A Man Inspired

by Derek Jackson

  Jermaine had known and wholeheartedly embraced all of this, pursuing such a life with the zeal of a thirsty man who has glimpsed a mirage of water in the desert. But just as all mirages were false reality, he soon discovered that he had found . . . nothing. After the money and power, after the glamour and fame, there was . . . well there was . . . absolutely nothing. Nothing except for the vast emptiness of the ocean, which was now beckoning to a misplaced fish dying inside of a dried-up fishbowl.

  Chapter eight

  THE WEATHER WAS indeed a pleasant eighty-four degrees as Candace exited the plane and headed into the LAX terminal. After the September 11, 2001, tragedy, the security for airport terminals had become considerably tighter, so the once-normal custom of people’s waiting in the terminals for arriving passengers had been abolished. Being alone as she walked to the baggage claim area was nothing new for Candace, however; by now, she was used to traveling by herself, both to conduct interviews and to do needed research for her magazine articles.

  What she was not accustomed to, however, was the limousine arranged by Mario that picked her up from the airport and transported her to her hotel. A lovely gesture, Candace thought. She certainly didn’t mind the pampering, which was all the nicer since she was already feeling a little special about being handpicked for this assignment. Now, relaxing in the backseat of the limo as it cruised along the freeway, she skimmed over Jermaine Hill’s itinerary for the next two weeks.

  This is simply unbelievable . . .

  As best as she could manage when it was in her control, she purposely avoided hectic day-to-day schedules in her own life. She didn’t write well when she had a lot on her mind, so her personal credo was to live life easygoing and laid back. Reading Jermaine’s frenzied to-do lists was almost enough to give her a headache. Tomorrow, Monday, he was scheduled to make an early-morning appearance at the downtown Hyatt Regency for the National Broadcasters Association breakfast, leaving immediately afterward to speak at a local high school assembly. Then he was scheduled to go to KKTL’s studios to tape some promotional spots for next week’s broadcasts. He had a few hours’ downtime after that before it was time to mix and mingle with potential corporate sponsors in the luxury suites of Dodger Stadium at the game against the Braves.

  As she reviewed the itinerary, Candace began to realize that what she should really be concerned about during the next two weeks was not so much which questions to ask Jermaine, but rather how not to let the frenetic scheduling affect her mental ability to put together a high-caliber feature. Though it might just be a celebrity “fluff” piece, the stipulation that she was supposed to go everywhere Jermaine went would undoubtedly make this assignment one of the most challenging she had ever done.

  Well, I’m always telling myself I’m up for a challenge . . .

  She looked up from the inch-thick itinerary as she felt the limo slowing, then coming to a complete stop in front of The Beverly Hills Hotel. The driver got out and promptly walked around the car to her door.

  Known in some circles as “the Pink Palace” because of its bold pink and green color scheme, the Mission-style resort boasted impeccably landscaped grounds surrounding exotic gardens and bungalows, and Candace was duly impressed as she stepped out of the limousine.

  “Miss Clark, Mario Jordan is waiting for you in the lobby,” the driver said in his thick British accent as he held the door open for her.

  “Thank you,” she replied, truly wanting to comment that he looked and sounded just like Geoffrey, the wise-cracking butler from the old sitcom The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Then she thought better of it. The poor guy probably heard that line all the time.

  Right away, she observed that The Beverly Hills was the most extravagant hotel she had ever encountered, and she considered herself a well-traveled person. As she stepped inside the grand lobby, she took note of the plush, elegant decor. The room openly displayed an affluence that most people would come nowhere close to attaining in a lifetime. A part of Candace wanted to click her heels together like Dorothy to see if this place was real or if she were dreaming. Her own two-story home in Houston, beautiful and wonderful as it was, paled in comparison.

