NO BLACK OR WHITE, ALL GRAY
Monday morning and Precious has filled out all her HR paperwork and is waiting to go down to the editorial department. Her feet are already aching in her borrowed pumps. She’s not sure if she’ll be able to get through the entire day not spilling something on Hope’s Chanel jacket. Oh God, she thinks. It’s only ten-thirty in the morning and I’m already exhausted.
Looking around, she pulls out her cell and dials Zenobia’s number to commiserate.
“Good morning, worker bee,” Zenobia answers perkily.
“Please, I’m already talking myself out of not going home. I’ve been here only an hour and a half and I feel like I can’t breathe,” Precious moans.
“I have a theory. It’s the lack of fresh air in those bloody awful midtown office buildings. Not enough oxygen to the brain. Try to take fresh-air breaks. I’ve never understood how it’s okay for workers to get fag breaks but not fresh-air breaks. There’s something wrong with this world . . .”
Precious hears someone coming and hangs up on Zenobia mid-rant. She slips her cell into her bag, then looks up at the receptionist with what she hopes is an eager and enthusiastic smile.
Exiting the elevator a moment later, she follows the receptionist down a large corridor. This floor isn’t as totally corporate looking as the HR department four floors up. The gray on the walls is a slightly softer shade. On the walls are framed covers of Shades.
There are no windows in the center of the building; it’s mostly a warren of halls and doors. When they turn a corner she comes upon a maze of cubicles placed in what seems a purposely disorienting fashion. There appears to be no one around. When they turn down a corridor into a slightly larger main hallway with windowless offices on either side, she’s blinded by the light flooding into the area from the large windows in the conference room at the end of the hall. So that’s where everybody is.
As they approach the conference room, everyone looks at them. Precious hasn’t felt such scrutiny since high school. Hope is sitting at the head of the table; the woman directly across from her makes eye contact with the receptionist, then steps outside into the hall. After waving the receptionist away, the woman extends her hand.
“Precious Morgan, I’m Jackie White, the managing editor.” Jackie White is dark-skinned, short, and somewhat abrasive. Her sensible pumps, shapeless dress, and outdated hairstyle don’t seem to make her a candidate for work at a fashion magazine, but her attention to detail and near photographic memory make her perfect as a managing editor. So this is Hope’s nemesis.
Still shaking Precious’s hand, Jackie seems to scrutinize every fiber, button, thread, and speck of lint on Precious’s outfit. When she’s done with that she gives her face and hair the same attention. Feeling slightly violated, Precious slips her hand from Jackie’s grasp.
“I’m very curious about you. There hasn’t been such urgency for a new hire since, well, since Hope was made our new editorial director.” She gives Precious another once-over while steering her down the hall. “You know Hope, don’t you? I hear her hearty recommendation is what is making me have to miss our editorial meeting.”
“Ms. White, I’m so sorry to take you away from your meeting. I didn’t know I was going to meet the managing editor, just that I’d be going to editorial,” Precious answers, ignoring the question about Hope.
“Well if you’re working here, you’d have to meet me at some point or another. Nothing happens without me signing off on it.”
Jackie steers Precious into another area, away from the editorial department. There is the same layout as before, with the cubicles in the middle of the room, some offices behind the cubicles, and then a row of offices with windows on the outside of the square. As she walks, Jackie points out various areas.
“This is production, the art department is over there. Editorial is back where we started.”
She then leads her to an office with a narrow window. On the vent that runs the length of the window sit stacks of papers, dummy boards, mockups, and magazines. The room smells slightly of rubbing alcohol. When Precious sits in the chair facing the desk she can see running shoes peeking out from underneath.
“So, Precious, I don’t know much about you. Have you been in the publishing industry long?”
So it’s the inquisition, Precious thinks, trying to send Hope a mental SOS. “Several years,” she answers evasively.
“And where have you been working all those years?” Jackie asks, pretending to look at a sheet of paper on her desk while surreptitiously studying Precious.
“I’ve done a lot of consulting work.”
“For whom?”
“Are you showing me to my office?”
