Second Time Around (3 page)

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Authors: Darrin Lowery

BOOK: Second Time Around
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On the outside Jayna looked like she had everything together. She had a great job, two great cars, and great looks. On the outside she was damn near perfect. On the inside, she was a mess. Still, being friends means sometimes that you don't judge. That was the lie that Korie used to tell herself.
Korie loved Jayna like a sister and today the sisters were going running. When they ran, they weren't professionals, they weren't judged by the world and its shallow expectations. When they ran, they were just two women hanging out with one another. Two beautiful black women, hanging out with one another.
 
 
Korie grabbed her warm-up gear, which was always neatly folded on the edge of her bed. She grabbed her running shoes, her full-length outfit, bra and panties, and headed to the bathroom. She ran the shower and turned on her iPod.
Korie quickly got undressed, brushed her teeth, and examined herself in the mirror as she brushed.
Like Jayna, Korie too had made a considerable amount of progress in these past four months. She went from a size ten to a size six. Her abs were also beginning to show and her breasts, which were just beginning to sag a little, began to firm up.
With all the water she was drinking, Korie's beautiful Hershey chocolate–colored skin began to look flawless. Once upon a time Korie's butt rivaled that of Jayna's. Now, with the weight loss, she was beginning to look like a model; not like a music video model, but a model who you might see in a magazine. Korie had the killer looks and Jayna had the killer body.
She looked in the mirror and was satisfied with what she saw. Before stepping in the shower she quickly thought to herself, what would he think? What would he think about her body? What would he think about the changes that she made with her life? It had been quite a few years and still, Korie couldn't help herself thinking about him.
Just as quickly as she asked the question, she dismissed it. She jumped in the shower, lathered up with her favorite vanilla-scented body wash, and rinsed off.
When she stepped out from the bathroom fully dressed, Jayna was there with a small cup of black coffee in hand for her girlfriend. They each drank their coffee and talked about what was going on in their careers. Twenty minutes later, they were out the door and running the trail at the park.
As Jayna ran, she was looking for wealthy men at the park. As Korie ran, she tried to make sense of the dream that she had this morning.
Jayna knew Korie would judge her, so she never mentioned when they ran that she was also looking for men. Korie knew, but she also knew enough not to say anything.
Korie was preoccupied as they ran because the dream she had was so vivid and so real to her.
He must be out there thinking about me or talking about me and that's why he's on my mind, she thought.
Korie couldn't shake the feeling that something major was about to happen in her life. The question was, would the major event would be good or bad? She liked the fact that she was happy in the dream. Did it mean that marriage was around the corner or something else?
Chapter Three
Darren Howard awoke from a sound sleep. His alarm was set to go off and waken him to the sounds of “Struggle No More” by Anthony Hamilton as it did every morning during the week. Darren got up, stretched, and went to the bathroom to relieve himself. He then ran bathwater and stepped into the living room to boot up his laptop.
He made his way to the coffee machine and brewed some Exotic Coffee, checked the final tally of the stock market, and stretched his six-foot frame to its full length as he tried to get the last of the morning kinks out.
He was up this early because he had a full agenda of errands to run before seeing his first client. Darren was a therapist for Chicago's elite. He counseled pro athletes, R & B singers, CEOs, and other celebrities.
He charged 300 dollars an hour, which was nothing to his clientele. Because he made his own schedule, life was good. He worked when he wanted, made a great salary, and had a lot of the finer things in life. The only thing that was not complete was his love life. That was another matter entirely.
He grabbed the universal remote for his condo and switched the overhead speakers on. His favorite slow songs began to play. Darren went into the master closet and pulled out a pair of white-on-white gym shoes, blue designer jeans, and an equally expensive T-shirt. He laid the ensemble on the bed and headed back to the bathroom.
The steam was billowing off of the water in his custom-made Jacuzzi. Darren slowly eased into the water and practically lay down in the water until it was at chin level. He sat in the tub and relaxed for about an hour, listening to jazz and neo-soul.
When he was completely relaxed and his mind was free, he got up out of the water and rinsed off. His mind was wandering a lot this morning and he couldn't seem to figure out why. He needed his music this morning to be a distraction. He had a lot on his mind. One of the chief things bothering him was how lonely he felt these days in spite of having just about every material thing that a man could ask for.
When he stepped out of the tub and onto the thick rug on the bathroom floor, he listened to “And I Am Telling You” by Jennifer Holliday. Jennifer Hudson's rendition followed as he began to shave and air dry. Most people Darren knew loved Jennifer Husdon's rendition better than the original. Darren thought the original was a classic. He playfully used the shaver as if he were singing the song himself. His cracking falsetto was horrible, but that didn't stop him from trying to sing the song.
As he trimmed his goatee, he thought about all the things he had to do today. He picked up his phone and added a few new entries to the notebook. He then began to apply body lotion and sprayed on his favorite cologne. He went to the bedroom and put on his boxers, put on his clothes for the day, and headed out to his car after turning off the stereo in his condo.
The first thing he wanted to do before starting his day was wash his car. He went down to the parking garage, chirped the alarm on his new sports car and hit the streets. His favorite hip-hop was blaring over the eight-speaker system.
Darren's first stop was the car wash. He went to the manual wash where he could give his car the attention that it needed. Like other black men who were washing their cars, Darren popped the trunk and had a host of cleaning supplies for his car, including a shammy, wax, degreasers, and Armor All.
He washed his car with the care all black men give their cars when they are new. He gave other men there the universal head nod. He also made note of all the beautiful women cleaning their cars as well. Many were scantily clad. Others were in jeans, gym shoes, and tops.
It was early in the morning and the sun was just beginning to flex its morning muscle. In spite of it being early, all the ballers, dealers, and anyone with a decent whip seemed to be at the car wash.
Everyone was gearing up for a beautiful Chicago day. The sun was shining, music from various artists were blasting over the multiple speakers of different cars, and those with chrome rims were shining them to a point where the sun's rays would bounce hard off the reflection of the rim tops.
Darren cleaned his car and dried it off slowly. He cranked his system back up as he gradually pulled out of the parking lot.
Next he went to get his hair cut by Big Gucci at the old barbershop in the hood. Darren slowly drove through the hood so women and men alike could see his newly cleaned car. He liked the attention, as did most men when their cars were cleaned. He checked out the women as they checked him out and smiled to himself as he thought about how all his hard work had paid off these past few years. He was already successful. His new goal was to be wealthy.
Many brothers rocked hardcore rap as they drove their cars in the summer. Darren rocked slow jams. Eighties music was playing overhead as he slowly pulled into the parking lot of the barbershop. He stepped out of his car and walked in the barbershop all smiles as he was greeted by the other men inside.
“Whaddup, playa?” one guy asked.
Darren gave the guy a head nod.
“What's up, D?” Gucci said to Darren. “I got two ahead of you, but I got you.”
“Cool, cool. Thanks, Gooch.”
Darren sat down on the bench and watched as the many men in the shop fellowshipped with one another. Some were playing basketball on video consoles as they waited to get their hair cut. Others watched music videos, which were playing on the monitors overhead, and others still were talking about current events, the economy, and the challenges that faced the first African American president.
 
