A Hire Love (10 page)

B
efore last night, I assumed I would learn as much as I could about investing. Then I would see if I was interested in making a power move sometime in the future. Yet, jealousy sparked my ambition as I rushed home to print out the list of organizations that offer money to mid-income people to purchase houses in the city. I spent nearly two hours on the phone with people who pretty much explained that their organizations were hoaxes. City Props was the only organization that told me to come and fill out an application. As I darted out of my house and down to 114
^th
and Frederick Douglass, I had become one of those people in a rush for time.

While I panted in front of the building, I took a moment to catch my breath and a second to pray. I opened the door and stepped up to the receptionist. As I looked around the small office, I said, “I’m here to fill out an application.”

Her pupils danced as she asked, “Ah. For what?”

“I’m interested in applying for the grant to renovate vacant properties.”

She raised her eyebrows. “See, we offer a bunch of programs. So, I just needed to make sure.” She leaned toward the desk and whispered, “You don’t look like the typical fixer-upper type.”

As my forehead creased with curiosity, she added, “That’s a good thing.”

“Is it?”

“They’re usually the contractor-type with the dirty fingernails, you know.”

I nodded, but in my mind I was looking forward to getting my hands dirty. As she handed me the application, she explained, “Once you finish this, Monique will screen you.”

After I filled out literally fifty pages, Monique stepped out from her small office wearing jeans and a City Props polo shirt. Her adorable smile made me smile as she said, “Mr. Watkins?”

Why does it turn me on when a woman says my name like that? When I stood up, I extended my hand. “Monique?”

“Monique Browne.”

“Good to meet you.”

I followed her into her office. The screening basically consisted of her telling me that my application would need to go through a million people before it was approved. Did she just say the mayor? You mean to tell me that Mayor Bloomberg decides if my black, broke ass is worthy of a grant. I don’t know why I felt the need to rush this. It’s not like I had registered for any of the contracting courses that I put on my to-do list. In less than twenty-four hours, envy had shifted me from a starving actor to an entrepreneur.

While I wondered what could expedite this process, Monique batted her eyes, “Mr. Watkins?”

I turned up my charm a few notches and smiled. “Yes, Ms. Browne.”

“I will give you a call in about two weeks to schedule an interview.”

Her attraction to me was obvious because she wouldn’t look at me. I chased her roaming eyes and commanded them to pause. Before I spoke, she began to blush. “Why does it take so long?” She huffed. I said, “I’m sorry, am I getting on your nerves?”

“No, it’s just that I have to go through this with every applicant that comes in here.”

Her squeaky voice rippled through me, but I ignored it in my quest to get what I wanted. I shook my head. “I apologize. Those jerks shouldn’t stress you out like that. Patience is a virtue.”

“That needs to be this company’s motto.”

“So, be honest. What are the chances of actually getting this money?”

She curled her lips. “I’m not supposed to be telling you this, but since you won’t go away…” She paused.

I mouthed, “I’m sorry.” Simultaneously, I motioned for her to continue.

“New York is really funny. Either you’re way over the income to get these grants or you’re way under. And most people in the mid-income range really aren’t interested in purchasing fixer-uppers.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s sad. Basically all you have to do is verify that your income is between seventy-five and one hundred and ten thousand per year and you can get a house. Granted, it’s just a shell most of the time. People don’t want to deal with all the permits and contractors. Although it’s pretty much free money, renovating is a challenging process.”

She looked down at my application. “When do you plan to bring last year’s W-2s or 1099s?”

“Ah…”

“The sooner you can get everything in, the faster we can process you.” She winked. “Before the rush.”

My raised eyebrows questioned the rush. She explained, “We get more apps in June than any other time of year. I think a lot of people are looking for apartments and they run across our agency and this seems like a better idea. Usually, by the time we call for the interview, they’re no longer interested.”

“Oh, that won’t be me.”

“Anyway, we’ll need a letter of employment. Two pay stubs and last year’s taxes.”

“Does it matter that I wasn’t in the range last year?”

“Oh no, it doesn’t matter. As long as your current salary is in the range, you’ll be fine.” She winked again.

Was that her way of flirting or confirming that I had this grant guaranteed? Whatever her purpose, I stayed for an additional few minutes chatting about my chances.

