Man Curse (10 page)

“How does a bitch like Doreen get to marry a nice guy while I keep attracting these assholes?” I said, shaking my head back and forth.

“Well, she got pregnant. And you know he's Catholic. He's likely doing what he thinks is the right thing.”

“What? Pregnant?” I sighed, staring at my visionary poster. “I don't know. I've got to figure this shit out. I need a new job. I need a new man. I need to move out of this house.”

“You need a new perspective,” Meredith said, cutting me off. “'Cause this man curse is all in your head. You made your goals. So believe, wait, and they'll manifest. Do you believe you can have what you dream of?”

“Yeah.”

“So you will. It's that easy,” she said, “Power of the mind, Meena. You'll see.”

“Birthday number twenty-five,” I said, closing my eyes to pray. “Dear Lord, thank you for the day. Please bless me with success, happiness, and love. Amen.”

T
he next morning I overslept. A night of partying with Meredith left a hangover that made the sound of a chiming phone rock me awake with a throb of my head. In what seemed like an early-morning haze, my phone echoed from a faraway place deep down in the black hole known as my pocketbook. I messily dug in my bag, looking for the cell. Pulled it out. Dropped it. Slowly picked it up. Stretching my eyes wide to see the fuzzy vision of a 212 number. Who could be calling me from New York? Bill collectors? No, that would be an 800 number. Maybe it was Dexter calling, taking a trip to the city to get me back? No. Fuck him. Then it hit me:
Buzz.

Buzz
had been the hottest magazine on the entertainment scene the past year. I remember seeing their TV commercials; covering everything from music and fashion to TV and film,
Buzz
was always on the pulse of what's hot and not. Thanks to a hookup from her cousin, Meredith and I had volunteered two summers ago during their
Buzz
music seminar week. Picked as gift-bag stuffers for a celebrity fashion show, she dragged me as her plus-one to all the hot parties, where we brushed shoulders with celebrities, drank free liquor, and grabbed expensive swag bags. Loving the fast, superstar lifestyle, I made business cards at Kinko's with my name and number and handed them to everyone I met.

“Hey, well, here's my card,” I'd say to whomever I bumped into at the bar. “If you're looking for a good assistant, let me know.”

Stuffing bags at the
Buzz
office, I walked around and passed out my contact information. Smiling. Talking. Chatting. Making sure each person at that magazine knew my name. And for every business card I received, I sent a personalized follow-up e-mail to touch base. Three months ago, I had submitted my résumé in reply to a job-listing e-mail I'd received from someone I'd met at the seminar.
Buzz
was searching for an executive assistant. A few weeks later I was called in for an interview, but I'd nearly given up hope after several follow-ups and no returned call. But now, ninety days later, maybe they were finally getting back to me.

I cleared my throat.

“Hellooo.” I let the
oo
ring out like a morning cheer. “This is Meena.”

“Meena Butler, please.”

“Speaking.”

“Meena, this is Denise Banor from
Buzz
magazine. How are you?”

“Hi, Denise!”

Denise Banor was the new editor in chief of
Buzz.
She'd written for all the mainstream magazines in the country, had interviewed nearly every major celebrity on earth, and was queen of the publishing world after her fiction novel became a bestseller. I remember her being one of the less snooty ones at
Buzz.
She never talked down or made me feel like a peon, never gave me the once-over look that most in the industry would give. Denise was warm. Familiar. Cool. And I was honored to have received her call.

“Meena, I'm sorry it took so long for me to get back to you,” she said, Busta Rhymes playing in the background. It was a song I hadn't heard before. Had to be new. “We just closed our biggest issue of the year, and—”

“Is that a new Busta Rhymes song?” I cut her off, regretting it the moment I opened my mouth. But I couldn't help it. I loved hip-hop, and if there was anything I knew, it was rap music. “Sorry, I didn't mean to cut you off.”

“No, it's cool,” she said, laughing. “Yeah, a new single that drops next week. You like hip-hop?”

“Yeah.
When Disaster Strikes
is one of my favorite albums at the moment.”

“Good. You need hip-hop knowledge if you're gonna work with me. But I need an assistant ASAP. I want you. If you're ready . . .”

I didn't know how to answer. Stuck in shock, the moment slowed down.

“Hello?”

“Um, hello,” I replied. “Um, yes.”

“Meena. You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You want to work for me? Help me get things right?”

“Yes.”

“Can you come in tomorrow to fill out paperwork?”

