19
ZIGGY
Z
iggy's heels thumped against the cement stoop as he sat swinging his feet and contemplating. For the first time in a long while he felt he had options. Two problem solvers that ranged from bad to worse. Still, he had possibilities. Pawn the ring or face his worst nightmare: leaving performing arts school. As he rubbed his hand over his head, Ziggy's mind went numb. He'd been trying get the guts to give up the ring since Wheez had broached him with the idea. But how was he to decide between losing two things he loved and wanted to keep more than anything, his dancing and his grandfather's gift? Sure, he could dance better than any of the dudes he'd seen on television, but he wasn't there yet. And the competition was too far away for him to factor in prize money.
And the vending table isn't doing well because it's a recession. It's too hard out here for people to waste money on bootleg stuff. And we gotta keep moving it to avoid five-oh because we got a homemade license. It's too hard out here....
Sucking his teeth in aggravation, he hopped off the stoop and stomped his foot. He was sick of it all. His entire situation was butt backwards and wearing him thin. Digging into his pocket, he retrieved the advertisement for the pawnshop that he'd torn out of the phone book, then quickly put it back. He wasn't ready to make the decision, not now. First he'd go upstairs and sleep on it, that's what he'd do. That's what his father did when something heavy was on his mind. His mother too. She prayed, slept, and swore she woke up with an answer.
Before his key plunged into the lock, Ziggy knew two things. Sleep was out of the question and there was a problem. A piece of paper taped to the painted brown door read
FAMILY MEETING FRIDAY
@ 7
P.M.!
BE HERE OR MOVE
. Ziggy reread the note, shook his head. All caps in Sharpie topped off with a threat. Trouble had definitely risen, and he hoped it wasn't him, but, somehow, knew it was. Ziggy searched his mind, wondered what happened, what he could've possibly done, but couldn't think of a thing. Maybe, just maybe, it was Broke-Up, he thought. Then changed his mind.
“Great.” He exhaled and simultaneously slid the key into the lock, prepared to find out the problem sooner than later. Today was his father's day off.
Probably Dad's day to go off
, Ziggy worried. “Last thing I need is to be on Pop's list,” he mumbled, opening the door and sucking in his breath until his stomach swelled. Readied for his dad's rant, Ziggy was caught off guard. There was no fussing or I-told-you-sos, just sunshine, ancient reggae music, and a welcoming aroma he hadn't smelled since forever.
Oxtails?
Shhh. Shuffle. Slap. Shhh. Shuffle. Slap.
The sound repeated, growing in loudness as slippered feet shuffled toward him.
Ma
, Ziggy mused, a grin lifted the corners of his mouth as he thought about his mother and the house slippers she wore religiously, and wondered if he'd ever seen his mother's feet.
“Afternoon, baby,” Ma greeted with a dishrag in her hand and an apron wrapped around her waist.
“Hey, Ma.” Ziggy bent over and kissed his mother's soft cheek. “I seen Pop's note on the door. What I do this time?”
Ma chuckled, waved away Ziggy's words, and beckoned him into the kitchen. “Don't mind him. He was born on a full moonâwild as tidal waves, angry as the night waters.”
“Well, what's his problem then?” Ziggy asked, setting his book bag on the counter. Lifting a lid off a pot and picking up a long-handled spoon, he waited for the steam to clear so he could sample the oxtails.
“Scat,” Ma chastised, snatching the spoon from Ziggy. “Ya know better than to be messing with my pots. Your pop's mad at the world for the same reason as always, I reckon. And that'd be no reason a'tall.”
Ziggy released his weight onto a kitchen chair at the small table, then toyed with the salt and pepper shakers and his indecision about the ring and schoolâand living in a house where he couldn't dream or dance. He'd thought about leaving plenty of times, but he was too young and couldn't afford it. Yet. He couldn't take too much more of his father's emotions which swung back and forth between hate and hate more while Ziggy's bounced between afraid to be himself and resentment. Theirs had become a silent battle of son versus father.
“Ma, I can't take this no more,” Ziggy said, his words more of a plea than a statement. “Pop is just too hard on us because we're boys. And I'm tired.... I work, go to school, help around here.”
Ma stopped stirring the oxtail, and turned to Ziggy. “Your dad is just being your dad, baby. He's always been that-a-way... . ”
“Been what way?” his dad's voice boomed from the kitchen doorway.
Ziggy almost jumped out of his skin, he was so scared. Not afraid of his fatherânot totally, he just hadn't heard him come in. He looked at his dad, then saw Broke-Up appear behind him.
