Chapter 9 Chevy
Chevy
I never did meet Crystal and the others for lunch that day. And no, I didn’t call to cancel or explain.
But typical anal Crystal, she called the house about eight times. I didn’t answer not one time. All I can say is thank God for caller ID.
I’d slept most of Monday away. By three p.m. I was still in my pajamas but had made some progress; I’d moved from the bedroom to the couch downstairs.
When I went into the kitchen to fix myself a bowl of cereal, I saw that the light on the answering machine was blinking. I knew the only messages I could possibly have were from Crystal and the bill collectors, but I pressed the play button anyway.
You have four new messages.
Beep.
“This message is for Chevanese Cambridge in reference to her Chase credit card. Please call 1–800–258–6658, extension 238 to discuss your delinquency.”
Beep.
“Chevy, I know you’re there. Pick up. Pick up! Okay, be like that. Call me—uhm, it’s Crystal.”
Beep.
“Chevanese Cambridge, please call Dr.Hugo at 212–689–5596 to arrange payment for the dental work we performed on you three months ago. We’ve sent you numerous invoices. We don’t want to send this to collections. You are a valued client.”
Beep.
“This message is for Chevanese Cambridge,” a feminine voice said. “I am in receipt of your résumé and cover letter and would like to set up an interview as soon as possible, please call me, Dante Whitaker, at…”
I stood straight up. I couldn’t believe my ears, so I pressed the button again and again, playing the last message over and over until finally it seemed to ring true.
After the fourth time, I found a pen and scribbled the number on the back of the envelope for the Con Ed final-notice bill.
Picking up the phone, I hurriedly dialed the number.
“Dante here.”
“Uhm, yes, this is Chevanese Cambridge, I—”
“Ah, yes, Chevanese, so glad to hear back from you so soon. I received your résumé and was very impressed, very impressed indeed.”
“Thank you.”
“I would like to set you up for an interview as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” I said as I looked at the small wall calendar above the phone.
“How’s today at five?”
I was dumbfounded. My weave was a mess, my nails were atrocious, and my chin was covered with blackheads.
“Chevanese?”
“Five is fine,” I said.
***
I would be interviewing at La Fleur Industries located on the fiftieth floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. I’d never heard of La Fleur Industries. It sounded more like a perfume company than a radio station. But oh well, a job is a job, right?
I fixed myself up pretty damn good if you ask me.
Pulling my weave back into a tight bun, I found some nail polish remover in Noah’s room and cleaned my nails of the lime green polish I’d been sporting.
Plucked a few stray hairs from my eyebrows, popped in my hazel contacts, smeared some foundation over my chin, and slipped into my cream-colored Anne Klein skirt suit.
I debated over the Jimmy Choo black pumps, but the pink Judith Leibers won out.
Grabbing the matching handbag, I was out the door in two shakes of a dog’s tail.
Once in the building, I presented my driver’s license to security; they in turn gave me a white visitor’s badge and instructed me to go to the fiftieth floor.
Stepping off the elevator, I found myself standing on a bloodred shag carpet that followed the length of the hallway.
A small Asian woman dressed in a kimono was standing there.
I assumed the sister wanted to get on the elevator, but before I could step around her she put her hands out and said in a small voice, “Please to remove your shoes?”
“What?”
“Please to remove your shoes,” she repeated.
What the hell was this shit? I thought as I slipped off my shoes and hesitantly handed them over to the woman, who then promptly scurried away down the hall and disappeared around the corner.
“Welcome,” a fairylike voice called to me from the other end of the hallway. I hadn’t noticed the reception area. I squinted and could barely make out the woman who was seated behind a large marble desk, beckoning me over with a wave of her hand.
This was getting stranger by the moment.
I started toward her.
When I finally reached her, I was practically out of breath. That hallway must have been a mile long.
“Hello, I’m Chevanese Cambridge and I’m here to see Dante Whitaker.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. She was a big girl, with broad shoulders and Kewpie doll–like cheeks. Her hair was a mass of blond Shirley Temple curls, but the suit she wore was definitely Dana Buchman. I didn’t know Dana dealt in plus sizes.
“Welcome, Chevanese, I’m Jheri,” she said before reaching for one of eight clipboards on her desk and handing it to me. “Please fill this out, and Dante will be with you shortly.”
I thanked her and moved to one of four chocolate-colored leather club chairs. And just as I was getting comfortable, the Asian shoe confiscator returned.
“Tea?” she inquired as she stood before me, head bowed.
She had a bamboo platter in her hand that held a small jade-colored teapot and teacup.
“?’Scuse me?”
“Tea?” she said again.
What the fuck? My eyes traveled slowly from the tea-toting designer shoe–napper to Jheri, who smiled sweetly and said, “It’s really very good.”
I preferred coffee myself but didn’t want to refuse the tea, especially if it was part and parcel of the interview process, so I set the clipboard aside, thanked the girl, and took the platter from her.
The girl bowed profusely and then left.
Resting the platter on my lap, I carefully poured the hot liquid into the cup. It was green. I looked again at the receptionist.
“Green tea is a powerful antioxidant,” she said, smiling.
I nodded as though I understood what the hell that word meant and then cautiously lifted the cup to my lips and sipped. It didn’t taste like anything, so I sipped again and again until the cup was empty.
