Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever

I purse my lips in frustration at my reflection in the mirror. Damn my weave—it’s jacked.
Time to take out these tracts.
My hair has grown out too much anyway. Damn my home girl, Jada Jameson, too, for hogging all the hair product before she began her week in Vegas. She left only a corner of gel in the jar for me to smooth my hair down. I should be getting ready for the opening of our studio and record store; instead I’ve spent all day cramming for an investment meeting.

I twist my mouth into a full-on frown as I gaze at the warm, olive complexion and hazel eyes too luminous for my face staring back at me. “Fuck it,” I say. I wanted to wear my hair down, but I guess a stiff ponytail
à la
Olympic gymnast, Gabby Douglas, will have to do.

Jada, my roommate and business partner, took off on a red-eye to a weeklong sorority getaway. She left me, the artist,
with the
least business
acumen
, to discuss investment in our business with mega-gazillionaire, venture capitalist, Tristan White, alone.

In addition to receiving capital equipment at the studio, I
’
m in the middle of working my two week notice at La Perla on the Magnificent Mile. I have to take the “L,” Chicago Transit Authority’s elevated rapid transit system, all the way into Downtown to meet Mr. Moneybags, the CEO of White Enterprises, Inc.
As an entrepreneur
and capital investment broker (
or
white boy born with a silver spoon in his mouth), it’s like winning the fucking lottery to score a meeting—but he granted Jada one. It just happened to be on the first day of her trip, and her plane ticket was nonrefundable.

Jada calls me on my cell phone as I’m preparing to leave.

“Keisha, I’m sorry. With our grand opening just a month away we can’t afford to miss this opportunity.
My dad called in a multitude of favors to help us get this meeting, and we may never get another one if we reschedule.”
Mr. Jameson, a state senator in Springfield had apparently rubbed elbows, or at the very least, sponsored a senate hearing or two in which Tristan White had been in attendance.

“I know. I’m unpacking equipment in preparation for it every day. Don’t we have enough cash to get by a few months until
you
can pitch the business to him?”

“As the CFO of this venture, I’m telling you girl, we don’t have the capital to pull this off on our own. The break-even figures don't lie. Please,” Jada begs me in the voice she usually reserves for the men she’s trying to charm.

Even over the phone she’s more charismatic and articulate, (read
:
savvy enough to converse with the one percent), than I’ll ever be. I ignore my pang of irrational jealousy.

“You know I’m going, Jada. You just do your whatever-happens-in Vegas-stays-there thing, and I’ll handle White; you know what I’m saying?”

“I know you got my back, Keke.” She uses my neighborhood nickname laying it on real thick. “I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.”

I roll my eyes at her disingenuousness. “Mm hmm.”

“You’ve got the business plan I
prepared
, right?”

“Yeah, but you know I don’t know a damn thing about financial statements and break-even analyses.”

“The business plan will speak for itself. Make sure you’re not late catching the
‘L
.’ You know, you
really
should take my car.”

“And get caught up in downtown rush-hour traffic? No, thank you.” I cringe when I think of myself panicking and wrecking her fancy BMW on the Dan Ryan, killing myself.

“Well, good luck, and thanks again, Keisha. I owe you one.”

I slip on my stilettos, grab my bootleg Prada bag, and depart. I usually don't do knockoffs, but this bag was the perfect shade of blue to match my suit. Once on the sidewalk, I immediately begin to ruminate about how I can’t believe I let Jada talk me into this shit. Jada is a phenomenal black woman, and my BFF, but she’s so persuasive; she could talk an Eskimo into buying ice. She’ll be a formidable CFO for Kente Studio Records. I only hope I can measure up as the COO and creative brain of our business venture.

Two years earlier after my father died, the insurance settlement I got from his death burning my pockets, Jada and I
smoked
a bong on the fire escape of our apartment
until we were zoned
. We
had a philosophical conversation
about how the economy was so
wack
and how we wanted meaningful jobs straight out of college.

We began to brainstorm about what we could do to capitalize on our combined talents. Being a music aficionado and an accomplished musician resulting from my father's Brazilian musical background, and my mother's history as a blues singer, I majored in music composition and performance at DePaul. Jada, a numbers girl, got a dual degree in business and accounting.

We conceived Kente Studio Records, a
physical and online
recording studio, vinyl shop, and music store, all rolled into one. We wanted an ethnic name that described the various shades of clients to whom we expected to cater. Our music would be for people of all colors.

I settle on the “L” for my trip into the city, and try not to listen to the homeless man in front of me reciting what sounds like Quantum Physics or some shit. He feels
oblig
ed to tell us what the maximum load-bearing weight is on the train, what speed we would need to go to get to Waukesha, WI in an hour, and other shit nobody’s even asked him. I tune his nonsensical ass out, because I have my own inner voices whispering in my ear on the regular.

There are two entities that war inside me, but I'm the only one who sees them manifested physically. This may mean I'm certifiable, because they actually communicate with me, but I don’t care. They're like the little football fairies in the DirecTV commercials except without the football gear, and they look much better than Deion Sanders, and his companions, if I have to say so myself.

These are miniature replicas of me that usually sit or hover around on my shoulders, but sometimes I even see them in my mind's eye with extraordinary clarity. On my right shoulder is my Ghetto Good Girl or Triple-G for short. She keeps me out of trouble, and typically roots for me to do what's right.
The mischief maker, my Fairy Hoochie Mama aka the bad girl, resides on my left shoulder.
She generally wants the exact opposite of what my Triple-G finds to be prudent. Yeah, I have an angel on one shoulder, and a devil on the other, as
good
and evil has been depicted for centuries, but who doesn't?

Before I know it, we’re downtown. My destination is Mr. White’s
thirty-something
story headquarters building in the Loop. The map app on my Smartphone gets me right to the glass doors, on which the name White is emblazoned in what else—white letters.  It’s a quarter to five when I arrive; glad I’m not rocking CP, or colored people time today. The lobby is spartanly decorated in white and black leathers, stones, and chrome contemporary furnishings, which sort of remind me of the yin and yang symbol.

Behind a black, marble desk sits an attractive, androgynous man. I feel as if I’m trying to get into a gay nightclub, and he’s the bouncer.