“Yes.”

“I assume as my assistant you'll be saying more than ‘yes'?”

“Yes. Ooh, I mean. I'm sorry. I'm just . . . um . . . wow! Yes! I can start whenever. I am so ready. Thank you so much, Denise.”

“You're welcome,” she said, cracking up. “But I'd rather you thank me by being a great assistant and holding me down.”

“Oh, I will. I'll be the best ever.”

Chapter 12

T
he next day, I was up at six and on an eight o'clock train to New York City. I sent a quick e-mail to Merrill Lynch, letting them know I'd found a full-time gig in lieu of the freelance work they offered. And the best part was that I didn't have to be at work until ten, per entertainment industry hours. But I wanted to get there early. Squeezing between a small, skinny Indian man with a pocket protector and a large, bald white guy with a beer belly, my legs curled to the side in a ladylike position. Hardly able to move, my knees knocked with one passenger. My bag brushed stomach fat. But I didn't care. I was going to work for
Buzz
magazine. I was going to be in “the industry.”

The New Jersey Transit train pulled into Penn Station. I bustled my way through the fast-moving crowd onto a platform that spilled out of the train tunnel and onto the cold, icy February street. Pushing my way through everyone, I became part of a marathon of hungry, workforce runners vying for the top position. Speeding to escape the freezing wind that slapped our backs and pushed us along. I slipped my way onto Eighth Avenue. Bumped into one man. He nudged me with his shoulder. Tripping, I stepped on the foot of a lady. She whispered an insult. And in a domino effect I fell forward into someone new.

“Oh my God.” I sighed in frustration, pausing on the sidelines and telling the man I bulldozed as I picked up his dropped book, “I'm sorry.”

When he turned around and stood up straight, time stopped.

He was like a god, sparkling on the outside. The sun's light shined on him with such beauty and ease, bouncing off the muscles that protruded through his shirt. Cornrows tightly braided, neatly crisscrossing back into fine, ripe elements. His eyes glistened as he looked down upon me. My face was confused, in awe. Mouth numb, partially open, eyes stretched in a rush of excitement.

“You all right?” he asked, his voice smooth and relaxed. Assured and calm.

“Yeah,” I said. “I just feel like I got brushed up into a tornado or something. And I didn't mean to step on your shoes. I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay, nothing polish won't take care of.” He pointed down Eighth Avenue. “You headed this way?”

“Yeah,” I said, walking. “I'm a few blocks that way.”

“Well, I'm going in the same direction, so I guess I'll be watching you stumble down the street.”

“Probably. I need to pack my sneakers tomorrow. Thought I'd be cute today, but I obviously need better traction to handle these folks in New York.”

“Where you from?”

“Jersey.”

“Oh yeah? Me too. I live in Brooklyn now. Was visiting my family this past weekend in Newark.”

“For real? I was born at Beth Israel hospital.”

“Wow, me too. Maybe we were babies in the same ward. And now we're reunited,” he said, straight-faced. “Although, wasn't everybody in Newark born at Beth Israel?”

I laughed but stopped short. Careful not to crack up too loud and make him think I was trying too hard. We talked and walked all the way to the
Buzz
building.

“This is my stop,” I said, wincing on the inside, hating that I used a cliché film line. “It was nice meeting you. What's your name?”

“Sean. Sean Baxter.” He grabbed my extended hand, held it for a few moments. “You work in this building?”

“Yeah.”

“Which floor?”

“Fourth.”

“Interesting,” he said with a furrowed brow. “That's where I'm going.”

“
Buzz
magazine?”

“Yeah, I have an appointment with the editor in chief.”

“Interesting.” I grinned. “So do I. What do you do?”

“I'm a writer. What do you do?”

“I'm the editor in chief's new assistant. Nice to meet you.”

We stared at each other. Marinating on the moment.

“Hmmm,” he said, opening the door for me. “Interesting.”

“Talk about six degrees of separation,” I said, giggling. “I mean, I thought the world was bigger.”

“No,” he said, not smiling, rubbing his goatee. “It's not.”

When I looked at him from the side, he was still furrowing his eyebrows. Serious, perplexed, in deep thought. We were silent the entire elevator ride up to the
Buzz
offices.