“I thought we’d take a moment to get to know each other.”
“Precious will have plenty of time to get to know you, Jackie.”
Thank you, Jesus. Hope has heard her mental scream and is standing in the doorway; a pretty young woman in neat corn-rows is standing next to her. “Keysha will take her to her office, which is nowhere near here.” Hope turns to Precious. “I’ll stop by later to see how you’re doing.”
After a grateful smile to Hope, Precious almost runs out of the office.
“Nice to meet you, Jackie,” she says at the door.
“Likewise,” Jackie says, her mouth curved up in a smile. “I’ll see you around,” she adds threateningly.
Precious smiles back just as insincerely. Bitch, she thinks as Keysha steers her out of the office. Heading back to editorial she shows her to a room off the main corridor where Precious first entered.
“This is your office, Precious.”
Precious peeks inside. It doesn’t have a window but at least it has a door.
“Thanks, Keysha.”
“No problem,” she says. Probably because Precious looks so despondent, Keysha pauses at the door. “Don’t look so glum—at least you have an office; the last few assistant editors had cubicles.”
When Precious smiles, Keysha says, “If you need anything just let me know.” She pauses again at the door. “Any friend of Hope’s is a friend of mine.”
Precious stands in the cramped, eight-by-ten-foot office, listening to the fluorescent lights hum. She walks dejectedly to her chair and plops down, wondering what to do now. Her cell dings; she has a text message. She reads it and blushes, heat rising from her toes right up to the top of her head. It’s a dirty text from Darius. Her cell dings again. This text is even dirtier than the first. She closes her door, as if people can somehow read the text as they walk by. Furious, she’s typing a reply when her cell rings. It’s so loud she drops the phone, then scavenges around under her desk to get it. When she finally picks it up she’s livid.
“Stop sexting me, Darius, I’m at work!”
“Isn’t that where we’re supposed to sext each other?”
“What are you, a giant toddler? I said no.”
“Then how about phone sex?”
“How about no sex?” she says.
“C’mon, baby, I just wanted to see how you were doing, your first day on your nine-to-five.”
“It’s fine, Darius. Don’t you have a job?”
“I do, baby; I’m there now. I just wanted to tell you how sexy you looked in those fuck-me pumps. I wanted to drag you back into bed and fuck you all over again. Watch you writhe and moan under me the way you do . . .”
“This sounds like phone sex, Darius. I’m at work. It’s my first day; this isn’t the time or the place.”
“I’m sorry, baby. Lemme make it up to you later. I can still taste you on my lips . . .”
Precious hangs up on him.
Darius stands looking at his phone. She hung up on him! He throws his phone in his gym bag and opens his locker. He’s still sulking, because twice now she’s kicked him out because of this new job. Darius slips his T-shirt over his head and throws that in his gym bag. Pulling on his Equinox shirt, he steps out of his jeans and into his work sweats.
He still can’t really put Precious and job in the same sentence. She seemed to be doing fine freelancing. He actually preferred it because she was always home and he could come by anytime and talk his way into her bed. After that he usually stayed for dinner, dessert, and then breakfast. He’d leave long enough to train a few of his clients and then head back to her place to start it all over again.
As he zips his bag, he remembers how damn sexy she looked with her briefcase and those pumps. He tried to drag her back into bed but she’d thrown him out. This is a new Precious and he isn’t quite sure what to make of her. Jamming his gym bag into the locker, he slams the door and looks at his watch. His next client is due in ten minutes. He’s going to need all ten of those minutes to come down from the images of Precious he has in his head.
Two hours later Precious is so drained from reading through the stacks of papers people have been bringing to her office that she drops her head on top of the pile, hoping for osmosis. When she hears someone at the door, she’s mortified. She looks up at Hope.
“Oh, thank God it’s you.”
Hope points a finger. “What’s this, Morgan—nap time? Lots of work to do, chop chop.” She walks in and closes the door.
Precious is relieved so see her. “Does it ever end?” Precious asks, pointing to the stacks of work in her in-box.
Hope shrugs. “You’ll be fine.”
“But I’m completely overwhelmed.”
