Testimony

It’s been a rough week. In the time sense I’ve been back in New York I’ve lost a commercial, a workshop and a Nutcracker gig. In all fairness, I basically gave up the commercial because I was pissed that producers would put out a casting call for African-American male dancers with strong ballet technique to shoot thirteen hours on a day when a prominent black man might get the White House. I was going to vote on Tuesday as soon as I landed and that was that. So of course it didn’t dawn on me to change reschedule my flight to NY for Monday and make it to the audition and to sort out voting later on.

But dancing a Nutcracker forty minutes north of Los Angeles was a favor, as (at the time) the artistic director had no prospects for replacements when a friend of mine had to turn it down. I committed once I had the majority of my ducks in a row and had reconfigured my December to accommodate her, only so that she leave me a voice mail that she hired someone else. She said she was concerned about the limited amount of rehearsal time I’d have given Lula’s concert happening the week before and all but “Don’t worry, we always need men for things.” I inferred the obvious. Cheaper. No airfare. Convenient. When I called she revised, explained that she wasn’t sure I had committed because I had logistics to work out still. My offering to look for a plane ticket that beat what she was quoted so that it would save her money for my flight wasn’t evidence enough?

To say that she felt pea small once I’d finished enlightening her on the extent to which I conduct my career as a business with much better ethics than she conducts her company… wait this is a testimony so I should move on. Email me if you want details. Or her name/address/phone number.

Finding out that wires crossed between my Los Angeles agent and her assistant (whom I’d spoken to) after I was directly booked for a Dreemgirlz workshop rounded out the professional portion of the Loss Trifecta. Trying to go about things the right way and exploit the fact that I’m represented, I called with a contact person who needed to hear whether I could finagle a rehearsal for an aerial gig and the last day of the workshop. It was a Friday. When I called to follow up with the contact person myself, I learned that nobody from my agency had done so up until then. That the initial call about the gig came from my New York agency, whom I couldn’t contractually allow to handle it (Equity/Broadway gigs have to go through LA) made matters worse. I’m fine with this too though, accepted apologies and decided this gig isn’t for me either.

A dear friend in Dallas lost her car in a hit and run, thank God that’s all. A dear friend in Cleveland lost his mother on Election Day.

My mother’s good friend called out of the clear blue and introduced my face to new tears right away: “I really just called to say I was thinking about you and I love you.” I’d believed that years ago Stevie Wonder rendered it trite to just call to say “I love you,” but I was wrong. She really no other motivation. She wanted to renew her support and let me know that if there was anything I needed she was more than happy to help. Random – no, divine.

The next day the gear stick on the car broke. I had begun to maneuver it out from the curb of Broadway at 106th when it released completely, the way an elderly person lets go of life. What’s worse is that it was stuck in reverse, so I had to warn AAA that towing it would be problematic as neutral wasn’t possible.

The tow guy worked this out. I had to sit in the driver’s seat with my foot on the clutch and steer as the cable reeled my car on to the bed.

“So the first three miles are free and it’s $4.50 a mile after that. We’re going to Brooklyn right?”

“Wait, I have Plus membership,” I said, showing him the card.

“Yeah so it seems. You have to take that up with customer service.”

The AAA rep said that the last time I paid, it was only enough to cover basic membership. I remembered the conversation and I’d misunderstood my mother when she asked if I wanted Platinum before dropping off my check. I just wanted the normal coverage I’d had for the last ten years. AAA looked at it as a demotion in coverage.

“Well is there any way to resolve this now with a credit card? I’d much rather pay to have my benefits restored given the length of my membership than pay $50 cash to have my car towed and THEN still advance my status subsequently…”

“No sir. That office is only open 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. on weekdays and Saturdays.”

“I see, so triple A provides 24-hour roadside assistance but just when your account is issue free?”

“I’m sorry.”

The tow guy offered to take my car to a Manhattan location at no cost to me, but he couldn’t guarantee I wouldn’t still end up paying out the nose with inflated labor fees.

First mind was Brooklyn though, so off to Brooklyn we went.

You remember my mechanic, the North Indian shop owner who doubles as a jitney taxi driver in my hood at night? (Please click on 08.2007 to the right if not.)

This afternoon, after sleeping until 1:00 p.m. to detox, I tromped down the road to happily find the usual suspects: Bismillah, whose name was now on the top of the building, and the other guy, the pidgin-Farsi slinging mad scientist was ready for me. I felt so at home. He fixed the car. I sifted through the fast talk to hear a few words of instruction, parted with my credit card and then drove it around the block to see how it was doing.

When I got back, satisfied the mad scientist was under another car. I found Bismillah sitting cozy in his chair, the usual cold, careless look on his face. He extended his arm, my credit card in his hand.

