He was behind the desk with the L.A. Times sports section open and his eyes on the computer monitor. Hard to believe he could read the screen with those sunglasses on. I also heard that Rihanna music that was a part of DeMarco’s personal social media page, which I’d told him was another no-no while at work.
As I got closer, I could see he’d been reading a newspaper profile on Tyrell Kincaid, the professional basketball player who’d recently been outed by some radical gay and lesbian activist group due to his ongoing friendship / relationship with R&B singer Tommie Jordan, though Jordan’s camp denied the reports and Kincaid’s camp was silent on the matter. I didn’t believe any of the speculation, especially when it came from hard-core activists whose main agenda seemed to be making people angry rather than making people whole or solving problems. I heard the guys in LADS gossiping daily about which rapper or actor they wanted to be gay, or about someone they knew who had supposedly dated a celebrity. All the gays had fantasies of turning out a famous person. I thought it was all ridiculous—wanting someone out of your league and who you could never have—and I was glad I hadn’t bought into too much of L.A.’s obsession with celebrity.
One of the things I’d tried to get the staff and clients of LADS to do was spend less time online and more time reading newspapers, books, and magazines for their information. Not that they couldn’t do the same with the Internet. To me, it just somehow felt more real to pick up a piece of paper and read versus pointing, clicking, and browsing. Well, I guess we did the same with a newspaper, but still. I chalked it up to the generational differences between those in their twenties and those who were older.
I cleared my throat. “Good morning, DeMarco,” I said.
“Oh, um, good morning, Malcolm,” he said. “How was your weekend?”
“It was…”
“Mine was off the hook,” he said with a large smile on his face. He loved showing off his new braces, courtesy of the dental plan he was now able to take advantage of through his job. “I met the finest dude online, and he made me spaghetti, and we kicked it at his place, and he drove me around in his new ride…a BMW 5-series. I think I’m in love.”
“You’re always in love, DeMarco,” I said and chuckled. “My weekend was okay, thanks for asking. Got a little situation I’m trying to solve, but otherwise…”
“Did you know Tyrell Kincaid bought a house for that woman with eight kids whose house burned down this spring? Not the Octomom, but a sista with two sets of twins and four other kids…all under ten years old.” DeMarco folded up the newspaper article like he’d just finished it right when I walked in the door. The A-D-D-ness of it all, how DeMarco could change subjects like nothing, but it still made sense…to him.
“Nice try, DeMarco. I know,” I said. “I also know you’re online for something other than work. I hear your music.”
“Busted,” he said. Smiled. Good kid, but twenty, and still thought he was smarter than those older than he. “But I am working too. I’m reading about Tyrell Kincaid, and you haven’t seen the community room yet, have you?”
“Not yet. Are we set up for Tyrell’s keynote talk tonight?”
“All done, Malcolm,” he said and smiled. And then took down his shades. “My bad.”
“Mmmmm-hmmmm.”
“Desiree’s bringing the catering from Watts Coffee House by five fifteen, Tyrell should be here at five fifty, doors open at six, Tyrell starts at six fifteen.”
He pulled out his planner with a partially completed checklist for the evening’s keynote address. I was impressed. Maybe he had been learning from his work at LADS.
“Wow, you’re on top of it,” I said. “You must really be in love. Getting your work done early and actually finishing it. What time did you come in?”
“I was here by seven,” he said. “I have a reason to wake up in the morning, now that I’ve got this job…and my new man.”
I wanted to reply with, “Whom you’ve known for just two days,” but didn’t want to deflate his young feelings about his new lover. Been there, done that enough to know that next Monday when I came to work, DeMarco would be talking about a new lover. Ahh, the curse and benefit of being a new kid on the scene…as soon as you lost flavor for one, you’d surely pick up another. Just. Like. That.
Instead, I replied, “Good for you, DeMarco. I hope this one works out.”
“I’m sure it will,” he said. “In fact, I told him about the Tyrell Kincaid event here and he said he’d stop by.”
