day of devotion to her house of worship. She scheduled major cleaning jobs like any other appointment in her BlackBerry. Every first Saturday from nine AM to noon she booked herself to turn over the mattress, clean out the refrigerator, and wipe down her books and bookshelves with a special Scandinavian microfiber cloth. Every twenty-sixth Saturday of the year she sent her drapes out to be dry-cleaned, and at the beginning of every season she had her windows professionally done.
Cleaning gave her chaotic life order. Oddly enough it often gave her a bigger sense of accomplishment than did her career, and she absolutely loved her job at Urban Celebrity. She’d successfully conceptualized and launched that magazine, but there was something about the immediate satisfaction of standing in a room she alone was responsible for making mildew-, grime-and dust-free that made her feel like she was unstoppable and that she really could do anything she put her mind to, just like her mother had told her from when Lang had uttered her first word up until their last conversation two nights ago.
Lang wiped the streams of sweat on her forehead with the back of her hot-pink–Water Stop–rubber-gloved hand. Prior to attacking the bathroom, she’d spent over an hour whipping her kitchen back into acceptable shape. She’d Easy-Offed the inside of her stove, Murphy Oiled the wood cabinets, and Swiffered the floor. Her mother taught her always to clean her kitchen and bathroom first. “You never know when someone’s going to stop by unexpectedly to ask for a glass of water or to use your bathroom.”
“You’ll be saying ‘Daddy’ to meeee ,” Sean howled.
Lang stepped into the hallway with her hands on her hips. Sean didn’t even notice. He was too caught up in the rapture of Aaron Hall. Langston adored Sean’s horrible singing, especially when he performed in a white wife beater and baggy Carolina blue basketball shorts. She tapped him on his shoulder.
“Babe, you think Mr. Hall would mind you butchering his song like that?”
“Why should he?” Sean asked, shrugging his shoulders and then turning around to kiss his wife affectionately on her forehead. “He didn’t seem to mind R. Kelly snatching up his style and making a better career out of it than he ever did. What is he, like, a dog breeder now or something?”
Lang laughed. “Touché, touché, but, technically, they both kinda borrowed from Charlie Wilson, don’t you think?”
“True, true, but at least he wasn’t their contemporary,” Sean pointed out. “He was more like an elder that they were both clearly influenced by—that’s honorable. I don’t have a problem with that. I mean, Nas was definitely influenced by Rakim, Michael Jackson by James Brown, Chico DeBarge by Marvin Gaye. Your man R. Kelly jacked Aaron Hall’s style. That’s dishonorable. There’s a difference.”
“Babe, you can’t be mad at Kells for that,” Lang said. “Besides it’s not like he solely rested on that particular style anyway. He’s gone in all different directions since ‘Honey Love’ and Public Announcement. He’s an incredible songwriter—‘I Believe I Can Fly,’ babe, and that song with Céline Dion.”
“‘I’m Your Angel.’”
“Yeah. Oh, and the ‘Ignition’ remix? Personally, I think his diversity, not just in performing, but in songwriting is proof positive that he’s a musical genius. The brother wrote ‘Fortunate’ for Maxwell and then ‘Bump, Bump, Bump’ for B2K. Come on. Give him some kind of credit.”
“I’ll give you that, I’ll give you that,” Sean conceded. “But how Aaron Hall abandoned his style and let R. Kelly run with it is still beyond me.”
Sean and Lang could talk about music for hours. Jazz. Blues. Pop. Gospel. Hip-hop. Rock. Reggae. World. Soul. R&B. European classical. Hell, television-show tunes. They shared a mutual appreciation for books, fine art, and cinema as well. They’d go on and on with their mostly
Cleaning gave her chaotic life order. Oddly enough it often gave her a bigger sense of accomplishment than did her career, and she absolutely loved her job at Urban Celebrity. She’d successfully conceptualized and launched that magazine, but there was something about the immediate satisfaction of standing in a room she alone was responsible for making mildew-, grime-and dust-free that made her feel like she was unstoppable and that she really could do anything she put her mind to, just like her mother had told her from when Lang had uttered her first word up until their last conversation two nights ago.
Lang wiped the streams of sweat on her forehead with the back of her hot-pink–Water Stop–rubber-gloved hand. Prior to attacking the bathroom, she’d spent over an hour whipping her kitchen back into acceptable shape. She’d Easy-Offed the inside of her stove, Murphy Oiled the wood cabinets, and Swiffered the floor. Her mother taught her always to clean her kitchen and bathroom first. “You never know when someone’s going to stop by unexpectedly to ask for a glass of water or to use your bathroom.”
“You’ll be saying ‘Daddy’ to meeee ,” Sean howled.
Lang stepped into the hallway with her hands on her hips. Sean didn’t even notice. He was too caught up in the rapture of Aaron Hall. Langston adored Sean’s horrible singing, especially when he performed in a white wife beater and baggy Carolina blue basketball shorts. She tapped him on his shoulder.
“Babe, you think Mr. Hall would mind you butchering his song like that?”
“Why should he?” Sean asked, shrugging his shoulders and then turning around to kiss his wife affectionately on her forehead. “He didn’t seem to mind R. Kelly snatching up his style and making a better career out of it than he ever did. What is he, like, a dog breeder now or something?”
Lang laughed. “Touché, touché, but, technically, they both kinda borrowed from Charlie Wilson, don’t you think?”
“True, true, but at least he wasn’t their contemporary,” Sean pointed out. “He was more like an elder that they were both clearly influenced by—that’s honorable. I don’t have a problem with that. I mean, Nas was definitely influenced by Rakim, Michael Jackson by James Brown, Chico DeBarge by Marvin Gaye. Your man R. Kelly jacked Aaron Hall’s style. That’s dishonorable. There’s a difference.”
“Babe, you can’t be mad at Kells for that,” Lang said. “Besides it’s not like he solely rested on that particular style anyway. He’s gone in all different directions since ‘Honey Love’ and Public Announcement. He’s an incredible songwriter—‘I Believe I Can Fly,’ babe, and that song with Céline Dion.”
“‘I’m Your Angel.’”
“Yeah. Oh, and the ‘Ignition’ remix? Personally, I think his diversity, not just in performing, but in songwriting is proof positive that he’s a musical genius. The brother wrote ‘Fortunate’ for Maxwell and then ‘Bump, Bump, Bump’ for B2K. Come on. Give him some kind of credit.”
“I’ll give you that, I’ll give you that,” Sean conceded. “But how Aaron Hall abandoned his style and let R. Kelly run with it is still beyond me.”
Sean and Lang could talk about music for hours. Jazz. Blues. Pop. Gospel. Hip-hop. Rock. Reggae. World. Soul. R&B. European classical. Hell, television-show tunes. They shared a mutual appreciation for books, fine art, and cinema as well. They’d go on and on with their mostly
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