“Take a number, girl—they don’t call it work for nothing.”
When Precious still looks glum Hope sits down. “This is the way it’ll be for a few weeks, but you’ll figure it out. You’re smarter than most, P.”
“Can I have an assistant?”
“See? You’re learning already,” Hope laughs. “Sorry, you’ll have to figure your own way around for a bit.” When she sees Precious’s desperate look she relents. “If you get suicidal call Keysha; she can do my job without me. But don’t monopolize her.”
“Thanks, Hope.” Precious perks up a bit. Then her face drops again. “What about Drill Sergeant Jackie? She keeps coming in to grill me about you. What am I supposed to tell her?”
“What would you tell her if you met her on the street?”
“To go fuck herself.”
“Let me rephrase that: What if she was your managing editor?”
“I’d tell her to ask you.”
“Better. So do that.”
“I don’t think she likes me,” Precious says despondently.
“News flash: She doesn’t like me either. Actually, I don’t think she likes anyone,” Hope says.
“I think it’s herself she really doesn’t like,” Precious says sagely.
“You know you’ve got a point, P. I mean, how can you work at a fashion magazine, have access to such beautiful things, yet be so unrelentingly unfashionable?”
“Seems almost on purpose,” Precious says. “Like counterespionage. You sure she’s not a double agent for Colors?”
“Not here a day and you’ve already ousted a mole. This is why I need you watching my back.”
When Precious frowns, Hope coaxes, “C’mon, let’s turn that frown upside down. Who’s got a brand-spanking-new job and a title that a hundred other women would kill for?”
“Me?” Precious asks.
“Yes, you.” Hope gets up. “This was going to be a drive-by, but you look suicidal.” She looks at her watch. “Get your bag. Let’s have lunch in the cafeteria. I’ll see if I can talk you down from the ledge.”
“You’re in a good mood.” Precious frowns at her as they walk to the elevators. “Didn’t you see your mom this weekend?”
“I sure did,” Hope almost sings as she presses the elevator button.
“You’re usually speedballing happy pills after that. What’s up?”
Hope shrugs. “I’m just in a good mood, I guess.”
“You haven’t been in a good mood in a year. You’ve got a secret, girl. Give it.”
Hope shushes her as they get into the crowded elevator, then she pushes the button for the cafeteria.
A few minutes later they’re balancing trays of food on their way to an empty table by a window.
“So, what’s up?” Precious nags when they sit down. “Tell me tell me.”
“It’s not a big deal. I just ran into someone on my way back from my mom’s.”
“Who, a Prozac salesman?”
“Close,” Hope giggles, which she never does.
“Hope, you’re giggling. You don’t giggle. You’re freaking me out.” Precious looks around the cafeteria. “Who are you? Where’s my friend Hope?”
“Oh stop being so dramatic. I ran into Derrick,” Hope says with a smile.
“Derrick? Derrick your driver Derrick?”
Hope nods and smiles even more.
“Damn. You got it bad, girl. Or should I say you got it good? Just saying his name is making you smile. Did you take him home?”
“No, no; he was with his daughters. We had dinner.”
“You had dinner with his kids?”
Hope nods.
“Was the druggie baby mama there?” Precious asks, no longer interested in her sandwich.
“Of course not. I had a run-in with her though. The night you guys were leaving and he was outside.”
“The night he was stalking you?”
Hope looks at her like she’s stupid.
“What?” Precious asks. “Sitting in your car outside someone’s house for hours waiting to catch sight of them is stalking.”
Hope shrugs. “We went for a drive and he showed me where he lives. You wouldn’t believe it—it’s this huge project complex, on 145th Street or something. He grew up there; never even been out of the country. But when he took me to this fish joint he knows and showed me his tag . . . He used to be a graffiti artist, and he’s really good. But then his ex, Jasmine, comes in and she’s a crackhead. She caused a huge scene; Derrick had to take her outside. I was so mortified I ran out and had to take a . . .” she pauses and looks at Precious. “It looked like a town car but it was a cab. What do you call them?”
