Two Thin Dimes (19 page)

T
he drive to the record store had been a short one. Ten minutes in average traffic, fifteen in heavy. Today, the traffic had been surprisingly light.

The record store was crowded, but not more so than any of the other establishments, with it being so close to Christmas. Tameer's determination had waned significantly since Dawshanique's revelation, and he now found himself plodding slowly through the aisles of the store.

He wanted to know, but then again, he didn't. Maybe it was a mistake, he told himself. Maybe it was a coincidence. Her name was Jamaica, he knew, while the girl's name on the CD case was Tiera. A look at some more CDs would provide a world of insight. He hoped that this Tiera person, whoever she was, had more than one CD. To see her photo from different angles, maybe wearing different garments, would surely allow him to rid himself of this silly suspension. Tameer wanted to put Dawshanique's silly accusations to rest and go home. That was what he would do, he told himself. And then he could tell Jamaica about the whole silly thing, and they could laugh about it for weeks. Then, he would call and try to get Dawshanique some help, he thought. Surely, he owed her that much.

Tameer arrived at the section which contained the T's. He began to feel his stomach perform the dance of the butterflies. In the instance, the butterflies were doing the Lambada.

The first CD belonged to Tamara, the second Taral, the third Temia. The fourth and largest group of CDs belonged to a songstress named Tiera.

There were five CDs in this group, and he pulled the first. Examining the picture on the cover of the CD caused him pain. He knew it was Jamaica.

The hair, the smile, the pear-shaped face, along with the haughtiness in her pose, all screamed Jamaica. The second and third CDs that he examined, only cemented his opinion. There was no need to examine the fourth or fifth. He brought them all, anyway.

“Will that be all, sir?” asked the young woman behind the register.

He gave her a solemn nod.

She pointed toward a large, life-sized, cardboard cutout poster which stood near the exit.

“You know we have our Tiera videos on sale,” she told him. “They're next to the big poster.”

Tameer turned and looked. It was Jamaica smiling, or this Tiera person, or whoever the hell she was. She was smiling…no, laughing at him. The poster was laughing at him. Tameer could only turn and smile at the salesgirl. He did it to keep his tears from falling.

“Thank you,” he told her when she finished ringing up the merchandise. He turned, and walked straight to the poster. It was her.

He gazed at it, not knowing what to say, what to think, or what to feel. The main thing on his mind, was why? Why did she choose him, why did she have to use him, he thought.

Tameer lifted several of the DVDs containing Jamaica's numerous music video hits, and returned to the cash register. His purchasing of the videos concluded his transactions for the day. His journey past the poster upon exiting the store brought tears to his eyes. He could no longer hold them inside. Why did she have to play games with him, he wondered. Why him? He was hurt, he felt betrayed, revealed. He had opened himself up, laughed, and shared his dreams to a lie. It was all a lie. He shook his head slowly, and the tears fell.

“China, I keep calling, but no one will answer,” Jamaica said to her friend as she hung up the telephone. “I know that it was him that answered the phone and hung up when I said, ‘hi.'”

Jamaica turned and met her friend's eyes. “Do you think that bitch is over there?”

LaChina, who was seated at the cheap motel desk that had been provided for them, crossed her legs and shook her head.

“Jai, I don't think so. Tameer's not trifling like that.”
At least I hope not
, she didn't say aloud.

Jamaica turned, and sat on the bed next to her sister. “I know, but why won't he answer the phone, or his damn text messages!”

“Jai, I've never seen you like this over a guy before,” said Kenya, who leaned over and hugged her sister. “What's gotten into you?”

Kenya peered across the room to where LaChina was seated. LaChina stuck out her tongue and wiggled it around, to answer Kenya's question. Jamaica caught her.

“You're so crass!” Jamaica shouted, lobbing a pillow at her friend.

LaChina and Kenya laughed heartily.

“Jai, he's probably on the road, and can't pull over to call you back,” Kenya told her.

“Yeah,” LaChina agreed. “Hell, he's probably on his way over here.”

“You think so?” Jamaica asked. “I mean…he usually would have called by now. I haven't heard from him since the day before yesterday.”

Jamaica exhaled loudly and stood. “Something's wrong, I'm going over.” Jamaica strode over to the desk, where she searched for her car keys. “China, have you seen my keys?”

“Jai, sit down,” LaChina told her. “I'm sure he'll call.”

Jamaica folded her arms. “China, where are my keys?”

“Jai, I understand you like the boy, but chasing him around…”

LaChina did not get to finish her sentence, as Jamaica extended her finger to LaChina's lips shushing her, and turned to her sister.

“Let me use the Benz,” Jamaica asked.

“Jai, China is right,” Kenya told her. “Let him call you.”

“Are you going to let me use the car, or do I have to call for a taxi?”

Kenya exhaled, shook her head, and went inside of her purse. She tossed Jamaica her car keys.

