on it to see what the MySpacer thought of the nightspot.
According to Mr. Good Black Man 2008, it was a hip spot for African-American professionals and a perfect place for meeting attractive singles. She chuckled at the thought of going in and seeing wall-to-wall cute men in suits. That would be heavenly, she thought. She started to close the profile page but decided to read more about the person giving this bit of networking advice. She was disappointed to see there was no picture, and no description except that he was “a single black entrepreneur who lived in Harlem.”
Hmmm, she thought, he lives in Harlem, I live in Harlem. Might be worth checking him out.
She clicked on the link that said Send Message, but a blurb came up saying You must be logged in to do that. She’d always toyed with the idea of becoming a MySpace member, and since it was free, and she wasn’t doing anything else, she figured this would be as good a time as any. Twenty minutes later she had put up her own profile page. It was only bare-bones, but she could hook it up later, she decided. Right now she was on a mission. She clicked back on to Mr. Good Black Man 2008’s profile page again.
Hi. I’m new to Harlem and new to MySpace. I came across your page when I was looking for advice about MoBay’s. Do you really think it’s worth checking out?
Kind of lame, but it would do as an icebreaker. She hit the Send button, then retrieved another bottle of juice from the refrigerator. She had gone back to the computer to turn it off when she saw that she already had a MySpace message. She smiled when she saw it was from Mr. Good Black Man 2008. That was fast. She noticed his online now cursor was blinking.
Hey, Newcomer, welcome to the neighborhood. Yes, MoBay’s is a great place. You should really try it on a Thursday night. The saxophonist is off the hook.
She took a sip from her juice, then typed:
I didn’t expect to hear back so soon. Thanks. How do you like living in Harlem? I just moved here from Montreal.
A few minutes later she received another message:
I’ve traveled almost all over the world, and I can tell you that there’s no place like Harlem. You’ll love it here.
They went back and forth with polite niceties for a while before Dior finally typed:
I notice that most people have their pictures on their profile page. Why don’t you?
Ten minutes later:
I used to have my picture up here but I kept getting messages from women telling me how cute I was, and how they wanted to meet me. I’m not into superficial people who only care about what someone looks like, so I decided to take it down.
Wow, Dior thought. He must really be good looking if women were on him like that. Wish I knew what he looked like, though.
Mr. Good Black Man 2008 must have been reading her mind, because just a few minutes later came another message:
You sound like a nice person, so just between you and me, I’m tall, chocolate-colored, and have been told I look like Blair Underwood.
The scene from the movie Set It Off where a shirtless Blair Underwood came out of his house to say good-bye to Jada Pinkett popped into Dior’s head. She started salivating.
So what do you look like? was the next message Mr. Good Black Man 2008 wrote.
Dior smiled to herself as she wrote I would tell you, but I like your original philosophy.
Touché, was his reply. So what do you do for a living? Or would that be too personal?
Actually, I start my new job on Monday, she wrote him.
She told him her job title and a brief description of her upcoming duties. He wrote back that her job seemed interesting and that he might have to hire her agency one day to advertise his business. Dior lit up like a Christmas tree and in her next message she asked him what kind of business he owned. He told her that his primary business was an investment firm, but that he also owned lots of real estate around Manhattan. Dior didn’t know how to act. Dollar signs were floating all through her head and she started seeing doubles of her Gucci bag.
They went back and forth for another hour before Dior said she had to go, but asked if they could stay in touch.
We certainly can, came back the reply. I’d love to be your Harlem tour guide. Just message me when you’re ready to see the sights.
Dior was tempted to message him back to say she was ready at that moment but decided against it. She turned off the computer, stretched, and went back to bed.
Dior was excited about starting her new job. She stepped out her door with pride. Being senior copywriter, she had to dress the part and she did, in a black Nicole Miller skirt suit and some black and white Chanel pumps. Her thigh-length mink shielded her from the January cold and with her black crocodile briefcase in tote, she looked like she meant business. She walked over to 116th Street and Malcolm X Boulevard to take her first rush-hour subway ride, feeling like a true New Yorker. Luckily, she was able to find a seat and immediately realized most of the people who had seats also had reading material. Duly noted, she thought, she’d bring a book or magazine along to pass the time on her next ride. She nonchalantly glanced over at the newspaper the woman next to her was reading. Her eyes widened as she saw pictures of Al Pacino in front of his new restaurant signing autographs.
“Do you mind if I look at your paper?” Dior asked eagerly.
The woman looked at her like she was crazy, but said, “You can have it. I get off at the next stop.”
Dior quickly scanned through the photos on Page Six of the New York Post. No, she wasn’t in any of the pictures. Damn the luck.
When she arrived at her office in the heart of Times Square, Dior was in awe. This is what I’m talking about, she thought. She went in the revolving doors and was greeted by a security guard. She told the guard where she needed to go and he pointed her in the right direction. She took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor and immediately after getting off she walked to the glass door that read KACEY AND PATNICK and introduced herself to the receptionist.
A few minutes later a short redheaded girl came into the lobby to meet her.
“Hi, I’m Larissa, Barbara’s assistant,” the girl said. “Follow me.”
“Dior Emerson, hello,” Barbara said with a warm smile. She shook Dior’s hand and waved her to a seat. “So, we finally meet.”
“Yes, and it’s my pleasure,” Dior said.
“Well, here’s the thing.” Barbara took a sip of her coffee. “Normally your first day would be pretty laid-back, but something’s come up. If you don’t mind, we’d like to put your orientation off for a while. We’re trying to land a new major account, and we want all of our best people on it. And although you’re new, we’re all familiar with your work and we’re confident we want you to be in on this.”
Dior eagerly leaned forward in her chair.
“Al Pacino opened a restaurant here in the city a couple of days ago. We heard word that he’s about to fire the advertising company he hired because he was dissatisfied with the coverage he got for the grand opening. He wants a major campaign in place immediately,
