For the Love of Money

by Omar Tyree

  I just had to tell Rich like it was because I didn’t agree with it.

  He said, “Tracy, it’s not like these people are going to run out of money. They’ll get over it, and they’ll find some new black show to exploit next year. It’s all about the money out here.”

  “I’m not talking about the shows themselves, Rich, I’m talking about the people who play a part in making the show happen; the actors, directors, writers, extras, wardrobe people, and the fans who watch.”

  I was beginning to think that Hollywood had already gotten the best of Rich. He was still cool and everything, but the money seemed to be pulling him by the nose.

  He nodded and said, “I see what you mean.” After that he smiled at me. “I had no idea that you would be that type.”

  “What type?” I asked.

  He said, “I finished reading your book Flyy Girl, and I thought that you would be the first one to chase the money.”

  I just shook my head, but I wasn’t that upset about it anymore. I had to get over it. I said, “Rich, my flyy girl days are over with, okay? I’m a grown, responsible black woman now, who cares about the images of her people. Now if you don’t, then that’s your problem.”

  “So are you still interested in writing for the show?”

  I paused, not wanting to commit to something that I may have regretted later on. “Only if it’s good,” I answered. I grinned to let him know there were no hard feelings between us.

  He said, “That’s fine with me, and if we get to keep the show, then that’s even better.”

  “That’s the way to sound about it,” I told him. “Have some faith in your own creativity whether Hollywood has faith in black shows or not.”

  “All right, well, let me get back to my girl before she thinks I’m over here trying to sleep with you.”

  I laughed and said, “She’d probably be right.”

  He chuckled and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  By the time I made it back to my girls, Susan was dancing with some cute white guy, and Kendra was nowhere to be found.

  “Have you seen Kendra?” I asked Susan.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “She’s in here somewhere.”

  I searched through the crowds just to be nosy and found Kendra with the same guy who had asked her to dance earlier. They were having a drink by the bar. I smiled and decided to leave them alone. Love was in the air.

  I spotted Juanita’s boy Reginald getting his freak on with a long-haired, light-skinned video girl. I hated to stereotype, but the light-skinned sisters allowed it to happen by agreeing to do so many of them damn videos. Realistically, how many of them would say no, just for the sake of changing the imagery? All production had to do was ask the next light-skinned, long-haired girl. So I guess I had to blame the imagery more on the producers.

  Reginald caught me daydreaming in his direction, and I turned away. I had a feeling that he would approach me that night, and I was right. Before the night was over, he did approach me.

  “I hope you still don’t see me as some kind of slimeball,” he said to me.

  I shook my head and grinned. “Your words, not mine,” I told him.

  He said, “You know a lot of people wouldn’t mind you writing for them over at Warner. They say you have that realism thing going on, with believable characters.”

  “Because I take my time and get it right,” I bragged. “I know I’m in demand. I got a call from your boss, Harold Wiggins, last week.”

  Reginald smiled real wide like he knew something. “And who do you think gave him your number?” he asked me. He said, “See, I’m not your enemy. Just remember that the next time you try to tell somebody off out here, because Hollywood is a small town. Trust me.”

  That motherfucker! I thought to myself. He doesn’t deserve any cool points for that. He would have been stupid not to give his boss my number! It wasn’t like he was really hooking me up or anything. Harold probably asked him if he had it. Reginald would have looked unconnected if he had lied and said no.

  That was Hollywood for you; people were always trying to take credit for the smallest damn things. Would I do the same if I was pressed? . . . Honestly, I didn’t know. However, Reginald was right about one thing: Hollywood was small as hell, like a fishbowl, and everyone was swimming in the same dirty water, hungrily searching for morsels of food.

  “So, what’s his name?” I asked Kendra. We were back on our way to my place after three o’clock in the morning.

  Kendra smiled and didn’t say a word, bitten hard by the love bug.

  “That’s your business, Kendra,” Susan warned her. “Tracy only wants to write her next script based on your love life. That’s why I keep my personal affairs to myself.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to y’all, unless it was a really good story,” I admitted with a laugh.

  “Yeah, that’s what you say; that’s what they all say, until you see characters who are very similar to yourself up on the big screen,” Susan said.

  Kendra just laughed, and I had a funny feeling that she wouldn’t be around me as much anymore. I just felt it in my gut. Kendra had found a man. That made me page Coe at close to four o’clock in the morning, and the boy had a nerve to be wide awake and energetic.

  “What are you doing, Coe?” I asked him. I was suspicious of his liveliness at such a late hour.

  He sounded nervous about it. “What?”

  I asked him again, “What are you doing? Or should I ask, What are you about to do, or have just done?”

  He got real quiet on me and tried to run some weak-ass game. “I’m just getting in the house, and my pager went off, so I called you back. What are you talking about?”

  I said, “Coe, listen to me closely, okay? You’re not my man, and you’re not in trouble, so don’t fuckin’ lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying—”

  I cut him off and said, “The next time you’re with company, do me a favor and call me back when you’re free to tell the truth, okay? That would be much better than calling me back and sounding like an asshole.”

