Fiction by NBL: Call Me Michael, Chapter 7 - Dance
“Now where I come from…we don’t give a damn/We do whatever we please”. – Prince, “Uptown”
The first person Michelle decided to share the news of her new job with was Theo Fletcher, her classmate from Columbia. They met for drinks at The Campbell on Vanderbilt Avenue. They sat at the bar sipping drinks while they waited for their table.
“I don't understand,” Theodore said as he peered at Michelle over the lip of his glass. “You've had job offers from some of the biggest newspapers in the country and you didn't take any of them. You’re stuck on the Recorder for some reason. Notoriously the most sexist organization in the news media. They just reached a settlement in a sexual harassment lawsuit with a woman who used to work there a year ago. Why? I mean,” he snorted, “did you need the challenge or something?”
Michelle was looking down at the glass of bourbon she was cradling, swirling the liquid inside. She slowly lifted her eyes to meet Theodore’s. “Yes,” she said bluntly.
Theodore hiked up his brows as he tilted his head back. “Oooh,” he said. “I see. Well,” Theodore lifted up his wine glass. “here’s to breaking the glass ceiling at The New York Recorder!”
Michelle lifted up her glass to meet his, and they clinked
****
“Silencio!” Carl’s voice boomed as he clapped his hands inside the ballet studio at the Alvin Ailey Dance Academy. The 25 young students in the room dressed in various pastel-colored leotards, short wrap skirts, tights and soft ballet slippers, all hushed to attention as they turned to look at him.
“Ok, people. This is our final rehearsal before the official dress rehearsals begin. So! Let’s give it all we’ve got. Aaaand, five, six, seven, eight!” Carl tapped his baton on the vinyl marley floor of the dance rehearsal hall. The hard end of the stick made an echo sound as the music started, the dancers began to move. The classical music wafted from the overhead speakers as the dancers lilted and floated around the room. “Sally, I need you to keep those knees elevated! Denise, remember to pivot” Carl announced as he paced back and forth in front of the mirror, watching his students with an eagle eye. “Very good, Samantha. Don’t forget to reach high for the sky”. Carl demonstrated the dance move for her. She returned the motion. “That will be all for today. Good work from all of you!” He and the students clapped as they exited the room.
Carl slung his workout bag over his shoulder and walked along W. 55 th Street. He noticed a commotion up ahead on the corner of 55 th Street and 8 th Avenue. A television crew were filming an episode of Law & Order. Carl gasped with delight. He ran towards the crowd of people that had gathered to witness the filming. There were cop cars everywhere, flashing their red and blue lights. “Where is he? Where is he!!” Carl shouted at no one in particular. There he was – standing in front of the craft table, drinking from a paper cup – Benjamin Bratt, the Peruvian American heartthrob who was married to Julia Roberts.
“Oh, he’s so beautiful”, Carl swooned, placing a hand on his chest. “But I need to get home and this is blocking my entrance to the subway, dammit!”
He had to walk a different way to the subway. When he arrived home, he recounted his experience to Michelle, who was at her desk writing. “Benjamin Bratt! Nice! Did you ask him to marry you?” Michelle teased. “Girl, shut up” Carl laughed as he pulled his dance clothes off and got in the shower. When he got out dried off and got dressed, he threw his body onto Michelle’s bed. “Sooo, chica…have you decided?” His shoulders were shrugged and he smiled big, teeth and all.
“Decided what?”
Carl’s face fell. “Do not play with me, puta”, Carl hissed.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding”, Michelle laughed.
“You’d better be,” Carl rolled his eyes.
“I’m going to work for the New York Recorder,” Michelle stood up and announced.
Carl froze, his eyes darting everywhere as he searched for meaning. “Hmmm” he said. He crossed his legs, placing an elbow on his knee and dropped his head onto it. “That’s a funny way to say Cosmopolitan Magazine.”
“Carl. Don’t. Be happy for me, please,” Michelle sat back down and frowned.
“Ok, I’m happy for you. So you’re going to be an investigative reporter for them, right?”
Michelle forced an exaggerated smile. “Not exactly.”
