Less than a week later, I signaled to the stewardess, who appeared with two warm towels and glasses of champagne for us on a silver tray.
“I’ve never flown first-class before,” Cora enthused as she took the flute she was offered. “A girl could get used to this.” She unfolded the warm towel and pressed it to her face and hands.
“Oh my God.” Cora moaned through the towel draped over her face. “I am never leaving this seat.” When she removed the towel, her skin was dewy and pinked.
I felt like a million bucks, swelling with pride at ten thousand feet with my best girl sitting next to me. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like a fuck up. I felt electric, in the flow, aligned, or some shit. I didn’t know exactly what it was, but I felt unstoppable.
“All the pieces are coming together,” I beamed and settled into the spacious seat, leaning back and stretching my legs with a yawn.
“Are you tired?” Cora gazed at me with concern in her eyes.
“Not really. I don’t need much sleep to function,” I bragged, trying to remember when was the last time I strung more than four hours together at one time, and I couldn’t.
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I answered, “but I will be. I’ve been working on some new material.”
“Isn’t that risky to bust out new material on live television and in front of a studio audience?”
“Life is a risk, baby. It’s go big or go home time.”
An hour later, the wheels touched down and the first of my surprises for Cora was waiting. A dapper chauffeur holding a card with her name written on it was waiting for us in front of baggage claim. Closer to sixty than fifty, he was in full uniform, his white shirt pressed perfectly and outfitted in a black jacket and bowtie. He had a quick smile and flashed his incredibly white teeth that were long and straight and contrasted richly with his ebony skin.
“What’s this?” she asked, her eyes sparkling and wide when she saw the card.
“I pulled out all the stops,” I told her with a grin as I strode proudly to the chauffeur, dragging our carry-ons on their tiny squealing wheels behind us.
“Hello, my good sir. I believe you are here to provide us safe passage to our hotel. This is Ms. Cora Butler, and I am Freddie Angel. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Freddie Angel…” he mused. “That name is so familiar. Where have I heard it?”
“See, darling? My reputation precedes itself.” I turned toward him. “You might know me as The Funologist.”
He snapped his fingers together as a giant smile spread across his features. “Yes! That’s it. You’re that guy who drove an ice cream truck to the ghetto and had a gun stuck in his face.”
“Ah, yes,” I said with a little bow. “Among other things, but for some reason, that event seems to stick in people’s minds.”
“What brings you to the Big Apple?”
“I have an appearance on Late Night with Jimmy Bravo.”
“That’s incredible. I watch him every night.” He walked closer. “Let me take care of these for you, Mr. Angel. My name is Lewis, and I will be your driver today.”
I leaned in closer to Cora and then whispered, “Hear that? I love being called Mr. Angel.” I squeezed her shoulder and then asked, “Are you ready to have the time of your life?”
She let out a little squeal, and I grabbed her hand and followed him out into the cold December air. Our breath huffed out into the frigid morning, like puffs of smoke.
Lewis opened the door to the sleek town car for us, and Cora slid in. I followed suit, sliding across the leather upholstery to land practically in her lap. “We have arrived.” I surveyed the drinks that waited for us on the mini-bar set up in the back.
“Allow me to serve you, Mr. Angel,” she said with a wink, pouring us two mimosas barely tinged with orange juice, just enough to change the color to the palest orange. She handed me a glass and a napkin, and we sipped on them as the car slipped into traffic. New York is stop-and-go, and there is a lot of waiting in between. I tapped my fingers, thumb to ring finger, counting by twos.
Two, Four, Six, Eight. Who do we appreciate?
I chanted the phrase over and over in my mind, my mood elevating higher and higher, getting myself pumped up. Cora leaned toward the windows, her breath fogging them up. She drank in all the sights as Lewis guided us through traffic smoothly like butter on a warm slice of bread. Finally, he pulled up to the elaborate entrance at The Baccarat.
“Whoa.” Cora’s eyes were huge and fixated on the impressive entrance of the five-star hotel as we waited on the curb for Lewis to pull our luggage out of the trunk. She looked down at the puffy jacket and yoga pants she’d worn on the plane. “This place is fancy.”
“Of course, it is. You’re with a fancy man, now,” I explained.
She grimaced. “I don’t think… I’m not dressed right for this.” Her fingers trembled as she swiped her hair and tucked a few of the short stragglers behind her ear.
“Oh, pshaw!” I dismissed. “You’re fine. You always look great to me.”
She exhaled hot and heavy and took the handle of her rolling carry-on from Lewis. I pulled my money clip from my pocket and handed him two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Thank you, sir,” he responded. “Can we take a photo together? It’s kind of a hobby. I collect photos with celebrities.”
Celebrities? Is that what I was now? Hearing him use the word validated me, and I stood taller and widened my stance, confidence surging. That’s what winners did. They commanded every room they walked into. They owned it and took up space. I had cowered in the corner long enough.
Lewis held out his phone and took a selfie with me as Cora took one on my phone. The social media monster demanded to be fed at least once a day. I had to post often to stay relevant.
“Lewis, it’s been a pleasure,” I told the driver as I pumped his hand, and then I rolled my rickety suitcase into the hotel through a gold door that was held open by a proper doorman. The entire front façade was covered in golden, elongated prisms that drenched the sidewalks in amber-hued rainbow light. Dripping in crystals from chandeliers, the hotel lobby was opulent in rich reds and gold leaf accents. Cora was spinning in a circle, looking up with her mouth agape, her eyes bugging out of her head. A hand-blown glass installation filled the gold-leafed ceiling. She tripped on her suitcase and flew forward, her hands breaking her fall on the ground, then popped up in record time red-faced and laughing at herself.