“What the deal with this note, Pop?” Broke-Up asked, walking around their father and heading straight toward their mom. He kissed her cheek. “We're all here now. Put it on the table.”
Ziggy stood silent.
His mother turned off the stove, then excused herself with: “Man's business, this is. Call me when you finish.”
Broke-Up raised his brows, waiting.
Their father pulled out a chair, turned it around backward, then straddled it. He looked at them both like he could kill them, as if he would.
Ziggy shook his head. He couldn't understand how someone could bring children into the world yet manage to always find some reason to threaten them. How could you look at a miniature version of yourself and not feel love?
Pop sucked his teeth, a habit the whole family had. He looked at Broke-Up, then over to Ziggy. “Now one of you tell me which one of you's a batty boy?” he asked, using a West Indian derogatory word for gay male.
Without thought the brothers exchanged glances and said, “Hunh?”
Broke-Up broke out in their native tongue, clearly offended. “What'cha talk 'bout, batty boy? No batty boys 'ere.”
Ziggy shook his head. “We like women. Girls. Thick thighs and smooth skin. Ain't nobody want no man. You crazy?” Anger fueled his words.
Pop nodded, stood up, then slid the chair back to the table. “Okay. That's what I thought. Sandman and his drunk friends lying on my boys then, talkin' 'bout one of yous dancing. I told them that it couldn't be my boysânot living under this roof. No dancers can live here!”
Ziggy's heart dropped to his dance shoes, but his face didn't show it.
Broke-Up laughed. “Pop, stop listening to your drunk friends in the street. They just jealous 'cause your boys are making it happen.” Then his face turned serious, and he gave Ziggy his full attention. “Besides, me and Z don't have time for that batty-boy mess or the rumors. We gotta get money. The cops took our vending license and confiscated our merchandise.”
Ziggy would've cried if he was alone.
20
JAMAICA-KINCAID
J
amaica was sure someone had stabbed her pupils with an ice pick. A burning heat blinded and assaulted her eyes, traveled through her sockets, and rocked her brain. Her head was going to combust, and cerebellum would explode in any second. The blare of the morning sun had come with a headache. Cradling her skull, Jamaica tried to speak, but a dry stickiness wouldn't allow her to. Dirty, dry cotton had to be moister than her mouth. Squeezing shut her eyes, she cupped her hands in front of her lips and blew into them. Hot breath returned.
“
Ill
,” she whispered, cringing from the awful smell. “Dragon breath.”
Never again,
she thought, wondering if this is what people meant by feeling like they had a hangover. She almost shook her head, but was afraid to. She was certain that whatever feeling hungover was like, she had awoken with worse. Much worse. Aftereffects from the caffeinated energy drinks she'd guzzled made her feel like her skull was vomiting her brain.
Rolling over onto her side, she froze, searching for an answer.
Where
was she? And why was she still in her clothes? She shut her eyes, tried to think. She'd gone to the party, hung out, networked, drank an energy drink. Or two. Or three. Was escorted out by someone who decided that she was too young to be in the party, then went to her apartment. Or so she believed.
No!
Her temples still pulsed. Throbbed. Banged while she thought.
Home?
That couldn't be right because she definitely wasn't in her room or on her makeshift bed she'd made out of stacking comforters. Or alone, she discovered when the silhouette of someone's body wriggled under the sheet next to her, then went ballistic.
Whoever
was convulsing, and Jamaica scooted away until her back kissed the headboard. She pulled her knees to her chest, held them until they stopped shaking. Afraid to move, she breathed as silently as she could, and watched as the person punched, kicked, squirmed, then calmed. Finally toes shot out from under the sheet. A male's foot. Jamaica smiled knowingly.
Mateo
. She could recognize his beautiful-for-a-boy's toes anywhere. “He's having a nightmare,” she whispered, reaching to shake him awake, then decided against it.
The sun's overpowering ray penetrated the light-gray fabric that covered him, and illuminated the outline of his face. He glowed, looked angelic. She curled her index finger, hooked it into his natural curls that peeked from beneath the cover, and played with his hair until he stirred. Relaxing a little, Jamaica unfolded her legs, slid under the sheet next to him, then kicked him with all her might.
“
Ay
,” he screamed like a girl, then gave her a half smile. Tiredness was still on his face, and he was fully clothed too, except for his bare feet.
“Morning. Afternoon. Whatever,” Jamaica returned the greet. She still played with his hair. “When did I get here? How did I get here? You know you should've been a girl with all of this pretty hair.”