“The fuck you mean not exactly? What are you going to be doing?”
Michelle’s hands fidgeted as she searched for the words. She decided to just come out and say it. “I’m going to be a sex columnist”.
Carl stared at her. “Hmmm. That’s a funny way to say ‘investigative reporter’.” His hands dropped to his sides. “A WHAT columnist?” His eyes bulged out of his head.
“You heard me the first time, Carl,” Michelle turned around to face her desk, rolling her eyes.
Carl sprang up from the bed. “Um, excuse me, chica, we are not done talking. Why are you a sex columnist and not an investigator reporter?”
Michelle shut her eyes tight and sighed heavily. Why did she feel like she was about to get lectured by her father? She slowly turned around. She opened her mouth to speak.
“I’m not done,” Carl shoved his index finger in her face. “Also, why the hell are you a sex columnist for the New York Recorder, the same newspaper, may I remind you, who made you come crying home and into my arms? Instead of being a sex columnist at Cosmo or Rolling Stone, or um, I don’t know, Ebony/Essence?”
Michelle winced and shrugged. “I don’t know,” she whined. “Look. I have a plan, ok? A method to my madness.”
Carl threw his palm up. “Well do you mind sharing this madness with me, your best amigo?” Carl looked sad.
“Not now”, Michelle said, her back turned to him.
Carl’s mouth flew open and he put a hand over his heart. “I am wounded !” he gasped.
“Please, Carl” said, her voice quivering. She was about to cry. “I can’t talk about it right now. It’s bad enough I’m going to have to tell my parents.”
Carl leaned in. “If you can’t talk about it, mi amor…then why are you doing it?”
The room was silent for a long moment, only the sound of Michelle’s sniffling could be heard. Carl sighed and slowly sat back down on the edge of the bed. “Alright, well,” he began, “you have your reasons.” He paused. “What are you going to tell your parents, by the way?”
Michelle turned to face him. Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet with tears. “I could tell them that I’m a freelance writer?” she said with an upward inflection, as if floating the idea in front of Carl to see what he’d say.
He threw up his hands and rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. “Dios Mio!” he bellowed. “Francis is going to pitch a fit!” he shrieked.
Michelle sniffed and raised her chin defiantly. “Yeah, well…my father doesn’t run my life anymore. I’m an adult now, and I can make my own decisions.” Her hands trembled as she said that last sentence, because she didn’t believe it. Not yet, anyway.
Carl snapped his fingers in Z formation. “Aaaaand that says what?” he said. “C’mere, girl,”, he held both his hands out and beckoned with his fingers, “gimme some sugar. I’m proud of you.” They went to Olive Garden to celebrate. Olive Garden was where they would eat “fancy” meals back in DC during their undergraduate years.
Before Michelle started her new job at the Recorder, she made a little side trip to Minneapolis.
Everything is black and white. D’Angelo is sitting at a piano inside Hitsville, USA, the famed recording studio. All the iconic groups are there: The Supremes, The Temps, The Four Tops, The Marvelettes, The Miracles, The Isleys. They’re all standing around the room. The only one not there? Marvin Gaye.
Suddenly he floats into the room, almost in slow motion. In fact, the whole dream is in slow motion. Rail-thin, pre-beard, pre-What’s-Goin-On Marvin Gaye.
“We’re ready for you, man,” Marvin announces. Everyone quiets down. D’Angelo places his hands on the keys and begins to play a melody. A gospel-tinged piece. His young hands fly up and down the 88 keys. He starts to bang on them, pounding out a hard gospel powerhouse. Then it’s over. The entire room erupts with thunderous applause. Everyone is clapping – except Marvin. He slowly saunters over to D and extends his hand. “That was good, young man”, Marvin says, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. D returns the gesture and they pump hands. D tries to pull his hand back, but Marvin won’t let go. D pulls some more. Marvin’s hold becomes tighter. More hurriedly, more anxiously. Marvin’s smile slowly dissipates, and his face turns to stone. His hold becomes a tight grip. D is hysterical with fright as he tries to wrench free. But the harder he pulls, the tighter Marvins grip is, the creepier his stone face becomes.
