It goes a little something like this (Jacquetta, I’m cheating by the way):
It’s nearing evening with a lovely sunset coming through our two story house in some hills some place where smog isn’t killing us but you can also actually see some greenery. I like to call it, in my head, Los York. I am running around making sure martini items are in place and that my 60s Breakfast At Tiffany’s cocktail sheath magically gives me longer legs and actually looks good on my super hourglass frame. We’re having company! I call out to my maid and butler (yes, dude, I got me some of them. They are of questionable race because, in the future, we will all be of questionable race. All I know is that they listen to Guns N Roses and fry some mean chicken with a side of lo mein) and ask them politely (because they are HUMAN after all and the immigration issue has been fixed by this time because America finally realized that we are ALL immigrants–some of us by force, some of us by choice) to make sure the food and the snackitzers are all set to go. They confirm (which they should do since I pay them above minimum wage and they hover somewhere over the cost of living).
Even though it’s the future, me and Yaze’s house looks like a throwback to the Rat Pack 60s era. Why? Because we like it that way. We got the baby blue, gray tones happening. We have the sleek furniture. We have drinks. We have drinks. And we have drinks. Yaze is in a smoker’s jacket at the piano, his slim sharkskin pants have a razor like crease in the front. Sammy Davis is on the CD turntable. That’s right. This is happening. Doorbell rings! First guest!
“Scherherazade!” I almost scream. She’s gorgeous in her hijab. She immediately asks for water. Telling stories to keep herself alive has apparently made her mad thirsty. I have Yaze throw a little extra zing in the water. It’s hard out here for a girl married to a king with ADD.
Scherherazade sits on the floor because she’s more comfortable that way. She lays her head back on the couch and taps her foot to the Sammy tune. Tonight, she tells us, she’s gonna keep the talking to a minimum. To save her voice. You’d think, she says, after three hundred years or so the bastard would be in love with me by now. Who knew he’d love the stories more? Doorbell…the maid and the butler (shit, their names—Salome and Washington) are discussing the meaning of existance through food presentation. Fine. I’ll get it. I think Zade is dozing off anyways.
“Mr El Shabazz, welcome.” I bow. That’s right. I bow to Malcolm X. Wouldn’t you? Jeez. I realize he can see my calves and I’m ashamed. Why didn’t I factor in my guests religion? I think I just got so excited that my invites reached the afterlife that I didn’t even think about details. I offer him a glass of juice. He takes it. We don’t add zing for him. Zade wakes up and bows too. Wow. She says she heard all about him and even did a little story on him one night to save her life. Malcolm just smiles and says he’s honored. I suddenly get the feeling I picked a bunch of people who may not feel like talking. Yaze keeps playing the piano.
Malcolm says he loves our view and it’s too bad Betty couldn’t accept the invite. She’s been so busy watching over some kids and making sure Ward Connerly doesn’t continue to spread his rubbish (that’s all me—in my head—shhh!) that she got tired and fell asleep. I completely get it. I get angry tired thinking of Ward Connerly too. Malcolm goes to make prayer as the doorbell rings again. I answer it again because I’m partly too excited to let anyone else do it and also because Zade, Malcolm and Yaze are making prayer together. Nice. I’m Islam friendly but I don’t know it’s right for me.
“Marilyn!” We hug.
“Dorothy!” We hug.
Of course they come together. They were friends. What’s a party without a few tragic birds? I’m dying to know how they both died so hopefully we’ll get to that come desert time. They both look a bit sad so I ask them what’s wrong.
“It’s all so ridiculous the lack of control you have when you die and people just spread dumb lies about you,” Marilyn says, pouring herself a drink. We don’t have any medication and I didn’t invite any mob-like characters that I know of nor any major politicians that may or may not have slept with her so there won’t be any repeat “accidental overdoses.” She sips on the drink, to my own surprise. I always thought she’d take it to the hole. Anyways. She watches the praying trio and sits down on the couch. She smiles when she watches them make prayer. “That’s so beautiful,” she says.
Dorothy doesn’t want a drink. She goes to the kitchen to make sure the food is going to taste good. But not before agreeing with Marilyn. She also said she licked that ex-husband of hers who stole all her cash real good when she got the call that he was dead. She said Otto wasn’t happy with her either. Oh well, she says, what did R. Kelly sing? “When A Woman’s Fed Up…” she sings. She actually sounds good singing that song. She gives the sista girl nod. Doorbell…I can’t remember how many people I invited. Uh oh.
“Toni Cade!” This is my homegirl. My friend-in-the-head. My mentor who’s never met me. Her writing changed my life. I suddenly realize that she might hate me. She might be one of those divas who give you the up down look while you jock them, telling them how dope they are. But she doesn’t! She hugs me and gives me a casserole dish! “Girl, I don’t come empty handed. I wasn’t raised that way. This is baked macaroni and cheese.” Mmmmmm…. She sees Marilyn and Zade and heads straight for them. Yaze and Malcolm are talking about the meaning of life and whether or not there is more than the journey that we all share. My heart is beating fast. This is the best party I’ve ever thrown!
Salome and Washington are talking to Dorothy in the kitchen about the secret to their fried chicken and lo mein dish. Dorothy has never heard of lo mein but she thinks you can improve anything with hot sauce. Doorbell! This should be the last of it.
