God's Gift to Women (6 page)

Julian

P.S. Thanks for trusting me enough to share yourself. That was the best going-away present I’ve ever had.

EARLY SUNDAY AFTERNOON Samantha and I arrived at Bush Intercontinental Airport. It was ten o’clock in the morning and the temperature was already eighty-five degrees. The humidity was so high I worked up a sweat just walking up the jetway. “Welcome to Texas,” I said to Samantha. She was sweating so badly her French braid was coming loose. After waiting at baggage claim for what seemed like an eternity, we picked up our rental car from Hertz and headed out to our new house. It was in a suburb called Sugarland, about a forty-minute drive from the airport.

I was impressed by how smooth Houston’s roads were. In Chicago, you were liable to hit a pothole every twenty feet. The urban radio stations weren’t bad. I tuned in to Magic 102 as we merged onto the Sam Houston Beltway. I was surprised to hear a familiar voice—Funky Larry Jones, who used to be with WGCI in Chicago back in the late eighties. He must have been sitting in for another DJ, because he was usually on during the afternoon drive on weekdays. But who cared? I was just glad he was playing old school music. I was flashing back to the days of basement parties and roller-skating in Markham, Illinois. I
almost crashed into the median when he played the song “Bounce, Rock, Skate.” That was a roller-skating classic.

Just as we passed the jam-packed I-10 expressway, Sam let out a loud scream. “Look, Daddy, look!” When I saw what she was pointing at, I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was a huge billboard of me on the west side of the highway, just before the toll booth. The background was off-white, the text was in bold red and green letters. It read
LOVE, LUST, AND LIES WITH JULIAN PAYNE—WEEKNIGHTS 10:00 P.M. TO 2:00 A.M. ON 102.3 WBMX.

I pulled over onto the shoulder and stepped out of the car. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just stared at it. “Smile, Daddy!” Samantha leaned out the window aiming her camera. “Say ‘cheese’!” We took turns taking pictures of each other posing in front of the billboard until a cop pulled up behind us. Instead of giving me a ticket, he asked for my autograph. Samantha was bubbling with pride. It was the first time she ever saw her father give an autograph.

Not long after we got back on the road, we merged onto Highway 59. Three miles from there was our exit onto Highway 6. Samantha was in awe as we passed by all the brand-new shopping malls and parks with tennis courts. I knew she would be just as excited when she saw our house. My real estate agent made sure the new furniture was delivered and set up. Everything had to be perfect for Sam.

When we turned the corner into our subdivision, Sam’s jaw dropped. The streets were spotless and the lawns were beautifully manicured. Service trucks lined the streets: Eddie’s Pool Service, Merry Maids, and Superior Landscaping. It was a scene right out of
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
I slowed down as we approached our house. It was a beige, two-story brick on the left side of the street. “Which one is it, Daddy?” she frantically asked. “Is that our house? Is it?” I decided to stop torturing her and pulled into our driveway. Sam leaped out of the car and started running around in the yard.

“We’re rich! We’re rich!” she yelled out.

“No, sweetheart,
we’re
not rich,
I’m
rich!” I laughed as I swung her around in a circle. “Let’s go inside, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

We ran around to the front of the house like two kids on Christmas morning. I put the key in the lock and slowly turned the knob. “Close your eyes,” I told her. I led her by the hand into the living room, then drew the blinds so she could get a good look at what was inside and outside. “Surprise!” When she opened her eyes she was speechless. In the corner sat an ebony baby-grand piano. I had her name engraved on the panel. It read
To Princess, from Daddy.

“I figured since you listened to Alicia Keys so much, you might wanna learn to play like her.”

“I love it, Daddy.” She held me as tightly as she could. “You’re the best daddy in the whole wide world!”

“Hey, it’s hot in here. You wanna go for a swim?”

“Yeah! Let me get my swimming cap and goggles out of my bag.” She ran toward the door. “How far away is the pool?”

“I’d say about, uh, fifty feet.”

Samantha stopped dead in her tracks. She was so overwhelmed by the piano she never bothered to look out the window at the pool in the backyard.

