THE MAHOGANY EFFECT

CHAPTER THREE - GHETTO CELEBRITY Pt.I

6:45 P.M.

Everything was going my way. I was feeling like I was king of the world. I had beaten the rush-hour traffic, spared myself the road rage, and was home fifteen minutes earlier than usual. As was her custom, Snarfette came running across the hardwood floor to greet me at the door and twined herself around my leg. Named after a character in one of my favorite eighties cartoon, Snarfette was my Snowshoe breed cat. She was brown and black with white feet, neck, and face. It would have been customary for me to pick her up, kiss her and take her into the bedroom where we would unwind in front of the flat-screen television hanging on the wall. This evening was different. I had an appointment I was anxious to keep. Checking the time on my wristwatch, I realized I had about an hour to shower, change clothes, and go.

Standing in front of my closet with only a towel wrapped around my waist, my hair dripping beads of water on my shoulders and chest, I was trying to decide on what to wear. Do I go all out and flex on these clowns, or do I go easy and rock something laid back? Blue jeans, a white sleeveless T-shirt to show off the intricate tribal tattoo that ran the length of my left arm, a pair of white tennis shoes—fresh out of the box, and enough bling for a blind man to see the light—an Omega Speedmaster gifted to me from my days when I was deep in the game. It had white gold straps and a single diamond in place of the number twelve. To finish off the look, I plugged in a pair of diamond stud earrings. I anticipated the night to be chilly, so I donned a brown blazer jacket. I splashed a moderate amount of Armani cologne in my palm then patted the scent into my cheeks and along my neck. I was looking fly, smelling good, and feeling even better. I shook out my locks, grabbed my keys, cellphone, and wallet from the dresser, and headed out the front door.

 <><><>

The name in blue neon lights above the entrance was the same on the back of the black T-shirts the staff wore—Mahogany. Real players called the joint Lady Mahogany, and for good reason. It was no secret of the dealings that went down at Mahogany; grown folks hooking up over drinks for a fee. It was the sort of place professionals had lunch in the days and got their dignified freak on at nights. I've even heard some people call it Little Vegas; enough said.

Mahogany was not one of those big brassy nightclubs you would expect to find in a city like Manhattan, not by a long shot. It was a refined, laid-back lounge rectangular in shape with mahogany flooring and a half-circle mahogany stage. Round tables covered with a navy-blue tablecloth were strategically placed with small square candles floating atop the water in little glass jars that doubled as both intimate lighting and a centerpiece. Very feng shui. Any night was a good night to hang out at Mahogany but Saturday nights were best. Tonight was a Saturday night.

I acknowledged B.A., the doorman, with a subtle head nod and he offered me his open palm. We slapped five in greeting and as I stepped by him I felt his hand drop on my shoulder. Out of habit, I covertly scanned the thick cluster of people as I inched my way deep into the mix. The crowd, with its vibrant energy, its indecipherable murmur of the collective voices, made the vibe feel just right. There were quite a few faces I had never seen before but I showed my respect to the regulars who haunted the joint. There was anticipation lacing the air that was near impossible to ignore. Everything and everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion around me as I made my way through. My subconscious convinced me that all eyes were on me which in turn made me feel, as I always did, like a ghetto celebrity.

The smile I wore was more for show than anything else. My mind was preoccupied with ambitious thoughts of Karen which filtered the voices and ambient noises around me until it all became muffled gibberish to my ears. I drifted along the fringes of the crowd until I found a spot at the end of the glass top bar that was rimmed with fiber-optic strands of blue neon lights. They changed to a different shade of blue in a gradual cycle and there were pepper lights strung against the back wall behind the bar. I wedged myself between the guy wearing the cheap suit and too much aftershave who was whispering whatever sweet little lies he needed to tell the blonde to bed her, and the ebony who looked like she just stepped out of the seventies. She was cute, so I offered her a friendly smile when our eyes met in a fleeting moment.

Among the sea of beautiful people, I resumed my casual search for one in particular. It took a while but finally, I spotted her. She was sitting at a table with her friend from earlier, about four tables back from center stage where a solitary microphone stood under a dimmed spotlight. The friend was looking particularly sexy in a black square neck blouse with buttons down the front. Her lips were glossy, her eyes behind stylish black-framed glasses. As fine and sexy as she looked, and believe me, she looked both fine and sexy, I was still rooting for Karen and the mind-blowing sex I had imagined having with her. They had fresh drinks in front of them so I decided to hang back until it was time for another round before I went over to introduce myself again. Besides, I was a few minutes early. The note stated 8 P.M. By my watch it was only 7:50 P.M.

There was a tapping on the microphone that came over hidden speakers strategically placed about the lounge. The lights on the stage came up, then two quick sharp breaths into the microphone followed by a deep voice.

"Testicles one, two. Testicles one, two. Ladies and gentlemen, I offer you a very warm welcome to Mahogany. If youdidn't know then you couldn't tell my name is Montel, last name Black, the onewho spits the smoothest yakety yak. We have a wonderful show lined up for youtonight so let's get straight to it with our first performer of the evening. You've seen him here before, you know his style, and you know his flavor. Put your fingers together ladies and gentlemen and get to snapping for the one, the only, the soulful brother you want to keep away from your ma'ma. Give it up for Flo," said the emcee.

Everyone applauded by snapping their fingers as Flo walked up to the microphone, accompanied by a saxophone player.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I'm in a bad mood tonight. So I thought I'd do something to best illustrate the mood I'm in. This piece I'd like to do for y'all tonight is called Badness Is. Dig it," said Flo into the mic.

<><><>

Badness is, free. Free to be naughty, free to be horny, free to be sexy, free to be tied up in lace. Badness is, any time, any place, right here, right now, let's do it, a quickie.

Badness is a good girl doing wrong; fulfillment after so long. That sweet aroma rising from between your thighs. That desire burning in your eyes. Badness is, can't wait to get you out your clothes. Staring at my lips as you lick yours.

Badness is me on my knees, your back up against the wall, your leg flung over my shoulder, and you can't control the soft whimpers escaping your lips every time I lick you like—pure badness is—the morning after. Last night I introduced you to a whole new chapter.

You swore I was the truth. I had you speaking in tongues. Making faces, sounding dumb. Your body quivering, legs won't stop shaking as you—come to me and I release seeds high in your places, filling your delicate spaces. Now you're blushing when you see me again. Afraid of making eye contact, a sweet embarrassment has kicked in.

Badness is me on top of you, then you on top of me, doing what you do, keeping it nasty. Badness is you, girl. Badness is me. Badness is us, girl. Badness is we.

<><><>

A roar of applause and whistling filled the room. Flo and the saxophone player had Mahogany in an uproar. The saxophone player, better known as Verbal when he performed, played a mean saxophone to accompany the silky smooth voice of Flo's lines. They took their well-deserved bow then disappeared behind the fire-engine red curtains as the emcee returned to the microphone.

"Y'all give it up one mo' time for Flo, accompanied by Verbal on sax," he said. When the audience had simmered, Montel peeled the microphone from its stand and brought it to his mouth. "We're going for a short break, but ladies, no matter what you're sipping on, I know these fellas wouldn't mind giving you cock-tales,"he chuckled, as he slowly and provocatively, passed his open palm over his crotch. By all indications, most of the men agreed. I smiled to myself at his clowning. "Don't forget to tip your waitress," he added, almost in the same breath before he affixed the mic to its stand and walked off the stage.