“I’d like you to meet Blondy. He is my brother.”
This was not meant to deceive. It was simply the way we felt about each other. And before long I came to be known around town as Serge’s brother. It was a fun and intoxicating lifestyle.
For a while.
As Serge’s posse expanded, I began to feel uneasy about my place in this universe. At one point, I couldn’t even keep track of the number of people who seemed to rely on him for financial support. There were aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, friends I did not even recognize, all living in his sprawling home, or in nearby homes or apartments. There was pressure from his management team to cut expenses, to stop the never-ending flow of cash. I was not part of this circle, for I was still a college student on scholarship, living in a different city. Serge certainly did nothing to make me feel unwelcome. We were friends . . . brothers. I was, however, wary of falling into the trap of exploitation and laziness. I would look around at all the people who depended on Serge, some of whom appeared to be taking advantage of his generosity, and I would think to myself, I do not want to be like that. I want to be independent and find my own way in the world.
Midway through my senior year I told Serge of my plans.
“Bro, after I graduate, I am going to L.A.”
He smiled quizzically. “L.A.? What’s in L.A.?”
“I’m going to be an actor,” I said. Serge knew of my love for theater, and I had told him of my plans to pursue a career in the film industry. But I don’t think he believed me or took me seriously.
Serge shook his head. Then he threw an arm around my shoulder.
“Look, Blondy. Everyone in L.A. is an actor. You know that, right?”
I shrugged, smiled. “Yeah, but most people aren’t very good at it.”
Serge laughed. “I don’t know, my brother. You’re going to have a college degree, you’re a smart guy. Why do you want to be an actor?”
“Because I love it. I want to entertain people. It’s like when I was playing basketball. When I’m up there on the stage—I’m alive!”
Serge nodded sympathetically. “Okay, I get it. But why not take your time? Stay here with me in Oklahoma for a while. I’ll help you find a job, make some money. Do that for a year or two and then go to L.A. Be smart about it.”
I understood what Serge was doing; he had my best interests at heart. To him (and to many other people who knew me), packing up and moving to Hollywood, without a job or connections, seemed like the craziest thing in the world. His advice was sound. I would have a business degree as well as a degree in theater. I had friends in both Tulsa and Oklahoma City who could help me get started on a potentially lucrative career in finance. But the very thought of that life made me queasy.
“That’s just not me,” I told Serge. “I can’t get up every morning, put on a suit and tie, and sit behind a desk all day. I would be so depressed.”
“A lot of people would be grateful for that life,” Serge pointed out. Again, I could not argue with him. With all that I had been through, prudence and security should have been appealing. But it wasn’t. “I know it sounds crazy, bro,” I said. “But this is what I was meant to do.”
CHAPTER 22
* * *
I moved to Los Angeles just a few days after graduating from the University of Tulsa in May of 2014. A friend from Oklahoma City agreed to make the drive with me, just to help the time pass. By now I had upgraded to a 2007 Cadillac CTS. A big, gas-guzzling boat of a car, with some heavy mileage on the engine, but sturdy and reliable enough to make the trip from Oklahoma to Los Angeles, and to provide transportation for months to come. But even the Caddy couldn’t run on empty, and somehow during the marathon drive, while singing African songs with the windows down, I had neglected to keep a careful eye on the gas gauge. I was at the wheel and my buddy Devon was asleep when the car began to sputter. Next thing you know, there we were, pushing a 3,500-pound car down the highway, me on the driver’s side, holding the steering wheel, my buddy Devon on the passenger side.
“How far to the gas station?” Devon asked roughly twenty minutes into the ordeal.
“No idea,” I said. “It can’t be that far.”
It turned out to be approximately three miles from breakdown to refill, which really isn’t all that far—unless you’re pushing a Cadillac the whole way. It took us almost two hours, by the end of which we were both exhausted. It wasn’t until we began filling up the tank that we realized we had chosen the most ridiculous solution to our problem.
“Why didn’t you just walk here and get some gas, then walk back and fill up the car?” the station attendant asked. “Would have been a lot easier.”
I looked at Devon. We both sighed.
Soon enough we were in Los Angeles. I had saved roughly a few thousand dollars (and by “a few” I mean less than five) from my scholarship money, and originally thought this would sustain me long enough to get established in L.A. Obviously my budgeting skills were in dire need of refinement. Again, however, I was fortunate to have love and support. I did not ask the Blitzes for assistance. They had done too much for me already. As it turned out, though, another family stepped in to help.
A couple of years earlier, you see, I had a met a woman named Marissa Brownlee, whose close friend dated Serge Ibaka. We hung out a few times, just as friends, and when Serge broke up with Marissa’s friend, we lost touch. Midway through my senior year at Tulsa, I got a text from Marissa. She had recently married and just wanted to catch up, to see how I was doing.
“You should come over for dinner,” Marissa said. “I’ll introduce you to my husband, Kyle. You guys would get along great.”
One dinner became a friendship that deepened over the next few months. Marissa’s husband worked in finance. They had a comfortable life rooted in faith and family, and they wanted to share some of their good fortune.