“It’s RSVP only, remember.”
“I got connections, Malcolm, I’m the RSVP system,” he said and smiled. Held up his clipboard with the names of guests and donors who’d called in to attend. Those names, I had my police officer friend Omar Etheridge run a quick background check on, just in case any crazies decided to attend.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ma be in my office if you need anything. No messages?”
“Just the usual, boss,” he said. “I got this all taken care of. But I want you to look at the community room and how I set it up. I hope you like it.”
“I will,” I said. “And I’m sure I’ll like it. You do good work around here, DeMarco.”
“Awww, thanks. I love my job.”
I grabbed mail from my inbox behind the reception desk and walked down the hall to check on the community room. Along the way, I checked to make sure DeMarco had vacuumed extra thoroughly and that he had straightened out the pictures and posters along the wall. Check.
DeMarco had done beyond a good job getting the community room ready for Tyrell Kincaid’s talk. He’d done an excellent job, and I would be sure to note that in my introduction for the event and in DeMarco’s next job evaluation. Catering tables in place, with Sternos ready for Watts Coffee House’s soul food delivery. Chairs lined up in neat rows. Black and gold chair covers and bows in place. Crisply creased programs, featuring an agenda and biographical information on Tyrell Kincaid, on the chairs. Podium with the LADS logo in place and the sound equipment ready to go. All we needed were the flower arrangements featuring Tyrell’s team’s colors on both sides of the podium later in the day and we’d be set.
I was amazed and happy that there was one less thing for me to worry about thanks to the work DeMarco had done that morning. Days like this, when a major event was scheduled to happen at LADS, could turn my normally calm and centered personality into an unpredictable and crazy one. And the guys didn’t like that side of me.
Before sitting down to write my introduction of Tyrell Kincaid on my work computer, I pulled out my personal laptop to take a look at the GayClick website. I wanted to make sure the videos featuring me were no longer active on the site. Not the kind of thing I wanted lingering for more people to see.
And as I’d requested, there were no more videos of me on the site. I checked and cross-checked under any possible category they could have been filed under. Nothing. Relieved, I packed away my personal laptop, hung up the garment bag that contained the suit and tie I’d change into for the Tyrell Kincaid event in the evening.
Sent up a silent prayer of thanks that I would no longer have to worry about seeing myself on pornographic websites. Little miracles happened every day, and this was proof that the day would indeed be a good one.
Chapter 6
The event with Tyrell Kincaid went off perfectly from start to finish. From Tyrell’s arrival and handling, to the seating for LADS guests and donors, to how the guys who received services from LADS acted during the event, I couldn’t complain.
What I specifically appreciated was that Tyrell talked about all the things that I’d asked him to address—areas important to the mission of LADS: personal responsibility, empowerment, integrity, and care for self and community. They were all messages I emphasized in my work. While the young men appeared to listen to me, they really listened to Tyrell Kincaid, tall, dark, hip, handsome, smart, pro basketball player. They, in their Black and Queer glory and diversity: hip-hop hardness, baseball hats, jerseys, ba
ld fades, side-part comb-overs, 42-inch sew-in weaves, skinny jeans, ultra-plucked eyebrows that looked like McDonald’s arches, quarter-sized hickeys on the neck like fast-food “may I take your order” front-line restaurant workers, and lip gloss.
In fact, Tyrell was a hit with the boys—well, young men. In addition to sharing his message of hope and inspiration, he gave them all new iPods as well as gift cards to pick up a free pair of Kincaid sneakers at a local athletic shoe store. Everyone was surprised and happy with the gifts.
As many in the crowd lingered around the buffet table of various soul food dishes for a reception, I pulled Tyrell aside near the podium. In addition to wanting to give him his honorarium for speaking, I wanted to share my personal thanks for his time at LADS.
