A House Is Not a Home

by James Earl Hardy

  “Do you think you can live there?” Mitchell asked.

  “We don’t know, but it’s something we have to try. It’s important our family be recognized and respected as a family.”

  “Besides,” added B.D., “we’ll be buying a home in Detroit. So if we get homesick, we won’t be far away.”

  “Detroit?” Gene gasped.

  “Don’t say it,” B.D. warned. “Actually, it’ll be a suburb outside the city. Who knows, maybe we’ll have Anita or Aretha as neighbors.”

  That piqued Mitchell’s interest. “Ha, if y’all do, me and Destiny will have to move in. Uh, when is the moving date?”

  “Not for another year,” explained Babyface. “I’ll be keeping an eye on the legal situation over there—and over here. Maybe we’ll get some jood news from the Massachusetts courts, Jersey, or right here. But if the law stands up to its current challenges over the border, we’ll make that move next June.”

  “Is that when you’ll have the ceremony, too?”

  “No. That’ll take place on our tenth anniversary.”

  They swooned. They kissed.

  “Oh, good grief,” Gene huffed.

  “I know you don’t normally participate in events where L is the main ingredient, but I would like you to help me and Mitch plan the wedding and reception,” B.D. directed toward Gene.

  “I suppose I can.” Gene shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant but clearly flattered by the invitation.

  “Jood. We want Destiny to be our flower girl.”

  “Don’t you think your son will want to perform that role?” Gene countered.

  “He may want to but he won’t be,” informed Babyface.

  “He’s gonna walk me down the aisle,” B.D. expressed proudly.

  “Walk? You two will be sashaying.” Gene chuckled.

  B.D. rolled his eyes. He turned to Mitchell. “And we’d love for you to sing again.”

  “I’d love to. What song?”

  “Given that you’re the music man, we were hoping you’d have some suggestions. Something that fits our doing it a second time.”

  “Okay. I’ll think about it. What about your jobs?”

  “I’ll be taking a leave for six months to explore opening up a practice in Canada. Gay marriage notwithstanding, discrimination still exists up there.”

  B.D. patted his chest. “And I’ll officially become a housewife.”

  Gene coughed.

  B.D. gave Gene the hand. “No comment from the penile gallery, okay?”

  “You’re gonna stop dancing?” Mitchell inquired.

  “Chile, pleeze, that would be like not breathing. I’ll be a housewife nine months out of the year. I’ve already been in contact with the folks at Michigan State University. I could be running the modern-dance program next summer.”

  “Mmm. Sounds like you two have everything . . . planned.” Mitchell sighed. “You’ll be living in another country.”

  “Yeah. But not so far that you two can’t come and visit.”

  Gene recoiled in horror. “Visit Canada?”

  Babyface knew what would change his tune. “I hear the Black Canadian Mountie population has multiplied considerably.”

  “Oh? Hmm . . . I might be able to squeeze in a visit each year. Or two.”

  “Uh-huh.” B.D. snickered.

  Mitchell placed his hand on top of Babyface’s, which was on top of B.D.’s. “You might not be that far away but I’ll miss you all, terribly.”

  “And us, you.” B.D. frowned at Gene. “And you won’t say it, but we know you’re gonna miss us, too.”

  Gene smiled. “Of course I will . . . b-otch.”

  B.D. sprang up, hugging him. “And we’ll miss you!”

  Gene tried pushing him away. “Oh, please. You know that I—”

  “—detest cheap sentiment!” they all roared.

  Chapter 8

  Mista is yet another “underground” party for the homiez who aren’t hetero to get crunk. Raheim hadn’t been on the club scene in a while, and as far as he could tell he hadn’t missed anything. While the space was different (yet another white establishment hosting their weekly, obligatory Negro Night), the faces weren’t: Several of those present were the same closeted b-ballers, NFLers, and rappers he’d been running into for years, muggin’ and mackin’ with the same played-out game. And they were doing their best to look an age they passed a long time ago, stylin’ in skullies and sports caps, Rocawear and Sean John, and the latest designer sneakers or that old standby, Timberland boots. And, yeah, he was a part of the tribe: he had the latter on and felt rather . . . juvenile. He never thought he’d see the day when he’d think this way, but he now believes there’s only three reasons for a man to wear them: If he’s a hard hat, going hunting/hiking, or portraying someone who works construction or is an outdoorsman. And he can’t believe the time, energy, and money he spent—and wasted—cultivating a look and formulating an image with and around those boots. Ten years ago he wore them almost every day; today, maybe once a month (and that’s for a job). Part of it was to project to the world that he was as hard as they come, but the reality was that he wasn’t. Clothes don’t make the man, they only drape the man, and they can’t help you find yourself or define yourself. And the longer he stayed, watching the overage delinquents trying to outgangsta one another, the more impatient toward and sickened by the whole scene he became.

