In true Chase Records fashion, to expect the unexpected, the diva showed up to the office one day when we had not prepared. No flowers (well, no more than usual), no scented candles, no fancy dining room set-up, no wine, no champagne, and no gourmet buffet. She was whisked past us all with no introductions and no fanfare upon her arrival, but after an hour or two she casually made her way through the office and we were all given the opportunity to meet the pint-sized powerhouse. Once she had made her way through to where all of the interns were stationed, and had greeted us all, I thought for sure Lance, one of the male interns, would have to be sedated. He had reacted to just about every female artist signed to the label in the same way and it was funny and ridiculous every time. We had to hold him back from following her around as she made her rounds through the office.

Everybody in every department was working long hours on her project. Days when I didn’t go to my other job at the music store I would be at the label working with Holly, the marketing director’s assistant, until midnights some nights. Oddly enough we wouldn’t be the only ones in the office that late. Sometimes, late at night, that office seemed more like a busy hotel lobby with all the socializing and in and out foot traffic, particularly if there was a big industry party happening in Atlanta. But this night there was no such luck. It was all work, work, work. We had been instructed by the marketing director that we were to finish preparing the package we had been working on, which included a detailed marketing plan, a pre-planned publicity schedule, album artwork, and publicity photos, and we were to deliver it to AC Chase, the head of the label, that same night, even if we had to drive out to his house and take it to him. Which, at first seemed like a far fetched idea, but as the sun began to set and we realized we weren’t even halfway complete, having to take our finished product to AC Chase’s house in the wee hours of the morning was becoming more of a reality than a hypothetical.

It was around 1:30am when Holly called our boss to let her know that we had finished the marketing package and to get instructions about what our next move should be. When Holly hung up the phone she said we were going to have to wait until our boss called us back at the office before we could leave. I was exhausted and really anxious to go home, and while I didn’t openly complain, I was sure to let her see me roll my eyes before I let out a very long sigh. She replied, “Trust me, I know how you feel.” Then she suggested that in the meantime we go clean out the break room of snacks. With such an intense focus on every detail of the project we had to finish, I had forgot how hungry I was.

It was common knowledge that you could always find something good to snack on in the break room. It was weird that we even called it a break room, because no one took breaks at the label. Everyone ordered lunch and either picked it up and brought it back to their desk to eat or they had it delivered. If you went out to eat it was because you were having a legitimate lunch meeting. Those were not rules that someone had written for Chase employees to abide by, it was just the nature of the business. There were televisions in the lobby and in every office, and they were always turned to BET or, on occasion, MTV. So if you needed a break from what you were doing it was as simple as looking at the TV screen near you and zoning out. We were in the music business so it was alright to actually enjoy the music you saw on TV and comment about it. That would usually lead to some kind of discussion and maybe someone would include a personal story or two about the artist whose video we had just watched, and then it would be back to work. That was a “break” at the label.

Holly and I were scavenging for snacks and making small talk, and after about forty-five minutes we got the call that AC’s flight from New York had just landed and we were to meet him at his house in about an hour with the marketing package. We were instructed to wait for him to approve it and then bring it back to the office so that plans that were approved could begin being implemented first thing in the morning. This was strange and exciting. Strange because this way of doing business, the late hours and up-to-the-minute changes and updates, was not normal to me yet. And exciting because I was an intern going to AC Chase’s house. As an intern I had not had any dealings with AC Chase directly, and had never expected to, but now I was on my way to his house. That fact woke me all the way up.

Holly drove a sports car and its speed and horsepower were much appreciated at that hour in the morning considering the distance we had to travel to get to AC’s house. I wasn’t familiar with the area we were heading to, because I only went where the MARTA went. AC lived in the type of mansion neighborhood where the upscale properties weren’t miles apart, but they were separated by huge lawns, tall elaborate gates and completely encased in fences. His was the third mansion from the corner with a huge front gate and a dimly lit call box. Holly pulled up into the driveway and pressed the call button several times, but there was no answer. She said she thought it would be OK if we sat there in the driveway until someone showed up but I told her it would be better if we parked on the street and waited until we saw some sign of life come from the house. She agreed and we parked a ways down the street and waited. I hadn’t had an opportunity to really get to know Holly outside of work but sitting there in her car I was surprised how personal her conversation was.

She had grown up in rural Pennsylvania with her grandmother. Where she had grown up there were only two traffic lights and 53 students in her graduating high school class. She went to a small college in Virginia and decided to come to Atlanta to pursue a career in the music industry. She eventually wanted to become a music supervisor for film. She was a hard worker and eager to please and the information she had just shared with me helped to explain a lot. There were moments when Holly seemed so country to me and now I knew why – she was country. There were parts of the city that we would have to go to for different events and she would be annoyingly paranoid about her car being stolen. Growing up in Detroit, I knew when I was in the “hood”, and no matter where I am from city to city, I know “hood” when you see it. I’d try to reassure her by pointing out the signs (i.e., no rottweilers or pitbulls roaming the streets, or no piles of broken glass in the parking lot) that we weren’t in a car stealing type of neighborhood but usually it did nothing to ease her fears.

Finally, after about an hour of waiting and talking just to stay awake, a black SUV with tinted windows pulled up to the gate. I told Holly that we should wait until they were inside the gate before we pulled up to the driveway. Because it was nearly 5am and still very dark out I thought it would be best if we waited until they got inside as opposed to us pulling up behind them unannounced. Even though we were there on legitimate business I still felt like us sitting on the street, in that type of neighborhood, at that time of morning, looked suspicious. But before the words were fully out of my mouth Holly had punched the accelerator and that fuel injected engine propelled us from down the street to directly behind the SUV in seconds. The gate was opening slowly and the SUV’s drivers’ window was down as well as the rear driver side passenger window. As Holly screeched on brakes behind the SUV I heard AC yell to his driver. “I don’t know who that is! Shoot them muthafuckahs!” In response, Holly jumped out of the car and ran toward them. As she approached yelling and waving, “No, no, it’s me, Holly”, the SUV sped forward through the gate and up to the house. Holly turned around, ran back to her car, and sped through the gate toward the now parked SUV. As we pulled up into the driveway I noticed two shadows run from the SUV into the house, and then I saw the driver heading back toward our car with his hands wrapped around a huge gun. I began to sink down into the seat toward the floor, but not all of the way, because as much as I didn’t want to get shot I really wanted to see what was about to happen. Holly, obviously not taking in what was happening in front of her, naively jumped out of the car again. She took a few steps, then extended her hands in front of her and said to the driver, “It’s me! Holly! From the office.” The driver took one hand from the gun and placed his hand on his hip. “It was about to be lights out for you,” he said as he put the gun away. I was still peering over the dashboard even after he had put the gun away and started to talk to Holly. She looked toward the car and called my name, but I was very reluctant to get out.

“What are y’all doing here this late?” He looked at both of us angrily. “Y’all almost got fucked up!” He didn’t seem so much pissed off as he was annoyed. Buck, the driver was always at the office when AC was there. He was one of the few people who spoke if you said hello, but he really didn’t say much else. He was a tall, slender, dark-skinned West Indian man with piercing green eyes. He was very attractive but also very serious looking which seemed to cancel out his good looks at times. “Follow me”, he grunted, and when he turned around to go into the house we followed him through a small door that opened up into a massive kitchen. I had never seen anything like it in real life. There was a very large white marble top island in the middle of the kitchen that Buck lead us to. To the right was a large open doorway that led to, in a normal sized house, what might be considered a den. There were two large overstuffed sectionals covered in pillows of the same fabric that set about twenty five feet from what looked like a movie theater screen. There were floor to ceiling windows, a crystal chandelier and wall sconces that dimly lit the room with a kind of golden glow. I allowed myself to wonder what it would be like to be the lady of this house. Just as I was mentally coordinating an ensemble to wear for entertaining guests I heard AC’s voice.

“Y’all almost got shot,” he grunted angrily. “We didn’t know who y’all were,” he said as he pointed a very rigid finger in each of our faces, “and I told Buck to shoot y’all asses!” Buck was annoyed, but AC was pissed, and he wanted us to know it. I couldn’t even blink I was so nervous. I just stood there, mouth dry, trying to slow my heart rate without making a sound. My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my ears. He started yelling, “What the hell y’all doing here any gotdamn way?” I was mute. My ears were hot and pulsating and I figured I’d be better off not saying a word. Holly started talking, but Holly was handling the situation all wrong. For some reason, that heaven only knows, she went into a huge pageant smile and started a speech.

“We are here to do our part in ensuring that . . .,” before she could say another word AC grabbed the large envelope from her hand with a loud grunt. I was so glad that she stopped talking. I didn’t know if she was nervous or just tired, because I couldn’t convince myself that she was dense enough to try to offer a speech under these circumstances. He turned and emptied the contents of the envelope onto the marble countertop and took maybe two minutes to look through everything. It was dark out and the kitchen was dimmly lit, but he was examining the paper work in dark shades. I wondered to myself could he really see or was he to angry to even take the time to remove the glasses. As he flipped through the package we were all silent. He pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, initialed what he approved, put the pen down and walked away. Holly and I stood there and looked at each other confused as to what to do next.

“So, should we go,” she whispered to me. All I could do was shake my head, because I didn’t know what to do. She looked in the direction that AC had walked away and then took a deep breath and slowly inched her way toward the spread of pictures and papers.

“What are y’all waiting for,” he said as he came back into the kitchen in a booming voice. It startled me, but I was so glad I didn’t jump. No need to draw more attention to myself. I ran over to help Holly gather all of the papers and pictures, and as quickly and as neatly as possible we stuffed them back into the large envelope. AC had disappeared again and within seconds we were headed back out of the same side door we had entered. We had maybe one foot out of the door when Buck jumped from the bushes and loudly roared. I felt like I jumped ten feet into the air and when I landed all I could do was scream. Holly was screaming too. When we finally stopped screaming we realized we were huddled together with our arms intertwined. I looked over to see Buck doubled over in laughter and AC standing at the door. I was scared and trying to catch my breath when AC yelled out, “That’s what y’all asses get!” And he slammed the door. Buck continued laughing hysterically as we made quick time to the car. Once inside Holly looked at me wide eyed and said, “It wasn’t that funny.” I still hadn’t caught my breath enough to say a word. We made our way back to the office to drop off the enveope and eventually we found the humor in what had happened, and whenever we saw Buck in the office after that he teased us mercilessly.

