Chapter 47 Chevy
Chevy
Surprisingly, I wasn’t required to wear the usual Anja’s Bitch T-shirt to Babalu’s. Anja sent around an email advising all the assistants that, while they would not be wearing the T-shirts, she expected all of them to be dressed smartly.
I was thrilled to read that, and while I had a dozen or so magnificent ensembles, I would splurge and buy myself something new.
The something new ended up being a psychedelic halter top that showed off my perfectly perky C-sized breasts and a pair of white denim jeans that hugged my pear-shaped behind.
The final touch were the orange and silver slingbacks that cost six hundred dollars and added six inches onto my five-foot-five frame.
I went over to Everything Hair on Fulton Street and purchased me a ponytail, stopped to check out the wares of one of those African brothers who sell silver jewelry on the street, displayed on a strip of velveteen fabric on the sidewalk—you know the ones—and picked me up a pair of diamond-cut silver hoops.
A quick stop at Duane Reade for some press-on eyelashes and my retro-chic look was complete.
I packed all of that into my Gucci overnight bag. I wasn’t about to wear my outfit into work and then out that evening. Besides, I didn’t want one of those ambitious bitches to run out on her lunch break and buy the same getup!
I had a lot to do that day. Anja shot me emails from her Blackberry like bullets. Last I’d heard, she was in Cape May, something about a luncheon with a sorority at the famed Akwaaba by the Sea, but she would be back in NYC in time to kick off the summer with her annual Memorial Day soiree.
I remember reading about the one she’d had last year at Vinshu.
People magazine and Upscale had covered it.
Everybody who was anybody was there. It was the summer party to attend—if you could get invited.
Anja was very selective about her guest list. I’d been receiving emails for two weeks from society people and celebrities alike, all wanting to know what it was they had to do for me to get an invite to the party.
It was in my contract not to accept gifts, but who was I to turn down six pairs of Juicy Couture jeans? I told that publicist girl that I wore a size six and that she should send the jeans to my attention at 330 Stuyvesant Avenue in Brooklyn, and that not to worry, she would be placed on the list!
In the past week I had racked up so much designer shit, it was insane.
I wouldn’t have to shop for at least four months—but of course I would!
The secretary to the chairman of Air Jamaica sent me a case of rum and a first-class round-trip ticket to anywhere the airline flew!
You know I put sister-girl down on that list quick, fast, and in a hurry!
I wouldn’t take lunch in the dining room that day. Besides the fact that it was eating into my salary, I needed to clear up the last-minute details for the Look-See next week.
Me and three assistants, including a photographer, Anja’s makeup girl, and her stylist would be taking a morning flight out of JFK to Puerto Rico. From there we would take a puddle jumper into the island of Tortola, where the Little Dix Bay private yacht would collect us.
Anja wasn’t flying commercially; she had hired a private plane to take her directly from Philadelphia to the private airstrip in Virgin Gorda.
I was so looking forward to this trip. But I had to get through the party first. Dante was still really heated.
***
Instead of the usual group transfer to the venue, I was assigned my very own sedan. Fine by me. That just meant I didn’t have to make phony conversation with my coworkers and that there would be no chance of Dante and me ending up together.
When my sedan pulled up in front of Babalu’s there was a line of wannabe guests stretched down the block and around the corner. There was also a crowd of people who’d come just to celebrity-spot.
The NYPD was working double time. They had uniformed officers on the roofs of the surrounding buildings, undercovers blending in with the screaming crowd, and uniformed officers patrolling the barricades with hefty German shepherds.
It was like a scene from the red carpet of the Oscars!
When I stepped out of the sedan, the paparazzi went crazy—well, at first sight they thought I was Anja; it had happened twice before.
Personally, I thought I was much better-looking than Anja, and besides, Anja was an Amazon-sized woman!
Nevertheless, I smiled and gave them my best Queen Elizabeth wave as I made my way toward the front entrance.
I loved being the center of attention!
It was just eight thirty, and already the club seemed packed to capacity.
