight,” she gives a long side-eye to my bald head, before her eyes perused over my slim thickness, “and maybe tried some of that slimming tea. Oh, I can give you a great discount on a waist trainer!”
Did you hear that? Yeah, the record fucking scratched.
My mother is a light-bright. Not Tisha Campbell-light, but maybe a shade darker than Mrs. Jay-Z-light. She stays laid up with a weave and fake fitness, if you really want to count the girdles and diarrhea teas as it.
While my father is a dark chocolate, I came out the same complexion of a Hershey bar. I do believe some of my mom’s issues have to be having a daughter darker than her and people constantly ask if we’re really related.
So, it wasn’t a surprise that every man Andrea got with after Daddy was around the same complexion of a paper bag. I guess you can Andrea was the real paper bag test.
I calmly put down my drink and smile at my mother. “Fuck you.”
Andrea’s eyes widened and she threw her glass of champagne at me. The whole VIP section stood up and we’re being separated. “You ungrateful bitch!” She yells at me. “I should’ve kept your nappy-ass home! Oh, that’s right. Yous a baldheaded bitch! You don’t have any hair!”
I shake my head. I knew this was too good to be true. I knew Andrea was full of shit. “I’m gone.” I walk out of VIP and a VH1 producer quickly follows me.
“Keisha!” She calls me. “I need your signature for the release!”
I turn to her and wonder how many charges do I really want for fucking up Affirmative Action Becky. “No. I’m not signing shit. Bye.”
I hurry out of the club and walk past the long line of thirsty-ass IG hopefuls standing in line. I hear people snicker about what happened to me as I’m soaking wet but I don’t feel like entertaining anyone’s ass right now. I just want to go home.
I walk away from the club and down the street. My outfit is soaked, my makeup is smeared, and I’m beyond heated. This night cannot get any worse.
As I walk to the nearest corner, I feel a car slow down beside me. I speed up my steps in case they think I’m charging by the hour. I know my catsuit might be giving off the wrong impression but I chose this outfit because I wanted to look good, not advertise.
“Keisha.”
I stop walking. I recognize that voice. It’s unmistakable. It’s like a tattoo on my heart. I have it memorized, recorded, and forever on the DVR on my brain.
It’s him. Mr. Man.