For the Love of Money

by Omar Tyree

  I said, “Well, what will the other guy get, you know, the director-writer?”

  “I guess whatever his agent can get for him.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. It didn’t seem fair. It was the other guy’s original screenplay, and I was still a practical woman. I didn’t think that they would give us both a million.

  I said, “Maybe we should split it down the middle, that way it would be fair.”

  Susan said, “The only thing about that is, they may not be offering him that much money. You’re a much bigger draw than he is, and that’s just the way it goes in the business.”

  I said, “Well, let’s be creative. You tell them that if they give us the four million for the role, and a million for the script, we would be willing to split the script fee and pay the director his share, and then let his people negotiate whatever he’s going to get for directing the film.”

  Susan chuckled and said, “You’re a saint, Tracy, you know that, right? Most people wouldn’t care.”

  It was very easy to understand how Hollywood movies began to cost so much.Money always became a major issue out there to fill up the ballooned egos of the stars, who seemed insatiable sometimes.

  I said, “I just want to be able to live with myself. And if we get our ten percent gross in the deal, I will be.”

  “Yeah, that check should be here any day now for Led Astray,” she told me again.

  I didn’t sweat it though. I knew what was coming to me, and I had earned it, so I didn’t feel a bit of guilt about it.

  $ $ $

  For the rest of that week, I began to pick out and type up the possible poems that I would use in my sequel to Flyy Girl. I didn’t pick out the deepest or necessarily my best poems, but just the ones that would fit the book. There was no worse decision that could destroy art than to add things that shouldn’t really be there. However, artistic precedents are sometimes set by the unusual, where everyone else begins to follow, leading to a new norm. I liked being special and ahead of my time anyway. I was used to it.

  I began to search through other books that I could use as an example of how to piece my own book together with prose, narration, and poetry, and make it all work. However, I didn’t want to make it too simple. Complications can make things a little harder to follow sometimes, and I wanted to be without peers, to stand out again, a fly in the buttermilk, the exceptional instead of the average. I didn’t want anyone to be able to follow me, and if they did, it would be so obvious that they would only make it harder for themselves to gain any respectable recognition for it.

  Susan called me Friday morning and asked me to meet her for lunch at Spago’s, one of the hottest Hollywood meeting places, so I knew she had good news for me. When I arrived, she already had a table for us. As soon as I sat down, she passed me a white agency envelope with my name typed on it.

  “Don’t spend it all in one place,” she told me with a grin.

  I opened it up and read the check in my name for $1,256,155, minus Susan’s ten percent. I nearly stopped breathing.

  “Shit!” I responded to Susan with shaky hands. “My Flyy Girl fans will hate me for this. I’ll have to leave this part out of the sequel.”

  Susan laughed and said, “Why? Everybody wants to be rich, and you’ve earned it.”

  I said, “Yeah, I thought so too, but actually seeing the check with your name on it is enough to make you have doubts.” I felt as if someone would rob me before I even made it to the bank with the check. I had a sack of African diamonds in my hands with a gang of international smugglers after me. I was thinking of all kinds of crazy things with that much money in my hands.

  Susan, however, got right back to business. She said, “Okay, well, here’s the deal on the new film. We got two million for the role, a million for the script, and half of the script is split with the director-writer, plus they gave you the ten percent gross, and they’re willing to give us the escalator clause for the next two films.”

  “So, this is a three-film deal?” I asked her to make sure.

  “With a minimum of two million dollars per film,” she responded. “They wouldn’t give us the four million yet.”

  I could not believe it! That was a guaranteed six million dollars, plus ten percent gross!

  “I also negotiated a deal for any script that you work on, including films that you don’t star in, with a five percent gross on the unstarred films,” Susan added. It was all business to her, but I was sitting at the table in shock. I didn’t even notice the waiter standing there to take our orders. I just told him to bring me more water before I fainted.

  I joked, “Susan, before I walk out of here, can you call up a bodyguard service for me please?” I was having flashbacks of the many stickups that occurred in the streets of Philadelphia during my teen years. What would they do to me as a millionaire?! I was already paranoid.

  Susan only laughed at me, but I was halfway serious. No wonder so many stars could not remain at ease in residential areas. You had a hell of a lot more to lose, so it became imperative to move to more secluded property. Even the home insurance people would advise that. I was thinking of relocating again, and I liked Marina Del Rey; it was very scenic and wide open.

  After a few moments of my hushed silence and introspection, Susan asked me, “Do you really want me to get in touch with a bodyguard service for you? I can do that.”

  I didn’t answer her right away. Did I really want to give up my freedom to walk around?

  I asked, “Are people going to publish how much money I’m making now?”

  Susan read the concern in my eyes, and nodded slowly. “That’s another catch-22 of Hollywood,” she told me. “If they give you that much money, it’s automatic that they’re going to talk about it to increase the buzz for your projects, because they have too much riding on you now. Once you sign this contract, you’re a made woman, and they’re going to want everyone to know that.”

  I was in a coma. I really needed to get away and think to myself.

