“If you say so,” I said. “I don’t want to add to any drama between you and your man.”
“The drama’s already here, so you might as well meet him. You too, Blake,” Tyrell said. “Give your friends in Indiana something to talk about.”
We got out via our respective doors. Blake’s camera was rolling, taking in the sunset behind the house, the roar of the ocean, the fancy cars parked outside, and Tyrell’s height. I caught him taking a peek, a double take, as we walked to Tyrell’s front door.
Once inside, we were greeted with a bottle of vodka crashing against one of the glass walls. It spashed everywhere but on us. I stayed quiet—so did Blake—and watched the scene play out in front of us.
“You bastard.” I heard what I assumed was Tommie’s voice. “You finally came home.”
“Hello to you, too, Tommie,” Tyrell said calmly, once we walked into the living room. “What’s up, Hamilton?”
It was a music video living room. Minimal furniture, clean lines, views of the infinity pool and ocean. I couldn’t believe I was seeing Tommie Jordan up close. Seemingly crazy Tommie Jordan, who threw bottles of vodka across rooms. He was a hot brotha, with his dark skin and body for days. Looked just like his videos, but skinnier—the fifteen-pound camera rule. I’d actually listened to some of his music when he was in the teenybopper R&B group Renaissance Phoenix in the ’80s and ’90s, but hadn’t followed his newest music, which was primarily singing hooks on rap and hip-hop songs.
“Well, you know the deal, Tyrell,” Hamilton said. “Where’s your cleanup team?”
“I’m not sweatin’ this, I’m not the one in P.R. trouble,” Tyrell said. “I’m just picking up a few things and I’m out.”
“You can’t leave me,” Tommie said and charged toward Tyrell. “I need you. I need you.”
“He does,” Hamilton said, his eyes pleading for Tyrell to stay and listen. Even if only for a few minutes. “We were just starting our talk…about the situation.”
“Tommie and I talked this morning, after he strolled in after the quakes,” Tyrell said. “I know all I need to know. I’m out.”
“Kick a Black man while he’s down,” Tommie said. “Fine. You do that.”
Tyrell motioned to Blake and me. “I’ll be just a few. Wait here or wait outdoors.”
Tyrell left the living room and left Blake and me with Tommie and his manager. They continued their conversation as if we weren’t there. In fact, it dawned on me they’d never asked who Blake and I were, nor did Tyrell introduce us. I guess since we weren’t celebrity, we were invisible and didn’t count to them. Shade. Still, I couldn’t believe the details they spoke of in front of us. This was as good as The Bold and the Beautiful.
“He just don’t understand, Hamilton,” Tommie said and walked to the glass wall facing the ocean and sunset. If this were a movie, it would have been a perfectly framed shot for Tommie’s next confessional lines. “It’s not him. I love my Tyrell. I just love the rush, the chase, the idea of being with something new and exciting that requires no strings attached, no obligation, feeling, or emotion. My Tyrell knew that back when I had the fling with Rafael and then the others. It’s just something new and different, but they don’t have anything to do with how I feel about Tyrell. With him it’s love. With the others it’s…nothing.”
Hamilton, Tommie’s manager, looked good in his suit and unbuttoned dress shirt. He almost looked presidential. He was playing with his iPad while responding to Tommie.
“You need Jesus,” Hamilton said, as emotionless as someone saying they needed to add soap to their grocery list.
“What?” Tommie asked, still staring out into the ocean and sunset.
“You got a response?”
“To what?” Tommie asked.
I kept my mouth shut. I hated the dumb act played by men who wanted to be victims and not take responsibility. Or pretended to not hear a question they didn’t want to answer. I’d seen it with Deacon when he told me about his cheating and when he tried to deny releasing the videos of our sex life online. Now I could see why Tyrell was ready to get out. I sensed another topic for LADS—good men, bad dating choices.
Then I remembered I didn’t work for LADS anymore.
“You need Jesus,” Hamilton said again. Looked like Hamilton was growing impatient too. “You!”
