The Next Best Thing (21 page)

Hearing Nelson's story made me wonder what it is about practicing law that makes obviously intelligent people who went to school for eighteen years, get that degree, finally pass the bar, and then suddenly walk away from the profession to teach, open flower shops, write novels, and open restaurants.

“I meet more ex-lawyers than I can count,” I said, just as dessert arrived at our table. “Why is that?”

“Well, for me it's because I went into it for the wrong reasons. The old man wanted to be proud of something other than serving the best ribs and barbeque sauce in town, and I wanted to be the source of that pride,” Nelson responded. “But inevitably, the money and prestige are not enough to sustain you through the rough times when you are feeling lost, empty, and unfulfilled.”

“Well, I commend you.” I raised my wine glass in a toast. “It takes a lot of courage and conviction to just pick up and walk away from a career that you spent years building.”

“Life is too short to spend your days doing something that you loathe,” said Nelson, clinking his glass against mine. “So have I convinced you that I'm capable of catering this party for you?”

“Listen,” I said. “I am so convinced that I'm going to let you come up with the menu.”

“Cool,” Nelson grinned, looking excited by the challenge.

 

I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.

—Louisa May Alcott

WEDNESDAY

I'm starting to get the hang of this whole vacation thing. Not since I was a kid on summer vacation, have I woken up in the morning and wondered what I was going to do to fill my day. It's pretty fucking cool, actually.

I decided early into this sabbatical that whatever I was going to do with my days, it would be done with the television OFF!

Daytime TV is a wasteland that has the potential to deaden your soul. It also desensitizes and rots your mind. (Well, except for
Oprah,
which I TiVo.)

I had trouble adjusting to being idle at first, because growing up, Cedric and Diane Carter were of the belief that no one should be in bed past 7 a.m.

Even on weekends and during summer vacations, I was made to get up at the ass-crack of dawn to clean my room, dust everything in the house, wash dishes, clean out the refrigerator, the deep freezer, vacuum, fold the laundry, straighten the linen closet, and help tend to the vegetable garden.

To my parents, idleness was the devil's workshop, and nothing built character better than hard work, so if I still had energy left at the end of the day, then I hadn't worked hard enough, and they would double up on my workload the next day.

But, I have renounced my hardscrabble Negro upbringing, and am learning to embrace
The Art of Doing Nothing,
which is a great book, by the way.

I have even developed something of a routine.

Sleeping in until ten o'clock, and then going to work out down in the fitness room for an hour or so. After I'm done exercising, I come back upstairs and do one of my yoga DVDs, then take a long, leisurely bubble bath.

Lunch, lately, has been at swanky spots like Remington's and Le Froug. Sometimes it is with one or more of the girls, although yesterday, I had lunch with Nelson over in Westport, at a Japanese steakhouse he was reviewing.

After lunch, there are plenty of options. I may take in a movie, browse an art gallery, or spend the rest of the afternoon strolling in and out of posh stores in my neighborhood, pretending to be starring in my own fabulous version of Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Today though, the only thing I have scheduled is a dental checkup.

After that, I don't know what I'm going to get into.

Maybe afternoon tea service at The Fairmont, and then stop by UMKC Communiversity to sign up for salsa lessons.

Or maybe I'll go to a day spa for a facial and a massage.

TO-DO LIST:

1) Send Sophie a thank-you card and a bouquet of flowers—ASAP.

Mama called me at the crack of dawn this morning, and she was so hysterical that all I could understand was “Woody!”

“Okay, Mama, breathe,” I said calmly. “Just take a couple of deep breaths.”

I could hear the sounds of my mother inhaling and exhaling so sharply, that it sounded like she was having an asthma attack. The sounds finally dissipated after a minute, and I said, “Now, what exactly happened to Uncle Woody?”

“Well,” Mama began, “you know Woody always did have trouble with his pressure, right?”

“Yeah…” I said, not liking where this was going.

“Well, come to find out that he stopped taking his medication because he felt like he didn't need it anymore.”

“So is he alright?” I asked.

“No, baby,” Mama said solemnly. “Your Uncle Woody had a blood pressure crisis and passed away last night.”

“No!”
I said, jumping straight up out of bed.

“Yeah, ain't that something?” Mama asked. “He and your Daddy were supposed to go fishing this morning and Cedric is the one who found Woody dead on his bedroom floor.”

Uncle Woody and Daddy had been friends since childhood. They came up from Shreveport, Louisiana, together and were brothers as far as they were concerned.

“Well,” I said, “I know I was always on him about taking his medication, and he would always tell me he had just taken it.”