  When he got quiet again, I knew that my strong hunch was right; he was with a woman.

  He asked, “Do you need me over there or something?”

  I guess she wasn’t a strong woman either, because he was seriously playing her.

  I was tempted to say yes, just to pull my strings on his behind, but I figured, What’s the use, the boy is too young for me anyway.

  “No, you go ahead and finish what you started,” I told him, “just don’t do anything stupid to jeopardize your future. Okay? Be smart, and protect yourself.”

  “... All right,” he responded with a delay.

  I hung up the phone with Coe and squeezed my pillow tightly to my chest. Sometimes you just have to grow up and let go. Victor had taught me that lesson rather painfully. I just hoped that he hadn’t given me so much of a reality check that I would lose all faith in ever loving someone again.

  Family Ties

  They are like shoe laces,

  they come undone.

  When you are young,

  you don’t know how to tie them;

  your mom and dad do it

  for you.

  But as you grow older

  you learn,

  otherwise

  walking forward becomes dangerous.

  And when you trip and fall

  on your face,

  outsiders will laugh at you

  and say that you are clumsy

  and not capable

  of starting a family of your own.

  However, you do it anyway

  with untied shoes,

  and you trip and fall

  again,

  and again,

  and again

  until

  no one offers to help you up anymore.

  Copyright © 1997 by Tracy Ellison

  April 2000

  When I told my parents that I would have to return to California sooner than exp
ected, my mother said she wanted to cook a big family dinner that Tuesday night before I left on Wednesday afternoon.

  By seven o’clock that Tuesday evening, my mother had finished cooking a ten-pound turkey, candied yams, greens, wild rice, macaroni and cheese, and cranberry sauce, as if it were Thanksgiving.

  I joked, “Mom, isn’t Thanksgiving in November?”

  She looked at me and said, “No, Thanksgiving is today, because we need to give thanks for your success and our success as a family. A lot of families are not making it anymore.”

  I couldn’t argue with her on that. I sat at the dinner table and looked at my father. He just grinned and stared into empty space. Did he still feel guilty about his absentee years? Suddenly I had all the respect in the world for my mother and my father for finding a way to keep it together despite the struggles that they had early on. Jason, however, was holding us up, because he was late.

  My brother walked in at a quarter after seven, smiling, and sat down at the table with us without washing his hands.

  Mom said, “Jason, first of all, if you have a job starting at nine o’clock in the morning, what time do you get there?”

  He smiled even wider. “A quarter to nine,” he answered.

  My mother looked at her watch and asked, “Do you know what time it is right now?”

  My father started to chuckle.

  “Mom—” Jason uttered.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” my mother cut him off. “If you start early, you get there on time or ahead of time. If you start late, you’ll be late.

  “Second of all,” she added, “do you have a dish of soap and water in that car? Because I know that your hands are not clean.” I had given Jason my Toyota Camry a year ago, when I moved on to bigger and better things.

  Jason stood up from the table and said, “My fault.”

  “Mmm hmm,” my mother grumbled, looking at my father.

  It was obvious where I got my sass from. I began to laugh.

  My father looked at me briefly but did not say a word. He didn’t have to because I knew what he was thinking already. Don’t believe your mother’s hype, Tracy. I’m still the boss around here! That made me laugh even harder.

  My mother turned her hard eyes on me, the same almond-shaped eyes that Jason and I both had, and said, “What’s so funny, Tracy?”

  I shook my head and answered, “Nothing. I don’t even want to get involved. I have one more night here.”

  “You don’t want to get involved in what?”

  I just shook my head and stayed out of it.

  Jason sat back down at the table with clean hands.

  I asked, “Can I lead the thanks for dinner?”

  My mother nodded. “Sure, this is your night.”

  “Okay, let’s all hold hands then.”

  Jason looked and frowned, all macho about it, a typical testosterone fiend.

  He said, “Hold hands?”

  My mother snapped, “Do what your sister says, boy, you’re the baby.”

  My brother was still hesitant until my father spoke.

  “Jason,” and that was all he needed to say. My brother stepped right in line and held hands with us around the table. I admit, sometimes I envied the hell out of manhood! I wanted the authority that my father had.

  I said, “I want to thank the Creator for giving us each other, our friends, and our extended family a chance to live, love, and learn during the short time that we all have on this earth.”

  I raised our hands up high and said, “Hotep!”

  They all followed my lead, curiously.

  “Hotep!”

  I smiled, and I was satisfied with all of us, the Ellison family.

  My mother grinned and asked, “How long have you been doing that? And what does ‘Hotep’ mean, anyway?”

  My father jumped in and said, “It means peace.”

  I looked and asked, “Dad, how do you know?” My family was not exactly the most Afrocentric in the world. We were your typical nonpracticing Christians.

  My father answered, “I know a thing or two about our culture.”

  “Well, excuse me for not knowing,” my mother said.