S
tepping off the elevator was like walking onto the set of a TV show. Large, colorful framed photos of celebrities lined the walls. Each had been featured on
Buzz
covers. Will Smith, Tom Cruise, LL Cool J, Mary J. Blige. A neon-blue light outlined the reception area. Ceilings and floors glowed with a fantastic blue haze. Long, black couches curved with every slope of the oval room, forming a U-shape design. A sixty-inch flat-screen TV flashed a mix of music videos, fashion shows, and movie trailers. Mase, Puff Daddy's newest protégé, blasted from speakers jutting out of the corners of the ceiling.

“Here's my card,” Sean said, as he nodded at the receptionist. “Although I'll probably be seeing you again.”

“And here's my info,” I said, digging in my bag, anxiously feeling around for my card. But I couldn't find one. “Hold on a minute, I know I packed them.”

I took the bag off my shoulder, set it on a table, and began desperately digging past tissues with lip imprints, pens missing tops, dirty brown envelopes with cell phone bills inside, a raggedy checkbook with the top page falling off, strands of hair, old panty shields falling out of the pink packaging, empty sandwich bags, hairpins, and makeup containers—and then, deep inside a hole ripped through the lining, I felt a card.

“Here ya go,” I said, passing it to him. “Sorry it looks a bit bent, it's my last one.”

“It's cool,” he said, checking it out. “It's got all the info I need, Miss Butler.”

I smiled, watching his tall, lanky body casually stride to the couch and sit down. He crossed his legs into a manly, ninety-degree angle and flipped open an old issue of
Buzz.
Pointed at the table of contents, his fingers were beautiful, long and precise like his body. Probably like his . . .

“Excuse me . . .” The receptionist's voice snapped me back to reality. “Who are you here to see?”

“Oh, I'm, um . . . sorry.”

“I know.” She laughed. “He's a cutie. Beauty and brains.”

I suddenly began to sweat. Red flowed to my cheeks. Taking a deep breath, I exhaled. “I'm here for Denise Banor. I'm Meena Butler, her new assistant.”

“Ohhhh! Hey, mami!” she said, smiling a toothy grin. “Remember me?”

I looked at the receptionist carefully. Her yellow arms had two tats apiece. One near her shoulder read “Nay-Nay.” Around her wrist was a hemp leaf. On the other arm was a vine that twisted around the muscles to just above the elbow. She wore a rhinestone butterfly ring with rainbow colors. Her long, black, shiny hair was cut to frame her round face. And her cotton midriff top was cut low enough for cleavage, highlighting the cat paws protruding from the neckline of her teeny white V-neck T-shirt. I didn't recognize her.

“Girl, it's me, Carmen! Remember we worked the
Buzz
music seminar? Summer of '96? All those damn gift bags we stuffed? You were with your friend.”

My face went blank before suddenly attempting to cover.

“Meena, remember when we got lost trying to find the Puffy party 'cause we were so damn high off some weed your friend had gotten from some Jamaican?”

Still nothing. I think the weed was affecting my memory.

“Remember I used to break-dance?”

Slowly it all came back. Carmen Mercado, the skinny Puerto Rican mami from the Bronx. She had a deep, beautiful voice that she'd use to bust into a rap at the drop of a beat. I remember at one party, she began dancing in the middle of the floor better than most B-boys in music videos. She was the one who always set it off. But that Carmen was a skinny, flat-chested, five-two girl who dressed like a boy. Now she was a busty bombshell advertising all her assets.

“Yeah, I know I look different,” she said, looking down at her body. “I had twins. And an idiot husband for six months. So that's three kids. Gained a lot of weight.” She sucked her teeth. “Left his lazy ass. Now I got a girlfriend, gay and proud.”

I busted out laughing. “You look fine,” I said. “Although all the cleavage and tats made it hard for me to remember. But you look good. All thick and sexy.”

“Thanks, mama,” she said, smiling. “You got the gig, huh? That's hot! We gotta go to lunch, yo. I can tell you everything about this place.” She rolled her eyes and adjusted her headset as the phone rang. “Good morning,
Buzz
magazine.”

I was impressed at how her slang and voice morphed from Webster Avenue, Bronx Boricua into eloquent, college-bred professional. “Absolutely, sir,” she continued in her nonregional diction. “Let me transfer you.” She gave me a wink, knowing her power, playing the game. “Good morning,
Buzz
magazine. Mr. Jacobs, how are you, sir? How was your long weekend? I assume fabulous?”

“Miss Meena Butler.”

I turned around to see the source of the voice behind me. Stepping off the elevator was the queen herself, Denise Banor.

