Urban Thought Collective

It only happens twice a month, but it’s always an experience. With a phone call from the receptionist out front, I’m spurred into action, grabbing the small mirror and lip gloss I have stashed in my top drawer before hurrying out to the lobby. Other folks who’ve been in my shoes before have dreaded these calls, knowing they’ll have to come out of pocket because others involved in the deal have coughed up very few contributing funds. The last time I got the call, I was having a bad hair day and secretly cursed my hairdresser for canceling my appointment two days before due to illness. But I pulled out all of my resolve, telling myself that I could make a sacrifice and face the music even in a most unattractive state – it happened so infrequently, there was no way I could miss out. So I ended up taking the unrefined (or, some would say straight-up ghetto) route and quickly slicked my hair back into a tight bun with a mixture of lotion, Vaseline, and water. Then, lips shining, check book in hand, I made my way out to face him.

The water guy.

A man in uniform already does it for me. Throw in a nicely cut pair of shorts and a hefty water jug slung over his shoulder, and it’s over. The water guy is the sole reason why I became president, CEO, and chairwoman of the Buena Beach Recreation Division’s water club. It’s for him and him alone that I trudge up and down the aisles each month, shaking folks for their dollar bills (checks no longer accepted, thank you very much) and loose change so I don’t come up short on the bill.

“Oh, shoot. I don’t have change for a twenty,” someone will say.

“No, problem,” I’ll reply, pulling out my stash. “What’cha need? Four fives? A ten, five ones, and a five? Four twos, one one, two fives, and a Sacagawea dollar coin? What’s up?”

That’s right. A girl has to get a little crazy like those collections callers so she can represent when the water man comes. I’ve never wanted to show up one of our bi-monthly exchanges with that line I’m sure he hears from everyone else: “Is it okay if we pay you next time?” No, I always have to show up with money in hand, even if the check I scribble out and hand over to him is hot. The last time that happened, I had to get serious with people, threatening to step down from my position and hand the baton to someone else.

“Oh, please Diane. Don’t do that.”

“Why not? Do you want to run the water club?”

“No.”

“Then, hand over your five dollars, please.”

It’s not the kind of power most people strive for, but it works for me. Everyone else who’s been in charge of the water club has stepped down after a month or two of chasing after everyone’s paychecks. When I took over, I’d planned to quit myself until I learned that the old delivery man, Frank, had retired, replaced by a beautiful brown-skinned brother with light eyes, straight white teeth, and perfectly chiseled lips. If some of these other women knew of the perks that came along with this job, I’d probably gain an associate director or a secretary who’d want to help me with my bill payment duties. But they’d certainly have to wrestle me down and beat me to a pulp before I’d surrender my responsibilities.

I refuse to give up my tall glass of water, even if it only means I get refreshed a couple times a month.

Diane is (quite) a character on the online soap opera Buena Beach (www.buenabeach.com). Her weekly insights on what’s happening at the Beach are featured exclusively on Urban Thought Collective.