“Thank you,” Jamaica answered, snatching the keys out of the air. She turned, and headed for the door.

Upon opening it, Jamaica was surprised to find someone standing in the doorway. It was her mother, Beverly Bouchaird Rochelle. Jamaica screamed, causing LaChina and Kenya to look toward the door, and upon seeing Beverly, they too screamed.

Tameer hung up the telephone. The local radio station's regular DJ was off today, but the fill-in told him that there had been no new car giveaway in the last month. In fact, that radio station had never given a car away, he told Tameer. And in case Tameer happened to locate a radio station with that kind of budget, the DJ asked that he give a call, so he could quickly submit his resume. In other words, the contest had been a fake.

The first music video was uneventful. The second, however, showcased Jamaica dressed in an elegant, long, white, form-fitting, evening gown. Her neck glittered from an exquisite layered piece from Harry Winston, and her sparkling earrings which hung elegantly from her mocha ears, were from the same. Her high-split, Dior evening gown, sparkled like her jewelry, as the lighting illuminated the thousands of platinum-colored sequences which were sewn into it. Jamaica was stunning.

The crowd cheered wildly for her in this video, and it made him feel even more stupid. He must have been the only one in the entire world, who didn't know who she was. But the one thing that he did know, he recognized the song which she sang for the crowd on this video. It was the song she sung to him, while she caressed his head as it laid inside of her lap, in front of his mother's home in Houston. Tameer sat silently and listened to the words again. It took only two choruses, before his tears began to fall.

Beverly pointed her finger at Jamaica. “I don't want to hear it, the conversation is closed!” she declared forcefully.

Jamaica exhaled loudly and jumped onto the massive king-sized bed. “You're treating me like a child!” she shouted at her mother.

Beverly slowly walked across the plush, cut pile carpeting of the grand suite to the bar, where she began fixing herself a drink. The suite was on the top floor of the five-star LaCantera luxury resort hotel. It was a two-thousand-dollar-a-night suite.

“Jamaica, I must treat you like a child, because you continue to act like one!” Beverly told her. She lifted the crystal glass of twelve-year-old Scotch to her lips and sipped.

“Never have I been able to trust you. Never!” Beverly sipped from her glass again, and then continued. “I allowed you to leave New York alone, to do a quick one-day promotional, and then depart for a relaxing Caribbean vacation.”

Beverly turned and walked quickly to her large, lime-colored Hermes Kelly bag, where she rumbled inside, and then pulled out a hand full of credit card bills and bank withdrawal slips.

“Instead, I received these!” She turned and waved the bills and bank slips at Jamaica. “Ten thousand-dollar cash withdrawal, twenty thousand-dollar cash withdrawal, thirty thousand dollars to Toys-R-Us, seven thousand dollars to The Tree Shop, fifteen thousand dollars to Albertson's grocery store, thirty thousand dollars to Kroger grocery store, forty-eight thousand, nine hundred and fifteen dollars, and thirty-three cents, to Northside Ford, and two thousand, seventeen dollars to the Athletes Foot, and so on, and so forth!”

Beverly wheeled toward her daughter. “Where's the car, Jamaica? Where's the food? Where are the clothes? Where are the toys?”

“I gave the food away to people who needed it,” Jamaica answered softly. “And the toys and Christmas trees were for the kids.”

“What kids?” Beverly demanded

“The kids in the Courts!”

“Courts? What are Courts?” Beverly asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Projects, mother. Housing projects. Low-income housing tenements!”

Beverly clasped her chest, and immediately sat down upon one of the plush, crème-colored, leather sofas inside of the suite.

“Oh my God! My daughter has been traipsing around inside of a low-income housing settlement.” Beverly took several shallow breaths, and then rose and walked to the telephone. “I know, I'll call Dr. Burkes, he'll know what to do.”

Jamaica leaped to her feet and rushed to the telephone. “Mother! I'm not crazy, I don't need a shrink!” Jamaica snatched the telephone from Beverly's hand, and placed it back down inside of its cradle.

Beverly placed one of her hands on her hip, while the other rubbed the lower half of her face. Soon, she placed her hand on Jamaica's chin and squeezed her cheeks.

“Jamaica, you do need help,” Beverly told her. “You have been racing around this place, wearing hooded rags and mountain boots, using terrible grammar, and traipsing around in what I could only hope to describe as impoverished tenements.”

Beverly caressed Jamaica's face. “My poor, poor baby needs help.”

Jamaica stomped. “Mommy! I'm not crazy!”

Beverly reached for the telephone. “We'll let Dr. Burkes be the judge of that.”

Jamaica wheeled, and ran to the wall outlet, where she yanked the telephone cord out of the socket.

Beverly's hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God! Jamaica, honey, plug the phone up for Mummy.”

Jamaica rose, and folded her arms defiantly.

