“Naw, not really. Fuck it. We can go ta Houston’s. It’s decent. A different type of atmosphere in there. No Thugs Allowed. We ain’t gotta wear no bulletproof vests or eat wit a Tech Nine on da table. It’s different from da other joints you usta eatin’ at,” he cracked, making fun of her.

“You got jokes, huh?” Tender shot back, laughing it off. “Ha, ha! Very funny …”

“Dis ain’t a joke … Buckle up! You know what it is! Houston, we have ignition,” he remarked, before taking off like a rocket.

Q had only been joking, but he spoke a little bit of truth, even in jest. Houston’s was unlike any restaurant Tender had ever been to. She was use to frequenting McDonald’s or Burger King, fast-food joints. The kind in the hood, that was strictly carry out, you couldn’t even sit. This was a classy restaurant, she noted as they took their seats at a table for two. It was a totally different ball game. The lighting, setting, tables, chairs, the people and the conversations were different.

“… President Bush should just drop a nuclear bomb on that whole damn country. They’re all a bunch of terrorists, anyway …”

“… Couldn’t agree more with you, Skip. Our tax dollars help build up their economy. And this is how they repay us? …”

“… After the company downsized. I received a nice severance package. I was able to roll that over …”

“… Here’s the trick when investing in Tech stocks. You have to know …”

From every which way, Tender’s ears were bombarded by foreign conversation. She couldn’t help but laugh to herself. If she had her eyes closed she would have sworn the speakers were of another ethnic origin. She was dining among society’s movers and shakers. She was just a naive ghetto girl.

Had Q not been there, she would have felt out of place. This was a culture shock to her. Q watched closely as she faded in and out of their conversation. He could tell she was sensitive to and a bit uncomfortable to this mix. Q, on the other hand, was comfortable. He refused to conform to any ritzy dining dress code. He reflected what he was: the streets. Jeans, sneakers, boots, sweat suits were his attire. This was him, every day, all day. He had taken a page from the successful black CEO of Def Jam recordings, Russell Simmons’s book. He made corporate America accept him, as is.

“You aiight?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” she replied meekly. “Why you ask?”

He chuckled, “Why I ask, huh? I’ve been over here carryin’ a conversation by myself fa da last five minutes. You been at every table, in every conversation except ours … You in everything but a good man’s arms …”

“Fa real?” Tender asked, second-guessing him. “It wasn’t dat bad? Wuz it?”