Mateo playfully punched her, then shrugged. “
Shud
dup.
You
should've been a Rasta with your locks.” They both laughed. “
Serious
ly though, yo. I don't even remember when or how
I
got here, and I'm supposed to know when
you
did? Get outta here.” He pushed her hand away, scratched his head. Sat up with a start. “Wait a minute... .” He yawned, stretched. Thought. “Oh, yeah. I ran into you out
side
of the party. I was talking to this bangin' chick, and you was with some dude. Ari ... something.”
“Ari!” Jamaica sat up, smiled. “Ari. You know... Ari.
Ari? The
agent of agents?! Producer too. He's loaded. Lots of money and power.”
“Say
word
?” Mateo asked, nodding his head and waiting for confirmation. “That was
him
... the agent slash producer that I hear my mom and Mr. S. talking about? Good stuff,” he praised, nodding. “So
what
jumped off? He gonna hook you or what?”
Jamaica jumped up, her words and actions animated. Last night's happenings spilled from her mouth like water. She'd survived the party, the phoniness. The other actors who acted as if the parts they had were meaningless, parts that she'd always dreamed of. But, somehow, she'd done it. She'd sucked up her pride, gone over to Ari, and asked for a chance to audition for him. She'd told him she needed an agent, and he couldn't live without her on his roster. She was going to his office. An agent's office! Today.
“I gotta go,” she explained, hopping out of the bed, stumbling, and almost falling. She ran, zigzagging across, then around the room, gathering her shoes and purse as she went. “I gotta meet Ari later. Can't go looking like this.”
“
Wait!
” Mateo said, rolling out of bed, and halting her in her tracks.
“Oh yeah, that's right,” Jamaica dropped her voice to above a whisper and her butt on the bed. “Think your mom's still here? We're like brother and sister, so it shouldn't matter.” She looked up, drew her eyebrows together.
“Nah.
Nah
. She's at her dude's crib. And besides, we
don't
do that brother-sister thing here in the hood. Boys and girls don't sleep together unless they're
sleeping
together. That's that rich-people
stuff
... letting the opposite sex spend the night. I told you to wait for
this
.” He grabbed her by her shoulders and pecked her on the lips in a brotherly way. “Good luck. You got
this
, Jamaica. Don't worry. Just
act
like you do!” he smiled.
Jamaica pulled away, hustled over to the bedroom door. “
Ill!
” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You got the Dragon too.” She paused in the doorway, smiled as she watched Mateo cup, then blow into his hands, and rear his head back from the smell as she had done earlier. “Told you!”
“
Wait!”
Now Mateo was playing with her, and she didn't have time for it. “What? You know I gotta get readyâ”
“Yo, you
forgot
you gotta work a play today?” He looked at the clock, ran his hand through his curls. “Better beat feet. You
only
got a little over an hour.”
Jamaica stomped her foot, almost breaking the heel off the stiletto. She didn't have time to change clothes or anything else. She had to get to the theater, and then to see Ari. “I can't let him see me in the same clothes. Gimme something to wear.”
Mateo gave her a button-down, a straw Panama Jack hat, and a tie.
Jamaica looked at herself in the mirror. She cuffed the sleeves of the shirt, and left it unbuttoned, but tied the bottom around her waist. She hung the tie around her neck, and topped herself off with the hat.
Not too shabby,
she thought, admiring the look of Mateo's clothes with her dress and stilettos. It was different, but so was she.
Â
Jamaica couldn't keep her eyes off the clock. She'd just gotten there, and couldn't leave fast enough. Sure, it was a paying gig, but not the one she wanted. Not after meeting Ari last night. She cut her eyes low, looked over in the corner where her book bag sat alongside high-paid actresses' Pradas, Guccis, Louis, and Berkins. With temples throbbing over the background rock 'n' roll, Jamaica worked all her stagehand positions before the music stopped and rehearsal began. She floated into one lowly job, out of it, and into the next. Thisâbeing a stage slaveâshe could do with her eyes closed. Help with the props. Run around to help the actors. Be the producers' puppet. She was acting like she liked it, and was good. Forget what Maritzio had thought of her weeks ago, she was great when she wanted to be, and knew it. Her problem was that on most days she just didn't believe it enough.
Today's play was based on underwear.
Hooray for panties
, she tried to pep up after the music ceased and rehearsal began. She tried to find excitement as she watched the thong riding up the crack of the snobby actress's behind. But, try as she might, she couldn't convince herself that the overpriced, silky barely-there panties didn't hurt the poor woman. Every time the lady moved, Jamaica saw them cutting into her circulation and skin. The G-string was razor-blade thin.
