by Gayl Jones
I hope you’s a nicer girl than you looks is what I mean. ’Cause you don’t look like you’s a wifeable woman at all to me.
BOOK
THREE
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
I told the gum-chewing secretary who look like a Scandinavian, you know, one of those Viking types, one of them blond types, kinda look like a movie star herself, seem like I seen her in one of them movies, that we were there to see Mr. Schacter. I gave her Joan Savage’s name, then my name. She said, You’re early and told us to be seated, that he hadn’t arrived yet. I stood looking at his wall of stars—that is the people that his company had made stars. And then there was another wall of them that he referred to as “emerging talents” because they weren’t yet stars, but the Schacter people were promoting them and had faith that they’d become stars. In fact, the Schacter people referred to themselves as starmakers, although their wall of stars in the larger world of show business superstars might still be referred to as “emerging talents”—there weren’t any Madonnas or Michael Jacksons or the Artist Formerly Known as Princes or Queen Latifahs or Whitney Houstons among them—but if Joan were so insistent on wanting to make it in America, her own country, I figured the Schacter people were good people for an emerging “emerging talent.”
Joan was dressed in a feathered headdress and a feathered boa, pink toreador trousers, banana yellow stockings, one high-heeled boot and one high-heeled shoe, wearing some kind of makeup that looked like neon, and looking like the very stereotype of a fool. The secretary looked at her matter-of-factly, like it was normal dress for the sorta entertainers that Mr. Schacter was usedta seeing. Rock star wannabes. Mr. Schacter didn’t represent many rap singers, except for the mainstream-type rap, the “bubblegum rap,” but none of the gangsta-type rap singers. She turned back to her computer. She herself was wearing one of those pink linen or linen-look suits, a white sweatshirt—not blouse—with blue necktie scarf, and on her feet were white running shoes. Except for the chewing gum, she fit the stereotype of the high-class broad, the modern high-class broad who wears running shoes. A Joan Fontaine type, though.
Weren’t you in Chinatown? Joan asked, signifying. I mean, the movie, with Jack Nicholson.
I know who she signifying about, ’cause she do look kinda like that woman in Chinatown, But look kinda like all them blond women in the movies, like she could be all them blond women in the movies.
Mr. Schacter came in in a rush, took one look at Joan and knew who we were. Over the telephone I’d imagined an older man, but he looked like a youngster. I first met him through reading some of his Rock Journalism, though, and shoulda figured him for a youngster, since some of his comments on classic rock seemed from the perspective of a younger generation, not the Woodstock Generation. A tall, thin man, dark-haired, shaggy aggressive eyebrows, maybe like a young Jack Nicholson’s, though taller than Jack Nicholson, and what Joan calls Steppenwolf eyes. Reminds me, though, a little of that James Woods, that other movie star. A young James Woods. And maybe even a little of Robert DeNiro, though they ain’t the same type. A mixture of Jack Nicholson the Steppenwolf James Woods Robert DeNiro and a Wall Street banker type, the stereotype of a Wall Street banker type, like in that movie Wall Street. Before even taking us into his office he started talking fast. It was only until someone else came into the outer office, a demure-looking young woman, that he rushed us into his.
Have a seat, gals, he said. He rushed out the terms of the contract. So what do you think, Harlie?
Now I don’t like nobody to call me Harlie, or any diminutive of my name, especially nobody I don’t know. I coulda told the fool a thing or two, but I didn’t want to screw up things for Joan. I didn’t wanna sabotage her career, you know. I wanted to separate my manager’s ego or rather my Harlan ego from my manager’s ego and Joan’s entertainment possibilities and entertainer’s ego, so I just let him call me what he wanted, Harlie me, though I wanted to say, That’s Mizz Eagleton to you, boy, sorta like that song Billie Holiday sing, Billie Holiday ain’t her true name, but she wouldn’t let nobody call her outa her name. Course her name already Billie so anybody calling her Billie would call her Billie, but that song she sing ain’t nobody call her Billie. That’s Mizz Eagleton to you, boy. Now, if he had called Joan Joanie I mighta said something. Or she herself mighta said something to the fool.
