Hollywood Flames

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  Étie is nothing if not an authentic human being. I was never surer of that until the immediate moments after that phone call. I knew much of what had happened—the marriage to Frankie, the arm-candy appearances, the Hollywood scene, even my one-sided Alexis Carrington showdown with Sylvester—were challenges to his genuineness. They were minor challenges, perhaps, but enough to make him feel a bit off-kilter, a bit not himself.

  Yet, loving me as he did, he remained valiant in his effort to cope with those things that grated against his nature. But he remained quiet to the ill of it all, speaking only from within a heart that beat with the blood of truth and honesty.

  And so as we grew closer, symbolically blood of blood, spiritually one, his aches became my aches, his doubts, mine. He was beginning to feel as phony as the business into which I was trying to hurl him. From the bottom of my heart, that’s what I believed.

  I made a note to myself. When I got back, we would sit down and talk about it, talk about what he really wanted to do.

  * * * * *

  I spent the rest of the afternoon arranging and rearranging the photographs in my portfolio and the photographs in my head. Since first hearing about the Oprah opportunity, I wondered which photos of mine caught her attention enough to offer me a summons. The opening night at the Pan African Film Festival? The Image Award coverage? Maybe it was the Vanessa Williams-Rick Fox wedding pictures or Madonna’s Halloween party at The Catch One. I was dying to ask her.

  I rearranged the pictures in my portfolio once more before showering and dressing for my dinner meeting. The phone rang at exactly six forty-five. I was informed that my car was downstairs waiting for me.

  The short ride along North Lake Shore Drive provided a sight to behold. On one side of me were the calm waters of Lake Michigan reflecting an iridescent moon. On the other was the dazzling spectacle of Chicago’s downtown skyline, one of the country’s most beautiful.

  It was five of seven when the driver delivered me to Henri, a swank but cozy little eatery on Michigan Avenue. The interior was old-world romantic. Its richly shaded chocolate and sea foam green walls, accented by elegantly understated sconces, was as appetizing as I imagined the French cuisine would be. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and showered down light as gentle as candlelight. My photographer’s eye was well nourished, and my stupefying grin showed it.

  The maître d’ interrupted my gander with a polite and sympathetic clearing of the throat. His warm and quiet greeting assured me I was not the first to be impressed by the quiet elegance of the establishment. He led me to a bright center-restaurant table where two smiling templates of Laverne and Shirley greeted me like family. Sandra Pierson introduced herself with a firm handshake. She then introduced me to Renee Belzar, who had to be at least eight months pregnant.

  “Twins,” she said, seeing me noticing her stomach.

  Still reeling from my Chardonnay encounter, I politely declined Sandra’s cocktail offer and joined Renee in a round of green tea.

  Dinner was a delightfully casual affair, no doubt a calming preamble to the audience with the legend that lay ahead. And it was indeed effective. By the time we topped the evening off with key lime pie and coffee, I had fallen in love with Oprah all over again. Listening to her employees talk about her made me realize she was loved and cherished up close and personally as much as she was universally. Sandra said it best, “Oprah is a woman blessed beyond her imagination who then turned around and imagined how to share her blessings with others.”

  I thought about that as I entered my hotel suite later that night. I thought about my friends and my family. I thought about Étie, truly my friend and my family. I too was blessed beyond my imagination. I too had to imagine how to share those blessings. I dialed Étie’s number, anxious to hear his voice.

  “Baby?” he answered on the first ring.

  “Hello, my handsome man,” I said softly.

  “Hi, my darling,” he said with a smiling voice. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too. How was your meeting with the agent?”

  “It was nice,” he said with a telling sigh. “I sign with her.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I put her name and contact information on website you make for me. And I emailed pictures to her for her website. I tell her prints of pictures coming soon.”

  “Well, it sounds like you’re on your way.”

  “Yeah,” he sighed again. “I miss not sleep in bed with you last night.”

  “Me too, baby.”

  “I not sleep as good when not in your arms, my Jesse.”