Beautiful men dressed in nothing but white loincloths walked around with trays heavy with flutes of champagne, while beautiful women dressed in tiny turquoise skirts and bikini tops served chocolate-covered strawberries off golden trays.
DJ Mike served up a nice blend of R&B, hip-hop, and rap music, and the sea of people moved in unison to the rhythm.
I looked across the room and spotted Snoop Dogg, Bianca Jagger, Tyra Banks, and Bill Clinton huddled together near the bar. I wondered what would come out of that meeting of the minds!
Me, I was looking for Loose Change. I had a serious wet spot for him and was dead set on getting his digits or at least giving him mine.
I flipped open my compact, applied a bit more lipstick, gave my ponytail a healthy shake, and went a-huntin’!
***
“Where the hell is your headset?” I heard a familiar shrill voice from behind me ask.
I’d been there two hours and had had a lively conversation with Chris Rock and Salma Hayek. Still on the lookout for Loose Change, I felt my head spin from the three glasses of champagne I’d consumed as I turned around to face Dante.
“What?” I said, throwing my hip out and rolling my head b-girl style on my neck.
“I said where is your headset?”
Poor little Dante, in his dark jeans that would have been nice except that the legs were too long and the cuffs dragged the floor even though he was wearing three-inch-heeled espadrilles.
He wore a white blouse that flared at the cuffs and had large shell-shaped pearl buttons down the front.
He’d bleached his short curly hair a golden blond that did nothing for his red complexion, and he had installed a gold loop in his left nostril.
In short, he looked a hot mess!
“Go away, little man,” I said, and wiggled my fingers at him. “You’re not the boss of me.”
Dante grabbed his chest and stumbled backward before letting out a loud dramatic gasp. It was then that I noticed he was wearing nail polish. I knew the color well, Cotton Candy.
“Oh, no, you didn’t, Miss Thing!” he bellowed.
I smirked and turned to walk away when my head was suddenly jerked back on my neck.
That queen had grabbed hold of my ponytail!
My hands went up and my champagne flute went sailing through the air.
“You ugly, backstabbing bitch!” Dante screamed as he tugged with all his might. I tried to pull away, but as small as Dante was, he was stronger than he looked because in no time I was on the floor, being dragged through the crowd.
Finally, the ponytail fell off and Dante fell forward. I lay there in a daze, looking up into the astonished faces of the guests.
I couldn’t believe that this was happening to me, but before I could get myself together, Dante was on me, bitch-smacking me and screaming, “I hate you! I hate you!”
I tried the best I could to get him off me, but to no avail.
Finally, a brawny security guy appeared, snatched Dante up by the collar, and dangled him in the air above me while he kicked and screamed like a banshee.
When I was finally on my feet, my face stinging and my outfit soiled and ruined, I tapped the security guard on his shoulder.
The security guard turned around and Dante turned with him.
“One thing,” I said calmly, then balled up my fist and cold-cocked Dante right on the jaw.
No one bitch-slaps Chevanese Cambridge and gets away with it!
Dante went hurling to the floor, and before I knew it, Security had me too, so Dante and I were both thrown out onto the street.
Dante hurled a few curse words at me before scurrying away. I flipped him the bird, limped over to the curb, and hailed a cab.
***
By the time I got back to Brooklyn it was almost midnight. I was sore and pissed off. I’d fucked up again. There was no way Anja was going to let me keep my job after this fiasco.
Usually I didn’t really care about shit like that. But for the first time in a really long time, I felt ashamed of and disappointed in myself.
Could it be true? Was I really that much of a fuckup?
I was getting too old to be acting like a twentysomething corporate newbie, jumping from job to job like I had a trust fund somewhere.
Shit, I was just twentysomething years away from retirement age, and I didn’t have not one dime saved.
And if Bush had his way, there weren’t going to be any Social Security benefits for me to live on either.
Walking into the dark house, I was feeling almost palpable despair, and for one weird moment, I didn’t know what the hell was on my cheeks, because it had been so long since I’d cried.