A Man Inspired

by Derek Jackson

  “Nope. The great Jermaine Hill always—”

  “Oh, come on!”

  Giving in rather easily to her almost girlish pleading, he shrugged his shoulders as he merged into the traffic headed north on Interstate 5. “Well yeah, I guess there’s been a few forgettable times.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Alright, but for the record, I plan on hearing a couple of yours, too. Let me think, I guess it was my junior year at Howard. I was on tap to speak at this meeting at some fancy pad in Georgetown. Many major political players were going to be there talking about welfare reform, affirmative action—pretty heavy stuff, y’know? Anyway, I was supposed to speak for about five to ten minutes on how those issues impacted young adults.”

  “Just five to ten minutes? That seems like a short time for those kinds of issues.”

  “It wasn’t like I was running for office or anything. They already had some members from the Congressional Black Caucus scheduled to speak. I was just filler for the program.”

  “The voice everybody wanted to hear.”

  “Yep. The golden voice himself. Can’t tell you how much play I was getting with that line back in those days. Anyway, I was pretty hyped up about the chance to rub shoulders with these D.C. elite. So I get to the place, looking all GQ.” He paused to grandly tug on the lapels of an imaginary tuxedo. “I’ve got my speech all memorized, made all the mental notes of the people there, even know how I’m gonna drop their names during my speech. Couldn’t have been more ready.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, I get there and I’m working the crowd like a pro. Networking, shaking the right hands and all that. I find myself next to some businessmen about to propose a toast to a long-standing political science professor at the university. The guy was like a modern-day Booker T. Washington, y’know what I’m saying? I’m near their circle, and I can mingle with the best of ’em, and I happen to overhear one of the men making a big deal out of the wine being a classic 1947 Bordeaux. I didn’t drink a lot, but I acted like I did and took the bottle off the tray to admire it. I take a glance at the label, tilting it up so I can see it, and . . . ”

  “Oh, no . . . don’t tell me . . . surely it didn’t . . .”

  “It did. To this day I don’t know how, but the blasted thing spilled all over my white dress shirt and the white lapels on my designer black tux.”

  “Red wine?” She couldn’t hold in her laughter now. “Jermaine, how aawwwful! And . . . and that kind of stain won’t come out!”

  “Wasn’t the worst of it, either. They called my name to go up to the podium not five minutes later. I didn’t have time to change, so I had to address the whole room in my stained shirt and coat. And instead of them listening to my voice and what I had to say, all eyes were on the idiot who couldn’t keep his shirt clean. Embarrassing like you wouldn’t believe. But you know what? After I got over the humiliation of the whole thing, I saw that it actually helped people remember who I was. Right now, you can still walk up to some Congressmen in D.C. and they’ll remember me first as the guy who spilled the wine and then only second as some motivational speaker.”

  “Because it was so funny?” she asked, still laughing.

  “Because that was such an expensive bottle. I learned my lesson, though.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Always bring a change of clothes to public functions.” He smiled. “No, the real lesson was that sometimes . . . sometimes, it’s best to be heard and not seen.”

  “That’s an interesting twist; usually that saying goes the other way. Is that why you like radio broadcasting so much? Because people can simply focus on your voice? And they can’t see you?”

  He shrugged. “Could be.” After driving in silence for a mile or two, he glanced over at Candace. “It’s your turn now, by the way.”

  “My turn?”

  “Tell me about a time when you wrote something that people thought stunk. And I mean was awful—just unbelievably ‘should’ve never been written, L.A. Clippers’ awful.”

  “Hey, the Clippers aren’t that awful.”

  “They are, too. And don’t try to sidestep the question.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it.” She turned her gaze toward the window for a moment, causing Jermaine to think that she was definitely stalling. “It’s just that . . . well, I honestly don’t recall a time when I wrote something people thought was bad.”

  “Come on, Candi. You expect me to believe that?” You still can’t fully open up, can you?

