Chapter Seven
Seven
Friday morning, Rashad emerged from the basement and was greeted by Anna’s cheerful grin in the kitchen. She wore comfy-looking striped wide-leg pants and an oversize sweater. A large purse and even larger tote sat on the island separating the kitchen and dining room.
“Hey, handsome!”
“Grand rising, Goddess.”
“Let me check you out,” she cooed, giving him the once-over. “You look especially sharp today, Rashad. Locs freshly twisted. Wearing that tight pullover to show off those manly muscles, I see.”
He laughed. “I ain’t trying to show off nothing.”
“Um-huh. And I see all that nothing you ain’t showing off.
” She gave his arm a playful squeeze before walking over to grab a mug of coffee.
“I’m messing with you, godson, but hey. Jamilah’s a pretty girl.
You’re a nice-looking young man. Who knows the types of dishes that might get cooked up in that kitchen. ”
“Trust me, only those that can get plated. Jamilah is way too bougie for a brothah like me.”
Anna waved off the comment, then picked up her purse and tote. “Don’t let her reaction to your background fool you. Women love a bad boy.”
“How do you know?”
“Katrina,” she replied.
“My mama?”
“She was a church girl before meeting your daddy.” Sidling up to him she whispered, “After that party we snuck out of the house to attend…that all changed.”
A teasing look accompanied the laughter that followed Anna out the door and continued in the garage.
Rashad laughed, too, but sobered once his aunt had gone.
He imagined that whatever had changed when Katrina married his father paled in comparison to how all of their lives changed once Corey White died.
It’s said that death either brings families together or pulls them apart.
He and his mother had never been close, but after the murder, Katrina had shut down even more emotionally, withdrew into a world of reality shows, casinos, and the occasional male friend Katrina tried to hide from her children.
Older sister Zara, a quiet, studious introvert, moved to Oakland to live with their dad’s sister and was now a nurse.
Born three years apart with opposing temperaments, they’d never been close either.
She lived life on the straight and narrow. That had never been Rashad’s style.
Eventually Katrina had worked through her grief.
She returned to religion and, like her sister-in-law and daughter in Oakland, became very involved in church.
She tried to persuade Rashad to join them.
He declined. Not that he didn’t believe in a power greater than himself.
But it was too late to try to turn him into a holy roller.
By then Rashad had found another cult: the streets.
For all its bad rap, it was a school that taught him a valuable set of life skills that not only served him in prison but would give him an advantage for the rest of his life.
Ironically, prison was the vehicle that drove the three of them closer.
Even with his pushback against her constant proselytizing, Katrina’s visits and Zara’s letters became a source of light in that confined, dark space.
His family, food, and books protected his sanity.
Authors like Frances Cress Welsing, Steve Cokely, Anthony Browder, and Dr. Yosef Ben-Jochannan.
His absolute favorite, though, was Hip Hop Decoded by a former rapper and a conscience leader, Duane Bowser, also known as The Black Dot.
If hip-hop was a religion, then Hip Hop Decoded was the official bible. Hands down.
Rashad made a quick omelet, ate, and left the house.
On the drive to Side Chic’k he called Zara and got her voice mail, leaving him alone with the music and his thoughts.
Anna’s words continued to reverberate. Rashad allowed a moment to think about his dad: that the man was not there and why it was too painful to revisit most of the time.
But Anna’s comment took him back to those early years when his dad, mom, and Zara constituted the perfect family.
His dad was a good man, always out hustling.
But when he was home there was always music, rap mostly, but R and B, too, even a little jazz or blues if the mood was right.
His father, a blue-collar mechanic who loved laughter, was a jokester who fashioned himself the next Bernie Mac.
Loved comedies, too, and would let Rashad stay up late to watch them with him, even on school nights.
A half hour before his ten thirty start time, Rashad pulled around to the back of the row of buildings where he’d been told to park. His phone pinged. He pulled it out see a message from Anna.
Every trip to one’s destination begins with the first step. Proud of you for taking this one. Much love and Happy Cooking!
“You’re right,” Rashad said to himself while nodding as if she could see him.
He reached for the door handle. His phone pinged again.
Thanks for letting me know about your new job!
He shook his head, his mother’s message sending him on a short guilt trip. “I’m in trouble,” he mumbled before texting her back.
I thought you were in Oakland?
My phone works here, too. Zara says congrats. We’ll call you later.
Thankfully, the smiley emoji meant his mother wasn’t truly offended, that they were still on speaking terms. He sent a quick thumbs-up before getting out of the car and walking toward the narrow concrete pathway between buildings.
Last night, Charles had given him a quick history lesson of the area where he’d be working.
Only a few blocks separated Side Chic’k from the famous Eighteenth and Vine intersection with attractions such as the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum and the GEM Theater.
The Mutual Musicians Foundation, a National Historic Landmark, stood out on a block that was otherwise in a state of neglect.
Rashad liked to be familiar with his surroundings, and for this music connoisseur the history sounded interesting.
But a tour of the area would have to wait.
Rashad reached the sidewalk and noted that the space connected to Side Chic’k was empty.
He pressed his hand against glass streaked with dirt and peeked inside.
