SaTia always pressed what she called her “inner white girl button” when we went to meetings with execs. She said she learned how to do it in college. It was more annoying than hearing someone scrape the end of a fork against a plate, but it worked. We always came out with more money, or the promise of more money, than we had before.
I could tell by the word “postal” that she had hit her button, but I was too angry to care.
Mr. Rose glanced suspiciously from me to SaTia, and then back to me. SaTia cut his thoughts short.
“Getting down to business, Mr. Rose, Mr. Jenkins has been very pleased with his success since signing with your company.”
“Well, good. He doesn’t seem like it at all.”
“It’s been a considerably hectic morning, Mr. Rose. I requested that he quiet his thoughts a bit before coming into this meeting. He’s just trying to pull himself together. Oh...and by the way, Mr. Rose, Mr. Jenkins likes to be called Moe or Moses when he’s dealing with business.”
Mr. Rose glanced at me one more time. I kept the same stone expression on my canvas. He shrugged his shoulders and looked back at SaTia.
“Okay, fair enough. We’re starting late, so let’s jump right into it, shall we? How’s the second project going?”
SaTia turned on her white girl excitement.
“It’s going wonderfully! We’re making progress quicker than we expected to. Mr. Jenkins has really learned a lot from the completion of his first album.”
Mr. Rose nodded his head as he methodically picked apart the sculpture on his plate.
“Good, because we’re going to need to kick up the deadline.”
My righteous indignation went limp. “Whoa, what? You cain’t just kick up the deadline without lettin’ me know!”
“He speaks!” Mr. Rose chuckled to himself. I tried to grab at my butter knife, but SaTia had already moved it.
I looked over at her as she leaned forward, clasped her hands together, and stared directly at Mr. Rose, and I knew I had nothing to worry about.
The inner white girl button had been turned off again. Now she was just plain old SaTia.
“Mr. Rose, we discussed a clear timeline in our last meeting and agreed that the dates that were set would be permanent. May I ask the reason our previously agreed upon deadline is no longer sufficient?”
Mr. Rose finished chewing the food in his mouth before he answered. He seemed vaguely amused at her, but he was too smart to underestimate her.
“Riggs and Baker, the head guys at Infiniti, got wind of our scheduled release dates. They kicked up all of No Parole’s rap LPs by at least a month.”
SaTia started to respond, but I cut her off.
“But I outsell all them nigg...umm...bastards at No Parole! Cain’t none of ’em touch me! Why I gotta move my stuff up ’cause of them?”
“They’ve got some new guys signed who are supposed to be pretty decent. They call themselves ‘P.’ Silencers, ‘p’ as in potato. Apparently they had quite a buzz around them in Idaho before hitting big.”
SaTia and I sang out in unison, “Idaho?”
Mr. Rose smirked at our ignorance.
“Yes, Idaho. There is a hip-hop scene everywhere in this country, and in most places outside of it. Idaho is no different.”
One of the waiters who had eyeballed me earlier now came and put water in front of SaTia and me. She picked hers up as she spoke.
“I’m still having trouble understanding how this affects my client?”
“It’s a precautionary measure, Ms. Brooks. Just to make sure they don’t get one up on us.”
“And will Mr. Jenkins be compensated for this precautionary measure?”
“Of course. We recognize the extra studio and production time he’ll have to put in, and we’ll make sure it translates into cash. We’ll even throw in a $100,000 bonus at the end of the quarter.”
I didn’t care if it was a wise man or a crackhead who first said it, but they’re the truest words ever spoken—money heals all wounds. I raised my hand to signal for the waiter, and when he came around I gave him the biggest grin that the muscles in my jaw could manage.
“Yes, sir?”
I pointed to the almost empty plate in front of Mr. Rose. “I’ll have whatever he’s having.”
“Yes, sir.”
The waiter shot me another resentful glance as he left, and I smiled even harder. Mr. Rose laughed out loud.