  “Candace Clark, it is an honor and a pleasure to meet you,” Mario Jordan announced as he strolled across the foyer to her. Dressed in a tailored Jones New York navy suit and gold tie, he made Candace immediately feel a bit underdressed—she in her travel-comfortable denim blue jeans and white cotton blouse.

  “I’ve read your work for years, and you were the one person we just had to have to do this interview,” he continued, gushing over her as he gently took and shook her hand.

  “Thank you. I’m . . . well, flattered. At a loss for words, actually. And that doesn’t happen too often,” she added with a smile. He smiled back, then quickly glanced down at his watch, immediately creating the impression that he was a man at the mercy of schedules and last-minute deadlines.

  “Jermaine should be arriving here shortly and you’ll have the rest of the afternoon to get acquainted and go over anything you’d like with him. I trust you’ve had an opportunity to look over the itinerary already?”

  Candace nodded. “Yes, but . . . well, in past interviews I’ve had some guidelines or boundaries concerning the people I’m covering. And I suppose this is different since I’ve never covered someone for two weeks, but are there any parameters I need to be aware of?”

  “Parameters? No, no—it’s like I told Carl Daniels. Candace, this is your story; your baby. Based on your previous work, I know you’ve got that rare ability to mix professional journalism with some slammin’ urban flavor.”

  Candace couldn’t help but smile at Mario’s colorful description of her work.

  “Nobody else that I’ve read has the ability to do that. So, I believe you’re going to give Jermaine’s fans exactly what they want . . .”

  Oh, do you, now?

  “. . . and that, bottom line, it will be a top-quality job.” He held out his hands. “So, you’ve got free rein. Two weeks to witness him behind the scenes and up close and personal. Now of course I’ll have a look at everything before it’s sent to Song of Solomon to be printed, but I trust your writing instincts and judgment.” He raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice of magazine, though. Any particular reason?”

  Candace shrugged, for a moment unsure of how to answer. “Well, let’s just say that for this story, I trust their instincts and judgment.”

  “Fair enough. Listen, I do apologize, but I have to run. But here’s your room key; your bags have already been taken up. The concierge will give you a call when Jermaine arrives, but knowing him, it’ll probably be another half hour or so. One of the things you’ll quickly find out about Jermaine is that he doesn’t grasp too well the meaning of the word punctual.”

  THE UPCOMING QUESTION-and-answer game would be typical, Ambrose thought to himself as he wearily plopped down in the chair opposite the psychologist. Twice a week now, they were testing his mind to determine how much progress was being made in his so-called treatment as a mental case. He didn’t particularly care to be subjected to these tests, like some sort of caged-up laboratory mouse, but it wasn’t as though he really had a choice.

  If this is my cross to bear, then so be it, Jesus . . .

  By all previous accounts, he believed himself to be a rational man, posing no immediate threat to society. His records were immaculate, not even a single speeding ticket to his name. He had been accused of being mentally unbalanced because of his adamant demand to preach the gospel anywhere he chose. And he was not ignorant; he understood that his right to free speech had been protected under the First Amendment to the Constitution. So what was the problem? Being loud? Getting on someone’s nerves with the good news of the gospel?

  No, the real problem is the spirit prevailing over Hollywood . . . He knew that you could say and do anything you wanted in this increasingly liberal, immoral society just as long as you didn’t speak the name of Jesus.

  The enemy,
the prince of the power of the air, had a firm stronghold on the movies, television shows, and culture that pervaded Hollywood and affected the rest of the country, even the world. After traveling to various parts of the country, Ambrose had felt the call to come back here and begin attacking the forces of darkness that were subtly leading generation after generation of people into spiritual blindness. A huge task to be sure, but was there anything too hard for the Lord?

  “Will you tell me your name and date of birth?” the psychologist began.

  Ambrose sighed, wanting to tell this man a whole lot more than just his name and birth.