“Thomas Jefferson! For some reason I have to say your whole name…” He likes chocolate women. I’m wondering if he would’ve owned them had he been living in this modern time. Then he could be free to date them like Bill Maher. I am torn between my feelings for Thomas, who makes a beeline for Yaze and Malcolm and now Dorothy. I worry about Dorothy. Is she TJ’s type? Marilyn likes ‘em tall and smart I hear too. She slides over to the group. Finally! Everyone is getting together! I know, it’s a weird way of getting together but they are.
We sit down to dinner. Toni is giving TJ the evil eye. Malcolm, Yaze and Marilyn are discussing psychology and whether method acting has a fundamental affect on the audience if they are just observers, if there is such a thing as just an observer since audience members must go through an experience alongside the actor. Fascinating. TJ is just nodding, hoping Toni Cade doesn’t give him the whatfor. Marilyn’s dress strap keeps slipping…in TJ’s direction. At least she’s not going for Malcolm. Later he tells me he’s been there and done that. Not Marilyn but women like her. No dice for him. Props.
Nobody is eating the fried chicken with the knife and fork but they are tearing into the lo mein and adding tons of hot sauce and soy sauce, making it like that Yako Mein (noodles, hot sauce, soy sauce, ketchup, vinegar, your choice of protein and/or onions—all in a big plastic baggie) that Yaze made me try in our trip to Virginia. I thought me and Yaze would get to ask all the questions but they instead ask us…
Toni Cade: “Can you explain to me how you can separate black literature from revolution and evolution? What are y’all writing about now?? What’s with all these stories about plagerism, church drama, women trying to get their swerve on and men keeping secret they like pee pee?”
Me: “Ummm, well, Toni. I know we’re not writing anything like The Salteaters anymore but, uh, well…shit. I don’t have a book deal so I can’t tell you. I can tell you that a bunch of us don’t care about a bunch of us anymore. We only really care about our own opinions. Yaze?”
Yaze: “I grew up in the church so I find all that interesting.”
Marilyn Monroe: “Why is everybody trying cop my style?”
Me: “Well, it’s because you left us with questions. And you were fragile. And you really really wanted to be considered a craftsperson. And you wore your psychodrama like an Oscar gown. Fierce.”
Zade: “I did a story on you to my husband.”
Dorothy: “Zade, when are you going to divorce him? He only keeps you alive for your stories!”
Zade: “Most men don’t even want to hear their wives.”
Malcolm: “Most human beings don’t want to hear human beings. Human rights has fallen to the waste side. Zade, there are women in the Middle East who cannot read the Koran.”
Zade: “Ha! Trumped that rule! I come to them in their dreams. They know what it says…watch.”
Marilyn: “Dreams! I don’t dream much anymore.”
Dorothy: “No? You sure do talk a lot in your sleep. Tell me something, did people really like the movie about me that Halle Berry was in?”
Yaze: “Not a Halle fan. She’s stilted.”
Me: “I thought it was okay. Except Clark from Mo’ Better Blues. She played your sister. I didn’t get it. Who killed you?”
She ignores me.
Dorothy: “This is the problem with being dead! Nobody asks you what you think anymore! I would’ve gladly sent them some messages or something from the other side.
Toni: “Malcolm, are you upset that you were murdered?”
Malcolm: “Of course. Did you see that whole part Denzel did in my movie where I was in a daze? That was true.”
Toni: “I want a movie.”
Me: “I’ll work on that.”
She winks at me. Yaze winks at me.
TJ: “At least Nick Nolte didn’t play you. I worry about him. Not sure he’s happy. Thandie Newton was hot though.”
Malcolm/Toni: “Easy, TJ. Easy.”
Marilyn: “I like all the people that played me. Everyone of them got something right.”
Dorothy: “You have a lot of sides to cover, honey.”
I wish I could say the night got more political but it didn’t. Psychological and pop cultural if anything. Marilyn kept flirting with TJ who kept flirting with Dorothy who wanted nothing to do with either and was only interested in Yaze explaining why young people don’t do supper club shows anymore. Then she got on me about why theater fell to the crapper since everybody loves movies now. TJ had to remind a few people that movies aren’t documentaries and he’s wondering why Mel Gibson’s Jesus movie had so many people crying before the movie even started (or maybe I said that part). Toni Cade was wondering where Marian Wright Edelman was since education was falling to pieces and she talked to Malcolm a bit about Ward Connerly’s plot to make most children of color stupid. He said Betty was haunting him already.
Salome and Washington took over the conversation because they had some whatfor to give TJ and his mathematical equation over who was black and who wasn’t (I was getting cotton mouth being the Modern Time Representative and Yaze couldn’t stop chatting with Malcolm). Marilyn said she thought she had some black ancestors because she sometimes feels misunderstood.
Honestly? I couldn’t take all the yapping anymore and I went to bed, after a few cocktails. I’m not sure what time people left but Yaze said they left the place a mess. Our only solace was Dorothy left us some breakfast, Toni Cade did some wicked graffiti in the living room, Marilyn underlined some really interesting passages in Yaze’s book on Freud, Zade left a DVD of one of her story telling sessions and Malcolm was doing the call to prayer before sun up. Salome and Washington said they had fun and wanted to know when the next one would be…Man, all I know is that those zippers from the 60s dresses are no joke. My ribs hurt.
The biggest treat of all? My dad was sleeping in the guestroom when I woke up. And my grandma was downstairs, ready to go to the library like we used to do when I was a kid.
Okay! Love it or hate it! Totally weird I know but me and Jacquetta were supposed to write about what dead person we’d want to meet and what would it be like if they were around today. I took some liberties. But she knows me.