A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (8)
So she downed two Moscow mules in rapid succession. She shut her eyes and chanted her anxiety app affirmation (I am not in danger, I’m uncomfortable, this will pass, and I am confident). Then she practically threw herself at a friendly-looking woman wearing palazzo pants. Her tag said, LYONNE: SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTOR, DANCE THEATRE OF HARLEM.
“Not to be awkward,” Ricki shouted awkwardly over the thumping bass, “but what’s your perfume? It’s… so pretty.”
“Sorry, can’t hear! What’d you say?”
Stomach sinking, Ricki repeated herself.
“It’s actually an essential-oil-infused cocoa butter,” said Lyonne. “My boyfriend makes it. I can get you some.”
“Really? Thank you.” And then Ricki self-immolated. “I love cocoa butter. My skin’s so dry I identify as an Eczema American.”
Lyonne gasped. “You’re Mexican American?”
“What? No, I…”
“I just saw a TikTok about this community of Black Mexicans descended from escaped enslaved people. You have a fascinating culture. Come on, diaspora!”
In too deep, Ricki just nodded, cheeks aflame.
“Gr-gracias?” she croaked, her soul leaving her body. “Ummm… I think I’m tipsy. I should go. Great meeting you.”
She raced out of the party, aghast.
But then three miracles happened in rapid succession.
The first miracle was Ali. After her fourth injury (a hammer-bruised thumb), Ricki decided she needed a handyman. Enter Ali, a TaskRabbit hire who built shelves and installed an in-store workspace in forty-five minutes. On the app, he was highly rated for his workmanship.
The reviews failed to mention that he was hung like a horse.
One night, he climbed off the ladder, and Ricki passed him a beer. As he stood there, downing a Heineken while resembling a low-res Jesse Williams, Ricki perked up.
Seducing some guy was infinitely easier than making friends. There was no guesswork, especially because it was always a version of the same man. She was attracted to hot guys who, in lieu of having an established career, purported to be “collectors of experiences.” Great kissers with shady living situations. Men who never tried to dig deep into who she was, but instead just happily ate up the easy, sexually agreeable version she showed them.
Ali, in a nutshell. After the beer, they christened the IKEA bed he’d just assembled.
The sex wasn’t earth shattering, and Ali’s conversation topics were limited to (a) crystals and (b) conspiracy theories (like the one suggesting that Ted Cruz was, in fact, Rob Kardashian). But he was kind. And an artist! He’d painted a few portraits of Ricki, and they were lovely.
She didn’t know much else about him, which was what she thought she wanted.
But deep down, Ms. Della’s words reverberated through her. He was music I could listen to forever. She wondered how it would feel to intensely connect with someone. A man who was custom-made to be yours. But then she caught herself. It sounded too rare, the kind of thing that happened to a lucky few. And so she buried the thought and snoozed through another “Moon Landing—World’s Greatest Hoax!!!” video with Ali.
The second miracle came in the form of a disgraced former child star. One afternoon, Ricki was rolling out wallpaper when her shop door flew open.
“Hide me!” yelped a lightly freckled woman with a sleek, low bun. Intentionally anonymous looking in clean makeup, a yoga set, and a puffer, she could’ve been any Harlem Hot Girl. Except that she wasn’t.
“Holy shit, you’re…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Help me!”
“Bathroom!” Ricki blurted out, pointing toward the hallway.
Tuesday Rowe raced past her, down the hall. The Tuesday Rowe. The TV star who would’ve been a movie star—if her career hadn’t been cut short when she was twenty and she accused her Hollywood agent of sexual harassment. Instead, the biracial beauty was fired from the TGIF sitcom she’d starred in since she was seven. Ready Freddy was about a hunky white widower who grief-adopts five multicultural kids, all of whom possess tremendous vocal range and form a pop group. When the show began, Tuesday’s character was the Feisty Black Girl with the One-Liners. But as she grew into a gorgeous teen, it morphed into the Flirty Black Girl with the Pregnancy Scares. Today, the twenty-nine-year-old was living anonymously and comfortably off syndication residuals while struggling to write her memoir, See You Next Tuesday.
Ricki rushed to the window and spotted three middle-aged men ambling down 137th Street, waving their phones.
“They’re gone,” Ricki called out, her heart thundering with adrenaline. In a flash, Tuesday joined her at the window to see for herself.
“You saved me.” Tuesday was out of breath, but she sounded exactly like the sitcom version of herself that Ricki had grown up hearing. “Whew! Good looking out, sis.”
“Of course. Anytime.”
Tuesday flashed Ricki her megawatt smile. Ricki smiled back, and the two gave each other a pound. A conspiratorial energy sparked between them.
“I’m Ricki. Um, Ricki Wilde.”
“Fuck yeah, you are. Iconic name.” Tuesday smoothed her hair and sighed grandly. “Ugh. Those mouth-breathing dorks chased me all the way from Sexy Taco.”