Any Way the Wind Blows (2 page)

I’ve been so busy recording my CD that I’ve had very little time to concentrate on my movie career, but that will come soon enough. I do know that Hollywood is a lot like New York. A few divas (Angela, Nia, Lela, Ms. Jada and Vanessa L.) get all the work while the rest just pray the unemployment checks come on time.

I’m an actress and a damn good one. And if my word isn’t enough, just ask anyone who was at my wedding. Even though Basil had drop-kicked me unmercilessly that morning, I’m a diva and the show must go on. So after all the guests
arrived, I stood at the head of the table, poised like I was one of the last two beauties standing in the Miss America pageant, confident that my name would be called after they announced the first runner-up. I told the assembled guests and press that I had had a change of heart and had decided
not
to marry John Basil Henderson. Damn … if Julia Roberts could leave Kiefer Sutherland on their wedding day, then why couldn’t I leave Basil? At least I showed up. I shared with a few of my guests the exciting news that I had been offered the lead role in a movie being filmed in Toronto based on the life of Lena Horne. I reported that I had beat out Vanessa L. Williams, Halle Berry and Sanaa Lathan. I asked them to keep my news on the QT since the producers hadn’t told the other ladies I got the part. In front of the press, I acknowledged, softly, that Basil was heartbroken and had left the hotel in tears. I even bit my lips as my own tears appeared on cue. I encouraged them to keep Basil in their thoughts and wish me much success. And then I greeted my guests, each one of them, accepting their hugs and kisses for over an hour.

So after a year I think I’m ready to return to the scene of my greatest acting triumph ever. In conjunction with my debut CD, the record company has decided to film my first video in New York City as well and has set up media interviews with BET, VH-1 and MTV. We’re releasing a house version of the first single a couple weeks before the single is dropped. The A&R manager thought it might make sense to do a couple of performances at some gay clubs in New York and Washington, D.C. He told me if the “kids,” as he called them, loved the song, then it would be
Billboard
number one here I come.

I am a little nervous about returning to New York. But I knew I couldn’t stay away forever. I can’t wait to visit with Windsor, eat some of her cooking and stroll through Shubert Alley. I plan to stop at the stage door of the theater where I first heard the sounds of thunderous standing ovations.

There are a few places I want to shop and some scores I need to settle. Damn … now I’m sounding like my mother, the been-done, broke-down diva Ava Parker Middlebrooks. There was a time when I would have said that with great pride. But every time I breathe the air and look at the sun, I shed layers of Ava. I know that one day very soon, I will finally be the marvelous, amazing and incomparable Yancey I was placed on earth to be. And trust me,
everyone
will know my name—coast to coast. The real reign of Yancey B is just beginning. To update a line from one of my favorite movies,
All About Eve
, Strap on your seat belts. And don’t say you weren’t warned. …

I
f anyone ever tells you revenge ain’t sweet, don’t believe him. Just ask me, Bartholomew Jerome Dunbar, a.k.a. Bart. How else can you explain that I’m looking in the mirror and feeling sweeter than a Krispy Kreme double-glazed donut?

It’s been about a month since I returned from Atlanta, where I spent the weekend in the minimansion that my ex-lover, Brandon, shares with his wife and two children. It had been over seven years since I had seen Brandon Roberts, the first real love of my life. We met during our freshman year at Morris Brown College in Atlanta, while both grabbing the last biology book at the campus bookstore. We shared three glorious years together, and I was expecting to spend the rest of my life with him.

So forgive me for being a little surprised when Brandon announced one day in our apartment that he was marrying some lady from Spelman who he had been secretly dating for two years. No matter how much I pleaded, cried, pleaded and cried, Brandon told me his decision was final. In an instant I had become invisible. I was devastated. When
my GPA hit 1.3, I got kicked out of school, so I moved to New York. Brandon and I had always planned to move there once we’d completed our education.

Just when I was finally getting him out of my system, some seven years later, he calls and tells me he still loves me and needs to see me. He’d recently seen me in a magazine layout (I’m a model/waiter/actor), and Brandon had gone to great lengths to track me down, calling over ten model agencies in New York City. When he finally reached my agency he called every other day. Eventually, I relented and called Brandon back at his office. The first thing out of his mouth was “Bart, you look so tight, I’ve been having wet dreams about you for weeks.”

