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“I hope it’s not one of those places,” Tasha said as we walked in. By “those places” she meant the kind of diverse clubs we’d discovered in New York after college—the so-called mixed clubs where black men went to chase white women. One night we had gone to a club in the Village that had turned into the black man–white woman connection. While the line outside had been full of black men, not one of them would dance with us. They didn’t even look in our direction. They had other things in mind.
“I don’t care at this point,” I said now to Tasha as we made our way to the dance floor. “I just want to dance and forget about Diamond.” I laughed.
Biggie Smalls’s “Going Back to Cali” came on and Tamia ran to the center of the dance floor, screaming, “That’s my song, girl.” Tasha and I followed right behind her. Everything was her song at that point.
We danced so hard I felt like we were back at Howard. I forgot about the people around me and just moved my body back and forth to the music, acting a fool right along with Tamia. I forgot about Julian and school and all of the other drama going on back in New York. I was in Cali with my girls.
After Biggie went off, another one of Tamia’s “songs” came on and the one after that and the one after that. A handsome white man slid up behind Tasha. Tamia and I laughed as he struggled to keep up with her. Tasha took it down to the ground in front of him and the man looked like he was holding on for dear life.
His friends, who I later learned at the bar were Stephen and George, came over to dance with me and Tamia. They were investment bankers in L.A. for some convention. They treated Tamia and me to a beer—which I insisted we split—and begged us to dance with them. Now, if there was one thing I knew about white boys from watching my grandfather with Grandma Lucy and hanging out with the ones I met in law school, it was that they knew how to have a good time. White boys loved to party and drink beer, and Stephen and George were no different. They got Tamia and me out on the floor and we had a ball—I guess we had a connection of our own going on.
Before I knew it, we’d been on the dance floor for two hours. At around 1 A.M., Tasha’s feet gave out and we decided it was time to call it a night. Tasha and I had the guys carry Tamia to the car and we headed back to the hotel. We had gotten the party started and now it was time to get the sleeping under way.
Going Undercover: Club Names
It’s bound to happen to every fine woman in her lifetime—you meet a man at “da club” you have no intention of getting to know. Because you’re a gracious queen who would never be completely rude to someone—unless you had something to gain from it—you decide to be nice to the poor guy and not pretend you don’t see him standing right in front of you. Then he does it—he asks your name. Now you have two options: You can give this Tito Jackson look-alike your real name and listen to him call it all through the club all night, and run the risk of seeing him out somewhere else and calling you by your name, or you could simply give him your “club name.” Don’t settle on something simple like Ann or Kim. Nah! This is a great time for you to get creative. Try these hot club “standards” if you haven’t chosen a name yet. Remember: Simple is good. The last thing you need is Mr. Dragon Breath standing too close and asking, “What did you say?”
Hangover
Rrrrrring. Rrrrrring. Rrrrrring.
I could hear the hotel phone ringing from beneath the two pillows I had piled on top of my head.
“Get the phone.” I groaned, rolling over. I peeked out from underneath the pillows to see the sun blazing through the balcony window. I looked at the clock. It was 8 A.M.
Rrrrrring. Rrrrrring. Rrrrrring.
“Fuck.” I looked across the suite into the second bedroom to see Tamia spread out on her bed with Tasha lying in the bed next to hers.
“Hello?” I mumbled, wondering who could possibly be calling the hotel at eight in the morning.
“Good morning. This is the front desk. I have someone down here for Tamia Dinkins, please,” said the person on the other end.
“Tamia?” I looked across the room again. “She’s asleep. Who is it?” I asked just as I remembered that Tamia had arranged for Tasha’s mother to come to the hotel for breakfast.
“It’s Porsche St. Simon,” the woman said anxiously.
“Mia,” I tried to whisper. “Mia!” Tamia didn’t move.
“Um…yes, please tell Ms. St. Simon we’ll be right down. We’ll meet her in the restaurant.” I hung up the phone and headed to Tamia’s room.
“Tamia, wake up.” I nudged her. “Wake up; she’s here.”
“Noooooo,” Tamia cried. “My head hurts.” She jumped out of the bed and ran to the bathroom. “Urrrrp,” I heard coming from the bathroom. She was throwing up. “Oh, hell no, Tamia,” I said, heading toward the bathroom. “Not today. Not a hangover.”
“I can’t do it, Troy,” Tamia garbled, emerging from the bathroom. “You have to take her down there. You have to do it,” she whispered so Tasha couldn’t hear her.
“But I can’t. I don’t even know the lady.”
“Neither do I.” Tamia climbed back in the bed. “But I can’t help. I’m sick.”
“Tamia, how am I supposed to get her down there? Have you even thought about that? How am I supposed to get Tasha downstairs?”
“For breakfast? I’m cool with that,” I heard Tasha say. I turned around to find her standing in the doorway brushing her hair. “I’m starving.”
“Great, so you two can go to breakfast together,” Tamia said, rolling over.
“Just let me put something on and I’ll be ready.” Tasha turned and walked toward the bathroom.