“Hey, Denise!” I didn't mean to sound so excited. But I was. I had a job working for the most powerful editor in the entertainment business. “Cute shoes!”

“Thank you, lady,” she said, grabbing the
New York Times
off Carmen's desk. “You ready?”

“Yup.”

“Cool, come on.”

We walked through the couch area. She whizzed past Sean, stopped, and did an about-face.

“Mr. Sean Baxter,” she said with a half grin. “Bright and early.”

“Well, when I have a meeting with the queen, I aim to be on time.”

“Good, now if we could just get you to do that with your assignments, we'd be good.”

Sean shot a quick, embarrassed look at me, and then said to Denise, “Um, yeah, I'm on that. That's why—”

“Sean, I just got in. Lemme get settled, show this girl around, and I'll have her bring you down. This is Meena Butler, my new assistant.”

“Yeah, we met,” he said, shaking my hand again. I plastered a big grin on my face.

Denise squinted her eyes. “Okay, missy. No fraternizing with the help. Let's go.”

She turned for the stairs and I was at her heels, taking one last peek at Sean as I walked downstairs. At the bottom was a scruffy man, with an unshaved goatee, dirty Timberland boots, and a New York Giants jersey hanging to his knees.

“Griffin, this is Meena Butler, my new assistant.” He shook my hand. “Please give her whatever she needs for the desk.”

Denise informed me, “Griffin runs the mail room. Sometimes that reggae he plays is too loud,” she said. “But whatever you need, call him.”

I nodded.

She pulled out her key card and opened the door. Inside was a large room filled with cubicles. Some empty. Others occupied and cluttered with old magazines, empty boxes, Xerox paper, and outdated computers. A few folks popped their heads over the top of the divider. Others stood stiff as Denise whizzed by. It was like a scene from
The Devil Wears Prada
where Meryl Streep's character scares the office straight, stopping all idle chitchat. Denise dressed like a
Vogue
editor: slinky black Chanel dress, mile-high bright red stilettos, and a large vintage Gucci bag that matched the Gucci scarf swinging from her neck. But unlike
Vogue
's editor in chief, Anna Wintour, she was abruptly sassy, with a warm, down-to-earth mix of sarcasm that melted any ice some might assume she'd convey.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, walking to the center of the cubicles, stopping to stand in an empty aisle with a large cabinet in the middle. Atop it sat a fax machine and a tray of scattered, disorganized cover sheets and confirmation pages. “I want to introduce you to Meena Butler, my new assistant.”

The office cheered and clapped.

“About time,” said a tall, skinny man with a purple ascot. He had one hand on his hip and the other in his blazer pocket. “That temp was the worst. Can I get a meeting now?”

Everyone laughed.

“We'll do that today, Francois. Now, some of you may or may not remember Meena from working the
Buzz
music seminar. She's visited periodically, so she's already been a member of the family. You know she's solid, because I hired her. So if she looks lost in the corridors, please help her out. Okay?”

Some nodded their heads affirmatively. A few looked me up and down, analyzing my outfit, studying, probably wondering how long I'd last. I planned to stay for the long haul. I was confident on the outside. But insecurity shook my nerves. Everyone at
Buzz
seemed so fashionable and fly. White, stiff, clean, uptown Nike sneakers. Fly knee-high boots. Fresh new Gucci bags, Prada this, designer that. And here I was wearing the flyest outfit I could afford from The Limited—a pair of khaki-colored pants in the winter and a striped black, white, and brown shirt to match. My shoes were cute black heels with a tiny bow at the top that tilted to the side. I got them from Bakers—affordably fly, thank you very much.

“Meena,” said Denise, grabbing my hand. “Lemme show you my office and where you'll be sitting.”

She headed down a hallway, waving at passing offices. Some had music blasting from doorways opened to messy, disorganized desks. Others were meticulously clean with layouts of the magazine adorning the walls. Another office was covered with large color proofs showing pictures of the magazine, models, and celebrity types, with large red pencil marks circling unflattering parts of their bodies.

Denise walked me into her zone. Half of the office was covered in magazines, old issues of
Buzz
with pages turned, ripped out, and curled at the corners. Some magazines looked as if they'd been read a million times, others were crisp and clean. Stacks of paper sat messily atop her desk next to empty water bottles and coffee cups with lipstick on the rims. Pencils, pens, markers, mail, tissues, makeup-stained proofs—Denise's desk looked like the inside of my purse.