Chapter 3 Chevy
Chevy
I stood there staring at the ATM while the line of people behind me made annoying sounds. Someone even had the nerve to shout, “Hurry up, bitch! Damn!”
“Lady, do you need some help or something?” asked the tall dark brother with a crew cut and Pinocchio-length nose, who’d stepped up alongside me.
“I don’t need no goddamn help!” I spat at him, and then placed the palm of my hand inches away from his face. That’s when I saw the sad shape my acrylic tips were in.
The brother shook his head and took his place back in the line.
“This can’t be right,” I whispered to myself as I pressed the cancel button on the panel, snatched my card from the slot, and stormed out.
I was broke. brOKE!
Again, my conscience whispered to me as I marched down Fulton Street toward home.
My unemployment was done, over, finis!
I thought I would have secured a job by the time my last check rolled around, but no such luck and now I was destitute.
***
I crossed Kingston Avenue, ignoring the man who was hollering, “Hey baby girl, you need a ride?” out of his two-door, baby blue, convertible Mercedes coupe.
I looked around to see if the brother was worth my time, and then I saw the license plate.
It read: “MRMAN2U.” What kind of vanity shit was he on?
And so I rolled my eyes and kept on stepping.
I was so upset that I wanted to jump in a taxi and ride the next few blocks home, but that was six dollars I couldn’t afford to spend.
Schoolchildren sidestepped me as I barreled down the sidewalk muttering obscenities and flinging my hands in disgust.
A man sidled up beside me and said, “Hey, sweetie, where you in a hurry going?”
I turned my head to see that he was the dirtiest, grubbiest-looking piece of walking garbage that I’d ever seen.
“Fuck off,” I said, and hastened my pace.
“Hey, hey, don’t be like that. I just want to get to know you,” he said as he reached out and touched my shoulder.
I spun around, weave flying, eyes wild, and screamed, “Have you lost your ever-loving mind? You don’t know me like that, don’t be putting your hands on me!”
Pedestrians stopped and stared.
The man—brown teeth, white lips, bloodshot eyes and all, an obvious crackhead—had the nerve to reach his hand out and touch me again. I stepped back and glared at him. “Are you crazy?”
“Crazy for you, baby,” he sputtered back at me.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Serious as a heart attack, mama.” He grinned and offered me some type of awkward swagger that reaped laughter from the onlookers.
“Please, you wouldn’t know what to do with this,” I said, pointing down to my crotch. “I am a woman. W-O-M-A-N! Not a crack pipe!” I shouted before walking away and leaving him wide-eyed in the middle of the sidewalk.
It’s difficult being a fine woman in New York City; you got every Tom, Dick, and Crackhead after you!
***
Back in the house, I hurried over to the rack of wine and snatched off the large sheet of yellow paper on which Noah had written: “DO NOT DRINK.”
Grabbing up a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from the prized collection, I took a water glass from the shelf and filled it to the brim with the dark berry-colored liquid.
By the time I was done gulping down the second glass, my head was spinning and my stomach grumbling.
Opening the door to the Sub-Zero, I peered in at a spotted banana, a half-empty bottle of champagne, and a white carton containing three-day-old chicken and broccoli.
Removing the bottle of champagne, I opened the freezer and looked blankly at the frozen chicken, pork chops, and ice cubes—all of which had been there since Noah’s last visit, and that had been more than six months ago.
I knew I would stand a better chance with the Chinese food, so I pulled out the container, poured the contents onto a plate, and popped it into the microwave.
A lot of good it did me—three bites, and it was gone.
Leaving the plate on the counter, I carried my glass and the bottle of champagne into the living room and turned on the twenty-seven-inch plasma television where, on the screen, twenty or so hos were booty-shaking their way through a Snoop Dogg video.
Flopping down onto the couch, I let my eyes fall on the employment section of the Sunday New York Times .
It was already a week old.
I had had every intention of perusing the want ads, but time had just gotten away from me; I mean, there were those two nightclub openings, and then of course I had to catch up on my beauty sleep, and before I knew it, it was Friday.
And I wasn’t about to look for a job on a Friday. That was somebody’s Sabbath, wasn’t it?
Saturday was no good. That was usually my nail-and-hair day, but the meager amount of money left in my bank account had ruled that out.
Well, a new edition of the Times will be out tomorrow, I told myself as I closed my eyes.
But can you spare the $3.50? my conscience asked.
My eyes flew open, and I reached for the paper and started with the administrative assistant listings. Most of the ads were placed through agencies, and I really didn’t feel like being bothered with those shysters.
I moved on to sales. Not that I wanted to be up on my feet all day smiling into the faces of the rich and famous, but the discount on the clothing was tempting.
Travel was last on the list. There were plenty of jobs for reservations agents and even a few for corporate travel agents.
I’d been one of the latter for the past ten years, but I’d been “excused,” if you will, from all of the top agencies in the city, and they were the ones currently advertising.
I doubted that any of them would be eager for a return engagement with me.
I was just about to throw the paper down when I spied the following:
Travel/Personal Assistant
Popular radio personality needs Personal Assistant who is young, vivacious, and willing to work long hours and to travel domestically and abroad.
Salary in the high five figures.
Only serious candidates need apply.
I read the ad about five times before I decided that I was a serious candidate, even though I didn’t find the long hours appealing. But who in their right mind would?
I wondered which radio personality it was.
Maybe Wendy Williams or Michael Baisden, I thought, as I gathered up the paper and started upstairs toward Noah’s office. I would email my résumé and cover letter immediately. Shoot, it didn’t matter that the ad was practically a week old; my mother told me nothing beats a fail but a try.