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differentworlds-fiction · 6 years ago

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TARIN

In terms of hair, complacency with the regularly recurrent had never been Marjani Hunter’s forte. Whether she sacrificed a good night’s rest to scrounge the depths of Youtube for in-depth protective style tutorials, or she begrudgingly put her trust in the hands of a beautician from around the way with hopes of an end-result that exceeded her expectations, my friend tended to experiment with her hair quite often; leaving no style -- or color -- unattempted.

Over the years, I bore witness to the multitude of drastic hair transformations -- the burnt orange dye job I happened to grow fond of after a week of loathing, the effervescent bubblegum pink travesty she soon followed the former up with that haplessly damaged her hair by the onset of summer, and the befitting buzz cut she wore proudly subsequent to vowing she would ‘never allow an ounce of relaxer touch her head again’.

In true Marjani fashion, she revoked her pledge. And by that very same summer’s end, she commenced to relaxing, chopping and dyeing her short amount of hair that barely made it past her ears, settling on an auburn rinse styled into the cut reminiscent to Halle Berry’s in Boomerang.

However, this particular ‘do she chose to sport trumped them all.

She emerged from the sitting area in the lobby of my building wearing a wig the color of slime green; the neon colored locks cascaded down her back and its feathered fringe strands continuously grooved against her eyelashes. By the front desk, my eyes widened in astonishment; the sight alone prompted me to stuff my phone into the tiny satchel that draped along my shoulder and stare longingly at her as she gaited towards me, scooting by the passersby who’d failed to properly excuse themselves.

My eyes narrowed the longer I peered at her.

Marjani assessed my expression with a raised eyebrow, waiting for my initial reaction.

“...I actually like it.”

In response, Marjani kissed her teeth. “Stop lyin’.”

“No, really I do. The color might’ve caught me off guard at first, but I like it on you. Looks good.” I explained, taking notice to the subtle grin tugging at her heavily glossed lips. That subtle component of her fully made up face complimented the vivid smokey-eye I presumed she spent a majority of her time on.

I crouched down and inspected the wispy hairs, wondering if she’d styled the wig herself or paid someone to hack it for her. “It’s secure, right?”

“Girl, of course. I’m not about to be out here with my shit slippin’ off. This,” She tugged down the length of the wig’s pin-straight shaft, “ain’t going nowhere.” Her hands then fussed with the drawstrings that altered her ruched top. Gold chains dangled from her neck, exposing her decolletage coated in a cast that shimmered from the recessed lighting fixtures. “Don’t you ever get the urge to switch it up a bit?” She queried, messing with the braid out I managed to salvage when returning to New York.

Since my departure from Hill Sunday morning, it remained pulled into a pineapple until I mustered up enough patience to let it down and revive it with water and a generous amount of curling cream.

“I haven’t gotten the urge to make a drastic change to my hair. Not yet, at least.” I answered truthfully. “Who knows, maybe in a few months, I’ll want some highlights --”

“-- Or maybe you’ll cut it all off…and get some highlights put in to, you know, liven it up.”

“I don’t know about chopping all of my hair off, Jani.”

“What’s there to think about?” She questioned. “I read an article once that stated women should chop their hair off at least once in their lifetime. I can’t even begin to explain how liberating -- how freeing that shit feels! I’m aware that hair is such a big deal to us,” she ran a finger over the top of her hand to indicate her complexion, “but that needs to stop.”

I nodded in agreeance, recounting instances throughout my adolescence where hair, its texture, and length remained a central fixture of one’s identity, and caused such a hangup amongst the women that resided around us. Even my decision to no longer routinely succumb to the overheated bonnet dryers at the local Dominican hair salon garnered a lighthearted scolding from Mama Sarah years ago, especially when I failed to conform to the unspoken tradition of taking Ayla to get her hair straightened for school pictures and preferred her to wear natural protective styles.

Too immersed in my own thoughts, I hadn’t noticed Marjani bringing her hand forth and toying with the coiled wisps hanging past my neck. “I could see you with a low cut like Angela Bassett in Waiting to Exhale. Maybe even something a lil’ shorter. That Amber Rose buzz-cut might look fresh on you, girl.”

“I’d never.” I expressed vehemently, feigning my doubtfulness of possessing enough oomph to pull it off.

“Hey, you never know.” Jani retorted, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag onto her shoulder. She attempted to pick up the pace in an effort to remain beside me, producing shorter strides as she no longer sauntered on the soles of her chunky platform sandals.