  “I’m not sure what I expect you to believe, but it’s the truth anyway. I mean, you’re talking to a girl who was writing for the Dallas Morning News at fourteen years old.”

  “And you never had any critics? Everyone always loved your work?”

  “Would I sound conceited if I said they did?”

  Yeah . . . stuck up, too . . . “Then what about yourself? You telling me you’ve always been satisfied with the things you write? That you’ve never thought you could do a better job?”

  Candace continued to gaze out the window. “There’s always room for improvement, sure. And I’m my own harshest critic when it comes to second guessing. I’m always thinking that I either should have added something or had something taken out from a piece—that I could have somehow made the article better.”

  Jermaine shook his head. “Answered just like a seasoned politician up for reelection. A lot of gravy, but no meat.”

  She turned from the window to look at him. “Well, I’m sorry, Jermaine, but I honestly don’t recall ever bombing. I’ve never . . . um, I’ve never had a wine-on-my-shirt experience when dealing with my writing. At least not one that everybody could see,” she added, smiling.

  “So you always write winners?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “So this story, this all-inclusive interview with me—you’re saying this is definitely gonna be good?”

  “Uh-huh. Like they say, it’s going to be off the, off the . . . what’s that line?”

  “Off the hook.”

  “Yes. Off the hook.”

  Chapter thirteen

  THEIR SURVEILLANCE METHODS were borderline illegal, but Chantal’s justification was they only resorted to them when needed. Compared with the high-tech spying strategies glorified in cat-and-mouse chase scenes in the movies, the tactics she and Spike used weren’t that complex anyway. They didn’t have to be—she had learned over the years that when dealing with Hollywood schedules, it paid to have skills with the Rolodex. She had connections throughout the entire industry who could tell her where and when every A-list celebrity was slated to make a public appearance.

  Jermaine Hill had been harder to tail than most stars, but her man Spike was very good. And very discreet. He was loyal and knew how to keep his mouth shut. That was his best asset as far as Chantal was concerned, because it wasn’t enough for your source to find damaging information on someone if he then just auctioned it off to the highest bidder. She didn’t have to worry about that with Spike, though—he worked solely for Chantal. Theirs . . . was a quite mutual and pleasurable agreement.

  “Got some good news,” Spike relayed over the phone to her.

  “That’s just what I need to hear right now,” she said, putting down her third cup of coffee so far that day. “I’ve had a morning you wouldn’t believe.” She swiveled away from a computer screen at which she had just spent an unsuccessful three hours trying to get private dirt on who was checking into the Betty Ford clinic. “So what do you have?”

  “It’s about our two lovers, and it’s a gold mine. You know that this upcoming weekend Jermaine’s speaking at the United Entertainers banquet in Phoenix, right? Well, the public itinerary has him arriving late Friday night, staying at the Marriott, and speaking at the banquet Saturday afternoon. Get this, though—that same itinerary has him leaving Saturday evening when it’s over, but I’m hearing through the grapevine that lover boy is actually not leaving Arizona until Monday morning.”r />
  “Monday morning? Why’s he staying there two extra days?”

  “That’s what I wanted to know. So I did some more digging and found out he’s secretly going to be holed up at the Phoenician resort in Scottsdale. It’s quiet, secluded, romantic, did I mention quiet? Lover boy’s booked just one room there for him, and you know that Candace Clark is supposed to be everywhere he is for these two weeks.”

  Chantal bristled. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Right. Anyway, I called in a couple of favors, pulled a few strings, and got a room booked right across the hall from where they’re going to be staying, with access to the adjoining suite.”

  “Your info is all hush-hush, right? And there’s no way to trace it back to us in case people start asking?”

  “Chantal, c’mon now. That’s almost insulting. You’re talking to the best of the best.”

  She punched the air with her fist. “Yes! This is better than I even thought! Yes . . . yes . . . yes! Sweet mother of . . .” A glorious wave of euphoria washed over her like an incoming Bay Area ocean tide. How sweet this was! Who said hard work didn’t pay off? Not only had she worked hard and paid her dues, but she was now sitting on the biggest scandal since . . . well, since . . .