“But he hadn't!” Mama screamed in frustration. “Why in the world do people do that? If the doctor says you need it, then obviously you do, so take your damn medication!”

“I know, I know,” I said, trying my best to comfort her over the phone. “I'm just so sorry to hear that though, and I'm sure Daddy is devastated.”

“Oh, he is. Cedric is so shook up right now, it's going to be a long while before he gets over this. If he ever does.”

 

I just left from having Sunday dinner at my parents' house. It was horrible. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't the pot roast or homemade yeast rolls that were bad.

It was the somber mood. It was like—well, somebody had died. Mama couldn't stop crying, and Daddy was moping around the house drinking Scotch and listening to the blues.

The last couple of days have been a blur. It has been hard to stay focused on anything for more than two minutes at a time, because all I can think about is Uncle Woody dropping dead with no warning. One thing is for sure, death is not like what you see in the movies, with loved ones gathered around the deathbed saying their good-byes. In real life, death comes stealing so quickly that if there is time for closure and good-byes, then you should consider yourself lucky.

Just as we were all about to sit down and eat dinner, Uncle Woody's extended family showed up at the front door. They had made the trip from Shreveport and stayed just long enough to ask Daddy for the keys to Woody's house.

Never mind that Woody had not seen or heard from most of them in over twenty years. Uncle Woody had three ex-wives, but no children, so technically, these people were his next of kin, and they wanted their cut.

All hell broke loose.

“Well I'll be damned!” Daddy said when he saw the humongous U-Haul truck they had brought to take all of Woody's belongings back to Louisiana in. “Y'all are about the simplest, sorriest, sonofabitches I've ever seen in my life. The man's body ain't even cold yet, let alone buried, and here your monkey-asses are looking for whatever you can get!”

“Now you listen here, Cedric Carter,” said the obvious ring-leader, a short, morbidly obese woman, with a bad wig and a bum leg. “Woody was
our
brother, not yours! And you ain't got no right to keep us from what rightfully belong to us.”

“Mayblean, I don't have a problem with you all getting whatever Woody may have left for you,” Daddy said. “But y'all are damn sure gonna show some respect, and at least wait until the man has had a decent funeral!”

Daddy and the clan from Shreveport argued back and forth for several more minutes until Daddy went to the hall closet and pulled out his shotgun.

That was the end of that conversation.

“God doesn't close one door without opening another,” Yvette told me after AT&T officially laid her off.

Ever the optimist, she sees the loss of her job as a sign that now is the time to go ahead and pursue her lifelong dream of being an R&B diva.

Clearly, Yvette has lost her livelihood, and her mind right along with it. Already, she is talking about vocal coaches, producers, studio time, and meeting with an architect to have her dream house built. Essentially, she's writing checks that her talent will not be able to cash.

“I'm telling you, Tori,” Yvette said, “this time next year, I'm going be on top of the
Billboard
charts!”

“Studio time and music producers cost money,” I said. “How do you plan to pay for all this?”

“I'm about to get a nice severance package from AT&T,” she said. “And fifty-thousand dollars is more than most artists have when they first start out.”

Okay, now I'm afraid. Very afraid.

Me, and everyone else who knows Yvette, have been telling her for years that what she hears when she sings is not what everybody else hears. Yet, she is still convinced that her vocal ability is right up there with Whitney and Mariah.

“Not to piss on your parade or anything, but I think you need to give this some more thought,” I said as diplomatically as I could.

“I've thought about it, and prayed on it for years,” Yvette said. “Now, are you going to come support me tonight at McGillicutty's, or not?”

I sighed.

Apparently, one of the local radio stations was running an open-mike contest, offering five-hundred dollars cash to the winner, and a subsequent showcase for record-industry executives.

Yeah, Yvette was dead wrong, but I would not be a good friend if I didn't support her efforts in whatever she wanted to do in life, whether she is right, wrong, talented, or absolutely horrendous.

So I said, “I'll be there, front row and center.”

This should be interesting. Besides, after just losing my godfather/favorite uncle, I could use a good laugh.

Hours later, I walked into McGillicutty's Bar & Lounge, and took a seat in a plush lounge chair close to the stage, trying not to feel self-conscious about being by myself in a venue like this. Simone couldn't come support Yvette because she works as a youth counselor at the YWCA on Thursday nights, and Nadia has run off to New York to watch Terrell and the Kansas City Chiefs play against the New York Giants on Sunday.

I looked around, pleasantly surprised to find that the lounge wasn't the smoke-filled dive bar I expected it to be.

