The Vow

by Denene Millner

  “Who the hell says we’re getting married?” I snap, my patience all but evaporating.

  “Darling, please, it’s obvious that Keith loves you. And if you’ll only be a little more patient and give him a chance, he’ll prove it.”

  “Benita, I’m tired of the both of you,” I sigh. “I’m not speaking to Keith.”

  “Big words from someone who doesn’t have man the first to claim…” she mutters as she dabs at the corners of her mouth with the linen napkin.

  “I’ll have you know that I’m dating quite a few men at the moment,” I shoot back. “In fact, I just made plans to get together with Troy Bennett tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, really?” My mother squeals like a little girl. “Didn’t he just sign a huge endorsement contract? I just read about him in the papers— so handsome and rich!”

  I watch as the wheels start turning in her head and a cold beam enters her eye.

  “I take it that you’re familiar with Mr. Bennett,” I say with a slight sneer.

  “Familiar enough to know that Troy will make the perfect date.”

  “I should think so,” I reply between bites of my salad.

  “Not just for tomorrow, Amaya. What about Thursday night?” she impatiently replies.

  “What’s Thursday night?”

  “You’re so out of the loop it frightens me,” she sighs. “Thursday night is the biannual Rap Renegade party at El Centro. Everyone in that whole hip-hop music industry is going to be in town for that thing.”

  “And just what does that have to do with me?” I pout, realizing that in all three hundred of the unreturned pages and phone messages that Keith has sent since I left Atlanta, he never once mentioned this event, let alone invited me to join him.

  “Well, considering Beat Down Records is a major sponsor of the event, I’m going to assume that Keith will be there,” she explains slowly, as if I were mentally challenged. “Why not light a little fire under Keith’s butt by showcasing the competition?”

  No one could ever say that my mother didn’t have a good idea once in a while.

  “Who knows,” she continues. “The party might be the perfect place for the two of you to start up a new conversation, if you catch my drift.”

  Where my mother’s suggestion ends, the race in my mind begins. I can see it now: I’ll show up on the red carpet wearing a dazzling low-cut Richard Tyler mini-dress on the arm of Mr. Bennett. Naturally we’ll be the evening’s most talked-about couple and the paparazzi will eat us alive. Forced to watch Troy fawn over me all night long, Keith’s mouth and heart will drop to the floor. In fact, the sight of me in another man’s arms may drive him to declare his love for me right in the middle of the party.

  “You know, Benita, you might actually have a good point,” I grudgingly allow.

  “Thank you, my dear,” she says, graciously accepting my compliment. “And you know, in retrospect, you might actually be on to something with this silent treatment. There’s nothing like freezing a man out to make him want you more. And we want that boy to have icicles hanging off him when he sees you with Troy.”

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

  I’M ON MY way home from lunch when I make a last-minute decision to swing by my agent’s office to find out why I’ve missed yet another premiere, see if he’s heard anything about the role, and secure my entry to the Rap Renegade party. Clarence’s office is located in the heart of downtown L.A. and completely out of my way. I hate going there. But a missed premiere and a thirty-day wait to hear back about an audition requires an immediate face-to-face.

  The first thing I notice when I step into the office is the trashy-looking receptionist. With each step I take toward the front desk, I feel my nose crinkling and the far-upper-right corner of my upper lip rising as if something smells really bad.

  “May I help you?” she asks with a roll of the eyes.

  “I’m here to see Clarence,” I start to answer impatiently.

  “Err—um, why don’t you just take a seat over there and I’ma see if his people can find him,” she answers with a simultaneous smack of her chewing gum before I can even finish my sentence.

  As I head over to the old, cracked brown-leather couch against the far wall I make a mental note to donate money to the Robert Kelly Adult Literacy Foundation as soon as I make my first million, because I cannot stand ignorant people.

  “Amaya, my angel,” Clarence exclaims as his sour-looking assistant finally shows me to his office.

  “Do you always make your angels wait so long, Clarence?” I ask sarcastically as I stride past her into his spacious corner office.

  “Aww, don’t be like that. You know I’d never purposely make you wait. I was tying up some loose ends, sweetie,” he oozes as he emerges from behind his black-lacquer desk.

