“Really?”
“Man, I was sixteen and high”âhe laughedâ“but I know truth when I see it. And that ain't never leave me. I traveled the world and that ain't never leave me. I knew as soon as I got my money right, I'd bring it home, so other kids don't have to see Hay Court and McKenzie like I did. So they can dream of more than making these white folks happy every day.” He looked at the waiter, who was standing nearby, waiting obediently to take our orders. “My mama and my grandmama served these people all they lives and ain't nobody bothered to give them nothing but trouble. Now, I'm giving them the world.”
The waiter came and took our orders after we'd heard the specials and Dame joked with him, asking if they had any hash browns covered and smothered. The waiter laughed robustly, but I was sure if it was anyone else, he would've stared them out of the restaurant.
The food, when it finally came, was good but scarce. I'd ordered the grilled salmon with asparagus and mashed potatoes. But what I got looked like a sticky pad, two pencils, and a dab of hand cream. There was so much white space on the plate that I tried to spread the food around to pretend there was more.
“You know, when I dreamed of eating in places like this, I never thought that rich people's food was just like rich people,” he said.
“How so?”
“It's skinny,” he said, and we laughed together.
“You're quite the comedian,” I said.
“Daaaame,” a female voice oozed just as I was about to look away. Standing before us was a twentyish white girl dressed in a preppy pink sweater with a khaki skirt. Her hair was curled tight and pushed back behind her ears. “I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I'm Mary Kate. I'm your biggest fan.”
“Hi, Mary Kate,” Dame said coolly. There was an awkward tone at the table. We were sitting there eating and she was standing, hovering above us. It seemed she was going nowhere.
“I downloaded your album and I was so excited when I heard you were coming home to Tuscaloosa,” she went on. “Who knew you would come over here to join us for dinner.”
“Us?” Dame repeated. “Us who?”
“Oh ...” she said, taking a breath and turning red immediately. “I didn't mean it like that.”
“I'm sure,” he said.
“Well, can I have a picture?” She pulled a camera from her purse.
For the first time that day, I saw Dame's face fill with tension. Through all of the screaming kids, flashing lights, and countless directions from the camera crew, he was cool and relaxed, but now he seemed strained.
“No pictures,” he said bluntly, even though the girl was already standing there holding the camera up to her eye.
“Excuse me?” she said, her voice cracking in disbelief.
“No pictures. I'm having dinner.” His decree was louder this time and the waiter came over to the table.
“But Iâ” she tried. Her voice was whiny now.
“Is everything okay?” the waiter asked.
“Just clear my bill and have my driver come around, please,” Dame said, holding out a black credit card.
“Certainly, sir,” the waiter replied. He took the card and turned to Mary Kate, who was still holding her camera. “Ma'am, could you please return to your seat?”
“But I ...” she repeated.
The waiter nodded his head patiently and directed the sad girl to her seat. People who heard the exchange were looking on now.
“You ready to get out of here?” Dame asked.
“Out of here?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I'm hungry. Let's go get some real food. This was an appetizer.”
“You don't want to order something else?” I asked.
“Trust me, we don't need to stay here. Once Mary Kate texts all her friends and says I'm here, things are going to get worse.”
“Are you serious?” I asked.
He nodded and signed the bill.
“Now, I was supposed to put that on Evan's tab,” I said.
“You can get the next one,” he replied.
“Really, I don't think I should.” I looked down at my watch. It was nearing 9 p.m. “I need to get home.”
“No... . You promised me dinner and I'm hungry,” Dame teased.
Â
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Twenty minutes later, Dame and I were walking into the old Dreamland BBQ, a far cry from the frill Evan had in mind for the dinner. Dreamland was my daddy's favorite restaurant. All they really served was meat and bread, and most people liked it that way. I tried to resist, remembering my diet, but my mouth started salivating the minute I saw the sign from the road. Dame and I were riding in the back of his Bentley. When we exited the Cypress Inn, I saw the silver, shiny car lighting up the front of the restaurant. Peeking through the little curtains hanging from the back windows with a few admirers, I admitted that I'd never been in one and Dame insisted I ride with him. Benji drove my car and I got to feel like royalty riding in the luxurious automobile that seemed more like a rolling, plush couch than a car. I could hardly feel the thing moving and Dame kept laughing as I slid around on the backseat, my dress caressing the soft leather. All this and when I looked over at Dame, he seemed so natural riding there. Like he'd been born riding in Bentleys. And even though he was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, he made the car look more stylish.
Glancing at him carefully from my seat, I thought of how different he seemed from Evan. Both men were handsome. Both were confident. Both were successful. But Dame had this kind of strut and style that screamed “I'm here.” In the school, in the restaurant, it invited all eyes on him, and then dared them to stare. It was mystifying and exciting and it made me wonder what my former student had done and seen to make himself glow in such a way.
When we walked into Dreamland, a few people looked up from their barbecue plates at Dame familiarly, and one girl took out her phone and sneakily snapped a picture, but that was it. The people, most of whom looked like they'd just gotten off work, seemed more inclined to enjoy their own meals and allow Dame to enjoy his than to make a fuss. We sat down and Dame exclaimed happily, “Now, this is
us
.
“You should've gotten that whole chicken,” Dame joked after we ordered our food. “This is on Tuscaloosa. We might as well do it up.”