Brandon’s wife and kids were in Paris so I hopped a plane to Atlanta, where for three days we ate, slept and fucked (not “made love”) like we used to, in the bed he shared with his wife. On the day I left, I asked for his home phone number and he told me he didn’t think that was such a good idea and that he would get a voice-mail box so I could leave him private messages. What kinda guy did he think I was? Obviously not a very smart one.

I was so angry I didn’t know what to do. I had to show Brandon he couldn’t treat me like crap. I was fed up with brothas touting that bogus, down-low bullshit. I wanted to scream from the bottom of my vocal cords, “Pick a team and play!”

While Brandon was in the shower, I dialed my home number from his phone. I was planning to harass him with phone calls and hang-ups, late at night, once the wife and kids returned. I had learned from our conversations over the weekend that his wife was a stay-at-home mom, and that he
spent long hours at his office. Before I went home, I couldn’t resist leaving Brandon and the Missus a little gift.

When I got back to my Harlem apartment, Brandon’s number was on my caller I.D. I couldn’t believe he wasn’t smart enough to have a restricted phone number. I guess having a B.S., an M.B.A. and a law degree didn’t give Brandon a whole lot of common sense.

I dialed the number, and sure enough wifey answered the phone.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Fine. Whom am I speaking with?”

“You don’t know me, but I know you,” I said.

“How may I help you?” she asked.

“Oh, you can’t help me, but maybe I can help
you.”
I wanted to mess with her a little more, but she lost patience and demanded to know who I was.

“Are you in the bedroom?” I asked.

“Listen, if this is some kinda sick sex call, then I’m warning you, my husband is an important man in Atlanta and we will get you.”

“I know who your husband is,” I said. “Are you in the bedroom?” I repeated.

“Yes,” she said. If I were her, I would have hung up, but I guess she liked my voice.

“I was in your bedroom recently, and since you weren’t there, I decided to leave you a little gift.”

She didn’t respond, so I continued.

“Why don’t you look underneath your mattress?” I suggested. There was silence for a few moments and then I heard an audible gasp.

“Did you find the present I left you?”

“Who are you?”

“Just answer my question. Did you find my black Lycra Jockey boxers I left for you and Brandon? He really seemed to like them. I know Brandon only wears Calvin Klein briefs. You buy them by the box. Right?”

“Who are you and what were you doing in my bedroom?”

“Are you holding them?” Oh Bart, you are a bad, bad boy.

“Stop it,” she yelled. “Who are you and why are you doing this?”

“Ask your husband, and ask him to tell you how he was screaming my name so loud I’m surprised you didn’t hear me all the way in Paris.”

“What are you saying?” she asked. She had begun to cry, but I didn’t give a flying fuck. I doubt she would’ve cared that for years I’d cried myself to sleep over losing Brandon to her.

“Ask your husband to tell you about Bartholomew Jerome Dunbar,” I said. And then I hung up, sweetly satisfied.

When I told my best friend, Wylie, what I had done, he called me everything but a child of God. “You’ve most likely destroyed a family. Ain’t you got no shame?”

When I defended myself by telling Wylie how Brandon and his wife had destroyed my life, first with their affair and then with their marriage, Wylie responded, “That was years ago. Grow up and get over it!”

Get over it? Get over this: At twenty-one, I believed in love lasting forever. At twenty-eight, I know nothing lasts forever … except maybe revenge.

H
ave you ever heard news so shocking that you feel like someone has pulled the rug out from under you, then picked up the table and pimp-slapped you upside your head? Two months ago that shit happened to me, and I’m still trying to recover.

I was rolling out of bed with my special lady friend, Rosa Matthews, after some pulse-popping sex. She had that special afterglow I’ve been known to lay on the ladies, and a few men for that matter.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Rosa said. Despite the sleep in her eyes, Rosa was beautiful. Her long black hair was pulled back and she was wearing one of my T-shirts. I looked up at her as I launched into my preshower round of 200 sit-ups. (I do them in the nude, of course, to make sure my body stays tight.) I am proud of the fact that despite being thirtysomething, I don’t have an ounce of fat on my 6′2″, 215-pound body.