Except for an errant chair and piles of wood, the place was bare and covered in trash and dust. It obviously hadn’t been occupied in a while.
It looked roughly twice the size of Jamilah’s restaurant.
Rashad wondered what had existed there before and why she hadn’t chosen the corner spot instead of the smaller space next door.
Several more questions followed in succession.
How much it would cost to buy or rent? Was there a kitchen and, if so, what shape was it in?
Finally, how much would it cost to renovate, and who was the owner?
For a few precious seconds, Rashad allowed himself to fantasize.
Images exploded inside his brain, warmth inside his chest. Reality quickly crashed the party.
His bank account was nonexistent, as were the chances of this felon to secure a bank loan or get any other type of help for that matter.
After reading about The Nacho Grill, a successful food truck owned by a friend in Detroit, he’d thought about taking that route.
But even twenty-five thousand, the average cost of a basic food truck, was out of his reach.
Rashad checked his watch and hurried back to where Jamilah said she parked during business hours.
He saw her Lexus as soon as he hit the alley.
She must have entered from the other end of the block.
He went to his car, pulled out the notebook that was always with him—he never knew when he’d be hit with a great rap or lyric—and walked to the door.
It was unlocked. Was that safe? He walked in, noting a bathroom, what looked like a small storage area on one side and the pantry he’d entered the other day on the other side of the short hallway.
Straight ahead was the dining room with its minimal design.
He appreciated the simple aesthetics of steel, wood, and glass and liked how communal tables mixed seamlessly with tables for two or four but felt the space lacked personality.
It needed color. Vibrancy. Energy. A dash of soul.
A movement caught the corner of his eye. Jamilah crossed the kitchen to the stove and poured salt into a huge pot of water just beginning to boil.
He stopped at the counter, allowed himself a slow sweep of the tantalizing backside view Jamilah presented, respectfully of course, and then placed his notebook on a shelf below it and cleared his throat. He reminded himself that the breasts he’d be stroking belonged to a bird.
“Good morning.”
Jamilah looked over her shoulder. “Hi, Rashad.”
“You always keep that back door unlocked?”
“Most of the time.”
“You never worry about getting robbed?”
“This small business? I don’t think most thieves would even bother. Police patrol the area regularly, too.”
She nodded toward a large, well-used notebook he hadn’t noticed. “I brought out Blair’s bible so you can take a look and get up to speed on her recipes.”
Rashad bristled, a raised brow contrasting his lowered voice. “Her recipes?”
Jamilah reached for a bottle of oil and poured some into the pot, then added macaroni. “Yes.”
He pointedly ignored the notebook as he crossed the room, sort of like one would avoid poison ivy. “Thanks, but I think I know how to fry chicken.”
“I’m sure you do, but not the way our customers are used to tasting it. I don’t want them to be able to take a bite and notice we have a different chef.”
“Why not?”
He watched Jamilah take a breath before giving him her full attention. “Because,” she began as if she were speaking to a toddler, “Side Chic’k chicken has a specific taste, one that Blair developed. I don’t want to change it. Hopefully, that’s not a problem.”
“Not at all.”
It was totally a problem. One that grew bigger with each turn of the grease-stained notebook page.
He and Blair had totally different cooking styles.
She used a wet brine; he preferred dry. Her spices were minimal; he was the spice king.
Most of her recipes were standard, predictable; Rashad prided his food on being anything but that.
“Listen, Jamilah, I…”
Every trip to one’s destination begins with the first step. Proud of you for taking this one.
Anna’s words put Rashad’s ego in check. The empty space next door and the possibilities it evoked further calmed him down. He wasn’t trying to work here forever. Just long enough to take the next step toward the man he wanted to show the world he could be.
“Yes, Rashad. Did you have a question?”
Jamilah’s tone suggested she was braced for a fight. Until seconds ago, Rashad was ready to give her one.
“I just wanted to thank you again for giving me this opportunity.”
Jamilah’s relief was evident in the way her face lit up. She had a smile that could separate a man from his money and lips that could make him work his ass off to get more.
“You’re welcome, Rashad. Later, we can maybe talk about a catering job I have coming up soon. It’s going to be a lot of work, but there will be extra money involved.”
“I’m down for that.”
“Good. The first thing for you to do is get the baked chicken in the oven. There’s some brining in the fridge. Spices are there,” she said and nodded toward a grouping of bottles and jars, “and in the pantry. In general, that was Blair’s work area, so feel free to set it up any way you want.”
“Cool.” He walked to the fridge and pulled out the chicken, and after taking a look first at the menu and then at Blair’s notebook, he began cutting up the birds.
“It looks like the breasts are the only baked option?” he asked.
“Those and the thighs that are used in the chicken salad.”
“Got it.”
Jamilah walked over to an MP3 player. “Mind listening to a little jazz?”
Rashad offered a lazy smile, thinking those smooth notes were a fitting genre for the way her body moved. No doubt those hips were made for holding, that waist one to wrap his arms around.
“Not at all.”
Soon, the sounds of a Wes Montgomery classic filled the air.
“Rashad?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Rashad turned back to his work, bobbed his head to the music, and tried to keep his expanding chest from filling the room.