Playing Hard To Get

“I hear you,” Tasha said. “But nothing you said explained how those two women were supposed to share one man and no man got cut.”

Tasha laughed but Lynn gave a secretive snicker.

“That’s changed too. The lines are blurry…. Some women just get down…men do too.”

“Get down? Like share men?”

“Share men…share women…share men and women. They party. They have a good time,” Lynn explained. “We don’t have all of those restrictions anymore. We’re open-minded.”

Tasha frowned at this explanation.

“That’s just the way things are,” Lynn added, sipping the last bit of Tasha’s martini. “And like I said, if you’re going to work with this crowd, you have to be open to it.” She leaned in toward Tasha. “There’s money out there. You want a yacht? Your own yacht? We can get it. We sign five or six of these young boys and we’re on it. And I’m not talking pipe dreams. I’m talking real progress. You want fame? Money? Power? We can get it all.” Lynn looked in her eyes. “Together.”

“Well, I get that. Fine. You have to understand your clients in order to represent them,” Tasha said. “But let’s talk about representing them for a minute. What kind of business are we going to open? What’s the plan? The projections?”

Lynn laughed and fell back in her seat, holding her chest.

“There’s another thing,” she said. “We don’t talk business over brew. We’ll get to that later. I just want us to mesh and get to know each other first.”

“But you said—”

“Can you come to a party with me?”

“A party?” Tasha asked.

“Yeah, some wigs21 are having a rooftop party. It’s a great way for you to come out and meet some of the new industry people—some of my contacts.”

“That sounds okay,” Tasha agreed. “When is it?”

“In two weeks or something,” Lynn said. “I’ll add you to the FB invite.”

“FB?”

“Facebook…”

“Oh, I don’t have a Facebook,” Tasha said. “I don’t want people all in my business. Google me if you want to see a picture.”

“Tasha,” Lynn called, as the waitress slid the bill onto the table, “you have to—”

“Okay, I get it,” Tasha said, shrugging her shoulders and then reaching for her purse to pay the bill.

Lynn grabbed her arm.

“No,” Lynn said softly. “I’ll pay the bill. It’s my pleasure.”

?

There was a grown man, an old, frail man with a long gray beard, wearing nothing but what appeared to be a diaper, sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, playing a gong. Tamia wanted to explain this situation, this visual, to herself in another, more spiritual way, as she was sitting in a meditation class Malik invited her to, but really that was all she could come up with. Grandpa, in a diaper, on the floor, making a bunch of noise. Now, she was leaving out the big bird the man had painted on his chest in white paint, how ashy his knuckles were, and the fact that the rest of the empty room where Malik had been teaching capoeira the day before was full of other grown people, who were also sitting on the floor and watching and listening to this but not saying a word.

“You okay?” Malik whispered, bending over to Tamia. They were both sitting upright, with their hands placed lightly over each knee in the standard meditation pose. The man, whom the other people in the room seemed to enjoy calling “Baba” or “Babatunde,” told them to search for enlightenment. And then he went off to play the gong. That was thirty minutes go.

No, she wasn’t all right.

“Is he going to do anything else?” Tamia asked. “I wanted to meditate but I need help. Isn’t he supposed to be teaching us something? I could be doing this at home.”

“Excuse me,” a woman called from behind, rolling her eyes at the fact that they were talking.

“Peace, sister,” Malik said, bowing his head and turning back to Baba.