GET A MAN, GET A LIFE

On first impression, the tents in Bryant Park feel like any other fashionable New York haunt, yet in reality they’re just tents outside in the middle of the park. That just goes to show you that New York City is all about appearance.

Hope is standing a few feet away from the steps wondering where Nina is when she becomes aware that she’s being stared at. She sneaks a peek at a man standing just off to her right who’s trying to eye-fuck her. She figures he’s about mid-fifties. He’s wearing a well-cut, though extremely shiny, gray suit, silver tie, and silver-framed glasses.

He’s not bad-looking, but the lascivious looks he’s leveling her way are pissing her off. Oh my God, Hope thinks, he’s actually licking his lips at me. What am I, a rack of ribs? She rolls her eyes. Why can’t men just be normal when they are trying to pick you up? Hello, you look very nice; my name is . . . Uh-oh, he’s slinking her way.

Mr. Man has relaxed hair and a pinky ring, and he’s quite possibly wearing more makeup than she is.

“Hey baby girl, you look so good I could eat you up,” he says laying on the smarm.

So, she is a rack of ribs to him.

“You don’t say,” Hope says, wishing he hadn’t said it. Turning away, she scans the crowd, willing Nina to appear. When she turns back, Mr. Relaxer is standing this close to her, his eyes roaming offensively over her body.

“You’re looking pretty good in that tight sweater too.”

Sometimes when guys approach her so insultingly, she just wants to scream, “Fuck off you fucking creep! ” Instead she says wearily, “Yes, I’m wearing a tight sweater, stilettos, and a thong, and I have absolutely no interest in you.”

Seeing Nina in the crowd, she turns and walks away from him but not before she hears him mutter, “Get a man, get a life.”

Halfway to Nina, Hope sees Honey Lamont, editor of Colors . As usual, she’s happily posing for the cameras. A former model, Honey loves the limelight as much as it seems to love her back. Her face is routinely splashed across the TV and tabloids while her exploits are followed religiously by her fans.

Being the face of the magazine was something that came with the job, but Hope is still not fully used to it. When her father died, news of his death had been leaked and Hope was pestered by paparazzi hoping for a tearful shot of Hope or, even better, her breaking down in grief. The last year she had dreaded almost every event she had to go to. As she slips past as unobtrusively as possible, Honey’s eyes meet hers and they exchange nods. Before the photographers see her in the thick crowd she has reached Nina and is beyond the ropes and into the tent.

Ten minutes later after air-kissing her way to her seat, she’s sitting in the front row waiting for the show to start. Hope is among a select posse of high-powered fashion editors, many of whom are garbed in head-to-toe designer outfits or sometimes designer blends. In the case of Honey Lamont, in the designer whose show is about to start.

Hope thinks back to when the frenzy of editors, journalists, photographers, celebrities, and the paparazzi who followed the celebs around would have had her heart pounding and her adrenalin rushing. But she has long gotten over the flashing bulbs, snarky asides, and pandemonium that make up the pomp and circumstance of the shows. Now it’s just work.

 

Seven o’clock and Hope is slumped in the backseat of the town car heading home. She’s exhausted but her cell is ringing off the hook with calls from either her mother or her mother’s lawyers. She’s been talking nonstop for almost the entire ride. When she hangs up, she rubs her temple. Her cell rings again.

“You should turn it off,” Derrick says.

Hope squints at him as though she’s imagined him addressing her.

“It’s seven o’clock. You deserve a break.” He shrugs. “I know you’re a real important lady, but the earth won’t stop spinning if you don’t pick up this call.”

Hope is too tired even to argue with him. Her head is spinning, she substituted three cups of coffee and a banana for dinner, and she just wants to get home and take a shower. When her cell rings again, she hits the “Ignore” button, then puts the phone on vibrate.

Hope likes the smile Derrick gives her. She remembers Mr. Relaxer; his smile was predatory and invasive. Derrick’s is warm and friendly. Mr. Relaxer had made her feel dirty, like she should feel good that he’d just about sexually harassed her. But Hope isn’t alone with her thoughts for long. Now that the car is quiet it seems that Derrick is determined to fill the silence.

“There’s not much we can control, but at least you should control your time, not everyone else.” When she doesn’t respond he blathers on. “I may not be rich but the little free time I have I’m in control of. And let me tell you, it’s not easy with two young girls.” He’s quiet for a minute after that.

Hope’s not surprised, but not because he’s an unmarried black man with kids. She knows from stats her own magazine publishes that nearly 70 percent of black children are born to unwed parents and 86 percent of black women are single when they have their first baby.

