“The stage is on the other side of this curtain. You’ll be coming on from the far right, and the camera will be on you from the time you emerge until the time you sit down with Phil. This is live, so please no profanity or lewd comments. Have a great show.”
SaTia nodded at the stagehand and then turned to me. “I’ll be waiting back here during the interview. If something goes wrong, I’ll come out during the commercial break. Otherwise, see you when it’s over.”
I had the urge to kiss her. I always had the urge to kiss her before I went onstage, like just in case someone was waiting in the crowd with bad intentions, at least I got one in before I died. Instead, I did what I always did, which was nod at her. She nodded back, and took two steps behind me.
The ground controller began a silent countdown with his hands. When he got down to seven I took a deep breath and checked myself. My jeans and Washington Wizards jersey were on point, my Jordans were fresh, and both my chain and my grill were bright enough to power a solar vehicle. I was ready.
Three fingers...two fingers...one finger...
The guy extended his arm out toward the curtain and I walked through.
I wasn’t expecting people to be so excited about seeing me. I’d always thought late-night talk shows were for rich, white insomniacs, and I figured the most I’d get was a modest applause before I made my way to the couch and sat down.
Instead, there was this huge roar that seemed to originate from everywhere. It started when I came out from the curtain, blinded by the stagelights and waving to people whose faces I couldn’t make out. It was like a huge, deafening tidal wave.
By the time I made it across the stage and was sitting down beside Phil, the room seemed to be split down the middle. One side was simply yelling and cheering, while the other side was chanting my name like a mantra.
“Da Nig-ga! Da Nig-ga!...”
It took a while for Phil to quiet everyone down, but he managed to do it without breaking a sweat. We both took a seat, him behind the same desk that his nightly fans were so used to, and me on the comfortable loveseat beside it.
Phil spoke with the same energetic tone he always used.
“Well, I guess we know what side all the black people are sitting on in the audience, huh? I imagine that most of your white fans don’t feel comfortable saying your stage name.”
Even as I sat in front of a nationally televised audience, time seemed to freeze for a second.
The truth was that he was probably right. Now that I had reached this new superstar status, there had been this big thing about who could and couldn’t say my stage name. Every white person I met acted like Phil back in the dressing room. They were terrified of saying “Da Nigga.” There had even been a news report done on all the white guys who got punched in the face at my concerts for screaming it after the show.
Because it was causing so much controversy, the execs consulted an outside publicist. Mr. Rose (who, after my new album went platinum, told me to just call him Rose) called SaTia and me in one day and told us he had called in Lois Lane.
“Who?” I was high, so I figured I was trippin’.
“Lois Lane,” Rose repeated. “She’s the best PR consultant in the business.”
“Is that her real name?” SaTia was documenting the meeting on her laptop.
“It might as well be. They call her that ’cause she’s such a tough cunt she’s probably the only woman who could survive screwing Superman.”
She walked in the door just as he’d finished his sentence, and I couldn’t contain my laughter if you’d paid me. That’s a downside to being toasted and trying to do business.
SaTia elbowed me so hard I thought I’d see blood on my next trip to the bathroom, but I couldn’t stop. When Lois sat down, she looked at me with my head thrown back, laughing like Heath Ledger in white face paint, and then looked at Rose.
“Told him why they call me Lois Lane, huh?”
“Yep,” he said with a smile.
“I apologize for my client,” SaTia started. “He’s...”
“Oh please.” Lois waved her hand nonchalantly. She was a middle-aged white lady whose skin had wrinkled before it was supposed to. Cigarettes had scratched up her throat like a DJ did a record. Her voice sounded like steel nails methodically grinding against sheet metal.
“I’ve had dreams about it. Give him a second to compose himself. I have to run to the restroom, anyway.”
I had stopped laughing when she returned, but only because I’d exhausted myself. Turns out, that would be the only thing funny about our meeting. She proceeded to advise Rose, SaTia, and me that whenever possible I should deny the racial divide that my stage name caused.
“Always tell the camera that you know plenty of white people who feel comfortable saying your alias.”
“Does it matter that I don’t?” I inquired sarcastically. She answered seriously.
“Not at all. People expect to be lied to. Especially by celebrities. At the end of the day, your standpoint should always be that racism doesn’t exist in this wonderful country anymore.”
“Hell naw. Look, I know you a hotshot and all, but...”
I still had my mouth open from the sentence she wouldn’t let me finish.
“But nothing!” She slammed her palm down on the cherrywood table. I was prepared to put on a spectacle for being disrespected, but when I looked up Lois was staring at me like there was a countdown to the rapture and she was trying to bring me to Jesus.
“I’m sure, Mr. Jenkins, that you’re aware of the fact that the largest demographic of people buying your music is young white kids. And believe me, the last thing a white person wants to think about while zoning out to music is whether or not they’re a racist. You make this statement and you neutralize the situation. Your record sales have already gone through the roof, but if you do this, they’ll go through the stratosphere.”
I didn’t even have to look at SaTia. Lois had barely finished her sentence before she spoke up.