 
Going to the shop was like being at an all-men's club. It was a place where men could go to be men, and freely talk about the things that affected them. From sex to politics, nothing was off limits at the shop. Men of all ages passed wisdom on to each other, from financial advice to advice on women. On Saturdays, the barbershop was the place to be and it stayed crowded every day that it was open.
Even though he made a high, six-figure salary, Darren still got his hair cut by Big Gucci. Gucci, whose real name was Guy, had been his barber for well over ten years. Many of Darren's colleagues and high-society friends went to salons in downtown Chicago to get their hair cut. Darren kept his money in the community. He always went back to the hood.
The successful brothers who didn't go to salons had their barbers come to their homes. The cost was often over a hundred dollars. Darren was considered to be bourgeois by some, but he was not too good to go back to the hood and get his hair cut.
A haircut in the hood was thirteen dollars; twenty with a tip. In addition to a haircut, there was always something going on that was entertaining at the barbershop. Whether it was a debate about who was the best ballplayer of all time, or a debate on what woman in Hollywood had the nicest body, the barbershop was quite an animated place on the weekends.
Darren knew that contrary to popular opinion, men gossip just as much as women. The men in the shop gossiped, talked about each other, and joked so loud you would have thought they were teenage girls.
Forty minutes passed and it was finally his turn. He sat in the chair and Gucci put the wrap around him to catch any extra hair.
“Bald fade, right, D?” Gucci asked. He had a deep voice like a late-night radio personality.
“Yep, you know it,” Darren said.
Darren sat in the shop and looked at all the various hairstyles that were in the room. He looked at the brothers that were there to get a lining, brothers with bald fades, Afros, and one-level haircuts. Some guys were there to get razor-sharp fades and others were there to get their hair shaved off entirely. No matter what style they were looking for, Gucci could accommodate them.
Darren reached for his cell phone and turned it off as he sat in the barber chair. A lot of the dope dealers in the hood came in and got their hair cut, but stayed on their phones almost the entire time. All of them were chasing paper. None of them could pause long enough to properly get their hair cut despite the sign posted that said Please put your cell phones away.
Darren thought to himself, What's with niggas and their damned cell phones? He powered his cell phone off in hopes that others in the chairs would get the message.
They didn't.
Perhaps they didn't want to miss any paper. Perhaps they needed the attention. At any rate, the drug dealers stayed on their phones and looked at the exotic pictures they had saved on them. They were oblivious, it seemed, to common courtesy and manners.
“So did my guy come and see you?” Gucci asked.
“Yeah, yeah he did. Thanks for the referral, Gucci,” Darren said.
 