You don’t talk to her, you talk to me, said Joan.
Ain’t Harlie your manager? You’re Harlie, ain’t ya?
I’m Harlan, yes. Mizz Eagleton.
Well? From what I hear you’re a real hot shot of a business manager, one of the best new managers in the business actually. Somebody called here asking about you, Nance said, probably read somewhere in some entertainment tabloid—what’s that new magazine, the African-American Entertainer?—about your negotiations with us, trying to get you to manage them, I suspect, but we didn’t give out your number, no I think Nance did give ’em your number, then she realized it’s your private number ain’t to be given out, I apologize for Nance she’s got show business dreams herself, you know, and likes to be nice to these bums ’cause don’t know who’ll be a big star, you know, so treats every show business bum like they’s a big star, you know, but told them as far as we knew you only manage Joanie here. To tell the truth, before our Joan got you for her manager, I hadn’t even heard of this girl myself. I know Mizz Cavada—that’s Nance my secretary—hadn’t heard of her and she knows every bum in the business. She knows more bums in the business than I do and I’m in the business, But when you got show business dreams you think the more bums you know in the business, you know. To tell the truth I only keep up with the stars I make myself, I’m the power behind the stars, at least the stars I make myself, so I don’t have to know every bum in show business, and I sure don’t treat every bum in the business like a big star. I don’t even treat big stars like big stars. The bigger the star the more you treat ’em like ordinary people. They ain’t royalty. Course there’s royalty that flirt with show business, but they don’t want you to treat ’em like royalty. That’s true royalty. But even true royalty can’t buy stardom. They might can buy fame, but they can’t buy stardom. Of course, stars gotta make themselves, but I’m one of the men who gives them the opportunity to make themselves. And most people haven’t even heard of me. They’ve heard of the stars I make, those who’ve done the best at making themselves, but not of the man who makes the stars. Some starmakers advertise themselves, but not the Schacter people. She’d heard of Harlie, Nance I mean, but she hadn’t heard of you.
Toot her horn for her, said Joanie. Maybe you should hire Harlan to manage you the tales I hear about you, boy. I’m my own manager now, Schacter. She cain’t do a thing for me but my makeup, and the way I tell her to. Me myself and I. That’s who you talk to. Me myself and I, International. I’m my own manager now. I’m my own starmaker, but I hear you’re pretty good, though. Harlan says you write pretty good Rock Journalism. The Village Voice, ain’t it? I ain’t read any of it myself.
I sat down in one of the vinyl chairs and looked at them. I’d been her manager on the way to the Schacter office. I’d been her manager when we first started negotiating with the Schacter people. I just figured she was trying to embarrass me in front of one of the top booking agents, so I refused to be embarrassed. I sat down in one of the vinyl chairs. It was real leather, but it had one of those modern looks, you know in the old days they made vinyl that tried to look like real leather, now the modern designers are trying to make leather to look like real vinyl. Mr. Schacter even had one of those little stereotyped miniature practice golf sets, so’s he could practice his golf swing. Joan looked at the miniature golf set like she wanted to practice her golf swing, though she don’t even play golf, then she looked at the posters on Mr. Schacter’s wall. He collected the posters advertising his talent’s first concerts, at least the first concerts they’d had after signing with his company. Most looked like carnival acts, but a multicultural carnival,
even a Native American among them—I didn’t know any Native American pop singers—who the poster said combined traditional Native American music with contemporary rock. The poster also said he was collaborating with several contemporary Native American poets on a Native American rock opera. Then one of Mr. Schacter’s coffee table books caught my attention; Spite, Malice & Revenge: The Complete Guide to Getting Even: Three Diabolical Volumes in One: An A–Z collection of every dirty trick in the book. Warning; This volume contains some techniques which may be illegal; therefore it is offered for entertainment purposes only. The original publisher’s price was over fifty dollars but Mr. Schacter had paid only nine ninety-five for it. Or maybe someone had sent it to him as a complimentary copy. Schacter didn’t look like the type to need a catalogue of dirty tricks. I went over to one of the shelves that had a collection of Rock Journalism, including his famous essay on Madonna.
