The US tour kicked off on June 22, 1999, at Chicago’s Arie Crown Theater, which has a seating capacity of about four thousand. Whitney wanted to play smaller venues before going abroad, as she preferred to have her relationship with the audience feel up close and personal. But playing smaller venues meant that she needed to do two nights in each city, and in most cases do back-to-back shows. At the time the tour was booked, Whitney did not possess the physical fitness the grueling schedule required. Still, she somehow managed to do sixteen out of twenty shows.
One of the cancellations happened at the last minute, at a venue that accommodated twelve thousand. I was there that evening when my ear caught the code words “P1 is a negative.” Instantly I felt the muscles in my belly tighten. I knew her arrival had been delayed, and I had just peeked at the packed lawn full of fans anticipating her arrival on the stage. I made my way back to the production office and was informed that she was not coming.
This was ugly. It was only forty-five minutes before showtime, and all I could do was take notes on how it unraveled. No one in the crowd booed. But there was an unmistakable, disgruntled rumbling of disappointment, disgust, and broken trust from loyal Whitney Houston fans.
There were still some bright spots, though. Over the years, we had received requests for Whit to perform during New York City Pride but had never accepted due to conflicting tours, recording, movies, or appearance commitments. But finally, in the summer of 1999, she showed up at the thirteenth annual Lesbian and Gay Pride Dance on a West Side pier. With her remixes burning up radio and the clubs, the timing couldn’t have been better, nor could the atmosphere. It was a perfect warm, hazy June night, and the pier was packed with more than seven thousand. Hers was to be an end-of-the-night surprise performance, and the crowd was jumping. I suggested Nip wear a look from Dolce & Gabbana: a black tank and silvery bejeweled capri pants. It was well after midnight when she ran up onto the stage. The already ecstatic crowd went berserk as she launched into an extended version of “Heartbreak Hotel.” Whit vibed off the crowd as though they’d lifted her off the ground, jumping up and down joyfully, never showing the slightest sign of fatigue. I’d never seen her like that. She went into “It’s Not Right but It’s Okay,” and the love from the multiracial crowd was undeniable.
It was nearly two A.M. when she came offstage. Climbing into the car, skin glistening with sweat, she said, “Wow—those people were pumped! Folks have a lot of energy.”
“Yep,” I replied, “they’ve been waitin’ a long time for you.”
Agreeing, she said, “I know. I had fun.”
The moment she said that, I realized I hadn’t heard those words from her in a long time. It seemed that with all Whitney had accomplished on her musical journey, it mostly had become work, work, work. All the platinum records mounted on walls didn’t change that. Hearing Nip finally say “I had fun” made me sad.
It had been so long since we had been in a club atmosphere. In fact, the last time Whitney had appeared at a club was in 1987, after the release of “Love Will Save the Day.” It was late afternoon the day Whitney went into a recording studio located over the Late Night with David Letterman studio on Broadway and Fifty-Fourth Street to work with producer John “Jellybean” Benitez. Jellybean, who initially became known through his work with Madonna, had gorgeous silky black hair past his shoulders, golden Puerto Rican skin, a boyish smile, and a confident demeanor. He wasn’t tall, but boy, was he charismatic, with twinkly brown eyes and an unforgettable smile. A young Latina woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty-three years old walked in. Jellybean introduced her to us as Toni C., the writer. As he pressed “play,” the instrumental track of “Love Will Save the Day” came charging through the speakers, and Whitney moved in close to the mic and never let go. When she finished singing, she sat at the console, next to JB, helping select the best vocal tracks, and then he did a rough mix of the song. When we finally walked out of the studio and into the car, it was six A.M. Whitney popped the tape in the player, blasting “Love” as we zoomed up the West Side Highway and over the George Washington Bridge, the sky blazing orange as the sun began to rise.
After the song was released, Whit showed up one night at NYC’s renowned Paradise Garage down on King Street, where Benitez introduced her to the audience, and we jammed alongside him as he mixed that song until folks fell to the floor.
