God's Gift to Women (7 page)

“How convenient,” I said with a flirtatious smile.

Just then the doors opened on the twenty-fifth floor. We stepped out and began walking toward the studio. Although we were both late, neither of us seemed to be in a hurry.

“So, Terri, would it be okay if I called you sometime? Maybe we could do lunch?”

She paused, then reached inside her purse. I was hoping she was looking for something to write her number on.

“Here, take this.” She handed me a card. It read
THE GENESIS FOUNDATION
.

“What is this?”

“It’s the number of my foundation. I run a shelter for battered women.”

“And?”

“I would appreciate it if you would mention it every now and then during your show. We need all the donations we can get.”

“So, what about your personal number?”

“Mr. Payne, I don’t
do
celebrities. That includes ball players, entertainers, producers, and especially radio personalities.”

“And why is that?”

“Because women throw coochie at them like Frisbees! And like most dogs, they try to catch all of it.” She pretended like she was snatching objects out of the air. “Have a nice day, Mr. Payne.” Then she walked away.

“There are exceptions to every rule, you know,” I yelled at her.

I was disappointed by not getting her number, but I could understand her point. Dating a man in the entertainment industry could be rough on a woman. To this day, I don’t know how Carmen put up with it for as long as she did. When we met I was eighteen years old and working as an intern. Every week I had VIP passes to night clubs, concerts, and sporting events. The women were always eager to get to know me. Sometimes they wanted free tickets or to be introduced to the jocks. But many of them just wanted to have sex so they could brag to their friends that they screwed someone who worked at a radio station. We use to call them “radio ’hos.”

After I picked my ego up from the floor, I walked down to the studio and pressed the button for the receptionist. Terri must have had some kind of access code, because she entered without any delay.

“WBMX, may I help you?” a soft professional voice inquired.

“Yes, this is Julian Payne. I’m here to see Mr. Harris.”

She buzzed the door and I walked in. Right away I was impressed. The foyer was brightly lit with metal-framed posters of the radio jocks hanging on the walls. My picture was the last one on the end. I could smell the newness of the highly buffed hardwood floors and the freshly painted ceilings and walls. Even the receptionist fit in perfectly. She was a young black woman with a bright smile. She wore a peach blouse that accentuated her caramel complexion. She wore locks and had a wrap on her head that reminded me of Erykah Badu’s.

“This is a long way from WTLK,” I said, loud enough for her to hear.

“We’re glad to have you aboard, Mr. Payne.” She extended her hand. “I’m Janet Jackson.”

“Yeah, and I’m Tito,” I laughed.

“I’m serious, my name is Janet Jackson. You wanna see my driver’s license?”

“No, I’ll take your word for it,” I told her. “Look, Janet, would you happen to know the woman who just came in?”

“You mean Dr. Ross. Yeah, I know her. She’s been working here at the station for about two years.”

“Is she single?”

“Mr. Payne, let me save you some time and energy. You
do not
want to mess around with that sistah!”

“Why, is she married?”

“No.”

“Is she involved?”

“No.”

“Is she a lesbian?”

“No!”

“Is she a man? ’Cause if she is, that’s the best damn operation I’ve ever seen!”

“No, she’s not a man,” Janet laughed. “You are so stupid.”

“Then what’s the deal? I’d like to get to know her. She’s beautiful! And she has a quality that most women lack nowadays.”

“And what’s that?”

“Class!”

“Well,
Mr.
Payne, I’ll tell you another quality she has that most women lack nowadays and that’s
high
self-esteem and
low
tolerance for game playing.”

“What is it with you Texas women? You presume that every man is either a playa or a dog?”

“Because nine out of ten
are,
especially the men in this business!” Janet said. “Over the last two years I’ve seen more drama at this station than on a
Jerry Springer
marathon.”

“But you don’t even know me. How could you—”

At that moment her phone rang.

“Yes, sir, he just walked in. I’ll escort him down to the studio myself. Bye.” Janet came from behind her desk and began walking toward the back offices.

“This way, Mr. Payne.”

“Don’t be so formal. You can call me Julian,” I said as I followed a few feet behind her.

“‘Mr. Payne’ will do for now. I haven’t decided if I like you yet.”