Well, from what I know, she’s done more for you than that, said Mr. Schacter. Your makeup I mean. And if she did that makeup you’re wearing, I’d get me a new girl to do my makeup and keep her for my manager. Makes you look like you’re advertising yourself. Why, you look like a Las Vegas casino, or maybe one of them cheap Atlantic City casinos where you figure all the roulette tables gotta be rigged. With our label and connections you won’t have to try so hard to sell yourself. You can be yourself. I like my stars to be themselves. I know you’re more intelligent than you look.
And less intelligent than I wanna be, said Joan, then she started mimicking and improvising off of something we heard on the Comedy Channel, something that one of the politicians said, or someone satirizing one of the politicians said. Ah got more intelligence than Ah need, and more intelligence than you think Ah got, but less intelligence than Ah want. I manage my own career now, boy, she added, strutting about the room. Peacocking. She picked up the revenge book, looked at it with amusement, and probably made a mental note to add it to her collection—though she mostly liked to collect the obscure sorts of paperback books, fiction and nonfiction, that didn’t make the best-seller lists—but didn’t open it. She put it down.
I like my makeup and I like who I am, said Joan. Every dirty trick in the book.
• • •
That’s all right by me, said Schacter, handed her the contract, and winked at me.
I glanced back into the Rock Journalism book, at the various photographs of Madonna. Tina Turner the only rock star of color in the book, though someone had written an article about the Japanese and rock, this place in Japan where the Japanese youth imitate their favorite American rock stars.
And those freaks you got on your walls don’t look like they’re striving to be themselves or anybody else, added Joan, then she looked at the contract casually and signed. I shrugged my shoulders, put the Rock Journalism book back on the shelf, then sat back down. Joan paraded over to the desk and handed Mr. Schacter the contract. Mr. Schacter smiled, winked at me again, and looked like the proverbial catbird.
Coming? said Joan imperiously.
I stood.
Good day, ladies, said Mr. Schacter.
He got you for a song, I muttered outside. He screwed you royally. You didn’t even read that contract. I faxed him my corrections but he gave you the contract I originally bitched about. He screwed you royally.
I expected her to come back with something witty, one of her own metaphors for a royal screwing, or to tell me who screwed her royally before she even met Mr. Schacter or the Mr. Schacters of the show business world, but she didn’t. At least, not until we got into the lobby, then she whispered. Who screwed whom before who caught whom screwing whom before who screwed whom?
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
This is marvelous, Joan, I said, peering into the microscope, I hadn’t peered into a microscope since high school. I’d audited a course in research cosmetology at beauty school—not research cosmology, as I once read in one of those entertainment tabloids that profiled new managers in the business; they’d interviewed me and I’d said something about an early interest in research cosmetology but the media woman had written it up as research cosmology—I don’t know a beauty school that teaches research cosmology, but you know how that is. We didn’t even peer into microscopes in the research cosmetology class. They just told you about the chemistry of different cosmetics. And we learned how to make cosmetics using different foods: cucumbers, avocado, mayonnaise. Anyway, so I turned and it wasn’t Joan standing in the bedroom door but her ex-husband, James.
I thought you were Joan, I said. This is nice. Is this yours? Well, I guess it must be yours. Joan don’t use no microscopes in her act.
Yes.
It’s like a whole little world.
He came and stood next to me. He smelled of tobacco and lavender.
That’s my first microscope, he explained. My father gave it to me when I was seven. I was hooked. They make more powerful microscopes than that nowadays, though. Computer imaging and all of that. That’s really primitive compared to the new electronic microscopics nowadays. I’m designing one myself. Looking into a microscope is rather like discovering new worlds, new galaxies.
