If This World Were Mine Read online

  After Howard, I did my residence at Columbia University and Harlem Hospital. It was in New York where I met my dream. There were so many times with Donald when I felt he was some type of angel whose responsibility was to make my dreams come true.

  One winter night, after a movie and dinner, we sat in Donald’s apartment, listening to the music of the seventies. You know, the Isley Brothers, the O’Jays, Marvin Gaye, and Aretha Franklin. A tear rolled from my eye as ribbons of a winter moonlight moved into the darkened room. Without knowing where my tear came from or why, Donald looked at me and said, “Dance with me.” So on the terrace of a Harlem brownstone we slow-danced to the music of all the songs I loved in my teens, like “If This World Were Mine,” “Stairway to Heaven,” “Giving Him Something He Can Feel,” and “Hello, It’s Me.” I had never slow-danced with anyone, but with Donald I was suddenly a Black Fred Astaire. Snow was falling, and it landed on our bodies like tiny sparks. It felt magical. I learned to appreciate the beauty and power of snow. Honest. Silent. Pure.

  My favorite season is winter. And so I keep that winter night, dancing with Donald, deep inside me and look forward to the day when I can once again enjoy its splendor.

  Leland

  Player Hater

  Something’s not right. I’m moving mirrors again.

  I’m feeling mellow, a moody sadness like being in a dimly lit room listening to some Miles Davis. Last time I felt this down, I removed all the mirrors except the one attached to the wall in the bathroom. Removing the mirrors was a better option than putting out my own eyes. Made me feel a little crazy, like I just couldn’t stand the sight of myself. My own reflection in other people’s eyes was better than how I felt about myself then. In their eyes I look good, I look strong. They can’t see what I see, or what I’ve seen.

  I was happy once. When? I don’t exactly remember. But what does “happy” mean anyway? Does it mean that you’re always grinning at everybody like a fool? That your body feels like it’s dancing even when it’s not? I think the last time I was happy was in my senior year at college. Me and my football team, the Miami Hurricanes, were the national champs, and I was one of the star players. Made all-American that year. I was engaged to a beautiful woman, Chase Lewis, a dead ringer for Halle Berry. I was in love for the first time and it was like the sun had dropped down from the sky and kissed me.

  I just don’t feel right. It’s not like I-wanna-kill-myself sad. I wouldn’t punk out like that. Maybe it’s just that my life is getting ready to change. Big-time.

  I have lived the life many men dream about. Picked in the first round in the NFL draft. Setting receiving records nobody has come close to touching. I was making big bank, had a shoe contract, made a few commercials, and was on everybody’s wish list when it came to making an appearance at an opening or party.

  I figured I had at least two more good years to play, but my football career has ended prematurely because of an ACL injury to my right knee. I’m okay though. You know I still got my walk. A player gotta have his walk. But the team doctor and my own personal physician have warned me that if I sustain another injury to my knee, I might not be so lucky, might wind up spending the rest of my life limping around on crutches. I ain’t with that. I don’t love football enough to risk never walking again. Besides, the last time I played football or any sport for the pure joy of it, I was ten years old, playing Pop Warner football with the guys from my neighborhood. To be honest, I was getting sick of sports, especially football. Maybe I’ll start shooting pool again like I did when I was a youngster. I could get into a game like pool, where it’s just me against the game. I have no desire to even watch any pro or college games this fall. I am holding tickets to all the prime track and field events at the Olympics. I should go since the tickets were a gift. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do, go to Atlanta and then quit sports cold turkey. Get a head start on my new career. Whatever that may be.

  A literary agent suggested that I write a book about myself. What would I call it? Something like The Man in the Mirror Has Two or Three Faces. But would a publisher be interested in my story? What story would they want to hear? What would I write? I was born in Jacksonville, Florida, right around Thanksgiving, on November 22. I never knew my mother, who died right after I was born. I’m an only child and I don’t think I’m spoiled, but I might be. I lived in Magnolia Gardens and graduated from William M. Raines High School. I was raised by my dad; my aunt Lois, his younger sister; and my dad’s younger brother, Mac. I could write how much I love my dad, though our relationship is more like a player-coach thing than a typical father-son thing. But I’m cool with that, ’cause Dad treats me like a star player. Always has. I have much love for my dad!