In late 1999, Whitney did an interview with Out magazine, the LGBT monthly with the highest circulation, her first with a gay and lesbian publication. The interview took place in Beverly Hills. Writer Barry Walters, who was black, seemed to like her, and she must have picked up on that because she seemed relaxed and comfortable through most of the conversation. Then Bobby made his entrance and Whit amped up a few notches, bantering back and forth with him. When Walters came around to asking her about “the rumors,” her response was uncalled for and wrong:
“I ain’t suckin’ no dick. I ain’t gettin’ on my knees. Something must be wrong: I can’t just really sing. I can’t just be a really talented, gifted person. She’s gotta be gay.” I was embarrassed. It was the first sign of how the rest of the LA trip would go for her, and for me.
Twenty-Two
2000
With her upcoming Grammy performance, the Academy Awards, the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, a recording session with George Michael, and then the Soul Train Music Awards, Whitney had yet another jam-packed, high-profile schedule. After what I’d witnessed on tour, I didn’t know how she was going to get through it. She needed rest, relaxation, and, most of all, rehabilitation.
At the forty-second annual Grammy Awards, Whitney performed the two songs Clive recommended. She wasn’t in great voice that night, and she hadn’t been in her prime for a while, but it wasn’t bad. Whit was worn out emotionally, physically, and spiritually. The real moment of truth came when, in her acceptance speech for Best Female R&B Vocal Performance for “It’s Not Right but It’s Okay,” Whit walked to the onstage podium and addressed her mother: “You forgot to give me my cards. I’ll have to wing it.”
I suppose that in that moment she gazed at her husband in the audience, and even in all her own glory, she felt the need to make him shine. She still needed to prove to the world that their love was real, and so from the stage, in her moment, she proclaimed, “Honey—this one’s for you, the original R&B king.” I stood backstage next to the show’s producer, both of us looking at the monitor. As he turned to walk away, his eyes met mine and he placed his hand on my shoulder.
On that weekend’s Saturday Night Live, during “Weekend Update,” Tina Fey poked fun at Whitney for not remembering the names of the “real kings of R&B.” She went on to say that Whitney and Bobby were performing at the Aladdin casino in Las Vegas and tickets were on sale for “one hundred fifty dollars—two hundred dollars if Whitney and Bobby actually show up.”
Whitney obliged when Clive asked her to present him for his induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame on March 6. In the weeks leading up to the event, after she told me she had agreed to do it, I told her that I didn’t think she would feel up to it. She had been flying by the seat of her pants, and I knew it took energy to get face, hair, and wardrobe together and then put on a smile when really you wanted to cry. I told her that Clive wouldn’t have a hard time getting someone else to do it. But she said she had to do it. And then she no-showed.
I could tell that Whitney shouldn’t do the Oscars that year. She should never, ever have shown up for early rehearsals in the state she did, especially not with Bobby. He sat in the front row of the Shrine Auditorium, his legs sprawled out, his coat draped over his head. It was awful. Whitney was onstage wearing a Dr. Seuss–ian hat, dark sunglasses, and a coat. It was clearly the last place she wanted to be. But she had agreed to do it. The drama transpired onstage during the rehearsals. Musical director Burt Bacharach was frustrated but contained. I looked on while he and Whitney talked, and heard her say so
mething about her voice. I guess she had it in her mind that she was going to say she was sick and get out of there. But instead, she came down off the stage and flatly said to me, “I’ve just been fired.”
A failed recording with George Michael followed. Clive never let go of his vision of “If I Told You That” as a duet. He talked to Whitney about going into the studio with George to rerecord her vocal for a dance remix. The day before the session, I called Whitney’s hotel room a few times but got no response. Later that day, Silvia told me that Bobby had asked her to place an order for room service, and when she took it in, the suite was a mess and neither Nip nor Bobby came out of the bedroom. I called Clive to give him a heads-up that the session might not happen. Sure enough, later that evening, Bobby called to say that Whitney couldn’t do the recording.
