The Blackbirds (40 page)

Hours later the Blackbirds were at the Comedy Emporium, a comedy club on the Sunset Strip near the House of Blues. It was the designated black folks night at the world-renowned club. Security was tripled. People were being searched before they could go inside. Purses were checked. Drink orders were aggressively taken before people could get comfortable, and the two-drink minimum meant you had to order both drinks right away or leave, no ticket refund given. Tips were automatically included in the price of the food and drinks, and you had to pay upon ordering, the same way Denny's treated black people in the '80s and early '90s.

All the tables had white tablecloths and candles, barely enough room left to fit a fly.

When the Blackbirds entered the overpacked club the bouncer inspected the four of them, studied their dresses, pants, and fitted skirts, took in their grown-woman cleavage and hair in four funky styles, smiled at their made-up faces, held his balls as if that was the ultimate sign of approval, adjusted his desire, then licked his lips LL Cool J–style.

They looked so good that as they passed tables, men were astounded, gazed at them, and made faces like they were one suck way from having an orgasm, swallowed their thoughts like they were testing their own gag reflexes. They watched the asses ticktock.

Indigo snapped, “I didn't want to sit up front. Why in the world did they put us up front?”

Destiny snapped back, “Did I complain
once
on your birthday, Indigo? Did I?”

Indigo was vexed. “Why did we get searched? I would receive better freakin' treatment if I went to the airport wearing a hijab. What are they expecting to jump off in a comedy club that we need to be searched like that? Bullets don't use GPS and don't have a name.”

“Shut up.”

“I don't want to wake up with four million Africans that died during the Middle Passage.”

“
Indigo Abdulrahaman,
stop acting like the Queen of Sheba and
shut your mouth.”

“Destiny
Slave Name
Jones, for your information the
Queen of Sheba
was
Ethiopian.”

Ericka said, “We're getting the best seats in the house, Indigo.”

Indigo sucked her teeth. “I don't want to be up front. I don't like being teased, and if a fight breaks out, like they always do in these places, I don't want to be trampled trying to escape. What if the place catches on fire? Can we at least get a table by an exit? And they are really charging thirty dollars to get in? And each drink costs at least ten dollars? Even water cost ten dollars? Plus twenty to park? This is why women date ugly men, to avoid paying for nonsense like this.”

Ericka snapped, “You're always complaining about something, Indigo.”

Indigo said, “Next time we go swimming,
Baldilocks,
you will accidently drown.”

“I'm not afraid of death. Death can only get you one time.
I deal with you every day.”

Irritated, Kwanzaa said, “
Children,
don't start fighting. You two are always fighting like it's some damn light-skin, dark-skin war, and Ericka you know light skin can't beat the melanin.”

Ericka snapped, “That curling iron fried what was left of Indigo's brain.”

Indigo retorted, “Don't make me smack your bald head.”

Nostrils flared, Destiny growled, “Don't wreck my birthday. Understand, Boo Boo Kitty? Sit your African ass down and shut up.”

Wearing a black
NO JUSTICE, NO HEALING
tee with an image of an upside-down US flag across the chest as a form of protest and a signal of dire distress in instances of extreme danger to life or property, to the lives of America's second-class citizens at the hands of those sworn to protect and serve more than the interests of the Koch family, Dubois opened his act with a sidesplitting bit about the reality of police brutality.

When the laughter died down, Dubois said, “We are beyond Driving While Black. We are past DWB. They are on the next level. BWB.
Breathing While Black
.”

People laughed, but most of the room applauded. A few shouted. They understood that Jim was still Crow-ing all over the United States. They knew that wasn't said on CNN or on Fox.

“DWB leads to being the other DWB—Dead While Black. As long as we breathing, they keep on beating. Mexicans don't beat piñatas as hard as the police beat black men.”

Laughter arrived like the gentle storm that was the harbinger of a hurricane.

“Those motherfuckers must think we're filled with
galletas
,
dulces
, and
chiclets.”

Outrageous laughter erupted and the gentle storm suddenly became category 1.

“They are shooting brothers to death over child support. That's messed up, but you know the next day a lot of brothers were running to get caught up on their payments. Brothers were paying in advance.
Here,
take the money for the next eighteen years
. Cops are putting the
dead
in deadbeat dads. Mommas had their kids calling up their daddies saying,
Cops find your ass, you will be dead on his beat, Dad. Pay me what you owe me. Don't make me call the cops
.”

On the last part, when he imitated Rihanna singing “Bitch Better Have My Money,” the foot-stomping laughter in the earthquake-proof building made walls shake. Over three hundred people tried to catch their breaths. Kwanzaa had never laughed so hard. The bit had been so outrageous Ericka had snorted and had to pick up a tissue to wipe a gallon of tears from her eyes. Indigo's sides were aching and Destiny couldn't stop cackling long enough to make the pain go away. The Blackbirds guffawed like they had been fed the same laughing gas.

Laughter was an airborne virus.

Soon the level of enjoyment eased down and the room applauded Dubois like he was the next Dick Gregory/Paul Mooney/Robin Harris/Eddie Murphy/Richard Pryor/Leonard Dubois Sr.