“Last one in is a rotten egg!” I pulled off my shoes and took off running. Samantha was right on my tail. When we reached the edge of the pool we held hands and jumped in together. We splashed around in our jeans and T-shirts until we were exhausted. I put her on my back and swam into the shallow end, then sat her on the edge. She became quiet all of a sudden. That was a sure sign that there was something bothering her.

“You wanna talk about it?” I asked her.

“Talk about what?”

“Look, if you’d rather not talk about it, it’s okay.”

She seemed fine at first, then she burst into tears. I got out of the pool and put my arms around her.

“I wish Mommy was here!” she cried.

“Your mother
is
here, in spirit. She’s watching over us right now.”

“Why did she have to die, Daddy?”

“Only God knows that, sweetheart. But if your mother was here, she would tell you to be strong, carry yourself like a lady, and, most important, always do your best.”

“You’re right, Daddy. I’m gonna be the best student in my class.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “And you know what else? I’m gonna learn to play the piano
better
than Alicia Keys!”

“That’s my girl!” I lifted her up in the air. “Now let’s go inside and dry off. We’ve got lots of unpacking to do, and you have to get ready for your first day of school tomorrow.”

As we were walking toward the house dripping wet, Sam looked up at me with those big brown eyes.

“You know, Daddy, I wish Mommy could’ve lived long enough to give me a little brother.”

“I know how you feel. I was an only child. It’s hard growing up with no one to play with.”

“That’s not the reason,” she said with a sly grin. “I wanted a little brother so I could have someone to beat up.”

MONDAY MORNING I dropped Samantha off at Clover Junior Academy. Just as we arrived, a convoy of yellow buses pulled up to the main entrance and began unloading students. It was obvious from Sam’s expression that she was disappointed by the lack of black and brown faces. For five years she attended Chicago public schools where ninety-nine percent of the students were black. Clover was ninety-nine percent everything but black.

“Am I the
only
black person here?” she said.

“Look, Sam, Clover is a good school and they have the best music program in the city,” I told her. “You’ll do just fine if you stop worrying about skin color and remember why you’re here.”

“I know the speech, Dad. I’ve got to be twice as good as white people if I want to succeed.”

She kissed me on the cheek, then nervously stepped out of the car.

“If you have any problems, go see the principal, Ms. Bell. Believe it or not,
she’s
black.”

“For real?” Her whole demeanor changed and she seemed more relaxed.

“Yeah, for real! Now, have a nice day and I’ll be back to pick you up at three-thirty.”

“That’s okay. I’ll take the school bus home like everyone else,” she said confidently. “If I can survive Chicago public schools I think I can handle Clover Academy.” She slung her backpack over her shoulder, thrust her fist in the air, and yelled, “Westsiiide!”

As I watched her brown skin clash against the sea of whiteness, I realized I was in for a similar experience at the radio station. WBMX was white owned and operated. That was often the case with urban radio in America. One of the few exceptions was Radio One, owned by Cathy Hughes. Most black folks still don’t know that the nationally syndicated
Tom Joyner Morning Show
and
The Doug Banks Morning Show
are owned by ABC. But Tom and Doug taught me that you have to play the game in order to get what you want. My real concern was whether or not WBMX would honor my request for a black producer. I wasn’t being racist, but we black folks have a unique way of relating that other cultures can’t understand. For example, if a white or Hispanic person greeted you by saying, “Whassup, my nigga?” all hell would break loose!

I had all that on my mind as I merged onto the crowded I-59 freeway. I had allowed an hour’s travel time to get to the studio, which was located in an office building off I-610 and West-heimer Road, two blocks away from the Galleria mall. But after driving bumper to bumper for fifty-five minutes I was only halfway there. I counted three car accidents between Bissonnett Road and Hillcroft, and that was just on the northbound side. The traffic was made worse by gawkers, which is a polite word for nosy-ass people. “This puts the Dan Ryan Expressway to shame,” I said to myself.

By the time I arrived at the studio, the clock on my dash read 9:55. The building was thirty stories high and looked as if it was made completely out of black glass. As I drove into the underground parking, I had to shield my eyes from the sun’s reflection as it bounced off the silver WBMX marquee.