My life had taken a turn for the better in less than seven days. What had I done to deserve this? My feet felt really light as I skipped to the train. Before I went uptown, I decided to call my favorite employer.

After being on hold for fifteen minutes, the same happy lady I’d parted with four hours ago answered, “Fatima Mayo.”

I kidded, “Actually, I’m looking for Fatima Barnes. Do you happen to know where she is?”

“Oh yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t know it was you.”

“I guess I’m going to have to make it clear who I am when I call.”

“That would be fine. What are you up to?”

“Just out, doing what I do.”

“I wonder if I really want to know what that is.”

“Nah, it’s nothing major. I’m doing what everyone else does.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“So, what’s your schedule like this evening?”

“I’m really backed up.”

“I thought I took care of that last night.”

“Stop. I’m at work.”

“Me too.”

She chuckled. “Rashad, you’re a trip.”

“So, what’s up for the evening?”

My prayers were answered when she said, “Well, I have some reading to do this evening. So, I’ll be home. You don’t have to come over unless you want to.”

It took me a second to decide if she was setting me up or not. So, I paused. “Ah…”

“Honestly, if you want to drop by later, you can. No pressure. Seriously.”

“Well, I have something to do until nine. Would it be okay if I came over after that?”

“Call first.”

“I certainly will. Have a good day.”

It would make sense to just explain that I had to work at Tavern on the Green, but since their service was what sealed the deal, I thought it would be better left unsaid.

As I rolled into work around four-twenty my supervisor looked at the clock. “Rashad, you’re pushing it. Every actor in New York wants your job.”

“But can they do the job as well as me? Do you think you’ll find another suave, black man like me?”

I knew she hated that I was so good at my job. My tardiness would have probably got me dismissed awhile ago otherwise. After my Fatima income rolls in, I planned to hand in my resignation anyway. So, her threat didn’t faze me.

Unfortunately for me, starting time directly affects finishing time and I ended up leaving closer to nine-thirty. As I contemplated whether I should visit Fatima or not, I realized that I wanted to see her and share all I’d learned and the good news about the house. Shit! I’m obligated to learn this stuff. She won’t be impressed. Still, I found myself in a rush to get home, in the shower, and to her house to be her willing and faithful servant.

By the time I called to say I was on my way, it was a quarter to eleven. My heart thumped before she picked up. Her voice sounded dry and sleepy. A part of me was disappointed.
Please still be awake.

“You hungry?”

I expected her to curse me out; instead she said, “Yeah. I’ve been working all evening and haven’t eaten anything.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Wait! You don’t know what I want.”

“I have an idea. I’m on my way.”

I
peeked at the time in the lower right hand of my computer screen. How did seven o’clock become eleven o’clock so fast? I had just looked at the time. If I had known it was this late, I would have told Rashad to forget it. I stormed into the kitchen to grab some crackers to hold me over until he got here. I’m going to grab my food and tell him to go home. He’s taking this as a joke. How is he going to just casually roll up like he’s on time?

As I ranted in the kitchen, the buzzer rang. I made him wait a few minutes before I opened the door. He handed me a pizza box and leaned in for a kiss. I turned my head. He gasped, “Are you mad at me?”

“No, I just know that you have time management issues that you need to work on.”

“Issues?”

I dropped the pizza on the table and put my hand on my hip. “Yes, issues.”

“If I’m not mistaken, we didn’t confirm a time. I told you that I might stop by around nine.”

“Well, do you realize that it’s eleven o’clock? You’re two hours late.”

“The deal was that I would call you when I was on my way.”

My pressure rose, as did the inflection in his voice. I huffed. “Are we arguing?”

“I’m not arguing, just pleading my case.”

“Remember, you don’t have a case.”

He swallowed his pride and nodded. “You’re absolutely right. I’m wrong.” He took a deep breath. “Can we start over? I’m just happy to see you tonight.”

I rolled my eyes and walked into the kitchen to grab paper plates. He followed and stood behind me as I reached up into the cabinet. His arms surrounded my waist and he leaned his head on my shoulder. “I missed you today.”