  “Don’t ‘sweetie’ me,” I retort, giving his knockoff Gucci suit and run-down Italian shoes a scornful once-over. “Where was my invite to last week’s Game Over premiere?”

  “Come on, Amaya, you know how those things are. They weren’t inviting anyone except the A-listers,” he hesitates.

  “Oh really?” I retort. “And didn’t you promise me that by now I would be one of those A-listers? Huh, Clarence?”

  I can’t believe how naïve I was when I first moved to Los Angeles. To think that I actually believed that this fool was really somebody in the Hollywood hierarchy—and even worse, that he really cared about me. The only damn thing he cares about is getting his percentage of whatever little check I manage to finagle and an occasional cheap feel. But, quietly, even that would be just fine with me if he helped me land this role.

  “I-I-I, um…” Clarence lamely stutters in response.

  “Because according to my calendar, it’s been damn near a month since I auditioned for that Soular Son project and I still haven’t heard anything. So just what are you doing?”

  “I’ve been pulling in all my favors, Amaya. I swear I have,” he squeaks.

  “Cut the bullshit, Clarence! I’m tired of making nice. I want this goddamn role!”

  “I kn-kn-know,” he starts to stammer.

  “And excuse me if I’m mistaken, but have I not paid my dues? Have I not been extremely accommodating?” I ask.

  “Y-y-yes, yes you have been more than generous,” he squeaks, trying to loosen the tie that suddenly seems to be choking him.

  “Well, then, don’t make me regret it,” I warn between clenched teeth, “because I don’t think your friends, or should I say men whose asses you lick, would appreciate a blind item on Industrywhispers.com with details of all of my so-called meetings with them.”

  “N-n-no, we don’t need that.”

  “Oh, Clarence,” I say, softening my voice and suddenly switching gears, “what’s done is done. I know you’re trying your best.”

  Thinking that the worst is over, Clarence starts nodding his head like one of those godforsaken bobble-head dolls. “Of course, you know I am.”

  “You know I would never do anything to hurt you. It’s just that I absolutely need to know what’s going on. I simply can’t handle the uncertainty.” Tossing my hair over my face, I dramatically fall into the couch. “You know I would do anything to get that role,” I hint seductively as I bury my face in the crook of my arm.

  Like Pavlov’s dog to the bell, Clarence hurries over to the couch and tries to console me. “Amaya, you know that I’m working as hard as I can to get you this role. I’ve pulled out all the stops and I won’t rest till you’re the star you deserve to be.”

  And until you get the nice fifteen percent that you convinced my silly behind to sign away, you low-life bastard, I think as I silently fume. “You know, I haven’t worked on a new project in weeks, Clarence.”

  “I know, I know,” he says, and his beady little eyes hungrily devour my breasts. I watch in pure disgust as he literally licks his lips.

  “So I was thinking maybe you could help me out. You know, just a little something to hold me ov
er until we hear back…”

  “Amaya, you know my policy about lending clients money, but for you anything. Just consider this a gift,” he says as he draws my hand on top of his minuscule erection. “After all, one hand washes the other.”

  No more than ten minutes later, I’m walking out of his office, fifteen hundred dollars richer and needing to wash my hands. “Um, I assume you plan to make up for last week by getting me on the VIP list for the Rap Renegade event this Thursday night, correct?” I state more than ask Clarence from the open doorway.

  “Absolutely,” he mumbles from his crumpled position on the couch.

  “Good.”

  As I pass by his sorry-ass assistant, she shoots me one of her knowing glances, which I return with a “kiss my ass” cut of the eye. Those who can, do. The last thing I plan to worry about is what she thinks of me. She is more than welcome to sit there and screen Clarence’s calls while I shop for Thursday with his money.

