For the Love of Money

by Omar Tyree

  “By the way,” I told him, “I know you noticed my pink panties, Don. Do you like what you see?”

  He leaned back in his chair and broke out laughing. Susan laughed at my performance herself.

  “And my hair? Oh, I could stick all kinds of surprises up in a bun or in a ponytail. And don’t let the size of a weapon fool you either,” I said. “Because if you stick them in the right places, they can hurt really bad.”

  “So, she’s like a Ninja woman now?” Don asked me.

  I shook my head. “Ninjas are too secretive. Alexis is just a tough bitch from the streets of Chicago, but I wouldn’t use any flashbacks to explain her. That just slows down a good movie. Let the audience make up their own stories about her past.”

  Don said, “Wait a minute; Alexis from Chicago?” He was intrigued by the change of the script, but he was definitely not sold on it. Yet!

  “You damn right!” I responded in character. “This is the year 2000! If a honey brown girl named Alexis from Chi-Town can get the job done with confident authority, then who needs a damn Jill?” I smiled and got sweet on him. “But I can understand if you still don’t want to use me, baby. You got the blonde and blue eyes on your mind. That’s fine, I just figured you might want to fuck something else for a change.”

  Don was beside himself with laughter. He was obviously blown away. “Oh my God!” he said. He looked at Susan for an explanation to my method, but all that she could do was shrug her shoulders and smile. She had no idea what I had planned, she just knew that it would be good.

  “So, what other changes would you make?” Don asked me.

  I stopped the acting and went into business mode. “I could have a full script of changes ready for you by next Monday.”

  He nodded. “You’re a hyphen, right, an actor-writer?”

  I smiled and corrected him. “Writer-actor. I wrote for a year and a half for Conditions of Mentality. We specialized in psychological stories that moved. So Road Kill is right up my alley.”

  “Would you, ah, be wanting screenplay credit?”

  I looked at my girl Susan. That was her job.

  She smiled and said, “Of course.”

  Don shook his head and grinned. He said, “Well, my writer-director is just going to love this.” He was being sarcastic of course. No one liked their creations being messed with. He joked and said, “How about just calling it Alexis?”

  Susan’s eyes popped as wide as a pie, but I declined the idea.

  “That would be too much. We want to introduce them to the character first, and when and if it does well enough for a sequel, we can call it Alexis on the next deal.”

  I put my belt back on and proceeded to toot my own horn a bit. I said, “By the way, after reading the script a few more times, your guy seems more like a director-writer to me.”

  Don said, “And you really think you can pull this off?” He wanted my assurance.

  I asked, “Do you have a hard-on behind that desk right now, or at least on your mind?”

  He laughed again. “Are you sure you don’t want to do a comedy instead. You’re hilarious!”

  I told him, “One flick at a time, Don. Now as soon as you call us up on this role, I can begin toning up my arms and legs and taking lessons to kick ass.”

  He looked me over and said, “I see. Well, you’re tall enough to be a threat to a man, and you’re crafty. Very crafty.”

  “Well, thank you,” I told him. “That’s how all women vigilantes have to be. This is a man’s world, right?” I asked him with a smile.

  Susan got in her last words before we left. “We’ll talk about the figures,” she told him. “And my Uncle Eddie loved your production of The Gypsy Lover. He said it was splendid.”

  Don looked and said, “Oh yeah? Well, tell Edward I said hi, wouldja?”

  “Sure.”

  When we walked out, I mocked Susan and said, “Uncle Eddie, hunh?”

  She grinned and shook her head. “I hated to do that, but I had to protect you somehow. I felt desperate.”

  “Why?” I asked her. “You didn’t think that I did a good job to convince him?”

  “Oh, you did a hell of a job. Too good! That’s why I became so nervous,” my girl admitted. “You gave him a lot of new ideas before signing, so now we have to get you that role, or they’ll figure out a way to use your ideas with someone else. Then I’ll have to find a way to take them to court about it, and it would just create a big mess.”

  I laughed at the idea. Susan sounded borderline paranoid. Call me cocky, but I figured that the role would be signed and sealed as soon as I turned in the revised script on Monday morning. They may not have agreed to everything, but they would agree that my vision would enhance the picture threefold.

  As we climbed back into the car, I said, “I wanted that role, Susan,” and started up my engine.

  Susan laughed on our way out and said, “Well, you got it now. I’ll make sure of that, and I’ll be going for the jugular with the money.”

  “You do that,” I told her. “So, where to now? You have a busy schedule today?”

  “No, I’m free until this afternoon, and I’m hungry. Let’s do lunch.”

  I smiled and asked, “Did your uncle really like that Gypsy Lover film?”

  Susan smiled back at me. “Actually he did, but I wanted to save that line for a rainy day.”

  “So, I must have made it rain in there, hunh?” I asked her.

  She answered. “Yeah, but you always seem to make it rain, or shine, or something. That’s just your way with things: the Tracy Ellison Grant mystique.”

  Love/Money

  I never wrote a line

  in my life

  strictly

  to get paid.

  I did it as expressions

  of all of the beautiful

  sides

  of me.