While I was at the label I always looked for an opportunity to make money there or to use the fact that I had access to the label to my advantage outside the label. For example, we would get tons of requests from individuals and organizations asking the label for everything from monetary donations to requesting that an artist come sing at a family reunion. And being a low man on the totem pole it was my job to cypher through the requests and present what seemed like legitimate opportunities from the more obscure requests, like can a certain artist come and sing at the baptism of my cousins baby. As I made my way through the latest batch of requests I came across one from the American Council of Black Designers. It was an organization for Black designers of varying media to come together and network. They were having their annual national conference in Atlanta and were requesting sponsorship from the label. I had heard about the conference and wanted to attend, but the $500 registration fee could not be fit into my budget. I presented the request to my boss, but she quickly dismissed it. I was hoping that with the label as a sponsor I could possibly work out some sort of discounted fee that would allow me to attend the conference. I tried a second time to plead the case for the sponsorship but I was shut down again.

We never gave a reply to a request if we weren’t going to fulfill the request, but I couldn’t resist calling the director of the American Council of Black Designers to let them know that we had received their request. When I spoke to the director she seemed to have an attitude. She said she had been sending letters and leaving messages for over a month, with no response, and the conference date was rapidly approaching. In my most official sounding voice I asked her what type of sponsorship was she looking for exactly. After about five minutes of a hard sell I knew she was going to hit me up for money. I knew I couldn’t get her that so I went the product route.

“While we are committed to contributing to community events that support the arts, a non-monetary donation would be more feasible for us at this time.” I have no idea where that came from but that’s what I said. There was silence at first, then she said, “Well, I would like some CD’s to stuff into our swag bags.”

“How many?”

“Maybe 400.”

“400? Okay. Well, we have two or three employees who have expressed interest in attending the conference. Is there a possibility that we can work out a discount for them to attend?” I was hoping she would be reasonable.

“I have been calling there for over two months and haven’t heard a word from anyone. If you can get me 400 CD’s to put in my gift bags, I can get them in for free.”

That was exactly what I wanted to hear. The conference was two weeks away and she said for me to fax the list of employees who wanted to attend the three day conference as soon as possible. That was the easy part. Now I had to get my hands on 400 CD’s, which actually wouldn’t be that difficult. Around the label there would be boxes and boxes of product(CD’s, posters, press photos) just sitting around. I just had to be sure not to take from someones stash meant for official business or get caught hoarding CD’s or worse sending out 400 CD’s unauthorized. I let Brenda in on what I was doing because the receptionist desk was tall and long and constantly surrounded by boxes, packages, and envelopes, and no one would think twice about a box filled with CD’s sitting at her desk. For three days I was scavenging boxes of CD’s from all over the office. Mostly boxes of promotional singles, every once in a while I’d find a box of whole album CD’s. By the end of the week I had collected the 400 CD’s and had faxed the list of names of attendees to the director. I was the only one going but I added two more random employee names to the list just to make it seem legit. The director called to thank me two days later when she got the CD’s and ensured me that there would be registration set up for the people on my list at the conference.

I was so excited to get to the conference and meet and network with people who were making a living as designers. The itinerary of speakers and workshops made me salivate. There were several panel discussions set-up specifically for fashion design and I had planned to attend each. When the day came and I went to check in there was quite a line, but I waited patiently until I got to the front. I showed ID, as required and the guy enthusiastically directed me to another line. When I got to the new line it was only one person in front of me and when they were done and walked away I noticed the sign on the table read “Executive/VIP Registration”. I was confused as to why I would be in this line. The lady asked for my name and when I told her she asked me to wait a moment and she left the table. All I could think was maybe my registration had got mixed up or maybe, strangely, I wasn’t registered at all. When the lady returned she had two other women with her. I wasn’t sure what to think when I saw how enthusiastic one of the women looked as she approached. Her hand was extended as she hurriedly made her way in front of me. She finally was close enough to grab my hand and she shook it firmly and vigorously as she introduced herself.

“I’m Dorothy Banks, the director of the American Council of Black Designers and I am very pleased to meet you.” I smiled and wished she would loosen her grip a little, but she kept right on squeezing my hand as she continued talking. “This is Linda Martin, our co-chair, and we consider it a privilege to have you here.” I thought that the personal greeting was nice considering we had spoke on the phone. “Gina will complete your registration and then we would like for you to join us in our executive reception in the conference room down the hall. Linda will escort you.” I said thank you and she turned and left. When I turned to face Gina, the woman who had been sitting at the table initially, I was hoping for some sort of explanation for their added enthusiasm to have me here. All I had done was send some CD’s to gain admission, their agreeing to allow me to attend was thanks enough. When Gina handed me my name tag it explained it all. It had my name followed by “The Chase Records, Executive, Director of Marketing.” I almost fainted. How in the world did this happen? When I spoke on the phone with the director of the conference I never told her my title at the label. I don’t even remember if I told her my name. I had only sent a fax with my name and two other random names. No job titles included. Now, here I went from intern to the Director of Marketing with VIP status in a matter of minutes. Linda was there to escort me to the reception and as I followed slowly behind her I prayed to God as sincerely as I could: Please Jesus don’t let anyone I know be here. Please, merciful God in heaven, DON’T LET ME GET FIRED!

I repeated those words over and over as I slid that wretched name tag into my pants pocket. As soon as I stepped into the room I was accosted by Dorothy the director. “Where’s you name tag,” she asked frantic. “Please put it on. We’ve asked everyone to wear them so no one feels like a stranger.” I tried at first to pretend as if I had misplaced it, but Dorothy was insistent on helping me locate it. She even grabbed the folder full of information I had received at the registration desk out of my hand and started riffling through it to try and help me locate that name tag. After a few seconds of her frantic search I just decided to bite the bullet and wear the damn thing.

“Here it is,” I said as I pulled it from my pocket and began to attach it to the front of my blouse, trying to appear absent minded. I don’t know if she bought it or even if she cared because she just began to talk and talk and talk. But I didn’t hear a word. I was surveying the room corner to corner looking for familiar faces. I had began formulating a plan to explain why I was being considered an executive at this conference, and the first part of the plan was to begin with a preemptive strike. Approach anyone from the label before they could approach me. Offer an explanation before I could be accused. I didn’t realize I was unconsciously following Dorothy the director throughout the room. We were walking the entire time she was chattering on. When I became aware that I had been following her it was to late. She had stopped at a table that would surely lead to my demise. She began to go around the table making introductions, but again I heard nothing she said. There was one person at that table who didn’t need an introduction. Barry Cornell, the director of the graphic and arts department at The Chase Records. I tried to avoid his gaze, but I couldn’t. This was it. Career death by presumption and misunderstanding. I had just hustled my way into complete shame and unemployment.

“Of course you two know each other,” Dorothy said as she looked from me to Barry and back to me again. The she addressed the table. “They both are from The Chase Records. He is the director of graphics and art, and she is the director of marketing.” Oh, how I wished she would just die. But no, she just kept on talking. “I want you all to know that she really saved my life. She was kind enough to send me enough CD’s to fill every gift bag.” As she stood there nodding and smiling at the people at the table I could only focus on Barry’s face. His brows were scrunched together, but he also had a weird smirk. I was sure that was anger I was observing in his expression. All the blood had drained from my face, my mouth was dry and my hands began to tremble. I was trying to remember my plan. Was it to explain before anyone could ask or was it to run? I swear I heard a voice say, “Run, fool, run!” It sounded good to me, so I began to move, but I began moving in the wrong direction. I’m sure the voice meant run toward the door but within seconds I was next to Barry and I plopped down in the seat next to him at the table. I know I looked frazzled, because I was. I opened my mouth but nothing would come out. I was shaking my head no, but it didn’t help to shake any words loose.

“Director of Marketing? Who got fired?” Barry’s words dripped with sarcasm. I didn’t know where to start.

“I didn’t tell her that . . . I just wanted to come to the conference . . . the CD’s . . . they said I could come for free . . . but I didn’t tell her that,” I insisted. “I didn’t tell her that!” I was babbling and not making any sense. I knew what I wanted to say, but it just wasn’t coming out.

“Ok, calm down and start from the beginning,” he said calmly. I took two deep breaths to help me get it all out. I explained it all as fast as I could, attempting to answer every question before he could even ask. “So you didn’t tell them you were the marketing director,” he asked.

“No!” I was adamant.

“But you didn’t tell them you were an intern either?”

“No,” I answered sheepishly. “I just wanted to come to the conference, but I couldn’t afford it.”

I wasn’t sure what was coming next, but he began, “I remember when I was an intern. I used to always use CD’s and posters to get favors. And whenever my boss wasn’t in the office I’d always sit at his desk. When he was out of town for days I would take over his office like it was mine.” He had a reminiscent smile as he continued. “I know how it is, but you have to be really careful because if someone else from the office had been here besides me, it would have been over for you.” He was laughing now, and I knew he was laughing at me and not with me. But I was so relieved. I couldn’t believe how understanding he was being. I never really had any reason to talk to Barry before that day, even though I saw him in the office regularly. Whenever I’d be in his department I would only have dealings with one of the interns or one of the assistants. Then for a minute I began to imagine what if it had been one of the crustier executives that I had run into at the conference with this blazing lie hanging over my head. The thought mortified me. And it must have shown on my face because Barry was really cracking up now. Thankfully, as he laughed I could feel oxygen begin to re-enter my body. I guess it wasn’t meant for me to die or get fired that day and I was glad.