  “Oh baby, I can’t wait to be back home with you, in bed with you, making sweet love to you.”

  “That is what I miss most, my sweetheart, our lovemaking. How you feel inside me, how you fuck me so good while you whisper ‘I love you’ in my ear.”

  “Oh baby, I love loving you so much. Just the thought of us making love is making me hard.”

  “Oh Papi, me too. I am so hard just thinking about riding up and down on the big black pinga you have. I be aching for it, my darling. I be aching for it so bad.”

  “And it’s calling out to you, baby. I had to open my pants and take it out, before it tore its way out, and it’s begging for you.”

  “My dick be out too, my sweet, and my pants be down. My asshole starving, my dick hard and dripping with the thought of you sucking it good, sucking my dick as good as you fuck my hole.”

  “Do you know how much I love you, baby?”

  “Tell me, Papi. I love it when you tell me.”

  “I love you more than anything in the whole wide world, my darling. And I love making love to you any way you like it. All I want to do is pleasure you, pleasure your body, pleasure your heart.”

  “Oh yes, my sweet Jesse. You pleasure me like nothing else I ever know. My hole belong to you, your pinga belong to me. And now my asshole be twitching in hunger of its dick. My ass need to be pounded good. My own dripping dick tell me so, beg me so.”

  “Oh Étie, Étie…I love you so, so much, my darling.”

  “I love you too so much, me Papi. All of me love you so much. My mouth, my dick, my ass, my body, my all, it all love you so much!”

  “Oh baby, yeah, YEAH!”

  “Me too, my darling! My dick cannot wait, cannot wait!”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  “I come, baby! I come! Oh! Oh!”

  “Oh shit, yeah!”

  “Paaapiiii!!!!”

  “Oh shit, FUCK! YEAH!!!!”

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning I was up bright and early. Man, did I need that release with my baby last night. I was energized beyond belief. I ordered coffee, grapefruit juice and eggs benedict from room service, a light but substantive breakfast. I didn’t want food to make me sluggish, but I didn’t want my stomach growling in Oprah’s face either.

  During dinner last night, Renee Belzar informed me a car would pick me up at ten thirty and deliver me to Harpo Studios for my eleven o’clock meeting with the lady. It was half past seven when I finished my breakfast.

  I headed for the hotel’s gym, did my stretches, a mini-workout and took rejuvenating advantage of the sauna before a long soothing shower.

  Back in my room, I turned on the TV and watched Oprah’s show—she was on at nine a.m. in Chicago—while I dressed. The beige slacks, sock-free suede loafers, pink polo shirt and dark chocolate sport-coat ensemble achieved the look I wanted. Business, but not stuffy. Artistic, but not bohemian.

  But then I realized how overly staged I was, how overly thought-out I was. She was meeting me because she admired my pictures, not my wardrobe. She probably could not have cared less, well, except for the attended respect. I mean one does not walk up in Oprah’s office with sagging jeans and tennis shoes. At least I don’t think so. I lost the jacket but kept the sock-free loafers—I couldn’t resist.

  I had to be very careful. Oprah was airing one of her “My Favorite Things” shows, which always reduced me
to tears of joy. God, that’s all I needed, eyes puffy from the weepies. I did manage to pull myself together by the time Oprah signed off at ten. I iced my face, re-applied some moisturizer and gave myself a final once-over in the mirror. I then headed down to the lobby where I waited for the car, which arrived at exactly ten thirty.

  As I was being chauffeured to Harpo Studios, I was amazed at how calm I was. I should have been nervous, but for some reason I wasn’t. Or maybe it just hadn’t hit me yet, the significance of what was about to happen. This was truly a ride to what essentially was the Buckingham Palace of Chi Town and my audience with the queen.

  And then I had to catch myself. Why was I denying my calm? Was I deliberately trying to make myself nervous? I had already claimed the job. Étie claimed it for me. It was mine to lose. So why was I now worried that I wasn’t worried?