  And maybe I will never

  even

  publish

  my poetry.

  But if I ever do,

  I guarantee

  that it won’t come

  cheaply.

  Nevertheless,

  is the price you pay

  for creativity

  the only thing that people see?

  Validated

  success, that

  torturous

  irony.

  Copyright © 1998 by Tracy Ellison

  Summer 1998

  Susan and I tried our hardest for three straight months to sell my show idea, Georgia on My Mind, pitched as a Southern Moesha, featuring Reba Combs as the leader of a local R&B group called Peaches, to a network and had no success. We played with the title a bit, changing it to A Touch of Georgia and Georgia Peaches, but to no avail. We also had the location argument: Would we shoot the show in Georgia, or develop a Southern-looking set? We were thinking about developing a Southern set, of course. I even toyed with the idea of a Southern family moving north to Philadelphia called Up from Georgia. Kendra put in her two cents and said, “Make them move to Baltimore,” but I didn’t consider Baltimore northern enough. Of course, Kendra just figured that I wanted to use my home city instead of hers, and she was correct.

  I guess Reba was right, no one particularly cared (or at least not in Hollywood) about the perspective of the black South, because we couldn’t get anyone interested. Reba even joked and said, “Sometimes I think of spreading the rumor that I’m Sean ‘Puff Daddy’ Combs’s cousin from down south, and maybe that would get us a show.” I even thought about that idea, but ultimately, I didn’t want my show being accredited to a planted rumor. Call me a square, but I didn’t feel that route would be worthy of my hard work.

  Susan thought that it was just a matter of timing. “I still think that it’s a good idea,” she said. “We just may have to wait another season for the creative cycle to swing in our favor.”

  I didn’t know what to think. I was just stressed about it, so I kept tweaking the show with different ideas to try and make it acceptable
to a studio.

  Finally, during that summer of ’98, Susan stopped by my place on a Friday evening with some good or bad news, depending on how I would take it.

  She put her hands together like a prayer and said, “Okay, Tracy, here’s the deal. I have a production company who are interested in the Southern show idea, but they wanted to make it a biracial project to attract a larger audience, similar to Clueless, but with Reba Combs in the lead as Peaches.”

  In other words, Susan had found a production company who wanted to water down my idea for the ratings. I just stared at her for a minute. “And who would they use for the other role?” I asked, just out of curiosity.

  Susan took a seat on my sofa. “They have a young girl from the Florida area named Becky Summer. She’s done some modeling work, and they’re looking for a vehicle to get her into television. And get this: She sings.”

  I got it all right. Even if Reba was the lead, the white girl (a majority draw) would be the marketing focus of the show, and they would probably use it as a springboard for bigger and better things, while Reba (a minority draw) would eventually get the shaft, unless she flat-out kicked ass on the show. It was too risky. I could see disaster coming a mile away.

  “So what do you think about this?” I asked Susan, taking a seat beside her.

  She thought before speaking, I guess to be diplomatic about it. “It’s not everything that you want, but it does establish the Southern perspective, and it gives you a vehicle to do a lot of different things with it.”

  “Yeah, but for how long before they take it over?” I said, assuming things. It just didn’t seem like a secure development for Reba and myself, especially if this production company had this young white girl’s best interest in mind. Everyone in Black Hollywood knew too well about FOX’s network takeover of the Wayans brothers’ show In Living Color, where they began to make changes for a “crossover audience.” That ultimately killed the original flavor of the show, and I was not trying to go through that in my career. I had to deal with enough changes to my spec scripts as it was.

  “Tracy, you’ll still be the creator,” Susan argued. “And since young-women shows are so hot right now with Buffy, Moesha, and the Scream movies and everything, I figured we could get a good seventy-five thousand or more up front, and a healthy percentage of each show. This deal would set you up for bigger and better things, Tracy.

  “Like Kendra said,” she added, “business is business. I mean, come on. Get with the program.”

  I wasn’t even thinking about the money at that point. I was only thinking about the integrity of my work and the realism of my perspective: Reba’s perspective, and the perspective of the black South. How in the hell could you mix that with a white girl?! I didn’t know and I didn’t care. However, I did know that “the program” involved a lot of compromising of your ideas, and I was getting tired of that shit.

  I stood back up and said, “So is that it, Susan? Is it all about the money game for you? You want me to sell out my show and my people for the money? I thought that we were cooler than that.” I felt as if Susan was showing me her true colors, right then and there, a Jewish girl tempting the talent of an inner-city sister. However, I knew better than to fall for that. I was educated, pro-black, and I was not desperate and starving while trying to get paid by any means necessary. I considered myself a true artist who believed in the integrity of my work.

  Susan looked at me and froze. She was obviously caught off guard by my strong remarks. She stood up beside me and responded, “Tracy, this is ridiculous, and I don’t appreciate your assumptions. How could I be your friend and represent you if I didn’t respect who you are as a person and who you represent as a people?”

  “You tell me,” I asked her. I was just being me. I wasn’t going to change because she was Jewish, my friend, and my agent. Whenever I had any kind of a beef, I had to settle it. Straight up! So was she asking me to sell out or what?