“My client WILL NOT compromise...”
This time, Rose cut her off.
“Ahem...umm...look, we know that this is a very sensitive situation. We feel, however, that this strategy will be lucrative for everyone involved.” As he spoke, he gestured to Loen and Mytino, the other two execs who had just walked in the room. I used to call both of them Mister, too, before my new record sales.
“In fact, Moses, we’ve already drawn up the paperwork for a healthy bonus for you—provided that you stay within the lines of certain public relations boundaries. Of course, we would never force you to say or refrain from saying anything, but...well, the choice is yours.”
Now all that past conversation had faded and I was back on the set of Phil Winters’ show. He was staring at me, showing his artificially whitened teeth, and waiting for my response.
“Actually, Phil, I got plenty white fans who say my name all the time. You probably got a bunch of ’em in that all-black section you was talkin’ ’bout. Plus, you forgettin’ the Latinos and Asians and anybody else who digs my music. They probably in that all-black section, too. Maybe we could cut on all da lights and see who sittin’ where...”
Phil Winters could have a conversation about Armageddon and still keep a smile on his face. This little conversation about race was no different. It was interesting to watch him keep his cheekbones high and his pearly whites showing, but it wasn’t a surprise. The surprise was from looking in his eyes up close, during this conversation, and seeing the fear flash through them like the lights on top of a police car.
“No, no, that’s not necessary,” he said.
The host still had his smile, but he couldn’t hide the red cheeks and forehead.
“Bottom line is—” I began to get heartburn as I was talking, “—I don’t believe we got no more racism in America. All dat stuff was back in the past, man.”
Phil Winters broke character for about a half a second, and looked at me completely shocked before he caught himself
and put his smile back on. Clearing his throat, he took in a deep breath and kept going.
“So...getting down to business, you’ve had an amazing couple of months, have you not?”
He was desperate to change the subject, as was I.
“Yeah, most definitely. Last few months have been crazy.”
“Can you tell us how everything got started?”
He was talking about the diss record, but I saw an opportunity to be coy. I couldn’t pass it up.
“Well, it all started back when I was eight, and I heard my first rap song on the babysitter’s radio...”
I could hear the chuckles from the crowd. Winters smiled at the lighthearted joke.
“As much as we’d all love to hear your life story, I was talking about your musical career. Specifically, the record you made that had such a big impact on the hip-hop world. What is it called again?”
I had to smile slightly as I recounted the name I’d given the song.
“Piss On The Silenzas.”
Phil leaned forward and rested his chin in his palm.
“And we know who it was about, but tell us the story of how it came to be.”
“Well, I got word one day that Trigga and Barrel were makin’ a diss record ’bout me...”
“Trigga and Barrel would be the two members of P. Silenzas, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, dat’s them.”
“And who did you hear about their diss record from?”
“Some of my inside sources let me know ’bout it.”
“Care to share any names?”
I gave Phil a look and shook my head. Not wanting to break the momentum, he picked back up with his next question.
“Okay, so, you decide to make ‘Piss On The Silenzas.’ Did you know when you were making it that it would be such a huge hit?”
“Naw, I had no idea. I mean, it just took off. Label put it out as a single, and it was curtains from there.”
“What do you think made it such a big hit?”
I paused for a second to think.
“It was all ’bout the timing, Phil. They was getting ready to release their first single, which happened to be ’bout me. Matter-of-fact, my label was so slick wid it that we got my single put out the day after their single came out. Made it seem like we was sittin’ back waitin’ for these niggas to make da first move.”
“And the name of their single—and I know we can’t say the real name on the air—but the title of the song they made...?”
“‘B-word Nigga’ was the name of their song. Don’t worry, Phil, I’m not gon’ cuss on ya show. I’m not tryin’ to get you in no trouble.”
“Well, I appreciate that. Why do you think they named their song that, though?”
“Well, I’m Da Nigga, so I guess maybe they was tryin’ to be creative. Somebody shoulda told ’em they was messin’ with da wrong one.”
“Well, I would guess that they know that now. We’re going to show a quick clip from the video...”
“Oh, really?”
I wasn’t expecting for them to show any clips, but I didn’t have a problem with it. A large screen came out of the floor and rose up behind us. I saw Phil begin to turn, so I turned around and faced the screen as well. As it turned on, I immediately recognized the portion of the video that the clip was starting from. I bent over on the loveseat and started laughing. Phil looked at me and smirked. “You still get a kick out of seeing the video?”
I had gotten control of myself, and was wiping my eyes with my shirt sleeves.
“Hell yeah. This is classic stuff right here.”
The lights faded slightly and the video began to play.
I was dressed in baggy jeans and a black hoodie that had “Silence these nuts” written on the front of it. The word “nuts” was blocked out by one of those boxes that distorts the image it covers. The scene took place in a jail, and I was standing outside of a cell while two men were on the inside petting and caressing each other. The words rang out across the studio...
Y’all some bootyhole rappers
Dick in da booty trappers
Y’all n***as drop da soap on purpose
And laugh after
Got up outta jail
Tried to battle da best rapper
Man, they ain’t tell you?
