Fiction by New Breed Leader: Call Me Michael, Chapter 5: The Baddest Bitch
“Look at you…you’re so smooth” – D’Angelo
April 1997.
Michelle stood in front of the 75-story glass and steel tower that housed the New York Recorder newspaper. She looked up and surveyed its height, almost falling backwards. The metal and glass tower glistened against the mid- morning sun. She’d been in this building before, as part of her training at Columbia. But now that training had come to an end. Both her Masters thesis and group project had been turned in; soon the job offers started to pour in. The Washington Post, The Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune, Newsweek, Time-Life, Rolling Stone, and even Playboy. But the one publication that didn’t reach out to her – the one she wanted to hear from the most – was the New York Recorder. She decided to take the initiative and call in a favor. She went to Daniel Rosenkranz, who set up the meeting.
Inside, Michelle sat at a long shiny rectangular conference table on the 10th floor. Her hair and makeup were immaculate – thanks to Carl, who also put her outfit together. Her permed hair was rolled into a bun, held in place by pearl pins. She wore a silk white button-up shirt, and black pleated pants, underneath which she wore a breath-taking girdle. Across from her sat The Editor-in-Chief, a short bald white man named Bill Scott and several other heads of the newspaper – all white men - from different departments. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows could be seen another skyscraper. The five men sat across from her at the table, staring.
“I am very impressed with your credentials and your academic achievements, Miss Simmons”, said Bill. “I can tell that you are fearless. That’s an extremely important quality to have as an investigative reporter.
Michelle smiled nervously and straightened her clothes before dropping her hands in her lap. “I’ve been told I’m fearless to a fault. I figured I’d might as well use that trait for good instead of evil”.
A low rumble of chuckles from across the table could be heard.
The head of the Metro section – a bulbous hairy white man named Tom McGinnis - leaned forward on the table, interlocking his puffy sausage fingers. “How would you like to be our sex columnist?” he wheezed. “You’d have to be extremely fearless for that”. He smiled wide and grunted a chuckle.
Michelle’s jaw dropped and her mouth hung open. She stared at him, stunned. The most awkward silence in the world hung in the air. Bill Scott brought his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat.
“Miss Simmons, as I said, I am very impressed with your credentials. But unfortunately, at this time, our investigative reporter team is full.”
Beads of sweat formed on Michelle’s forehead. Her heart rattled in her chest. Her legs wiggled furiously. “O…kay. I understand”, she managed to choke out.
“That offer for sex columnist is still on the table, however”, said Tom, leaning forward further, a wicked grin lifting the crusty corners of his mouth.
Michelle’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. She felt tears sting the back of her eyes. She blinked hard several times to keep them from falling. She slowly lowered her head to look at the table, her eyes catatonic, defeat settling into her face. Her reflection was looking back at her. Time seemed to slow to a molasses-like crawl as she mentally struggled to figure out what to say. Her hands trembled, and fight-or-flight suddenly took hold. She felt this sudden urge to jump out the window. Finally, she snapped to attention. She took a deep breath, looked the Editor-in-Chief dead in the eye and gave a wooden smile.
“Thank you so much for the opportunity to meet with you all and talk to you. It has been a privilege”. Michelle didn’t know if she sounded sarcastic or passive-aggressive or…what. She didn’t care. She felt a sudden, violent urge to run. In her mind, she had already teleported home, crying to Carl, her body just needed to catch up. To run far away from this conference room, this building, as if the abject humiliation she just experienced could fuel the surge all the way back to the Bronx.
Carl was watering the plants at the apartment when the door flew open and a blurred mass of hair and bags barreled past him. He heard a door slam. He hurriedly set the powder blue watering can down on the table and ran down the hallway to Michelle’s bedroom door. “Mi Amor”, Carl lightly tapped on the door. “Do you want to talk?” He could hear sobs and sniffles on the other side. “Honey, what happened? Please talk to me”. He placed both hands on his hips, a serious look on his face, his nose nearly touching the door.
There was a long moment of silence, and then Carl heard a click. The door slowly opened, and Michelle’s wet face appeared. Her eye makeup was running down her cheeks, her lipstick smeared, her hair a tumbled mess. She collapsed into Carl’s arms, letting out a loud wail. Carl wrapped his arms tightly around her. “That’s right, mi amor”. He moved a hand up and down her back. “Let it out”, Carl said softly, his cheek touching the top of her head.