  6

  VIVIAN

  Being an entertainment reporter sucks. You’re on all day, every day—constantly thinking about story concepts, interview questions, how you’ll pitch it to your editor, how to work the publicists to get access to the entertainers, how you’ll frame your piece, which quotes you’ll use, whether the other papers—or the slick white boy on the rise who sits next to you—will steal your feature, or, worse, scoop your exclusives. My friends think it’s a glamorous life. I did, too, until I found out what it’s really like to cover Hollywood for one of L.A.’s top tabloids. Er—um, I mean newspapers. You have to stay up on the latest crappy music fads, read mediocre books, watch TV shows and movies that aren’t worth the paper their scripts are written on, interview celebrities who barely know how to spell s-m-a-r-t, much less say something remotely like it during their sputtering, self-serving interviews, and go to overhyped parties and events full of self-important, self-absorbed, C-list “celebrities” who act like their Botox treatments, head-to-toe lipo, silicone implants, dye-jobs, and overpriced, made-in-Taiwan, paid-for-on-Rodeo duds make them capable of parting the Red Sea. Weeks will go by where my days consist of coming in at ten A.M., getting sent out on assignment, coming back and writing on deadline, arguing with my editor over all the ridiculous changes and mistakes he’s edited into my story, then shoving something down my throat as I head over to whatever premiere/party/schmooze fest I’ve been suckered into covering instead of being allowed to write more serious pieces that delve into the business of entertainment, or the smart, thoughtful cultural-criticism pieces I’ve always dreamed of writing.

  Some days I think working in a factory would be more glamorous than this, which is exactly what I’m thinking as I wheel my Saab out of the Los Angeles Daily News parking garage and down La Brea toward a small Beverly Hills studio where my latest occupational hazard is about to show his face. Today my editor socked me with a profile of Young Daddy MC, an aging nineties rapper who, despite not having had a hit since MC Hammer was flapping at the top of the charts, is attempting a comeback as some kind of ladies’ man of hip hop. His new single, “All This Love,” is somewhere on the Top 200, and getting semi-decent play on the pop stations, thanks to MTV2 and some extremely corny white DJs who think they’re cool for knowing who Daddy is. But he’s no Tupac. And he certainly doesn’t deserve any play in the Daily News.

  I tried to explain this to my editor, Joel. He’s such a star-fucker— goes to more parties and gets more Hollywood ass than any journalist should be allowed. But he’s the golden boy at the Daily News, mainly because he’s managed to create titillating celeb coverage that’s got the other major tabloids struggling to keep up. Unfortunately, he’s also my assignment chief. Did I mention that he’s delusional, too? “Come on, Vivian,” he said, leaning a little too close to my face as he loomed menacingly over my desk. His breath stank. “It’s Young Daddy. You know— he did ‘Pop It,’ and ‘Work,’ and ‘Hit That,’” he said all excited, before trying to bust a tune. “Love the way you work that / wanna get at that / baby keep moving that / hit that, hit that, hit that, hit that…”

  “Just, no… stop—that’s, that’s just so unbecoming of a man of your stature,” I said, wincing and shaking my head at my boss. “Please. Stop.”

  “I’m just saying,” Joel laughed, “that this is one of his best songs, and he’s about to go big time—so I’m doing you a favor by handing you this scoop.”

  “Um, I refuse to believe that my career is going to take this great leap forward from writing a four-hundred-word story on a forty-year-old rapper—unless you’re privy to some information you’re holding back from me,” I said dryly.

  “Come on, Viv, it’ll be fun… or at least funny. He’s posing for Playgirl.”

  My gasp was audible. “Playgirl?!” I said, incredulous, taking a moment to let the image of Daddy naked settle into my head. Ugh. “You’re sending me to a Playgirl shoot to watch some old-ass rapper show off his limp penis for a few record sales?”

  Joel looked at his watch. I could tell he was getting annoyed. “Viv, the shoot is at Sea Studios at eleven,” he said. “You need to get moving. I promised his publicist you’d be there to talk to him during makeup and hair—I don’t think he’ll want you there after the photo session starts. I’ve gotta go to the morning edit meeting. Have fun.”

  I rolled my eyes at Joel as he walked away. I was tired of him dumping the scum interviews on me. If it was a piece on an actress who had a minor part in a movie that didn’t stand a chance at the box office, I got the assignment (and she was usually a bitch). If it involved doing something completely ridiculous, like showing readers what it’s like to try out for a spot as a Lakers Girl, the story was mine (I looked a straight ass in that story; every picture showed me flapping and tripping all over myself while the other eight hundred girls auditioning did the moves they were supposed to do). The only time I got to profile white artists was when it was a surly actor the white boys in my office were too scared to talk to, like Robert DeNiro (Joel said he was sending me because DeNiro “likes black chicks, and he’ll probably be more comfortable talking to you”) and Harvey Keitel (thank goodness he stood me up—Keitel is notorious for being a shit in interviews). And all the big stars—Cruise, Roberts, Hanks, Gibson, Pitt—were off limits to me, as were, sometimes, the black ones, like Poitier and Lena Horne. I had to fight to get the Halle Berry, Sam Jackson, and Laurence Fishburne profiles; and the only reason I even got to say Denzel’s name in my office was because Trista knew his agent and hooked me up. Shoot—one of my coworkers is still refusing to talk to me after I accused her of stealing my Angela Bassett interview (a profile, by the way, that ended up on the cover—which happens for black celebrities only when a white reporter gets the byline).