“I see that put you in a better mood.”
“You know it!”
SaTia kicked me under the table to tell me to get hold of myself, and I reduced my grin to a subtle smirk. Once she saw I was a little more composed, she looked back at Mr. Rose.
“Let’s leave that $100,000 up for negotiation. I wouldn’t want to agree right now, as we don’t know exactly how hard Mr. Jenkins will have to work in order to meet his new deadline. We’ll need to tie down specifics on exactly how this extra working time will ‘translate’ into cash.”
Mr. Rose seemed annoyed and impressed at the same time. He sighed to signal that he was no longer amused.
“Agreed. As long as Moses does what is asked of him, we can negotiate the whole thing to your liking.”
I could tell that SaTia and I had the same thought again. I decided it was best to let her speak.
“Exactly what is it that is being asked of my client, Mr. Rose?”
“Our plan is in two parts. First, we’ll kick up the original deadline by three weeks, and release two singles instead of one for radio.”
That would be easy for me. I had my first single done, and already had a song in mind that would be perfect for the second. I started to grin again, but I thought about SaTia and tried to stay calm. She kept her gaze drilled on Mr. Rose.
“I’ll talk it over with my client, but that seems doable. What is the second part of your plan?”
Mr. Rose finished the last bite on his plate and slowly put his fork down. “The second part is a little more interesting...”
We glanced at each other out of the corners of our eyes. SaTia telepathically told me to shut up, but she didn’t need to. I didn’t trust myself enough to speak.
“Do tell, Mr. Rose.” My spokeswoman was all ears.
“One of the main draws to this new group is that they are known for making battle records. We have an inside source who has informed us that their first single will be a battle record aimed at your client.”
My instincts took over.
“Me? What? I don’t even know these dudes!”
Mr. Rose suddenly sounded lighthearted.
“It’s nothing, Moe. They’re just some ex-cons trying to make a name for themselves.”
SaTia almost knocked her water over.
“Ex-cons?”
Mr. Rose responded to her but kept his eyes on me.
“Yes. Apparently they met in jail and formed their group. It wouldn’t be such a big deal, but you know how much a diss record can hurt a rap career. So, we would like for your second single to be a battle record against them.”
“Absolutely not!” SaTia said adamantly, but Mr. Rose continued to look straight at me.
“Look, these guys are going to say all types of things about you. They’ve been asking people about you and getting information you would never think they could have. Girls you’ve slept with on the road, ex-girlfriends from D.C., old friends who are mad because you left them in the ghetto—I mean, these guys have been serious. They were going to surprise you with it—have you turn on the radio and here is this song tearing you apart—but we found out about it. We found out and now you have the chance to strike before they do!”
SaTia plucked me upside my head. She had been calling me, but I hadn’t heard her. I finally turned away from Mr. Rose and looked her in the eyes.
“Don’t listen to him, Moe. This is ridiculous. People get killed over this kind of stuff! We can find another label before we get involved with some mess like this.”
I heard everything my best frie
nd had said, but Mr. Rose’s seed had already been planted. I was already having visions of people laughing at me when I walked onstage, reciting lines to someone else’s diss record.
My pride wouldn’t let me go through it. I turned back to Mr. Rose.
“How am I supposed to write a diss record against people I’ve never heard of before?”
“I’ve had my people look into them, and I have got enough info to fill a college textbook. All you have to do is write the song and record it.”
SaTia reached over and grabbed my chin, turning my head toward her. The show of affection even took Mr. Rose by surprise. His eyes went wide as he sat back in his chair.
“Listen to me, Moe. This is dangerous. People take diss records to heart. I...I don’t like this...”
“Ahem...” Mr. Rose reached into his pocket and pulled out a CD case. “I was able to get a rough copy of the song. It’s not mastered at all, but the words will be the same.”
I looked back and forth from SaTia to the CD case. Finally, I stopped at SaTia.