On the way out of the lobby, I acknowledged the building’s concierge manning down the anchoring front desk by nodding in his direction, receiving one in return and a pursed, yet amicable grimace as well. Rather than wasting fare by lazily hailing down a cab to take us to our destination, Marjani and I opted to walk the two blocks and enjoy the tepid, night air that embraced our skin. In the midst of making aimless small talk and bringing each other up to speed on what’s occurred since our last outing, and taking selfies all while dodging civilians passing by, a subtle mention of Hill was made, followed by an inquiry about an apparent photo that was making rounds through a few celebrity gossip sites.

“You know they’re callin’ you a mystery woman, right?” Jani chortled, stuffing her smartphone into the open compartment of her shoulder bag. “Let’s hope those crazies don’t find your place of employment. Some of those self-proclaimed journalists -- and I do use that term very loosely -- find stuff out like that for the sake of ‘investigative reporting’.” She expressed, using air quotes. “Next thing you know, there’s a bunch of assholes with cameras waiting for you, ready to pry right into your business as if they’re entitled to it.”

I halted in moving any further and looked her square in the eye. “I highly doubt that’ll happen.”

“Mhm,” Jani grumbled, “you’d be surprised…”

“Let’s not even put that into the universe, because that’s the last thing I need right now.”

“Right.” She agreed and nudged me in the arm to walk again. “Can’t say that I’m not surprised at all this, though. When you called me from Vegas, I was a bit skeptical of it -- of him -- because at the end of the day, Hill is an athlete. Most of them tend to run through women like they run through drawers…”

“I know --”

“One could argue that the athletes get more action than the singers. Maybe even more than the rappers…”

“Yes. I know. I get it, Marjani.”

Heaving an exasperated sigh, she pursed her lips together, preventing herself from uttering another word on the matter once she sensed my sudden uneasiness about where the conversation was beginning to head. “Sorry.” She said apologetically.

“It’s just that,” I paused, “I like him, is all.”

The corners of her lined lips hiked up a bit at my utterance, hardly faltering when I too allowed a grin to etch its way across my face.

“What?”

She was hesitant to answer.

“I haven’t heard you say that about anyone since Richie.” She stated, the corners of her lips hiked up a bit and faltered into a grin of indifference. A sigh swept past her lips. “If anyone would’ve told me months ago that my prudish bestie was going to dust off the cobwebs and get her pipes cleaned --”

“--Marjani, please stop!” I insisted. My hand shot up and I could feel heat rushing to the height of my cheeks, albeit, laughter couldn’t help but spill from my parted lips. Upon hearing her spiel of laughter, I guffawed, feeling tears brimming my eyes as I keeled over and giggled.

“I’m just saying,” she managed to get out, “I didn't know you had it in you. No pun intended.”

Subsequent to regrouping by a nearby bakery and reluctantly answering a few invasive questions, we reached our destination; past the Chelsea Market, between a trendy boutique and a deserted eatery, was a nondescript bar with people drifting inside, paying an entry fee before crossing the threshold.

In droves, people packed into the cramped establishment equipped with minimal stools surrounding the crowded bar. Manning the taps and gliding beers down the sticky surface was a buxom woman dressed casually in a black t-shirt; in bold letters ‘ROUGE’ was emblazoned by what appeared to a feathered boa stretched fiercely across her bust area.

A mashup of pop hits from the early 2000s emitted through the speakers, inciting the individuals around Jani and me to sway along to the infectious interpolating cadence.

My eyes wandered towards the horde of chairs surrounded a makeshift stage. And behind the stage were pieces of shimmery garland that dangled from the ceiling, distinctly warning the patrons not to advance past the festoon of hung decorations.

“Your friend from the graduate’s program...,” I leaned close to Marjani, “is he here already?”

After ordering a disproportionate vodka tonic, she took a timid sip and squeezed a lime wedge into her highball glass prior to simply muttering, “yep.”

Sometime in between Marjani downing the rest of her cocktail and me screening my phone for any text messages from either Hill or my mother concerning Ayla’s finicky request for dinner, she began divulging about her newfound friend she’d met by chance.

He was far from a veteran, per his own admission to Marjani one afternoon during a mandatory digital fabrication workshop, albeit, Raheem Lee was more than content with his weekly residency at ROUGE. His penchant for female impersonation garnered a bit of a buzz throughout Manhattan more for his performative imitation of Whitney Houston that seemed to go over well with the masses.

Unlike the previous shows we’ve attended on our respective celebratory birthday outings that were oversaturated with performers impersonating the likes of Cher, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Lady Gaga, and Kylie Minogue, this particular drag show where black and brown patrons predominantly frequented highlighted entertainers of color as drag queens chose to skillfully pay homage.