  And Angel could tell. “Man, don’t look so down. You makin’ me depressed.”

  “I’m not depressed.”

  “You look it. This is a celebration, remember? You should be happy, grinnin’ from ear to ear. Not only are you gonna be a movie star, you did your time and came through it.”

  “Did my time? Man, you make it sound like I just got outta jail.”

  “Well, in a way you did serve a sentence. Only you decided how long it had to be so you could get yourself right.”

  “I guess. I . . . I just feel out of place.”

  “You feel out of place? I’m the one who had to work late and couldn’t change out of this uniform.” He was wearing a white shirt and dark blue slacks. His powder-blue tie was in his back pocket and his shirt unbuttoned, exposing his chest hairs. “At least you look like you belong up in here.”

  “Looks can be deceivin’.”

  Angel placed his beer on the bar. “You’ll never guess what I heard.”

  “What?”

  “Ernie was killed last night.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, Ernie Rockland. Rock.”

  Yeah, Raheim knew. Rock, the guy who gunned down Raheim’s boyhood homie, D.C., in 1993. Raheim heard through the grapevyne that Rock had gotten out three years ago after serving just six years of a nine-year sentence for killing D.C.

  “For real?”

  “Yup.”

  “Uh . . . how was he killed?”

  “They say he owed some dealer money. They shot him execution style, in the back of the head, three times.”

  “Damn.”

  Angel waited for more of a response; nothing. “That’s all you gotta say?”

  “What else is there to say?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just thought you’d be . . . glad.”

  “Glad? Why would I be glad somebody got killed?”

  “This just ain’t somebody.”

  “I know. I wouldn’t wish that shit on anybody, not even my worst enemy, and he was it.”

  “Yeah. I know it’s wrong to think but . . . I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “I understand.” Raheim noticed a brutha checking out Angel. “Go on over, yo.”

  “Nah, nah, I ain’t ditchin’ my boyee.”

  “You won’t be ditchin’ me. Go on and have a jood time.”

  “I asked you to come out so we could have a jood time.”

  “I’ll have a jood time watchin’ you. I can hold it down.”

  Angel gave the brutha a once-over. “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A’i
ght. I won’t be gone long.”

  He walked over. They did the brutha shake and a few minutes later they were doin’ the booty shake on the dance floor. A half hour had passed when they parted. Angel returned with a big grin on his face.

  “You look happy,” Raheim observed.

  “Yeah,” he cheezed.

  “Where he go?”

  “To the bathroom.”

  “Ah. What’s his name?”

  “Jazz.”

  “Jazz? Like the music?”

  “Yeah. And he said his mama named him that.”

  “A’ight.”

  “The brutha is phyne—so long as he keeps his mouth closed.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s got gold covering the top row of his teeth, and platinum on the bottom.”

  Raheim giggled. “You lyin’?”

  “Nope. The light hit ’em and I swear I was blinded for a second. Ya gotta wonder how he can brush his teeth.”

  “Ha, or if he does.” Raheim downed the last of his ginger ale and stood up. “I’m gonna head out, yo.”

  “Man, it’s not even midnight. The party ain’t even get started yet.”

  “You got yourself some company, so the party just started for you. It’s over for me.”

  This time Angel caught someone peepin’ Raheim. “Not if he has anything to say about it.”

