“Something smells so good, Malcolm, it woke me up,” Tyrell said and appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. He looked at the television playing on the countertop. “Damn, they’re running the story about Tommie.”
“That’s not the worse of it,” I said and shut off Paparazzi Players. “They’re looking for you now, and I’m sure they won’t stop until they get answers.”
Chapter 17
“I can’t believe you wanted to come with me to LAX,” I said. “Thanks…I guess.”
I was riding in Tyrell’s truck, a cream-colored Lexus with standard state-issued plates, heading west on the super-crowded 105 greeway toward the airport. Luckily, we cruised in the carpool lane with ease.
This was Tyrell’s hideaway car, the one he drove when he just wanted to be a regular, everyday person. I sank in the plush leather passenger seat while we flipped satellite television stations looking for anything on Tommie or Tyrell. Other than the early pieces on Livonia Birmingham or Paparazzi Players, the bulk of the news would hit television in the evening entertainment shows.
“I wanted to give your nephew something to talk about,” he said as he looked ahead on the road. Then he cracked a smile. “I mean, if you’re going to do L.A., do it big, huh?”
“Whatever,” I said. “You’re crazy.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, you showing up and hiding out at my little Silver Lake apartment avoiding paparazzi is crazy,” I said. “You going to the airport to pick up my nephew—a crazy situation in itself—is crazy. You hanging out with me, someone you don’t even know…and you’re famous…is crazy.”
He smiled again. I rolled my eyes and thought about the craziness of it all. Less than a week ago, I’d barely met Tyrell Kincaid. Twenty-four hours earlier, I was fired by the board of LADS. For the past six hours I’d been hanging with and hiding out a professional basketball player who was embroiled in his own hot, gay, and closeted mess. Kyle, and everyone else who knew me, would definitely think the situation was crazy. Or, at minimum, unreal. I was with someone famous.
“I’m just Tyrell,” he said. “The only difference is that way more people know me than you. But your work is way more important than mine. I dig that.”
“That’s a cool way of putting it, I guess.”
“I hope you think I’m cool.”
I didn’t think I’d heard him right. “What?”
“Huh?” Tyrell said.
“You said something?”
“Nah,” he said and smiled. “I don’t know how long this will take to blow over, if ever, but I know for sure I’m through with Tommie Jordan. I might be through with the whole closet thing too.”
“Really?”
“What has it gotten me?”
“Well, duh, millions of dollars by playing the role,” I said. I hadn’t meant to mention any of Tyrell’s money. It was the last thing on my mind in terms of our…friendship…and I didn’t want him thinking I was like any other person who suddenly found him or herself in the same orbit with a celebrity—unknown motives. “That came out wrong, Tyrell. You got to have a career that many young boys dream of, is what I meant to say. Pro ball. That’s all because of God, and definitely possible because you stayed in the closet, performing gender.”
“Yeah,” he said and cracked that million-dollar smile again. “I know you’re not a gold digger, Malcolm.”
“Not at all.”
“I just hope you can be patient. You’re patient, right?”
“Huh?” I said, playing the same game he’d played on me a few seconds earlier.
“What?” He was looking out the side of his right eye at me, I could see, as he spoke.
“You said something about patience, Tyrell?”
“Nah,” he said and grinned. “Just enjoy the ride. Enjoy the scenery of Inglewood. We’re about to give your nephew the surprise of his life.”
Chapter 18
When we pulled into the lane for Arrivals, there was little traffic. I anticipated an easy time getting in and out of the airport once we got Blake from the baggage claim of Delta Airlines. I called Blake once and got his voicemail. On the second try, he answered.
“What up, Unc?” Blake said. “I just got my first bag and waiting on my second.”
“Good deal,” I said. “I’m pulling up to the baggage area. A friend drove me, so we’ll pull over and I’ll come in to help you. Is it crowded?”
“Nah, just feel like I’m in Hollywood already,” he said. “I think they’re filming a movie or something. I’m ’bout to be famous, Unc!”
“See you in a few. You remember how I look?”
“Of course. You remember me, your favorite nephew, don’t you?”
