Page 19 of You've Got a Place Here, Too
“First of all, you don’t even know me like that.”
“I know you got a taste for those white boys.”
“Oh, that’s bold. We’ll see how this song of yours sounds then.”
“I’m not trying to be bold. I’m just trying to get you to loosen up.”
“I’m doing fine, thank you. But your little girlfriend isn’t even close to being ready.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Her makeup isn’t done.”
“Oh, so is that something you can help with?”
“May I?”
Desmond made his way backstage with Wilbur pacing behind. “I’m not decent!” Valencia shouted.
“That’s for damn sure,” Desmond said. “May I offer just one suggestion?” He sat next to her at the vanity. “Just a little more blush under the cheeks. And is there any eye shadow? You need eye shadow. And this lipstick doesn’t really go with this dress, but it’ll have to do for now, I guess.”
“Who’s this sissy who thinks he can do my makeup better than me?” Valencia laughed.
“Maybe we can call him artist and repertoire,” Wilbur said, putting on a faux French accent on the last syllable.
Desmond stayed for the show, where Valencia dazzled under mirrored glints. Her reward was a share in the club’s earnings that night, and she went with Wilbur and Desmond out for sliders at one of those late-night, decked-in-white hamburger stands on Livernois Avenue, only about the size of someone’s living room but just enough to accommodate the three hungry clubgoers. Desmond wanted a commission for his makeup artistry, so Wilbur picked up the check while Valencia went out for a More menthol cigarette.
“She shouldn’t smoke. It could damage her vocal cords in the long run,” Desmond said.
“You shouldn’t worry so much,” Wilbur responded, finishing a plate of crinkle fries.
“You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Why you so uppity?”
“I amnotuppity. You call this uppity? Sitting here in this greasy spoon?”
“So you like being here is what you’re saying.”
Desmond was still finding it hard to look directly at Wilbur, so he rolled his eyes instead. Then he looked around and realized the restaurant was empty. Both the cook and the cashier had joined Valencia outside for smokes, cracking jokes and bemoaning the rising cost of gas. He looked over at Wilbur for the first time, and this time didn’t look away when he repeated his stance.
“I’m not uppity. I’m not saditty. I’m not none of that. I had a really good time, so thank you.”
Wilbur quickly sucked his teeth, lest there be any bits of beef stuck in them, and cracked the slightest grin. “Squo?”
“What?”
“Squo.Squo? You know, it’s like saying…‘Are you serious? For sure?’ ”
“Is that what they’re saying on the west side of Detroit?”
“It’s what they’re saying on the west side, the east side, on the first shift, on the second shift…we got to get you out more often. I don’t mind catching you up.”
Desmond took a moment to absorb another one of Wilbur’s vocabulary words.Outsuddenly seemed like a foreign concept as well. But until the right definition came, it didn’t stop him from looking Wilbur in the eye—again—and responding “Okay.”
In their Introduction to Business Management course, the professor asked everyone to count off one by one and break into groups of four to practice negotiation tactics. Those who counted one and two would be mock business owners looking to rent a hall on a small budget, and the threes and fours would be the hallowners who’d have to barter what services they could or couldn’t offer depending on the price.
They sat on opposite sides of the classroom that day, but somehow Wil landed on one and Des landed on two anyway and ended up in close company once again. They paired up against two other students, turning their hard plastic chairs and pressed-wood desks into foursquares.