  NEEDING TO FEEL REFRESHED after she had put most of her garments away, Candace rewarded herself with a quick shower. She would rather have taken a few hours or so to lazily lounge in the tub with some candles lit and Boney James playing sax softly in the background, but time did not allow it. More specifically, her time—soon to become Jermaine Hill’s time—did not allow it. She had just finished putting on a beige business-casual pantsuit when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Clark, your guest has arrived and is waiting in the lobby. Shall I send Mr. Hill up, or would you rather come down to meet him?”

  “Oh, you can send Mr. Hill up, Mr. . . . I’m sorry, what was your name?”

  “Pierre, madam. Whatever you need during the next two weeks, it will be my pleasure to personally ensure that those needs are met.”

  “Why, thank you, Pierre.” Oh, I’ve died and gone to Heaven . . .

  The knock on her door came several minutes later. Candace checked her appearance one last time in the bathroom mirror, kicking herself mentally as she did so. It was her mother Analee’s fault that she could be so vain at times. What did it matter what she looked like? This was strictly a job, a journalistic assignment like the countless others she had done over the years. Then again, she believed this like she believed the good chances of a snowstorm in Houston. This was not just another celebrity fluff piece, much as she would have liked to think so. Jermaine Hill was one of the most recognizable voices in America, and the intrigue and star-gazing surrounding him were quickly elevating him to icon status.

  “We finally meet,” she said as she opened the door. “Jermaine, it’s a pleasure.” He shook her hand and politely nodded.

  “I’m glad to know that.” Then flashing a winning smile, he added, “Let’s see if you’re still saying that line after two weeks with me, though.” They both shared a tension-clearing laugh, and Candace stepped aside to let him in.

  “Man, this suite is large,” he commented as he stepped into the luxurious den area. “Mario told me all your accommodations were being taken care of, and he can sure say that again.”

  “The Beverly Hills is definitely wonderful,” she agreed. “I feel like royalty just walking around this room.”

  “No doubt.” Jermaine took a seat on the plush sofa. “So, Candace, I’m sure you’ve got a million things you want to ask me.”

  Candace sat down across from him. “First off, all my friends call me Candi.”

  “I’m a friend, now?” Again, the winning smile. It was the smile of a person who knows more than probably what should be known. Candace wasn’t sure how much of that smile was his public persona or his actual personality. Her mission during the next fourteen days was to clearly know the difference between the two.

  “You have a chance to be one,” she replied, matching his wit. “At any rate, please feel free to call me Candi.”

  “Alright. Candi. So, how do you want to go about doing this?” He fidgeted uncomfortably on the sofa. Candace thought she saw some slight hesitation register on his face as he opened his mouth to continue. “If I can be completely honest, though . . . ”

  Please do . . .

  “. . . I’m not exactly thrilled with this assignment. Nothing against you, of course, but . . . well, I’ve seen interviews done in this manner that have taken a drastically opposite turn from how they were intended to go. Mario says you’re the best, and going along with him the past couple of years has worked out great for me, but I’d still like to know your angle.”

  “That’s a fair question. Jermaine, truthfully—I don’t have a real angle. I guess I’m in that tiny two percent of people who haven’t followed your rise to stardom with Elvis-like intensity. My take on this story is going to be strictly objective.”

  “The impartial juror, is that it?”

  “You could say that. I know it sounds odd but my angle for this feature is that, honestly, I have no angle. I don’t know anything about you. But apparently, there’s a mystique surrounding you, because even your most loyal fans don’t know much about you, either. So with your help, I’m simply going to give those fans a behind-the-scenes glimpse of their favorite motivational speaker.”