“I only have one.”
I hung up. Tyrell told me he’d pull up and wait for me to get Blake. Said he’d flatter a couple of the traffic cops with autographs and casual conversation, which would allow him to sit a few extra minutes in the restricted pickup zone.
Tyrell zoomed into a spot that had just opened outside the sliding doors of Delta. I jumped out and headed toward the baggage claim carousel. As predicted, a couple of traffic cops thinking he was just a regular L.A. resident went to Tyrell’s driver-side window, which he’d begun to lower. I could see him flashing his smile and initiating the conversation with the cops, who were clearly awed that they were speaking with a professional basketball player. No yelling or warning a celebrity they’d be towed for waiting outside baggage claim. So L.A. to cater to celebrity.
I kept walking into the claim area and saw Blake standing at the baggage turnstile. My nephew was handsomer than I’d remembered. Though I’d known Blake all his life, he was two years old when I moved from Indianapolis to Chicago to attend Northwestern. Seeing him on breaks during his toddler years, then maybe once every year or two after that when I moved to California, I hadn’t quite gotten the picture of what a hottie he’d turned out to be. I could see how he could be a head-turner to all those young men back in Indiana that my sister complained about.
Just over six feet tall, he was dressed in a fitted white T-shirt, an open black blazer, and low-hung jeans that fit in all the right places. The oversized nerd glasses and multicolored sneakers added the right touch to the look. Real L.A. trendy for a young man just off the plane from the Midwest. It was a shame he hadn’t channeled all that creative energy he spent on clothes and anonymous sex on something more productive like higher education after high school. I guess that was part of Marlena’s reason for shipping him to me for the summer.
“Blake,” I called as I approached and tapped his shoulder. He was clearly concentrating on the baggage and the music blasting from his iPod headphones. “Hey.”
He turned, and once it registered who I was, he smiled and pulled out one earbud.
“What up, Uncle Malcolm?”
We hugged. His lean skeletal build shocked me at first touch. The magic of nineteen. Older men had more cushion and meat with their hugs. I’d have to do a major L.A. diet to reach my high school weight and body again, but I wasn’t a fan of eating disorders.
“Not much,” I said. “Just waiting on you, Blake. Is this your bag?”
“Yeah,” he said. He had nicer luggage than I ever imagined him having. Marlena must have splurged before sending him away. Nice. “I got one more coming.”
“Good deal,” I said. “I’m so glad you came.”
I tried to convince myself that this would be a good move for Blake. Verbalizing it, true or not, was the first stage to making it come true.
“I’m so happy to be here,” Blake said. “I already wrote out a list of all the music producers and studios I need to get my demos to. And I got a list of the top modeling and music agents you can take me to. But that’s once we do the touristy stuff…Santa Monica Pier, Disney, Universal, Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, WeHo, Santa Monica Boulevard…”
“What do you know about WeHo and Santa Monica Boulevard?” I laughed. “Who you been talking to?”
“Facebook friends, duh,” he said and smiled. I forgot. Nineteen-year-olds made online friends long before they met them in person. This was going to be fun. “Did you get me a car?”
“You think I’m rich or something?” I said.
“I thought everyone in California is rich,” Blake said. He was serious. The media had pulled a fast one on the rest of the U.S. Just ask a homeless teenager in Hollywood or a disabled veteran on Skid Row in downtown L.A. or a family of six living in a two-bedroom in East L.A. The palm trees, bright lights, beach houses, and red carpets were for a very few privileged folk in L.A.
“Well, to answer your question about the car…nope. No car,” I said. “But maybe you can borrow my Prius when I see how you drive.”
“Awww, Unc.”
“Awww, Unc nothing,” I said and smiled. I could see his resemblance to Marlena’s and my father, and that was kinda nice.
“I finally got my license,” Blake said. “I’ll take you on a test drive when we go clubbing one night. I heard about this place called Catch? Or Micky’s? Or Circus? that’s supposed to be hot on Tuesdays. We should go. And don’t worry…I got an ID made before I left Indiana.”