  Raheim’s eyes focused on who Angel was referring to—and they bugged. Bopping straight toward them was Malice, the rapper turned hip-hop mogul. After a couple of million-selling CDs in the mid-nineties, the hits stopped for him and began for his kids. Taking a cue from Master P, he’d been grooming his own son and daughter, who are twins, for the business since they were toddlers. Li’l Lou (Malice Jr., whose middle name is Lewis) sounds a lot like Tevin Campbell, and Melanie (her real first name) borrows from Brandy. Their self-titled debuts, as well as an EP they did together (Best Friends), went double platinum. Malice wrote, produced, arranged, and released all three on his own label, No Malice, and has also served as their manager, agent, and tour coordinator. And it’s truly a family affair: their mother accompanies them on the road, attending all public events as their chaperon.

  Raheim told Angel about him and Malice hookin’ up—but not about his being set up by Malice to be set upon by a half dozen of his hood rat boyz in a hotel room in Los Angeles. Raheim had seen Malice only once since that night eight years ago, and that was one time too many. Next to Ernie Rockland, he was the very last person Raheim wanted to see.

  But judging by the bear smooch Malice gave him, Raheim was just the man Malice wanted to see. “Yo, nigga, whazzup?”

  “Whazzup,” Raheim mumbled.

  “Man, I was just talkin’ about yo’ ass.”

  “Uh-huh,” Raheim grunted. “Malice, this is Angel. Angel, Malice.”

  They brutha-shook.

  “Whazzup, A?”

  “Yo, man, it’s great to meet you. My daughter is a big fan of your son.”

  “Oh yeah? He’ll be at the Virgin megastore in Times Square signin’ and singin’ from his new CD in two weeks.” He went into his back pocket; he handed Angel a postcard announcing the CD’s release and details on the Virgin event and others in the New York area, including appearances on BET’s 106 & Park and MTV’s TRL. Raheim heard he never went anywhere without some kind of promotional material on his kids. “Make sure she comes out.”

  “Thanks. She’s gonna love this.” Angel spotted Jazz. “Uh, I gotta go. But you take jood care of my boyee.”

  “Ha, don’t worry. I intend to.”

  Angel turned to Raheim. “Holla before you leave, a’ight?”

  “I will.”

  Angel joined Jazz on the dance floor.

  Malice grinned. “Man, like I said, I was just talkin’ about you.”

  “You were?”

  “Yeah. We just got the new Right On!; Li’l Lou is on the cover. I turn to the first page and there you are. I didn’t know you was still modelin’ for A-A.”

  Raheim didn’t feel like goin’ over that history—how All-American fired him in 1999 because he’d missed too many photo shoots and publicity events, but rehired him on probation (meaning more folks would see him in magazine and newspaper ads than in public forums) after the September 11 attacks because they wanted to put on a “united” front (they knew they couldn’t truly reflect the diversity of America with a stable of white models and a single Negress)—so he gave him the very short story. “Yeah. But my contract is up in September.”

  “I ain’t seen you in moons, yo.” He half circled Raheim. “But I see you still got them hella-hiya moons in da back.”

  Raheim rolled his eyes.

  Malice stood just inches from Raheim’s face. “You been on the down-low for some time.”

  Raheim couldn’t resist this one. He drew back a step. “I been on the down-low? You the one with the wife on the West Coast.”

  Given all the hype surrounding the “discovery” of down-low men, even boyz like Malice who might fall under that category and once embraced the label don’t like being tagged with it now. He frowned. “Nigga, you know what I mean.”

  “And you know what I mean. Can’t have nobody jumpin’ outta bushes with a camera catchin’ you comin’ out of a spot like this.”

  “Some things never change. You still a funny mutha-fucka.” His eyes darted up and down. “And you still a phyne mutha-fucka. You lookin’ damn jood.”

  Raheim smiled—a little. “You ain’t gonna gimme no love, yo?” Malice groused.

  “What?”

  “You heard. You bein’ chilly ’n’ shit.”

  “No, I ain’t.”

  “You are, too.” He leaned back on the bar. He shook his head. “Nigga, don’t tell me you still stewin’ about that night wit’ Da Camp.”

  “No, I ain’t,” Raheim lied.

  “Yeah, right. You need to let that shit go, brutha. That shit happened, like, moons ago. Whatcha drinkin’?”

  “I don’t want a drink. I was about to leave when you came up.”

  “You can’t go yet.” He grabbed Raheim’s arm.

  Raheim glanced down; he shook his arm free. “Yeah, I can.”

