A Man Inspired

by Derek Jackson

  Three years ago at the ripe old age of twenty-six, she had become a syndicated columnist for a nationally distributed magazine; at twenty-eight her published collection of feature stories had reached the “you’ve made it now” status of the top ten on the New York Times best-seller list; and last year, she had been considered for a Pulitzer Prize after capturing the moving story of a Dallas schoolteacher’s fight to be reinstated after being fired when her district found out that she was HIV-positive. Though Candace hadn’t won the Pulitzer for that feature, the young columnist was nevertheless making waves in the journalism industry as a voice to be seriously reckoned with. It didn’t matter that she had what was usually considered to be two strikes against her—being both a minority and a woman— because whenever Candace Clark was written on the byline, chances were very good that it was a story worth reading.

  She leisurely strolled over to the large bay window next to the bar and gazed outside. It was late April in Houston, and the brightness of the shining sun’s reflection cast shimmering ripples across the top of the water in her backyard pool. Not that she herself swam—the pool was just another fruit of her success—but such amenities would come in handy at times; for example, in a few weeks she would be hosting a reception at her home.

  “I’ve become just like my mother in that way,” she told herself, thinking again of how her late mother, Analee Clark, used to sit her down in a chair when she was a little girl to teach her how to be a prim and proper lady at dinner parties. Taught her how, on the night before a gala, to sleep in such a way so as to not mess up the expensive perm in her hair, how to sit with her legs demurely crossed at the ankles, how to wait for others to begin dining before you started eating, which fork and spoon to use, and so on. Somehow Analee had known that her daughter would grow up into a beautiful lady and continue the legacy of the Clark debutante tradition. And so, partly to honor the memory of her mother, Candace would from time to time hold lavish engagements at her home—NAACP fund-raisers, benefits for the Ensemble Theatre, the Urban League, NABJ. Mostly, though, she hosted the extravagant parties because they were wonderful opportunities to network and stay abreast of cultural happenings around the country. She could gather more information for features from just one of her parties than through days of sifting through the latest reports from the AP wire. It never ceased to amaze her how much people loved to dish when you wined and dined them.

  Just below the bar’s counter was a beehive-shaped cluster of bottle racks that held only nonalcoholic beverages. Her choice of beverages was deliberate; when she was growing up, she had one too many uncles who excessively indulged in alcohol. One haunting memory from her adolescence was of an uncle’s trying to force himself on her in a drunken stupor. Ever since that day merely the smell of alcohol justifiably repulsed her.

  Now, she retrieved a sparkling apple cider, removed the cork from the bottle, and half filled a tumbler that was already on the counter. To her surprise, all the fond recollections of her mother had caused tears to well up at the corners of her eyes. She quickly dabbed them away.

  God, it seems like just yesterday . . .

  “Here’s to you, Analee,” she whispered, raising the glass. Her mind’s eye could vividly see the petite, lithe woman who had poured so much love and knowledge into her life. “Here’s to everything that you’ve given me.” It was a fitting, commemorative toast to a touching occasion, and as Candace took a sip of the bubbling drink she couldn’t help but notice the twinge of sadness that was tugging at her heart. It would be six years to the day next Thursday that Analee had lost her valiant battle with breast cancer.

  “Get it together, Candi,” she encouragingly and firmly said to herself after drinking the last drops of cider from the tumbler. “Tasha’s the emotional basket case, not me.”

  “THAT’S ALL THE TIME I have, people,” Jermaine announced as he prepared the send-off to the broadcast. “So until we talk again, remember to be good to yourself, work hard before you play hard, treat your mama right, and if you can’t say something nice . . .”

  At this moment, he pressed the button for the recording of what could only be described as a ghetto-fied, high-pitched squeal of a voice (an animated Chris Tucker, perhaps) shouting, “then keep your mouth shut!”