  JERMAINE HAD BEEN trying to get a read on this journalist from the second she opened the door. Was she like that pesky, irritating Chantal Dixon from StarWatch News? Or cool, calm, and collected yet looking to pounce on emotional weaknesses like Barbara Walters? Maybe somewhere in between like Oprah? But as she continued to talk, Candi Clark was gradually appearing to be none of the above to him. She had a transparency and innocence that intrigued him as much as it worried him. She was still young, and thus still possessed that youthful thirst for getting all the facts straight, which was of great concern to him. Because with the exception of Mario, he purposely chose not to hang around anyone for any great length of time. It was easier that way to hide his depression, the pills, and the suicidal thoughts that continued to torment him. But even Mario, chaotic as his agent’s schedule could be, had lately noticed that something was wrong with Jermaine. Surely, then, his problems could be detected if someone else were to somehow get close to him. And with this young reporter, with no story angle and no real interest in Jermaine other than to give his fans an up-close view of him, it was going to be her single-minded mission to get as close to him as possible.

  The truth, Candi? To quote Jack Nicholson, well, she couldn’t handle the truth. Nobody could—not even himself on any given day.

  Quickly running a number of options through his mind, he finally settled on doing the one thing that would ensure his continued control of this interview. As in all interviews, he was under an obligation to give a response to whatever she asked him (within reason, of course). Otherwise she’d see him as being evasive and could convey that to his fans, as good a writer as she was. But he could maintain control if he did this one, simple thing. It was brilliant, really.

  “Candi, I’m going to give you the green light to ask me anything you want to. But I have a small stipulation to that.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Whatever you ask me, I’ll answer truthfully, to the best of my knowledge. But only if I have the freedom to ask you the same question.”

  Candace held up a finger, shaking her head slowly. A small smile played with the curve of her lips. “Oh no, Jermaine. I’m not the one being interviewed here. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “On the contrary—it would be a great idea. Hear me out for a second. Would you agree that the success of an interview could be attributed to the ease and familiarity of the interviewer and interviewee?”

  “In many cases, yes. But not always. Sometimes it’s better to have complete objectivity.”

  “I feel you on that. But you should know as well as anybody that there’s no such thing as complete objectivity in the media. I hate to say it, but media bias is alive and well.”

  Candace arched an eyebrow. “You’re saying you don’t trust me?”

  “I’m saying the same thing you told me not five minutes ago. I don’t know you. It’s easier to open up to someone if you know you have the same freedom and latitude in conversation that they have.”

  Candace nodded slowly to herself, her eyes staring into space as if she were lost in deep thought.

  “You’ve made a great point, Jermaine,” she finally said after considerable time ha
d passed. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were an excellent motivator. Alright, fine, I’ll agree to your little stipulation.”

  Jermaine leaned back on the sofa and resisted a chauvinistic impulse to flash another smile. Yes, he was good at what he did. Scary good. And he had Candace Clark right where he wanted her.

  Chapter nine

  SO, WHAT’S YOUR favorite book?” Candace asked, pressing the record button on her miniature but extremely efficient tape recorder. She also had her pen and notebook on hand—having learned the hard way years before that even the best of tape recorders sometimes break down at the most inopportune times.

  “My favorite book?” Jermaine squinted his eyes and rubbed the bottom of his chin. Candace knew she had just thrown him a curve for openers. She was forever asking people this very same question. She loved doing so because the response revealed so much about a person.

  “Yes, your favorite book. I’d like to know which book has captured the imagination of the great Jermaine Hill.” She figured it wouldn’t hurt to play up to the man’s ego.

  “Fiction or nonfiction?”

  “Either.”

  “Hmm . . .” He rubbed his chin some more. “I’d probably have to say the Autobiography of Malcolm X.”

  Wow . . . this brother’s going deep on me . . . “And why is that?”

  “So much history to it, you know? And right at the height of the civil rights movement, too. For Malcolm to experience the childhood that he did, growing up in a time when the definition and worth of a black man was just above that of a dog in some states; for him to learn what he did and then captivate and hold the attention of the world—well, it’s . . . it’s always been quite the motivating tool for me.”

  “Do you see yourself now as a twenty-first-century Malcolm X, in the way that you also have seemingly captivated the nation’s attention?” “Almost overnight?” she thought to herself.