She can't stand cleaning up after old rich white men and their greasy egos. They can't keep nothing to themselves whether it be their hands or their liquor. Not one has been fit to care about calling her by her name or apologizing for spilling wine on her dress at all hours of the night, and they always manage to draw a bead on "her kind" even when "her kind" hasn't got a thing to do with their undercooked salmon. Their women aren't much better. Night in and night out they disrespect her humanity, or what they call three-fifths of a humanity, and she's about to go upside their heads with three-fifths of her piping hot temper.
But she puts up with it for Mama. She puts up with it until she can go home and think her own thoughts before putting them back on the shelf in the morning. Then she buses straight from Cafe Du Monde to Velvet and trades her apron for a flapper dress. God wouldn't've brought her here if it hadn't been for Mama needing money back home. The first summer she got her feet wet in Goldwater, she found a job as a house maid for Mr. La Bouff and his daughter, Charlotte. It took nothing less than Mr. La Bouff's sugary compliments, homemade rumors, and a sticky love triangle for Charlotette's jealousy to get her reputation kicked to the curb.
Mr. La Bouff, kind as he may have been in the past, made sure she'd never set foot in another white mansion for as long as she was still colored. The word reached her hometown, where she had to hear from Mama about all the folks dragging her name through the same streets she used to play hopscotch in. It got real hard getting up to feed herself every sunrise. Running out of finances gave her appetite an extra boost, and by then, the chances of locking down a decent job were slimmer than her waist. She resisted Velvet's job application for a while ― she resisted for a long while ― but she couldn't resist no more after Mama got sick.
See, Velvet pays Coloreds more than the average sweat joint in Goldwater, and as long as she won't have to do what the light, bright, and white women do at Velvet, she'll fair mighty fine. She reckons that her heart is a Southern magnolia tree that God had planted to withstand hurricanes, and she isn't about to wait for no world to grow into her. She was born to outgrow the world. Goldwater will see its very first colored woman run the biggest restaurant any day now. A great big piece of earth is out there just waiting for her to fertilize it with her vision once she gets done paying off Mama's debts. But these colorless men ― sometimes they make her want to fold herself up like a pair of dirty pantyhose and never see daylight till the world has outgrown them.
"Gal, tell one of your skinfolks to get me the Devil's Mouthwash while I'm taking a nixon. I plan on being legless t'night."
"Yes, sir! Comin' right up, sir!" She's gotten real swell at pretending white men's words slide off her like olive oil, but they're even sweller at steaming her up like a tea kettle on a stove. Men everywhere of every color seem to heat her patience beyond its boiling point.
"Have you seen Rider lately, young lady?"
"I...I declare I haven't, Miss Orléans."
Though there was this one man ― this...scoundrel of sorts who would stick out among the high rollers to everybody who was anybody. He was plenty handsome as far as handsome went, real smooth-talking with nicely pressed suits, and his skin was a pinch melanated, too. Mama would've called him, "sugar, spice, and everythin' nice." Because of his swarthy looks, he got treated like an Italian in Velvet, which is to say that he was seen as one of those "in-between people" by his own skinfolk; his looks still didn't exclude him from their privileges, so to Coloreds, he was no different than any other white man. Oftentimes, "in-between" white people do their best to get in good with "lily white" white people by mimicking the very worst of what they do to Coloreds.
Yet he seemed...different. He didn't try to animalize her people as far as she could see, and that gave him some color to them. It was just the little things he did at first that caught their attention, such as asking his lady friends to ease off poor Odessa, or soft-soaping burlesque girls into apologizing to the colored bus girls they taunted, and even helping old Miss Jolene down the stairs; little bread crumbs like those that he might've expected some Nobel Peace Prize for, she imagined. "Flynn Rider" was the name she heard all the girls giving him, and no angel ever fell out of Heaven with a name like that. She doesn't count on sympathizers going out of their way to end racism in the grand scheme of things, especially not when they come to spend their health insurance on Velvet, so she gambled on this one having a hero complex that was all about feeding his own ego.
She won the bet on the night she went from serving to singing. Desiree Dupré was supposed to be singing that night, but the nightingale had fallen ill two hours before her performance for "Almost There." She, the colored waitress, happened to be the only Desiree Dupré fan on the staff. Nobody else knew how to sing her songs with the same rhythm and range, so Mr. Westergaard pushed her into Desiree's dressing room under the impression that "the audience won't know the difference because all you people look alike."