“Too much information, Blake,” I said. “Let’s just get your bags and get home. I made some turkey chops, corn, and applesauce. Your favorites.”
“Yay,” he said. “Because I ain’t have any money to get any food on the plane. I’m starving. But I could stand to lose some fat and gain some muscle, for when I go on auditions.”
Blake didn’t have any weight to lose, being as skinny as he was, but I was more concerned with Marlena’s frugality.
“Your mom sent you out here with no money?”
I was ready to get Marlena on the phone right away to ask how she intended for Blake to be taken care of this summer. Times were tight, but Marlena had seniority and an almost six-figure salary working overtime and split shifts at the auto plant, one of the last open and in production during the recession. She could have sent him with something. I guess she also thought I was rich because I lived in California.
“I bought this luggage at the airport before I checked in for my flight,” he said, like nothing. “Couldn’t arrive in L.A. with Granny’s old-school green Samsonite.”
Priorities of a nineteen-year-old. I sighed. At least I wouldn’t have to cuss my sister out. But I would have to talk money management with my nephew.
“You…are a mess,” I said. “Where’s the movie?”
“They left. They were following some girl from last year’s Big Brother. She was on the plane, but only had her purse and little dog.”
“You mean photographers and reporters?”
“I saw Stephanie Hernandez from Paparazzi Players,” he said. “I tried to get in the background of the cameras. So we have to watch tonight and see if I’m in the shot.”
If paparazzi were here for someone from Big Brother, that meant they might…
“Where’s your other bag?” I asked. “We might need to get out of here pretty quickly.”
“Why?”
“My friend who drove me to pick you up,” I said and then got close to his ear to whisper, “is Tyrell Kincaid.”
“The basketball player?” Blake asked, loud enough for the continent of Australia to hear.
“Shh, yes.”
“No shit. You for real, Uncle Malcolm?” Blake said. He was beaming with excitement. “See, you are rich. I didn’t know you roll like that. My uncle got famous friends. I’ma get my rap contract after all. I know he gotta know people.”
I wanted to tell him that every young man comes to L.A. wanting to be a rapper or an actor (or any other dream job people come to California for), but the dream often doesn’t come true. Instead I told him, “My friend has a busy life and a lot of other things to worry about.”
“But since we’ll be in the car with him,” Blake pleaded. “Please?”
He grabbed his second bag off the conveyer. I took the one he’d already claimed. We rolled toward the door.
“Leave Tyrell alone, don’t bother him,” I said. “No demands or questions.”
“Awww snap,” Blake said. “Another movie shoot. Look.”
I looked ahead and saw Tyrell’s Lexus truck surrounded by paparazzi. The truck Blake and I were to be riding in. The scene was like nothing I’d seen before. Seemed like a billion lights, cameras, reporters were in the area. As Blake and I continued toward the truck, all lights, cameras, and reporters turned to us. The traffic cops cleared a little path for Blake and me to walk through, though the lights and action were blinding and difficult to navigate through.
“Are you the porno prostitute who brought down the house of Tommie and Tyrell?”
“Who taught you your moves and techniques?”
“What’s next for you and the basketball player?”
“Any words for Tommie Jordan?”
“Were sex lessons part of your work with the LADS group you founded?”
“Was LADS an undercover porn shop?”
I thought, I’m not the celebrity. Why are they after me? I’d never been asked so many intrusive and embarrassing questions. Being asked in front of my nineteen-year-old nephew who had just arrived in L.A. was even worse. I mean, a prostitute? Was that what I’d been reduced to because of those damn videos Deacon uploaded to the Internet? Damn, the reporters were fast in connecting unrelated, but kind of related, dots.
“Make way for them,” one officer shouted as the trunk of Tyrell’s truck opened up. That same officer grabbed the bag I was rolling. Another grabbed Blake’s, put them in the truck, and shut it. Yet another opened the front passenger and rear doors for Blake and me.
When the doors shut, Tyrell calmly said, “Let’s roll.”
He moved forward, inch by inch, as traffic cops tried to clear a path for Tyrell to drive through the cameras and reporters.