What’s that quote from Common? “Hip-hop allowed the sons to take care of the mothers the fathers had abandoned.” Hope isn’t surprised that Derrick has kids because he knew exactly what she needed when she had her breakdown. He knew what to do and what to say. That’s something you learn by doing.

“Asia’s ten and Kenya’s seven. Although I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world, I’m blessed that my mother lives in my building. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Derrick glances at Hope in the mirror. “Raising two kids on my own is harder than anything I’ve ever had to do.” Derrick laughs. “Harder even than finding a good job so I can support ’em.”

Hope wasn’t expecting that his kids would be living with him, which goes against the statistics. She wonders if she should have Shades do a story on single dads raising their children. When Derrick stops to take a breath, Hope asks, “Where is their mother?”

Derrick pauses before answering, as though trying to think where she would be. “Jasmine comes and goes. . . .” Of course, Hope thinks, so it’s like that. “But she has a drug problem and it’s best I have custody of the girls.”

“Do you have a drug problem?” Hope asks.

“No, Hope, I don’t have a drug problem, just a money problem.” This is the first time he’s actually used her first name; it catches her a little off guard.

Derrick holds her eyes in the rearview mirror. “I don’t mean no disrespect, but you don’t look like you got any kids. But what about a husband? You married?”

Hope doesn’t really know what to do with that. “No, I’m not married. What makes you think I don’t have kids?”

This time Derrick’s smile is rueful. “I guess I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. I’m sure you got enough money to look as pulled-together as you always do, but you don’t look like the mothering type.”

Hope frowns. “I’m not so sure I like the sound of that.”

“I don’t mean anything bad; it’s just that mothering, caring for kids, takes a lot of time and energy. I know you spend most of your time at work, working, or thinking about work. That doesn’t leave a lot of time for anything else—even time for you.”

He’s right. “I spend a lot of time mothering my mother,” Hope says.

“Is your mom sick?” Derrick asks, expertly maneuvering the car through traffic.

“Yes, she has Alzheimer’s and dementia.” Hope looks down at her hands in her lap.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Hope. My uncle Eddie had dementia for many years. It was real hard for my aunt Anita. She spent their retirement years taking care of him; took almost all she had.” Hope just nods.

After a moment Derrick asks, “Is your dad around?”

Hope feels a familiar knot in her throat. “He died about a year ago,” she whispers. Hope looks away from Derrick’s eyes; hers are starting to fill with tears. Changing the subject, Derrick asks, “Does your mom recognize you? Has it gotten to that point yet?”

“Sometimes,” Hope answers. “It’s less that she doesn’t remember me but more that she sometimes disappears into her own world. She disconnects, you know?” Hope doesn’t really know how to explain it, but when Derrick nods, she feels he understands. She continues, “When that happens it’s hard to reel her back in.” They ride together for a moment in silence.

“Does she live with you?” Derrick asks.

“No, she has a full-time home-care aide.” Hope smiles. “Cherry’s great. I’m very lucky to have her. It took me months to find someone who my mom and I felt comfortable with. When my mom didn’t like an aide, she’d just ignore her or leave the house. Just walked out of the door. Then she couldn’t remember how to get home. I can’t tell you how many times we had to put an APB out on her,” Hope tries to joke. “We finally got her a GPS bracelet. At least now we don’t have that worry.”

“That’s a lot for one person. Do you have brothers or sisters?”

Hope gives him a bitter half-smile. “I have a sister, Faith, but because she’s married she feels she has enough responsibility. She pretty much checked out after Daddy’s funeral.” Hope shrugs. “It’s probably for the best. When Faith tries to help, she usually causes more harm than good. We haven’t spoken in months.”

They drive uptown in silence until Derrick says, “Hope and Faith?” Hope laughs for the first time in days. “Don’t start; at least my mom was optimistic.”

“I’d say,” Derrick says, laughing.

“And this from a man who named his daughters Asia and Kenya?”

“Oh you got jokes. That’s all Jasmine. But I wouldn’t change a thing about my girls.”

After a few moments Hope says, “Pearl, my mom’s name is Pearl.” She looks at the passing buildings. “The hardest part is when she forgets that my dad is dead and I have to tell her. It’s always like the first time she’s hearing it, and I guess it seems that way to her.” A tear slips down her cheek. “Breaks my heart every time.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. When Hope looks up, they’re parked in front of her house.

“Oh, we’re here.” She’s flustered and starts to gather her things. Derrick smiles. “I’m not kicking you out,” he jokes. “Can’t we talk when we’re not driving?”

Hope is embarrassed, vulnerable. She gathers her bag, opens the door, mumbles good night, and then almost runs into the house.