  So let’s just say that it doesn’t surprise me that I am on my way to see Daddy’s wrinkled dick. But I’m not mad (anymore). At least I’ll be able to hammer out my story and be done by six P.M., with no other obligations than to go home and see my son. By the time I pull into the studio parking lot, I’ve already figured out what I’m going to say in my story, as well as the quotes I need to get out of Daddy to make it happen. He is about to get the Vivian autopilot special, a technique that involves not really caring what my subjects have to say, just what I want them to say. As soon as I hear it? Interview over.

  Which is the attitude I have before I even walk into the Sea Studios door. But the dramaless interview I’m hoping for is shot to hell when Daddy’s publicist, Breena Scott, heads me off at the door. I have to stop myself from saying “Damn” out loud; Breena Scott is one of the aging dinosaurs on the Hollywood circuit who most recently made a name for herself spinning the stories of young, hot music artists on the scene back in the mid-nineties. Just as West Coast hip-hop took off, so did Breena’s career; her legendary parties made her a staple of the tabloid gossip columns, and there was hardly a rapper quoted who didn’t speak to her before dialing a reporter’s number—and she made sure everyone knew it. If you weren’t on Bre
ena’s hot list, you got no play, and no play meant no story.

  But as her clients either died off, went to prison, or fell off the charts, Breena spent a bit more time puffing her chest out, and promoting mediocre artists, while she refashioned herself into a self-help guru of sorts. Her book Guilty Pleasures: Enjoying Life When You’re Forty and Fabulous is a staple on the Essence best-seller list, and earns her enough exposure on morning radio to convince her she still has “it.” And still having “it” gives her license to think she can still treat reporters like shit.

  “Breena! Long time no see!” I say with all the enthusiasm I can muster, reaching in to give her an air kiss and a half-hug. And, bitch that she is, Breena tries to pretend she can’t quite place where we’ve met before.

  “Tell me your name again, love,” she says. “You look familiar, but… ”

  “Vivian Evans? The Daily News?” I say. “We worked together on profiles I did on Nia Smalls, Bella Strong, and Aussie?”

  She pauses for a moment, then squints her green contact-filled eyes like she needs to take a moment to process what I’ve just said. “Ah, yes. Vivian Evans,” she says, still acting unsure as she runs her fingers through her wavy, jet-black weave. Then she just moves on. “You’ll have about fifteen minutes with Daddy before the shoot starts. You are not to ask him about his personal life, his split with his old record company, the child-support lawsuit, and especially not his rumored relationship with the pop singer Nikki Spare.”

  “Well, you’ve effectively limited the story to a piece about Daddy and his goods,” I say half-jokingly, making a mental note to ask him about everything she says is off limits at the end of the interview, after I’ve got all the general quotes I need and have nothing to lose if Daddy and Breena get mad and kick me out.

  Breena rolls her eyes. “Let me show you inside,” she says, unamused.

  I’ve barely gotten into the cavernous, stark-white studio before Daddy is all over me—literally. He is in a white bathrobe and flip-flops, swirling ice in a glass full of what I’d venture is some kind of liquor, to judge from the tint of red creeping into the whites of his eyes. Before I can even think about extending my hand to greet him, he reaches for my back with his free hand and pulls me close to him. He smells like a bar at last call—musty, stale, sticky. I fall stiffly into his arms and try not to inhale while he greets me with his vodka breath. “How you doing with yo’ fine self?” he asks, pushing me back to get a better view. I want to wash. “Come on over here so you can get your interview on. Yeah,” he says pushing me ahead of him, no doubt so he could stare at my ass.