Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [98]
So when I got to Atlanta and Morris Brown, I fell in love with black people. I soaked up every drop of being black, and in my new world, there was no room for white women with hearts of gold.
Seeing all these old Jewish ladies take their daily walks along Lincoln Road and around South Beach made me think of Hattie, and I hoped that wherever she was, she realized I hadn’t known how to love her.
I still hadn’t landed a job, although I had a second interview scheduled at the David Barton gym in the Delano Hotel. Being a trainer would allow me the flexibility to wait tables and do a little modeling on the side. If I was lucky I could support myself and start saving to replace the money I owed my bank.
Most of my days had been lonely. A lot of gay men down here don’t speak English, or they don’t speak to black men, or else they suffer from the “too cute to speak” syndrome. I had spent the night before at a gay nightclub filled with synthesized R & B music, flashing lights and a lot of men looking for one night only. Love here in South Beach seemed the same as in New York: a guilty pleasure based on physical attraction.
But this was the bed I had made for myself, so I was determined to make it work. I still had to get some of my possessions from my Harlem apartment without the risk of being caught in case the police were looking for me, and so once again I needed Wylie’s help. I hadn’t called him and told him I was moving, but I had to now so he could ship me my clothes.
I booked a room at a hotel called the Betsy Ross. It’s a boutique hotel that looks like the big house on a southern plantation. It was an okay hotel—definitely not the Delano, where I had been staying with Yancey B and her crew—but for now it would have to do.
I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers from my phone card. It was early evening, and I was hoping I would get Wylie and not his answering machine.
After a few rings, I got my first break in a couple of days. Wylie answered the phone, and I suddenly missed New York terribly.
“Wylie, this is Bart. How ya doing?”
“Where have you been? Do you know your answering machine is full and your cell phone is off? Where are you?”
“I’m in South Beach.”
“Are you still shooting that video?”
“We finished a couple of days ago.”
“Don’t tell me you met another confused man?”
“No, not yet. But I’m not going to let that stop me from moving down here,” I said, laughing. It was the first time I had cracked a smile in days.
“What? You can’t move down there. What am I going to do? I need you,” Wylie said.
“Oh, you’ll be fine. I need a change. It’s all for the best,” I said. I wrestled with the thought of telling him what I had done to Basil and what Ava had done to me, but I didn’t want to hear his “do right and good things happen” speech.
“Bart, you can’t do that. I’ve been calling you every hour on the hour. I have a problem,” Wylie said. I noticed his voice was unusually loud and trembling.
“Wylie, what’s the matter?”
“I don’t want to talk about this on the phone. When can you get back to New York?”
“I can’t do that,” I said firmly.
“I need you, Bart. For once in your life, stop thinking about yourself. How many times have I been there for you?”
“Then tell me what’s going on. You expect me to just change my plans for you because you say so?”
“You know me, I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important. I need to talk to someone, and you’re the only one I can turn to.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
There was a long moment of silence,