  “Spike, you know how the media jumped all over Clinton a few years ago with that Lewinsky mess? Front page of the New York Times every day and all that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And how it was my fantasy to feel that rush Kenneth Starr must have felt to have all the money and resources to hunt down the biggest personality in the country?”

  “Yeah.” Spike started laughing.

  “Well, ol’ Mr. Starr might’a had more money, but he didn’t get his man.” She clucked her teeth together in playful scorn. “Such a waste. But me? Not going to happen. Tell me how that line goes?”

  “Chantal Dixon delivers,” he answered. “Always.”

  She punched the air with her fist again, now feeling an adrenaline rush that three cups of coffee came nowhere close to competing with.

  THIS WAS WHERE AND when he liked it most—on his balcony, leaning against the railing of his wooden deck, Duke Ellington’s band making melody on his stereo, and an ice-cold glass of strawberry lemonade chillin’ in his hand. All the while he was visually taking in the scenic, almost surreal Hollywood Hills landscape. To say it was beautiful would be like saying Michelangelo could paint a lil’ bit. The view was absolutely breathtaking. In addition, the stillness of the Pacific coastal air provided a tranquil respite for Jermaine, granting him the one place where he could remove his public mask and simply be himself. Where he could simply be that little kid once again, that confused little kid who couldn’t understand why Shirley and Jermaine Sr. didn’t love him enough to throw away the crack pipe and leave the street life alone. That kid growing up with a thousand questions that all the grown-ups were too busy to answer. That kid who thought that having unlimited fame and riches was the eternal answer to happiness. Because wasn’t that the American dream? Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?

  While preparing for a career that involved motivating others, he had read more than his share of the best-selling books full of inspirational quotes, anecdotes, and conversational pieces. He had gotten the bulk of his initial material from speakers and writers like John Maxwell, Les Brown, Zig Ziglar, and T. D. Jakes. And from those interesting and established minds he had developed a style that was all his own. A mix of common sense, urban flavor, and honey-do-right that the country was eating up like sizzling hotcakes. Success had come easy and fast for him; however, one of those speakers years ago had written something that continued to linger in his mind. It haunted his mind, actually.

  “Success isn’t success without a successor, nor is it success without someone to share it with . . .”

  He was currently the most recognized voice of inspiration in the country, but he would give away all that fame and clout just to have Ronny and Eric back in his life. Or just to have someone, anyone in his life who could understand and appreciate him for who he really was. Forget all that “man with the golden voice” marketing machine mumbo-jumbo; the persona created by that spin-doctoring think tank. That line of bull had gone out to people so much and so often that even Jermaine sometimes believed it.

  “Success isn’t success without someone to share it with . . .”

  So maybe a woman was what he needed.

  Been there, done that . . .

  He wasn’t lacking in the dating department, though even now he was slowly admitting to himself that getting into a girl’s bed and getting inside a girl’s head were two different challenges. Granted, his fame could knock that first challenge out every single night if he wanted it, but he was tiring of that game. The Hollywood women always fit in the same shallow categories—the wannabes and the has-beens. Either you were hot or you weren’t. The classy ladies and divas who were firmly entrenched on the A-list weren’t giving it up unless you represented like a gentleman. Sidney Poitier-like.

  Let it go . . . who am I tryin’ to fool?

  The real reason Jermaine wasn’t in a close relationship was because he wasn’t about to let anyone catch a glimpse of his scarred soul. He knew the closer you got to a person, the more clearly you could see not only the good, but the bad and ugly as well. And though the world chose to exclusively see him through the rose-colored glasses of celebrity, he also knew this golden-voiced speaker had some bad and ugly qualities simmering just beneath the surface.

  Those dark blotches were slowly taking him out, and he knew it. But for the most part, he didn’t care. Why should he? It wasn’t like anybody else cared either. He wasn’t hearing “Jermaine, how are you doing today? What’s on your mind?” or “If you need to talk, I’m here to listen” from people during the course of his day or week. No, people only came to him to hear what he had to say for them. To make inquiries as to what he could do for them. Motivate me, Jermaine. Inspire me, man! Make me feel . . . alive!