“Tell you what,” Barry began, “Stick close to me during this conference so I can keep an eye on you and make sure you stay out of trouble. OK?” I quickly agreed, and over the next three days I got a chance to enjoy the conference, except when anyone mentioned my job title, which was often. Barry teased me endlessly when some conference goers approached me with their resumes hoping that I could possibly help their careers. In one workshop a panelist didn’t show up and Dorothy the director approached Barry and me to see if one of us would be interested in filling in for him. I immediately deferred to Barry and he started to laugh and act as if he thought it might be a good idea if I do it. I gave him my best “I could kill you” stare and he agreed to be on the panel. Barry began calling me “M.D.”, for marketing director, after that and I would cringe just about every time he said it. Most people automatically assumed it was because of my initials but we kept the real meaning between us.

The PA system at the label sometimes turned into amateur comedy open mic. You could hear an announcement being made about anything from breath mints to butt wipes. In general the jokes would be contained to after hours (after 7pm when the receptionist shut down the switchboard.) Since the label never really closed on any given night AC Chase could be there late, and one evening when he was there late the PA antics had went to far and a stern executive order was issued that the PA system was to be used strictly for official business, nothing else. The very next day, during the middle of the business day, the following announcement was made:

“Hey everybody, this is your girl Sexy from your favorite group CSC. Now there comes a time in life when we all have to keep it real with ourselves. And now is such a time. I am in here trying to enjoy my Chick-Fil-A chicken sandwich but they didn’t put any hot sauce in my bag. So I need all of you bourgeois Negros to reach down deep, and tap into your inner ghetto, and release the hot sauce in your purses and desk drawers and bring some to your girl up here in AC’s office. Don’t leave me hanging. Once again, release your inner ghetto and let me have some of your hot sauce.”

You could hear the laughter echoing from every corner of the label, followed by a stampede of employees headed to AC’s office with hot sauce in bottles and packets, big and small. Within minutes this follow up announcement was made:

“You really came through. My sandwich is now marinating in hot sauce preparing for me to get down on it. My bourgeois brothers and sisters, I knew you could do it. My sandwich and I thank you.”

That opened the door and the PA antics picked back up again.

Another time while I was sitting in for the receptionist everyone in every department had been instructed to answer the phone and say, “The Chase Records is proud to present CSC’s Fan Time, an album dedicated to you, the fans. Coming soon to a store near you.” It was more than a mouthful. It was annoying and time consuming and after saying it two or three times it was enough to make you not even want to answer the phone. But at the receptionist desk that wasn’t an option. As I sat there taking hundreds of calls repeating the script over and over with each call a familiar voice asked, “They got y’all answering the phone like that?” It was Cool from CSC. Her husky rasp was unmistakable. I confirmed that that was how we were answering the phone until their album dropped. She said OK, then asked for me to transfer her call to one of the executive assistants. About a minute later the phone rang and I answered it reciting the script. It was Cool again. “Do y’all really have to say that every time?”

“Yes,” I answered. Then she said the person I had transferred her to wasn’t there and she needed me to put her call through to someone else. I followed her directions and put the call through. A few seconds went by and I answered the phone reciting the script yet again. “Oh my God, stop saying that,” Cool said laughing. “Aren’t you sick of saying that,” she asked.

“Well, since you asked,” I interjected, “Yes, I am tired of saying it.” It felt good to admit the truth. She then squealed, “Ooooooo, I’m going to tell on you.” I immediately regretted saying it. The curse of the big mouth strikes again I thought to myself. Then she started laughing and I was relieved she was just kidding. “Look,” she said, “Nobody you’re sending me to is answering the phone. I need you to transfer me again. If they are not there I’m going to call you back, but when I do don’t answer the phone like that.” I agreed and put her call through to yet another extension. It was interesting that she was annoyed by the way we had been instructed to answer the phone, even though it was to promote her groups upcoming album. When the phone at the receptionist desk rang again seconds later, I knew it was her calling back. “Hello,” I answered, but before I could say anything else one of the executives was passing by and heard me. She yelled at me. “You can not answer the phone like that. What is wrong with you?” I started to try to explain, but she continued to scold me like a child. “What’s the matter? Can’t follow directions? All you have to do is answer the phone. How hard can that be?” She stood there for a few seconds staring at me. I didn’t know what to do because Cool was on the phone calling out hello over and over, and the executive was angrily glaring a hole into my head. After a few jumbled attempts of me trying to explain she finally rolled her eyes and walked away. When I began to talk to Cool, who had been holding on the phone, she asked who was that yelling. I told her who it was and what had happened. “Oh no she didn’t try to check somebody about doing their job. That heffa don’t know what she’s doing half of the time.” I decided at that moment that I loved her and that I would personally go and find whoever it was that she wanted to talk to. She let me know that she was headed up to the office, and when she walked through the door and saw me at the receptionist desk, right in the middle of saying the script to yet another caller, she began to playfully mock me. “Let me answer the next call,” she commanded. So I handed her the phone. When the next call came in she said, “Yeah baby, this is Cool from CSC and I want you to go out and get our new album.” She spent the next minute trying to convince the caller that they were really talking to Cool from CrazySexyCool-Aid and then she handed me the phone. As she turned to walk away she yelled out, “Sell that album baby,” and burst into laughter.

The Chase Records had really great artists, and those artists had really great, enthusiastic, and very persistent fans. When it came to the artists they loved the fans would go to extraordinary lengths to show their love and adoration. Periodically when I would be asked to man the phones at the receptionist desk one of my duties was to check the general office voicemail and transfer calls to the correct department, but some calls couldn’t be transferred. I couldn’t count how many voicemail messages there were of people singing and auditioning. Male, female, old, young, good, bad, worse and weird – they were looking for a break. The messages with kids singing were the best. I would transfer those to all of the interns and assistants in-boxes and we would all have a good laugh. But there would be calls from fans that I’d have no clue what to do, and it was because they would call and ask to speak to the artists, literally. Of course we didn’t ever give out personal information about the artists, and because it was usually a shaky voiced teenager calling to speak to the artist it was safe to assume they weren’t calling about official business, so there was no need to connect them to the particular artists’ management. Usually when those types of calls came in I’d say something along the lines of, “I’m sorry, but CSC doesn’t work here.” It seemed to me to be the most logical way to address it.

One very hectic day while sitting in for the receptionist, I must have looked quite frustrated at the desk because the promotions director, an all around party guru, asked if I was OK. Frustrated I answered, “Man, this phone is crazy busy, and half of these calls aren’t even legit.”

“What do yo mean, not legit?”

“Like these girls on the line right now asking to speak to Deacon. What should I say?” Deacon was a young, hot, teenage heart-throb whose album was burning up the charts at the time. The promotions director laughed and said, “Let me speak to them.” So, I gave him the phone.

“Hello . . . Yeah, baby this is Deacon.” You could hear the screams through the phone. “Well, you know I just like to do things ‘The Right Way’.” The Right Way was the name of Deacon’s album that was making it’s way to number one at the time. He had changed his voice and everything. I sat there in hysterical laughter. I had to cover my mouth so my laughing wouldn’t ruin his performance. The girls on the phone were buying his charade, and he was selling it for all it was worth. What made it so funny was that he answered all of their questions with song titles from Deacon’s album, and with every answer the screams became louder and louder.

“Where are you lovely ladies calling from,” he asked. “OK, well I’ll be there in concert soon, so make sure you come see me when I’m in your city alright?” There was nothing but screams coming from the other end of the phone. Even he had to laugh. He paused for a second then said, “I love you back,” very sensually. I was dying because the screaming had hit an unrecognizably high octave. By the time he hung up the phone I was almost hyperventilating I was laughing so hard. As he walked away he looked back with a smirk and said, “That’s how you make fans for life.” After that performance I had no doubt that that was how it was done.

The label would generally become more relaxed as the work day wore deep into the evening. On one such day my boss was out of town and I was working in her office. The day had been progressing smoothly with lots of laughter and we had even initiated an office paper ball fight between some of the interns and assistants. The sneak attack was key in the paper ball fight and I had just executed the perfect middle of the forehead paper ball missile against the promotions director’s assistant while she was mid-phone conversation and had taken a few minutes to celebrate by doing a victory dance in my bosses office, but I didn’t think to close the door before I began to shake, very rapidly, what my mama gave me. So, there I was in the middle of my bosses office with it all jiggling to the beat in my head not realizing that I had an audience. As I continued winding my body in circles I turned to see AC Chase standing at the door staring, along with Buck, his driver, and the promotions director. I let out a scream and quickly put my head down like a kindergartner who had just been reprimanded for talking while standing in the lunch line, and there was nowhere I could hide. How embarrassing!

I sheepishly looked up, not really wanting to see his reaction, but I couldn’t justify continuing to stand there with my head down after I had just screamed. The three of them each had a different reaction. The driver was laughing to himself shaking his head. The promotions director looked at me as if he were embarrassed for me. Then there was AC, standing there in his signature dark sunglasses motionless. He looked at me, let out a short rough grunt, turned and walked away. When he was out of sight the promotions director turned to me and said, “You know he thinks you’re an idiot right?” Then he burst into laughter, hit me in the head with a paper ball and ran away. I felt like an idiot. Then I thought to myself that that was the second time I had been startled by or near AC Chase. Was this a coincidence or did he enjoy hearing me scream? Was sneaking up on me startling me his way of trying to be my friend? The thought of it made me laugh.