Once I found a parking space, I pulled out my organizer to confirm my meeting with the general manager. The notation read:
MEETING WITH MR. HARRIS—10:00 A.M
. I took pride in being punctual, so I checked myself out in the mirror, then opened the door preparing to make a mad dash. Just then a white BMW with tinted windows came barreling into the space next to me, nearly knocking my door off. I was pissed. After I looked over my car to make sure there was no damage, I waited at the rear of the BMW so I could curse the driver out.

When the car door opened, a smooth, long brown leg extended outward. The rest of her looked just as good as she stepped out of the car. She had on a fitted beige business suit and wore her hair short but stylish. In her right hand she carried a brown alligator briefcase, in her left, a cell phone. She set off her corporate look with a pair of conservative black-framed glasses that did nothing to take away from her lovely brown eyes and natural beauty.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“You just about tore my door off when you pulled in.”

“I’m so very sorry. Is your car okay?”

“It’s fine, but—”

“Sorry to cut you off, but I’m in a hurry. Have a nice day.” She began running toward the elevators.

I grabbed my organizer off the passenger seat and took off in the same direction. I caught up with her just as the elevator doors were opening. I wanted to introduce myself, but I had to catch my breath first. Just as I was about to, the doors opened onto the lobby, which was two levels up. She rushed out of the elevator toward the security desk. There were three people already in line waiting to sign in. She stared down at her watch, showing her impatience.

“Good morning, Dr. Ross. I see you’re running late again,” the security guard said to her.

“Good morning, Joe. Yeah, the traffic on I-10 is a nightmare. If it gets any worse, I’ll need a helicopter to get to work on time.”

“Well, just give me a second and I’ll get you on your way.”

I could understand her impatience. Joe was moving so slowly it was irritating. He was a thin, gray-haired white man who looked at least seventy years old. His uniform was pressed to a T and his shoes were spit shined. He wore a thick black utility belt that was cluttered with an assortment of keys, a black nightstick, a pair of handcuffs, and a gun.
Who in the hell is this old fart going to arrest?
I was thinking.

“I’ll be right with you, sir,” Joe said after making eye contact with me. He must have noticed I was getting impatient, too.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but could you hurry it up? I’ve got a ten o’clock meeting with Mr. Harris at WBMX.”

“Mr. Harris, huh?”

“Yes, I’m Julian Payne. My name should be on your list.”

“Oh, Mr. Payne, nice to meet you, sir!” He dropped everything and gestured for me to come to the front of the line. “Mr. Harris is expecting you. Let me see your ID and you can go right up!”

He handed me a pass, then directed me toward the tower elevators. Dr. Ross was noticeably perturbed. I guess she didn’t appreciate having to wait in line while I was escorted through. I made sure to take my time walking toward the elevator. I wanted to get another look at those lovely brown eyes
and
that tight skirt. I figured I was already running late, so why not make the most of it?

When the elevator came, I held the door open until Dr. Ross was on. Once she was aboard, we both reached for the button for the twenty-fifth floor. Our hands touched.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“No problem,” I replied. “No problem at all.”

There were two other people already aboard. One of them pushed the button for the tenth floor. I assumed they were together because they were standing too close not to be. Sure enough, when the door opened they both walked off in the same direction. When the doors closed, I cleared my throat.

“By the way, I never did get a chance to formally introduce myself. My name is Julian Payne.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Payne. I’m Terri Ross.” She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you. And may I say, you are the most well-dressed radio personality I’ve ever seen. And you smell good, too. What is that—Givenchy?”

“I’m impressed. It’s nice to meet a woman who can appreciate a fine cologne,” I said to her. “But you’re not half steppin’ yourself, Doc. You’re lookin’ good in that linen outfit. I’m sure your patients can’t wait to see you.”

“Just because I have a Ph.D. doesn’t mean I have to dress like a librarian.”

“So, Terri, I see you work on the twenty-fifth floor, too. Do you work for the station?”

“No, I just sit in with the jock on Monday mornings to give advice on relationships, sort of like Dr. Phil on
Oprah.
But I do work in the building. I have a practice on the fifteenth floor.”