Unruly

by Ja Rule

  I was living a rock star life. I’ll never forget the time I went to apply for life insurance. I called myself answering the questions truthfully. He asked me if I smoked or drank. I told it straight up. “Yeah, I smoke weed all the time and drink Henny every day. I don’t think I’ll live to be twenty-five.” He thought I was crazy. I was.

  The thing about life insurance is that one should be as healthy as possible to get the lowest rates possible. But I was thinking that it was like seeing a doctor, where you should be as truthful as possible to get an accurate diagnosis. In actuality, I should have lied to him and saved some money.

  I was recording Rule: 3:36 in the available hours between partying and losing my grip on reality. My boys were renting fast, expensive cars such as BMWs and Ferraris. Often under the influence, we would have accidents. But it was not always our fault. I remember one night me Gutta and H.O. were driving back to the house when a Jeep came out of nowhere. The tires were blown out. There were sparks flying from the rims scratching the concrete. He was on the wrong side of the road coming straight at us. I yelled for Gutta to get out the way. On the right side there were parked cars. On the left was on-coming traffic. Gutta tried to swerve, but we ended up crashing into the Jeep because we couldn’t get out of the way. The crazy shit is that we would get into another car that was part of the convoy and we’d leave those cars right where we crashed them. The next day, I would just call my business manager and have her handle it—throwing money after bad decisions.

  She always said the same thing, “Jeff you have to stop doing this!”

  I must be an adrenaline junkie. That’s what scares me about me. I’ve always been curious to see the other side. Maybe that’s what keeps me strong. Fear goes out the window when you’re drawn to the things that can get you killed. When those Jamaicans held a gun to my head, I wasn’t scared. I just accepted the fact that that could have been my last day breathing. Since I was a kid, it’s always been the same way. I seemed to be pulled by death, running towards it, gripping life’s ragged edge, peering into the abyss, fantasizing about the other side.

  I MADE TWO PHONE CALLS one night. I called my LA tattoo artist, Marc, and I called Moms.

  “Jeff, what are you up to now?” Moms said laughing, finally hearing from me. It had been three weeks.

  “Ma, how do you spell Kristen’s name?”

  “Kristen? Why?” she asked.

  “How do you spell it?” I insisted.

  “K-R-I-S-T-E-N,” Moms spelled it out, carefully.

  “Thanks, Moms. I’ll hit you back when it’s done.” I hung up before she could ask anything else.

  We used to go to the club and bring the club back to the house, since shit closed at two a.m. Gutta and BJ only had to mention it to two or three people in the club and the house would be crowded within an hour. It meant a lot to me to be able to host Los Angeles. I’m open to all kinds of people and loved having an eclectic group of celebrities, gangbangers, groupies, athletes, aspiring artists and hip-hop enthusiasts who were in the know.

  I had a lot of love for LA because when my first album came out, LA is the city that gave “Holla Holla” a lot of love. I felt I owed the people in LA a good time. Our parties were always the place to be in Los Angeles.

  The parties were round-the-clock affairs. At the house, we would swim, shoot hoops and drink freshly chilled champagne. Sometimes I would have Marc there, pay him a day rate of $5,000 and let him tattoo anyone who asked. Additionally, I would make sure that my drug guy was always there and fully equipped with his gray box, filled with every drug in existence.

  THE CREW WENT OUT that night and was surprised when I said I wanted to stay home, alone. But that particular night, I couldn’t face another crowd of scantily clad women and the scent of liquor on everyone’s breath. I couldn’t stand to see one more woman bring her child to the party, because she didn’t have a babysitter.

  I was really missing Kristen and who I imagined that she would have been to Moms and me. I wondered if Kristen could have kept our father from walking out on us. There were so many thoughts around that precious little girl. She should have lived. I was thinking hard about Kristen.

  Nothing would take away the memory of Kristen; the sister I never knew. The little sister that I never got to walk to school, help with her homework or protect from l’il dudes who would have been scared of me.

  Marc arrived just as the sun was setting. I led him into the huge white gourmet kitchen. The kitchen cabinets held an impressive inventory of Rémy Martin. The Sub-Zero refrigerator kept all of the vodka and Veuve Clicquot champagne perfectly chilled.

  I had just gotten some work touched up by Marc a few days before and since then nothing had changed in the kitchen, except there were more fast food bags, plastic utensils and soiled Styrofoam containers spilling out of the garbage can. Marc headed towards the huge dining room table and started to prep. He went to the bathroom and took out several clean white towels. He disinfected the long table with a spray bottle and then covered the table with the towels. He had clamps to keep them in place. Next out of Marc’s little doctor’s bag came a small pillow for my head and chin to rest on. Without even looking, he placed a small blue box of alcohol pads on the table and last he carefully removed the colorful inks and laid them out one by one.

