Unbeweaveable (4 page)

Bill Cosby's Chest Hair

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Stevens, but you don't seem qualified for this position.”

I stared blankly at his soft white face and shook my head. For the past several weeks I had been on over ten interviews, magazines and newspapers mostly, with all of them repeating the same answer—
you're not qualified.
It seemed reviewing the latest literary novel was not something that was desired at other magazines. And the fact that
Spirit
Magazine
was the only place I'd ever worked didn't bode well for my résumé.

“Look, don't you have
anything
open for me?”

He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and sat back in his black leather chair.

“I'm going to be honest with you, Mrs. Stevens—”

“Please call me Mariah.”

“Okay. Um, Mrs. Stevens, you don't have the experience we need right now for our newspaper.
New
York
World
gives hard-hitting political and editorial pieces. From what I read off your résumé, your job consisted of reading books and giving reviews. That really isn't our thing here. We need a copy editor—do you think that is something you're skilled at?”

“No. But I'm a fast learner, and I can be trained—”

He put his glasses back on and wrote something down. Without looking up he remarked that he would call me if something came up for me, and I left his office with a $3,000 dress on and $727 in the bank. I walked outside to a gust of wind that blew my long weave across my cheek, caressing it like how I longed a man would do. I did everything I could think of to save money, but my weave was the only thing that I held on to, it was stitched to my hair, interlocking us together. I was as much a part of it as it was a part of me. It was who I was, my weave, and I refused to let it go. I said as much to Norma over lunch—which she paid for.

“It shouldn't be that big of a deal,” she said, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulder. “It's just hair.”

“Of course you would say that—
your
hair is long.”

“Well, you've been wearing a weave for years. Maybe your hair is long, too.”

“Not this long. Besides, my hair is so tight and kinky that it looks like Bill Cosby transplanted his chest hair onto my head.”

“Gross. I don't want to imagine Bill Cosby without a shirt on, thank you very much,” she said, sipping her iced tea.

“Something has to give. I don't have enough money to pay my rent next month. If things got really bad, do you think…you know—that I could move in with you and Chris? Just for a little while?”

Right after we graduated from NYU, Norma's grandmother bought her a tiny, two-bedroom condo near Central Park. Tall, wide windows encompassed the entire apartment with light, and the hardwood floors shined like new pennies. She immediately asked me to move in, and I was both excited and relieved that I didn't have to find a place of my own. Life had been fun and carefree then, I was an intern at
Spirit
, and Norma was just getting her photography business off the ground. I'd still be there if it she hadn't ruined everything and fell in love with Christopher Rodriguez, a handsome chef that she met at one of the weddings that she photographed. It was love at first sight for them, and he slowly came over to the house more and more. They would sit together on the sofa, snuggled in each other's arms, while I would be in my tiny bedroom reading, or wondering why the latest man I'd been dating had dumped me. After Chris proposed, I knew I needed to find a place to stay—both for their privacy and for my sanity—but I didn't think I could afford the neighborhood that grew so dear to me. My first week as book review editor at
Spirit
Magazine
, I mentioned my position to Bill and he helped me find an apartment, albeit totally out of my price range.

“Bill! I can't afford this place.”

“Sure you can. Things might be tight—”

“You've seen my paycheck, Bill. Food would be a
luxury
if I stayed here.”

“Well, you have friends. Eat at their house.”

Problem solved. Most evenings I would eat at Norma's house, and not once did Chris make me feel like the third wheel that I often was.

“It may be a little crowded—” Norma started.

“I know Chris has turned my old bedroom into his office, but that's okay, I'll sleep—”

“I'm pregnant.”

I sunk back in my seat.

Pregnant.

I should have been congratulating her, telling her how happy I was, but I couldn't shake off the realization that she was leaving me again—first by getting married, and now this. Norma was my plan B; I didn't have any other options.

“That's great,” I finally said, taking a bite out of my Caesar salad, crunching on a huge Parmesan crouton.

“You don't sound too pleased,” Norma said.

I knew I hurt her feelings, but I couldn't wrap my mind around it. Everything was happening so fast. I had been so careless with my money, always thinking there was time to earn more. But now I was unemployed. And with thirty creeping up like a thief, my stomach trembled with the eggs in my ovaries that would never be fertilized. Where was my husband? Why didn't I own my apartment that I could fill with children? I had no one to lean on, a lesson I've known all my life, but the full realization had hit home today. Who told Norma it was time to grow up?

