A follow-up to Beeperless Remote finds hapless D.C. single guy Shawn Wayne facing the prospect of fatherhood when his ex-girlfriend, Troi, announces that she is expecting his child, a situation that complicates his relationship with current girlfriend and aspiring television star, Dawn. Original.
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Van Whitfield is the author of Beeperless Remote, Something’s Wrong with Your Scale!, and Guys in Suits. The award-winning author writes BET’s hit profile show, TurnStyle, and is currently writing the authorized biography of former Washington, D.C., mayor, Marion Barry. Visit him on the Web at www.vanwhitfield.com.
Single guy Shawn Wayne has a problem . . . actually he has three problems:
(1) His girlfriend, a no-nonsense TV star named Dawn, expects the New Year s broadcast of her new BET talk show to produce a long-awaited proposal from Shawn.
(2) His sort-of ex-girlfriend, the shapely and seductive Troi, announces that she s pregnant and coming to be with Shawn in Washington, D.C.
(3) Shawn doesn't know if the baby is his, though he would never deny it, and now he must decide if he should tell Dawn about the baby. He simply can t afford to risk losing his one and only soul mate without first knowing he is, indeed, the father.
Shawn s embarrassing, nationally televised confession is the centerpiece of this much-anticipated follow-up to Van Whitfield's smash debut romantic comedy, Beeperless Remote. Taking an uncompromising and revealing look at the state of black fatherhood, this hilarious new novel includes the Official Baby Mama Checklist, the Why Men Are Lost Quotient, and the What It Takes to Be a Dad Inventory.
With Whitfield's trademarked witty, fast-paced style, Dad Interrupted brings back Donnie, the recovering crack addict who now works as a drug counselor; Kelly, whose crush on Shawn may finally be realized; and Shawn s lovable parents, who spin their special brand of wisdom from the great beyond. Everybody has a take on what Shawn should do and, more importantly, who he should do it with . . . Dawn or Troi.
1
The call should have started with "Houston, we have a problem." That would have made sense. Anytime a woman calls a guy and leaves a message that ends with the most feared, dreaded, and deflating words known to man-"I'm pregnant"-her call might as well have started with "Houston, we have a problem . . . I'm pregnant."
See it for what it is. If she were your wife or even your lady, and she knew you were up to the joy, stress, and responsibilities of fatherhood, there would have been no call. She would have taken you to the Tropicana like Lucy did Ricky, dropped some knitted booties on the table, and had the band play "Babaloo" before telling you you're about to be a dad.
Chicks you're not with, not going to be with, or don't want to be with make the call. They're less interested in you being a dad. Guys are the bulls-eyes to their arrows, and those chicks come complete with a laundry list of headaches, hassles, and demands that will make you wish you couldn't even spell s-e-x.
You're about to be welcomed to a world where you'll be perceived as little more than one of "the usual suspects." And you will soon become all too familiar with the list that you've always heard about, but never thought would affect you:
"The Official Baby's Mamma Checklist"
1. A summons and the court date that comes with it.
2. Demands for Pampers and Enfamil for a baby that you're prepared to deny because "you only hit it once," and . . . she said she was on the pill, and . . . you pulled out, and . . . she said she never wanted kids in the first place, and . . . you know that the only women who get pregnant from doing it "once" are the women they warned you about in your seventh-grade health class.
3. A lawyer who swears he'll "get this thing straight."
4. A judge who swears she'll "get this thing straight."
5. A lecture from your lawyer on parental responsibility and on how you have to respect "the plaintiff."
6. An even worse lecture from your mother, who just got a visit from "the plaintiff" and the baby who has the same vacant stare and drool pattern that you had as a kid.
7. A piercing blood test.
8. The dreaded announcement confirming that the test proves conclusively that you are a new, not-so-proud father.
9. An examination of your pitiful financial affairs.
10. Numerous conversations identifying you as "My baby's daddy."
11. Uncomfortable explanations to any potential Ms. Rights about your baby's mamma.
12. Child support checks for a child you foolishly continue to deny.
13. Christmas, birthday, and graduation gifts for a child you will always deny.
14. Amazement, shock, and disappointment that the child you always denied failed to invite you to her wedding.
15. Complete dismay that the guy whom the plaintiff / baby's mamma actually married is walking your daughter-the one you always denied-down the aisle.