  I could write that most people think I’m biracial because of my honey-brown skin and gray eyes. I’m not. I can’t give them that tragic, confused, what-color-am-I story. I’m Black. Believe that. Most people consider me arrogant. I’m not; I’m confident. I’m sick and tired of hearing Black people talk about their lack of self-esteem. They need to get over it and get on with it. But I guess when I’m feeling the way I do now, I sorta understand.

  If I wrote a book, would they want to hear how many women I’ve made scream my name at the top of their lungs? How many of these women think I’m a real dog? I may be. But that’s just my way of keeping those chicken-heads in check. I mean, what do they expect when they give up the draws too quick? That ain’t the kinda woman I want to marry. Done that. Now, that would be a story: how I got rid of that skeezer. But the truth might get my ass in serious trouble. Can you say blackmail?

  Would they believe me if I said I don’t have any really close male friends? How the media image of the so-called male bonding ends the moment you walk out of the locker room? Most men I know are dogs, and they’re weak. Always frontin’ with that fake macho thang. Most men, including myself, don’t really want to be close friends with other men, but we still want to be all up in each other’s faces. Making sure somebody ain’t getting more than the next brother. If a mofo ain’t got his shit together, then he can’t hang tough with me. Mofo, that’s short for motherfucker, a term I don’t like to use. But since it does apply to a lot of people, I just shorten it to “mofo” for my own purposes. To me, a mofo is somebody who doesn’t have a clue on his or her dumb ass. You can usually spot them the moment they open their mouths.

  What they probably want to hear is a lot of inside football shit. I don’t know why people are interested in a bunch of grown-ass men still playing games, living in a dream world, getting physically abused on a regular basis for big money. I’ve played most of my career for a losing team, the New Jersey Warriors. But to show you how my life is f’d up, check this out: Right before I got hurt, my agent heard from my dream team, the Dallas Cowboys, inquiring about my skills. They haven’t called since the injury. And to make matters worse, the first year I’m not with the Warriors, those mofos are finally getting their shit together and might even make the playoffs. Ain’t that some shit. My dad wasn’t kidding when he told me at a very young age that life wasn’t fair. No shit, Sherlock.

  My agent got a call from ESPN. They expressed an interest in me trying out as an announcer for college games, or maybe Canadian football. ’Course, they got to be willing to pay a pretty mofo like me. We’ll just have to wait and see what kinda money they’re talking. If they don’t come correct, then it’s Hollywood, here I come.

  Maybe I should just wait on writing a book, maybe see if I make the Pro Football Hall of Fame, or I could head to Hollywood and become a big movie star or even some kind of porn star. Yeah, that could work. My name, John, is the only thing common about me. My body is still da bomb. I’m 6′3″, 220 pounds. I got chest. I got legs. I got ass. I got dick. I could put that Calvin Klein underwear model in the unemployment line. Calvin would do well to give a brother like me a shot at being a sex symbol. Yeah, yeah, I, could get with that. Naw, naw, I’m tripping. My body already gets me in enough trouble, and if any more mofos saw my
shit up there on the screen, well, let’s face it, I’d never get any rest. My agent has been receiving some calls for my services in Hollywood, including a cameo appearance in an action feature film. I could do the Jim Brown-Fred Williamson action-hero thang for a minute. But if I’m gonna be up on the big screen for real, it’s got to be all about the face. Give Denzel some comp.

  You know, writing a book might not be such a bad idea. I heard Dennis Rodman got paid big-time for his book. But money ain’t everything, and thanks to a smart business manager and my own common sense, money won’t ever be a problem. Anyhow, I wouldn’t tell as much as Rodman did. Man, I couldn’t believe what that mofo wrote! And the public just ate that shit up. Put all his business in the street. Rodman, now, that’s a crazy mofo.