“I’m gonna listen to it, okay? I just wanna hear what they say.”
SaTia realized she had lost the battle. Her eyes dropped as she let go of my chin. After a few seconds, she took in a deep breath and lifted her eyes back up to Mr. Rose.
“Okay, if we do this, we are talking about a whole new level of negotiations. Scratch your bonus and try multiplying it by five, at least, in addition to hourly compensation for studio time and increased control over the production process for the entire album.”
While she talked, I reached out and grabbed the CD case. This time, it was Mr. Rose’s turn to grin.
“If this project is successful, you can have whatever you want.”
I took the CD out of the case and played around with it in my hand.
Mr. Rose glanced at his watch and stood up. We stood up with him, and he took turns shaking both of our hands.
“Unfortunately, I have to catch a plane, but this has been a very fruitful meeting. Ms. Brooks, someone from HQ will call you within twenty-four hours. We can work out all the fine details the next time we meet. And please, stay and enjoy whatever you like from the menu, on me.”
SaTia hid her distress well as she extended her hand.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Rose.”
“I’ll holla at you later, man.” My farewell was a bit less professional, but I had a lot on my mind.
We both turned and watched Mr. Rose walk away, then sat back down at the table. I could hear SaTia’s disappointment in her breathing.
“Look, Tia, I think—”
“Stop. Just stop, okay? You’re the superstar, and you made your decision. Can we please get out of here?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
We stood up as the indignant waiter came around the corner with my dish. He placed it on the table as I was putting my sunglasses back on.
“You’re not going to eat, sir?”
“Naw. Give my compliments to the chef, though. It looks like a million bucks.”
I got one last distasteful look before SaTia and I walked back to the limo.
3
Why is every makeup artist that I’ve ever seen ugly? Isn’t that some sort of conflict of interest?
I sent the text message to SaTia and the guys while a very scary woman tried to improve my countenance. She either got regular Botox, or someone had recently stuck her head in a freezer. Her eyes reflected emotions that her face simply couldn’t show. I found myself imagining holding up a chisel and lightly tapping on her cheek. Her face would probably fall apart. Ray would walk in and think I dumped a puzzle on the floor.
Meanwhile, I sat in a chair that looked as if it was meant for a movie director and wondered if putting foundation on a man qualified him as being metrosexual. It couldn’t, I thought to myself, because I was definitely not the first MC to ever be on a late-night talk show. Either Leno and Letterman only invited ambiguously gay rappers to sit on their couch, or I was in the clear and this was a necessary suspension of my manhood.
Orlando, Ray, Brian, Henry, SaTia and I had all arrived at the studio a half-hour earlier. Our days had been long since the diss record dropped. We’d been flying all over the place. I was doing TV interviews and performing in almost every major city in the U.S. This was the biggest primetime television opportunity we’d had, though.
About a month ago, I was sitting in my hotel room eating a bowl of Froot Loops when SaTia burst in with a grin on her face. She told me the producers from the Phil Winters Show had just contacted her. They wanted to know if Da Nigga would be available to come to Chicago in five weeks and be a guest. The Phil Winters Show had been the number one late-night talk show on TV for over a decade. I almost choked on a loop.
These kinds of things had been happening regularly in the last eight months. I dropped one song, and all of a sudden I couldn’t perform in clubs anymore because the crowds were overcapacity. I went from being recognized by four or five people every time I went out to having to wear a disguise and notify local police departments where I’d be going so they could have their squads on standby to deal with the mobs. It was insanity. Even my crew was changing. They’d caught the residual effects of my newfound superstardom, and had decided that they no longer wanted to be referred to by their real names. Instead, they always wanted to be known by their aliases.
“You’re kidding me,” I told them in the VIP section of a club in Dallas. “You want me to call all of you by your stage names? The only time you’re even on stage is when you’re with me!”