When everything was happening, she pretended that she was in some Hollywood motion picture instead of the world people like Lars Westergaard had scraped out for her. Belting out harmonies has never been a dream of hers, but once she hit that stage, she sang like she had God in her lungs. God is the one who really brought those folks together from all walks of life by using her voice as his vessel. He warmed them right up and put big smiles on their faces in that godless place. She couldn't stop herself from basking in all the applause she received.
Much of her wishes she had now, given how backhanded all that praise was, but the rest of her had been high up in them clouds from those first, few, fickle moments of what almost felt like equality. Acceptance. Oneness. Love. All of the sudden, the world had grown into her.
And then, the world shrank again, and it tried to shrink her along with it. She was wiping off her eye-shadow in Desiree's dressing room when a couple knocked on her door with a gift. How sweet and lovely-minded they were for bringing her flowers, she figured. Truly cushionhearted and whole-spirited people. The Southern belle, Mrs. Baker, had no problem with touching her hands and talking about how pretty her skin shined.
Then Mr. and Mrs. Baker started carrying on and on about how talented "niggras" are, and all that inclusivity she felt went right on out the door like she should've done. But she didn't. She sat there like a fool would do after they left and swallowed her tears in front of Desiree's vanity mirror. All she really wanted was to escape all the ugly in the world and build her own corner of it to thrive in, but the furthest she could run was her very own mind. That's why she has to outgrow the world instead of waiting for the world to grow into her.
After cleaning herself up and dressing herself down, she closed the dressing room's door behind her and threw away Mrs. Baker's roses. Velvet's back alley was the only thing waiting for her with open arms. She almost made it halfway to the bus stop before she heard this ruckus behind her:
"There she is~!"
"What on God's green earth is it now?" She put some pressure on her temple with her fingertips. Tiana Dubòis was good and through with folks by now. No matter what color this man was, he had too much energy for this time of night.
"I have been looking all over for you!" His footsteps caught up to her.
She pulled herself together to confront him. "And just who might―"
The man who walked up on her had looked so much like Naveen up close until she put the features together and recognized his race as well as his name.
"―you be?" she finished.
He seemed to mistake her surprise for awe. "Rider. Flynn, Rider."
Her surprise thinned out like butter in a frying pan. 'Well, congratulations. Now please get the hell on 'fore I lose the feelin' in my feet―'
Flynn squeezed her fingertips and tipped his hat to her like a gentleman, wagging his eyebrows all silly and foolish-like. She was too stunned to respond like the white woman he seemed to think he could treat her like. He let her pores breathe by releasing her hand without wiping his own on his pants.
'Which part of outta space did he emigrate from?' She had to resist wiping her fingers on her coat.
"And you," he kept on, "were incredible tonight. Stunning, if you don't my saying. I couldn't take my eyes off you."
She didn't like the idea of having anyone's eyes on her.
"Haven't seen a gape-worthy performance like that since Billie Holiday's 'Summertime.'"
"Oh, now I wouldn't―..." The jingling of a chain gave her a startle. She minded her surroundings. Some eavesdropper who tried to look inconspicuous was checking his pocket watch while he waited for a cab on the sidewalk, but he was well-off, nosey, and white, and that mash-up was enough to make her hair stand up. She touched her throat before turning back to her new pair of handcuffs. "I...I thank you, very much, sir―"
"Oh, no please; just call me Rider." He was still smirking like he had something to smirk about. Probably did, with as big of a female following as he had. If he thought her color would make her easy to be eased into, then he had another thing coming.
The eavesdropper took the anvil off her lungs by hopping into a cab and leaving them in a cloud of fumes. She covered her mouth with her handkerchief as she walked away from that awful poison.
Rider followed in her footsteps. "Delightful!" he coughed against the silk wing of his cream evening scarf. "Just ― that's great. Just perfect. Great way ta' end an evening."
"That's Goldwata fo' ya!" While she was walking ahead of him to get more feet between them, she closed her green coat at the collar and said, "I should tell you that I've heard your name several times b'fore, Mista Rida."
They stopped walking together once they arrived at the bus stop. The bench was empty because she was a whole hour early, but it was the first time in a long time that she wasn't feeling too peachy about the peoplelessness around her.
"Is that right?" Flynn unenthusiastically answered.
She would have done herself one better by being polite and bright in his face till he had peeled off her. Can't have attitude around white folks. Their egos don't take kindly to it. "That's right, Mista Rida. See ya' every other Friday upstairs ― up there in the VIP sections? You make quite a commotion in Velvet. Surprised no husbands have fined ya' for stealin' the hearts of those wives they try to hold onto."