When will I get over wondering if he’s lying? Why do I even want it to be the truth? He kissed my neck and the nerves in my spine gravitated to him. I feared the connection between us.

He nibbled on my ear. “Don’t be mad at me. I misspoke. I apologize.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I walked back into the dining room. He stood there and covered his face. I looked at him. “Are you eating, too?”

He slouched toward me. I put a slice on my plate and one on his. By the time I poured soda into the cups, his plate was clean and he reached for another slice. I frowned. “Did you inhale that slice?”

“I’m hungry.”

Within seconds, the next slice was gone. He obviously hadn’t taken anyone out to dinner. As it dawned on me why I was so angry, I blushed. When he caught me, he raked my forearm.

“Was the Teem mad at me?”

“Whatever.”

“You know I didn’t mean it.” He puckered his lips and blew a kiss. “Sorry.”

“Don’t let it happen again.”

“I won’t. I don’t like to see you go off like that.”

“And I don’t like to do it either.”

I laughed because I meant it, but I think he laughed because he thought I wanted to act like that. I just wanted him to understand that timing is everything.

After a meeting, I walked into the office to a huge basket of spa treats. I anxiously opened the note:
Relax. I’m here to help. I hope our today can be better than yesterday.—Rash

Did someone drop this man from heaven? I fanned myself with the card as I dialed his number. I left a message on his voicemail and he returned my call within minutes.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Barnes.”

“How are you, Mr. Watkins?”

“I’m good now that I hear your smile.”

“What if I said I wasn’t smiling?”

“Then I would have to believe that you’re lying to me.”

“You’re a clown.”

“But I perform only for you.”

I giggled. “You make me laugh.”

“That’s good, right?”

“I guess. Well, I’m calling to thank you for my lovely gift.”

I unpacked my basket while we chatted. The cucumber melon scrub and lotion fit into the décor of my pastel office. I propped the products onto my trinket bookcase and positioned them just right. Rashad asked if he could take me out. I looked at the pile of work that I was trying to wrestle with on my desk and declined. His voice weakened, “Okay, I guess I’ll just sit home and think about you.”

“You’re just trying to flatter me.”

“I hope that I
am
flattering you.”

“Okay. What are you trying to do?”

“I want to take you to a pool hall.”

“Did I say I like pool? I can’t play pool. What made you choose that?”

He sighed. “I think it’s something you might enjoy.”

“But I can’t play.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“It’ll take too much time.”

“You just have to take your time. It’s about patience.”

“And I don’t have any.”

“But I do and you’re with me, so we’ll figure it out, right?”

J
ust before Fatima pulled up in a taxi, I checked my watch. She was a half hour late. I started to feel like I’d been stood-up as my palms began to sweat. When the car door opened, the noise on the street silenced. She stepped one leg out and reached back for her change. Her smile illuminated and invoked a glow around her. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Still, there was a radiance around her that perplexed me. She stood in front of me with her head tilted in confusion.

Finally, I leaned in for a kiss. “How are you this evening, Ms. Fatima?”

Her noise wrinkled. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, perfectly fine.”

I opened the door to the Slate Bar, Restaurant & Billiards and we stood in front of the hostess. I said, “We’d like a table.”

“Will it just be the two of you?”

I nodded and the hostess pulled out our pool equipment. “Here you go. You’re downstairs at table eleven.”

While we headed downstairs, Fatima grabbed my arm and asked, “Did you hear me say thank you?”

“No, but you’re welcome.”

“What did I do to deserve my surprise today?”

“Just being you.”

I chuckled to myself. The anxiety attack that she had last night when she thought I was late is what sparked this date.

After I put the rack on the table, I grabbed Fatima’s bag and set it on a chair. Just as I was about to explain a few techniques to Fatima, the waitress came over.

“Hey, guys, can I get you something?”

Fatima smiled. “Sure, you can get me a menu.”

I frowned. “Just you.”

“Well, you didn’t act like you were hungry.”

“How is a hungry person supposed to act?”

The waitress laughed. “I’ll bring two menus. Would you like anything to drink?”

Fatima’s mouth parted and I interrupted, “Merlot for her and a shot of Cuervo for me.”

When she walked away, Fatima said, “What if I didn’t want Merlot?”

