Basketball Jones (9 page)

Later that evening I was in my office looking over sketches for some designs I wanted to show the people at Brad Pitt’s organization, when my phone rang. It was Jade. She was crying and asked me if I could meet her at the bar at the Ritz-Carlton, which was one of the hotels that was running full tilt. I’d been to the hotel a couple of times since it was only about three blocks from my house.

When I walked into the bar, I saw Jade nursing a glass of white wine.

“Jade, is everything okay?” I asked.

“Thanks for coming.”

“No problem. Are you okay?”

She gave me a peck on the cheek and said, “I’m okay, AJ. I just needed someone to talk to. I had a date with this guy who
stood me up. I guess dudes down here are just like they are in Los Angeles. Plus my landlord is on me for my rent, and not without letting me know that if I give him a little pussy we could work things out.”

“Are you serious?” I hoped Jade didn’t call me down to borrow some money. I didn’t know her well enough to be writing checks for her rent.

“Should I report his ass or just look for another place to stay?”

“You need some money for a deposit if you move,” I said. The bartender came over to us and asked me if I wanted something to drink. I ordered a glass of merlot.

Jade continued to tell me how tough it was being single and low on money and how something was going to have to give. She looked so vulnerable at that moment that she reminded me a little of my sister, Bella, only grown up. I told her everything was going to be all right, but wasn’t really sure that it would. After all, I hardly knew Jade.

When the bartender brought back my glass of wine my phone buzzed, telling me I had a text. I looked at it and realized it was from Dray. “Who is that girl with you?” I looked up and noticed the restaurant connected to the bar. Dray was facing me with a frown. There was Judi sitting with her back to me, and I wondered if she knew her husband was texting me. I texted him back and told him Jade was just a friend. He texted back, “Make sure you’re telling the truth. Also cut your little date short. We just finished our salads and I don’t want to chance us coming face to face with you.”

I texted back a simple “K” and suggested to Jade that we go around the corner for dessert. I was relieved when she quickly agreed.

By noon Maurice had left three messages, which had me worried. Normally he wasn’t the type to chase after anyone. You either got in touch with him or he kept a cool distance until you did. This was something about Mo’s personality that I never completely understood. It was as if he kept score, almost waiting for your misstep, which he inevitably would bring up later and throw in your face during the heat of an argument, long after you’d forgotten about the so-called misstep—if you were even aware of it in the first place! I endured the highs and lows of this often labor-intensive friendship simply because after all these years I had an inexplicable fondness for him. Maurice ran hot and cold like a faucet but beneath all the bluster was a basically good guy who suffered from low self-regard. If I had ever had the courage to broach this delicate subject, I’d have told him that his expectations for himself were set so high that no one could live up to them. Instead I listened patiently over and over, while he ranted about one perceived slight or another, the daily injustices that he alone faced, and sooner or later, a quick rundown
of my own personal failings as a friend. Fortunately, I understood Maurice well enough to know not to take his jabs too personally—just as important, I knew also how to smooth the situation over before it got out of hand. However, there were times when I asked myself whether our friendship was worth all the extra effort. Weren’t buddies supposed to grant one another the space to screw up now and then? Lord knows I cut him massive slack in that department. I guess we take our friends for who they are, all the messes along with the blessings. Maurice talked a good I-don’t-care game, but I knew better. There was something sensitive and hopelessly romantic about Maurice.

I remember one miserable rainy evening during the last days of autumn when I got a call from Maurice. From his question “Do you think black gay men will ever learn to treat each other right?” I knew something was wrong. I asked him to repeat his question to make sure I had heard him correctly and he broke down in tears that wouldn’t stop. When I showed up at his apartment a short while later, he was still crying.

During the Memorial Day Black Gay Pride festivities in Washington, D.C., Maurice had met Cullen J. Hartwell, one of D.C.’s resident pretty boys, at the big closing party. He was tall and broad shouldered, and a dangerously handsome man with hazel eyes. Cullen was the kind of guy who when he walked into a room—any room—people took notice. It didn’t matter if they were gay, straight, or suddenly confused. Maurice had charmed Cullen with his quick wit, but I sensed from the beginning that Maurice thought he was stepping out of his league by pursuing Cullen. He went to D.C. every chance he got, taking rooms in the best hotels since Cullen told him he still lived with his parents and couldn’t have overnight visits. Sometimes when I was
supposed to pick him up at the airport I would get a call from him telling me he’d decided to stay another night. When I asked Mo how Cullen was in bed, he told me they were waiting until they made a commitment before engaging in sex. Without asking I knew this was Cullen’s decision and not Maurice’s. He always told me that he had to check out the sex before he would allow himself to become emotionally involved with any man.

In late August, Cullen surprised Maurice by showing up at his town house, suitcases in tow, and confessing his love for my friend. I had never seen Maurice happier and for the first month I believed Cullen was in love with Maurice. I kept on believing that until one evening when I was invited to the house for a cookout. Maurice was tending to the grill when Cullen made a pass at me. Something I never shared with Mo.

So I wasn’t totally surprised when I found Maurice sitting in a dark house at his dining room table, candles flickering, drink in hand, distraught because after spending all day preparing a two-month anniversary dinner Maurice discovered that all Cullen’s things were gone. He had been told by another friend that Cullen had moved in with a local television anchorman who was a little better-looking than Maurice and had a fatter checkbook. Making matters worse, it was Maurice who had boasted to the television personality how great Cullen was in bed and how blessed he was.

