The Kiss, So Alcoholic and Slow - "Pale Shelter"

IVY
“PALE SHELTER”

“You don’t give me loooove (you give me pale shelter)/You don’t give me loooove (you give me cold hands)” –

“Ah c’mon, you gonna beat me in the head all afternoon? I came over to eat.” I lay on the plush snow white chaise in Dixie’s massive closet amid two walls of shoes displayed behind glass panes with each delicate pair of size 7 boot, sandal, bootie, pump, and mule – all either stiletto or platform to make up for what she lacked in height – bathed in a soft pink light. Dixie was the only person I knew outside of Carrie Bradshaw to have such an exquisite haven for her fashion addiction. The remaining two walls were sectioned off in four rows and dedicated to her wicked designer clothes – all an envy evoking size 4. And in the middle of the room was an island of a jewelry store style showcase with shelves and drawers holding other celebrity-caliber fabulous accessories. Being the on again, off again girlfriend to an on married, not EVER gonna get divorced NBA star had its perks; perks Dixie shamelessly took advantage of. But, unlike most of the women in the too-close-for-comfort knit social circle we mingled, I reserved judgment because Dixie was the first person to befriend me unconditionally when I moved back to the ‘burbs of Detroit from New York. She claimed me as her BFF instantly after meeting me at a charity event downtown. She says she was drawn to my aura of warm colors. Bullocks! I say she fell jealous of the Louboutins I’d copped from Bergdorfs that hadn’t made their way to the Midwest yet and she admired anyone able to challenge her shoe game. Besides, my aura when I fled New York was neither warm nor colorful rather matte black with no shine, no glitter, not even the slightest hint of shimmer, and cold like an arctic cold with no sun, and no light to deflect from the deep freeze. That was three years ago, a little more than three years ago. It was 1,154 days past to be precise.

“Why do you wanna torture yourself?” Dixie, perched atop a carpeted footstool, looked over me donning a silvery cream formal Versace number that hung loosely about her. “I mean look at that ROCK on your finger. The only thing you should be thinking about is Monique Lhuiller or Vera Wang.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna do all that.”

Dixie hopped down with one hand on her hip and the other folding up the gown so she wouldn’t trip. Aghast, “Are you telling me that you’re thinking about going off the rack?”

“Well even if it was Vera or Monique it would still be off the rack. Justin is not – “She waved me silent with a feverish shake of her hand as she dropped onto the quilted white high back chair at her gold leafed vanity. “So I guess you guys are off again this week huh?”

“You could say that but let’s not get off topic.” Dixie adjusted herself to look me in the eye. “Ivy, men like Justin don’t just happen. They’re a gift that women like you deserve. You didn’t just kiss a few frogs you kissed a big ‘ol giant, nasty bull frog with warts and all and now you’ve got your prince. Don’t blow it!” I heard her. I really did hear her but as I was about to digest and comment I – I blanked out. Spiraling I slipped into a memory …

“Don’t blow it!” The shaky baritone in his effeminate voice in concert with the sound of his fist pounding against the dash of his G-Class Benz startled me as I disengaged the locks and opened the passenger door. How could the editor of an upstart urban lifestyle magazine afford a hundred grand plus car AND a half share in an East Hampton manse ON the water? I knew early on the likelihood of Lush Style magazine staying in business for more than a year was slim to nada. But Warren was the only editor in all of New York to give me an opportunity as a features writer fully aware that I’d never written for a publication nor been in the industry of publishing before. When I interviewed with him, pleading my undying love and devotion to the written word and my obsession with making my mark in the literary world, his expression was deadpan as he filed his brilliantly buffed fingernails and sporadically chuckled when he received an amusing IM from his computer. Struggling to hold my composure and not hurl my body across his glass top desk to strangle the little fag, and tapping my foot against the polished mahogany wood floor, I continued babbling. Then, magically the energy of the encounter began to change.

“You said who?” The emery board slipped from Warren’s hand.

“Beg pardon?” I asked.

“Rewind honey. I heard you say something about Diddy?”

“Uh yeah.” I shrunk a little in my seat. My professional history read like a who’s who in music entertainment as I managed to land gigs in management and production with a bevy of the industry’s top dogs but somehow Bad Boy and Sean “Diddy” Combs were the catch phrases to walk me into virtually any door. I’d only been with his company shy of two years and hadn’t nor wanted much personal interaction with the Hip Hop mogul and icon but the mere association served me well though I looked forward to the day of his association to me meaning more than the other way around. “Yes I did work at Bad Boy I uh –“

“Can you get Lush Style a cover story?”

“I’m not sure if that’s possible. I haven’t – “

Warren was salivating, attentive and suddenly honed in on me, completely ignoring the “BLEEPS” ringing from his computer. Palms firmly planted on the desk, I thought he might climb over and pounce at any moment. “I’m saying honey if you want the job get me Diddy Combs.”