The son of Leonard Dubois Sr. transitioned to his hilarious routine about Mars and Venus, about the tribulations of dating, then did witticisms about Atlanta, Confederate flags, Morehouse, black frat life, Bill Cosby, Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, the television show
Empire
, and the movie
Straight Outta Compton
. He had damn near everyone in the room in stitches.

Dubois and Destiny made eye contact for a second. She felt him checking out her face, her makeup, and her sisterlocks. He recognized her, saw her new hair color, saw her not in sweats after a strenuous workout, but in full glam, dressed in the clothes of a chic woman, the accoutrements of a sensual woman, a woman who had jaw-dropping cleavage, the kind that made women cut their eyes at Destiny Jones. The boy she had known when she was barely a teenage girl, the boy who had become a man, he paused and smiled.

Destiny didn't smile. Her nostrils flared, but there was no smile.

Destiny shifted, adjusted her clothing, touched her hair. The sides of her sisterlocks were braided; the top left wild and free, Mohawk style, the way Indigo had worn her hair a while ago.

Destiny cringed when Dubois turned his attention toward the Blackbirds.

“Look at this table filled with fine sisters. Put the spotlight on this table. Look at those sisters. Fine like four Bond girls. Octopussy, Honey Rider, Pussy Galore, and Holly Goodhead.”

Based on her complexion, he called Destiny
Honey Rider
. Named Ericka Stockwell
Octopussy. She walked in the club like what she has is better than eight coochies.

When that wave of laughter subsided, he christened Kwanzaa Browne with the name
Pussy Galore
. He said he bet she knew how to make a brother feel
glorious
. Last but not least, because of her full lips and hot-pink lipstick, Indigo was given the nickname
Holly Goodhead
.

Indigo raised two thumbs when he said that and yelled, “Damn right. Now get Idris to play Bond and he can get some octopussy and a glorious good head from the honey rider.”

The room laughed. Indigo's accent had made what she said just as hilarious.

Dubois did an Eddie Murphy as Axel Foley impersonation and shouted like he was outraged, “In Hollywood, if John Wayne can be Asian, Mickey Rooney can be Chinese, Charlton Heston can be Mexican, Angelina Jolie can be a black woman, Sir Anthony Hopkins can be a black man, and Laurence Olivier can do an Al Jolson and put on blackface to be Othello, then Idris Elba, a British man who happens to be black, can play James Bond. His name is
James
.
James
is a black man's name. James Evans, motherfucker. James Earl Jones, motherfucker. What kind of mind-fuckery is that bullllll-shit? We will trade you Zoe Saldana as Nina Simone for Idris as Bond. We will even throw in Tiger Woods, Bryant Gumbel, and a banana in the tail pipe.”

Then he imitated Eddie Murphy's trademark laugh. “Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh.”

A few women got up and hurried from their tables, laughing so hard they had to run to the bathroom and pee. Again Destiny's sides hurt from laughing.

All dimples and smiles, Dubois continued his foot-stomping, belly-aching act.

Destiny Jones, the woman who was hard to impress, was close to being impressed.

Dubois started to sing, made all the women swoon as he did a few song parodies. The women with wedding rings on their fingers smiled the hardest, their wishes and wants sent more than enough electricity to light up all of California. He was finishing his act, had done forty minutes of jokes and songs, had ranked on the world, had made people wonder what it would be like if the Native Americans had a GOP attitude and wanted to take their country back, had made people who knew nothing about politics laugh about Syria, about racism, and had cracked jokes about the Mexican people at the Chinese cleaner who didn't get his laundry to him on time.

Dubois made forty minutes feel like they had been on a roller coaster going through a fun house. It had been exciting and hilarious. It had been as orgasmic as jumping out of a plane.

They loved his talent and loved him.

Destiny remembered being in love with him too.

Dubois said, “Before I leave the stage, I'm going to need some help from the crowd. I'm gonna do the history of dance from the 1900s up until today with Jimmy Fallon on his show in a couple of weeks, and I need to work on a few steps. Hey, James Bond girls. Since you ladies are close to the front, any one at your table want to come up here and help me with this routine?”

Destiny froze. She knew he was about to call her to the stage, in front of the world.

He said, “Come on up here, Holly Goodhead. Get your freaky ass on up here.”

Indigo cursed, didn't move at first, but smiled and gave in to the applause from the crowd. She was helped up the stairs to the stage and stood in the spotlight with Dubois.

The deejay played some beats and the tall Nigerian in five-inch heels loosened up and had fun. She did dances with Dubois, then the deejay kicked in a Nigerian number, Yemi Alade performing “Johnny,” and Indigo shouted that was her favorite song. She took over, showed Dubois a few Nigerian moves, took him back to Africa. Indigo did
tribal-meets-contemporary dance moves that made her dress hug her bubble and breasts, wicked moves that had men staring and calling out at Indigo like she was the hottest of the hot. As she moved her African waist and showed how Africa moves, one guy ran to the stage and threw all of the money in his wallet at her feet. He made it rain like it was a hurricane.