Cullen didn’t leave a loving note or make a phone call about his departure but texted Maurice a few minutes after he discovered he suddenly had more closet space. And though it has been over five years since the incident, I saw something change in Maurice that night, even though he called me the next day with his voice full of laughter, acting as though Cullen Hartwell never existed.

I’d been tied up the better part of the morning in a meeting with Brad Pitt’s Make It Right Foundation, presenting some design ideas. The board was excited about my proposals and told me they would get back to me after Brad and his donors had a chance to look them over. Maurice, of course, had no idea where I was and needless to say did not like to be kept waiting. Whatever he had to tell me was urgent enough for him to call three times in two hours, so I phoned him the minute my meeting ended.

He picked up on the second ring. “Where have you been?”

From his jubilant tone, I knew right away that his urgent news had to be good.

“I was visiting this agency I’m thinking about doing some volunteer work for,” I replied, more defensively than I’d intended. “I just picked up all your messages at once and was afraid something bad had happened. What’s up? Is everything okay?”

The smile in his voice was audible. “Oh, old friend of mine, things couldn’t be better. I have some delicious news. Are you sitting down?”

“No, the meeting just ended, and I’m still in their office. Hang on while I step outside.”

I waved a quick goodbye to the executive director, as she stood to the rear of the hallway speaking with a colleague who was getting her signature. With Maurice on hold, I passed behind the receptionist seated at his orderly desk in the small but immaculate lobby, where half a dozen would-be tenants waited for appointments, and exited the glass door.

I stopped at the curb, where I laid my portfolio over the top of a public mailbox and removed my sport coat. “Hey, Mo, I’m back,” I said, beginning to roll up my sleeves. “So what’s the big
news that’s so important you couldn’t wait another second to tell me?”

“Guess.”

“Look, with you, I never know. I’ll end up standing out here all day in the heat guessing unless you tell me.”

He allowed for a dramatic pause, one in which I was no doubt expected to die from curiosity. “Well, since you can’t bear the suspense, here goes: I’m going to throw the biggest motherfucking Labor Day party this town has ever seen. All the stops will be pulled out, opulence out the ass, boys for days. In short, I will be the new hostess with the moistest. Atlanta’s new grande dame.”

“How are you going to do that? Labor Day is less than a week away.”

“I know that, boo. I’m talking about next year. A bitch needs time to plan.”

So this was the news that couldn’t wait. I might have guessed it would be something out of left field. “What happened to Jackson Treat?” I asked, if only to sound invested in his excitement. “He’s reigned over the big Labor Day party for years, and I somehow don’t see him allowing you to snatch his crown.”

I could picture the nasty grin that had to have materialized on his face at the mention of Jackson Treat. Jackson was a tall, ruggedly handsome philanthropist who was widely respected for his work against AIDS in the African American community. That he was also a principal heir to the largest black tabloid in America only set ol’ Mo’s teeth further on edge. His green-with-envy rivalry with Jackson, who was too much the gentleman to be pulled into a catfight with the likes of Maurice, was a one-sided battle. Although I wasn’t in the mood to listen to more dirty gossip, the clownish spectacle Maurice unwittingly
made of himself always had enormous entertainment value. This new gambit promised to top everything, and for once I was curious to learn to what new lengths Mo planned to go to unseat his imaginary rival.

In a triumphant voice, he answered, “The wicked witch of Atlanta is about to be dethroned by a much younger, more regal, and far more deserving newcomer than she. Mark my words: that weekend will serve as my official coronation as the new social butterfly of black gay Atlanta.” Then he added, none too friendly and with a magisterial sweep of his hand, if I know Mo—”And Mr. Jackson Treat will be banished to wherever aging, balding, thick-around-the-middle black homosexuals with ugly boyfriends young enough to be their children go.” At the mention of Jackson’s downfall, his voice brightened again. “Now isn’t that the best news you’ve heard in ages?”

Being Maurice’s best friend, I thought this would be a good point to step in and try to break the spell he had fallen under. But how do you tell someone as crazy as him that he’s lost his mind once and for all in words he might actually hear? The theatrical predictions of his swift ascension—and Jackson’s equally swift demise—were comical to say the least. Although I’d attended just a few Labor Day parties over the years, I was well aware that for black gay men and lesbians, that weekend in Atlanta was a bigger holiday than Christmas. For as far back as anyone could remember, the festivities were kicked off Friday night with Jackson’s black-tie soiree. His party was followed on Sunday afternoon by the smaller but no less exclusive Lavender Pool Party, hosted by Austin Smith on the estate of his Buck-head home. I simply did not see either man making room for— much less being trumped by—the “new social butterfly of black gay Atlanta.” Just wasn’t gonna happen, not on their watch.

For starters, Austin too was local black gay royalty. He was a rich entrepreneur who had been featured in the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Black Enterprise,
and
Ebony,
when they’d done an issue on black millionaire bachelors. The story in
Ebony
had been the source of endless conversation at cocktail parties since Austin was sweeter than a pair of Hostess Twinkies and didn’t care who knew about it. Naturally Maurice loathed him for his accomplishments, in fact taking each of Austin’s newly publicized feats as a personal affront. That resentment was compounded every year when Austin failed to invite the very obviously social-climbing Mo to his very obviously nouveau-riche party.