“Don’t I need to sign your copy of the__”

But he had already performed an impossibly small shake of his head.

“Wow. Thank you so much.”

I steepled my hands and bowed to him, unsure how he knew that I needed it.

And then I got in the car and thanked God. Every little bit helped and it was clear that despite the seeming adversity – “seeming” only because I have no way of knowing what the plan is – everything would be just fine. I just had to testify.

Elected!

B. Smith’s Restaurant. By nine, when I walk into its doors, the entire restaurant and staff are ablaze. All five of the large televisions in the oblong, bowling alley shaped eatery are decorated with CNN coverage of the largest event in U.S. history. Chit-chat, small talk, reminisces, they all get swallowed by a stadium size roar each time newscasters announce that Obama has won another state.

Beautiful entrees of steak and chicken are shuffled around the table as if trying to keep up with people too excited to eat them. This was Warren’s idea. Thank God he chose B. Smith’s on 46th, only four blocks from the beach-full of people stacked atop each other in Times Square awaiting something much greater than the NYE ball to drop. God fashioned the weather just for the event – it is warm enough for us to run outside with no jackets to check on the energy.

More people come. Maria, a principal with City Ballet arrives with a friend while Brandon (og Harpo) and his ace continued to shuffle plates around the huge table. A roar. Another state won. Now people from other tables have abandoned the segregation provided by hostess party-seating. The restaurant is all one, a congregation. Republicans needed to either hide or disappear.

Then the announcement across the screen that McCain strategists say he has no chance to catch up. The disappointment is almost visible, like breath in the winter, in the shot of his supporters. Our screams and shouts get thrown into the ecstasy above the tables.

A few people from TheLionKing and TheColorPurple come bounding in. A reunion. I get cursed out at once for being in town incognegro. I tell everyone that I flew in just to vote and made it in at 1:00 p.m. I look around the room. I notice the composition of the restaurant is rich with diversity. Our table alone is an assortment of artists, businessmen, realtors.

“I wonder why we aren’t seeing footage of people in other parts of the world," someone asks. "What must they be going through?”

“I need to see the world camera, where is CNN’s world camera?” Brandon shouts.

“I have friends in Australia up right now ready to party when he wins,” someone says.

“My family in Spain is up and watching," another says.

Almost on cue, Kenyans with drinks in their hands pixellate the screen in a blur. We shout.

A warm stranger next to me remarks on the how adorable Malea is. I tell her that Michelle was on a late night talk show describing how Malea overheard an adult conversation about planning the infomercial.

"Did you say you would be on ALL television? My television shows too?"

"No we didn't buy the Disney Channel and Nickelodeon," Barack told her.

The relieved child left immediately, happy not to have a reason to be salty about her father intercepting her programming. Election-shmection. Just wait til she gets in the White House...

Obama is declared the president of the United States of America. B. Smith’s explodes.

The moment is cathartic. People yell through tears, scream through their relief, hug everyone. I catch myself running around, exiting on to 46th Street to give my legs pavement. A youngster in his early 20’s, dirty blonde and enthusiastic, yells, “I don’t know you but I’m coming to give you a hug.”

“Bring it!”

Suddenly Krisha and I are encased in a group embrace that others photograph like paparazzi. Out of nowhere, Kyle a speedy dervish of excitement has lost his voice running through Times Square yelling the name of our new president elect. The ten minutes before McCain makes his speech fly. In no time, we are assembled around the bar watching and listening. The room absorbs his words with respect, admiring the very beginning of his defeat speech: “The people have spoken…”

When he has finished, phones are pulled out. People call to begin conversations with an unusual fervor, since there is no news to really share – it is clear everyone on earth has been watching.

Obama has made it to the screen. The restaurant engages in a silence thick enough that we could hear hair grow. Seeing him, realizing he is in a position many of us only dreamed of is startling. It has the impact of watching a man ski in retrograde, yes backwards up a hill until he is vertical enough on its summit for the podium to be slid before him. In the first two minutes, as he expressed his gratitude, humility, reality and confidence in us, we are teary, overjoyed, astonished, exhausted.

When he is done, people look different. The glow of pregnant women appears as aura for each person in the room.

We call friends in Harlem. Streets have become overtaken by the residents. Drums are pulled out on to the corner of 122nd and Frederick Douglass to help score the dancing. The rain that comes down at around 1:00 a.m. is no adversary. Obamania can be heard everywhere.

My mother, whose vote (as it turns out) wasn't necessary at all since he won before we got that far west, has called and left a message encapsulating the whole thing as only a brilliant Southern English professor can: "God's power is amazing. Can you believe this? I don't know whether to stand in the yard and piss on the porch or stand on the porch and piss on the yard. Amen."

Amen for sure.