Beverly extended her arms. “Bunny, come to mother. You and Mummy will go for ice cream and talk.”

Jamaica exhaled, and then recrossed her arms.

“Jamaica, don't be stubborn. Mummy will even let you drive. We can ride in your little Ford thing.”

Jamaica's eyes flew wide, and she quickly glanced at LaChina. Beverly looked at LaChina also, and saw that her eyes were even wider than Jamaica's. Beverly then turned toward Kenya, who was fidgeting nervously in the recliner, next to a wide-eyed LaChina. It told her enough. She turned back to Jamaica.

“Where's the car?” Beverly asked her.

Jamaica unfolded her arms and quickly strode to where her mother was standing.

“C'mon, Mummy, let's go for ice cream,” she said in her most girlish of voices. She clasped Beverly's arm. “We can take the Benz.”

Beverly lifted her hand, stopping Jamaica in her tracks.

“Where's the car?” Beverly asked again. “You paid forty-eight thousand dollars for a car that you do not need, and would normally not be caught dead in. Now where is it?”

Jamaica lowered her head as she mumbled the answer.

“Excuse me?” Beverly asked, not understanding the answer. She stepped closer. “Speak up, dear, I can't hear you.”

“I said…Tameer…has…it.”

Beverly shook her head, and cupped her hand around her ear. “I'm sorry, it sounded like you said that some boy had it?”

“I…did,” Jamaica answered. It was almost a whisper.

“Oh, so you've hired another assistant?” Beverly asked.

Jamaica shook her head in the negative.

Beverly quickly lifted her glass of Scotch from the end table, and this time, she did more than sip.

LaChina leaned forward in her seat. “Aunt Bev, it's my…”

Her sentence was interrupted by Beverly's raised hand. “LaChina, you will always be like a daughter to me, but you are fired. Fired, fired, fired!”

“You can't fire her!” Jamaica shouted. “She works for me!”

“Jamaica, enough of this foolishness!” Beverly said sternly.

“You're right, enough of this foolishness,” Jamaica shot back. “Mother, you're fired!”

Beverly choked on her Scotch, spitting it from her mouth. She quickly set her glass back on top of the end table. “Jamaica, you can't fire me, I'm your mother!”

Jamaica stomped the ground hard. “I didn't fire you as my manager; I fired you as my mother!”

The room was silent for several long, awkward moments, before Jamaica's poked-out bottom lip, and childlike pouting, caused Beverly to laugh. Her laughter was followed by Jamaica's, then LaChina's, and finally Kenya's. Beverly extended her arms toward her daughter.

“Come here, Jamaica.”

Jamaica walked to her mother and they embraced.

“Come back to New York with me, and get some rest.”

Jamaica shook her head. “I can't, I want you to meet him first.”

“Meet who?”

“Tameer.”

Beverly exhaled forcibly. “Jamaica, there are many wealthy, eligible, young bachelors on the East Coast. Forget about him.”

Jamaica lifted her head from her mother's shoulder and stared at her. “I can't, I really…”

“Jamaica, he wants you for your money,” Beverly interrupted. “There are many wealthy, young…”

Jamaica pulled away from her mother. “He doesn't want me for my money.”

Beverly lifted the credit card receipts for the car.

“He thinks that he won the car from a radio station,” Jamaica told her. “He doesn't know who I am.”

Beverly turned. “Oh, Jamaica, please! You are the biggest R&B and pop music star in the world. You're the most sought-after young actress on the entire planet. It's virtually impossible for anyone to turn on a television and not see you, or a radio and not hear you. Everyone knows who you are. LaChina makes sure of that.”

“He doesn't. That's why I dress like this, that's why I have the knit bini hats,” Jamaica explained. “He doesn't know who I am, he doesn't want my money, my fame, or anything else. He just wants me, Mummy, me!”

LaChina adjusted herself in her seat. “Bev, he doesn't know.”

Beverly peered down at her love-stricken daughter and shook her head. She still did not believe them, but still, if it would get Jamaica to go back to New York immediately, then she would meet this con artist. Beverly exhaled loudly once again.

“And this boy is from the tenements, the flats, the…”

“The Courts, Mother,” Jamaica corrected her. “It's called the Courts.”

She moved closer to her mother and clasped her hands together. “Please come with me and meet him. Please…”

Beverly recoiled. “I will not do any such thing! I will not venture into any such…”

“No!” Jamaica shook her head fervently. “We'll go to his job.”

“His job?” Beverly asked in surprise.

“Yes, he has a job.”

“I don't suppose he's a young United States representative, or an exceptionally young junior partner at a massive law firm?” Beverly asked.

Jamaica shook her head. “No.”

“Tell me he works at a hospital…where he's a dashing young surgeon?”

“A shoe store…” Jamaica told her. “Where he's a dashing young shoe salesman.”

Beverly turned and quickly lifted her drink from the table.