Page 1 of Finesse
Book I
Present
One
Funerals are not for the dead; they’re for the living to show off.
Every funeral I’ve been to it’s been one fashion show after another. From my uncles in their finest Stacy Adams to my aunties clutching their Tiffany pearls and designer black Gucci shades to the church ushers straight out of a beauty salon or a fresh fade.
You’ve been to one funeral, you’ve been to them all. They all have the same thing: a choir, a processional/viewing, somebody sharing great stories, somebody taking a bit too long and needs to hurry up and sit down. Somber music played. Joyful numbers people shout Hallelujah to.
Every funeral is the same except this one – my daddy’s.
It was just me and my daddy from since I was three. My mother, Lauren, decided motherhood and wifedom was just not for her so she bounced. I’ve seen my mother a handful times in the past 24 years of my life and each time I see her, she’s more unrecognizable than before.
It’s not necessarily her fault and I no longer have any ill will towards her. Daddy’s had plenty of girlfriends that have come and gone, but they’ve all left lasting impressions:
Keisha was the around the way girlfriend. She had her ears to the streets, but kept my daddy on his business. She taught me about puberty and boys.“Don’t trust them motherfuckers.”She’d always warned me. Lord knows I wished I listened to her.
Karen was the lone white woman Daddy brought home, but she could throw down in the kitchen. She could make anything from Asian, Latino, and even pretty damn good baked macaroni and cheese. She taught me how to cook. “A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she told me, “give him a good meal and he’ll hand over his wallet, baby.” It was sound advice.
Shanice was the biracial girlfriend who was a walking advertisement for every name brand out there. She taught me about fashion and makeup. “You can’t have a face beat to the gods and look like you just rolled out of bed, booboo.” She’s never had a hair out of place.
Those are the top three I remember. They’re all here with me. The other girlfriends never made it past the front door. I guess Daddy knew better than to bring them inside to meet me. I respect his game.
Now, I’m sitting in the front row of the church, pretending to listen to a preacher I really couldn’t care about as he delivers his sermon to a packed house. My daddy was a neighborhood man. He was everyone’s friend.
That happens when you have the best local coffee chain in town.
East Atlanta isn’t a small town, but it’s not a big city. It’s sizable. Not everyone knows everyone type of deal, but people know who the main players are. My daddy ran Fresh Espresso for the past ten years. No matter what time of day, everyone knew who he was.
He greeted college students cramming for a test. He served politicians hammering out bills and laws. He placated the bored housewives who gossiped about their Botoxed fremenies.
When it was Black History month, he served cups in black, red, and green. When it was pride month, the cups became a rainbow. When it was Latino Heritage Month, he hired local Mariachi bands to serenade the crowd on Friday evenings.
Daddy was everyone’s friend. A car accident turned him into a memory.
My lungs push out a sigh as I think about everything. Daddy always paid his bills on time. He was never late on anything. He had great credit, he was loved in the community, and he never even so much had a parking ticket.
An asshole running away from the cops took my father’s life away before he had a chance to drink his own brewed cup.
It didn’t matter now. All I have were memories.
I sigh and listen to the gospel singer sing “Mary, Don’t You Weep” among shouts and “Praise God!” floating in the air. Most of the people in the church knew me since I was a baby. A lot of the faces were familiar, even if I couldn’t remember everyone’s names.
When it was time for the eulogy, I found the strength to get up and speak. I slowly walked to the podium with a round of applause from the church. The only daughter of everyone’s favorite uncle had something to say.
I stood high in my heels, took a sip of water, and cleared my throat. I adjusted the microphone, and was astounded to see the number of people before me. A few hundred maybe?
“Good morning,” I softly spoke into the microphone and the crowd replied. “Thank you all so much for coming to honor my daddy today. I might not know all of you but I’m sure over the years you might have been familiar with me.” I took another deep breath. “Everyone has told wonderful stories about my dad and how he went out of his way to help. And you know what? They were right.
“My father was the best daddy a girl could ever have. He taught me about boys, but he taught me how to work an espresso machine. He taught me about basketball, but he taught me how change a flat tire. He taught me about the value of a dollar and he taught me it was okay to splurge.
“He had his faults like most humans, but he was a great man. And I’m proud of him. I will say starting soon, I will take over Fresh Espresso café in honor of my father.” A rousing round of applause fills the church. “I can’t promise I’ll share stories about why the Temptations lineup with Dennis Edwards was better or why nobody makes a car like a deuce and a quarter anymore.” That garnered some laughs. “But I can promise to keep my father’s memory and spirit alive with some of the best darn coffee in town. Thank you for all of your love and support.”
As everyone stood up and cheered me, I locked eyes with a familiar face across the room. I could pick his ass up out of a lineup, blindfolded with one working, half-cocked eye. A year later, with not even a ‘Bye, Felicia!’ to me, my ex had the audacity to show up at my daddy’s funeral.
Worst yet, he came looking like he was fresh out of a runway. His olive skin was moisturized to the gods. His light beard was closely cropped to his face, with a full mustache. His dirty blond, messy bedhead completed his look.