  All I know right now is that I got to get my life out of this melancholy jazz set and back to some old school pumpin’ soul jam like the Isley Brothers’ fight-the-power kinda groove, where I’m dancing with myself in a full-length mirror. Know what I’m saying?

  Chapter 1

  I’ve just stepped out of the shower and I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror on the bathroom door of my junior suite at the Omni Berkshire in New York City, near Fifty-second and Madison. I like what I see. Thanks to a steady regimen of diet and exercise, plus enough vitamins and beauty aids to keep a small drugstore chain in business.

  Everything is just as it should be—firm and tight on my tall frame with just enough hips to keep the boys looking. My red linen suit with pearl buttons should do the trick. Red looks good against my chocolate-colored skin. I’m meeting another potential client for lunch, but to be honest, my red suit isn’t just to impress a client. I don’t want to be caught short like I was last night.

  My name is Yolanda Diane Williams, and I’m from Chicago. Well, that’s not totally true. I live and work in Chicago, but I grew up in Des Moines. Now, how many Black people do you know from Iowa? Like I always say, it’s a good place to be from. I get defensive when people ask me where I’m from. I’m afraid I sound like a white girl, so I lay some ebonics on them: “Whatsup wit cha dippin into my buziness?”

  I’m presently single, and, unlike most of my female friends, I haven’t been looking for a man. Besides, I get more than my share of date requests, and I’ve got a great ex-husband, Chauncey, for conversation when I’m feeling a little blue or when my batteries are low. The only reason we aren’t still married is because Chauncey wanted a life of traveling all over the world, playing his saxophone. Which, when I was younger, seemed exciting. Me, I need something a little more stable, like a regular mailbox to receive my letters and bills. I want a home, not a different hotel room every night.

  After working for over ten years in the advertising field at Burrell Communications, Inc., I started my own business about five years ago, called Media Magic, A Consulting Concern, Inc. The years I spent at Burrell were among the best in my life. I learned a lot there from people like the founder, Tom Burrell. But I wanted a job where I could call me the boss! I figured out a way to get paid doing something I absolutely love: preparing entertainers and aspiring artists to deal with success. I advise them on how to deal with the press and their adoring fans. I handle special events like musical showcases when they come to the Midwest to promote their latest project. And I do crisis management when some of these music stars get their celebrity butts in a sling. And I’m good at what I do. I have several major record and video companies under contract. I come to New York twice a month to meet with regular and prospective clients. New York is my second favorite city—after Chicago, where I feel safe and have several good, make that great, friends.

  Around the time I started my business, me and five friends from college renewed our friendship at a Hampton alumni reunion. We had such a good time, we decided to start getting together socially and writing journals like we had in an English class at Hampton. Keeping the journal and meeting with friends at least once a month couldn’t have come at a better time for me. I had just lost both my parents within a year. My daddy to a heart attack and Mama, nine months later, to a broken heart. So now it’s just me and my baby sister, Sybil, who lives in Iowa City. I was nervous about stepping out on my own, and more than money, I needed friends I could count on and who believed in me.

  Right now the group includes me, and my best friend in the whole world, Leland, make that Dr. Leland Thompson, single and gay. Then there’s Riley (poetic justice) Woodson, who could best be described as a BAP (Black American princess) from the day she was born. I call her my high-maintenance soror. She’s married, but I’m not convinced she’s still in love. Her husband, Selwyn, used to be cool, but now he’s strictly business. And there is Dwight Leon Scott, a computer engineer, divorced and mad at the world. He was married to one of our former members, Kelli, who left the group when Dwight wouldn’t. I think Dwight stayed just to spite Kelli. We lost one of the original members, Dana, to marriage and Atlanta, Georgia.