  Make them feel alive. Yeah, he could do that alright. This thing called “life” was a crazy thing, though. Because the more he made the public feel alive, the more a large part of him wanted to do exactly the opposite. The two states of existence—life and death—were more closely linked than most ignorant people realized. But Jermaine didn’t fit into that category of ignorance—he saw the dynamic clearly. Little by little, a small part of him was dying every day.

  Chapter fourteen

  THE NEXT MORNING, HE was up a little earlier than usual. He had not been able to sleep much the past night, awakened every half hour or so by the recurring nightmare that had plagued him since his undergrad days at Howard. Nobody was chasing him, nor was he falling, or anything in the realm of normal nightmareslike that. Instead he was tormented by a very realistic sensation of being in front of thousands of people and unable to say anything at all. An extremely terrifying nightmare for a motivational speaker to have.

  His alarm was always set for eight o’clock, but this Friday he didn’t need it. He showered, shaved, and sat down to his customary breakfast of cereal, hot chocolate, and his daily perusal of the L.A. Times sports section. He never started his day without checking the box scores, no matter what sport was currently in seasonal competition. And it was more than just a guy thing. It was practically a religion for him.

  Forty-five minutes later he was in the Escalade and on his way to pick up Candace. He had made this same trip down Hollywood Freeway to Santa Monica Boulevard every day this week, but he had a canny little feeling that today would be different. Because today he had a bit of a surprise waiting for her after he finished his KKTL broadcast.

  Much to his disappointment, her responses to his questions in this interview-stipulation game still remained guarded and somewhat clipped. She was answering his inquiries only to the point of giving just enough information, like he was a distant acquaintance who wasn’t to be trusted with the intimate details. And that irked him because as each day passed, he was discoveri
ng that he wanted to get to know this young, Harlem Renaissance-esque sistah a lot better. Furthermore, she was attractive, intelligent, and opinionated—all added benefits he simply could not ignore. Her poised demeanor piqued his curiosity to the extreme because until now all the women’s names in his black book were listed there because of what was between their legs and not their heads. But Candace Clark was . . . different. She was the first woman Jermaine had been around who actually made him consider turning in his “playa” card. And he could use such a lifestyle change because, according to his agent, there were far too many names in that book anyway. If the word ever leaked out to StarWatch News or some other bounty-hunting entertainment show about Jermaine’s wild ways, the country might turn against its golden-voiced hero.

  But his licentious habits were nothing more than mindless decoys—purely physical distractions that diverted his mind from the chaotic turmoil raging within his head. Without the fleshly pleasures he found in the arms of multiple women, he’d be . . . well, he’d be left with nothing but the dark, dreary reality of a dried-up fishbowl life.

  He was at the hotel now and she was waiting, as usual, seated at the bar in the famed Polo Lounge restaurant. And equally typical, she was scribbling down something in her leather notebook portfolio.

  Forever writin’ something, ain’t you?

  “You ready, Candi?” He jangled his keys.

  “My time’s your time.” She closed her notebook and swiveled off the bar stool. “Full schedule today, right?”

  Jermaine grinned broadly. If you only knew . . .

  ALL OF MYRA’S BUSINESS meetings for the current week had been conducted with incredible smoothness because with Song of Solomon’srapidly growing stature as the hottest urban interest magazine in the country, there was no more red tape hindering her. She didn’t have to jump through any more unnecessary hoops because of a lack of name recognition. No longer was she calling advertisers to practically beg them to patronize her magazine. Now, companies from all points on the economic spectrum were contacting her by the hour, literally falling over themselves for the chance to be listed in the next month’s issue. “And for the right price you can have as big an ad as you want,” came Myra’s sharp business answer. The law of supply and demand was in effect, and for the first time, Myra Washington was in demand. And that felt so, so good to her.