“No, no, I'm really happy for you—”

“You don't act like it.” She sighed. “I'm sorry about what happened to you, and you know if things were different we would love for you to stay with us, but the apartment will be crowded enough as it is.”

“I know, I know. Don't worry about me; I'll be fine. Let's talk about you. Have you picked out baby names?”

I plastered a smile on my face and listened to my good friend talk about her future bundle of joy as my heart squeezed with the knowledge that I would have to figure this out on my own.

Assistant

I had another interview scheduled for that afternoon with
YOUTH
, a hip young magazine for the eighteen-to-thirty set. It was a much different take than I was used to, but it was one of the last magazines that was hiring.

“Mrs. Sommers will see you now.”

“Sommers? You mean—”

I took a sharp inhale of breath as I saw my former assistant, Cassidy, in the large office. She was seated behind a modern opaque glass desk, and was on the phone when I entered. We both waited by the door until she waved us in.

She hung up, and her assistant spoke: “Mrs. Sommers, this is our last interview for today, Mariah Stevens. Will you need anything else?”

“No, Sheila, thank you. Please Mariah have a seat.”

I couldn't hide my shock as I lowered myself into the white leather chair.

“Cassidy, how did you—”

“I'd prefer if you called me Mrs. Sommers.”

“Cassidy—”

“Mrs. Sommers,” Cassidy said, in a tone that let me know she wasn't playing. “Now let's see your résumé.”

“Cass—I mean, Mrs. Sommers, do you really think that's necessary? You know I'm qualified for this position.”

“I'll be the judge of that. Your résumé, please.”

I dug in my bag and handed it to her.

“You've only worked at one magazine?”

“
Spirit
Magazine
has been the only magazine I've worked for, yes. But you can see that I've held many—”

Cassidy held up her hand.

“I can read, Mariah.”

“Mrs. Stevens,” I corrected.

Cassidy stopped reading and held my gaze. “Excuse me?”

“My name is Mrs. Stevens. You've called me that for three years.”

“Mariah, I've called you Mrs. Stevens when I was your assistant. Do I look like your assistant now?”

“No.”

“What?”

“No.”

“So I will address you as Mariah, and you will address me as Mrs. Sommers. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good. Now, I'm well aware of your qualifications, but I think you're a little over-qualified for this position.”

“As an entertainment editor? How so?”

“I'm sorry, is that what you thought the position was? No,
I'm
the entertainment editor for
YOUTH
magazine. If you got the job you would be
my
assistant.”

“Assistant?”

“Yes. But that's
if
you get the job.”

“But I thought you have an assistant already?”

“Sheila's getting married and is relocating with her husband. You wouldn't have that problem, now would you?”

I stiffened. “I hardly think my marital status is any of your business.”

“You mean your
lack
of a marital status, don't you?” She chuckled to herself and then finished reading.

“You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?”

“Excuse me?”

“You enjoy seeing me in here groveling for a job.”

Cassidy sat back in here chair. “You know what, Mariah? I do. I enjoy the fact that someone like you would be in here needing a job.”

“Someone like me?”

“Yes. Someone who loves to make other people miserable. Someone who thinks that having a high-paying job and a college degree automatically make them better than everyone else. Someone who does this,” she said, flicking her wrist, “to signal to someone that it's time for them to leave her presence.”

“I don't do that.”

“You don't anymore. Because you don't have the power to do that to someone, the power to remove their dignity when you're supposed to train them to become better workers, better people, even. No, you didn't do that. But you know what? I learned anyway. I worked my butt off for you, and not once did you compliment me, not once did you say one nice thing to me. I was nothing but a waste of space to you.”

“I never said that—”

“Please, Mariah. Spare me. You might not remember, but I do. And I won't forget it. But you know what? You did teach me one thing. You taught me how
not
to treat people. None of my staff will
ever
endure the humiliation you put me through. Never. So if you come in here thinking you could ever work for me, you have another think coming. We don't need your stuck-up attitude ruining our positive work environment.”

She slid my résumé across her desk back to me.

I snatched it off the table and put it back in my bag. “I'm sorry. I had no idea—”

“You knew exactly what you were doing.” She picked up the phone and flicked her wrist at me.

I flinched at the coldness of her dismissal and got up to leave.

“Mariah?”

“Yes?” I said, turning.

“Close the door on your way out.”

Spaghetti and Meatballs

The only thing that could save me after that disaster of an interview was a heaping plate of Chris's savory spaghetti and meatballs. I was on my second helping, my mouth full of garlic bread as I told them my story.