Periodically a record label, entertainment company, or clothing label would announce that they were taking over the city of Atlanta. The takeover would usually last for a weekend and would consist of list-only VIP parties as well as open to the public bashes at the hottest clubs or at a skating rink. Some of these weekends would garner more buzz than others, but in the case of Danny “Da Show” Shaw everything he did made prime time headline news. His record label, Take That Entertainment, had acts that were breaking records with their sales and Da Show had labeled himself the king of the remix because of his success with taking hot pop songs and adding new music, rap artist’s and catchy hooks and making them party must-haves. Talk about his takeover of the city had been floating in the air for weeks and everyone at the label was preparing to join in the festivities. Among the Da Show’s plans for the weekend was a restaurant opening. Sydney’s, named for his daughter, was the gourmet Caribbean and soul food restaurant he had opened in New York. He was doing well with the original and now he was opening a second location in Atlanta. The plans for the restaurant’s opening festivities were being held top secret. In the press Da Show had promised to have the greatest opening Atlanta had ever seen, and his reputation for over the top events made the anticipation for this event palpable. Even the news reporter was jittery with excitement as he shamelessly begged on air for the opportunity to be in attendance. At the label we were privy to more information about Take That Entertainment Weekend than the public, but not much more. We were being held at arms length as the particulars were being planned, but the line up of entertainment for the restaurant’s opening night had been leaked at the label and all of the excitement was warranted because it read like a who’s who in popular music.

While he was in town Da Show was using AC’s office as his office and it was our job to assist his assistants with whatever they needed. AC’s work style was smooth. He meant business, he rarely raised his voice, but you knew he meant business. Da Show’s work style was the complete opposite. He yelled, screamed and moved non-stop. He seemed jittery, and everyone in his army of helpers, yes men, and assistants seemed just as on edge. I thought I had experienced fast paced, but we were turtles compared to this gaggle. They talked fast, they ate fast, they even laughed fast. And then there were the tantrums. If Da Show wasn’t fighting with one of his assistants over something they weren’t doing fast enough, he was on the phone fighting with his girlfriend. I was assigned to help AC’s assistant for about five days and there was not a day that went by without a fight or a tantrum.

In the days leading up to the start of Take That Entertainment Weekend the fights and tantrums became more intense. One of Da Show’s assistants arranged for a wardrobe stylist to bring a mobile closet of designer clothes for him to choose from for the weekends events. She was a very fashionable young Black lady with a huge broken afro and a red flower tucked into the right side of her woolly tresses. I remember thinking that she looked so strong. The flower and her make-up added a softness to her round face, but her look gave off the impression that she was about getting things done. She walked past the desk I occupied with a clothing rack filled with suits, shirts and coats in shades of navy, grey, chocolate, merlot and black. She was being trailed by a slender man wearing a brown fedora with a black satin band and a bright yellow feather. I couldn’t get a good look at his face because of the two full racks of clothes he wheeled past me. His racks overflowed with more suits, jackets, pants, shirts and coats. I would have given anything to get a closer look at the garments on those racks, but the stylist and her assistant had hurried past where I was sitting and had disappeared into the corridor leading to AC’s office. About twenty minutes had passed when I was startled by a loud bang. I looked up to see the stylist’s assistant struggling to maneuver one of the racks of clothing out of the office. It had hit the wall, and where the clothes were neatly arranged on the racks when they had arrived, now there were garments thrown over the rack, there were empty hangers dangling side to side with pants falling down and halfway wrapped under the wheels of the rack. I jumped up to help him. He was moving frantically. As we bent down to pry the tangled pants from underneath the wheel of the rack he looked at me and whispered, “He didn’t like none of this shit.” He shook his head in disbelief. Just as we freed the pants and got the rack somewhat balanced enough for him to roll it out to the lobby, the next rack appeared in the corridor just as disheveled as the preceding one. It had been pushed abruptly into the corridor, hit the wall, tipped over and fell to the floor. The stylist backed out of the door yelling, “Oh my God. I can’t believe this.” She repeated it over and over. But Da Show appeared yelling, screaming, and cursing louder than her. “Get the hell out . . . I said all white . . . take this shit . . . stupid ass didn’t listen . . . when I say all white, I mean all white . . . shit!” I was trying not to look directly at him, but it was like watching a car crashing. I was a rubber necked gawker. Then for a split second Da Show and me made eye contact, but I instantly broke his gaze by dropping to my knees to help her gather the scattered clothes.

She was shook up, but she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get out of there. She took her time trying to account for each article of clothing. That pissed him off more, and he began to kick the clothes as if he were practicing to make a field goal while yelling for her to hurry up and go. Finally two of his people appeared from within the office to coax him back inside. The stylist continued at the same slow pace picking up the garments one at a time. I hadn’t realized that behind me stood AC’s assistant and two other executive assistants. Once Da Show had left the corridor they joined me and the stylist in cleaning up the mess. No one said a word. The stylist’s assistant returned, let out a long sigh and began to gather clothes into his arms. We all helped to escort them to the lobby when the stylist turned to AC’s assistant to tell her that she still had one more rack to get. AC’s assistant let out a long breath and turned to walk back toward the office. The stylist went to follow her but AC’s assistant held up one hand signaling for her to stay put. I felt scared for her to have to go back into Da Show’s dysfunction junction, but we all stood there and watched her walk away. Up to that point no one said anything but I guess the stylist’s assistant couldn’t hold his silence anymore.

“Can you believe him? We practically robbed Dolce and Gabbana for him.” He looked at each of us for acknowledgement but still no one said a word. The stylist showed no interest in what he was saying either. She was pacing back and forth occasionally stopping to peer down the hall to see if AC’s assistant was returning with the missing rack of clothes. Just as she had decided she had waited long enough and had made up her mind to go after the final rack herself, AC’s assistant was rounding the corner making her way toward where we stood with the third rack of jumbled clothes in tow. It was a relief to see that rack of clothes behind her because a part of me was sure that she would return with some absurd tale of bad behavior that prevented her from claiming the garments.

The stylist grabbed the rack, looking quickly from front to back. “It had better all be here or he will be getting a bill,” she grunted angrily. As she and her assistant made their way out the front door past the receptionist desk I could only speculate how embarrassed she must have been about the entire incident.

“Can you believe he acted like that,” I asked AC’s assistant as we walked back toward her office.

“It’s her own fault,” she said nonchalantly. I jerked my head toward her so fast I was almost dizzy. I couldn’t believe what she had just said. “How could this possibly be her fault,” I asked confused.

“The man said he wanted all white. She should have brought all white.” She said it so flatly and without a care as she disappeared into her office.

Days like this made me hate this job.

The next morning as I prepared to go into the office I was hoping for a less dramatic day. There was a group of assistants and interns all gathered at the receptionist desk when I walked in. I thought to myself, “Man, drama already? This early?” As I approached the group one of them turned and pointed and said, “There she is.” I thought to myself, “Oh dear God, what in the world could this be about?” Usually my second thought after “oh dear God”, if I was being singled out for something, would be that I hope I was not about to be fired. But as my internship went on I had decided to be prepared for whatever came my way – praise or punishment, que sera sera (whatever will be, will be).

One of the assistants smiled as she said to me, “Girrrrl, we heard you on the radio this morning.” I know I looked at her like she was crazy. She must be mistaken I thought to myself, I wasn’t on the radio this morning. “Huh,” I replied to her certain she was wrong. “We heard you on the radio this morning,” Brenda said laughing. They were all smiling and laughing. They must have me confused with someone else I told them. I never listened to the radio in the morning, let alone called the station to actually be on the radio. “I wasn’t on the radio,” I said calmly. But Brenda insisted, “Yes you were.”

“What are you guys talking about?”

Anika, one of the executive assistants, started to look as confused as me. “Didn’t you make a voicemail message for Da Show’s phone?” I hesitated at first then I reluctantly confirmed that I had made a message for his phone. “Well, they played it on the radio this morning.” They all started laughing again, and even I was excited even though I was still not fully up to speed. “How did you know it was me,” I inquired before Brenda explained.

Apparently, while on the radio in the midst of promoting the activities for Take That Entertainment Weekend, Da Show decided to have a little fun with his fans. He and the radio DJ pretended to be going to commercial, but instead they acted as if they were having an off-the-air conversation that included the DJ asking Da Show for his phone number and Da Show giving him the number. They were fully aware that they weren’t off-the-air and gave the phone number out purposely to see what fans would say on Da Show’s voicemail if they called the number. George let everyone in the office know that it was my voice on the outgoing message.

After Brenda explained I had a good laugh. It was exciting to be included (indirectly) in such an elaborate prank, but I was most happy to be in on the set-up and not the butt end of the joke. Brenda said they played the messages that the fans had left for Da Show on the voicemail during the morning radio show. They were laughing at how people had taken the opportunity to audition on his voicemail, and they said there were also messages with people asking for jobs. There were even a few messages from people warning Da Show that the radio DJ had allowed his phone number to be leaked on air and that he should change his number. Listening to the ladies recall what had went down on the radio was comically captivating. Hearing their versions made me consider including morning radio into my sunrise routine.

“They said your voice was sexy,” Anika added.

“No they didn’t,” I playfully protested. But then I asked seriously, “Did they really?” They all confirmed that that was what was said. Were they exaggerating, I wondered, and it must have shown on my face.

“No, seriously,” Anika insisted. “Once they played your message, the DJ and Da Show went on and on about how sexy your voice was. The DJ said they needed this lady to come up to the station and record some radio spots.” I was sure she was putting extra on the story but they were all nodding in unison confirming what she was saying.

Wow. I began to wonder, could this be the beginning of a new career for me? Sexy voice lady. I could get paid just for leaving sexy voice messages on peoples answering machines. Then it hit me. I wasn’t feeling sexy when I left that message, I was tired as hell. I was worn out by all of the cursing and clothes kicking, and then I wondered how my being tired and disgusted had translated into sexy to these people. If this was my new career would I have to keep having crappy days in order to get my voice to do what it had done on that outgoing voicemail message? I quickly dismissed the thought of making a living as sexy voice lady as silly.