“Blake, this is Tyrell Kincaid. Tyrell, this is my nephew Blake.”
“Good to meet you, Blake,” Tyrell said and turned around briefly. “Sit back, man. We’re about to take off full blast in a sec.”
“Dang, Unc,” Blake said and looked out each of the truck windows, which were surrounded with paparazzi. He was happily fascinated. He took out his own camera to film the paparazzi scene “That’s dope. This is so freaking beat. Thanks for letting me come to California this summer.”
“Put that camera away, Blake,” I yelled. “And say hello to Tyrell.”
“Whassup, Tyrell,” Blake said.
“That’s better,” I said and gave Blake the you-better-shape-up eye.
“You look just like you do on TV and in the magazines,” Blake said, as he stared in awe at Tyrell. So country.
“You follow sports?”
“A little bit,” Blake said. “But mostly just to see who’s cute. You know who’s gay? Because I got a long, long list of players I’d like to do some thangs with.”
Tyrell laughed and said, “Your nephew’s funny, Malcolm.”
“Wait ’til the peeps back in Indiana see this,” he said proudly. “I’m famous now. And Tyrell Kincaid thinks I’m funny. I think this Hollywood thing is gonna work out.”
After the officers cleared a path, Tyrell zoomed out toward the airport exit and jumped on the 405 freeway. Definitely not the way to my apartment in Silver Lake. I didn’t ask, and Tyrell didn’t tell. At least, not yet.
Tyrell drove without saying much, but we listened to KJLH’s Tammi Mac and Don Amiche afternoon show. Every hour, on the twenty mark, they did a roundup of Black celebrity gossip, which I was sure Tyrell wanted to hear. How this scandal played or died out in the Black community could determine a lot for Tyrell’s and Tommie’s standing in it.
Blake sat in the backseat, sending text messages, videotaping the drive on the giant freeways, as he called them, and enjoying his first adventurous night in L.A. To him, this was like being part of a movie—our initial paparazzi encounter and Tyrell outdriving the few reporters who tried chasing
the truck.
I knew this was far from a movie and that real lives of real people were at stake. I had some explaining to do to Blake.
Chapter 19
The best way to describe where Tyrell took us first—it looked like it belonged in a music video. Specifically, it looked like it belonged in a music video for a rap or R&B star—clean, flat lines; minimal; lots of glass; lots of white; and set off with an infinity pool that flowed into the Pacific Ocean on the horizon. In fact, I was sure I’d seen the house in videos for either Ron Isley, in his Mr. Biggs phase, or 50 Cent back in the day. One of them. The house, it turned out, did belong to a rap / R&B star…and a basketball player.
“This is where I live,” Tyrell said as he turned off the truck near the front door. We’d driven a good half mile from the automatic gate before we arrived to a circular driveway. “But that might be changing. I wanted to stop and get some things. Hope you don’t mind.”
“All right,” I said. “We’ll wait out here.”
As fascinating as the whole hanging out with Tyrell had been, part of it seemed scary and weird. Like I wasn’t worthy of being around him or in his world. Tyrell’s house, his life in the public eye, his interest in friending me. It was just too much to take in.
“Well, I wanna go in,” Blake said and opened up the back passenger side door. “I ain’t come from Indiana to sit in a car all day.”
“Blake,” I said and gave him the eye again. “Chill.”
“No, come in,” Tyrell said and chuckled. “I might need a witness. In case we run into crazy.”
“This is so dope,” I overheard Blake whisper to himself. He had his video camera out again, taking video of the scene. I didn’t blame him, but didn’t let on. I was overwhelmed with the immenseness of it all. “This is a freaking dream.”
“Are you serious?” I asked Tyrell. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“You should,” Tyrell said and pointed to a two-seater Mercedes convertible sitting in the driveway. I couldn’t name the model, but apparently it was safe enough in Tyrell’s neighborhood for the owner to leave the keys on the hood. “Besides, that’s his manager’s car. Tommie won’t get too crazy with Hamilton in the house.”
Play It Forward Page 8