She recovered and we waltzed to the concierge, an impeccably groomed elegant man with thick silver hair and manicured fingernails, on his wrist sat a platinum timepiece—not a watch, a timepiece. He studied us through haughty, half-closed eyes. A gold name tag identified him as Niles.
“May I help you?” he asked with a nasally voice that barely concealed the disdain.
“Why, as a matter of fact, I believe you can.” I pulled out my phone. “We have a reservation for this evening.”
He hid his shock quickly. “Last name.”
“Angel, Freddie Angel,” I boasted. “You might know who I am.”
“I assure you, sir, I do not.” His voice was tinged with contempt and a slight English upper-crust accent.
“After Friday night, you will. I’ve been invited to perform on Late Night with Jimmy Bravo.”
His eyes opened fully with that tasty tidbit of information, and his voice was infused with warmth when he said the next words. “Here it is. One night in our Huntington Suite. I am going to upgrade you and your guest to the Penthouse.”
“Thank you, my good man.” I pulled out the money clip and dropped another Benjamin at him.
He swiped my credit card, then handed me the keys and called the bellhop to take us up. Darwin, a fact gathered from his name tag, was a spry twenty-something, dressed like one of those monkeys with the cymbals, complete with the captain’s hat.
“Mr. Angel, follow me.” He took our luggage from us and led us through the lobby to a private elevator, requiring him to swipe the key card before use. Cora was silent and speechless, but I could tell from her animated expression that, inside, she was squealing as much as I was. We were both so far out of our league it was hysterical. Her hand found mine and squeezed in the back of the mirrored and crystal-covered elevator. Her eyes choreographed, ‘Can you believe this is happening?’ Which just made me smile wider.
The elevator doors opened into a bright walnut burl-covered suite. Daylight poured in from an enormous bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. The walls were trimmed in a rich, warm wood that had been lacquered to a high gloss. Low-slung mushroom-colored furniture with clean modern lines and sparkling glass and crystal accents were everywhere, and in smart little circles, there were pops of red in the form of fresh red roses in small, wide vases.
Cora ran around the room, flitting like a butterfly from the crystal glasses on the tray beside the bed, to the harlequin-patterned lap pool and hot tub on the other side of the ensuite bathroom. “Freddie! A private pool! This must have cost a fortune.” Darwin stood and waited at the door after tucking our luggage into the closet, presumably for a tip, clearly enjoying Cora’s reaction as much as I was. Every exclamation from her made the corners of his mouth twitch up. I peeled off a twenty and handed it to him.
“Thank you, sir. Please enjoy your stay with us,” he said and then quietly closed the door behind him.
I found Cora in the bedroom, spellbound by the layers of white linens and feather pillows three feet deep at the head of the bed. I took off my shoes and coat and threw them in a pile on the floor, then climbed up on the bed. “Come on! This bed was made for jumping.” She hesitated for only a split second, then climbed on the bed and we started to jump. The pillows slid and fell on the floor, but the four-poster bed was rock solid, not even a squeak, just a thick pillow top of spongey memory foam. Out of breath, I flopped down onto my back, and Cora landed next to me, her head kissing mine as she stared up at the gold-leaf ceiling.
“This place is coated in gold,” she pointed out. “Have you ever seen a hotel more beautiful? I shudder to think what you’re paying for the night here.”
I pulled her hand to my mouth and kissed the back of it. “Why don’t you let me worry about that? Come on!” I sat up and yanked her toward the pool. Running to it, I jumped in fully clothed while she stood on the edge, waiting. “Come on in, the water is nice. It’s actually warmer than I thought it would be.”
I pulled the damp phone from my pocket, blew on the lens, and turned on the video function. “This is the Funologist live in NEW YORK!” I shouted into the phone. “God, I have always wanted to say that! I’m in town getting ready to make an appearance on Jimmy Bravo tomorrow evening. Here with Cora, the sweetest girl from Kansas City. Say hi, Cora.” I turned it toward her.
“Hi, Cora!” she repeated with a smirk.
“It’s a good thing that one won’t be on stage tomorrow, am I right?” I laughed into the phone. “We are staying in a swanky, wanky hotel suite with a private pool! Can you believe it? That would explain why I currently look like a drowned rat.” I turned the camera to scan the room. “This place is dripping in luxury. Don’t worry, I covered this on my own. I wouldn’t dare misappropriate any of your donations for my own amusement. Or would I?” I joked inserting an evil laugh “Stay tuned!” I turned it off and added the hashtags and posted to social media.
“I would be careful,” Cora warned. “The public is very fickle. Sure, they love you now, but public opinion can change on a dime. Gotta be careful what you say and how you say it.”
“I have to be me,” I replied. “I’m not going to change who I am to fit into someone else’s box.”
“You never were one for fitting into boxes, were you?”
“Not anymore.”
I got out of the pool and stripped down to my skivvies. Giggling, I pulled them up my crack, completely exposing my butt cheeks, and turned around, shimmying my hips from side to side. “Does the lady see anything she likes?” I bent forward and tried to twerk, gaining a new respect for strippers, which just made Cora squeal with laughter. “Turns out, exotic dancers are more athletic than I thought.”
I laughed and then turned around, sticking my belly out as far as it would go in front of her. “Oh no!” I looked down in despair, distending my belly out and palming it like a woman who’s eight months pregnant and can’t stop herself from rubbing her swollen belly. “What’s happened to me, Cora?”
“Looks like about two cases of Vodka and ten gallons of mashed potatoes.” She giggled as she poked my belly button. I pulled her into a soggy embrace, holding her tighter to me while she groaned and fought me off. “Freddie!”
“Hot tub?” I asked as I started to unbutton her jeans. “First a little soak to rid us of the stench of travel, and then we can get out there and enjoy the city?”
“I have a feeling you won’t take no for an answer.”
“I always knew you were a genius.” I leaned in and kissed her.