“We know, man,” Henry said for the group. They had all seen how much pressure had been put on me lately, and they figured Henry would be the best person to approach me without getting me upset. “But with you being so famous now, people actually startin’ to recognize us, too. Couple a times you did interviews and used our real names, and befo’ it wasn’t really no big deal, but now...well...I mean, you ain’t got to if you don’t want to, but we already said we was gonna start callin’ each otha by our aliases, so we jus’ wanted to know if you was down to do the same thing?”
Everyone was losing their minds. It seemed like the only sane person around me was SaTia, and even she had to admit that as long as nothing changed down the road, making the battle record might have been the best thing I could’ve done.
Lost in my own thought, I didn’t even notice the porcelain lady stop what she was doing and glance over my shoulder. It took for an energetic voice approaching me from behind to snap me out of my daze. I looked up and into the mirror just in time to see Phil Winters prepare to slap his hand down on my shoulder. Even though he was over twice my age, his visage beamed with the vivaciousness of a teenager. I guess daily professional grooming and sex with younger women really is the fountain of youth. I turned my head to look into his eyes as he spoke.
“Thrilled, absolutely thrilled to have you on the show! What should I call you, huh? Should I call you Moe or ‘Da N’ or ‘Da N-word’, or what? Man, I swear you picked one helluva name!”
I had been getting this question a lot lately, and it was starting to piss me off. SaTia constantly told me I’d asked for it.
“You can call me whateva, man. Most white folk jus stick to Da N-word, though. Seem like y’all don’t know the difference between nig-ga and nig-ger, so you’re better off playin’ it safe.”
Phil vigorously nodded his head.
“I totally agree, totally agree! Is Sandy treating you okay?” He motioned to the lady with the frozen face. “She’s a miracle worker with makeup. Makes me look great on my worst days...”
“Yeah, she’s great,” I said, as I glanced at Sandy. I could tell by her eyes she didn’t care what I said one way or the other.
“Great! Listen, I’m so glad we got you on while the dissing record is still hot! It’s been lighting up the airways for months now!”
I laughed to myself and shook my head. “It’s called a diss record, Phil, not a dissing record. Anyone who
knows anything about rap is gonna laugh at you if you say that.”
Phil immediately yanked a notepad out from the inside pocket of his designer suit. He scribbled the note down, said it once out loud to himself, and then slipped the pad back into his pocket.
“Got it! Won’t make that mistake on the show, I promise! And just so you know, I’ll probably ask you more questions about the record tonight than anything else. Is that okay with you?”
“Yeah, it figures. Just make sure you push the new CD.”
“Already covered that with your business manager, and everything’s under control. Is there anything else you need? Anything at all?”
“Nope, I’m good.”
“Wonderful! See you on the set!”
He slapped me on the shoulder again and briskly walked out, leaving Sandy and me to an awkward silence.
“I can finish up if you like.” She talked with so little enthusiasm that I started to get sleepy.
“Yeah, that’d be good.”
She made her way back over to my face and began wrapping up her masterpiece. Five minutes later, SaTia burst through the door.
“The show’s starting, Moe. He’s gonna call you out in ten minutes. We need to be in place.”
I glanced at Sandy again, and this time she gave me a slight smile. It looked like it hurt.
“We’re all done here,” she declared with indistinguishable triumph.
“Thanks, Sandy,” I said as I got up. She nodded, and turned to gather her equipment as I walked out with my manager.
“The set is this way,” SaTia said and pointed to the right as we began speed walking. “I’ve already run down what he can and can’t ask you, but it sounds like most of his questions will be about the record.”
“I know, he told me.”
“Just be careful what you say, okay? The record is out and it’s done its job—there’s no use in rubbing it in.”
I could hear the concern in my best friend’s voice.
“You not still worried about those fools, are you?”
“Just be careful what you say, okay?”
We approached an open doorway with a curtain in front of it, and two men who looked like the guys on the runway at the airport. One pulled off his headphones and turned to us while the other kept up a conversation over a walkie-talkie.
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