  Susan said, “I can see that you’re reading me wrong here, Tracy.”

  “Well, how should I read you then? You or your family,” I snapped. I didn’t mean to say that. I was throwing low blows, but I had followed through on the swing already.

  “Do you even know my family to judge us like that?” she asked me. She still hadn’t backed down from me, giving up six inches and nearly twenty pounds.

  I responded, “No, but I can imagine.”

  We didn’t have to explain it to each other. We knew all about the politics of America, and we had discussed them: education and poverty, racism and opportunity, the inner city and the suburbs.

  Susan looked ready to lose her mind for a minute. I didn’t know if we were ready to fight or what, but I prepared myself for anything. She ended up taking out her cellular phone from her bag and made a call.

  “Hi, it’s Susan. Are you busy?”

  I was wondering who the hell she was calling. Was she putting out a hit on me right there in my living room? My heart started racing.

  “Can I bring a friend over to meet you, or is it too late?” Susan asked over the phone.

  It was just after eight. The sun was not even down yet.

  “Okay, thanks,” she said. “We’ll be there in less than an hour,” and she hung up.

  “We’ll be where in less than an hour?” I asked her. I was not stupid. If Susan had a beef to settle with me, then I wanted to do it on my turf.

  “What, you don’t trust me?”

  She was calling my bluff, all five foot two of her.

  I thought about it after my heart rate had settled a bit. Was I overreacting again? How much power did Jewish people really have? Was I afraid to find out? . . . Hell no! So I turned off the television set and grabbed my things. “Let’s go,” I told her. I wasn’t afraid of her, or whoever she had called. However, when we began to head north on Route 405 and ended up driving around the mountains behind Hollywood, I got anxious as hell, not only at Susan’s driving on mountain roads, but about just how far she was taking me. I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Okay, where the hell are we going?” I asked her.

  She grinned, but I wasn’t joking.

  “To meet my uncle,” she answered.

  I thought about that and smiled to myself. I wondered if Susan would have driven me out there to meet her uncle had we not had a heated discussion regarding business and racism. Did she have something to prove? I guess I would soon find out.

  $ $ $

  We arrived at this huge, brown brick house with various shapes, windows, and outside decks that was situated low in the mountainside.

  “Here we are,” Susan said as we drove up to a multiple-car garage and parked in front of it. There was a black Bentley parked there. I made note of it and kept my thoughts to myself.

  When we climbed out of the car I asked Susan, “Does he know that you’re bringing a black friend to meet him?” I could imagine the embarrassment that ridiculous wealth could bring when faced with outsiders, and I was a serious outsider.

  “Are you assuming that you’re the only black friend I’ve ever had in my life, or should I use African-American?”

  She was getting cute on me. I smiled it off. We were let in the door by a Mexican woman in a royal blue dress, who looked more like a regal grandmother than a housekeeper. I did assume that she was a housekeeper though, and I was right.

  She said, “Oh, Susan, it’s so very nice to see you,” with an accent.

  They hugged and Susan introduced me.

  “This is my friend, Tracy. She’s a writer from back east in Philadelphia.”

  “Ooohh, Philadelphia. It is very cold there?”

  “In the wintertime, but it’s probably hot right now,” I told her.

  She nodded, “Yeah, right, it is the summertime now.”

  “So, how have you been Mrs. Sanchez?” Susan asked her.

  The housekeeper frowned and said, “I told you to call me Maria.”

  Susan just smiled at her.

  Maria said, �
�All of my kids are doing great. And Miguel just got his law degree from San Jose. He’ll be coming home to visit us soon.”

  “That’s great, but how are you doing?” Susan asked her again.

  “Oh, I’m doing fine. I look fine, don’t I?” She stepped back and showed off her blue dress. She looked fine to me, like I said, a regal grandmother with money, and she carried herself with plenty of pride. I chuckled.

  Maria looked at me again and said, “You have very pretty eyes, Tracy. I love them! They shine so bright.”

  I chuckled again and said, “Thank you. I try to use my bright eyes as much as I can.”

  “Well, use them well, and never abuse them.”

  The elders, no matter what the race, were the wisest people on earth. Maria was poetic without even trying, and she had a beautiful spirit. She turned back to Susan and said, “Your uncle is waiting for you in his study.”

  She led us through the large house of fine wood, crafted brick, fancy glass, plush carpet, and black steel (I guess to fortify the house from earthquakes), and into a tiny study toward the back. She gave Susan and me both another hug before she left us.

  “Call me if you need anything. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Susan told her.

  I took a deep breath as we walked into this tiny study, which was no bigger than my old room back at home in Philly. I couldn’t imagine such a big-time man having an office in such a small room of his large house. Was there an irony going on there, the biggest ideas from the smallest room?

  Her uncle stood up from the black leather comfort chair behind his desk to greet us. He was a medium-sized man with low cut gray hair, a trimmed gray mustache, and thick gray eyebrows. He was wearing a brown cotton sweater of fine quality with black pants and black shoes.