People laughed, some stood and clapped, then other men did the same, threw money and whistled.

Destiny saw Yaba the Laker first, said a bad word, then touched Ericka and Kwanzaa.

Yaba the Laker was here, in the club, backstage, watching Indigo act out.

Indigo was so preoccupied she didn't notice her ex-lover come on stage, didn't see her ex-boo ease on the stage from behind the curtain. Yaba the Laker appeared and the room was taken off guard. L.A. was a basketball town. L.A. had the Clippers, had had the Raiders and the Rams, had the Angels and the Dodgers and the Kings, but those sports were all the stepchildren, something to do when the big boys weren't playing, because it was
Lakerville
.

Everyone started applauding like it was an award show at the Kennedy Center.

Indigo thought they were hand-praising her wicked dance, but had a rude awakening when she turned around. She turned around as she did a sweet Nigerian hip-hop move, and Yaba was there, with a cordless microphone in hand. Indigo stopped moving, pulled the edges of her skirt back down. The music lowered to a whisper. Yaba frowned, then barked into the mic in a strong Nigerian accent, sounded angry. He said that he was pissed off that Leonard kept calling her Holly Goodhead.

Then he added, “You know you should be
Pussy Galore
.”

People laughed.

Indigo look confused, embarrassed, but was not going to back down. She folded her arms across her breasts and was ready to bark back at Yaba for being rude and humiliating her in front of a room filled with black Americans. She was shocked to see him appear out of nowhere.

Yaba took her hand. Indigo thought he was about to pull her from the stage.

The music changed to a song by a Nigerian singer called Davido, a song called “Aye,” a song that told a tale of love between different classes. Yaba sang along, sang as if they were the only two people on the planet, sang his love for Indigo to the room. He let her hand go, then the giant danced and took her hands and danced with her, and Indigo danced with him, her body already moving when the Nigerian song started, and she fell into the soft African-inspired beats, the mesmerizing music from back home, their dance cultural, powerful, sensual. People in the room did a soft clap along with the music.

Kwanzaa shook her head. “Had no idea. I guess she told him she was going to be here tonight, but I don't think he told her he would leave his castle and come down here for this.”

Destiny said, “Look at her face. She didn't have a clue either.”

Kwanzaa said, “I guess Dubois and Yaba have been friends since Indigo's party.”

Ericka said, “I hope like hell Olamilekan isn't up in here too.”

Yaba the Laker gave a short speech, the strong Nigerian accent now gone, his voice crisp, clear, articulate, Princeton, and he told how he had met Indigo at Starbucks when she had dropped her friend Kwanzaa off at work one day when she had car problems.

On that morning, Indigo was in her car, backing out of a space, and had surprised him when she cursed him out because in his rush to get a cup of green tea he had parked his Range Rover crooked across two parking spaces. He said Indigo snapped at him real good, asked him who the hell did he think he was that he could be so inconsiderate and park that way, was bold, was mean, and was arrogant. He said that he thought she was a crazy person.

People laughed.

He added that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and right away he knew she was a Nigerian woman. Yaba said that instead of returning the hostility, he saw the loveliness in her face, the frustration in her eyes, and asked what he could do to make her day better, and she had turned her frown upside down and said that he could tell her to have a nice day, then straighten his car out so other people could have room to park, and at that moment, when he saw her smile,
he had asked her if he could give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek to help her start her day off right. She told him he could, told the room that Indigo had eased out of her car, and as they blocked traffic, she had let him hug her and kiss her cheek, and that hug and kiss changed into a real kiss, a passionate kiss between two people who didn't know one another's names. Well, she knew who he was, since everyone in the parking lot was yelling out his name, but Indigo was not impressed. To her he was just another guy, and he liked that. That was why he loved her right away. He asked for her number. They ended up texting all morning and into the night. He took her on a date, a restaurant in Silver Lake.

He told everyone that she didn't kiss him on the first date.

The room got the joke, and almost everyone laughed.

And now she was the love of his life.

He told the room she was his best friend.

He told the room she was the one he couldn't live without.

He said that he had changed his status online from “single” to “dating” when he kissed her, and now he wanted to upgrade his status again. Voice trembling, on the verge of crying, trying to man-up and be strong, he cleared his throat and told Indigo he wanted her to become his wife.

Yaba the Laker eased down on one knee and took a small box out of his pocket. A collective gasp filled the club and carried out onto Sunset Boulevard.

Over and over Destiny said,
“Holy Jesus.”

Ericka Stockwell's mouth dropped open.

As the crowd looked on, Yaba opened the beautiful golden box, and the obese diamond ring sparkled.

Yaba asked Indigo to marry him.

He asked her to be his for the rest of his life.

She said yes. Indigo said yes. She hesitated, and then kissed her fiancé. The room erupted in applause. No one had clapped that hard all night.

Waves of emotion and energy moved through everyone, like at a wedding. Women raised their glasses and cried as if they had seen a real-life Cinderella.

Nigerian music played and they danced, soft and easy.