D gasped for air as he jolted upright, a hand over his chest. He was soaked in sweat, his face twisted with anguish. He ripped the sheets from his body as he swung his feet over the side of the bed. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. He stood and walked to the window. He unclasped the latch, opened it and stuck his head out. Then he shut his eyes tight and breathed deep. When his heartrate slowed down some, D began to cry.
The nightmares started when he was 10, after Marvin Gaye’s murder at the hands of his preacher father. They traumatized him so bad that even his fundamentalist Christian mother had to send him to a therapist who helped young D to realize that the dreams were because of the parallels between him and Marvin, both sons of preachers. D was subconsciously afraid that his estranged father would do to him what Marvin’s father did to him.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, his fist balled up, ready to strike. It was Angie. “D”, she said. “are you ok?”
D lowered his arm. “No”, he said honestly.
“You had that dream again.”
D nodded. His breathing had calmed, but he was still rubbing his chest. Angie took his hand and led him to the bed, where they both sat.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I thought those dreams were over. I thought the therapist helped you figure out what those dreams were about.”
D slowly shook his head. “He did. But I think Marvin’s trying to tell me something.”
“D, no,” Angie said. “They’re just dreams, nothing more.”
“Angie! In the Old Testament, Yahweh sent dreams to the prophets of old, to send them messages.”
“Did you really just compare yourself to Moses and David?”
“I’m just saying, Angie…” D trailed off as he stood back up and paced the floor.
Angie grabbed his hand and pulled him back to the bed. “Hey, hey…cmon…it’s okay.”
She put her arms around him, squeezing him tight. D sobbed into her shoulder.
Giorgio Armani wanted to honor D’Angelo with one of the biggest celebrations of the season. It was going to be the talk of the town. Every A-lister would be in attendance to celebrate music’s newest genius: D’Angelo.
The only problem was: D’Angelo didn’t want to go. At all. Being around other people, especially strangers - especially high-fallutin’ strangers - made him very anxious. It took some heavy coaxing, but Angie finally convinced him to attend. That, and some premium, Grade-A marijuana. Angie went shopping for a fancy dress. She contemplated whether or not she wanted to hide her baby bump. She was 3 months pregnant with D’s first child (her second). The stylist at the store picked out an emerald green gown. Her exotic (and glowing) ebony skin looked radiant against the color. When she got home, she showed the gown to D, who nodded his head and smiled. “Yo, that’s dope”, was all he would say. As for his attire, D was going with his usual frumpy pinstripe suit and fedora. D was very insecure about his weight. He wasn’t always heavyset. He was chubby as a kid but then lost his baby weight when he was closer to 20. Then he gained it all back again.
The night of the big event had finally arrived. Georgio arranged for a limousine to pick up the couple. D had been smoking all day, so he was nice and high by the time it got there. “Yo, let’s just get this shit over with”, he mumbled as he looked in the mirror after throwing on his suit jacket. Even with the weed in his system, he still didn’t want to attend this party, but at least he’d have Angie by his side to absorb some of the attention.
The limo pulled up to their apartment and D and Angie climbed in. The Manhattan night was sparkling and bright as they rode through the streets. When they arrived at 5 th Avenue and E. 26 th Street – three blocks from the party venue, the Lexington Armory - the limo suddenly pulled over and stopped.
“Yo, what’s going on?” Angie asked, sitting up and peering over the back seat. “why did we stop? Lexington Armory is a few more blocks”.
Just then, another limousine slowly pulled up beside theirs. There was movement, the sound of car doors slamming. A beat, then D’s coach door was yanked open.
“Hold up!” Angie yelled. “What is going on?”
Someone’s hand reached in and gripped D’s arm. It snatched him out of the limo.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” said the limo driver, looking at Angie through the rearview mirror. He didn’t have the courage to turn around and face her.
Angie’s expression hardened. “You knew this was going to happen?” she screamed.
“I’m so sorry,” he simpered.
Angie scooted to D’s side of the backseat and looked out the window. Two secret service looking people were ushering D into the other limo. “Did D know this was going to happen?” Angie said, her voice shaking.