May 1997.
Michelle Alexandria Simmons graduated at the top of her class at Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism in May 1997. Both of her parents and several aunts, uncles and cousins were in attendance as she walked across the stage to accept her Master of Science in Investigative Journalism. Carl was in the audience too, and everyone could hear him because he screamed and clapped the loudest. “That’s my friend! That’s my friend over there!” he pointed. “The baddest bitch! Her writing is going to change the world, honey! Yes!”
At the post-graduation party at Gramercy Tavern on East 20th Street, waiters pushed several tables together in the middle of the restaurant so the party of 25 could sit and celebrate. Michelle’s parents presented her with two gifts: a gold vintage fountain pen worth $2,000; and first-class round-trip plane tickets to Rome, Italy.
Michelle cried as she hugged them.
“We love you, baby” said her mother, Faye. “We’re so proud of you”.
While the food and drinks flowed to and from the kitchen and their table, her father said, “Do you know what you’re going to do when you get back from Rome?”. It was clear by the serious tone in his voice that he expected an answer. A good one. Everyone at the table stopped their conversations, turning their gazes to Michelle. She swallowed. “I’ve been courted by a few publications”, she said.
“Courted? Courted?” Carl said incredulously. He held her hand as he sat next to her. “Girl, two of them started a bidding war over you”.
It was true; The Chicago Tribune and The Los Angeles times tried to one up each other to give Michelle a job at their publications. But she didn’t want to work for either of those newspapers. “I don’t want to move to Los Angeles or Chicago” she whined to Carl a few weeks ago. “They both have offices in New York, estupida!” Carl threw a pillow at her.
She neglected to tell her parents about the fiasco at the New York Recorder.
“I haven’t decided yet, however”, Michelle said, feeling the weight of all her family’s eyes as they focused on her.
“Well, it’s alright, you’ve got plenty of time”, her mother patted her hand. She leaned in until they were touching foreheads.
Her father, Francis, sat stone faced. He forced a smile. “Yes…go to Rome, have fun”, he said, as if granting her permission. He rose from his seat to walk over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve more than earned it”.
And have fun she did. With Carl and Letitia in tow, Michelle had a grand time in Rome. They toured all the sights – The Colosseum, The Pantheon, Vatican City. They danced the night away in nightclubs; sampled gelato and people watched on the Piazza Navona. Michelle enjoyed not having to think about work for a while. Just enjoying life, being young and alive. Not worrying about what her next step would be. She’d been working 24/7 nonstop being both an undergraduate and professional student for what felt like forever. As she Carl and Letitia lounged on her hotel balcony overlooking the Piazza Navona, Michelle made a decision.
“I’m not going to accept any job offers right now”, she announced to no one in particular.
Carl stiffened and slowly rose up from his chair, raising an eyebrow. “Excuse moi?” he said.
Michelle took a deep breath and shrugged, staring up at the beautiful starry sky. “I’m just going to…take it easy for a while. Maybe do some more traveling. See the world and write about the places and people I come across”.
“I think that’s a good idea”, Letitia said, sitting up in her lounge chair.
“I don’t”, Carl rolled his eyes at both of them. “What are your parents going to say, Chica? How are you going to explain this to them?”
“I haven’t decided that, either”, Michelle said slowly, still staring at the sky.
“She’s a grown ass woman”, said Letitia. “She doesn’t owe her parents an explanation”.
“Says you”, Carl hissed. “Michelle, do you remember your joyless, strict-ass father asking you what you were going to do after you got back?”
Letitia reached over and patted Michelle’s thigh. “He told her to go have fun, that it didn’t matter”.
“I wasn’t talking to you”, Carl hissed again.
Letitia slowly crossed her arms, a contemptuous glare on her face. “Excuse me?”
Michelle groaned. “Carl…”
“Nah-uh, no”, Carl wagged his finger at her. “You had better make a decision and make it fast, because your father is not playing”.
“That’s enough!” Michelle snapped. She pushed herself off of her lounge chair. “I’m going to bed”. She turned and walked inside the hotel suite, but not before looking over her shoulder. “Please don’t kill each other”, she yawned. “Goodnight”.