Upon being provided with her second overpriced cocktail, Marjani led the way toward the adjoined alcove. Tonight’s show attendees began claiming seats closest to the stage, leaving us to rush toward the two empty chairs placed some feet away.

Simultaneous to us dropping our bags on the lucite tabletop between us, brilliant lights flickered on and averted towards the stage’s center; the emcee emerged, donning a sheer fabric dress bedecked with tropical leaves.

In a sassy, high-pitched tone, she revealed her name was Chi-Chi; the seductive introduction was followed up with a pose that showcased her toned legs and jeweled stilettos. As the crowd waited for the actual showcase to begin, Chi-Chi made her rounds amongst the inebriated patrons, asking outwardly invasive questions that proved to be funnier than either of us let on. In an instant, the beaming light fixtures transitioned to a soft, pink hue, intensifying the moment Chi-Chi sashayed toward the far end; the scanty, exotic green number hung loosely against her, threatening to groove down the ample curvature of her broad shoulder.

She extended her hand forward, and as if on cue, another impersonator strutted on stage, inciting an uproar from the crowd that the emcee hadn’t expected. In comparison to Chi-Chi’s stature, she was slimmer, and a little on the petite side even when wearing a pair of heels. Her honey-colored hair, both tousled and grazing past her shoulders, had been held up by a bow that complimented the dress stopping right above her knee.

Across the small table, Marjani swallowed hard; her eyebrows rose and her eyes beamed with excitement. I took notice of the expression bestowed upon Marjani’s face. It was a mixture between awe and intrigue -- a silent reverence and fascination as she stared longingly at the other individual standing inches away from Chi-Chi.

The applause and hollered praises continued, making it difficult to hear the emcee formally introduce who I concluded to be Marjani’s friend dressed as Whitney Houston.

The only utterance audible was a single mononym, Monaé.

Rather than following suit after her heavily done up counterpart by prematurely engaging with the people in attendance, Monaé placed her hand on her hip; the subtle signal prompted the DJ to cue the music, and soon, a familiar rhythmic dance beat pervaded the room from the bass-equipped speakers set up nearby. My eyes remained affixed to Monaé as she moved across the stage, lip-synching every word of “How Will I Know” with ease.

She bopped and swayed emphatically, tossing her hair from side to side in lieu of the awaiting patrons holding out dollar bills. Without missing a step, she took the folded currency into her possession, coolly stuffing it into the padded brassiere exposed from the tank dress she wore. A smiling Marjani rummaged through her rather large hobo bag in search of her wallet, prompting me to do the same and retrieve any cash I had on-hand. As Monaé strutted off stage, making even strides in our direction, a few bills dangled from our hands. She passed by a group of guys, politely grasping each hand and giving them an affectionate squeeze in an expression of thanks. She strutted over, stopping only briefly to receive the dollar bills and caress the fullness of her cheeks.

Monaé maintained her character all without incident and proceeded to get the rest of her cash as the current song faded out.

***

The following morning, afflicted with a sore throat from unapologetically butchering ballads and reciting raunchy rap lyrics, I hurried to the nearest coffeehouse for chamomile tea before sliding into the awaiting town car provided by Cara for my mid-morning excursion. After hearing of the related news from Cheyenne that I cut out making the pointless commute to the office just to simply rush and meet with Haneef Parker, an email idled my notification center, stating that a chauffeured car service would be parked in front of my building.

In the palm of my left hand, my iPhone danced erratically against my skin, prompting me to stare downward at the new notification illuminating the once darkened screen. A text from Cheyenne confirming a scheduled phone call set for three o’clock sharp covered the lock-screen image, a capitalized ‘DON’T FORGET!!!’ soon followed.

Despite having to reroute and cut through various side streets after a fender bender between two motorists, the driver pulled up along the curb residence crafted by brick. Terracotta pots containing red begonias were placed on the outer ends of each step, contrasting with the black door and dark shutters framing the sashed windows. The minor yet noticeable domestic additions quickly reminded me of my sole purpose for meeting the R&B singer at his West Village townhome; a surprise baby shower for his pregnant significant other needed to be thoroughly planned.

My stare shifted and I made contact with the individual idling the driver’s seat.

Rhythmic thumps pervaded the small confines of the town car as the driver produced repetitive taps along the steering wheel, matching the cadence to the low tempo song pouring through the radio. Through the rearview mirror, the two of us made eye contact, exchanging courteous smiles briefly. I exited the car with my belongings in tow and expressed that I should be no longer than an hour right before closing the car door.

I raced up the four steps and knocked on the front door.