  Susan said, “Tracy, I know that this puts a lot of pressure on you, but you’re brave enough to deal with it, I know you are. It’s just the initial shock that you’re going through.”

  I wasn’t so sure if I could deal with it at all. I could barely deal with the entry level of stardom, let alone move up to the high B-list. I just kept staring into empty space while Susan’s food arrived. The waiter asked me again if I was ready to order, and I told him to just bring me out some mild-flavored Buffalo wings or something.

  Susan smiled and said, “Well, look at it all this way: they really liked your retooled script for Road Kill, so you should have a great time with the direction. And you’ll know more on the set than anyone. It was because of you that they got the green light.

  “You’re really building up a track record as a go person,” she told me with a grin and a light slap on my arm.

  With that, I was finally able to smile again, but just a little bit.

  When I calmed down at home that evening, I called my little brother Jason three times before I finally caught him. He was rushing to make some party. He was nineteen and it was Friday night.

  I said, “Pick out a nice car for yourself, but not your dream car. I’ll get that for you when you graduate.”

  “You got the role?! Did you make the changes I was talking about?!” he shouted at me.

  I answered, “Yeah, all of them, and they loved it! You got us the green light, Jason. Thank you, baby! MMMM-MAA!” I kissed the phone.

  He laughed and said, “You buggin’. So how much do I get for this?”

  I paused and screamed, “GREEE-DEEE!”

  My brother laughed again. We were both acting like kids at the circus.

  “All right, well, I want a Lexus.”

  “After you graduate,” I told him. “I don’t want to spoil you.”

  “Well, I got you the role, didn’t I?”

  I sighed. “Here we go,” I responded to him. “If you’re gonna act
like this, then forget that I even told you about it.”

  “I would have found out when the movie came out anyway,” he said. “When are they gonna release it?”

  “Next summer, after the spring and July blockbusters.”

  “So like, in early August?”

  “Exactly, if all goes well.”

  “That’s a good month.”

  “I know. Maybe one day I can move up to July, and then June, and then May, the real blockbuster month!”

  “GREEE-DEEE!” my brother mocked me.

  I laughed, slowly getting over my initial shock of millionaire status.

  “So, what can I get then?” he asked me about the new car.

  I thought about it. “How about I get you a Ford Explorer, the two-door Sport in black?”

  “Yeah, aw’ight, that’s cool with me.”

  I liked the Sport for my brother more than the four-door, because I wanted to try and limit how many friends he would pack in the car. Too many young black men in one car still spelled too much trouble in America. In fact, the color black was too intimidating. Maybe Jason would be better off in a green or gray vehicle, the less attention-getting colors.

  When I hung up the phone with him, I felt like calling everyone else who loved me, just to ground myself in reality again, starting with my parents. I wouldn’t tell them how much money I was going to make though. If the publications were going to announce it through the grapevine, then I’d just let everyone speculate and find out on their own. I planned to shoot the number down with complaints of taxes, overdo bills, run-up credit lines, bad stock investments, and anything else I could say to lessen the amount.

  Like I said, I just needed a little more time to think, and I would work everything out. As far as the bodyguards were concerned . . . I think it was time for me to get some.

  Led Astray

  Hollywood called my name

  from black limousines,

  wearing designer dresses

  and flirting with

  pretty-skinned men,

  while puffing on long,

  exotic cigarettes

  from under straw beach hats

  to hide

  the glare of stardom.

  Hollywood called my name

  with twenty million

  dollars

  per film

  from Los Angeles, California,

  New York, New York,

  Paris, France,

  and Tokyo, Japan.

  Hollywood called my name

  from 1915,

  birthing babies

  in Massa’s house,

  with Harlem’s Jazz

  and Billie’s Blues,

  for A Raisin in the Sun

  on Superfly Street,

  drinking Coffy,

  and watching The Color Purple

  in Star Wars

  ’cause She’s Gotta Have It,

  the Hollywood Shuffle

  and the Glory

  for Boyz N the Hood,

  who satisfy my

  love jones.

  Hollywood called my name

  and got me high,

  and had me wet,

  naked,

  and begging

  for the fuck,

  and then left me there

  squirming like a nasty,

  stepped-on snail

  against the sidewalk.

  Hollywood called my name

  and made me walk

  on Sunset Boulevard

  after dark,

  with no condoms,

  no sense,

  and no gun.

  Copyright © 1998 by Tracy Ellison

  Fall 1998

  When the premiere television season rolled around in September, Susan and I had no new takers on the Southern-flavored pilot show, and the production company that we had turned down got desperate and contacted Reba. The shit hit the fan after that. Reba called me up and was pissed as hell about us not taking up the offer.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” she asked me over the phone. To tell you the truth, I had left my girl hanging, thinking that someone else would give us a better offer. Meanwhile, I stopped working on her show altogether and was well into writing my own screenplay.

  I said, “Reba, they weren’t giving us a good deal, so we were still trying to shop it.”

  “What do you mean ‘they weren’t giving us a good deal’? Were they gonna pay me?”