“What Jesus got to do with me having my picture taken in a sex club? Or being escorted out by a rescue crew?”
“Hel-LO,” Hamilton said and gave Tommie that eye a father gives to his young son. He put his iPad down on a glass-top table with an expensive-looking vase on it. “You said it, not me, Tommie.”
“Still. I pay you twenty percent of all my deals,” Tommie said. “You need to remember that without me, your income would drop significantly.”
“Exactly!” Hamilton said.
“So what’s the plan, Hamilton?” Tommie pleaded. “I’m not about to lose Tyrell, my career, this life I’m used to. I done made too many comebacks to make another one.”
“Let’s sit,” Hamilton said and motioned for Tommie to join him on the sofa. “Now, I hate this because we’re both gay and I don’t believe in jumping in bed with the Black, religious ministrati, but those women who love you will buy it.”
“I ain’t gay, Hamilton. I’m open-minded.”
“Whatever you want to call yourself these days is up to you,” he said, and put on a pair of nice frames, just barely on the tip of his nose. “You need to join the biggest mega-church you can find, donate a ton of money to one of their causes—abstinence training, marriage and family counseling, something like that—and get some photo ops with some of the ministers campaigning for that so-called ‘Family First’ legislation in the upcoming election. I would say you had this in the works before these pics and vids went public.”
“What? You serious?”
“I got the contacts at congregations in L.A., Atlanta, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Houston. Take your pick. They’re all big. They’re all Black. They all do the same thing. Kinda like you, hmm, Tommie?”
Hamilton grabbed a folder out of his man bag. Man done his research quick. Well, I was sure one of his assistants had done the research for him.
“This is crazy,” Tommie said. “Not even the pisser has had to repent this much.”
Hamilton slapped his hand on his knee.
“I’m trying to help you, Tommie,” Hamilton said. “What’s crazy, Tommie Jordan, is that you and Tyrell have everything, and so much to lose. And you go out and get your dick sucked by a man at some place with a bunch of strangers, and you get a bunch of damn pictures taken of you in the act while an earthquake is going on. That’s crazy.”
As much as Tommie hated it, Hamilton was speaking the gospel. I wanted to add an “amen” but didn’t. This invisibility was nice, in a weird way.
“And so…?” Tommie said.
“Black gay R&B singers don’t recover their careers like straight ones who fuck up.”
“True.”
“Especially when I have young, hot men on payroll to take care of the needs of my male celebrities who need a little trip to the other side,” Hamilton said. “So you guys don’t have to get caught in a bind like this.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Tommie looked like he was five and in trouble, especially when Hamilton pulled off his frames and stared at him.
“So we’ll do a few photo ops with ministers, get you in Jet, Ebony, on Tom Joyner and Steve Harvey radio shows. Get you on Wendy Williams and in the Livonia Birmingham column before they come for you. Say it was research for a role, that you’re doing the Black version of Brokeback Mountain or something. The women who love you will fall for it, you’ll keep the masculine mystique going, and that’s all.”
“True.”
“If you want, I’ll call up Candace and see if she’ll go to some of the upcoming awards with you,” Hamilton said.
“I can’t stand Candace,” Tommie said and snarled his lips. “Let her
play the nameless, silent, banging body, mixed-girl thing with someone else who into dudes.”
“Which is why I keep her on call, and on payroll,” Hamilton said. “For moments like this when they wonder if you’re gay or not.”
I’d heard about these young women like Candace, who walk the red carpet with male celebrities, appear to be in love with them in photos at parties, and kiss them at just the right moment during live red-carpet interviews. But I thought it was all just gossip made up by gay men who fantasized about male celebrities. Ruthless business, being a celebrity.
“Nah,” Tommie said. “I’m not feeling the Candace charade now.”
“Then how about doctored photos.” Hamilton picked his iPad up from the table. He clicked a button, and some photos projected onto one of the white walls. “Everybody’s got a computer these days. Anyone’s head can be put anywhere. No pun intended.”