He pulled out the slide I’d been looking at and put in another one.
This is wonderful. This is a whole little world, though, ain’t it, primitive or not? . . . That’s how my husband got interested in what he does. My ex-husband, I mean. His father gave him a record of African folk songs when he was little. And that’s when he first started learning different African languages. He taught himself most of those languages just listening to them singing, and then he went to the local library to try to get African-language books, but then the only language they had was Swahili. So he wrote to the Library of Congress and got some books from them on the different languages. They sent him some of those books that the military use to teach their people different languages. He learned a coupla those languages when he was a little boy and just kept learning different ones. They’re African Methodists or something, you know, so he’s always been more romantic about Africa than I am. He’s always thought of Africa as his land of origins, whereas for me my land of origins is New Orleans, you know. America. I don’t think I should call it romanticism about Africa, though, because he ain’t a fool. He knows who he is and he knows what Africa could be. I don’t think he ever saw himself as colored, though, like most of us. You remember when we usedta be colored? Like that movie, You know, that Tim Reid movie. I know I usedta be colored. I paused. He goes around collecting medical folklore, though. I mean, my ex-husband Norvelle. He’s an anthropologist. He was interested in being a naturalist for a while, though. But he’s always been interested in things African, you know. And it ain’t like a fad like with a lot of people. When Africa’s in vogue, they’s African. You know how a lot of us colored people are. When Africa ain’t in vogue or Africa’s just a land of embarrassments, we’s multiracial or some shit. Or we’s just Americans and don’t wanna be no hyphenated Americans. Or they don’t want you to be no hyphenated American when you’s proud of being African. When they can shame you about Africa, then they tell you you ain’t no true American, Norvelle, though, he’s got all these African sculptures by people I’d never even heard of, you know. The traditional African tribal sculptures, anonymous, you know, ’cause them traditional tribal sculptors didn’t put they names to they sculptures, like them European sculptors, but also he probably owns the largest collection outside a museum or even inside a museum of sculptures by named Africans. He’s really cultured, I mean in our culture, in African and neo-African culture.
You needn’t qualify it, just say he’s cultured.
I know, but when people talk about culture, you know, when they say people are cultured—well, you know what they mean. They always just mean European culture. They don’t even mean Chinese culture and they say Chinese culture is a more ancient culture than European culture, that them Asian cultures is more ancient than them European cultures. I remember when I was in high school,
though, we had this teacher who was talking about culture, and you know, she kept talking about culture how people gotta have culture and treating us like none of us had any culture, mostly African Americans and poor whites, you know. That was when the schools first got integrated or desegregated and all the rich whites and numerous middle-class whites went to private schools, so in the city public schools you had mostly the African Americans and the poor whites or the lower-middle-class whites. So I guess she’d applied to teach in one of them private schools, but maybe she wasn’t cultured enough herself, so there she was teaching in the public schools where ain’t nobody got no culture, so she was talking about culture, like I said, and I thought she was cultured, you know, ’cause I only thought culture meant their culture. But Norvelle, that’s my ex-husband—I said that, did I say that?—he sorta reminds me of them African noblemen. Why, a lot of us men remind me of African noblemen when you look at them as African men and not as colored people. So when I met Norvelle and went to Africa I learned that you could be cultured and not be European, you know. Like those Masai we met, they all act like noblemen, like men of culture, though they ain’t all noblemen. But they’s all men of they own culture. And the womens all women of they own culture, though the Masai men seem more cultured to me than the women.
He removed that slide and placed in another one.
Where’s Joan? I asked.
She’s out riding.
You got horses?
Just two. Both named after herself—Joan and Savage.
Your name’s Savage too, I said. Savage ain’t Joan’s original name. Them horses is named after you and her.
He said nothing. I finished looking at the slides and sat down on the edge of the bed. He leaned against the counter where the microscope and slides were kept. His forehead was shining. On the shelves were a few chemistry books.