“We prayed about you,” Marissa said one night after dinner. “And we want to help you with your dream of becoming an actor. We feel like God would want us to do that.”
To my astonishment, they offered to set up a bank account from which I could draw living expenses while I looked for work both within and outside the industry. That they were willing to offer anything was a surprise; the amount—$3,000 per month, for the next six months—was breathtaking.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Marissa smiled. “You don’t have to say anything. Just work hard and follow your dream.”
So it was that I arrived in Los Angeles on May 16, 2014, armed with a confidence born of love and support, and a completely unexpected financial safety net. At the same time, I must admit that I was completely and utterly clueless.
The first mistake was moving into an apartment in Hollywood—specifically, near the intersection of Sunset and Vine. An iconic location, to be sure, and convenient if you work in the business or merely want to soak up the intoxicating Hollywood atmosphere. But also completely stupid when you have a limited budget and zero connections. The one-bedroom apartment rented for $2,100; and I spent most of my savings to buy a bed and other furniture. When I think of this now, I feel shame and embarrassment. What I should have done was find a cheaper place to live, along with a roommate to split expenses. But I figured $2,100 was a reasonable price for Hollywood. That would leave me $900 to buy food and gas; soon enough, I’d have a job anyway. Isn’t that what everyone did when they came to Hollywood? Go to auditions during the day and wait on tables during the evening. I could do that. How hard could it be?
Like I said—clueless. Utterly clueless.
I had learned how to budget my time and work hard in college, but this was different. Living on your own, as an adult, requires another skill set, and I had not developed those skills. Moreover, I had never held a job. I was always too busy playing basketball and taking a full load of courses and working in theater productions to hold a part-time job. As a result, I made some rather egregious and humiliating mistakes. For example, I applied for a
job at a hotel. Nothing special, just working the front desk. In filling out the application form, I came to a question about “salary requirements.” I thought for a moment, and then pulled a number out of thin air.
“Thirty-five dollars per hour.”
Yes, that seemed like reasonable compensation—for the manager of the hotel, perhaps. I did not realize that this was a minimum wage position, which at the time was nine dollars per hour (although I was unaware of that threshold, as well). I did not get the job or any other job. Repeatedly I would fill out applications with salary requirements that must have appeared to employers as some sort of joke or exercise in ridiculous grandiosity.
For the longest time, I couldn’t even get an interview. Eventually I got a call from AFLAC, the insurance company. At first it sounded like a good job, with the potential to earn several thousand dollars per month. There was just one catch: income was derived entirely from commission sales. I took the job anyway. They gave me a packet of information, a short training session, and then sent me on my way to find new clients. I made a couple of cold calls, went to one meeting, and quickly realized I wasn’t cut out for this line of work.
After two or three months, I figured out that my salary demands were out of touch with reality, so I stopped including that information on job applications. It didn’t matter. No one would hire me. I would get up in the morning, put on a suit, and walk to Target . . . or Walmart . . . or Best Buy . . . or Bed Bath & Beyond. You name the big box retail outlet, I probably applied there. Never got a callback from any of them. My appearance probably didn’t help. Too tall, too dark, too heavy an accent. And completely inexperienced. I applied for jobs as a busboy and waiter. Again, with no success whatsoever.
I wasn’t even looking for acting jobs. I didn’t have an agent or a manager or any friends in the business who could give me a boost. I had presumed that I would be able to get a part-time job quickly to pay the bills. I convinced myself that no one would hire me as an actor unless I could demonstrate stability in other aspects of my life—by getting a job, for example. When that didn’t happen, I became depressed and unfocused and things began to spiral out of control. I wasn’t eating much or going to the gym. I began to lose weight. I had trouble sleeping. I could feel anxiety and panic creeping around the edges of my life.
Near the end of Month Three, bad turned to worse, in the form of a phone call from my friend Marissa. Her family had experienced a financial challenge and they would have to abort their plans to provide me with assistance.
“How soon?” I asked.
“One more month.”
What could I say? They had already extended to me kindness and generosity well beyond anything I expected or deserved. I thanked them for their help and said that I would be fine. Plenty of leads on jobs, acting gigs around the corner. No need to worry about Blondy. I was trying to convince them as much as myself.
Even though I had less than $500 left in my bank account, I decided to use almost $300 to buy a plane ticket to attend draft day with Jordan Clarkson in his hometown of San Antonio. Jordan was like family to me, and this was one of the biggest days of his life; I couldn’t miss it for anything. Jordan and his family and I all celebrated together when he was drafted by the Washington Wizards midway through the second round. The Wizards, in turn, quickly sold his rights to the Los Angeles Lakers.
When we were freshman roommates, we talked all the time about playing in the NBA. I was considered a stronger prospect than Jordan coming out of high school, simply because I was so big, and so raw and inexperienced—there was the assumption that I would improve greatly in college. That, of course, did not happen. My career ended before it had barely begun; but my friend was in the league, which was the next best thing. And best of all, he would be coming to L.A. Finally, I would have a friend in town!