“What? You got another weeklong trip?” I asked. Rosa is an international flight attendant for United.

“Basil, I’m pregnant,” she said calmly.

“You’re what?” I stopped mid-crunch.

“I’m pregnant,” Rosa repeated.

At one point in my life those words would have made me angry and fearful, but recently I’ve harbored the strong desire to have kids, and Rosa would make a great mother. I grabbed Rosa and pulled her toward me and kissed her passionately, but she pushed me off and pulled away.

“How many months are you?” I asked.

“Three.”

“And you’re just telling me?”

“I wanted to make sure everything was all right. I went to the doctor yesterday and actually heard the baby’s heartbeat.”

“You did! I want to hear it,” I said as I moved my ear down toward Rosa’s stomach, but she brushed my head away.

“What’s the matter?” I quizzed.

Rosa was silent, and tears started to roll down her face.

“Baby, what’s the matter? Everything will be fine. You know how much I want children. Is there something wrong with the baby?” Rosa didn’t say anything, and while I was trying to figure out why she was crying, she said, “Basil, it’s not your baby.” Her voice was so soft, a whisper, and I wanted to make sure I had heard her correctly.

“What did you say?”

“It’s not your baby.”

This time I heard her loud and clear.

“What do you mean it’s not my baby?” I said, suddenly feeling rising anger. Since the first time we met, almost a year ago, Rosa and I had been talking about how much we
both loved and wanted children. It was one of the reasons I was attracted to her.

How could she give me this kind of news now? A few months earlier my sister Campbell’s husband was promoted and the family relocated to Pittsburgh. I’d told Rosa on numerous occasions how much I missed my nephew Cade, and she had even offered to give me flight passes so I could visit him on a regular basis.

“Basil, I’m sorry. But I thought we’d agreed we weren’t ready to be exclusive, especially with both of our schedules,” Rosa said, never raising her eyes. Good, at least she was feeling guilty. Yeah, we’d agreed not to tie each other down. I loved the fact that Rosa was independent. I didn’t need a woman who wanted to be my shadow. I’d gotten used to getting calls from her telling me she was on her way to Paris to shop on her days off. Sure, I was still dibbling and dabbling with some of my female freaks I kept on the side, but I wasn’t having unprotected sex with them.

Rosa and I had actually talked about having a child together, although neither one of us wanted to be married. We’d discussed hiring a nanny and getting our child into the best schools in New York, and we even kicked around names. Rosa was such a cool lady, I was convinced coparenting would have worked.

Lately, though, my business was growing by leaps and bounds, and I found myself spending more and more time on the road and longer evenings in the office when I was in New York. My company, XJI (Ex-Jocks Incorporated), had opened two more satellite offices and hired additional staff. We were battling the big sports agencies player for player.
It’d been months since we (my partners, Brison, Nico and I) had lost a player we wanted to one of the large agencies.

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were out there having unprotected sex with some dude you met on a layover.” There was a part of me that wanted to grab her and shake her and make her tell me what all our baby-planning conversations had been about. How could she be certain the child wasn’t mine? I had used condoms when we had sex, most times. But there were several shower sessions where we had only soap and water for protection. Had Rosa been diddling with me the whole time? Was she playin’ me?

“Basil, look, I still want to see you. We can work this out,” Rosa pleaded.

“You want to see me? Well, sweetheart, you better take a good long look right now, because this is the last time you’re going to see me and this jimmie,” I said as I headed to the bathroom. I knew Rosa was smart enough not to still be sitting on my bed when I returned.

When I walked back into my bedroom after a long shower, I realized I was right about Rosa. Not only was she gone, but so were her clothes and personal items she kept at my place.

Good. I’m cool with that. I’m ripe for another ride on the rough-and-ready freeway of love. Oh, my bad. I mean, that good old freeway of lust. I’m going back to my old motto: I’m sexing
everybody
, and the good ones twice.

I
overheard two women whisper, “That’s Yancey B,” as I walked into the conference room at Motown Records’ Los Angeles office and took my seat at the head of the table. Some little skinny assistant with bad skin, named Lucy or something, looked at me and said, “That’s Mr. Hudson’s chair.”