He chuckled softly, that pride of his gaining another liter. "What can I say? My charm is a felony." It was something Naveen would've said, as well as something that would've made her smile.
She got to grinning without giving her teeth permission to do such a thing. The best way to tame her dimples was to look down at her scuffed shoes and close her lips into a smile. If he had been Naveen, she might've said, "I'll bet those big brown eyes of yours have gotten you outta plenty of trouble."
"I hope you don't mind me changing the subject, but may I ask why a starlet of your magnetism is...waiting for the bus?" His voice had a different flavor.
She could taste the sympathy marshmallowing it just by listening to him, but she responded as flowery as could be, "I gave up on cabs sometime ago, Mista Rida."
He let that marinate. "...How about I get you a cab?"
She flipped out. "Oh no, that's not necessary. Really―"
"Of course it is! What kind of groupie would I be otherwise?" Now he's fast-talking her.
'Has he lost his whole white mind?!' "No, no please. My troubles don't need takin' on by a man of your stature. Your praise has been more than enough to soften up my night."
"It's no trouble at all." Flynn licked his thumb to leaf through the green cheddar in his hands. "It's the very least I could do after that inspirational performance you blessed me with."
Her teeth bit her lip. 'You're a hardheaded thing, huh?' She paid his attire a glance. He must've been in tall cotton if he could afford that navy blue satin tuxedo he was stunting in. Her hand went underneath her coat to stroke her neck. She couldn't wait to have that kind of money on her skin.
"So! How far up are you heading, Mademoiselle?"
Her hand was so sweaty that it practically peeled off her neck with the stickiness of an orange peel coming off the fruit. "I beg ya' pardon?"
Flynn looked up from his wallet and looked straight into her eyes like they were equals. She looked down to remind him that they weren't in public. While people may not have been around, cars were still on the highway.
"I said how far up are you heading?"
She put some of Auntie Claudia in her voice: "Mista Rida, I appreciate your kindness. I really do, but I prefer the bus for reasons that're too hard to explain to you."
Flynn thought about what she said, and this time, he let it marinate long enough to savor it. He folded his money and tapped the roll with his thumbs before squinting at her with an ironic smile. "Did I~ ever ask you for your name? Because I have an inkling that it doesn't start with Desiree or end with Dupré."
Lars Westergaard didn't know two cells about white minds, after all. "Ya' caught me redhanded, Mista Rida." She playfully shrugged her shoulders with her hands in her coat pockets. "It surely doesn't."
He narrowed his eye at her, smirking. "Thennn who's the talented voicetress standing before me?"
She hesitated, but something in his eyes ― something real familiar in them ― made her let go of that small piece of herself that he wanted a bite of: "Tiana is what everyone calls me."
Flynn Rider gazed at her like a teacup had fallen off the cabinet inside him. Her pulse started speaking to her. She held down the top of her hat to stop the wind from stealing it. A thought was leaking through his skull that he couldn't give words to.
She tried to give him some for borrowing, "Is...everythin' aw'right in there, Mista Rida?"
Flynn blinked, and then he was half-himself again. "...Yeah!" He nodded, rubbing his hind legs. "Yeah, just there's, um..." He went back inside himself to think. Thinking did him no good, because he came back out more diced up than before. "What I meant was― ...uh, what I meant was...I'll be keeping that in mind." His nervous smile was artificial. "Your name, I mean."
"That means plenty to me." She hoped that he would he forget it. Knowing his doings, he really should have. "Well, then...you have a swell night t'night, Mista Rida."
"No, yeah! Yup, same to you." He was still standing outside of himself, but she didn't care to find out why or how she had turned him inside out. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Tiana. Truly."
"Likewise, Mista Rida."
"But are you...sure you're gonna be okay out here all by yourself?"
"I'm used to it. So long, Mista Rida."
"...So long, Tiana." The soft way in which he murmured her name made it sound like it could cleanse the sins from a man.
Smiling the way Mama taught her to, she walked past him to go on about her night. He turned around as she passed by, memorizing her face. The bench was chilly against her thighs when she sat down. She remembers because it got chillier after Flynn finally walked away. She also remembers how hot her thumbs felt after she wiped the tears from her eyes.
She had been thinking about Naveen, Charlotte, and Mr. La Bouff. Naveen had probably outgrown her by now, but she still hadn't outgrown him if she was seeing him in other people. The hardest part about it was the fact that she didn't have a choice.