As the group began to disperse and I made my way back to help AC’s assistant for the last day of my assigned time there George stopped me in the hallway as I passed his office. “Did you hear your sexy voice on the radio this morning?” He had a conspicuous grin on his face and it surprised and embarrassed me. He had never looked me in the eye when he spoke to me before. He always seemed preoccupied or in a huge hurry whenever I’d spoke to him in the past. Never eye contact. He only spoke to me in passing or impatiently as if I was bothering him, even when he initiated conversation. But now he was glaring at me and it made me very uncomfortable. I looked away as if I saw something interesting behind him. “I didn’t hear it, but I heard about it,” I replied. I was trying to keep it brief. His staring creeped me out and I had started to walk away when he touched my shoulder and ran his hand slowly down my arm in a massage type of way. Squeezing and contracting his hand slowly against my bicep and forearm until he reached my hand. Then he tried to intertwine his fingers with mine but I had had enough and I pulled my arm from his grip and turned and quickly went on my way. I felt gross. In my head I was screaming, “I felt tired not sexy when I left that message, ASSHOLE!” I know he was watching me as I walked away so I tried to hurry and disappear to the desk I had been using. When I got to the desk I took a couple of deep breaths to settle myself followed by a few rapid shakes of my arm in an attempt to shake off the memory of his misguided touch. Just when I felt myself beginning to refocus on work one of Da Show’s assistants approached me.

“You the one who made the message?” I braced myself for more foolishness and reluctantly answered yes. “That was good shit yo. You a singer baby?” I kept my eyes down and shuffled through papers on my desk as I answered, “No, not at all.” I refused to make eye contact with him. As he stood there neither of us said another word but I could feel him looking at me even though I kept my eyes down. I kept moving as if he weren’t even there and finally I was thankful that he picked up on my disinterest. After a minute he nodded, said OK and walked away. As the day went on I endured constant references to the “sexy voice message”. It became clear to me then why phone sex operators keep their identities secret. If I had to endure an arm molestation just for saying “thank you for calling” I didn’t even want to imagine the harassment professional working girls must put up with.

The work day at the office was laid back because most of the executives were out of town attending an awards show taping in Los Angeles. Music was playing at its normal louder-than-the-typical-office-setting level and phones were ringing at a steady pace. Nothing was urgent, pressing, or frantic and a few of us were entertaining the idea of going out to lunch and dining in, which was something we never did. I was sitting at my desk working steadily when I was interrupted by a simultaneous boom of laughter coming from down the hall and the monotone alert of my desk phone ringing. I fumbled to pick up the phone. It was Brenda calling from the receptionist desk.

“Hey girl, have you seen him yet,” she whispered.

“Seen who,” I asked.

“Manny’s friend,” she insisted, still whispering.

“No. Who is he,” I inquired. She didn’t answer my question, she just said for me to come up to see her at the receptionist desk once I saw him. I agreed even though I had no idea who she was talking about. Once I hung up the phone I heard the laughter in the hallway again and I stood up from my desk to see who it was, and there was Manny Camero, one of the in-house producers, with his friend, the most famous and flamboyant pimp in America, Tricky Romeo.

Tricky Romeo had been spotlighted in several documentaries about pimp life and had started making consistent cameos in music videos of various rap artists. It had been rumored that Manny was a pimp in his spare time and I had never really entertained the possibility of that being true until that moment. Manny was taking Tricky Romeo through the hall to his office and was sure to stop and make introductions along the way as curious employees passed by. There was a small congregation of interns and assistants surrounding Manny and Tricky so I joined them and took the opportunity to meet a pimp.

Everything about him was vulgar and exaggerated from head to toe. He wore a zoot style suit with matching hat and all of the suits pieces, including the hat, were brightly multi-colored and shiny from the sequins that were attached. But the suit was mute compared to his jewelry. Draped around his neck was a large gold chain with a gold cross that measured no less than eight inches long and four inches wide adorned with jewels. There were very large rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. The stones were so large that if it were anyone else I might guess they were fakes, but I reasoned that someone this bombastic wouldn’t wear fakes. It wouldn’t fit into his story. And it was very evident that this man had stories – stories that were unbelievably captivating, outlandish, and truly grandiose. And though I hadn’t heard him say a word yet I knew even his stories had stories.

As I stood there suffering from sensory overload, unable to tear my eyes away from the flashing rotating lights of this human slot machine, my eyes needed a focal point to rest and I found it taking up four fingers on his left hand. I don’t know if labeling it a ring will do it justice but on his hand was a large golden suburban style dream house complete with a golden chimney, a gold front door and small gold shuttered windows. There were four golden topiaried bushes in front of the house, that was encased in a small gold picket fence, that spelled out P-I-M-P. In front of the small gold picket fence were two gold lions with rubies for eyes standing guard on golden grass. It was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever seen, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. Not realizing that I had slipped into a trance, I didn’t notice Manny and Tricky snickering at me.

“Magniloquent ain’t it,” Tricky asked as he looked me directly in the eye. I thought, “Where did he get that word from? Don King?”

“You can live there baby, but it takes work. You ready to work,” Tricky asked me with a big grin on his face. He turned toward Manny and they slapped each other five in agreement as they laughed. Then Manny chimed in, “Always in hot pursuit of a prostitute.” They both continued to laugh. In my dealings with Manny, as far as I was concerned, he was harmless. He didn’t have an assistant in the office like everyone else and periodically he would pay me cash to do office work or run errands for him. He was a nice guy in all of our dealings, so at that moment I knew he was just showing off for his friend. I wasn’t exactly sure how to process Tricky Romeo so I didn’t address him when he spoke to me, but when Manny chimed in I shook my head and sang out, “Whatever.” I walked back to my desk laughing to myself and then I called Brenda to let her know that I had met Manny’s friend. We were cracking up because apparently Tricky was propositioning every female at the office to join his stable, but he was to laughable to take seriously. As we were critiquing the spectacle that was Tricky’s left-handed hustler’s dream home Brenda interrupted to put me on hold, and when she came back on the line she informed me that the Oakland, California based rapper known for glorifying pimp life had just come in looking for Manny and Tricky.

“Are they about to have a player’s ball in here today,” I joked. Brenda laughed and began to sing, “All the players came from far and wide.” We were laughing uncontrollably. We went on joking for a few more minutes before we hung up the phone and returned to work.

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. Manny, Tricky and the Oakland based rapper were hold up in Manny’s office with the door closed for most of the day. Beside the occasional outburst of laughter that drifted from behind the closed door the office was relatively quiet.

I was cleaning up my desk and wrapping up the paperwork I had been reviewing when my phone rang. It was Manny and he wanted to know if I would run and get food for him and his guests. I had went to pick up food for him before and he always paid me to do it so this time I thought it would be routine and no big deal because Manny’s taste in food was very basic. He usually sent me for dollar menu fast food burgers with a hundred dollar bill. The first time he did it I clowned him for sending me to get such cheap items with such a big bill. He said I was trustworthy enough to do work for him because I bought back all of his change, and he didn’t hesitate to call on me. This time, instead of his usual fast food, he told me that he wanted me to go to a place called the Golden Gate and pick up three fried shrimp dinners and three orders of hot wings. I had never heard of the Golden Gate. I assumed it was a Chinese restaurant. I asked him for directions and when he began to tell me where it was I knew that my MARTA card would not serve me well in completing this mission so I asked Holly if I could use her car. She agreed on the condition that I had to promise to use some of the extra money Manny gave me for gas. I didn’t mind buying her gas, but I had to laugh because Holly used to be the one that Manny went to for help but one time she was unable to help him and he asked me. I helped him out and he never looked back. She knew I was making extra cash and whenever I asked her for anything she nickled and dimed me to death.

I called Manny to let him know I was on my way to his office to pick up the money for the food, but he told me not to knock on his door or not to come into his office. He said he would meet me in the hallway. I stood outside of his office waiting for about five minutes before he came out. He gave me a hundred dollar bill and told me to ask for a guy named Bobby when I got to the Golden Gate because Bobby was supposed to hook him up. I said OK, and he reiterated for me to be sure to ask for Bobby. On the way to get the food I wondered why Manny didn’t want me to come into his office. My first thought was that he just wanted privacy, but I decided to go with my second thought which was that he probably didn’t want his company to see him giving me money. If Manny was a periodic pimp it would not have looked good for him to be giving me money. Pimps take money, not give it out.

I was unfamiliar with the side of town I was headed toward. I hadn’t had occasion to go to the west end so I turned the music down in the car in order to fully concentrate on the directions Manny had given me. I turned onto a street that looked deserted. The buildings were very old and unkept and as I drove slowly down the street, questioning if I had possibly made a wrong turn, there in the middle of the block was a huge sign that read Golden Gate. The sign was new and large and yellow-gold, but the building was rickety and small and dark.

It took both hands for me to open the heavy door and just inside sat a large sloppy man on a small stool in front of a velvet curtain.

“Five dollars,” he said dryly.

“Pardon me,” I replied.

“Ladies is five dollars,” he snapped.

“Is Bobby here,” I asked.

“Yeah, he here,” he mumbled as he looked me up and down. “Damn, Bobby get all the girls.”

I started to reply but chose not to. “Where can I find Bobby,” I asked with an attitude. He said for me to go in and go downstairs to the office. I pushed the curtain to the side and had to catch myself. The Golden Gate was a strip club. I had anticipated a Chinese restaurant. I was prepared for that. I could have dealt comfortably with a hole-in-the-wall bar. But I was not prepared for a strip club. I had never been in a strip club. I was in shock but I knew I had to hide it deep if I was going to get out of there as quickly as possible without incident.