I saw tons of pictures of Tommie in various pornographic shots and positions with women, men, three-ways, anything you can think of. Blake perked up, like a horny nineteen-year-old would, and I wanted to have him leave the room. Tommie looked horrified.
“I know I never posed for or took these pictures,” Tommie said.
Now I got his point. Hamilton was good and cunning. Like a good manager was supposed to be. I wished I’d had a Hamilton helping me earlier in the week when I met with the LADS Board of Directors.
“We spin it with the whole Photoshop, crazed-fans thing,” Hamilton said. “And no one will believe it’s you in those sex club pics and vids. Or if they do, there will be enough reasonable doubt in their minds…and in the meantime, the church thing will be in full swing. Now, being seen with the rescue team after the earthquake and coming out of that place…that’s your film character research.”
“Cool.”
“Pick your church of choice and I’ll do the rest,” Hamilton said. He stopped beaming the pictures on the wall. “Oh, and you’re recording a duet with that one gospel singer…the guy who wins all the gospel music awards and says he’s been ‘cured’ of his attraction to men. His people are excited to spread Jesus’s word and reach out to the masses with Tommie Jordan singing hooks.”
“I don’t do hooks,” Tommie said. “I sing lead.”
“You want your career?” Hamilton said. “You’re doing hooks for gospel.”
“Gospel? Are you serious? I ain’t sang gospel since belonging to the Hemmings’ church back in Detroit.”
I saw a light, an aha moment in Hamilton’s eyes.
“I forgot the Hemmings family connections you have…Keith, right? Reverend Hemmings and the largest church in Detroit,” he said. “I might have to work that angle in your salvation. You still talk to Keith or his family?”
“Um, well,” Tommie said. “It’s been a while.”
“Don’t answer, I’ll handle that part,” he says. “Call me in the morning when you’re sober and clear-minded. We’ll get Dr. Bentley here for STD testing. And no more crises, Tommie Jordan. And definitely no late-night creeping to sex clubs and sex parties. You hear me?”
None of this had anything to do with me, but it was interesting to see and hear. Part of it was sad, though, seeing how controlled and untrue Tommie’s life was about to be. Even more sad was that Blake and I weren’t even a blip on Tommie and Hamilton’s radar.
Tyrell returned. Finally. He had a couple of garment bags folded over his left arm and a matching duffel bag in his right hand.
“So I see how it is, Tyrell,” Tommie shouted across the room. “Step out on a brotha while he down and out. You leaving me for that?”
Tommie pointed at me, though he could have been pointing at my nephew Blake, since we were all in the same general direction. I was surprised to finally be acknowledged.
“No, Tommie,” Tyrell said. “I’m leaving you for me.”
Chapter 20
When we pulled into the alley behind my apartment building, I gave Blake my apartment number and key to let himself in.
It was almost eight in the evening, and after a cross-country flight and the post-flight drama at the airport and at Tyrell’s and Tommie’s, I knew Blake had to be hungry. But Tyrell didn’t want to chance eating anywhere in public, since the Tommie / Tyrell story had hit the air, so I told Blake where he could find his favorite turkey chop dinner and to get started without me.
With Blake gone, Tyrell parked behind a car I didn’t recognize, but knew was probably one of my neighbors or a visitor to a nearby apartment. He turned off the lights and the truck.
“Your nephew is cool,” Tyrell said.
“Thanks.”
“Like his uncle.”
“I’m going to have my hands full this summer,” I said. Wanted to change the subject quickly. “His mom—my sister—thinks I can help him get his life on track. He’s nineteen and just wilding out on her lately.”
“We’ll get him on track,” Tyrell said. “Once this whole thing blows over, I’ll get at you and we’ll see what happens. I know you need some alone time with Blake.”
“After what he experienced today,” I said, “I’m sure he’ll need therapy. Welcome to L.A., Blake! Now, let’s go see your therapist and get you some mind drugs.”
We laughed. On the radio, a Tommie Jordan song was starting to play. Tyrell changed it quickly to a jazz station.
“Loser,” Tyrell said.
“Be nice.”
