Page 31 of Finesse
Rose bushes adorn many pathways, as with other plants I can’t figure out as we drive past. There are Adirondack chairs on the grass and wide, open porches. I can already visualize the apple pie baking and fresh lemonade being made somewhere.
The men are talking with arms folded and a humorous smile across their lips. Their wives are dressed in their J. Crew, Gap, and Nordstrom finest while their pulled-back and Botox faces try to smile and laugh. Dishwater and peroxided blonde hair means they all look like each other and try to one-up each other in the same weird fashion. They don’t have a care in the world.
They briefly look over at Daddy driving his car and point, but none of them are familiar with him inside the car. That was Daddy’s intention. He probably knows those people when they visit his coffee shops; he doesn’t need to associate with them outside of that.
My Daddy isn’t prejudiced by any means, but he’s been around enough white people to know how they operate. The slick smiles followed by even slicker comments when you’re not in earshot. The polite racist digs that seem harmless on the surface until you realize the true intention when you’re not around them.
When Daddy wanted to open his coffee shop, several banks told him it wasn’t a viable business idea and they denied him. Of course, we all know what the real reason was and Daddy knew too. He saved, cut many costs, and worked his butt off to get the capital needed for his shops. He even borrowed money from my grandparents to open it.
Those same white people who denied him are the same ones who always come in and ask for the Obama special, talking about how they wish he ran a third term. They’re also the same ones who somehow discover Black Lives Matter despite the numerous nannies and butlers they hire of a melanated hue.
So, when Daddy has reservations, I don’t blame him.
We pull up to the gate and Daddy turns down the music to press the button. He speaks to someone on the other end and the gate opens a short time later. We travel a long, winding road that seems to be more a bridge than a driveway to the home.
The home is exactly how one would picture if it were a museum. It’s a mansion with at least three floors and a plantation feel to it. It looks presidential and furthermore,rich.We parked along the cul-de-sac with the other expensive vehicles – a station wagon Mercedes, a Cadillac Escalade.
And around the corner, Cameron’s BMW.
I felt sick and calm at the same time. I wanted to bolt while my father popped in a breath mint, brushed over his fade one last time, and then stepped out of the car. My father had been around enough rich people to know a lot of their wealth was smoke and mirrors.
The rich were too busy trying to one-up each other on who got what. If someone bought a Chanel, you know her frenemy had to get at least two. If someone got a Mercedes, someone had to get a model that was better.
Of course, the true wealthy didn’t have to boast on what they owned. They were the ones that owned the corporations and banks. While own petty stuff when they own the world?
“We can always go home, Daddy.” I tell him as I meet him by the steps. “We don’t have to do this.”
My father is quiet for a long moment before he speaks. I wasn’t sure if he heard me until he said something. “You need to get used to being the only one in the room. It may not just be tonight, but also in the future. You’ll be the only employee. The only business owner. The only mother at the practice. The only one at the recitals. The only one in the fancy grocery stores. The only one at the dealership as you buy a newer car. The only one at the bank as you make those huge deposits and they wanna know exactly what it is you do for a living.” My Daddy finally turns to me. “You need to get used to being the only Black face in the room because trust, they’ll quickly know you’re the only one and they’ll use it to their advantage.”
My Daddy speaks from experience and time. He knows how everyone operates behind closed doors and to your face. Sometimes, you’re treated the same. Sometimes, it’s completely different. The worst is when it’s friends and family.
“What do you want me to do?” I cautiously ask.
“My Daddy shakes his head. “Nothing,” he then turns to me, “just be alert.”
“Lamont,” Cameron’s father, Eric, comes out and greets my father with a firm handshake and bright smile. Eric is a tall man and has the stature of a former athlete. He walks in long strides and has the trademark used car salesman smile plastered on his face.
His career in politics started by accident. While Eric was in college, he interned at a local law firm. He did typical abusing-the-help errands such as coffee runs, mail sorting, and occasionally sitting in on meetings if he was a good boy.
One night, Eric forgot his jump drive so he went back to retrieve it at the office. As he walked into the firm, he saw the head boss fucking the co-partner’s wife on his partner’s desk.
Instead of Eric being horrified at what he saw, he decided to pull out his videocamera to record and used it as leverage to get paid benefits and a sweet parking space. Years later when the firm’s owner ran for office, the video resurfaced on the web, and he quickly dropped out.
While the public were shocked about the video, Eric knew he was the culprit behind it. He gave a copy of the video to his friend who worked for the local TV station, who in turn, gave it to a friend who worked for a cable news company.
Eric began his political career being a snake and doing everyone’s dirty bidding. If a candidate wanted some dirt on their opponent, they went to Eric. He hung out in strip clubs, ghettos, trailer parks, community centers, to find out everything he could.
At the time, Eric was only 25.
He became a lobbyist, talking with various people in Congress about laws he really didn’t care about but would somehow benefit him and his friends. He was known to be a conniving asshole back then, but he was charming enough where he was well-liked at the same time.
He met Cameron’s mother, Heather, during a dinner over at another senator’s home. She was the nanny and not-so struggling college student. They hit it off that night and an innocent to the public courtship began.
I say innocent to the public because Eric and Heather were everything but. Coke parties, threesomes, drunken stupors while presenting an innocent and conservative front to the public. They married in a lavish ceremony paid by both families and attended by 500 people.
Keeping in line with the public image, the children followed in quick succession. Robert, the oldest, followed by Cameron, and then their sister, Jamie. There have always been question marks if Jamie was Eric’s daughter, but he never treated her any different.
All of this was relayed to me by Cameron himself, speaking with a combination of amusement and disgust as he told the story.