I’ll hang you from da rafters
Keep talkin’
Watch I put ya face through da pavement
Make you pay for da damages
And put it in my savings
It’s basic
You n***as is pussies
So just face it
Came from outta nowhere and failed
Like Sarah Palin...
By the last four lines of the song, it seemed as if the entire audience was reciting the lyrics word for word.
“Wow...” I couldn’t hide my shock as the lights came back up and the screen that was behind us lowered back down into oblivion.
Phil looked back over at me.
“Are you surprised that the audience knows the song so well?”
“Yeah. I mean, you would think I’d be used to it by now, right?”
The talk show host leaned forward and crossed his hands on top of his desk.
“This is how someone explained this whole phenomenon to me...well, wait...would you agree that it’s a phenomenon? Your instant rise to superstardom, I mean?”
I leaned forward to meet his gaze.
“Real talk, Phil? Look, I thought I was big before. I thought I was already a superstar. But now, with this diss record—man, it’s a whole other world. I cain’t think of no better word for it than a phenomenon.”
“Okay, good...so here’s how someone explained it to me: no matter how peaceful and civilized people try and make themselves out to be, in the end those same people want to see some conflict. And it had been a really long time since rap music had any serious conflict. Small little arguments here and there, yeah, but this thing between you and P. Silenzas has gotten serious. There have been some death threats involved, correct?”
My entire demeanor changed. I shifted back in my seat, rubbed my nose with my thumb and pointer fingers and let my head hang to the side a bit. It wasn’t purposeful, but my street instincts kicked in—never show fear.
“Whateva, man. Niggas just mad ’cause I ruined they career. They ain’t ’bout to do nothin’.”
“Do you feel as if they have a right to be mad about how things have turned out?”
“At themselves, maybe. Ain’t no use in bein’ mad at me when you was da one makin’ battle records in da first place.”
“That’s a good point—they did start it. But you most definitely finished it. I mean, after your record, they couldn’t perform anywhere without people reciting your lyrics. People would even call in to their radio interviews to tease them. And, of course, we all know how it turned out. The final indignity.”
“Yeah, we do. They couldn’t rap noways. They was gonna get dropped from that label no matter what. I just sped up the process.”
“So you do admit that you played a role in P. Silenzas getting dropped from their label?”
“Look, I’ont know what the conversations sounded like on that end, ’cause I ain’t signed to that label. What I’ll say is the same thing I been sayin’ since the whole thing started—if I ruined anybody’s career, then I ruined the career of two fluke rappers who wasn’t goin’ nowhere to begin with.”
“Well, I guess there’s...”
“YOU A DEAD MAN!”
Our heads shot around so quickly, you could hear the wind breaking. I knew where the voice was coming from, but because of the stage lights shining on us, I couldn’t see anyone in the audience. Phil stood from his seat.
“Who is that? Security!”
“YOU A DEAD MAN, NIGGA! YOU HEAR ME? I SWEAR TO GOD, YOU...”
I heard what could only be described as a ghetto warrior cry come from Ray or Henry, and then the sound of a grown man colliding with another grown man. T
hey must have landed on or around some other audience members, because two ladies screamed out simultaneously, after which it sounded like nine or ten full rows of people jumped out of their seats to avoid what was happening. As the seconds rolled by, the commotion grew exponentially.
It was the two gunshots that sent everything into utter chaos.
“CUT THE FEED!!!!” I heard someone in charge yell out. Almost immediately, the screen attached to the main camera that had been recording us cut to those multicolored bars that show on public broadcasting channels late at night. The lights came up just in time for me to see three different security guards try and pick a man up from under the stomping feet of Brian and Orlando. I would find out later that Henry was the closest to the guy and had run headfirst into him. After being knocked down, the assailant managed to climb to his knees, take aim, and fire a shot at the stage before Henry pulled him back down again. The gun went off a second time as they were rolling around on the ground. Henry was bleeding from his right arm, and Ray was trying to get him some help while the studio audience rushed out through two different emergency exits like a stampede.
That’s when it occurred to me that in the thirty seconds that the whole ordeal had taken place, I hadn’t moved. I was frozen in fear. My eyes darted back and forth wildly, but my body wouldn’t budge. Even Phil had ducked to the back after the feed was cut, but I might as well have been super glued to the loveseat. I felt like George Bush on 9-11. My heart was bursting out of my ribcage and I was wheezing to catch my breath, but I sat like a statue until I saw SaTia sprint down the aisle and leap up onto the stage.
“LET’S GO!”
As she grabbed my hand, the invisible weights fell off my legs. We bolted back through the curtain and the door that I had come through to get to the stage, and then found the side door backstage that led to the garage. The Maybach driver was singing a Whitney Houston song aloud. He choked when we jumped in the car. SaTia couldn’t have cared less.
“Get us out of here!”
Still trying to clear the saliva from his windpipe, the driver nodded to show that he recognized the request. Wheezing, he floored the gas in the extravagant car and left the most expensive tire tracks anyone has ever seen.
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