Clive called again, telling me that George was going to be in town through Thursday, so we could reschedule. On Wednesday morning, I called Whitney to ask if she could sing late Thursday evening. Bobby answered and relayed the message to her. I heard her say yes, which Bobby repeated, and then he hung up. I should have known better.
Come Thursday morning, there was no word from Nippy. I knew the session wasn’t going to happen. I alerted Clive, who asked if I would kindly purchase something nice for George and take it to the studio as a gesture of respect. I asked Clive what he might like, and he said, “A black shirt.” So, I hustled over to Fred Segal and picked out an elegant, classic, black button-down shirt. I had it gift wrapped and headed to the studio to meet George and deliver the bad news. He was cool, loved the shirt, and told me he was flying back to the UK the next day.
At the Soul Train Music Awards, Whitney was to present Mary J. Blige with the Sammy Davis Jr. Entertainer of the Year Award. I still hadn’t spoken to Whitney about the George Michael situation. When I arrived at the Shrine Auditorium, Whitney was already in her trailer getting ready. The first person I saw was Bobby, then Silvia, then hair stylist Ellin and makeup artist Roxanna, who always gave me a heads-up when it wasn’t a good time for me to be around.
After I said hello to everyone, Whitney looked at me and said, “What do you want, Robyn?”
“Nothing,” I responded. “Everything’s cool. George Michael is back home in the UK. I took care of it.” I told her that he loved the shirt I gifted him as an apology on her behalf.
Out of nowhere, Bobby lost it. “Are you fucking out of your mind?” he started yelling. “You don’t buy a man a gift from my wife! Are you crazy?”
Then Whitney joined in, saying, “Apology for what?”
I understood exactly why I was getting blasted. They were strung out and out of their minds. There was nothing that I could do to make things any better. I was no longer able to protect Nippy. I had done all I could do, and for the first time I realized that I needed to save myself.
Ignoring Bobby and locking eyes with Whitney, I said my piece: “You know, I’m really sick and tired of this shit. I’m trying to do my job, and you’re going to let him speak to me this way? I’m done, Nip. I quit.”
I walked out of the trailer, giving the door some help closing behind me. Years later, Silvia would tell me that after I walked out, Whitney said, “She ain’t going no-fuckin’-where.”
I left Los Angeles on the next plane heading east. Whitney and the rest of the crew returned two days later. I hadn’t slept at all, and I was beside myself, replaying the scene over and over, again and again. But I remained steadfast in my decision. I didn’t want to leave Nippy, but the circumstances gave me no choice. It was time to go.
I called her on her private line—the same line that Eddie Murphy had used on her wedding day—and Bobby answered. I told him to tell Nip that I needed to talk to her in person. After everything we’d been through together, I felt that we needed to sit down and talk.
Whitney called back and said, “One day this week.” Then that week passed. She scheduled another day, and then that day passed. And then a third. Finally, I got a call from Donna, saying, “Whitney told me to tell you that she’s decided to accept your resignation.”
In a few hours, I was sitting across from Donna at the office, handing over a formal resignation letter. There was no “Robyn, I’m so sorry it went down like this. You two really needed to talk. This just doesn’t make any sense.” There was none of that. After the two decades that Whitney and I had spent together as friends, lovers, partners in crime, colleagues, after the years of living together, standing up, being there, and looking out for each other, this was it. There was still so much more to accomplish, but instead of taking my hand, she was allowing it to fade away.
Writing my resignation letter was difficult. I didn’t know what to write or how to say it. Who was I even writing to—Nippy Inc. or Whitney? This had been my first real job as a young adult and now I was forty. I decided it was best to keep it brief and it wound up being only three sentences, if that.
It was not the place to elaborate on all the reasons why or to explain that I had done all I knew how to do to help her. It wasn’t the place to express my frustration and fears. I was hurt and filled with anxiety and couldn’t imagine what my life would look and feel like without Nip.