“No need for thanks, Malcolm,” he said in response to my greeting. “I’m happy to do this. We need more places like this in our neighborhoods, and we need men like you giving these young guys some guidance. I think if I’d had a place like this when I was growing up, I’d have made different choices with life, relationships, all of it.”
“I was surprised when you agreed to come,” I said. “I mean, pro basketball players aren’t exactly known for their social justice and political stances, especially around issues of sexual orientation. And I wasn’t sure if you’d be comfortable talking about your personal experience.”
“Then you must not know much about me,” Tyrell said. “Outside of the gossip and hearsay…and the stereotypes you hear about pro-ballers.”
I wished I hadn’t opened my big mouth with an awkward and sweeping statement about athletes. I’m sure he’d heard that and more during his athletic career. I didn’t know much about basketball players. I could have admitted that I barely knew who Tyrell was until I’d Googled him after some of the young men at LADS mentioned him during one of our LADSrap meetings a few months earlier.
Learned that Tyrell Kincaid grew up in Washington, D.C., in a middle-class household with both parents, double majored in English and African American Studies at UCLA, earned his degree while playing basketball for the university, and had had a mediocre career in the NBA, having sat on the bench for four of the five teams he’d been traded to in the past five years. Also learned that he was twenty-six and perpetually single, though some of the gossipier websites and those bitter gay activist types tried to link him to this one R&B singer, Tommie Jordan. I’d heard the rumors among friends, especially from Kyle, who swore it based on his connections in the entertainment industry, but never knew what to believe and not to believe. So I left it alone.
“My apologies,” I said. Tried to smile off the awkwardness as much as I could. “Anyway, it was nice having someone of your status to talk to my guys.”
“No apology needed, man,” he said and stuck out his hand to fist-bump mine. “I deal with nervous people all the time who say foot-in-mouth things to me. I have that effect on people, I hear.”
I smiled. It was nice Tyrell was so down-to-earth and well-spoken. Modest. If not for his fame, I could have seen us being friends in another time and place, like if I were nine years younger and went to UCLA instead of Northwestern where maybe we would have crossed paths.
“Anyway, Tyrell, here’s your honorarium,” I said and reached into my portfolio sitting next to the podium. “It’s not much, but it’s our token of appreciation for your time.”
“Cool,” he said and looked at the check I was embarrassed to write him. “Wow, the low three digits. Plus a signing bonus of thirty cents. That’ll buy a nice dinner out, huh?”
“Okay, don’t clown me at my work. I hardly know you.”
“Then get to know me,” he said. “Let me use this honorarium to meet you for dinner sometime.”
“What? Huh? Me?”
“Nah, man, I mean your young assistant with the stunna shades over there,” he said pointing to DeMarco. “You…if it’s cool. I’m a little famous, but I’m normal. I eat. I talk.”
I was a little surprised that Tyrell wanted to hang out with me, but figured it would be a good opportunity to network for the benefit of LADS. Securing a new donor, and one of Tyrell’s status and fame, would be a coup and secure me additional brownie points with the board of directors. We needed to shore up our reserves for long-term planning for the organization.
“Sure,” I said. “Name the time and place and I’m there.”
“I’ll give you a ring here at the center,” he said and handed me one of his business cards. “Or you call me. And we’re in business.”
And with that, our business for the day was done, and I had a pending dinner meeting with Tyrell Kincaid.
Chapter 7
“So were you pleased with the day, DeMarco?”
I knew he was, and I was too, but just wanted to hear DeMarco share it in his own words so that he could see how he’d contributed to a successful event with Tyrell Kincaid. We were winding down the day at LADS. We’d just cleaned up the community room and were shutting off lights in the computer lab. I liked debriefing events after they finished so that our feedback and memories were fresh of what worked and didn’t.
“Of course,” he said. He showed off his new braces with a huge smile. “I never met anyone famous before, and Tyrell was real cool…real down-to-earth, ya dig.”
“Yeah, he was an approachable guy,” I said. “I never met anyone famous either. I was a little nervous too.”
