A Man Inspired

by Derek Jackson

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Do you believe in God, Jermaine?” She hadn’t even meant to ask him such a question; the opportunity just presented itself.

  Jermaine shrugged. “Hard to say, sometimes.”

  “What’s so hard to say about it? Either you do or you don’t, right?”

  “I was brought up to believe that way, I can tell you that. My Aunt Bell dragged me kickin’ and screamin’ to church about four times a week. Real hard-core religion, y’know what I’m saying? ‘Don’t-do-this, don’t-do-that.’” He shrugged again. “I guess it didn’t rub off on me the way it did her. Don’t get me wrong—I believe in God as a higher power. Anyone can look around the world and see things in nature and science that you know a human simply couldn’t do.”

  “Well, do you pray to . . . whomever you believe to be that higher power?”

  “Sometimes. But it’s probably more me talking to myself out loud than to anyone else.” He glanced over at her. “How ’bout you? You into God and prayer and all that?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m into God and prayer as if I attended church every Sunday and said my prayers every night. I remember going to church when I was younger. Both my parents were Christians and my father was even a preacher’s son. Every now and then, I’ll find myself saying a prayer if I’m facing a difficult issue in my life. I do have faith and I believe God is there, Jermaine. I’m just not so sure He’s always listening to what I might have to say.”

  They were at the Hyatt Regency now, and Jermaine turned off Seventh Street into the parking area where a tuxedoed valet was waiting for them.

  “So, you’re ready for your big speech?” Candace asked, a bit relieved for the opportunity to change the subject.

  He shrugged with a condescending air of nonchalance. “It’s not that big a speech. It’s just twenty minutes . . . twenty awesome minutes from the man guaranteed to excite and inspire you about life!” he imitated in his best public-address voice.

  “Not bad, Jermaine. But I have to tell you, you sound like the kind of guy who always believes his own press.”

  He quickly shook his head. “Now there’s where you’re wrong. I never even read anything written about me.” He opened his door to get out.

  “Not even my article when I finish?”

  “Maybe.” Looking back over his shoulder he added, “If it’s any good.”

  THE PACING BACK AND FORTH in his small room was now practically legendary; it was rumored that Ambrose walked ten miles a day without ever leaving his assigned cell. As he paced, he would quote scriptures from the Bible. Spew them from his mouth, in fact, often with the fervor and frantic speed of a used-car auctioneer.

  “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy rod and staff they comfort me . . .” Ambrose was now in the throes of quoting the book of Psalms from memory. Not a specific one or two psalms, but the entire book. Normally it would take him a few days to recite it, but he was feeling especially energetic at the moment, and he might exhaust all 150 psalms by sundown. The words were coming from his mouth at such a rapid pace that the sounds were almost unintelligible.

  “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever . . .”

  Presently, nobody was around to tell Ambrose to shut up—it was too early and the old preacher was doing a good job of staying relatively quiet. So on he went, then, through the book of Psalms. Slowly but surely, he was waging war against the enemy.

  “TELL ME WHAT YOU got already,” Chantal requested into her hands-free car phone as she navigated through the brisk early-morning traffic on the East L.A. Interchange. With one hand she held a cup of steaming hazelnut-flavored coffee and with the other hand she applied a fresh layer of lipstick, somehow steering the car at the same time. She was talking to a source known to her only as “Spike,” a man of many talents who over the years had helped her find the dirt on everybody who was anybody in this town.

  “Here’s what I got, baby. Candace flew in yesterday afternoon—she was picked up by a limo and is staying at a high-end suite at The Beverly Hills.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Spike. That’s old news. What about her and Jermaine?”

  “Calm down, I’m getting to that. You know I’m always going to have the juicy stuff. Jermaine rolled up to her suite yesterday at just past five o’clock, then didn’t leave until almost midnight. That’s seven hours of so-called just getting to know this girl. And they stayed in the room the whole time. They ordered in room service.”

  “What did they have?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t have the details on that.”

  “Spike!”

  “What? Even the best sometimes have their limits, baby. But you’re missing the point anyway—he picks up Candace this morning at six-thirty, and they just pulled into the downtown Hyatt for the Broadcasters Association breakfast. Listen, this guy’s already been with her for almost nine hours—there’s definitely something going on here behind the scenes. Ol’ Spike can smell it.”

  “I knew it!” Chantal exclaimed, narrowly missing sideswiping a late-model Mercedes in the lane to her right as she punched the air with her fist. “I knew Mario had to have a better reason for using that no-celebrity-story-writing bimbo to do this feature. Jermaine must have a thing with her. Maybe they got some history or something.”

  “That’s what it’s looking like to me.”

  “Spike, can you get me some real good pics on this? I’m working on putting some things together but I’m going to need some nice black-and-whites of our two lovers Jermaine and Candace together. And you know what types of pics I’m talking about.”

  “Ain’t gon’ be a problem at all. Your boy Spike is representin’. Don’t I always come through for you?” He paused a second before continuing, “and, uh . . . that’s cause you always come through for me, right?” He started laughing—a lascivious, wicked little laugh.