  By the time I reached Harpo, I was suddenly a nervous wreck. My hand shivered slightly as I signed in at the security desk. Karen, a perky blonde who identified herself as Sandra Pierson’s assistant, shook my nervous hand. She then escorted me through the neon-lit labyrinth toward an elevator that carried us up three flights.

  We stepped off the elevator into a sea of executives and interns, stylists and gofers, artists and administrators, mostly female. They all seemed so delighted in their various tasks at brightly decorated workstations. They were on phones and computers, tracking multi-screen TV monitors, dispensing directives, suggestions and opinions over coffee, tea, juice and bottled water. They were brainstorming festively. It was a beautiful corporate kaleidoscopic scenario, at once precise and loose, a controlled circus with focused intent.

  Karen led me down the wide opening between the staffers, exchanging smiles, small talk and waves until we reached the open double doors at the other end. I knew for sure before I even knew for sure that this was Oprah’s office. Karen led me in without a pause.

  “So have a seat, Jesse,” she said with a lilt, pointing me toward a pair of facing pale-pink sofas. They were separated by a low garden table crowned with a wide shallow vase filled with beautiful white flowers unfamiliar to my garden-savvy eye. “Oprah will be in any minute.”

  “Thanks,” I managed to say as I sat, sinking slowly into one of the soft sofas. I was facing the nearly floor-to-ceiling picture windows. Abundant natural light played brightly on the rich fabrics throughout the room. I took in the simple beauty with muted awe.

  “Would you like some coffee, tea, anything to drink?”

  “Oh no, I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, yes. Thanks.”

  “Okay then. Make yourself at home.”

  “Thank you.”

  And she was gone.

  Make myself at home? Was she kidding? It was like being left alone in the Oval Office, only pinker. But actually, there really was something comforting about the place, something very homey.

  It was not surprising that there were bookshelves everywhere. But they were not stuffed with brittle, yellow-paged, jacketless dust magnets. Neatly arranged books—novels, self-help volumes, biographies, pop culture, classics, oversized fine art and photo art publications—breathed spaciously. Delicately framed photos, personal mementos, and whatnots of every sort complemented the books.

  I found myself drawn to the shelves, and allowed my curiosity to be satisfied. I stood and approached them. The wide variety of titles fascinated me. I spotted a copy of Gordon Park’s Voices in the Mirror, my all-time favorite autobiography. That completely surrendered me to the lady without meeting her.

  Across the room, I noticed what had to be Oprah’s desk, a simple piece of ancient furniture lovingly refurbished and modestly detailed in gold leaf. Her desk area seemed suited more for retreat than work.

  And then it hit me, although it took me a moment to realize it. That was my portfolio spread open on her desk! I didn’t dare go near it, even though my curiosity was getting the best of me. But somehow, her desk area seemed politely off limits. Who knew how many steps one could take toward it before invisible sensors would set off alarms throughout all of Harpo. So my feet remained plastered to the plush carpeting. I couldn’t move. But I craned my neck as best I could and squinted my eyes like a near-sighted bird watcher. Which of my pictures had she paused on?

  But alas, I couldn’t make out the images. They were upside down from my vantage point. And they were barely recognizable in their cellophane slippers and the reflective glare of the late morning sun.

  “Jeeeesseeee Templetooooon!” I heard my name announced in that friendly signature bellow. I turned toward the trumpeting quickly and grinned stupidly as Oprah Winfrey burst into her domicile, startling me with her dazzling presence.

  I wrestled a foot from the suction and stepped toward her eagerly. I extended my hand. But she came right up to me and hugged me like family. The hint of perfume was a citrusy delight.

  “So great to finally meet you,” she said as if she really meant it.

  “Same here,” I managed to say as she marched over to her desk—I dared not follow—picked up my portfolio, came back and got me. She led me by the hand over to the matching sofas. We sat across from each other as she re-opened my book with Christmas morning glee.

  “You’re good, Jesse,” she said as she slowly flipped through page after page.

  “Thank you, Miss Winfrey,” I managed to say.

  “Oprah,” she corrected.