 
Gucci was not just a barber; he was kind of a celebrity himself. He played two years of pro basketball until he blew out his knee. When he was playing ball, however, he had a reputation for cutting the hair of a lot of professional ballplayers on his team and the opposing team the night before a game.
Gucci stood six feet eight inches tall and was a force to be dealt with in his basketball-playing days. He was built like a pro wrestler. After he blew his knee out, he was devastated. He didn't know how he would make ends meet and his heart was broken because all he ever wanted to do in life was play ball. Like a lot of young black men, he thought sports were his only avenue out of the hood. But a good insurance settlement gave him some other possibilities. Even though the money wasn't enough to cover all the taxes he owed and the payments on his expensive lifestyle, he liquidated his assets, took the two million that he cleared from that, and invested with some brokers. As a result, he recently opened up his fourth barbershop and business was great.
When some pro basketball players were in town to play, many of them drove to the shop and Gucci cut their hair. For some players, he cut their hair during regular business hours and for others, he cut their hair after hours.
Gucci knew most of today's star players and put pictures of him and them up all over the shop. This was a major draw. Many men that came in the shop were proud that their barber was also the barber for many of today's pro basketball stars.
“So my guy called you, right?” Gucci asked again.
“Yeah, yeah he did.”
“So D, what's going on with him right now?”
“Gucci, I really can't talk about it,” Darren said, laughing.
Client confidentiality was a staple in counseling. Darren knew that Gucci was concerned about his friend, but he couldn't say anything. It would be a breach of confidentiality to do so.
 
 
Gucci had a friend named Bryce Irving whose game was slipping fast. He was a point guard from a West Coast team who went from averaging twenty-six points per game during the regular season to fifteen in the play-offs.
Gucci was cutting Bryce's hair a few weeks ago and noticed that the man was depressed. He also noticed that the man's cell phone was blowing up as he was getting his hair cut. It was obvious to Gucci that Bryce and his woman were having problems.
Bryce's fiancée was a famous R&B singer named Maurielle and Gucci couldn't believe that the guy's girlfriend and soon-to-be wife was giving him so much grief weeks before their high-profile wedding. While he was getting his hair cut, all he seemed to do was argue and get yelled at. Gucci couldn't hear all the particulars, but he knew the main arguing point was the upcoming wedding; a wedding that had been announced all over the news and television.
Everyone in the media figured Bryce's game was off because he was getting married soon. His coach, teammates, and sports analysts all told him that he needed to get married in the off-season because his lack of focus was affecting the team.
Bryce was in the last year of his contract with his current team and with such a major drop in production, chances were he was going to go from making tens of millions of dollars to possibly a one-or two-million-dollar-a-year deal with his next team. On top of that, Maurielle was giving him all sorts of grief on the phone—according to Gucci.
Gucci knew that his friend needed help. He knew that his friend needed someone to talk to. He also knew what it was like to lose millions of dollars. Gucci referred Bryce to Darren. It was not uncommon for Gucci to introduce customers to one another at the shop to network—for a finder's fee, of course.
Darren took the case and in just a few weeks the guard's numbers were climbing high again. His productivity was almost where it once was.
 
 
“You must be doing something magical, D. My man's point average is almost back where it was before he started having problems. You must have really had an impact on him. Either that, or he had some serious problems, huh?”
Gucci's voice was inquisitive, as if he wanted to know exactly what it was that Darren did, or what it was that was bothering Bryce.
“Gucci, I really can't talk about it,” Darren said, laughing again.

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