  “You naughty old man,” Chantal replied in her best come hither voice. Spike was so, so good at a great many other things besides being her best source. “You let me take care of that part of our deal, alright? You just make sure I get those pics before Song of Solomon is ready to publish this story.”

  In her own inflated, self-absorbed world, Chantal often considered herself a good celebrity writer. A great one, even. And the story she was cooking up now on Jermaine Hill was going to make little Miss Candace Clark’s boring piece look like a grade school book report by the time she was finished with this whole affair. And not that she meant to be overly spiteful or vengeful, but Mario Jordan had brought this on himself. For he had repeatedly spurned all her requests for one, just one, interview with Jermaine. But this new girl Candace, who had never done a celebrity piece before, got to spend two weeks with the man? That was bull, and she knew it. But if that’s how they wanted this thing to go down, then so be it.

  School was definitely in session, and the Chantal Dixon payback clinic was about to commence wreckin’ shop and takin’ names.

  Chapter eleven

  THE FIRST FOUR DAYS of the interview went by in a blur for Candace—she was bouncing all over Orange County and the surrounding areas so much that she felt like she was taking a never-ending taxi ride. But at least she was getting her information. Jermaine, remarkably, was opening up to her as freely and comfortably as he’d likely ever opened up to a media representative. Of course, she was having to reveal more about herself than she would have liked. It had been a little awkward at first, this little interview-stipulation game, but her once-blasé attitude about him had begun to soften a bit. She was starting to experience that writer’s intuition—the feeling whereby she knew she was going to blow readers away with what she was about to write.

  “So why isn’t the great Jermaine Hill married?” she asked him as they casually strolled, tourist-like, around Disneyland’s Adventureland. Jermaine had come out to the theme park earlier as
a celebrity host for part of a media event spotlighting an upcoming movie. Afterward he had some free time, and Candace had never been to Disneyland, so here they were. Employees for the Aladdin’s Oasis extravaganza now milled around them like busy worker ants, hurriedly preparing for that afternoon’s show. They didn’t seem to care that the most famous motivational speaker in America was walking right next to them, probably because they saw and dealt with celebrities every day.

  “Should I be married?”

  “Well, it’s a question I’m sure some of your fans would like to know the answer to. Your female fans only, I hope.” She laughed. “So how about it, huh? You’re what, thirty, thirty-one years old? And you’ve never thought about it?”

  He rubbed his chin. Candace noted to herself that he rubbed his chin every time she asked him a hard question. It gave him a little time to think, she supposed.

  “Yeah, I’ve thought about it. But in this town, getting hitched is a joke, y’know? People spend all this money on some lavish ceremony, only to have this nasty split a year later and end up wasting even more money on the settlements. On top of that, you’ve got the tabloid news crews invading your privacy every time you turn around.” He shook his head disgustedly. “I don’t know if it’s worth all the trouble.”

  “That’s your only reason? The Hollywood culture and tabloids? Come on, I don’t buy that. I think the real reason is because you haven’t met anyone who connects with you on every level.”

  Jermaine opened his mouth as if to say something, then shrugged it off.

  “What? You were going to say something?” Candace pressed.

  “You don’t miss a thing, do you? I wasn’t going to say anything, just that . . . just that I don’t know if that happens anymore.”

  “If what happens anymore?”

  “Stuff like finding someone to connect with on every level, y’know? Soul mates, love-at-first-sight kind of thing. I think people get married nowadays more out of convenience than out of love.”

  “That’s an interesting thing to say. You came out of left field with that one. I would have thought a motivator and person of inspiration like yourself would be a true believer in love.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t believe in love—I’m just saying that people don’t always get married these days because they fall in love. And if they do, if you look at the current divorce rates, they’re obviously falling as quickly out of love. But let’s go back to love and relationships. And let’s take you, for example.”

  “What about me?” Interview-stipulation game or not, this was one area she preferred to keep under private lock and key, no matter how much her attitude concerning him had warmed.

  “Oh, come on. You knew I was going to ask you the same questions you put to me, right? And I don’t see a ring on your finger—so the reason you’re not married is because you haven’t found your soul mate yet? No knight in shining armor? No Prince Charming coming to—”

  “You’ve made your point!” she quickly, and a bit sharply, interjected.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Tell you about what?”

  Chuckling, he continued. “It’s not as easy to hide as you may think. Those ‘been hurt by a man before’ signs are written all over you. You know, I dealt with issues like that on one of my shows a couple of months ago—talking about how we put up walls whenever people hurt us and how that prevents us from loving again.” He looked over at Candace imploringly. “I’m a good listener, y’know?”

  “No doubt you are. But let’s shift those listening ears of yours and get back to you being a good talker. I’m working on a deadline here, remember?” She had no desire whatsoever to talk about her past failed stabs at love—all the men she had ever dated had followed the same, tired pattern. As soon as the brotha realized Candace would probably always make more money and enjoy greater levels of success than he, the relationship inevitably went south faster than a flock of geese headed for Florida for the winter. Men and their tired, tired egos . . .