It was almost 7pm and the club wasn’t crowded but there were dancers in at least two laps and one girl whirling acrobatically around a pole on a small stage. I made my way downstairs, still trying to pretend as if I wasn’t phased by my surroundings or the faint musty odor that lingered near the top of the stairs. As I descended down the narrow and steep staircase, the further down I went the more pungent the odor became. It would be cliche’ to say it smelled like tuna and baby powder down there, but it would also be true. I had heard jokes about this smell and thought they were just jokes until that moment. When I reached the small door it was only three feet from the last step and I could hear a man’s voice angrily cursing. The conversation was one-sided so I assumed he was on the phone. God forbid he was in there with someone because I was sure that that kind of arguing in an atmosphere like this would surely lead to violence. I started to contemplate an escape route. The stairs were so narrow and steep that I knew I wouldn’t be able to avoid danger that way, and the only other possible escape I could consider would be the locker room to my left, but the smell was making me woozy. So, there I stood in the tiny dark space thinking over and over, in between my other ten thousand thoughts, “Please God don’t let anything happen to me here because my mother would never understand how or why her daughter died at a titty bar.”

I waited for the yelling to stop before I knocked on the door. A man flung the door open angrily. “What,” he yelled.

“Manny Camero told me to come and see Bobby,” I said with an attitude. An attitude seemed appropriate in this place, and it was taking hardly any effort to maintain it. “You a dancer,” he asked with a scowl.

“No,” I snapped back with a hint of how dare you.

“Oh, you think you to good to dance,” he asked aggressively. I didn’t want trouble so I softened my voice a bit and asked for Bobby again. It worked because he backed down a bit too. “You one of Manny’s girls,” he asked as he sat at his desk.

“No. He just asked me to come and pick up his food.”

He said OK, but then he began to look me up and down. “I can swear I saw you at my boy Boochie’s spot over on Campbellton Road. Are you sure you don’t dance,” he asked again roughly.

“One hundred percent sure,” I answered back being certain to look him dead in the eye.

“Well let me know if you need a job,” he shot back, and he held out a business card for me to take.

“I’m good. I have a job,” I answered, unable to stop my eyes from rolling. The phone rang in his office and he picked it up, but before he started talking he told me to go back upstairs and go to the bar. He said the food was ready and waiting for me up there. I was sure to back out of his office because I didn’t want him looking at my butt when I walked out. I closed his office door and practically ran back up the stairs. When I reached the bar I noticed that there were more patrons than before, and also more skin than before. I got the attention of the bartender and let her know that I was there to pick up food for Manny.

“Are you one of Manny’s girls,” she asked. I didn’t say a word. I simply shook my head no.

“Well, when you see him tell him Chi Chi said hello.” She seemed pleasant and I almost let my guard down until she asked if I danced at Boochie’s spot. I was ready to go and I asked how much the food was. She said Bobby told her it was on him. I grabbed the bags of food, not bothering to check to see if the orders were right as I normally would, and I hurried my way back out to the other side of the velvet curtain. Once inside the car I sped back to the highway that led me to the office. On the highway I let down all of the windows in the car and let the breeze of the amber Atlanta air wash over me. It cupped my face and wound through my hair and down my neck. It was cool and helped to slow my racing mind. The Golden Gate was so many things that I decided not to try and process it at that moment.

When I got back to the office I called Manny from my desk to let him know I was back with the food. He came and met me. “Did you see Bobby,” he asked.

“Yeah,” I answered with my leftover attitude that I had reheated just for him.

“What’s wrong with you,” he asked as he opened the containers to inspect the food.

“Why didn’t you tell me Golden Gate was a strip club?”

“I thought you knew,” he answered back.

“I don’t kick it at strip clubs,” I informed him with a scowl. He seemed completely uninterested in what I was saying. Then as an afterthought he blurted out, “You know there’s a chic that dances at this spot on Campbellton Road over in Eastpointe that looks just like you. We’re going to head over there later. Want to go?”

He was completely oblivious. I was frustrated and decided to go home and wash it all away in bath bubbles and vino. I turned to leave when Manny called out,”Where’s my change?” I paused and took a good look at him before I answered,”For this run, no change!”

“It’s like that,” he asked surprised.

“Just like that,” I snapped back and walked away.

By the time I had arrived at The Chase, Low Society already had two platinum albums under their belt and were high priority at the label, maybe with CrazySexyCool-Aid being the only artists above them on the priority list. So if they were ever serious about replacing her as their manager they would surely have the pick of the litter. I had never been introduced to Ms. Germain but I had spoken to her several times on the phone briefly regarding faxing information or resending an e-mail that was lost, but this day I was running around behind her, kind of like an in-office flunky. Her wish was my command, and she had me running for everything from water and snacks, to extra posters she was going to need of her son’s group to give to the kids at her church. In the middle of a barrage of requests that I was listing on a notepad for her she stopped mid sentence and complimented me on the skirt I was wearing.

Every chance I had I was certain to wear something I had made to the office. I was sewing practically everyday and getting good feedback on my creations, and I loved it.

“Thank you. I made it,” I said to her with a quick smile. I was proud I could say that, but I had learned that the label wasn’t the place for gushing. I learned that you didn’t offer more information than asked for or ramble or gush – that would be perceived as weakness. So I was surprised when she pressed me for more information about the skirt.

“How long did it take you to make it?”

“Not long. I cut it out one day and stitched it together the next,” I told her in a matter of fact way.

She reached to feel the fabric, then in a way a mom would she grabbed me by the waist and began to turn me from front to back and then back to front. I silently let her turn me. I was pleased that she was taking this much interest in my simple jersey floor length skirt. Then she blurted out, “I want this skirt. How much to make me one?” I felt my nerves kick in while she was looking at me waiting for the answer. “Don’t blow this,” I said to myself. “Stop blinking so fast and don’t babble.”

“20. I can make it for 20.” I didn’t know why I didn’t say the word dollars. I didn’t know how I decided to charge $20. I was on auto-pilot just trying to comprehend the fact that Ms. Germain not only liked my skirt, but she actually wanted me to make her one just like it.

“$20? That’s it,” she asked in disbelief. I shook my head yes and instantly regretted that I didn’t say more, but I didn’t regret it enough to try and change the price or get out of making the skirt. Instead I asked her what color skirt she wanted. She said she wanted the exact same navy blue skirt I was wearing. Then I asked her what size she needed.

“Well, I think I’m about the same size as you. Maybe a size smaller. But if you make mine the same size as yours I think that should be a good fit.” I shook my head and said OK because we both knew that she needed at least two sizes larger than the skirt I had on. She said she would call me in two days to pick up the skirt. I floated through the rest of the day at the office, through my shift at the music store, and home later that night. Nothing could bring me down from the high of actually selling a garment that I had made. As soon as I got home I pulled out the fabric I had left over from making my skirt and began making her skirt. I stayed up laboring over every stitch to be sure the skirt was absolutely perfect. It took me hours to get through her skirt that only had two side seams, a hem and an elastic band. When I made my skirt it only took about two hours to complete once I had it cut out, but that night I took what seemed like four times as much time to make her skirt, but I finished it and hung it up on my bedroom door. I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t stop staring at it, and I was exhausted, but I was to excited to sleep. The next morning when I woke up I looked at the clock and calculated that I had slept about four hours. I couldn’t wait to get to the office. Ms. Germain said she would pick up the skirt the following day, but I was so anxious for her to see it I could hardly concentrate on what I had to do that day, and despite my clumsy anxiety the day went smoothly – to the office, to the music store, then home. When I got home I must have moved that skirt from my bedroom door to the closet door to the bathroom door at least three times until I finally forced myself to sit down, take a few deep breaths and relax. I laughed to myself that I was going to ruin the skirt before Ms. Germain had even got a chance to see it if I kept this up. I finally settled in my mind to leave it hanging on my bedroom door until the next morning. That night I didn’t stare at the skirt, I was exhausted, and I went straight to sleep. The next day I rushed out of my apartment and took it to the office to be picked up before I lost my mind completely. I decided to use one of the plastic garment bags I had got from the cleaners to place the skirt in so it would look as professional as possible when I gave it to Ms. Germain.

When I walked into the office Brenda waved me over to her desk and asked, “Is that the skirt for Ms. Germain?”

“Yeah. How did you know?” I was confused. I hadn’t mentioned a word about making the skirt to anyone. Even in my anxious excitement I still kept my mouth shut, but somehow Brenda found out.

“Ms. Germain called to see if you were here. She wants you to give her a call and she’ll meet you to pick up her skirt.” Brenda handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on it then she asked to see the skirt. I lifted the plastic garment bag to give her a closer look. She inspected the skirt, then smiled and said that I had done a good job. When I went to my desk Holly was waiting for me.

“Ms. Germain called looking for you.” Then she pointed and asked, “Is that her skirt?” I shook my head yes, then asked, “How many times did she call?”

“About two or three times. She said for you to call her as soon as you get a chance.” Then she handed me a piece of paper with Ms. Germain’s phone number on it. I immediately picked up the phone to return the calls. I was excited that she was eager to get the skirt from me, but I was also surprised that she had called so many times already because the office opened at ten and I was there at ten. When I called, she picked up on the first ring.

“I’m ready to pick up my skirt. Is it ready,” she asked.

“Yes, it’s ready. I have it here in the office.”

“I’ll be there in an hour,” she said and hung up the phone.

When I turned toward Holly she was finishing her inspection of the skirt and she said it looked good. “It’s a good thing you had it made by the time you said you would because Ms. Germain can be relentless about things,” she said with a reflective laugh. “She will call you 100 times a day until she gets what she wants.” I said OK, but I really wasn’t paying Holly much attention, and that hour waiting for Ms. Germain to arrive had flown past. When she arrived I was paged immediately to come to meet her in the receptionist area. When I turned the corner, she yelled out, “My skirt,” and started clapping. I was happy she was happy. She grabbed the bag from my hand and began walking toward my bosses office. The door was open and my boss was on the phone. Ms. Germain burst into her office and set her things down on the chairs that sat in front of my bosses desk. I had followed Ms. Germain but I knew there would be consequences for me if I was a part of such a rude interruption so I stood about a foot from the doorway off to the side attempting to see but not be seen. My boss looked pissed but she didn’t let that look stay on her face long. She hurried off of the phone to attend to her intruder, but before she could say anything Ms. Germain was already talking.

