Then just like that, he let me off the hook. “Davie girl, go get ready for the show.”
I guess the prize for me making him laugh was not getting fired.
I didn’t question it. In fact, I turned and rushed toward my dressing room. But I didn’t get so far so fast that I couldn’t hear him say behind me:
“And don’t fuck with me again.”
. . .
With regular salon visits and trims, my Afro only got larger, which didn’t please Nicky in the least. But other than that, I took him one hundred percent at his word and did not mess with him again after the Great Hair Battle, which meant I asked one of the darker-skinned waitresses to teach me how to put on the makeup I bought at the Fashion Fair counter. I let Nicky take my rent directly out of my paycheck before he gave it to me. And when one of the busboys caught me by the hand and said, “Hey, you want to go see a movie with me?” I answered no flat out, even though he was the first boy that had ever asked me out or even shown an interest in me in my whole life.
But I obeyed Nicky. Not just because I didn’t want to get fired, but also because I was new to boy-girl relationships that existed outside of my head or off the movie screen. The busboy’s straightforward come-on made me uncomfortable, like he was asking me to do something that would get me in trouble.
I ended up issuing noes to him and all the other guys who asked me out. But I couldn’t explain to any of them about not dating until I was eighteen, since ABC and the rest of the world outside of Nicky and Mama Jane thought I was in my early twenties. So I just had to tell them, “I’m not interested.” Blunt, all traces of Stage Davie gone.
“You know everybody think you a lesbian, right?” Russell told me soon after I turned down the busboy. Russell loved to share gossip, even if it was gossip about me.
He relayed how he had actually seen a waiter point out Mama Jane and tell the new hostess to always give her special treatment.
“He straight-up said she was Nicky’s aunt, and you was her partner,” Russell said. “He had like no doubts, girl.”
I just shrugged. Considering everything Mama Jane had done for me, being mistaken for her girl was a downright honor. Plus, the plain truth was I didn’t care what people at the club called me, as long as they didn’t call me Monkey Night.
TWELVE
After years of “do this” and “don’t do that,” Nicky knocked on my dressing room door the night before I turned twenty-one. I should point out that it was a real dressing room now that I had been there five years and the club was solidly in the black. It had four walls, room enough to move around, a vanity, and even a wardrobe—I felt very blessed.
“Hey, what you got going on tomorrow night?”
“Russell and a few of the waiters been threatening to take me out for drinks, but so far, nothing concrete.” I started putting on my foundation with a foam triangle.
“Okay, then,” Nicky said. “I made us reservations at Matsuhisa.”
“Seriously?” Matsuhisa was the most exclusive sushi place in Los Angeles—probably the most exclusive sushi place in America. I was always reading about movie stars eating there.
Nicky shrugged. “Yeah, I know a guy. He got us in.”
He got out his clipboard. I could almost see the list item as he checked me off: “Inform Davie of Matsuhisa reservations.” Then he left without saying good-bye. The club was fairly successful now, and we even had a few celebrities come through these days because of its retro appeal. But no matter how many Important People Nicky had to meet and greet, it never occurred to him to work on his manners.
. . .