  “I know, but we’ve got us a little rhythm going here,” Jermaine replied, smiling. “And I’m sure my fans would, as you say, love to find out about my past relationships.” He started grinning slowly, lazily. Then he licked his lips, LL Cool J-style. “I’d be more than happy to tell all. After the lady, of course.”

  Oh, no you don’t . . . I’m not ready to open up about that . . . . “Let’s switch subjects, Jermaine. We’ll come back to relationships later.”

  Jermaine nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “It’s your story.”

  AND INDEED IT WAS her story, in his view. But there was a twist. Candace may have been asking all the right questions to find out about him, but only if she played along with the little discovery process he was engaging in too. And not only was he partaking in it, but he was also indirectly controlling the extent of what was said.

  Over the past two years, there was always one main version of himself he paraded before the masses—the man with the golden voice, blah, blah, and all that jazz. But unbeknownst to everyone there was another side to him; one that no one had been able to discover. Smiles on the outside, suicidal tendencies on the inside. How could the most recognized voice in the country also hold the most unrecognizable hurt, pain, and loneliness in the country?

  Admittedly, it was not his desire to forever carry his dark secrets within him. He didn’t want to go to the grave with no one ever knowing of the grossly contradictory, almost schizophrenic, life he had led. But neither was he going to freely offer such damaging information without something in return. And what would be the price for such knowledge? A secret told for a secret given. That something in return had just become the skeletons in Candace Clark’s closet. He knew she had some.

  Everybody’s got some . . .

  Chapter twelve

  ALRIGHT, EVERYBODY, LISTEN UP—yours truly is coming to you with yet another OD of inspiration for your soul,” Jermaine began. “My theme for today is freedom. Now there’s a lot of ways I can come to you with this, but I’m mainly going to focus on self freedom. Your ability to open up and be uninhibited to live life carefree. To love unconditionally. To be sensually aware of a vibrant world that is all around you. How can you do this? Let Jermaine give you some simple suggestions . . .”

  Candace observed carefully from behind the glass partition in the studio, slightly in awe at Jermaine’s ability to somehow transform into a different person whenever he was behind the microphone. It was as if he believed, as if he knew, that he was the onlyperson who could motivate and inspire his audience. She had noticed this all week for not only his radio show, but also for his every public-speaking event. She likened it to the alter-ego phenomenon of Clark Kent versus Superman. When the spotlight was not focused directly on him Jermaine was sort of a Clark, minus the glasses and clumsy bumbling behavior, of course. But when it was his time to excite and inspire the masses about life, a transcendent confidence and almost supernatural aura came over him. He became Superman—brilliantly reaching and superbly connecting with his audience.

  “He’s something to watch in person, si?” Vic, KKTL’s station manager, commented as he came into the room and sat beside Candace.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Vic now turned and faced her. “I can’t help but notice that you have a great opportunity to get to know Jermaine with this interview. He, ah . . . he hasn’t let you know of his plans once the year is out, has he?”

  “No, he hasn’t. Why do you ask?” From her first meeting with Vic, she had found the man painfully nervous. She knew exactly what piece of information he was trying to extract from her, but she was going to force him to be more direct.

  “Oh, no reason. No reason. But ah . . . por favor, you wouldn’t happen to know if he has a deal somewhere else?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. And I would guess that business is strictly between Jermaine and Mario Jordan.”

  “Claro que si. Oh, I’m sorry, perdona me—I’m doing i
t again,” he said, his face turning a light crimson. “I sometimes slip back and forth between English and my native tongue.”

  Yes, especially when you’re nervous . . . “Oh, that’s alright.” She looked at him and offered an understanding smile. “Yo comprende. I understand a little Spanish. I live in Houston, remember?”

  “Yes, yes,” he replied, his face still red. “And you are right—that information is between Jermaine and his agent.” He was silent for a few minutes as they both listened to Jermaine give wonderful insight on how to have self freedom. “But, as you can see, KKTL has been very good to him. And remains good to him. So . . . maybe when you ask him your questions, you can ask about his future plans, si?”

  “Yes, I suppose I could ask him.”

  “Muchas gracias, muchas gracias! And . . . and you can perhaps tell me then . . . what those plans are?”

  Candace didn’t want Vic to have to resort to begging. It wasn’t becoming for a person in his management position, she thought. And she could understand his frustration. In all likelihood, he was about to lose his star player and the signature voice of the radio station. Anyone could see that coming.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, Vic. I can’t divulge anything until the article’s in print. I guess you’re just going to have to read it when the story comes out like everyone else.”

  Vic mumbled something sarcastic in Spanish, not realizing that Candace understood every word.

  “GREAT SHOW, JERMAINE. But then, it’s always a great show when you’re behind the mic, isn’t it? I mean, has there ever been a time when you flat-out bombed?” Candace’s question prompted a strange look from Jermaine, like she’d just said something blasphemous.

  “I’m serious,” she continued, “has there ever been a time when you felt you didn’t connect with your audience as well as you would have liked to?”