A short woman donning a pleated short-sleeved tunic and matching slacks answered, offering a warm smile.

“Hello, I’m Tarin -- Tarin Mena. I’m here to meet with Haneef --”

“Yes. He is expecting you,” The woman scooted aside, “right this way.��

I followed her beyond the foyer and through a hallway with walls decorated with canvases that combining elements of text and image. Ornamented tapestries draped along the wall adjoining a set of double doors that were left slightly ajar.

“I’d be more than happy to dispose of that for you...” The woman I presumed to be the housekeeper reached for my empty Starbucks’ cup but hesitated, fighting the urge to ask whether the disposable grande cup was, in fact, empty.

Obliging I handed her the cup, and she motioned toward the opened double doors.

“He’s in there,” was all she muttered before turning on the soles of her tennis shoes and heading back down the hall.

Heaving a low sigh, I tapped lightly against one of the doors, stealing peeks of Haneef seated comfortably with her sock covered feet propped atop a coffee table. His eyes drooped mercilessly as he grasped the remote, lowering the volume as political pundits debated about the current state of healthcare on MSNBC. I cleared my throat, garnering Haneef to turn his head in the direction of the door.

The barest hint of a smile played about his lips, dissolving just as quickly as it appeared.

“You don’t strike me as the type to reside out in these parts.” I entered the room, although I had yet been formally invited in by the crooner himself, “and we could’ve rescheduled to meet at a later date.”

“My girl’s out of town visiting her folks until tomorrow. Today was the only we could’ve met up without her finding out.” He explained, muting the mounted television entirely.

Having very little desire to waste his time, I dug into my back pocket and recovered my phone and unlocked it; the most recent tab displayed a former textile warehouse that had been renovated.

“I strongly suggest the full venue buyout; the upstairs and downstairs. With the additional space, there’s room for more possible seating, and tables. If you want, we could incorporate games throughout the gathering.”

His smile reappeared, putting me in the mind of the same grin plastered across countless magazine posters that were once taped to my bedroom wall. It was infectious in the way that, after a beat of silence, I too produced a smile and bashfully averted my stare elsewhere. My attention happened to fall on the only framed photo set upon the coffee table.

Placed beside a stack of hard-covered books was a black and white snapshot of who I presumed to be his expecting significant other, clutching her protruding baby bump with Haneef’s hands placed over hers.

“Now about food,” I cleared my throat and winced slightly at the soreness, “initially, I planned to bring in a catering team based in Midtown. Unfortunately, since we couldn’t get a move on planning the event, they won’t able to provide their services. There is, however, an executive chef that’s working on another event I’m planning. I’m supposed to get on a conference call with him and his partner this afternoon. If there’s availability, I could request a quote, and follow-up with you before five o’clock...”

“I hear the ‘but’ in your voice.” He noted, toying with the hem of his t-shirt.

“There was,” I confirmed, and released a breath.

His stare that was once trained upon the muted television shifted in my direction, lingering as she nodded in the direction of the empty space beside him on the loveseat.

I sat down, facing forward with my palms resting atop the slim-fitted slacks I wore.

“Before I request a quote from the chefs for the shower, I need confirmation on how many guests are attending. We can’t move any further unless I have a set guest list with names and reliable contact information.”

“I hear you,” Haneef uttered plainly. “You’ll have your list before three. I’ll make sure of it.”

Silence loomed over the quaint den until Haneef sat forward to straighten out his limbs.

“Still wiped out since coming off the tour, huh?”

He blew out a breath to conceal the hearty laughter escaping him, “You have no idea.”

“I can imagine,” I said, pursing my lips together soon afterward.

Letting out an exasperated breath, he muttered something about time finally catching up with him. “Touring never felt that physically taxing on me, ever. This week was only a taste of what’s to come.” Haneef uttered, running a hand down his face. His lips parted as if he were about to utter something else, but the light raps against the den’s double door deterred him from speaking altogether.

Poking her head between the small space, his housekeeper announced that brunch was ready and being served in the kitchen. She looked at me questionably. Her brown eyes held some hesitancy, just as they when she felt inclined to take my thermal cup upon my arrival.

Her trained glare prompted me to stand and gather my belongings.

“Yo,” Haneef called out. Had he not tugged lightly onto my blouse sleeve, I would’ve assumed he was speaking to the housekeeper. “You ever had spinach frittatas?”

“Not to my recollection, no.”

“Well, would you care to stick around to have some?”

Without hesitation, I nodded, certain that the growl emitting from my stomach would have been a dead giveaway of how hungry I was.

#Different Worlds #Different Worlds Fiction #fiction

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