I had seen this necklace in Macy’s for about thirty-five dollars, so I was short. I didn’t have the nerve to try to steal it. With my luck, I would’ve gotten caught my first time shoplifting and landed in “baby booking” for Christmas. That could’ve spiraled into a butterfly effect of the police figuring out who I was and forcing me to go back home or into foster care. I wanted to stay with Hannah. I also wanted that necklace.
I had not ventured to sing anything since Thanksgiving when everyone praised my voice. I still thought they were full of shit, but what if they weren’t? Every day, on my way to and from work, I had seen people out in Times Square in costumes, or singing, or playing an instrument—even pans—while people tossed money into their buckets, bags, hats, or cups. I was on the way to the train to head home that evening when I decided to go for it. If I could get fifteen people to give me a dollar each, thirty people to give me fifty cents each, or sixty people to give me a quarter each, and a little extra for tax, I could get her that gift. I did the numbers in my head and, of course, Times Square was crammed with people doing last-minute shopping.
I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what to sing. I needed to keep in the holiday spirit, but we never celebrated Christmas much in my house growing up. Everyone was in their own various states of depression. However, Hannah had been playing some holiday music around the apartment. I tried to think of one or two that I comfortably felt like I knew the beats and music to in order to pull it off.
So there I was in my brown Members Only jacket, a plaid skirt and leggings singing “Someday at Christmas” by Stevie Wonder. I started to give up less than a minute in; I felt foolish. Then a miracle happened. People started tossing money into my right boot, which I had removed and placed in front of me, since I had nothing else to collect coins in. By the time I finished that song, I had lost count of what people were tossing and quickly came up with a follow-up song. Some people stood there like it was a concert, so I couldn’t sing the same song again.
I cleared my throat while I thought of something else and several people praised my voice. Maybe Hannah and her friends were right about my talent?
I started belting out “Santa Baby” by Eartha Kitt and, to my surprise, people actually started dancing with each other in front of me, between tossing more coins and even some dollar bills into my boot.
I started truly getting into it then, and some of the other street performers started throwing daggers in my direction. That kind of motivated me more. Even though I was going to have to ad-lib some of the lyrics, I broke out into “Give Love on Christmas Day” by The Jackson 5. I was singing and dancing my ass off. I was executing moves that I didn’t even know I had, and realized something important right that minute. When I was performing, it was the only time that Caprice Tatum actually felt free. All my fears, all my pains, all my shame, and all my insecurities faded away. It was such a natural feeling for me; a natural space. I decided right then that in spite of my flaws, I had found my “calling.”
Through the crowd, I could see a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce pull up to the curb and the back window roll down. All I saw were eyes at first; piercing eyes. Then the driver got out, walked around to the rear passenger door, and opened it. A tall white man with dark brown eyes got out in a tailored three-piece suit, and a mountain of a man climbed out the front passenger seat. He was not as tall as the first man, but he outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds. His complexion was redder and he looked mean as a snake and glanced around the crowd with caution. I made him out to be a bodyguard. As the taller man walked toward me, presumably to get a closer look and to hear me better, the crowd parted for him like he was the president of the United States. But I knew he was definitely not Ronald Reagan.
He was, however, creating a stir. People started pointing at him and whispering. Several women straightened up their clothes and struck seductive poses. I was completely confused, but one thing was clear: he was an important, recognizable man and a lot of women wanted to have sex with him.
I stopped singing after that last song and retrieved my boot. I pulled the money out and did a quick count. I had more than enough to purchase the necklace but needed to get to Macy’s before they closed. They were not opening on Christmas Day!
I shoved the money in my pockets as people rushed up to the tall man, trying to engage him in conversation and introducing themselves. I heard a few people refer to him as “Mr. Sterling,” but still did not know who he was. The rest of the crowd had dispersed, and the other performers seemed relieved that I had shut the hell up so they could try to get some attention.