  “C’mon, brutha, don’t be like that. Just have one drink. One drink. So I can just look at your hella-hiya azz for a few more minutes before you break and leave a nigga cold.”

  Raheim’s head was telling him HELL NO but his . . . well, other head was telling him HELL YEAH. And since it had been a jood six months since he had anyone up in his grill, he caved. “One drink. And then I’m outta here.”

  Chapter 9

  Mitchell was heading out of the bathroom and back to his seat when he passed two brothers screeching with delight at the bar. Their joy was directed at another brother, who had his back to Mitchell. And when Mitchell looked down at this brother’s back . . . well, let’s just say that he’d know that ass anywhere.

  It was Montee. Montee Simms. Mitchell hadn’t seen or spoken to him since that Sunday morning in 1995 when Montee dropped Mitchell off at the West Third and Sixth Avenue basketball court after their twenty-four-hour rendezvous. They’d met on the dance floor at a weekly party called Body & Soul and, after two weeks of “accidentally” running into each other in other locales, had a very brief but juicy dalliance while Raheim was in Hollywood making his first film. Since then, Montee has managed to have the kind of music career that many artists never get close to—and that’s saying a lot, considering the fact that he’s an openly bisexual performer.

  You’d think that alone would’ve turned him into a media sensation. But Montee had someone else to thank for his big break . . .

  The Gay Rapper.

  Profiled anonymously in a fanzine called One Nut Network in 1996, this brother sent the hip-hop world into a serious tizzy. Some refused to believe he existed (how could he, when gay and hip-hop are supposedly opposites in every sense of the word?). Others didn’t want to believe he existed but knew that he could (but they would never ad
mit that publicly). And there were those who knew he existed, but wished he’d just go away (this was a side of hip-hop they didn’t want the world to know about). Wherever folks fell on the spectrum, everyone wanted to know who he was. So, a year and a half was spent trying to sniff him out—and snuff him out (after all, he was tarnishing the genre’s image as the domain of only hard-core heteros, and more than a few allegedly straight Negroes boasted they’d eliminate him if they discovered his identity). One of the most vocal “homiesexual” hunters was Wendy Williams, a radio deejay in New York who spent countless hours on the air not only speculating about who the Gay Rapper could be, but who else in the industry might be down. Her riotous, reckless dust-ups caused so much noise that she was allegedly fired for throwing the names of some very popular and powerful acts into the “is he or ain’t he?” hat.

  But just when it seemed the controversy was puttering out, Montee poured more gas on the fire. When asked by a reporter from USA Today doing a short Q&A and review of his first CD if he knew who the Gay Rapper was, he replied without missing a beat: “The Gay Rapper? There’s more than one and I should know—I’ve slept with a few of them.”

  The next thing you knew, he was on Wendy’s show dishin’ the dirt, and his single, “It Ain’t the Same Old Song,” started climbing the charts, eventually peaking at #2 R&B and #11 pop (it stalled in both positions for five weeks). The song eventually went gold and the album it was culled from, Soul-full Sounds, which included a cover of The Intruders’ “I Wanna Know Your Name,” did one better by going platinum and earned him double Grammy, Soul Train, and Image Award nominations. It was the last citation that caused a little ruckus. After all, what kind of “image” could the NAACP be supporting, argued some conservative members and religious pundits, nominating an openly bisexual performer who was unapologetic about his sinful, sexual exploits with other men? But the Old School (not Old Skool) guard that pushed for his nominations didn’t care about who he slept with. As one told Jet, “Too many of today’s young artists sample the songs of old with little regard for where the tunes and the artists that recorded them were coming from. But he [Simms] is a true musician who understands and appreciates that legacy. He doesn’t treat the classics as something to bastardize for a quick hit.” He didn’t win any of the awards, but his commercial success and critical recognition was a triumph not only for the industry (more like a sideswipe, not a body blow, against homo/biphobia) but for the various communities—bisexual, Black and SGL, and white and gay—that claimed him (the social group Bi Any Other Name selected him as their person of the year, Gay Men of African Descent in New York honored him at their annual banquet, and he received the Gay and Lesbian American Music Award/GLAMA for best male vocalist and best new artist, even though he is neither gay nor lesbian).