Jordan moved out west in July, and the Lakers put him up in a hotel. Many second-round draft picks do not even make an NBA roster, but the Lakers were confident that Jordan had been underestimated. Once he began summer workouts with the team, their confidence only grew.
Still, Jordan wasn’t happy living in a hotel, so I invited him to stay at my place.
“I’m only going to be here another month or so,” I told him. “I’m running out of money. But you can stay here as long as I have the place. Then once you get your own apartment, maybe I can crash for a couple months while I look for a job.”
Jordan said no problem. We were like brothers, and brothers take care of each other. Before long he had moved into my apartment. I gave him the bedroom while I slept on the couch because I figured he needed the rest more than I did; after all, he was the professional athlete. Pretty soon I was out looking at houses with Jordan and his mom, since I was at least somewhat familiar with the area. They ended up renting a nice but not extravagant three-bedroom place in Lawndale, about fifteen minutes from the Lakers’ practice facility. I was happy for Jordan and relieved that I would have a place to stay for a little while.
Or so I thought.
The strangest thing happened after Jordan moved out of my apartment and into his place. He became a ghost. He ignored my texts and did not return my calls. By this point I had already informed the leasing office in my apartment building that I would be moving out. I began to panic. I thought perhaps Jordan was merely busy and hadn’t seen my messages; eventually he’d get back to me. But as the weeks went by, it became apparent that something was wrong. I couldn’t imagine what I had done to offend him. We were such close friends, with so much shared history. I had let him crash at my place, and he had promised to reciprocate. I had made it quite clear that this would be only a temporary arrangement; just as I did not want to ride Serge Ibaka’s coattails in Oklahoma, I had no desire to exploit my friendship with Jordan in Los Angeles. I knew that if he made it in the league (and I was confident that he would), the hangers-on would come out of the woodwork. I was not going to be part of that group. I simply wanted a place to stay for a month or two while I tried to line up a job.
“Jordan, please tell me what’s up,” I texted him. “I’m going to be homeless. Can I at least crash in your garage for a little while? Please . . .”
There was no response.
In desperation, I reached out to a former high school classmate named Connor who was now living in L.A.
I explained my situation to Connor, told him that I needed a place to stay for a while and to store my stuff.
“Come on over,” Connor said.
In the next few days I moved into the apartment with Connor and his three roommates. I brought a bed, sofa, and TV, but they made room for all of it. The only catch was that Connor said he expected me to stay for six months, since they were going to get rid of some of their furniture to make room for mine. I agreed because I had no choice. I needed a place to stay.
A few weeks later I began getting interviews for some jobs, including one as a retail clerk at a Louis Vuitton store. I thought I was going to get the job, and told Connor I might be moving out, and that I’d have to take my stuff with me. It never occurred to me that my leaving might upset Connor; in fact, I thought it would make him happy, as the apartment was crowded and I was a nonpaying tenant. So his response caught me completely off guard.
“Who do you think you are?” Connor shouted. “You told me you would be here for six months, and now you’re leaving? Fuck you!”
I was speechless. I had never seen this side of Connor before. He had always been so laid-back and friendly. But since moving in, I also had discovered that Connor smoked a lot of weed, and maybe this wreaked havoc with his emotions. For whatever reason, he flipped out on me.
“You ain’t shit, Blondy. Why don’t you go back to Oklahoma? No, why don’t you go back to Africa?”
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing or hearing. Connor’s girlfriend was there at the time, and she did her best to get him to calm down, but he was completely out of control.
“Bro, why are you talking to me like this?”
I asked. “We’re friends.”
“Fuck you! Get out of my house, you stupid . . .”
That’s when he dropped the N-word.
Now, I am not a fighter. I mean, I am a fighter; I am a survivor. But I am not one to throw down at the slightest provocation, or even at a severe provocation. I believe in love and peace and brotherhood. I believe that good triumphs over evil, and that anger and hostility accomplish nothing. Still, as I stood there in front of Connor—my friend!—I could feel my blood beginning to boil. That word is so ugly, so repulsive, so filled with contempt and hatred.
I looked down at Connor. He was much smaller than me; he did not provoke fear. I felt my hands curling into fists, and the adrenaline coursing through my veins. This happened to me sometimes like with Patrick and my coach at Golding. Confronted by aggression, I would be transported back to my childhood, and the helplessness I felt. I had learned over the years how to swallow the fear, to beat back the obvious symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. I learned how to walk away from confrontations whenever walking away was an option.
And yet, there I was, ready to launch.
One punch and he’s out cold, and this whole thing is over. And he deserves it.
I took a few deep breaths. Connor’s girlfriend implored me to leave, before I did something stupid. I thought about what might happen, how the temporary satisfaction of hitting him would quickly be replaced by regret—not just regret over hurting my friend, but over consequences sure to follow. It was not my apartment, after all. I was a black man involved in an altercation with a white man, in the white man’s apartment. And I was 6 feet, 8 inches tall. I wasn’t even a citizen, for goodness’ sake. I tried to imagine the police showing up, and how I would be treated. I would be viewed as the instigator, the troublemaker. I might lose my visa. One punch and I’d be arrested and deported.
The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Page 23