  Taking off his headset, he swiveled around in his chair and confidently strolled to the door of KKTL’s recording studio. The station manager, Vic Trevino, was waiting in the hallway with a high five for his star host.

  “You’re on top of the game as always, my man! Muy bien, muy bien. Our numbers for the last quarter were off the charts again—the best ratings in Orange County!” The short, fiery Hispanic man shook his head then, wagging his finger and playfully giving Jermaine the kind of look a school principal ordinarily would give a tardy student. “I’m warning you, though. You keep this kind of behavior up and you’re going to force me to restructure our entire budget just to keep you on the payroll.”

  “Hey Vic—you just do what you need to do,” Jermaine countered as he flashed his trademark winning smile. “Because I’m gonna handle my business, you can best believe that.”

  Vic laughed quickly. A little too quickly, almost. “Oh I believe that, my man. I certainly do.” The manager stole a glance over his shoulder, a little guiltily, then inched closer to Jermaine. “In fact, since I know how well you’re gonna handle your business, I gotta little something for you,” he said, lowering his voice, not that there was a need to, since they were the only ones in the hallway. Jermaine arched an eyebrow slightly—otherwise his face was a blank slate. Favors offered to him under-the-table and special unsolicited treatment were nothing new anymore. His growing clout was making him A-list; just last week he had strolled into Spago Beverly Hills without a reservation, yet still managed to be seated in the finest booth in the restaurant.

  Vic produced two tickets from his inside coat pocket and handed them to Jermaine. “These are for the Lakers’ play-off game this Sunday, my friend.”

  Jermaine barely even looked at the purple-and-gold-trimmed pieces of paper. “I already got tickets, Vic.”

  “Yeah?” The manager didn’t even blink, didn’t miss a beat. “But did I mention where these seats are located? Courtside, amigo. Right behind Jack Nicholson himself.”

  Jermaine turned to Vic with a wide smile. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.” He delicately lifted the tickets from Vic’s hand like they were precious, rare, imported diamonds. “And this is my reward for simply taking care of business?”

  “That’s right.” He approvingly held out his hands in the manner of a proud padre. “That’s all I’m asking for, my friend.”

  Jermaine, of course, knew better than that. By now it was commonly known throughout the industry that his own agent was fielding offers from various radio and television studios since his two-year contract with KKTL was set to expire in December. Vic had more than enough reason to be worried about losing his most visible employee to these tempting opportunities, so in hopes of re-signing his star he had been handling Jermaine with royal treatment from the year’s onset.

  “Muchas gracias, Vic.”

  “Aha!” The proud padre became even prouder. “So you have been listening to that easy-learning Spanish tape I gave you, hmm?”

  “Yeah, but I’m only using it for the parts that let me rap to those fine Latino mamas in East L.A.”

  They both shared a good laugh over that one, although as Jermaine moved on down the hallway, he thought Vic’s facial expression still seemed a bit strained.

  THE SNARLED TRAFFIC ON Interstate 5 forced Jermaine’s onyx-black Cadillac Escalade into an insulting crawl as he traveled away from downtown Los Angeles, heading north to a studio address in Burbank. According to his agent, he was scheduled to do a taped interview for some late-night television show, but that certainly didn’t mean that he was in a big rush. Not only was he unsure as to which show it was; he honestly didn’t care, either. It was all becoming one big continual bore to him, th
is unending life under a microscope of celebrity. Host a benefit dinner here, attend a movie premiere there, shake a few hands back over there again and please, Mr. Hill, don’t forget to smile for the camera right here.

  The people pulling on his time and skyrocketing fame had no clue as to who he really was. If you read the New Yorker, then you knew Jermaine Hill to be the larger-than-life motivational guru with the golden voice and requisite sex appeal to be a bona fide star. Vibe described him as having the political savvy of Tavis Smiley delivered with a Master P hip-hop blend. And word on the street had it that he was slated to be on the cover of the next issue of Ebony magazine.

  “All this fame,” he ruefully thought to himself. “And don’t nobody have a clue . . .”