  Our monthly meetings are big fun. We eat, drink a little wine, listen to music, and read from our journals. We talk about our lives and our dreams, then share affirmations that might help us in times of need. Most of my journal entries that I share with the group (I also keep a private journal) have been about my career, good dirt on some of the celebrities I’ve worked with, and my dreams for the future. Dreams that, quite frankly, have not included a Mr. Right. Like I said, I have a great ex-husband and a wonderful male friend who listens to every and any thing I have to say. And I had a wonderful relationship with my deceased father.

  I’ve already exceeded my goal for this trip by landing not one, but three new clients. Pretty soon I’m going to have to hire someone to help me and Monica, my assistant, with the extra workload. I’ve got a whole file of résumés from recent college grads looking to get in the media music business.

  Today is Thursday, and I’ve been in New York for four days. Usually by day five I’m ready to return to my adopted hometown. Day four and suddenly I’m not in such a hurry to leave the Big Apple. In fact, I’m standing here humming Toni Braxton’s “I Love Me Some Him,” and thinking about this truly over man I met last night at the Motown Cafe. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what happened. Now, it’s not like I’m a believe-anything-you-tell-me type of woman. I mean, I’m in the twilight—make that pitch black—of my thirties. In other words, I’ll be forty in February. I’ve been to the Male State Fair a few times, rode a few rides, then got off. In fact, I’d forgotten what the tunnel of love looked like, when Mr. Fine walked into my life.

  I was feeling tired and probably looked like it after three days of meetings and presentations. I’d spent about an hour on the phone with Sybil. It was her thirty-fifth birthday and I was telling her what she had to look forward to. But Sybil already has her stuff together. My little sis is working on her Ph.D. in social work while raising two children and a husband. Sister got it going on strong.

  I could’ve ordered room service, but I’d been in the suite most of the day and figured fresh night air would do me some good. It must have been fate, because I wasn’t planning on eating at the Motown Cafe. It’s not the kind of place I would choose to eat alone, something I hardly ever do, since I usually find a way to combine my meals with meetings. I wound up there because I couldn’t get a reservation at my current favorite restaurant, Cafe Beulah in the Flatiron District.

  So there I was, sitting in a booth and enjoying some tasty catfish fingers with a little macaroni and cheese on the side. I was gazing up at this huge ceiling, at a platter of the Supremes’ single, “Stop! In the Name of Love,” and listening to the Motown Moments sing all the hits I love. I have to admit I wasn’t looking all that cute; like I said, I was real tired. It had been a week since I’d seen my hair technician. Although I’m wearing a short, curly Afro, I still need my salon time. I had on a simple V-neck top and a wide black silk skirt. I was licking catfish juice off my fingers, when I felt a strong presence approaching my booth. Up walked one of the most gorgeous men
I’ve ever seen! He leaned into my booth and said something (Don’t ask me what ’cause I don’t know) and then I said something (Again, don’t ask me ’cause I don’t know that either) and then he kissed me like I’ve never been kissed before. Yes, he did, he did! I do remember the kiss being sensual, and him whispering in my ear in a smooth and dreamy voice, “It’s so great seeing you again. Please, don’t make me wait so long ever again.” I mumbled, “I won’t.” His lips were warm and gentle—and the kiss felt whisper-soft.

  I swear I’ve never seen this man in my life, but I went along to get along. I don’t do drugs. Maybe a glass of wine or champagne every now and then. But I would have remembered this man. He had this great smile, startling winter-gray eyes, and a body that was bumping. He was tall. I like tall. He was fine. I love fine. And like I said, the man could kiss! I don’t even remember his name, I’m not sure he even told me what it was. But I did manage to give him my card. I hope it was my card and not one of my clients’.

  As I watched him walk out of the restaurant alone, I realized I still had a catfish finger in one hand. The Motown Moments were still singing, and the scent of his cologne hung like a promise in the air. I walked back to my hotel humming “I Hear a Symphony” and floating through the summer air. I’ve been in a daze ever since. But I’ve got to come back, get on the first thing flying back to Chicago tomorrow. On Sunday I’ve got a meeting I just can’t miss. My friends aren’t going to believe this.