“I need to use your office to try on this skirt this girl made for me,” she instructed. I was still in the hallway sheepishly peering into the office when Ms. Germain yelled out, “Get in here so we can see how it fits!” She was like a mother snapping you to attention. You had better respond on command or else it meant trouble. So I quickly entered the office as she shooed my boss out. I’d never seen anyone handle my boss that way, and I must admit it was thrilling to see.

Ms. Germain tried on the skirt and it fit perfectly. “See, I told you to make it the same size as yours and it would fit.” I laughed to myself because I knew to make it two sizes bigger and it would fit. “Well you were right,” I assured her, “You were right.”

Over the next two months I made more clothes for Ms. Germain. She said she was going on tour with her son so she needed the skirt I originally made for her in six more colors. Next she asked me to make her a few tailored silk blouses, then there were alterations. She apparently lost weight in the months before I met her and she wanted everything taken in, so I altered jackets, pants, and dresses for her. I didn’t feel confident that I would alter her knits properly and when I told her so she was satisfied to have me just move the buttons further to the side so her sweaters fit more snug.

The holidays were coming and Ms. Germain had prepped me ahead of time that she had an innumerable amount of events to attend and she was going to need fabulous garments for each one. I wanted to do a great job with the number of garments that she wanted me to complete, and me wanting to do the work, and be pleasing, I agreed to what she wanted. But I had bitten off much more than I could chew.

It was Thanksgiving and I was in my apartment drowning under a sea of fabric and thread, with a phone ringing non-stop. I hadn’t finished the dress Ms. Germain had asked me to make for her to wear to dinner that night and I had already been awake working on it for close to 24 hours. Her calls began at about 7am, but I thought for sure that it was my mom calling that early because she was really upset that I wasn’t coming home for the holidays. It was my first holiday away from home and she was taking it harder than I thought she would because holidays were never that big of a deal around our house. My theory for this now is because growing up my moms family was poor and that’s how they regarded the holidays, and that’s the attitude my mom passed along to my siblings and me and we never really questioned it. So when my phone rang so early I assumed it was my mom, but I was floored when I answered and heard Ms. Germain’s high pitched squeal on the other end.

“How’s the dress coming and when can I come pick it up,” she asked rapidly. To myself I thought, “Well hello to you too,” but I didn’t dare say anything like that to her.

“Good morning,” I said trying not to sound groggy,”I’m still working on it.”

“Well, how much longer? I have people coming to the house later and I’ve got to have time to pick the dress up and get dressed before it gets to late.”

“OK,” I said looking at the clock, “I should be done by noon.” I was hoping I had bought myself enough time. “I’ll call as soon as I finish.”

When I got off of the phone I was annoyed, but I promised her that the dress would be ready and if I had to forgo sleep for another six to eight hours I would. I kept working in between calls from my mom, sisters, and nephew wishing we were together for Thanksgiving. I didn’t want to be rude and rush them off of the phone because I missed them to, but I let them know the deadline I was working with and that I’d be free to talk once the dress had been picked up.

It was ten o’clock and Ms. Germain called to ask how the dress was coming along. I let her know that I was still working on it and that I would call her at noon like I had said to let her know when she could come and pick it up. She said OK and I hung up the phone and kept working. At 10:45 she called back. “I’m going out to the store and I can swing by because I’ll be in the area,” she informed me. I tried to hide my irritation but it wasn’t working. I had no sleep and was trying to rush and finish the dress and answer the phone, which was ringing so much that I swear I heard it ringing when it wasn’t. I was convinced that I was losing my mind for sure. Holding the phone away from my face I took a deep breath.

“Ms. Germain, I’m not finished with the dress yet. I’m trying to get it done for you, but its taking longer than I thought,” I explained. At that point I was hoping that she would just say she didn’t want the damn thing so I could throw it and the phone in the garbage. “Well, I’m out and not far from you and I want to stop by,” she demanded. I couldn’t deal with her being in my apartment, standing over me, watching and questioning my every move, beside that, her calls were making me homicidal. Holly said she could be relentless. Now I knew that was an understatement.

“Ms. Germain,” I huffed, “I’m going to call you at noon.” She reluctantly agreed to wait for my call, but I knew at that moment that I would never have the chance to dial her number because she was phone stalking me. When I hung up I said the most sincere prayer: Dear God, I know you love me. Please, in the name of all that is holy, please help me to have this dress finished by noon because I am sick of it and Ms. Germain. GOD! PLEASE!

I had an hour and fifteen minutes to finish by noon and I worked my fingers faster than I ever had before. I was intensely concentrating when the phone rang at 11:30. This time I didn’t answer it. I couldn’t stop. At 11:45 the phone rang and I didn’t answer it. I kept working and as noon approached I knew I would need at least another hour. So when the clock read noon and I waited for the phone to ring I felt defeated. I wasn’t finished and I wanted to cry because I didn’t want to have to explain why it would be one more hour. At 12:03 the phone rang. At 12:10 the phone rang and I answered it. “Ms. Germain, I just need until two o’clock.” I was ready for a tantrum and I had braced myself, but there was only laughter.

“It’s OK,” she said laughing, and I could hear others in the background. “I’ll call you at two. Are you sure you are going to be done?” I didn’t want to spoil her good mood, and she was being so agreeable that I couldn’t take the chance of her flipping our and getting upset so I quickly repeated two o’clock and hung up.

At 1:35 the phone rang. It was her. I didn’t answer because I was ironing the dress. At 1:50 the phone rang. I answered and yelled, “It’s done. You can come and get the dress. I’m finished.” Then an unexpected voice said, “Well, that’s good. So, did anyone invite you to eat?” I broke into tears. It was my mom.

I was frustrated, exhausted, and annoyed and so over Ms. Germain and her dress. I tried not to cry to hard because I didn’t want to worry my mom but the more I tried not to cry the harder the tears fell. In between trying to catch my breath and sobbing I tried to explain to her what was going on. “I just wanted to do a good job,” I kept repeating in between sobs, followed by, “She just keeps calling!” I repeated that a few times before mom chuckled and said, “You haven’t been to sleep, have you?”

“Nooooooo,” I kind of sang it when I answered. Then she laughed. Mom had witnessed before how delirious I could be when I didn’t get any sleep. She had called me more than once when I had deprived myself of sleep studying for finals or up all night working on a paper or project I had determined would be completed perfectly even if it killed me. And when she laughed I wanted to keep crying but hearing her nasally laugh made me laugh as well, and while I laughed tears still fell and that made me laugh more. We both fed off of each others laughter and then the call waiting signal beeped and I cried out, “Whyyyyyyy,” at the top of my lungs and that sent us both into uncontrollable hysterical laughter. I didn’t click over to answer the call. I knew who it was, and I knew she would call right back. We finally began to settle down and I felt much of the tension I had been holding leave my shoulders and back. I wiped my tear soaked face and went to grab tissue to blow my nose when my mom repeated her original question. “So, did anyone invite you to dinner?”

“No,” I groaned, “And I don’t even care.” She knew I was talking out of exhaustion and we both laughed again. The call waiting signal beeped yet again. “Mom, I have to call you back. I finally finished this crazy dress and I need to tell the woman that she can come pick it up.”

“OK, but call me back whenever you can. I love you.” Her voice helped to assure me that everything was going to be alright. I needed her support at that moment. It was better than food. “I love you too,” I told her, and I promised that I would call back as soon as I got the chance. It was absolutely appropriate that the instant I hung up the phone from speaking to my mom it rang.

“Ms. Germain, you can come and get the dress. It’s finished.”

“Well I was going to say that if you weren’t finished I could wait another hour or so.” I knew she was being sarcastic, but I was in no mood to play her game. I flatly asked how soon could she be there to pick it up, to which she responded that it would take her about twenty minutes to get to my apartment because she wasn’t far away. I told her I would meet her outside in front of my building. I didn’t want her to see my apartment in such shambles, and I didn’t want her to try the dress on at my place either just in case there was something she wasn’t pleased with. Because at that point, I hated that dress and I would rather burn it than sew another stitch, and I could really use some fresh air. Being couped up sewing with no sleep was making me loopy and I knew the fresh air would help to awaken some sanity in me.

I was outside ten minutes before she pulled up. I gave her the dress and she gave me cash. She yelled for me to have a happy Thanksgiving out of her Mercedes window as she pulled off. I could barely climb the two flights of stairs to get back to my apartment, and once I was inside I stopped just behind the closed door to survey the damage. There was no way I was about to clean up any of the mess. I went directly to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Riesling I had bought home from the last office party. It took all my strength to remove the cork so I decided not to reach into the cabinet and get a glass. I turned the bottle up to my lips and began to drink. After a few long swigs I went to the phone and called my mom. She seemed relieved to hear from me and I was happy to hear her voice again.

“Are you alright,” she questioned.

“I am now Ma.” I looked at the thread, fabric and pattern pieces scattered across my apartment, then I looked down at the cold wine bottle in my hand and said, “I am now.” We both laughed.

I was at my desk contently crossing items off of my to-do list when I heard the receptionist page that I had a call holding. When I picked up the call it was Ms. Germain.

“You know, I didn’t really like that dress you made for me, but because I didn’t have anything else and since I got it from you at the last minute I wore it anyway.” I held the phone silently. I was glad we weren’t face to face because I couldn’t stop rolling my eyes. She continued, “But when I wore it to dinner Thursday I got so many compliments and people asking for your number.” She seemed pleased, but I wanted to scream. I had had enough of Ms. Germain. I wanted to get off of the phone with her fast but she continued talking.