  The ring of his cell phone interrupted the tap-tap-tap of his fingers drumming on the soft leather of the steering wheel. In this bumper-to-bumper traffic, he had been monitoring how quickly the Escalade’s gas gauge was plummeting toward empty. He swore the thing was the equivalent of an automotive black hole when it came to gas mileage, but it was all about keeping up appearances now. It wouldn’t do for him to still be rolling in that ’92 Toyota he had been driving when he was first hired on at KKTL.

  “Jermaine Hill. Speak to me.”

  “J! Where you at, man?” It was his do-everything agent, Mario Jordan—better known as Super Mario to the industry people who over the years had observed the merciless manner in which he brokered deals and negotiated contracts. “You’ve got the brass at NBC sweatin’ through those buttonhole suits, wondering where you are. The taping starts in sixty!”

  “Mario, my bad, man, but I’m not going anywhere right now. Traffic on the Golden State is backed up for days.”

  “You’re on the Golden State?” Mario cursed. “Reports say there’s an eighteen-wheeler overturned just after Ventura.”

  “That explains why this road looks like the parking lot at the Rose Bowl with all these jammed cars. Hey listen, let’s just cancel and do the show later.” That was really what he wanted to do anyway. He was sick of all these celebrity obligations.

  “No, J, we can’t do that. They’ve been running promo spots for this for two weeks. We’ll be blacklisted if we back out now. Wait a minute, wait a minute. Just thought of something. Are you close to Colorado?”

  “Yeah. I’m just past Griffith Park. That’s the next exit.”

  “Okay, okay. This might work, this might work. Listen, take Colorado, hang a right, and park in that empty lot next to the Best Western. I’ll take care of everything from there.”

  “Whaddya mean, you’ll take care of everything from there? I’m telling you, there’s no way I can make it on time.”

  “Now there’s where you’re wrong, J. Hey, they don’t call me Super Mario for nothing—don’t forget that I’m worth every penny that comes my way.”

  Yeah . . . and most of them pennies be comin’ out of my pocket . . . “Alright, fine. But don’t keep me in the dark on this. What happens after that? What’s the big plan?”

  Mario confidently laughed. It was the knowing and shrewd sound of a man with more tricks up his sleeve than Houdini. “Just watch for the helicopter, J. I’ve got a friend of mine from LAX flying in to pick you up as we speak.”

  “Ah, friends,” Jermaine mockingly thought as he clicked off his cell phone. It was almost laughable how they had a way of coming out of the woodwork when you were the current flavor of the month.

  Chapter two

  THE INCREASING NUMBER OF African-American press imprints popping up around the country and the rise of e-commerce as a legitimate consumer option all had spelled out golden opportunity for Myra Washington. Because by her fortieth birthday, she had made the frightening discovery that there really was a glass ceiling preventing her from rising any higher in corporate America. Frightening indeed, because she certainly had not gone to Spelman College in Atlanta, majored in speech communication, and graduated with honors just to type letters and fetch coffee all day. Especially for some backwater company that could care less about who she was as an individual or what she had to offer them.

  So after a life-changing weekend attending one of T. D. Jakes’s mega Woman Thou Art Loosed! conferences at the Georgia Dome, she had been motivated to stir up the faith lying dormant inside her and pursue a dream that had first taken root while she was co-editing The Messenger, Spelman’s alumnae publication, during her senior year. That had been back in the 1980s, when the chances of a black woman making significant strides in the white-collar world of journalism were as realistic as a fly not being noticed in a tray of buttermilk. Yes, Myra had the door-opening powers of a college degree and she by no means lacked ambition or determination, but she also had . . . a baby boy. Tyrone Jr. The first Tyrone, that fast-talking, fine-looking brother she had met during her sophomore year, had swept her off her feet with his promises to “show her a good time” while in college. Well, who was she in 1978 to know the conniving ways of college men? Who was she but a country girl from Macon whose previous experience of a “good time” was an awkward, hurried French kiss on her prom night in the back of her uncle’s barn? Good time, her behind.