“I saw him trying to throw game at you, Malcolm,” he said and laughed. “You better do it like them gold-digger women and get yourself pregnant by a baller.”
“Funny,” I said. “But we all know one thing…”
“Butt babies don’t live, okaaaay,” DeMarco said and laughed. “That’s nature’s birth control for the gays. Can’t imagine how many times I woulda been pregnant by now, if the gays could get pregnant.”
DeMarco often used the gay pregnancy analogy during his LADSrap sessions, which, surprisingly, worked when getting the young men to think about and insist on safe sex.
“But anyway, that talk with Tyrell was all networking,” I said. “We might meet for a business lunch or something to see if Tyrell might want a long-standing relationship with LADS.”
“Hmmph,” DeMarco said. “Long-standing relationship with the founder of LADS is more like it. I wasn’t born yesterday, just the late eighties.” He put his fist out to bump mine, which I did.
“I’ve had more yesterdays than you,” I said and smiled. “And I can tell you that everyone who talks one-on-one with you isn’t doing it for the possibility of romance.”
“Malcolm, you are on his radar.”
“Oh please,” I said. “It’s all business. And I’m ready to shut it down for the day.”
We closed up the computer lab, set the alarm codes, and walked to the back door that exited to the parking lot. I noticed a shiny silver BMW parked next to my Prius.
“That’s my man,” DeMarco said. “Right on time to get his boo. I got him trained right.”
“Lucky you,” I said. “Next time he’ll have to stop by to see the good work you do.”
“I’m about to show him the good work I do in another way,” he said and sashayed to his new boyfriend’s car. He blew me a kiss. “See you tomorrow, boss.”
He was off, just like that. No polite introduction, like people would normally do…just because it was the polite thing to do. Then again, romance among the young was a temporary, fleeting thing. Always someone new to be introduced to…so why go through the motions every other week?
As DeMarco and his man peeled off out of the parking lot, I realized that an introduction might not have been necessary after all. I caught a glimpse of the driver as they drove past me, and saw the name on the personalized license place. Coincidence or not?
It was Compton.
At least I thought it was Compton, but I decided not to trip on it. At least not at the moment. I could always ask DeMarco about his new boyfriend the next day.
After all, it had been a great day a
t LADS. And it was time to hang out with Kyle and Bernard for some after-work drinks and dinner.
Chapter 8
I knew the spread that sat before us had nothing to do with Kyle or his culinary skills.
Having been his best friend since college, I knew Kyle had a close and intimate relationship with any and all takeout menus he could get his hands on. Eight years earlier when he met and partnered off with Bernard, who jokingly called himself a Black, gay Martha Stewart-Washington-Jackson-Jones, Kyle and I both knew he’d hit the jackpot. Kyle didn’t have a domestic bone in his body.
“Bernard got called to fill in for the raw cooking class,” Kyle said. “Instructor got sick…food poisoning.”
“And that’s why you’ll never catch me eating raw, except maybe for sushi,” I said as I sat at the picnic table on the screened-in back porch. What Kyle lacked in culinary skills, he compensated for in setting ambience. Flameless candles flickered on the table, and the glow of white lanterns shone down from above. By the time the sun completely set, it would look like we were sitting in a sea of stars.
In front of us sat the most colorful and delicious-looking summer meal. Definitely California cuisine. An avocado, tomato, onion concoction in individual lettuce leaves, a cold black-eyed-peas salad, Bernard’s famous fruit soup in scooped-out cantaloupe shells, and a pitcher of white-wine sangria. Why the Food Network had never green-lit a show for Bernard, after three auditions, was beyond me. Bernard was the best cook—raw, fried, grilled, or otherwise—I’d known. And he was funny too, and so good to my best friend. I sent up a silent prayer request for a partner skilled in cooking, and also sent up a silent thank-you for the meal I was about to receive. I hadn’t eaten any of the food at the Tyrell Kincaid event—running around, organizing, making sure everyone was happy—so I was hungry.
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