“Can you believe what Cassidy said to me?” I said, crumbs flying across the table.

Norma gave Chris a look and drank a sip of water.

“What?” I asked.

“What?”

“I saw that look. You think I deserved that treatment today?”

No one said a word.

“Hello!”

“Okay, you want the truth?” Norma asked.

“Uh-oh, maybe I should go in the other room for this,” Chris said, standing.

“Sit down!” we both said.

“Now finish,” I said, slurping a huge bite of spaghetti in my mouth.

“Remember that day a couple of months ago when I came to your job and ate lunch with you?”

“Yeah…”

“You were so rude and mean to your assistant. I felt bad for her.”

I flipped my hair over my shoulder. “How was I mean to her?”

“You snapped your fingers at her, you name called—you were pure evil!”

“I was?”

“Correction. You are.”

“I'll admit that I can be a little tough—”

She knocked on the table. “This table is tough. You're like—”

“Stainless steel,” Chris offered.

“Yeah. Thanks, babe,” she said, giving him a kiss across the table.

“Excuse me while I throw up,” I said, making gagging noises.

“Anyway, you're like stainless steel. You mean well, you don't stain and you look perfect, but you wouldn't want to do a whole kitchen in it, you know? It'd be too—”

“Cold,” Chris said.

“Exactly!”

“Maybe you should have left,” I said to Chris.

He put his arms up in defense. “Sorry, just trying to help. Don't kill the messenger. How you treat people at work is the same way you treat men.”

“And how do I treat men?”

“Like you don't have the time of day for them, like you don't need them, like they're beneath you—”

“We've never dated, Chris. How would you know how I treat men?”

“I did try to fix you up with my cousin Enrique, remember?”

“Oh. Oh, that. Well, that wouldn't have worked out.”

“And why not?”

“He was a waiter in your restaurant, Chris. I don't do waiters.”

“See! That's exactly the attitude I'm talking about,” Norma said. “You act like you're better than everyone.”

“I do not! It's just that some people out there aren't goal-oriented. I am, and that puts me on a different level than most people.”

“Yeah, a
better
level. Admit it, Mariah. You had it coming today with your assistant.”

“I don't think so. All my life people have been making fun of me. Norma, you remember how bad it was in school—“

“Everybody gets teased in school,” Chris said. “Even the popular kids.”

“Which you probably were,” I added.

“True. But I still got made fun of.”

“Not like me. Tar Baby, Cotton Ball, African Booty Scratcher—”

Chris spit up some of his wine. “What? African Booty—”

“Scratcher. I got called Blacky, Baldy, Chickenhead—”

“You had a very imaginative school,” he said.

“You weren't the only one who got made fun of. Remember me? Wetback was one of their favorites even though both my parents
and
grandparents are American citizens. Remember how some of them wrote a fake yearbook and said that I was most likely to have eight kids and run a fruit stand? That was mean,” Norma said.

Chris shook his head. “Oh, the trials of being rich.”

Norma hit his arm. “It's not funny. Mariah and I were the only minorities at that school. They really tore into us.”

“But your sister went to that school, too. She didn't get made fun of?”

I waved my hand. “Half-sister. And she doesn't count.”

“Why not?”

“Because her father is white. She fit in with most of the kids at Druid.”

He sighed. “Everyone gets made fun of. Including your sister. If you two hadn't been teased so much maybe you wouldn't have bonded and been such close friends. The point of this whole thing is that you can't make other people pay for your hard childhood.”

“Wanna bet?” I said, taking another sip of my wine.

“Well, what are you going to do now?”

I shrugged and pushed my plate away. “Truth is, I don't know. That was one of the last magazines in the city. I can't concede to working at some neighborhood paper.” I shivered. “No, I couldn't do that.”

“You have your degree. Why don't you try teaching?” Norma asked. Chris stood and started clearing the dishes away. I mumbled a thanks when he grabbed mine.

“No. I don't want to do that.”

Norma sighed and scooted her chair closer to mine. “Look, I know you have a lot of grand ideas about where you want to work and where you see yourself in five years, but right now, you just need to find a job.”

I opened my mouth in protest and she put her hand over it. “You need some money coming in to handle your expenses. You barely could afford that apartment with the job you had. You're too smart to keep passing up jobs like this.” She removed her hand and I nodded.

“You're right. I do need some money coming in.” I twirled my weave around my pinky. “What kind of help would Chris need at the restaurant?”

She smiled. “Now we're talking.