He turned my way and stared. “You’re so nice. I mean, the whole LADS work, community service thing. You’re educated. Together. Look good.”
I wanted the compliments to stop. So I rebutted wtih, “Older than you. Unemployed. Not famous. Definitely not an athletic body. Poor…compared to you.”
“It’s not a money thing,” he said. “I’d give it all up to be happy and have peace of mind like you seem to have.”
I smiled. “‘Seem’ is the operative word.”
“Still,” he said, still staring at me. I was feeling a little uncomfortable with the attention. “I’m not saying this because I’m some famous baller who knows he can get whomever he wants—because I can…”
“Whatever, Tyrell.” We laughed again.
“But I think you’re smart enough to know I dig you,” he said.
“Me? Why?”
“Yeah, you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’m shocked.”
“Why do you think I took that hundred-dollar speaking gig at LADS? I researched you, Malcolm.”
He grabbed my hand with his dinner-plate-sized hands. I couldn’t wait to tell Kyle about the fingers. The places my mind went. I was getting a bit…excited.
“It was three hundred,” I said and laughed.
“I woulda done it for free just to get to meet you,” Tyrell said. “For real for real.”
“Oh God,” I said. Blushed. “I don’t know what to say, Tyrell.”
“Don’t say yes or no,” he said. “I’ma get a room at The Standard or Mondrian, lay low for a few days, maybe a week. Settle this Tommie thing. Then see what’s up. You do wanna see what’s up, don’t you?”
“What’s up? Like…” I pointed to Tyrell and me and back to Tyrell with my free hand. “Us?”
“I know you thought about it.”
“No,” I said and grinned. “Really, I haven’t.”
“I have,” he said and lowered his voice. “Anyway, I wanna get to know you, Malcolm Campbell.”
If we’d been dating, or had known each other for a lot longer, this would have been the kiss moment. But it wasn’t, and it left a lot to look forward to. A lot.
“Cool,” I said, like a nerd who doesn’t have a clue. “I’m glad I could be of some help or support.”
“I’ve got good intuition,” he started to say, and when I flipped the radio back to Tommie Jordan singing, he laughed and said, “Okay, maybe not. You got me.”
“Oh really?”
“Yep,” he said and moved in for
the kiss that seemed destined to happen when…
A flash from one photographer’s camera lit up the evening sky, and the car parked in front of us sped off.
“Fucking reporters,” Tyrell yelled and blew his horn.
“Outside my dinky apartment? My God,” I said. I was surprised too. If this was how life with a celebrity could be, friendship or relationship-wise, I wasn’t sure if I was up for the challenge.
“Outside your dinky apartment,” Tyrell said. “I should chase his ass down. Motherfucker. Sorry for cussing, man. That’s not me. Damn Tommie.”
“It’s deserved.”
He reached over and grabbed my hands again.
“That means there’s more where that came from,” Tyrell said. “I hope you can deal with being in the spotlight a little.”
“I’m not a celebrity, this is your life,” I said. My defenses were up, realizing that my video situation, which I thought was dying down, was now linked to Tommie Jordan and Tyrell Kincaid. “I’m just someone trying to help young Black queer guys.”
“Which is why I like you so much,” Tyrell said and squeezed my hand. “So when I get back at you again, you let me know if you think you can handle it.”
Big responsibility for something I never wanted or imagined happening. Life in the spotlight.
Chapter 21
Blake was lying on my living room couch, a plate of half-eaten food on the nearby coffee table, watching the footage he’d recorded on his camera.
“Damn, Unc, we got the whole thing on camera,” Blake said as he continued his camera viewing. “If I was a little digga nigga, I could sell this to Paparazzi Players or TMZ for big bucks. Lord knows I could use the money.”
“But you’re not going to sell it, nor will you upload the footage online or onto my computer,” I said and scooted Blake’s legs aside so I could join him on the sofa. “Nor will you use the n-word in my house.”
“Oh my God, you and Ma are the same about that word,” he said. “And yes, I know that word is beneath us. Heard it all my life from Ma, Grandma, everybody.”
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