“I need to watch my figure,” I said, loosening up to him with the promise of BBQ filling my nostrils.
“I've been watching your figure for a long time and I can tell you, it's all good.”
I didn't know how to feel about this statement. Sitting there, my first inclination was to be offended that he was admitting that he'd “watched” me. Dame was a kid. He may have grown up nowâin a lot of visible waysâbut to me, he was still a student. But then, there was another side of me, the side that had spent too much time picking out the dress I was wearing that felt like I looked good when I walked out of the house and was happy that someone noticedâthere was nothing worse than when no one noticed. This side wanted to point out how nicely the red wrap dress held up my breasts and accentuated my hips. She wanted to get up and do a runway walk through Dreamland. But instead, I decided to settle her down and calm the odd moment at the table with a bit of comedy. A big girl joke.
“Spare me. No one likes a fat girl,” I said, laughing. But Dame didn't budge.
“You have a point. I hate fat girls. I only date big girls,” he said.
“What's the difference?” I asked.
“You ever notice how women who say they're âfat' never seem happy about it? They say it like it's negativeâa curse or something. Now, big girlsâwhen they say they're âbig,' they say it with pride and confidence. They know they look good and that's a turnon,” he explained and I was completely intrigued by this idea. “They know what they want and how to get it. Most big girls are like that. And they know how to treat you.”
“Oh, you mean you can run all over them because they're big?”
“No, what I mean is, they aren't all worried about silly stuff that doesn't matterâcalories and impressing their damn friends with a bunch of labels,” he said. “I get enough of that from these industry broads.”
“Exactly,” I said. “You say you like big girls, but the last time I checked the gossip columns, you were dating Madison Nightâthat actress from
Moonlight
. She's like ninety pounds.”
“See, that's what they want you to think.” He smiled. “You can't trust everything you see on televisionâmy publicist makes most of that stuff up and leaks it to people. Really, I was trying to get at Madison's sister. She's like 300 pounds.” He pretended to draw the girl's ample shape in the air, but I could tell he was joking.
“I'm sure,” I said drily.
“I don't know what's made you think you're anything but bad as hell,” Dame said, catching my eyes again. “Half the time we were joking in the back of the classroom, we were talking about how fine you were and placing bets on who'd get with you first.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked, surprised. I always imagined I looked goofy from the back of the room. Old and tired to them.
“Hell, no!” he said. “We were just boys then, though. We knew none of us stood a chance. But that was then ... and this is now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can't tell you all my secrets now.”
The waiter slid our plates onto the table like gifts, and Dame and I sat back in a moment of silence, inhaling the tangy scent of BBQ as our eyes began to feast on the spread.
“I's home now, Ms. Celie. I's home,” Dame cried playfully.
My father always said that good BBQ tastes like meat and great BBQ tastes like butter. I tasted nothing but butter on my plate. It was dreamlike, and I wondered how Evan and I had managed to stay away from the place for so long. I made a mental note to make him take me there the next week.
“So,” Dame started, wiping his mouth, “what do you think of my music?”
“Think?”
“Yeah, that was a direct question.” He looked at me and then threw his hands up in disgust after I said nothing. “You don't listen to it?”
“Oh, I've heard some ... but ... I ... well, I'm not listening to much rap right now,” I tried.
“Don't give me that cop-out. That's what lazy people say. They complain that there's no good hip-hop, so they don't listen to it. But really, there's plenty of good stuff out there. You just have to look for it.”
“I guess you're right,” I said.
“So what made you stop listening to me?”
I looked at him and started chewing at the inside of my lips nervously. I didn't want to offend him.
“Don't be shy,” he said. “I'm an artist, not a student. You can't hurt my feelings.”
“It's just that all the stuff I heard was about sex and violence and drugs. It seemed like the same old rap music. Nothing new.”
“You're right,” he mused. “I do write about sex ... and violence ... and drugs. And let me say thisâ”
“You don't have to. You really don't have to explain anything to me. I was just answering your question,” I said.
“I'm not explaining what I do. I'm good at it. I know that. And I'm paid very well for it. So there's no need to explain,” he said between taking sips of his beer. His voice was tough. Secure. “But I will tell you what I do. Because I respect you.”
“Okay.”
“I love sex. It's great. It's good. It makes you feel great and I think people should write about it. Sing about it. Rap about it. Paint about it. Take pictures. Videos. Whatever. I bring that up because it seems every other art form in the world has deconstructed, sold, defined, and redefined sex and sexuality. And I ain't learn that in no book. I've been to Florence and seen Botticelli's nude paintings for myself. Now, that was in the 1400s and he was painting naked pictures of the broad he was trying to steal from the dude who was lacing his pockets. That's some pimp shit,” he said, laughing. “Man, artists have been doing it ever sinceâeven before then. But as soon as a bunch of young black men talk about how much they like sex ... and get paid for it ... people have a problem. Then sex is dirty and nasty, and meanwhile, they're willing to pay millions of dollars to buy a Botticelli. Now, Little Richard and even Ray Charles sang about sex, but ain't nobody talk about them like they talk about us. And I'll tell you why. It was because they were making a whole bunch of white boys rich. And now that I'm stepping up, making sure most of those bills come back to me, suddenly the most human thing a person can do is vulgar. And I'm not even talking about having sex with little girls or making people do stuff they don't want to do. I'm talking about real stuff.”