“A gypsy cab?” Precious offers.
Hope nods. “Yes, I guess that’s what it was.”
Precious is staring at Hope.
“Fish joint. Crackhead. Graffiti tags. Gypsy cab. Hope, you went to Brearley; you didn’t have a black friend until you were twenty-five. You learned all these words in one night? And you’re just now telling me?”
“Would you just listen—”
“And why would any of this make you happy? He’s got a crackhead baby mama he had to wrestle to the ground of a greasy fish joint and you had to flag a gypsy cab to get home.” Precious puts down her water bottle and looks hard at Hope. “Who are you, really?”
“No, that didn’t make me happy. It’s that when I got back from my mom’s, I mean, of course I was looking for something sharp to hack at my wrists with, but then I ran into Derrick and his daughters, Asia and Kenya; they were at Café Habana and I had dinner with them and it was really nice.” She’s almost pleading.
“Asia and Kenya?” Precious is incredulous.
“This from a girl named Precious. Stop being so judgmental,” Hope snaps.
“Oh my God.” Precious sits back from the table. “What is this, some alternate universe? Hope, you’re a snob, remember? You take one trip above 96th Street and you’re the patron saint of the projects.”
Hope slumps in her chair. “I don’t know, P. It just felt good being with him. I’ve felt bad for so long. Don’t make me feel bad for feeling good.”
“I’m sorry, honey. That’s not what I want. This is just a lot to take in; crackheads and graffiti artists.” Precious sees the glum look on Hope’s face. “It’s okay. You can go joyriding with crackheads whenever you want. Just tell me next time.”
Hope smiles.
“You’re smiling; that’s all I care about. And you’re smiling because he makes you feel good. You probably don’t even remember what it feels like, it’s been so long.”
“True.”
“How old are the kids? God, I’d have paid money to have seen that.” Precious chuckles.
“Maybe eight and ten. Really cute, whip smart—scary smart, actually. Aren’t kids supposed to be simple and innocent? Not these two. They were like two halves of the same kid—one evil, the other one good.”
“Yeah, they’re breeding them like that these days. I’ve read about it in The Enquirer.” Precious goes back to the topic at hand. “So Derrick’s a graffiti artist?”
“Used to be.”
“What was his tag?”
“X-Man.”
“X-Man. Derrick, your driver, is X-Man. I’ve seen his tags around. There’s a few right in my neighborhood, on Avenue A. You’re dating ghetto royalty, girl.”
“We’re not dating.” Hope shakes her head vigorously.
“Oh no? Sounds like you’ve been on two dates already. They even had you giggling just a minute ago.”
“Oh no. Those weren’t dates.”
“That’s what we call them,” Precious presses.
“No, we’re definitely not dating.”
“Why not?”
“He’s my driver,” Hope answers, as though it’s a good-enough answer.
“Not a good-enough answer,” Precious says.
“He has two kids.”
“So what? Your mother’s crazy.”
Hope swats her. “My mother has Alzheimer’s.”
“Like I said, crazy. You too, in fact. If I were him I’d be running in the other direction.”
Hope busies herself with her lunch while Precious continues.
“From what I’ve heard he seems like a decent person,” Precious says.
Hope finishes her orange juice.
“Does he have a record?” Precious asks.
“No.”
“Good, I just made me some money.” Precious finishes her water. “Look, for what it’s worth, he’s got my vote. He’s raising two little girls, he’s got a job, he’s creative, and he makes you giggle. If he weren’t your driver you’d be trying to poke him on Facebook.”
When Hope doesn’t say anything, Precious pushes her tray aside. Honey, if I’ve learned anything from Darius, it’s that nobody’s perfect. There’s no black or white; it’s all gray. Darius broke my heart, and I still love him. He didn’t mean to do it—I know that now—but he broke it nonetheless. That’s just the way it is sometimes. We’re just people, doing our best with what we’ve got.”
Hope puts her hand on Precious’s.
“Thanks.” Then she pushes her own tray aside. “Don’t quit this week and I’ll take you to ‘the vault’ on a spree; it’s where we keep the goodies.”