  “Your office is very beautiful,” I found myself saying a bit too giddily.

  “Thank you!” she responded sincerely. “Nate Berkus is such a genius.”

  “Absolutely,” I ass-kissed.

  She ooohed and ahhhhed as she flipped and re-flipped page after page of my book. I slipped into an uncommon relief from her unpremeditated exuberance. I was suddenly but casually emboldened by it. Maybe she was right. Maybe I really was that good.

  “Oprah, may I ask you something?” I boldly asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Which pictures of mine made you decide to consider me?”

  “Wow,” she laughed. “Good question. Let’s see now. I know we looked at a lot of your work on the Internet. We were absolutely blown away. But before that I saw a photo spread you did in an issue of Travel & Leisure.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. It was for a story on the Dominican Republic. The story was very good, but the photos absolutely mesmerized me. The cathedrals in the Colonial Zone, the smiling locals in the marketplaces, the pictures of those beautiful Dominican children playing on the cobblestones were total works of art. But what I found most impressive was the shot of that beautiful young man swimming in a small cove. You captured him in a way that made him seem natural and angelic all at the same time. There was so much love in that picture, Jesse.”

  If she only knew.

  “Quite impressive,” she continued to gush. “Quite impressive indeed.”

  “Thank you.”

  I slowly forgot I was in a meeting with Oprah Winfrey and realized without fanfare, surprise or epiphany that I was merely spending the early afternoon with Oprah. She even ordered lunch for us from a local deli, which I did not expect. I would later come to fully realize the homogeny of her unique personality that parented equal twins distinctly named greatness and humility.

  I left Harpo a little after one, relaxed, rejuvenated, and optimistic. I was more than well aware Oprah would be seeing other photographers, but our meeting buoyed me. I left feeling my chances were equal to all the other candidates, if not better.

  Wow. I never realized Oprah and I had so much in common.

  * * * * *

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Templeton,” Aiden said, grinning from ear to ear, as he held the back door of the town car open for me.

  “Aiden, how are you?” I smiled, climbing in.

  “Fabulous, sir. Thank you,” he beamed, taking my carry-on, shutting the door behind me, putting the carry-on in the trunk and skipping around to the driver’s side. He climbed in behi
nd the wheel and handed me something.

  “Here you are, sir,”

  “What’s this?”

  “A chocolate cigar.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, I don’t smoke, so I didn’t want to pass around the real thing, but I had to celebrate.”

  “Oh my God!” I suddenly realized. “Aiden, your wife had the baby!”

  “Yep,” he said proudly, starting the car and pulling it away from the hotel curb. “Eight thirty-seven last night.”

  “Congratulations, man.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “So what did you have?”

  “A boy.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. We named him Aiden Quincy Lassiter the Third.”

  “He’s a third?”

  “Yes siree. I’m a junior and he’s a third.”

  “How do you like that? I’m a third too.”

  “Really, Mr. Templeton?”

  “Really,” I chuckled. “Jesse Lee Templeton the Third.”

  “Wow. What a coincidence.”

  “Well congratulations, young man. I know you must be very happy.”

  “Mr. Templeton, you can’t even imagine.”

  And that’s where Aiden Quincy Lassiter Jr. was wrong as he drove me to the airport. I could imagine. I knew exactly what it was like to be that happy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I must always have a window seat when I come home. Flying into Los Angeles at sunset is, for me, a tableau as spiritual and as humbling as no other. Saying farewell to the sprawling flatlands of the Midwest was cordial. Sailing over the majestic Mojave Desert, ascending the cloudless skies and gazing downward at the rugged Sierra Mountain range was awe-inspiring.

  Hovering over the comforting splendor of the sparkling Los Angeles basin nearly brought me to tears. Here, my old familiar orange-pink sun descends daily beneath the grand Pacific horizon. Being back in the city of my birth, my home, no matter how great the adventure from which I’ve returned, makes me the happiest. No prodigal son here. I know where my feet are firmly planted. I know where my heart lies and my soul flourishes. God, I love L.A.