  I smiled back at her. “Actually, I just got it from Raheema’s nice little family in New Jersey. They have it all together.”

  My father nodded and asked, “Have you said hello to Beth and Keith next door since you’ve been home?”

  “Yeah, I spoke to them, but I guess I should see them again before I leave, hunh? I’ll go over there once we’re finished eating.”

  “Are you all packed up already?” my mother asked.

  “Almost.”

  “Jason can help you take your things out to the car,” my father said. “I’ll take an early lunch and drive you to the airport tomorrow in my birthday present.”

  I smiled and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to trade it in for a Cadillac Escalade?”

  He looked and said, “Don’t tempt me, Tracy.”

  I shook my head and paid him no mind.

  Jason was busy stuffing his face already. I packed my plate and stuffed mine.

  “What new movie are you going to be in?” my brother asked me once he had calmed down with his food. By that time I was in the middle of eating mine.

  I gave him a raised index finger, then I decided to point to Mom; she knew what I was hoping on for my next role.

  “She’s trying out for some crazy, special-agent movie where she’s chasing down some psychos. It’s called Road Slaughter or something.”

  “Road Kill,” I mumbled through my food.

  “Road Kill?” my father questioned. “That sounds pretty physical.”

  My mother said, “It is. I told her she’s gonna have to pump some weights to play the role, fighting crazy men and carrying on.”

  “Fighting men?” Jason responded. He broke out laughing. “That sounds like one of those cornball movies.”

  I stopped eating and asked, “So what are you trying to say, Jason? I can’t fight a man?”

  He had never been the physical type himself. If I were mad enough, I believed that I could give Jason a run for his money in a fight.

  He said, “You’re too pretty to be fighting men. The audience would never believe it. Those pretty-girl movies are always corny. You need to stay in those roles where you outsmart the guys.”

  My father started laughing through his mouthful. I was still speechless. Jason had caught me off guard with his candid response. He was giving me a dose of urban realism, so I listened. I had been away from the hard streets of Philly for a while, and I had written for a bunch of comedy and science fiction shows. Maybe I didn’t know what was real anymore.

  Mom said, “Now wait a minute, are you saying that she can only play a certain kind of role?”

  “Not if she was ugly. If she was ugly she could play a lot of different roles.” Jason added, “Just not leading roles.” He was dead serious, too.

  That made my father laugh even harder.

  “What the hell is so funny, Dave? Our son is a chauvinist, and you think that’s funny?”

  “Chauvinist? I’m just telling her what time it is,” Jason argued.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “He might be right though, Mom. I mean, he is the perfect age for this movie, and the right gender. So if he thinks it’s corny, then maybe it is.”

  “What are you gonna do then, Tracy? Are you telling me that you’re changing your mind because of what your brother says?”

  I thought about it and looked at Jason. “How do I make it believable?” I asked him.

  He broke out laughing again. “You’re asking me? I’m not the movie writer.”

  “So what? You brought it up,” I snapped at him. “I’m serious. How do I make it better?”

  Jason hadn’t even seen the script, but I was willing to listen to him anyway.

  He said, “Aw’ight, this is how inner-city guys think. First of all, are these psychos white or black?”

  I sai
d, “White, and I’m not even supposed to be in this movie myself. I’m trying to steal the role,” I told him with a laugh.

  “Okay, well, white guys can’t fight, but they’re still stronger than pretty women, and they’re wild too. So what you need to do is have fast reflexes and attack with knives, or stun guns, or just shoot them as soon as you get a chance.

  “Now that’s believable,” he said.

  “I don’t believe you’re even asking him this,” my mother told me.

  I listened anyway. Jason had everyone’s full attention. I wasn’t even hungry anymore.

  I asked, “What about when they catch me off guard or something?”

  Jason shrugged his shoulders. “After they rough you up, I guess you play dead, like you would if a bear was after you, and then pull out another weapon on them.”

  We all started laughing.

  “That’s ridiculous,” my mother commented.

  My father said, “Go ’head, Jason, then what?” I think he was enjoying it.

  Jason said, “I’m saying, psychos like seeing people dead, right? Or at least in most of the movies that I saw. They kill you, and then they sit there and stare at you like it’s a painting or something. So you play dead and surprise them. It makes perfect sense.”

  I said, “But I can’t do that every time.”

  “No, but you use a different weapon every time. And we can’t see it beforehand, because then we would know what’s gonna happen. You have to surprise us with it, like a thin, black wire to strangle one of them with, brass knuckles on both hands, a long needle inside your hair; you know, like those Ninja movies.”

  I laughed again. “You’re making this movie sound extra brutal.”

  Jason said, “Wait a minute, you said psychos, right? Are they killing people nicely in this movie?” He had a point. “All right then,” he told me, “you get as brutal as they get. Now that’s believable!

  “And after the movie, guys’ll be a little paranoid of pretty girls. ‘You not like that girl in Road Kill are you?’ That’s believable!” he insisted. “You gotta make guys think about it outside of the movie, like when they go back out on the street.”