Falling back I was deflated knowing the task of nailing Puff down to commit to being the cover subject for an unknown magazine with a meager readership was going to be beyond arduous with me exhausting myself to make the impossible happen. Miraculously, somehow it happened. The moon must have been in the right spot with the stars perfectly aligned, and the temperature riding the most comfortable degree because not only did Diddy Combs agree to be Lush Style’s feature star but he also arranged for Sean John to place a full page ad. When I delivered the news to Warren he literally fell out on the floor and wiggled about in an epileptic motion then grabbed my ankle letting out a raspy “Thank you.” I didn’t get to write the article – he did – but he held his end of the agreement and gave me the job. The cover shot Lush Style into an alternate galaxy and became the numero uno rival to the urban community’s darling, Vibe magazine. A position that wouldn’t last long. Drunk off his own Kool-Aid Warren mismanaged the operations and finances of the publication to a point of no repair and as we sat in the circular drive of the modest yet architecturally stunning Sag Harbor home of a Harlem socialite, Warren was desperate to breathe renewed fabulousness back into the business he’d siphoned the relevance out of.

As I got out I slammed the door behind me knowing he’d be pissed because he always quipped German auto engineering was so tight all one had to do was lightly push the door and the car would do the rest. “So what time will you be back?” Leaning into the open window I asked, uneasy about being left alone in a hideaway spot where the homes were at least three or four lots a part, to interview a notoriously pretentious, bad boy, graffiti artist turned fine arts media darling whose paintings depicted morbid inner city scenes.

“No finger prints on the fresh wash!” Warren hollered and, “And honey, this ain’t a Honda you don’t have to slam my doors.” He flicked the sun visor down and popped open the mirror to smooth the Mac Lip Glass over his lips. “I figure you need a couple of hours to get homeboy to warm up. So after my deep tissue massage and age defying facial I’ll come ‘round and scoop you.” He started to pull off.

“Wait!” The car braked. “Your deep tissues are two hours and your facials are an hour and a half and that doesn’t include travel time.”

“Baby cakes got an ‘A’ in arithmetic. Gold star for you!” He let his foot off the brake and coasted as I moved with him along the gravel. “Now look, it’s not like he’s magically gonna open up to you so the more time you spend with him the more you can engage him into spilling his – whatever it is we’re trying to get out of this story.”

“I’ve never met him nor had a phone conversation with him so I don’t know what to expect.” I gritted my teeth suddenly annoyed I didn’t study harder or pass biology so I could go to medical school or something.

“You’re a journalist. Make it work!” And with that the G-Class kicked into second gear, spitting up rocks in its getaway.

“Queen!” I wanted to yell but didn’t. Instead I dusted myself off, pulled up my proverbial big girl panties and ascended the steps leading to the slate colored front door. I waited a beat trying to gather something clever in my head to say for when I came face to face with this artist character. But before I could get the first three words threaded together, the door swung open and there he stood. Roman. No last name just Roman or Rome as he preferred to be called. He wasn’t particularly fine like Denzel fine or anything like that but he was about 6’2, flawless reddish brown complexion, sporting a close cut Caesar, wearing Rock & Republic jeans and a wife beater which is an absolute no, no unless you have the body for it and GULP, he had the body for it. I disliked him instantly. His swagger, all swelled with arrogance and sensuality, seeped from his pores perfuming the air. I covered my nose. He wasn’t going to hypnotize me.

His thick almost-could-have-been-threaded-in-that-perfect-shape eyebrows crinkled and raised as he lifted his nose and sniffed. “Does it smell like shit?” He asked trying to catch a scent.

“Uh no.” I laughed nervously in my head. I offered my most stern and professional handshake. “Hi I’m Ivy. Ivy Pope from Lush Style magazine.”

Hands open, blood red palms face up held out to me, Roman smiled with the most perfect teeth and they weren’t Veneers either. “Wet paint. Don’t touch. We can rub elbows if you want.” We laughed.

I laughed out loud, propelling myself back into the moment of melting into the white chaise lounge in Dixie’s closet, fondly remembering when Rome and I first rubbed elbows and he invited me in for the most unexpected luxurious day. Yeah, I heard Dixie and I digested her point. “I’m not gonna blow it with Justin Dixie. But I feel like I need absolute closure.”

“You need what?!” Dixie was shocked and paused trying to process what I’d just said and it was obvious she had a comeback but she stopped herself. Instead she lightened the mood by replaying Tear For Fear’s “Pale Shelter”, jumping up with unplugged flat iron in hand, “You don’t give me loooove/You don’t give me loooove.”

And maybe it wasn’t love that Rome had given me but he’d gifted me something that had me comparing what my soul felt like when I was with him to how it felt when I was with any other man including Justin. “I do” is not an idle promise and I didn’t want to treat it as such. My plane ticket was booked. A woman has to do what a woman has to do.