That evening after I handed in my resignation, Whitney phoned me at home. “So, you’re really going, huh?” she said.
“Yeah, Nip. That’s why I wanted us to meet. We’ve been through too much together for me not to tell you why I feel it’s time I move on, and not to let you know where I see things going. And I need to know what you’re thinking, where you are in your head.”
“I know,” she said. “We’ll talk.”
Twenty-Three
California Dreamin’
The day after I handed in my resignation, the reality of it all came tumbling down. I was faced with overwhelming questions—What am I going to do? How much money do I have? Am I staying in Jersey? I hadn’t considered any of them and didn’t have answers. The only thing I knew for certain was that my behind was out, and I had no intention of going backward.
I easily could have allowed the thoughts of feeling sorry for myself to have their moment, along with the words of my mother, which played in my head: “Robyn, you’ve never finished anything.” Oh, how I wished I could run to Mama, but I couldn’t. And all of a sudden, I realized that I had no more fouls to give and no more room for mistakes. The combination of my checking account, my savings, and the 401(k) I cashed in, against the advice of Cindy at Nippy Inc. and the outside company accountant, gave me a cushion and the ability to rest easy at night. After that, everything else came step by step.
That summer I packed up the contents of my condo, enlisted a moving company, had my Range Rover serviced, and drove west to California with my chow, Knute, riding shotgun. I chose California partly because I was afraid that if I stayed on the East Coast any longer, I might get cold feet and run back to Nippy.
On the way to Cali, I had a whole lot to think about. I felt alone but was comforted by having Knutie by my side. Driving across the country, we both were bananas. Late one night, I was low on gas and desperate to locate a station. Knute sensed my distress, glancing over at me with those sincere eyes, as if to say, “Oh, shit, Rob.” The last thing I wanted to do was run out of gas someplace in the middle of God knows where, a single black woman and her black dog. I had money for hotels, but the ones that looked safe didn’t accept animals. I wasn’t about to pull into some dive, and certainly not after dark! Instead, I pulled over at a well-lit truck stop, walked around a bit with Knute so we could stretch our legs and get a little exercise, then got back in the car for a few z’s and back on the road again. Crossing the United States on wheels is a breathtaking adventure, and though we had moments when we were scared out of our skins, we also enjoyed stretches of awesome beauty.
Still, I was spent, somewhat lost, a weepy mess. I missed Nip terribly. While driving, I listened to a lot of music in an effort to hold
on to my mind, trying not to let the feeling I was running from take hold. I never once felt as if my decision to leave meant losing my friend.
On July 6, 2000, I moved into a condo in Sherman Oaks, California. I gave Knute some water and a snack, and then sat down on the gray, shaggy wall-to-wall carpeting, gazing upward at the popcorn ceiling that I hated. Grabbing my duffel bag, I pulled out my pillow, placed it under my head on the floor, and closed my eyes. I said my prayers, gave myself a year in the land of LA, and was ready to roll.
One afternoon while getting ready to leave the apartment, my phone rang. It was Silvia.
“Whitney wants to talk to you.”
Nip asked if I was all right and if I had everything I needed. I told her that I was fine and that living in Los Angeles was just as we had imagined it would be. Everyone was in their cars, the streets were deserted by eleven o’clock, and the energy was like a flatlined pulse. We were East Coast girls, unaccustomed to feeling like we were the only ones around.
In New Jersey and New York, the energy was always humming. Out in LA, you had to be part of the scene or tight with someone who was. If not, your ass was sidelined and you were bored as shit. I enjoyed my downtime, chilling with a couple of friends. But everyone and everything was so spread out that by the end of the day, the last thing I could see myself doing was getting back in the car.
I would hear from Silvia a few times a month, saying she was calling just to see how I was doing. I wouldn’t find out until several years later that Whitney was behind those calls and often cried about my not being nearby. I didn’t call her much at all, knowing that everyone around her would get all up in it.
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