As the Wicked Watch(50)
We would lie to our parents that we were studying when we were really at the mall. I got busted one time outside the Limited Express by my aunt Mel, short for Melanie, my dad’s baby sister. But Aunt Mel was cool and didn’t tell on me. That was the only time we got caught outright, but it didn’t slow us down. During our junior year, Tyson’s parents, who were older, allowed him to drive to school, and we would sneak off campus for lunch, a privilege reserved for seniors. Sometimes we’d ditch eighth period and slip off to the bowling alley, which had the best nachos, and play Pac-Man and pinball. Tyson had the gift of persuasion. I had my first drink because he convinced a college student to buy me a margarita at Six Flags on our senior trip.
I’m so comfortable around Bass, in part, because he reminds me of Tyson. With Bass, I’m able to strip off the armor I wear out of necessity to the newsroom, where every word I say, every time I challenge the status quo, I could be perceived as angry or too aggressive. Where the shade thrown from colleagues is palpable, where my new dress leads them to wonder how much my contract is worth, not realizing I picked it up at an after-Christmas closeout sale, when newbies like myself finally get time off work to visit family for the holidays. Where I must fight the perception that all I care about are material things, the superficial versus the substantive, because of the car I drive. Where because I’m a woman on television, I am judged differently from men. A man can wear the same suit and tie to work every day, but if I wear a scarf or a jacket too frequently, someone has something to say about it. Where the code-switching I as a Black person must adhere to so that others can feel comfortable around me is so indelible to my professional persona that I hardly give it a second thought. It’s automatic.
The side of me that free-falls into Texas vernacular isn’t one many people see. It says a lot about the person who brings it out in me. I don’t know how to define that quality, but whatever it is, Bass has got it. No pressure. No judgments. No mask. He’s more than a security guard who works in my building; he’s like my little brother, though he thinks of himself as my big brother, my protector. I’ll go on letting him, because I can honestly say I trust him with my life.
“Damn, so you memorized the license plate, though,” Bass continued.
“Yeah, it’s funny, because I can’t even remember my cell phone number half the time. It’s a little trick I taught myself,” I said.
“Okay, Jordie,” he said, looking serious and placing his hands on my shoulders, “if I can’t get it out of there tonight, I’ll set it on fire.”
We both laughed. I needed that.
“And I’m okay with that!” I said, leaning back to look up at him.
“Listen, speaking of fire,” he whispered, his forehead wrinkling, “I can roll you one if you want.” Bass looked around as if a DEA agent might leap out from behind the marble columns, when he and I both knew that, even in a luxury building like this, at any given moment and on any floor, you could smell that distinct aroma wafting through the air.
“Don’t tempt me,” I said, and I was tempted, but I am accustomed to forgoing such self-indulgences like dessert or one last shot before the bar closes, particularly if I have an early morning. I hear it from friends all the time—“Jordan, you’re always putting work above fun. Lighten up”—and I’m sure I’ll hear it again when I tell Lisette I won’t make it to Saugatuck after all.
“Thanks, Bass Man, but I’ll pass. I’m already tired and if I puff-puff, I’ll be asleep before the ten o’clock news comes on.”
“You always say no,” Bass said, looking disappointed.
“That’s the trade-off,” I said. “I can’t do both.”
I headed toward the bank of elevators, then stopped and turned around. “If that ass gets out my parking space tonight, hit me up on my cell. You know, I’ve got that soft top; I don’t like my car on the roof.”
“Okay, I will. No stairs tonight?” he asked.
“Not the way my feet hurt right now,” I said. “I’m about to put my whole face in this sushi and try to stay up long enough to see how my Masey James story turned out.”
“Yeah, I heard something on the radio about that on the way to work. That’s messed up.” He shook his head, his expression somber. I imagine he thought about his own daughter.
I nodded my head and turned to step into the elevator. Just as the doors were about to close, I shouted, “By the way, we still need to talk about you and Sabrina getting married. Your flower girl is right here waiting!”
“Woman!” Bass laughed. “Go to bed!”
*
Finally, inside the apartment, I practically threw the bag of sushi on the kitchen counter, so anxious to begin my ritualistic physical dismantling. I started stripping on the way to the bathroom and dropped my clothes in a pile outside the door. My shape-shifting wouldn’t be complete without a hot shower, where I could scrub off the day and the on-air makeup that I had touched up at least a dozen times, and allow it to dissolve along with the stress down the drain.
How nice it would be to step out of the shower and into a big thirsty towel handed me by a lover. It’s just not as sexy with a shower cap on my head.
I laughed at the chameleon in the bathroom mirror, unrecognizable from the Jordan Manning of News Channel 8, even from the person I was just a few moments ago. I reached for my home staples—a pair of cotton leggings and a frayed oversize Dallas Cowboy sweatshirt long overdue for replacement—and put the TLC CD into the disc changer and blasted “No Scrubs,” my all-time dating anthem.