The Official Baby's Mamma Checklist is your worst nightmare. There's no way you could have expected all of this from a quick "hit it and quit it," but this is exactly how it worked out for your friends, your brothers, and their friends.
But, Troi wouldn't do that to me.
Or would she?
The knot in my stomach and the lump in my throat say that I'm not so sure. I've played Troi's message over and over and this is all I can come up with: My lady, Dawn, will freak because she's thinking engagement and I'm pretty sure my baby with Troi doesn't fit into my engagement with Dawn. Kelly, the best co-worker and female friend a guy could have, will say exactly what any woman would say: "You should have kept it in your pants." And my main man Donnie, who's kicked his crack habit, may kick me for putting myself in this position.
Troi Stevenson is pregnant and she's coming to D.C. Fate has dealt me a nasty blow. And this situation all but confirms what I've known for some time now.
I'm the unluckiest man in the world.
Houston, we have a problem.
2
Not much has changed for Donnie. He's "drug free," he's two months from clearing parole, and he's as happy as they come. All in all, his outlook on life is different. It's fresh and full of promise and optimism. His job at the rehab center he once called home has given him hope and a heartfelt purpose. But Donnie doesn't believe anything really changes. "Summer doesn't change to fall, it just gets tired of being summer," he once told me. "Your frail tail would get tired of being hot all the time too."
I'm sure he rationalizes not changing-or "keeping it real," as he puts it-so that he can hold on to some vestiges of his never-ending pursuit of a happening lifestyle. Donnie is committed to being as hip as he is "down" with the players, partiers, and peddlers who dominate D.C.'s notorious nightlife. And like any good middleman waiting to happen, he still knows how to get a deal and is closely tied to an enterprising network of street-corner suppliers and distributors.
His phone call all but confirms it. He claims to have a line on a brand-new, ultra-thin, Sony 42-inch flat screen plasma TV. And he says he'll help me hang it on my living room wall if I can come up with the cash before tomorrow morning.
"How much?" I asked, knowing we were only just starting to negotiate.
"My man Shawn Wayne will be watching the ball drop on a phat plasma with a universal remote!" he answered. "You'll be two steps ahead of every poot-butt fool in D.C."
"How much?" I repeated, unimpressed.
"It's not just HDTV ready, son," he insisted. "It's blingin' with high definition right now!" he exclaimed. "And check this, Shawn," he said, taking a deep breath. "This puppy is slimmer than Halle Berry on crack."
"She's not on crack," I told him.
"She was in Jungle Fever!" he shot back.
Donnie is stalling, which means one thing. His price is probably ten times what I'm willing to pay.
"Have you seen those bangin' commercials where the fish jumps out of the flat screen?" he asked.
"Actually a bird flies into the screen," I commented. "And the commercial didn't say anything about the price."
"That's because you can't put a price on top-shelf, state-of-the-art equipment like this," he insisted.
"So you're saying it's free?"
"My man wants five large," he quickly answered.
Five thousand dollars! I'm not about to part with five thousand pieces of my favorite green-colored paper for anything. And Donnie knows it.
"But my supplier is down with how we roll, so he's ready to deal," he remarked.
"How ready?"
"Two grand ready."
"You think I'm going to pay two bills to watch TV?!" I asked, alarmed.
"C'mon, Poppy," he answered. "It's going for twenty thou at Best Buy."
"I'm an accountant," I reminded him. "And I don't think you and Best Buy realize that twenty grand for a forty-two-incher comes out to four hundred seventy-six dollars an inch."
"What I realize is that you're the cheapest clown in the world," he said. "I'm trying to give you a deal on a plasma and you're talking about how much it costs an inch?" he added. "That's why Troi left you for bad and high-tailed it back to Chicago, son," he joked....
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