“I’m calling to let you know that my son wants you to make some clothes for him.” I sat straight up in my chair. Her son was Dax from the multi-platinum rap group Low Society. I had to steady my voice before I responded, “OK. that’s fine.” I was trying to play it nonchalant but inside I was doing cartwheels. “I gave him your number and he said he’s going to call you tonight.” I was bursting with excitement as she talked. I momentarily felt sorry about what I had been thinking about Ms. Germain. Here she was trying to hook me up to make clothes for her famous son and the whole time she was talking all I could do was roll my eyes. Then I thought to myself that maybe I should try and do something nice for her, but I dismissed that idea quickly because I knew that in the end I would regret it. I quickly came to the conclusion that this was no time for sorrow. I was about to be making clothes for Dax from Low Society.

I was a huge Low Society fan, even before I went to work at the label. When I was at school in Midland, MI my roommates and I had an on-campus apartment and on Friday nights we invited our friends over, fried chicken, and played cards. The soundtrack to those Friday night gatherings was Low Society’s first CD. I ended up purchasing more than one copy because when our company would leave our Friday night parties, so would my copy of Low Society’s CD. And as I was listening to Ms. Germain talk I was thinking to myself how much I loved her sons music. I had been to see his group in concert and had to restrain myself from screaming the first time I saw them walking through the office. Making clothes for Dax would be more than just a great opportunity but it would be the ultimate fan experience.

I floated through the rest of the day with anticipation. Nothing could bring me down. When I got home I had to find things around the apartment to do to channel all my nervous energy. I had to be professional about this upcoming phone call and that wasn’t going to happen if I let my nerves get the best of me. And as I was mindlessly sweeping the kitchen floor the phone rang and I stopped mid-motion. I told myself to let it ring one more time because I didn’t want to come off as to eager, but when it rang the second time I dropped the broom to the floor and pounced on the phone. I took a deep breath and let it out, and on the third ring I answered.

“Hello,” I said as calmly and as normal as possible.

“Yeah, who is this,” the tenor voiced caller asked. I knew it was him. I knew that voice, but why was he asking me who I was? Didn’t he know who he was calling? I tried not to sound like to much of a smart ass when I answered back, “Who is this?” He chuckled and said, “This Dax. What up?”

“How are you,” I asked giggling.

“Good, good,” he answered. “I heard you’re good with a needle and thread and I have some ideas for some pieces that I want to get made.” I was engaged in the conversation with him but I was distracted the entire time by the fact that I was actually on the phone with him; on my home phone with him. We discussed a time when we would get together so he could show me pictures of his ideas. He suggested that it may be better if he came to my apartment than for me to come out to his house. I agreed and gave him directions to my place and then we hung up. I covered my mouth with both hands and let out a loud scream because I had just arranged for Dax from Low Society to come meet me at my apartment so I could make clothes for him. Since we had decided to meet the next day around 8pm I took a look around my apartment and immediately went into a cleaning frenzy. The kind of cleaning that as a kid I would protest over – the under the microwave, behind the refrigerator, get a bucket and wash the ceiling fan, “is that a finger print on the light switch” kind of cleaning. I remember telling my mom that no one was even going to look in those spots, but now I understood why she wanted it done.

I had hastily agreed to meet Dax the next day but I didn’t even take into consideration the fact that I had to be at work at the music store by 6pm that same night. There was no way I was going to call him and try to reschedule so I called my manager at the music store and made up some excuse why I couldn’t come in. He was annoyed but he let me out of my scheduled shift. I knew his patience was wearing thin with me and all of my last minute schedule changes and calls to get out of my shifts. I didn’t tell him the truth about why I really needed to miss work that night, I rarely did, because the truth that I was putting my internship ahead of the music store on my priority list wouldn’t sit well with him, even though he constantly asked me about the label’s day-to-day activities. He was sure to remind me that when I was at that music store I was to be fully there. “This job ain’t fancy,” he’d say, “But when you’re here, I need you here.” He would repeat that same sentence to me just about everyday I worked. He wanted me to care, and I did, but making clothes for Dax meant doing what I loved, and I cared about that more.

Around 8pm Dax was knocking at the door. I looked through the peephole just to be sure it was him, I did a quick little happy two step and then I opened the door. He smiled and gave me a hug. He said he recognized me from the office and asked me how I liked working there. I told him it was cool. Crazy sometime, but cool. He smiled, and his smile mesmerized me. I always loved his music but it didn’t hit me until then that Dax was sexy. It was his smile that was drawing me in and all of a sudden I was nervous again and I had to self talk. “Get it together. Be professional. This is about making clothes. PULL IT TOGETHER!”

The self talk was working, and I was collected enough to lead him over to the table in the kitchen where he took a seat and pulled out a few sheets of paper with sketches on them. The sketches were of shorts, pants and capes but with a futuristic twist. He wanted them to be embellished with stars and silver stripes, and he wanted then in a mix of vibrant colors. He also wanted each pair of pants or shorts to be finished with athletic cups covered in fabric and then attached to the outside of the pants. As he was describing the looks to me, and as I was going over the sketches with him none of his ideas struck me as odd or weird. What he had come up with absolutely was not ordinary which was cool with me because that made it more of a challenge and an opportunity to stretch my skills beyond what I had been making. The meeting lasted a little more than an hour and we agreed to meet again in about a week so I could have time to find fabric and get swatches together for him to choose from.

I went to work right away collecting swatches of faux fur, various colors of patent leather and any pliable silver metallic shiny yard of material I could find. I had only finished one pattern making class but I still had my textbook and I wasn’t going to let anything stop me from creating the colorful “space commander gear” that Dax wanted. (I had dubbed the designs “space commander gear” as a way to describe it.)

I was burning my candle at both ends – interning at the label during the day, working at the music store in the evenings and sewing all night. I was averaging only two to three hours of sleep per night because I had promised to have the first two pair of pants finished within a week, and just for my own gratification I was doing all I could to have them done at least two days before the deadline I had set. Sewing with the materials Dax wanted was all new for me, but I was enjoying putting together the puzzle of faux fur with patent leather and in between each seam adding in silver piping. I was using stitches on my sewing machine that I had never used before and I was breaking more needles than ever before while I worked with the tough textiles. I had Dax’s sketches to follow but I was sure to add some of my own touches that I thought would further enhance his vision. It was a risk, but I didn’t think twice about taking it. I was pleased with the finished product and was anxious for him to see the execution of his vision.

Just like clockwork six days after I had promised to have the pants done Ms. Germain called, and thankfully I was ready and so were the pants. Ms. Germain came the next day to pick up the two pair of “space commander” pants that I had finished. I was on pins and needles waiting to hear if Dax liked the outcome of the designs and about two hours after Ms. Germain picked up the pants he called.

“I like your style.” That’s what he said. “I like your style.” I was geeked, but I played it cool. I responded, “Thanks.” I had embellished on the designs just to add some of my own flavor, and I was overjoyed that he liked what I had done. He said he had a show that night and he was going to wear the pants. He also told me to go ahead and start working on the rest of the designs and that he would come to see me when he got back in town. He gave me his number and told me to call him if I needed anything. Again, playing it cool, I said, “OK. No problem. If I need to I’ll call.” Once we got off the phone I went running and screaming through my apartment like a fool. I went jumping up and down on my bed and then went back into the living room and did a happy dance. The only thing that slowed me down was my neighbors downstairs banging on their ceiling because I was making to much noise. It was getting late and I had to work my internship and my music store job the next day, and now I had very important sewing to do. I went to bed and lay staring at the ceiling with visions of successfully completed “space commander gear” dancing in my head. Whenever I closed my eyes I would involuntarily start smiling. I was to excited to sleep.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My mouth was hanging open in astonishment, but I gained just enough composure to place my hand over it, but not enough to close it. I was at a complete loss for words. I don’t know how long I stood there starring at that photograph, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. I took in every single detail – the sweat that covered Dax’s face and bare chest, his puffy braids that needed to be redone, and the way he held the microphone in his left hand that was adorned with a black leather wristband, and then the pleather and faux fur black and silver pants that I had made and he paired with high-top snake skin black and white Adidas.

“Are you alright,” the promotions director asked. I didn’t want to take my eyes off of the picture, but I looked over at him as he sat at his desk smiling like a Cheshire cat. My hand still covered my mouth as I nodded yes. He laughed and it made me laugh too. But the exhilaration I was feeling felt as if it would bubble over and not be able to be contained so I stopped laughing and covered my mouth with my hand again. This office was no place to let loose in wild celebration I reminded myself. I would save that until I got home.

“You know, he’s wearing the hell out of the stuff you made for him,” he added. “I’ve been out to some of the shows and when he comes out in that spacey shit the crowd goes crazy.” I heard him, but I still couldn’t take my eyes off of that picture. “How did y’all come up with the ideas for that stuff,” he asked laughing. I looked up at him and let out a laugh too.

“I don’t know.” That was all I could manage to say. My mind had shut down. I was surprised, shocked, and overjoyed by the image on the photograph and I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Well, it’s hot and he loves what you did,” he added.

I nodded and smiled because I had no words. Then he said that I could have the picture because he had another copy of it, which made me really laugh because I had not intention of giving it back to him anyway. But I told him thank you and walked out of his office, found the nearest phone and called my mother.

Over the next couple of months a number of people in the office began to give me pictures of Dax in the gear I had made for him. There were clippings from Vibe and the Source magazines, but most exciting were the clippings from overseas magazines. There were several from the UK and France, but my favorite was one from a Japanese magazine that had really good detail shots of the pants, but also of Low Society rocking a very jubilant crowd. That article made me wish I could read Japanese.

All of the attention that I was getting at the office felt strange. Just about everyone spoke now (of course there were some to whom I would always remain nameless and faceless), and some even spoke first. And I had also been approached to do wardrobe for some of the other artists on the label. I was so happy to be working as a designer but at the label they had labeled me a stylist. I had never really heard of a stylist job before I came to work at The Chase Records. In design school they taught about designers and merchandisers, but not stylists. I didn’t know how to be a stylist but allowing them to label me a stylist was opening doors for me to make money designing and making clothes and putting together looks, not just for average people but for recording artists. This was not what I had planned or dreamed, it was better. And I couldn’t wait for what would come next.