I kissed her cheek and didn’t answer her question. Her eyes slanted as I retreated. I stood the pool stick up in front of her. “Here, Teem. What do you know about pool?”

“Absolutely nothing, so I don’t know why we’re here.”

I reminded her of a footnote in the script: “Not the typical date. Ones that make you think.”

“Ah, yeah, and where does pool fall in?”

I lifted the rack from around the balls and she leaned impatiently on the other end of the table. “You’ll see in just a second.”

Her lips curled. “If you say so.”

The waitress returned with our drinks and placed them on a nearby table. Fatima walked over and grabbed her glass as I continued with my instruction.

“The person that breaks, gets the first chance to determine which balls will be his.”

“Sorry, Rashad, I don’t want any balls.”

My chin dropped and I shook my head. “Okay, either the high or the low.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The high numbers are striped, low are solid.”

She smirked. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and the purpose is to finally hit the eight ball.”

“But you have to get all of your balls in first.”

“Okay, I got it. Can you get the waitress’s attention?”

It wasn’t until the waitress stood in front of us did she realize I hadn’t looked at the menu. Just as she was about to part her mouth to order, her eyes shifted to me. “Do you know what you want?”

My hands folded on the top of my pool stick. “Actually, I never looked at the menu.”

Her eyes lowered like she felt bad. “Do you want me to just order for you?”

“You may as well now since you’ve rushed the young lady over here.”

Fatima huffed. “They have regular appetizers. Just tell me what you want.”

“No, go ahead and order.”

The waitress became amused with our little squabble. After Fatima ordered a grilled chicken club for me, a vegetable pizza for herself, and fried calamari for an appetizer, the waitress collected our menus. “You guys are so cute. How long have you been together?”

We both looked like she had shoved a pool stick up our behinds. Our eyes questioned what we should say. It was our first time on the spot. Fatima cleared her throat and said, “Nine months.”

“You guys act like an old married couple.”

She skedaddled away and left us with the discomfort of wondering what kind of vibes we were sending off. Fatima groaned, “That was weird.”

“Who are you telling? Okay, now back to the game.”

“Our cover was almost blown and you’re back to the game.”

I laughed. “So, do you want to retape that scene or can we just move to the next one?”

She sucked her teeth. “All right, go ahead and break the balls or whatever you do.”

I leaned over the table and hit the balls. Several of the solid and striped balls dropped into the holes. She rolled her eyes. “See, now you’re going to show off.”

“Actually, I’m not. It’s your turn and you get to pick which ones you’re shooting for since I knocked both in.”

“I want the solid ones.”

I nodded. “Okay, do you know how to shoot?”

She bopped around the table with her lips curled. “Um-huh.”

Her dress pants clung to her hips and her blouse gathered around her breasts as she overdramatized leaning over the table. She shoved the pool stick and barely even hit the white ball, which rolled approximately an inch. I grinned. “C’mon, let me show you.”

“Why didn’t it move? I thought I was supposed to hit it hard.”

“It’s about precision, not aggression. You have to concentrate on the target.”

I wrapped my arms around her arms and we held the pool stick together. As I positioned her limbs, I said, “Angle yourself like this.”

I leaned over her shoulders and the scent of her perfume distracted me so I could not remember where I was in my instructions. “Ah.”

“So, do I just push it like this?”

Her eyes studied my profile as I continued the lesson. “Yeah, push it just like that. You ready to try?”

She tried and tried again. After almost ten tries, she finally hit the ball and the pride in her expression was priceless. She kissed me and cheered herself on, “Go Tima, it’s your birthday.”

The way little things excited her, everyday was her birthday. I nodded. “It certainly is…”

The waitress returned with our appetizer, but Fatima continued practicing. I admired the competitor in her. I grabbed the calamari and fed it to her as she became more confident in her shots.

When the stick would skid passed the ball or knock them off the table, I would repeat: “You’ve got to be patient. Concentrate and you’ll hit your target.”

She waved her hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got it. I got it.”

When our food came, she sat down beside me and whispered in my ear, “I think I like pool.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it’s fun and it makes me think.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right. You did a good job.”

We played a few more rounds before fatigue got the best of both of us.