Located in a cavernous former warehouse in the River Market area, it was actually quite nice, with two floors, multiple bars, and a nice big stage.

My instincts told me that I was going to need something strong to get through this, so when the waitress came to take my drink order, I ordered a triple shot of Patrón, light on the ice, with plenty of limes.

At eight o'clock sharp, a short, brown-skinned sister with a huge smile walked out onstage. It was Julie Jones, the morning DJ from KPRS.

“Good evening, everybody!” Julie said. “Thank you all for joining us tonight in McGillicutty's search for Kansas City's next big star!”

There was a smattering of applause. The house lights dimmed, and first up was an old-school player with dark sunglasses and a shoulder-length perm.

He was rocking a Versace shirt, circa 1995, and what I call “the Eddie Murphy specials,” which are tight, black leather pants that accentuate the male anatomy.

Old-School didn't sound half-bad singing Larry Graham's “One In A Million.”

The crowd got into it, waving their hands and singing along, and you would have thought that he was the real Larry Graham. Especially the way the older women in the audience were screaming and swooning when he made eye contact with them.

After Old-School left the stage dripping in sweat, the music to “Crazy in Love” kicked in, and an overweight Beyoncé—wannabe hit the stage with an abundance of confidence and energy.

The girl may have been chubby, but she had Ms. Knowles's dance moves down pat. Sister-girl got to flipping that bad weave all over the place, and the audience was polite and encouraging at first. However, it turned into
Showtime at the Apollo
once the fake Beyoncé started this high-pitched, off-key shrieking that caused everybody to wince and cover their ears.

The hecklers were merciless. They start booing halfway through the song, and the poor girl was reduced to a pitiful, sobbing, off-key mess before she finally granted us mercy and ran off the stage.

Then it was Yvette's turn.

I clapped enthusiastically as she walked out on stage looking extremely confident in a yellow Hervé Léger dress and a white gardenia in her hair.

“Now this one is gonna be good,” said a man sitting at the table behind me. “Everybody knows, big girls can
blow
!”

“How y'all doing tonight?” Yvette asked, sounding like Tina Turner.

“We're good!” I shouted, and waved to her.

“Alright, now…” Yvette waved back at me, and adjusted the microphone stand. “I'm going through something right now, y'all, so tonight I want to sing a song that has always inspired me, and helped get me through the hard times.”

Yvette had barely begun singing “I Believe I Can Fly” when a drunken idiot near the back of the room shouted, “I believe you need to sit your ass down, and shut the hell up!”

“Hey,” I shouted right back at him. “It's her first time, give her a break!”

“Is she a friend of yours?” asked the drunken idiot.

“Damn right, she's a friend of mine,” I said, “so leave her alone and let her do her thing!”

“Well if you're such a good friend of hers, do us all a favor and let her know she SUCKS!”

“And she looks like Big Bird, too!” shouted another voice. And the audience just roared, laughing as if they were at a comedy show.

“Come on, girl!” I shouted to Yvette in support. “Sing that song!”

Yvette kept singing alright, but now she had the same panicked expression that she had at fifteen when she blanked out and forgot the drill-team routine at the homecoming pep rally. The entire school laughed at her, but she soldiered through it then, just as she was doing at that moment.

It seemed like it took an eternity, but Yvette finally finished the song, bowed graciously, and walked offstage with her head held high.

I whooped and clapped, pretending she was the best thing since Anita Baker.

“Ah, sit down!” a few people yelled my way, and I whooped and clapped even louder in response.

I felt so bad for Yvette that there was no way I was going to let her be a worse act than the fake-Beyoncé, so I ran up on stage, grabbed the microphone and start singing Gloria Gaynor's “I Will Survive,” a cappella.

My singing voice is downright terrible, but I purposely made it even worse. Take the worst
American Idol
audition ever, and multiply that by a hundred and that was me. Bloody horrible, as Simon Cowell would say.

But I put so much feeling into the song that before long, people start clapping and singing along with me.

I didn't expect to receive a standing ovation, but I did.

“What's your name, girlfriend?” Julie Jones asked me.

I told her, and she said, “Tori Carter, ladies and gentlemen. Give it up!”

I took a bow, and for one brief, shining moment, I felt like a superstar.

There were ten contestants in all, and much to my surprise I came in fifth place.

The Old-School player took second, and the winner was a woman in her fifties who brought the house down with her rendition of Vesta's “Congratulations.”

Old girl deserved to win because she tore that song up, but me coming in fifth place just goes to show how awful the others truly were.

Yvette came in eighth place, and she was so pissed off that she left the lounge without talking to me, or even saying good-bye.