“Really?!” the actress yelled, walking off the set, simultaneously stepping out of the panties as if she were alone in a dressing room. “These hurt. I mean really freakin' hurt. They're cutting me,” she announced, bending over and spreading her cheeks so Jamaica and the wardrobe ladies could inspect. “See, right there.” She pointed, not the least bit shy.
“Put the f'n panties back on! Or find another pair,” some lady said in a nasal voice behind Jamaica's back. Hands clapped, then fingers snapped. “Somebody tell me who this chick is ... walking off the set like this. She is ridiculous. Disgraceful.”
Jamaica whispered to the actress. “Don't do this. Do you know who you're messing with?”
The actress sneered at Jamaica, strutted across the stage, and picked up the panties from the floor. “You wear them then ... since you know so much. I guess you want to be an actress too. Hunh, wannabe?”
Jamaica ducked the pair of worn underwear, and mumbled. “I can act your part in my sleep.”
“Well, do it. Yes, do it. You, there. Yes, you. Silly girl. Show her how.”
Jamaica turned, only glimpsed a snatch of the woman's back through a crowd who surrounded her. Tilting her head, Jamaica realized this mysterious woman was talking to her. “âSilly girl'?” Jamaica accidentally snapped, then realized her mistake. Stagehand or not, she was still a person who had feelings. She only hoped she caught herself in time.
Like the Red Sea, the crowd magically parted.
Jamaica froze.
The woman parted her lips, sneered her version of a smile.
Jamaica opened her mouth to speak. To apologize. Explain. Something.
Any
thing. But she couldn't find words. They'd fled right along with her previous attitude. It was the woman's beauty that stopped her, then her minimal stature. Jamaica had heard enough about the lady to know who she was without a formal introduction. The crowd that had split into a V on either side of her, with her in the middle, served as proof enough. Together, they resembled a flock of birds flying south. The woman, Talia, was the head bird in charge.
Talia walked toward Jamaica, then around her, inspecting with crossed arms. She shook her head, slid her Versace rims down her slim nose, and looked her up and down, then up again. After rolling her eyes, she pursed her lips, then smacked out clipped words. “Do it. Show Ms. Diva here how it's done.”
Jamaica didn't know what to do. She didn't know if she were in trouble or not. But she was smart enough to know that the woman wasn't playing. She nodded. “Can I have a different pair of panties?”
Talia laughed. “No. No panties needed. I just want you to show the diva how it's done. Humility, you know? You're here to help, stagehand. So help us on the stage ... if you want your job.”
Jamaica gulped. She couldn't lose her job. No way. She didn't care if she failed or embarrassed herself, she had to do it. Especially if she ever wanted to work in New York again. Talia didn't begin with a T or any other letter of the alphabet, Talia began with power. Jamaica closed her eyes, took deep breaths, then became the character. She strutted across the stage babbling about underwear, repeating the actress's lines word for word.
Talia threw up her hands, bounded toward Jamaica, then pulled her inches from her face. “What's your name?”
Jamaica told her.
“Who's your agent, Jamaica?”
“Ari,” she lied, using only Ari's first name because that's all she needed. Everyone who was anyone knew who he was.
Talia turned one hundred and eighty degrees, her hands still on Jamaica's collar. “Clear the stage, and you,” she said, pointing at the actress who was allergic to the little panties. “You can go home. You've been replaced. . . by the stagehandâthe wannabe with the fabulous style.”
Tears sprang from Jamaica's eyes. “Really?”
Talia turned back to her, and looked her dead in her eyes without a trace of laughter on her face. “Really. Somebody get me Ari. We've got contracts to sign. And get Ms. Jamaica some ointment and a pair of black boy shorts. All you other girls take a long lunch. I'll see you back here in two hours to the minute. And Jamaica,” she said, waving her toddler-size finger in the air. “Don't disappoint me. You have to own this part or we'll both look like fools. Me? Can you imagine ... hiring a stage hand? And, honey, I hope like hell you can cry as fast as you did just now. That'd be delightful. An actress who can act for once.”
Jamaica slid out of her getup and into the boy shorts, worried about the time and lying about Ari. She needed to get to the phone and warn him. She guessed he couldn't be mad now or turn her down. She'd gotten herself a part, and he'd still get agent's commission. Everything would be fine, she told herself, then cringed and wanted to faint when she heard Talia say, “Get Maritzio on the phone. Tell him to cancel all plans he has for the day of the next rehearsal. I have a gift for him.”