On the way to see Mr. Harris, we passed by the studio where Terri was doing her spot. Our eyes met through the soundproof window. I didn’t want to appear too interested, so I tried to look away, but I couldn’t, and neither could she. I was about to wink, but decided not to. It seemed too childish. So I did what came naturally. I smiled. Once I passed the window I turned around to see where Janet had gone. She was already down the hall watching me watch Terri. When I caught up to her she directed me down a narrow corridor to a corner office.

“Thank you, Janet Jackson.”

“You’re quite welcome,
Tito
!”

As I was about to head down the corridor, Janet cleared her throat, loudly.

“Is there something else you wanna say, Ms. Jackson?”

“I know this is none of my business, and you were right, I don’t know you from Adam.” She had one hand on her hip. “But I do know Terri and she’s a very special person. Not only is she my mentor, I consider her to be a friend.”

“And you said that to say … ?”

“If you ever hurt her, I’ll make your life a living hell! Have a nice day.” Then she strutted back to her desk.

I stood there for a second thinking to myself,
Did I miss something?
But I quickly shrugged it off and refocused on my meeting with Mr. Harris. I wanted to find out if his attitude had changed since we signed the contract. Sometimes white folks
will kiss your ass to get you to sign on the dotted line, but once you do, they show their true colors. I tried to be optimistic as I knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a smooth masculine voice said.

When I entered, Mr. Harris was seated in a high-back leather chair facing away from me.

“Hello, Mr. Harris. Sorry I’m late.”

“Well, if you paid more attention to the time and less to Dr. Ross’s ass in that tight skirt you wouldn’t be so late. I saw you staring at her on the security camera!”

“Excuse me?”

“Surprise!” He spun around in the chair and revealed himself. It was my producer Mitch from WTLK. “Whassup, you outspoken, talented, and arrogant son of a bitch?”

“Mitch! What the hell you doin’ here!”

“I told you I was workin’ on a big deal. Well, this is it!”

“Man, this is too good to be true, the Green Hornet and Kato in Houston, Texas. Aw, shit, we can’t lose now!” I rushed over and put him in a bear hug.

“Just remember, I’m the Green Hornet and you’re Kato! Now let me go, boy!”

“I guess these white folks aren’t all bad after all,” I said. “Check out this studio!”

The room was laid out with stylish furnishings, high-back leather chairs, solid oak countertops, and a console that was state of the art.

“If you think that’s something”—Mitch opened the blinds—“check out this view.”

The studio was located in the corner of the building, which provided views in two directions through windows that extended from the floor to the ceiling. On one side was the overcrowded 610 freeway. On the other was Westheimer Road where the Galleria mall was located. I could read the Neiman Marcus and Lord & Taylor signs as if they were right in front of me.

“WTLK never had a view like this.”

“WTLK didn’t have a view, period. Didn’t have a microphone that worked or a toilet that flushed, either.” Mitch laughed. “I’m just glad I can stop sticking those damned names against the window like Martha Stewart.”

“Speaking of Martha Stewart, I can’t wait to decorate this place. I’m gonna put my Yolonda Adams poster over here. My Sade poster over here,” I said as I walked from wall to wall. “And my jasmine-scented candles there, there, and there!”

“I’m glad you’re so eager to get started, because I’ve got another surprise for you.”

“What’s that?”

“Instead of starting next week, the schedule’s been moved up. We start at ten o’clock tomorrow night.”

“Say what?”

“That’s right, we going on the air in exactly”—Mitch looked down at his watch—“thirty-five hours and twenty-six minutes.”

“Damn, that soon? I’ve got a thousand things to do. I’ve got to get my music together, come up with some relationship topics, find a baby-sitter for Sam, and I’ve got to—”

“What?” Mitch said.

I checked the console to make sure the power was on, then I shuffled through the cassette racks to see if I could find the song I wanted. When I found it, I tried to pull it out.

“Watch out!” Mitch yelled. He ran over and grabbed the rack as it was falling toward my head.

“I knew it, I knew! These white folks spent fifty million dollars to buy a station and couldn’t spend five lousy bucks to make sure the damn racks don’t fall down and kill a brotha.”

