Of course I eventually went to Rosedale with those gals, but not before I felt things out a little better. I mean, these were two very hot women and I’m just a regular guy, doing the regular things that normal people do. So the investigator in me had to be soothed a bit.
“So hey,” I told them as we progressed towards the train stop, “you’re not gonna pull the old East-coast flim-flam on me when we get there are you?”
“What?” Whitney asked with a laugh. “What is d’at? East-coast flim-flam?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, “...not really sure myself. Just seems quite a coincidence is all. With that bookmark, and you sitting next to me and then going out to that guy’s house today of all days.”
“What do you think we would do to you?” Khatija asked, eyes fixed on mine as she leaned across Whitney in my direction.
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re a pair of hot bad-asses or something. Or maybe someone’s gonna gack me when we get to that house.”
“Oh my God! Really?” Khatija exclaimed incredulously in her very London accent. She was actually from Trinidad-Tobago, but we’ll get to that. For now, she and Whitney shared a laugh.
“’ere, I’m going to show you somet’ing,” Whitney said, as she dug into her bag again and this time pulled out a Black Hair Magazine. She thumbed through the pages ‘til she found what she wanted. Then plopped the open magazine on my lap.
“Look,” she said as she tapped at the magazine’s glossy pages with a long, painted fingernail. It was a two-page photo spread; both sides of the magazine, that featured her in about a half-dozen different hair styles and weaves. Flirty Whitney, bobbed-hair Whitney, extensions Whitney; afro-Whitney, blonde Whitney.
“Oh wow, you know who you look just like in this one here?” I asked.
Whitney and Khatija both answered at once.
“Whitney Houston!”
“Right. Guess you get that a lot.”
Keep in mind this was almost ten years ago, so Whitney Houston was still a decent beauty. And Jamaican Whitney was even prettier than the real Whitney. Fuller lips and hips. More plush. And probably a few years younger than me.
But this isn’t about Whitney Houston. Or Jamaican Whitney. At least, not per se. In fact, I’m not sure what this post’s really about, though perhaps its meaning is buried somewhere in that walk over to the photographer’s house in Rosedale.
I exited the train with those two gorgeous gals in tow, feeling a lot different about myself and life than I had 20 minutes earlier. All eyes watched as we trundled through the narrow train aisle, then it was about a two block walk through brightly painted, framed houses and middle-income, Long Island streets. It was probably 90 degrees outside. Not a cloud in the sky as I made my way in my flip-flops and backpack.
I heard the hip-hop before we got to the two-story house. It blared out the open, upstairs windows; and once oriented I saw a line of gals that spilled-out the house’s front door to the porch. I don’t know if there was a hundred--more like twenty or so; but these gals all could have been straight out of Smooth Magazine. Or better--by which I mean high-end fashion magazines. It was hot outside, so there were halter tops and short-shorts and thin cotton dresses and those low-cut jeans that were still somewhat new to me back then.
And once we got inside there were girls in bikini’s queued-up to get their pics taken. From the first floor down to the basement they stood in line, and all of them had these comp cards or...I forget what they call ‘em, but they’re these oversized, glossy business cards with 5 or 6 shots of the girl in various styles and poses. The card lists the girl’s representation or agent’s contact; and all the girls either had one or were on line to pick their’s up.
It was like straight out of a Jay-Z video, with that hip-hop simply blasting from upstairs. Turned out the music was the photographer’s son who had a music studio in his bedroom. Just like his dad, the son had about a half-dozen people that streamed out his bedroom door, down the stairs from the 2nd floor. The son was mixing hip-hop CD’s with guys rapping over their tracks and whatnot. And just like with the dad, the rappers were waiting for their finished discs or to cut theirs.
Everybody in the place was entrepreneurial. Had business going on. Except me of course, who simply floated round in my flip-flops and oversized beach hat. All skinny legs, pale skin, and awed respect for the turns life can take.
After asking around, Jamaican Whitney worked her way down to the basement to locate the photographer. That left me upstairs with Khatija. Alone for the first time.
She was from Trinidad-Tobago, I know I mentioned that. Trinidad and London, where her family lived now. She had a skin-tone that’s featured in another magazine called SHOW. Unlike Smooth, which actually features black models, every model in SHOW has the same mysterious range of caramel-colored skin. Like the progeny of those models from United Colors of Benetton. Its obviously an air-brush, but it doesn’t bother me. In fact, its funny that this has now become a type or a demographic niche to be marketed. An idealized shade for someone with a certain aesthetic sense.
“What do you think we’re gonna do to you?” Khatija asked as she widened her exotic eyes.
“I don’t know. Nothing right?”
“Well that’s not how you’re looking at me,” she said with a laugh.
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post I'm going to split it into another part. Next installment in a few days.
* ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images with the exception of those in which I appear. Images are included simply to enhance the story and I'm sure copyrights exist on photos culled from Smooth and Show Magazines.
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