  Reba was talking the bottom line: money.

  I said, “Girl, they were trying to set us up to use the show as a springboard for this young white girl.”

  “So what? As long as I get paid, they can do what they wanna do. It could have been a springboard for me too,” she snapped.

  “Or, they could have picked another black girl to replace you,” I argued. “We had nothing set in stone yet, Reba.”

  “Well, why would they call my agent then, if they were gonna use someone else?”

  “Because we had already turned them down. They’re just trying to get you to agree to it. That’s not even professional. That just shows you how slimy they are,” I told her. “You don’t do that. They’re already showing their colors.”

  “You’re showing your colors too; you gon’ turn it down without even telling me about it,” she said. “How are you gonna make a decision for me? I can’t afford to turn anything down, but you can,” she added. “It was my idea in the first place. You’re not even from the South.”

  “Yeah, but I was the one doing all of the work to develop it, and pitching it,” I told her.

  “Oh, so that’s how you are? I guess I do need to learn how to write then with people like you around. Fuckin’ backstabbers!”

  “Reba, I did not stab you in the back. If anything, I was trying to protect you.”

  “Protect me from what? From getting paid?”

  “It’s not all about the money,” I said rather weakly.

  “Hmmph. It ain’t? You could have fooled me,” Reba huffed. “Why don’t you give me your money then, if it’s not about the money?”

  She had a point, and I was caught speechless for a change. I didn’t know what to say.

  “That’s what I thought!”Reba snapped at me. “Well, thanks a lot, Tracy! You got your fuckin’ money, now you gon’ try and hold me back from getting mine.”

  I took a deep breath and asked her, “Are they still willing to work with you?” I hoped that they were. I had to admit, I felt bad about it. A starring role did represent a big step up for Reba, whether she would have been selling out or not.

  She answered, “Wouldn’t you like to know,” and hung up on me.

  I was dazed and confused. I must have sat there silently for a good half hour, thinking about everything. I honestly didn’t believe it was realistic for everyone in Black Hollywood to turn down bad ideas. However, if more of us did, then maybe we could have more of the better ideas developed. Was I wrong for standing my ground? I didn’t think so. Nevertheless, Reba was right; I had no business trying to make her decisions for her.

  The next thing I knew, the word got around that I thought I was the shit and was out to make my own moves in spite of my friendships. People were calling me a backstabber. It’s funny how quickly things change. I went from being the flavor of the month to a backstabber in just one year. At first, I wanted to step up to Reba about it, but then I just decided to ignore it. I knew that I wasn’t like that, so I blocked it all out, kept my focus, and continued to work on my screenplay.

  Reginald called me up and tried to pour salt into my wounds because I hadn’t had anything produced on television in a while. He asked, “It’s not so easy to get a credit with the big networks during premiere season, hunh? Are you sure you don’t want to come back down to us? We’ll forgive you. And now you know who your real friends are.”

  I guess he assumed, like others, that television writing was my ultimate goal, but it was not. I just blew him off, basically. Reginald had no effect on me, and my name w
as not Juanita.

  Rich called and said, “I heard about what happened.” He was laughing at it. I guess it was all a big joke to him. He said, “I can’t believe you actually turned that down. Well, I hope you don’t starve out here while trying to be a big shot.

  “You better learn how to take the money when you can get it,” he added. “Seriously!”

  Yolanda called me with her usual. “I told you about that Black Hollywood shit, Tracy. They are real petty. I learned my lesson about that years ago. But you still should have taken that deal.”

  I was just about fed up with everyone’s opinions about my actions. So I leveled with Yolanda. I asked her, “You know why I keep coming back to you for business?”

  She answered, “Because I’m black.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Otherwise, I would have stepped off from you a while ago. But you’re also good at what you do, and I respect that. But your damn mouth . . .” I didn’t even finish my sentence. She got the point.

  “Tracy, whenever you’re ready to leave, I have other clients to take care of. Okay?”

  That shocked me. I never imagined Yolanda Felix as a quitter. Maybe I was wrong. She had quit Black Hollywood, and she was ready to quit me.

  “Is that how you feel about it?” I asked her. I was actually hurt by it. She couldn’t take me telling her the truth? I felt that was petty on her part. Susan was strong enough to deal with my candor. I mean, it wasn’t as if I was over-bearing or anything, I just stayed on top of my business and spoke my mind about it.

  Yolanda said, “The world keeps turning, Tracy.”

  I couldn’t even breathe straight I was so damn mad. I felt that I could always count on Yolanda, whether she ran her mouth at me or not.

  I said, “You know what, if your ego is that fucking inflated where you can’t handle me telling you the truth, then fuck you too!” and I hung up on her ass!

  My heart was beating fast, my head was hurting, and I felt miserable. There I was sticking my neck out for the black community, and all I was receiving in return was flak, and from my own people. I guess it was just me against the world then. I always worked well when I had something to prove anyway. So I used all of that negative bullshit to fuel my determination, and by October, I had finished the first draft of Led Astray to add to my beginning and ending: