“We just had an earthquake, Marlena,” I said. “I don’t even know how the freeways are. Or if LAX is open.” Everything was fine, according to the news. I was just trying to stall Blake’s inevitable arrival.
“You talking to me, right?” she asked. “If phone lines are up, then everything is okay.”
I could tell she was just eager for Blake to be gone. Be damned if I could accommodate him today.
“Whatever. Thanks for the warning.”
“You didn’t even ask me about the GODDAMN WHITE BOY COMING OUT OF BLAKE’S ROOM,” she yelled, again to get Blake’s attention as, I’m sure, he enjoyed ignoring my sister in the car. “One of those pale ones with eyeliner, and all kinds of piercings, and black eyeliner and lipstick…I thought the gays had taste and…”
“All right, Marlena. I appreciate the call. Text me the landing time and I’ll be there,” I said. “Landlord is here to look at the apartment for earthquake damage.”
I hung up and panicked. The room I’d started preparing for Blake was nowhere near ready. But I figured that a nineteen-year-old wouldn’t really care how ready a room was, as long as there was music, a computer, and something to lie back and sleep on. Still, I’d have to get those books that fell on and around me off the floor, and do a lazy cleanup job—shove things under or in locations not seen to the naked eye—for the rest of what would soon be Blake’s room.
Kyle called and I picked up on the second ring.
“Girl, you’re alive. Thanks for calling your sista,” Kyle said.
“My apologies,” I said. “I just got off the phone with my real sister. My nephew’s coming today instead of later in the week.”
“Lucky you. Yum.”
“That’s my nephew,” I said, grossed out that Kyle was teasing about Blake that way. “Anyway, I’m cleaning up his room now. How’s your place?”
“We felt all the quakes,” Kyle said and giggled. “Then made a few of our own. It was kinda hot. But no damage to the house, believe it or not.”
“No damage here, either. I slept through everything.”
“You would,” Kyle said. “One was almost six-point. The others were in the four and five range.”
“I hate it. My first real California quakes. Though I did have a dream I was slipping and falling on ice. Maybe that was a sign.”
“Boring,” Kyle said. “So, girl, I guess you haven’t heard. Well, no, you wouldn’t because you don’t work in entertainment. Well, you don’t work either.”
“Whatever.”
“We got the advance view of tonight’s Paparazzi Players show, and you’ll never guess who got caught in a gay sex club, on video, before and after the earthquake?”
“Who?”
“You better sit down, stretch, and get ready for your man.”
“Huh?”
“Tommie Jordan, the self-proclaimed emperor of R&B.”
“No way,” I said.
“Way.”
“A sex club?”
“Yes, as in a private club where men pay to hook up with other men,” Kyle said. “As in a bathhouse. As in where closeted men go for a few discreet dalliances while their wives think they’re out watching the game with the fellas.”
“I get it, Kyle,” I said. “But why a sex club? Can’t he get it whenever he wants? I mean, Tommie Jordan’s a celebrity.”
“That’s what I said, girl,” Kyle said.
“So what happened?”
“I guess one of the faults from last night’s quake runs through West Hollywood, and it damaged the sex club where Tommie was at,” Kyle said. “So they had to send rescue crews to get these poor queens off the second floor of this place, since the stairs had sorta collapsed, come undone. And of course the cameras just happened to be there when Tommie Jordan walked out with the help of a firefighter assigned to help.”
“And isn’t he with Tyrell, supposedly? Why would he cheat on a basketball player of all people?”
“Maybe Tyrell don’t bring in the gold, who knows?” Kyle said. “Of course Paparazzi Players can’t show all the nasty nasty, but if you get Internet now you might find some of the pics or videos. You know how the boy-girls are with their celebrity gossip and the Internet.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Oh, shoot, of course you do.”
“Whatevers, Kyle.”
“So I think you might wanna give Mr. Tyrell Kincaid a call once all the ish hits the fan…show him some of your outreach and empathy skills.”
“You’re funny, Kyle,” I said. “No way Tyrell would even think of calling on me after knowing each other for a couple days. And how do they know this video is true of Tommie?”
“Girl, believe me, it’s true,” Kyle said. “I saw all of Tommie Jordan in the flesh letting some young guy sing to the mike. But the legitimate news video shows him walking out of the place with the help of a rescue worker. Can’t deny he was coming out of a sex club. He might deny the other stuff posted by the queens who serviced him, though.”
“That’s just unbelievable.”
“Not really…even you were in a video, Malcolm,” he said. “What could be stranger than that?”
Chapter 15
Something stranger did happen.
About fifteen minutes after I got off the phone with Kyle, there was a knock at my apartment door. I wasn’t expecting any guests other than Blake and maybe the landlord to inspect for any potential earthquake damage. As for Blake, I knew it was too early and he wasn’t smart enough to figure a way to get my place from the airport. I looked at the clock. Just after ten in the morning.
“Surprise.”
Tyrell Kincaid was standing at my door, scrunched just a little to appear under the door frame.
“How did you know where I lived?” I asked. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m famous. I can find out anything if the price is right,” he said.
“Okay.” Seemed a little weird for Tyrell to research my address and show up at my place. Out of the blue. I thought the stalking was supposed to happen the other way around.
“Actually, I was just out in the neighborhood and assessing all the earthquake damage…thought I’d check in on you,” he said. Paused. “Actually, believe it or not, I don’t have a lot of friends and thought maybe I could come by. And I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Come in,” I said. “But excuse the mess. I’m still cleaning up a bit. Just a few books on the floor and two broken dishes. Could have been worse, huh?”
Tyrell looked around my apartment. I was embarrassed a little. Even with the minor disarray from the earthquake, my home was nicely decorated and suitable for me as a single, formerly hardworking person. I didn’t need much. But it was nice, and except for what would be Blake’s room, clean. Still, I could only imagine the kinds of plush and ornate things Tyrell surrounded himself at his house…houses, if I remembered the background information correctly.
“Cool place,” he said. “I remember my first place when I was in college.”
“Oh, so you’re saying I live like a college student?” I smiled and he laughed.
“Not at all, Malcolm,” he said. “It’s nice. Simple. No complications. I can’t believe my life was like that at one time. Mind if I have a seat?”
I removed some old Clik magazines I’d taken from Blake’s room to make room for Tyrell and me to sit on the sofa. Why I was keeping old issues of the magazine was beyond belief, unless I was planning to audition for that TV show Hoarders.
“Go ahead, help yourself,” I said. “Want something to drink? I’ve got orange juice, soy milk, or water.”
He sat. “Got some whiskey?”
I stared at Tyrell. He wasn’t laughing or being light-hearted at what would typically be a fun gay suggestion of drinking cocktails at ten in the morning.
“Okay, what’s up?” I asked and sat on the other end of the sofa.
I remembered my conversation with Kyle a few minutes earlier, so I knew what was up b
efore the rest of the world would. I just couldn’t let on that I knew, and could only respond to what Tyrell chose to share in his own time.
“It’s long and complicated,” Tyrell said. “I feel like drinking and I don’t drink, Malcolm. I just thought I could talk to you. I used to be able to talk to my dad about these things, but since he passed…”
“Of course.”
“I don’t even know you that well,” he said. “I don’t really trust the people around me anymore. So I’m trusting you and talking to you because I feel like we kinda connected after I spoke at LADS the other day.”
I was listening, but not listening, but listening to Tyrell Kincaid. I was more listening to myself and my mind chatter: there’s a professional basketball player sitting in my living room; he’s trusting me with his personal life; he’s so damn attractive; there’s a millionaire professional basketball player sitting in my living room; he’s confiding in me; there’s a famous person talking to non-famous ME, person-to-person.
“…so then he comes home this morning after all the quakes and tells me what I’m going to be seeing on the tabloid shows tonight,” Tyrell said. “Just like nothing. Just like he was telling me that he was buying new underwear, going to the movies, or something.”
“I bet you were shocked.” Typical, non-emotional counseling voice. In my mind thinking, He just came out to me…Tyrell Kincaid, professional basketball player, just confirmed what the world has been speculating…to ME.
“Kind of but not really,” he said. “Tommie’s done this for years…well, the cheating part. We’ve got so many people on payroll who we’re paying to keep silent, it’s pitiful. The sex in public thing at sex clubs and sex parties. That’s new. I’m such a fool, you know? You’d think I’d have a little more pride than I do.”
“It’s understandable that you would question yourself when you feel his choices reflect on you.”
“I should leave him,” Tyrell said. “I’ve almost left him over a dozen times. But something always keeps me running back. Hard to trust people…dudes in the life…when you’re a public figure, you know. Even in these times. So I just stay.”
“I know it can be difficult to end something you see as being special.”
I thought of Deacon for a moment. Leaving him when I did was the best thing I did, but it hurt. I knew it would have been worse to stay and not be supported in my dreams. I would have left him sooner had I known about his little camera hobby.
“Things with Tommie and me used to be special, like when we first met all those years ago when I was playing at UCLA and he hadn’t made his big music comeback and was just working in a CD store…when we had CD stores,” he said and smiled. “Then Rafael came along—the bitch—and started doing Tommie while I traveled with the team. We were all in the same circle at the time…me, this guy named Keith who was Tommie’s roommate, some other guy, Marco, I don’t really remember. Whatever, that’s all ancient history. But the cheating never stopped. Even when he said it would. He’d always pull that ‘it was just physical, not love like we have.’”
“Just physical, not love,” I said and sighed. Perpetual cheaters and their predictability. Innocent victims and our gullibility. “I’ve heard that before. But this is not about me.”
We sat on our respective ends of the sofa in silence. I knew that if and when Tyrell wanted to talk more, he would. I wouldn’t push.
“So I’m going to be the laughingstock of the basketball league and of the Black celebrity world,” Tyrell said. “Figures. It’s funny and sad. As if they don’t know about us. The whole world’s been speculating about us forever. I’m not naïve to the gossip.”
“I don’t know how Black celebrity works, but it sounds like it’s important to you.”
“Tommie never wanted to be out, so to speak,” Tyrell said. “Even when those activists outed me, tried to out me, with that information they got from someone in my circle, Tommie wanted me to deny everything about me and us. So I just played nonchalant and like I have been dateless and sexless since birth. Like I wasn’t gay or with anyone. That allowed Tommie to do whatever he wanted. I’ll have that juice now, changing the subject. Whatever you have to mix in it is fine.”
“Sounds good,” I said and stood up. “Keep talking. I’m listening.”
I walked to the kitchen, where I began pouring glasses of juice. Just juice, no liquor. Started to prepare fruit slices, cheese, and wheat crackers, but decided it seemed too As The World Turns to have a tray of food for our talk. Instead grabbed a couple of bananas and napkins, and then went back to the living room.
Tyrell was stretched out across my sofa and his eyes were closed. His legs dangled for several feet off the end. He looked like a big kid napping in my living room. I grabbed the blanket from what would become Blake’s room and stretched it across Tyrell.
“I’ma just rest my eyes for a minute.” Tyrell sighed and pulled the blanket up to his chin. “Hope you don’t mind.”
As if I would say no to a pro basketball player who wanted to sleep in my living room and on my sofa.
“Oh,” he said. “Thanks for listening. I knew I could turn to you.”
“No problem, Tyrell,” I said.
“Would you lay with me?” Tyrell said. “Cuddle with me?”
Everyone and their grandma would have said “hell yeah” to a request from a pro basketball player. But I’d just met him. He was vulnerable. I didn’t want to be turned and tossed out, like any number of conquests pro athletes seemed to have at their disposal. He couldn’t possibly want to cuddle with me. Not Malcolm Martin Campbell, ordinary, respectable Black guy, no labels, no title, from Indiana living in L.A.
“Anytime but now, Tyrell,” I said. “My nephew’s coming to L.A. later today. I’m trying to fix his room. So much to…”
“I understand,” Tyrell said and closed his eyes. “Next time.”
I wondered if there’d be a next time with someone like Tyrell Kincaid, as I cleaned and he napped. Even though we were barely getting to know each other, I hoped there would be a next time. Certainly, no one turned down a celebrity request, but it wasn’t every day that your nephew was moving in with you either.
Chapter 16
Tyrell’s minute-long nap turned into a couple hours.
In that time, I’d finished Blake’s room and had started making dinner for us to eat after I picked him up from the airport. I remembered from times when I’d gone back to Indianapolis for holidays or family reunions that Blake had a favorite meal—fried turkey chops (but sitting in foil for a few hours, not directly out of the skillet), creamed corn, and applesauce. I’d done my best to make it as close to what my mother or my sister Marlena would make, and Blake would just have to enjoy my attempt.
In between flouring turkey chops, I turned on the television anchored just below the kitchen cabinets. Wanted to see if any of the news Kyle or Tyrell had shared had become public. I flipped to The Livonia Birmingham Show, with a host who prided herself on having the latest gossip and gossipy opinions, especially when it came to insinuating a celebrity might be gay.
“So at the gym the other day, Livonia Birmingham ran into one-hit-wonder and one-time R&B diva-in-training Peaches Perkins, who was training…not with her personal trainer for her body, but with gym management for a new job as an aerobics instructor…oops, I mean hip-hop class choreographer. Seems that Miss Peaches, who’s now crack-free, weave-free, and ass-free thanks to a major diet and detox process, is proud of her changes and says she may have found Mr. Right in one of her three Twelve Step groups she attends faithfully. Go girl! Make your changes! Gives us something to look forward to when you backslide…psych! We loves Miss Peaches, and hope she can make a comeback like some R&B male singers have been given a chance to do.
“Speaking of comebacks, I hate outing those who are not out, but when Livonia Birmingham gets a hint of a tip, Livonia Birmingham sure is going to follow up. All I can say is dribble the ball and put the mike to your mouth. Yum! T
his will make HUGE news later today, but let’s just say I don’t foresee this super-hyper-masculine duo to be waving the Proud ’Nuff to Come Out flag like Lance Bass or Sheryl Swoopes did a few years back. Tight-lipped publicists. Maybe if one of the duo was a little tighter-lipped, the other wouldn’t step out and about with the young, hung, and restless thugalicious fans of his work and body. That’s another story, another day. If you got video of any special interactions with a celebrity, hit me up…and you’re PAID!”
I flipped to the afternoon edition of Paparazzi Players. The show led with the footage of Tommie Jordan trying to cover his face with a magazine while leaving the sex club—footage I’m sure The Livonia Birmingham Show wanted first. The reporter softened the blow for the afternoon audience by calling it a men’s spa. Tommie refused comment. The paparazzi made several offensive comments trying to goad Tommie into talking—How many fans you got in the spa? Does your basketball player boyfriend mind you being a swinger? Do you and Tyrell throw sex parties at your mansion? From the number of cameras swirling around Tommie Jordan, one would think Black celebrities were equally in demand as white celebrities by the entertainment media. And then I thought, with all the poverty, hunger, and violence plaguing parts of Los Angeles, why was the public / private sex life of a celebrity such a big deal? I mean in comparison. Kind of like how the Black gay organizations couldn’t pull off Black Prides in various parts of the country, yet the board of my organization was more concerned with my private sex life.
The story continued with several seconds of footage featuring Tommie Jordan receiving attention and being serviced by numerous men of different ethnicities, ages, and sizes inside the club. Some was too raw for the afternoon audience and featured blacked-out sections of the screen. Apparently, someone carried a small, unnoticeable camera or phone and shot numerous scenes of Tommie having sex, undetected. I knew I could call Kyle to find the raw footage online or could wait until after midnight for Paparazzi Players Uncut on cable.
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