tam, standing next to her buddy, Gerri. Dana was nodding her head, clapping her hands whenever a key point was hit, very involved in every word.
A thousand righteous words and two lengthy applauses went by.
Harmonica said, “Thangs don’t never change. Different faces, but thangs never change. It was Medgar Evers back in my day. I’ve seent so many Medgars in my time.”
My eyes went to Womack. Still quiet. Listening to the speech while his mind was brewing in thoughts of anxiety.
When the speech was done, Dana saw me. There was an awkward moment, but I went over. Gerri was holding hands with her young trophy man. Jefferson had on Kani jeans, matching sweatshirt, accessorized down to the boots.
He offered a cool and quick handshake. “Long time no see.”
He handed me a flier advertising his group. Dangerous Lyrics was performing at a club in Westwood, opening for a rap group. Considering why we were down here, all due to a tragedy, I thought his timing was tacky, opportunistic.
But I was trying to be opportunistic too.
I said, “I’ll try and check it out.”
Dana moved away from them. I stepped with her, stopped in front of the Chinese laundry near Vision Theater. Coldness covered her face when we were away from the crowd, away from her friends. In her eyes I saw the electrical discharge of danger and anger.
Her breath chilled me when she said, “I’ll get my stuff next Friday.”
She walked away before I could answer.
9
Dana
When I walked away, I didn’t look back.
Gerri asked, “You okay?”
My lips went up into a smile. “I’m fine.”
Jefferson was holding Gerri’s hand, had her close. They were so touchy-feely, which, considering my state of mind, was inconsiderate.
I went down on Melrose Boulevard and ate at Georgia’s restaurant with Gerri and her beau. All evening they talked about the rap group. No space for one-on-one girl talk with Gerri. All Jefferson’s talk was about the group and the studio, stuff that was way over my head: digital recording studios, mackies, mixers, DBX compressors.
In the backseat of Jefferson’s Ford Expedition, I was forced to listen to his group’s song “Kick the Bytch in the Azz” at least six times straight. Not exactly my cup of tea, but Gerri was ecstatic. Talking about what type of video the group should do, who should do the lead on what songs.
Gerri said, “Butter is pretty good with the lyrics, can dance a bit, but Big Leggs should be the lead on this cut. Butter should fill in the rap part. Chocolate Star should lead the other song you’re working on.”
“Butter wrote most of the songs.”
“There’s a difference between a songwriter and a singer. Everybody has to recognize their limitations. You have to go with the winner. Butter ain’t the one. If you’re going to be in charge of the group, then be in charge of the group. Ain’t that right, Dana?”
“Sho’ you right.”
Seeing her making those kinds of starry-eyed plans with her man, having the kind of hopes that led to a windfall, reminded me of who I used to be way back when. I’ve left that hustle behind.
I’d hoped this was a regular hang-out, eat thing, but Gerri put the issue out there: “Dana, I told Jefferson how you used to do stuff in entertainment, the promotions gig, and we were wondering if you would be interested in doing some promo stuff with the group.”
I told them no. That was the kind of life that put pressure on relationships and very little money in your pocket. Gerri pressed the issue. Again, I told her no. I’d get a job selling Slurpees at 7-Eleven before I tossed my hat back in that arena.
Gerri was disappointed, but I stuck to my guns.
Jefferson had to meet with the girls in the group at the studio. New material, new song, yada, whatever. Gerri’s kids were at her ex’s in-law’s house, so she was tipping off to her late-night paper route.
I drove home. All alone with nobody but me. Felt so heartbroken, disappointed in myself because I didn’t see the signs of Vince’s other life. But I don’t think there were any. Guess I’d been a classic woman, you know, looking for signs of other women. The typical stuff. Phone numbers. Late night calls. Missing hours that he couldn’t explain. There was none of that bullshit. Hunting for things in his present, not worried about his past.
Eleven years ago. Time flies, but the feelings remain.
I was about to turn sweet sixteen. Our phone rang and