Just when I was trying to decide where to place the platter, the girl reappeared and took it from me.
I have to admit, I was totally weirded out at that point. It felt like freaking Disney World.
Retrieving the clipboard, I was about to write my name when the receptionist declared, “Dante will see you now.”
“But I—” I started to say that I hadn’t even had a chance to fill out the application when Jheri cut me off and pointed toward the white paneled wall behind me.
“Through there, down the hall, and it’s the first office on your left.”
I turned and looked at the wall and then back at her. “Through where?” Did I look like I was from The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen or something? Did I look like I could walk through fucking walls?
“Right there,” she said, wagging the pen for emphasis.
I turned around again, sure I’d missed something, and the wall had magically disappeared. Beyond the door-sized space was a cream hallway and what looked like a white fur carpet.
My mouth dropped open and I turned back to the receptionist in awe.
“I know, I know,” she said, nodding her head with a godlike aura.
***
My legs were a bit shaky when I stepped from the receptionist area and onto the fur carpet.
Wooden doors with glass windows lined the right side of the hallway, offering a clear view into the offices and the view beyond. Employees were going about their business; some were on the phone, while others typed intently on their computer keyboards.
When I reached the end of the hall there was one office on the left side. The door was different from the other office doors. The window was blacked out and the wood had been painted a glossy midnight blue.
I knocked softly.
“Enter,” a voice said.
Pushing the door open, I peered into an opulent office complete with silk-covered walls and a plasma-screen television.
“Hello?” I called timidly.
“Yes, yes, come in,” a voice instructed. “I’ll be right with you, Chevanese.”
Stepping in, I pulled the door closed behind me.
In no time a small person entered the room from what I assumed was a bathroom off to the left.
At first I thought I was seeing a woman, because she was dressed in a soft pink off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and white capris.
She had a beautiful copper-tone complexion and wore her hair in a mass of cascading black curls that looked as if they had been drenched in olive oil, a look Prince had made famous.
But upon closer inspection and after I decided that the eyeliner was permanent and not Maybelline—I realized that this person was not a she, but a he.
Drying his hands vigorously on a paper towel, Dante said, “Sorry about that, but when Mother Nature calls…”
I smiled.
“So,” Dante began as he leaned back into a leather wing-back chair and plucked my résumé up from his desk, “you have had quite a career so far.”
I nodded proudly.
“I see you’ve worked with some of the top travel companies in the city, as well as a few stints with the higher-end hotels.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Tell me, Chevanese—”
“Please, call me Chevy.”
“Chevy, hmm, I like that. Tell me, where do you see yourself in five years?”
Rich and famous is what I wanted to say, but instead I said, “I hope to be the host of my own talk show.”
“Really? What kind of talk show?”
“Television. Something to do with fashion and travel.”
“Interesting,” he mused, and then what followed was something I’d never experienced in an interview before. “So you wouldn’t be interested in my position, then?”
“I’m sorry?” I said confusedly.
“I mean, you don’t plan to make La Fleur Industries your life’s work, right?”
I didn’t know what was happening here, so I just slowly shook my head.
“Good,” Dante said, and grinned. “Would you call yourself a hard worker?”
“I’d call myself a workaholic.” Lie.
“I like that, because the person you’d be working for—if hired—is just that, a workaholic.”
“Exactly who would that be?” I asked, leaning forward, eager to know who the celebrity radio personality was.
“Anja.”
“Anja?” I repeated stupidly, and then the name finally registered.
Anja was the top female radio personality in the nation.
Just a year ago her radio show had gone national, and people all over the country were tuning in to hear her interviews, pointed commentaries, and gossip about well-known actors, musicians, and politicians.
“Anja the Anaconda!” I blurted out, then slapped my hand over my mouth. “Sorry,” I muttered.
Dante laughed. “It’s okay. She’s well aware of what her haters call her,” Dante assured me, and then he asked, “Are you a fan?”
Was I a fan? I was one of her biggest fans. She was a rich, beautiful, brawly, black female! Anja was my idol! She didn’t take no shit, and when I grew up I wanted to be just like her.
“Yes, I am. A big fan,” I said with a wide, genuine smile.
Now this whole setup made perfect sense. Rumor had it that Anja was the child of a Japanese mother and African father. She was born in California, but when her parents divorced she and her mother moved across the country to north Philadelphia, where she had learned the hard knocks of life.
“That’s good,” Dante said. “I like your vibe, Chevy. I like your spirit, and you certainly have the look.”
“Thank you.” I beamed.
“Get up, do a little runway for me.”
“What?” I said, blinking in disbelief. Was this an interview or a fashion show? Then I reminded myself that this was Anja’s show and that Anja was eccentric.
I rose from the chair and walked a bit stiffly from one side of the room to the other. Turning to look at Dante, I could tell by the expression on his face that he was not impressed.
“Did I tell you that the starting salary is seventy-five thousand dollars, with a twenty percent bonus at the end of your first year?” Dante said as he picked disinterestedly at his cuticles.
Well, he didn’t need to say any more. I placed one hand on my hip and strutted back across the room, head tilted toward the ceiling, swinging my ass like I was Tyra Banks up in that bitch!
“Bravo! Bravo!” Dante yelled as he clapped enthusiastically.