  So, saddled with little Tyrone Jr., upon graduation she was faced with the daunting prospect of not only landing a job, but also landing one quickly at that. After a few weeks, she had managed to find an administrative position that, while having no relevance to her communications degree, at least paid the bills. As the years passed, though, the lightbulb illuminating her college dream had depressingly waxed dimmer and dimmer.

  Eighteen long, patience-building years later she was freed at last, financially speaking. Her little baby Tyrone had grown up, graduated from high school, and was now on his way to Quantico, Virginia, to begin a career in the Marine Corps. She would worry about him even more now that he was in the armed forces, but that automatically came with the job description of being a mother. She imagined that she would fret over her baby boy until the day she died. However, the Marines were taking care of Tyrone now, so the little extra money she had saved could finally be put to use pursuing her dream of running her very own magazine.

  And so pursue she had. Song of Solomon had been launched in the summer of 2001 and while the unique name alone attracted many curious readers, the success of the magazine’s format—blending spiritual themes with current societal issues—helped to retain those same readers. Now just three years into publication, Myra felt that all her magazine lacked was that one big, groundbreaking story to take it to the forefront of the urban market share. And with the phone call she had just received this late April afternoon, she was beginning to see a golden opportunity all over again.

  “Xavier, are you sure your info is correct?” Her voice, suddenly breathless, was full of nervous anticipation as she spoke over the phone to her West Coast features reporter, Xavier Rollins. He was not only the magazine’s prayer intercessor, but he was equally adept at digging up noteworthy background material for the magazine.

  “Myra, I’m positive. This is coming straight from Mario Jordan’s own mouth. He says the exclusive to publish the feature is open to any magazine, with one exception—Mario has the final choice on the writer.”

  For months now, the nation’s top magazines had been in an intense bidding war, behind closed doors and off the record, over the rights to an all-access interview with Jermaine Hill. This meant the chance to go everywhere the star speaker went—documenting all his public appearances and in effect becoming his personal, journalistic shadow for two weeks.

  “Whomever Mario wants to write it doesn’t matter! We’re prepared to spare no expenses over the chance to land this one—this is going to be the biggest interview of the year!”

  “The guy knows that. That’s why he’s letting it be known that whoever ultimately lands this story will be the one who can also land Candace Clark.”

  “But . . . but that’s Ebony’s girl!” Myra exclaimed as she started to get a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“She does that column for them and everything.”

  “Yeah, she writes for them, but technically she’s not under contract when it comes to interviews like this. She’s a freelancer, and from what I’ve been hearing, she’s been looking to expand her options.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, my sources tell me—”

  “Oh, here we go again with you and your sources!”

  Xavier laughed. “This is how the game is played, Myra. Remember? Anyway, my sources are telling me that she likes to take a chance every now and then, if the opportunity is right.”

  “If the opportunity is right? This story is not even close to being a chance. It’s the single biggest scoop of the year. Why would an accomplished writer like her leave the comfort zone of the big-names and write this under Song of Solomon?”

  “Listen to this—I have very good information that from time to time she likes to write for the lesser-known, independent magazines. I guess it appeals to her in some way. She’s gotten her fame from her best-selling book and all, but it’s not a coincidence that the column that got her nominated for the Pulitzer was written in a small Dallas medical journal.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that she’s not a lock to write this story for the big-names like you’re automatically assuming. And not only that, I think if you go to Houston and personally talk to her, you just may be surprised with what you find out.”

  THE SOFT, STIRRING SOUNDS coming faintly from the young woman lying next to him meant that she hadn’t fallen asleep just yet. And Jermaine was going to make sure that she didn’t, either. To him, there was nothing worse than having to make small talk in the morning and pretend that what had just happened was anything more than a one-night stand.