“I was gonna warn you, but you didn’t give me a chance.”

“You better get this fixed before somebody gets hurt and sues both our black asses,” I laughed. “Now, where was I?”

I put my headphones on and loaded the music into the console. I pushed a few of the wrong buttons at first, but I finally got it set up.

“What are you up to?” Mitch asked.

“Well, you’ve been nagging me about finding a nice girl, so I decided to take your advice.”

“I hope you’re not talkin’ about who I think you’re talkin’ about.”

“You saw her, too, huh?”

“You know I did. I met her two months ago when I was here to interview for the job. That woman is fine as wine!” We gave each other a high five. “Boy, if was a few years younger, um, um, um!”

“Well, you can live out your fantasy through me,” I told him. “Now, which one of these buttons will put me through to the receptionist?”

“This one.” He pointed.

While the phone rang, I cued the song. When Janet Jackson picked up, I turned the music down so she couldn’t hear it.

“WBMX, how may I direct your call?”

“Janet, this is Julian. I just called to let you know that I am a good man and I plan on pursuing Terri.”

“Mr. Payne, I told you, Terri doesn’t need any drama. Why don’t you just—”

Before she could finish her thought I turned up the lyrics on the song “Ms. Jackson” by the rap group OutKast.

“Sorry Ms. Jackson—I am for real!

Ne-ver meant to make your daughter cry …”

Then I hung up.

“Very creative,” Mitch said. “But you’re gonna have to do better than that if you expect to get with a lady with that much class and brains!”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,
my brotha
! Besides, I wouldn’t want a woman who falls in love at first sight or gives it up on the first date. I need a challenge!”

“Speaking of challenges, we’ve got a million things to do before tomorrow night.” Mitch walked toward the door. “Let’s go say hello to Mr. Harris, then we can get to work.”

“We’re gonna turn this mother out!” I yelled as the door closed behind us. “I hope H-Town is ready for the Green Hornet and Kato.”

“Just remember,” Mitch said. “I’m the Green Hornet— you’re Kato.”

A COOL SUMMER breeze blew off Lake Michigan as Olivia sipped a glass of wine while pacing naked on her balcony. It was her ritual for creating lyrics for the songs she composed. But the inspiration wasn’t there that day. Her mind kept replaying what happened Saturday night, the conversation at the club, the elevator ride up to her condo, the great sex, and Julian’s letter. And the more she thought about it, the more enraged she became.

“Goddamn men!” she yelled as she slammed down her notepad. “They walk into your life, use you up, then walk out! No guilt, no responsibility, no conscience. I should call his ass right now and curse him out. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do!”

She gulped down the rest of her wine, then marched into her bedroom to get her cordless phone. Just as she was about to dial the number, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey, girl! Were you busy?”

“Hi, Denise, I was just about to call you!” She tried to disguise her disappointment. “No, I’m not busy. I was just working on a song for my new CD.”

“It must be nice to write music for a living, no office politics, no rush hour traffic, and the freedom to live wherever you want.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool until you have to deal with these nasty producers. When I show up for a meeting they assume I’m there to audition for a video. They think a woman’s only talent is shakin’ her ass and giving head.”

“Men—you can’t live with them and you can’t kill ’em.” Denise was laughing, but Olivia wasn’t. “Anyway, I hadn’t heard from you since Saturday and I was wondering how your date went with Julian.”

“We got along just fine! He drove me to my apartment, we had a couple of drinks, talked for a while, then he left.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, don’t tell him I told you, but he asked me to visit him in Houston.”

“And?”

“And I told him I would think about it.”

“What’s there to think about? Julian’s a nice guy! And he really knows how to treat a woman.”

“Like a whore,” Olivia whispered.

“What did you say?”

“Oh, nothin’. Look, Denise, would you happen to have Julian’s home number in Houston? He gave it to me at the club, but I can’t seem to find it!”

“No, I don’t have it, but Eddie has his cell number. I can have him call Julian and tell him you’re trying to reach him.”

“No, that’s okay. I think I found it. Yeah, here it is on the floor. It must have fallen off the counter while I was cleaning up. Well, it was nice talking to you, Denise. I’ve got to get back to work. Be sure to tell Eddie I said hello.”