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That pile of tickets didn’t stop me from wanting more independence, and hustling harder to get it, though. I had my eyes on moving out of my father’s basement, and my little Pentagon check wasn’t cutting it, what with all the tickets and the debt I’d run up on my credit cards. Clothes. Gas for the Pulsar. Eating out. Renting hotel rooms in Ocean City, where I’d spend the weekends. More clothes. Spending all my money on ripping and running up and down the highway and trying to look good doing it. Soon enough, my balances crept so far north that keeping up with even the minimum payments was out of reach. Talk about Oscar-worthy performances? The bill collectors who called my house got the best of my earliest ones. “?Qué?” I’d yell into the receiver, putting on my best Spanish accent to throw off the collectors who blew up my phone looking for their payments. “Taraji no live here!” This would hold them off for a little while, but really what I needed to both keep up with my bills and get out of my father’s house was a solid hustle, something bigger than that desk job with the government.
That’s when Taraji’s Basement Apartment Salon opened its doors to my fellow friends, cousins, aunts, fly girls at Howard, and whoever else had money, and I began hooking up wet sets and acrylic nails for extra cash. Twenty dollars could get you looking right for Saturday night; another twenty could get you a full set of acrylic nails, which would have cost double that in one of the local salons. I was good at it, too; so good, in fact, that had this acting thing not worked out, I’m sure I would have been someone’s cosmetologist somewhere, styling hair, doing makeup, and hooking up nails.
When I wasn’t supplying everyone’s beauty needs, I was talking drunk diners out of tips as a singing waitress on the Spirit of Washington, a dinner barge that floated down the Potomac River. I made a killing singing my signature song, Tina Turner’s “Proud Mary.” I’d start the song on a slow simmer, just like Tina, swaying to that deep bass while I worked over those “rolling on a river” lyrics. With every note, I could see the diners, swaying and leaning forward in their seats, just waiting, practically holding their breath for that explosive moment when the horns blared and I’d take off spinning, leaning into the mic and practically growling Tina’s song, with the National Harbor, the Capitol dome, and the Washington Monument twinkling in the distance. It was a great job for an artsy person with an outgoing personality and a thirst for the spotlight and an easy dollar. On a typical night, I pulled in one hundred dollars—a lot of money for a college student. Certainly enough to move out of my father’s basement and into my own apartment. The guests liked my voice just fine, but it was my swagger that got me paid: I could pour wine and, more important, connect with people.