“No, ma’am, he didn’t know”, the driver said.
No one spoke a word to Angie as this all took place Whoever these people were just took D’Angelo and left her sitting there in the limo.
“What am I supposed to do now?” Angie whimpered. Tears stung her eyes, ruining her emerald eye shadow and mascara as they ran down her face. She looked at the limo driver. He finally turned to look back at her. “I’ll make sure you get to the Armory, ma’am,” he said. As they pulled up to the massive brick and limestone building on Lexington Avenue, almost everyone was already inside except for a few stragglers and some security. You could hear club music pulsating from the inside. The limo driver got out and opened Angie’s door. He leaned down and gave her his arm as she got out. Angie gave him a dirty look. Seething with anger, she didn’t say a word. The driver silently walked Angie to the front entrance. It was the least he could do.
Inside, the place was crawling with party people. Behind a glass wall, A DJ blared “Brown Sugar”. Bright neon lights, reflected by a large disco ball in the middle of the ceiling, danced around the large room.
Angie looked around as she walked in. There had to have been at least 750 people there. D’Angelo was no where to be found. Along the walls were small circular tables covered with white tablecloths and multicolored balloons and confetti. Angie walked up to one near the front entrance and sat down.
“Lunga vita a D'Angelo!” (“Long live D’Angelo!) yelled Giorgio Armani as he popped the cork on a large bottle of champagne in the upstairs VIP section of the Armory. The entire room erupted into cheers as the bubbly drink sprayed everywhere. D’Angelo sat at a baby grand piano situated in the middle of the room. But he wasn’t alone. After the party organizers kidnapped D from his limo, movie starlet Vivica A. Fox - still fresh off of her performance in the hit Will Smith blockbuster “Independence Day” - was waiting for him in the second limo.The plan was to make it appear as if the two arrived at the party together and walked the red carpet. The pair emerged from their limo, walking hand in hand, Vivica all smiles as the dutiful date, giving the photogs more meat for their magazines.
The iconic Italian fashion designer spoke very little English, so when he addressed D’Angelo, he used exaggerated hand gestures and broken English.
“Isa, how you say,” Giorgio snapped his fingers, “funky?” (referring to the music the DJ was playing).
“Yeah, yeah,” D’Angelo laughed. Vivica laughed too, placing her chin on his shoulder, and a hand on his thigh. D was going along with it all, but the weed high was already wearing thin, and he could feel the anxiety creep back in. He wanted to go home. A tall thin young man wearing a long black dress with combat boots walked up to Armani and whispered something in his ear. “Ah, si!” Giorgio exclaimed. “Portala qui!” (Bring her here!)
D’Angelo was whispering in Vivica’s ear, pretending to enjoy where he was at.
“Ah, Michelle!” said Giorgio.
D’Angelo nearly broke his neck snapping it towards Armani.
“Ciao, caro, che bello vederti,” said Giorgio excitedly.
Michelle appeared, wearing a long sleeved black gown. Her hair was curly, littered with small pink bows. She was wearing shiny pink lipgloss. “Anche a Lei, signor Armani” (same to you, Mr. Armani) They did air kisses.
D’Angelo’s anxiety instantly evaporated. He sprang up from the piano bench, nearly knocking Vivica off of it. “Michelle!”
Michelle turned to look at him. “Hi, D!” she smiled. She was holding a gold-rimmed champagne glass. She sat the glass down on top of the piano before giving him a hug.
“Vi conoscete?” (The two of you know each other?) Giorgio looked back and forth between the two, his gaze stopping on D as he pointed. Then he looked back at Michelle. “You translate?”
Michelle looked at D. “He asked us if we know each other.”
“Yeah, we met a year ago”, D’Angelo said.
“A little less than a year ago”, Michelle corrected him. She turned to Giorgio and spoke Italian.
“Ci siamo conosciuti alla festa di Prince per l'Emancipation a Paisley Park.” (We met at Prince’s Emancipation party at Paisley Park)
Michelle’s Italian was flawless. The words rolled off her tongue like she was born and raised in the European country. D’Angelo stared at her with awe.
A few minutes later, D walked up to Michelle as she stood in a dark corner of the VIP room, still sipping her champagne and looking at the dancing people. “I ain’t know you spoke Italian,” he said as he grabbed her hand.
“I speak 5 languages,” Michelle bragged. “fluently.” She winked an elaborately lined eye.
“Word. That’s what’s up,” D licked his lips.
Suddenly a bright flash blinded them both. D and Michelle had to put their hands up to shield their faces. A paparazzi had apparently snuck past security and gotten into the VIP section. He raised his camera to get a second shot when two big burly men in short-sleeved black t-shirts – one black, one white - tackled him to the floor and dragged him out.
Giorgio and Vivica ran over to them. “D’Angelo! La prego di accettare le mie sincere scuse” (Please accept my sincere apologies) Giorgio made prayer hands Then he looked to Michelle. “Please-a, trans-late-a”.
“Giorgio is very sorry for what happened,” Michelle said to D.
“It’s cool,” D mumbled.
Vivica jumped in front of her and quickly wrapped her arm around D’s, pushing her out of the way and nearly knocking the drink out of her hand. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” D said.
“I’m so sorry, dear,” Vivica said to Michelle as an afterthought. “come over here.”
D apologized for his rudeness and introduced the two women.
“I’m a big fan!” Michelle yelled over the loud music.
“Thank you!” Vivica yelled back. She was wearing a shimmery gold minidress, her signature long brown legs glistening.
D reached over and touched Michelle’s shoulder. “What you been up to?”
Michelle lightly wiped some champagne from her lip with her index finger. “I was at the Museum of Sex earlier. It’s a couple blocks from here.” She pointed in its direction.
“Oh yeah!” Vivica said. “I heard about that place! I’ve been wanting to go there.”
“It was very interesting. I learned a lot,” Michelle shouted. The DJ was playing a remix of Madonna’s “Erotica”.
“That’s so nice for you. Well, me and Michael (she called him by his real name, to seem like they were really close) are going to go back over to the piano now,” Vivica announced. She grabbed D’s hand and pulled him away. Michelle watched as they disappeared into the crowd of dancing people.
“Was…she giving me shade?” Michelle thought to herself. Worse. She was trying to make Michelle jealous.
“Hmm,” Michelle said to herself. Oh well. Time to sip more champagne and people watch.
If Vivica hadn’t pulled D away, Michelle would’ve asked him why he hadn’t called her. A month after she graduated from Columbia, she purchased a brand-new cellular phone, a Nokia. Very expensive, but a necessary and important tool for her new job. She called D and gave him her new phone number as soon as she bought it. “Now give me your cellphone number,” Michelle said to him. “I don’t have one,” D said.
“Why not?” Michelle whined.
“Don’t want one,” D mumbled. “Don’t need one.” Michelle could tell he didn’t want to talk about it by the tone of his voice.
That was 4 months ago. It was almost the end of 1997. Tonight was her first time seeing him since the Prince concert in July.
Michelle decided to go back downstairs. The other DJ was spinning “Sumthin Sumthin” by Maxwell. She decided to join the other partygoers in the middle of the dance floor. After a few minutes, she looked up and saw D and Vivica descending the stairs. Michelle danced, glass in hand, while watching them. Then, she saw a woman in an emerald green gown walk up to them. Michelle couldn’t make out what she was saying. The music drowned it out. But the woman in green looked very angry. She got in D’s face and yelled something at him. He yelled something back, his brows furrowed and his lips snarled. Then the woman in green jabbed her index finger back and forth between D and Vivica. Vivica appeared visibly shellshocked, standing in the middle of it all. Finally, she threw up her hands and walked away.
“Ah, now it all makes sense,” Michelle said out loud to no one in particular. “you were just decoration, Ms. Fox. The woman in green is D’s real date. And apparently, his baby mama.” D opened his jacket and pulled out a cellphone. He opened it and pressed some buttons. “You liar,” Michelle gasped. She watched D and the woman in green argue as they left the building.