  “No party tonight?” he asked.

  “Nah, I took a break.” I was slightly embarrassed.

  “How did those touch-ups heal?” he asked.

  “They’re cool. I want to put the name ‘Kristen’ on my back with a halo on top and wings on either side. Here’s a sketch that I did. I’m no artist, by the way.”

  “That’s cool. I can see what you want,” said Marc.

  “Just give me something in a feminine script. I just want it large and real . . . beautiful, ya know. She would have liked that shit.”

  “Do you mind me asking who’s Kristen? Is it your wife?”

  “Nah. My baby sister.”

  Marc must have seen it in my eyes, there was nothing more to ask. He hesitated then pulled out his sketchpad and went to perfecting the sketch that I presented to him. After about twenty minutes, he handed the enlarged drawing to me for my final approval.

  “That’s it. That’s it! It’s dope, man.” The tattoo was going to be a worthy memorial for Kristen. I had smoked a little weed before he got there. I didn’t drink anything that day because when you are getting tattooed, drinking causes you to bleed more.

  Zzzzzzzzzzzz sang the buzz of the needle as Marc powered it up. I drifted off to a psychedelic ink-filled dream while Marc raised the dead, tattooing all that was left of Kristen, so I could hold on to her, forever.

  IT WAS AT THE L’ERMITAGE HOTEL in Los Angeles, a place that I used to go when the mansion got to be too much. I would sneak out, leaving the house in full-throttle party mode. The night I almost overdosed on fucking drugs, my boys’ crew wanted to take me to the hospital. I told them, “No.” I wasn’t going to no hospital.

  Even in that state, I was conscious enough to fear the media spotlight running away with how far down I’d fallen. I didn’t want any more shit documented about me for my wife and daughter to ponder for the rest of their lives. I didn’t want them to have to pump my stomach and put my autopsy results all over the Internet. I didn’t want the world to be able to say that it was hip-hop’s fault.

  As my vision blurred, I remembered that I was still a strong-willed, strong-minded person. I knew that I’d gone too far. I was hurting my family, destroying my body and only I could do something about it. I knew I had to pull myself back from the edge for good.

  WHEN I WROTE THE SONG “Put It on Me,” I was thinking about Aisha and what we had been through and what we were going through. The only way I can say what I truly mean is through music. When we are yelling at each other through the phone, I know that she can’t hear me. It seems like a song is the only way to get through to her. When I wrote “Put It on Me,” I was hoping to get through.

 
Aisha was going through a lot of shit too. After a while when she couldn’t get in touch with me, she just went into “fuck you” mode, which kept her strong. She stopped picking up her phone, too. Aisha isn’t a crier.

  There were a lot of issues of trust and fidelity or lack thereof. Everything had happened so fast. We’d gone from Aisha having to work a $10.25-an-hour job teaching mentally challenged kids how to comb their hair to moving into a huge house and having anything our hearts desired. And, as much as she enjoyed the new life and the recognition, it meant that I was no longer hers alone. I was public and everything I did was public—whether it was meant to be or not. Aisha was trying desperately to make sure that nothing or no one would threaten the relationship that we’d struggled so hard to keep. Now I can understand that shit.

  It was like those paparazzi muthafuckas were tracking my every move. Every recording session, every party that we had, every bitch that came near me would be captured in a photo and all over the Internet within hours. As a result, Aisha and I had some lively arguments that sometimes ended up with her being violent. She has swung at me and I’ve had to hold her until she calmed the fuck down. She has hit me over my head with my cell phone and she has actually tried to take my head off of my body a few times. But, I was never violent with her. I understood. I hurt her badly. I still hadn’t learned how to have my family and my art at the same time.

  When I was in Miami for the Winter Music Conference, we were just about to drop another album. Since Murder Inc. had always been supported by radio, Gotti and I came up with a brilliant idea for a gift for the programming directors. We hadn’t spoken to Ezette from LA in a while, but when Irv suggested we have her as the gift for the PDs we thought it was a good idea. And it was.

  When she was called, she was surprised.

  “Do you want to come to Miami? We got some money for you,” said one of my crew.

  “Who’ll be with you?” she asked.

  “The usual suspects, all of the niggas you know.”

  “Okay, I’ll come.”

  Irv and I knew it was an evil plan but it made sense. The PDs at the conference would be mostly overweight, balding, middle-aged men who hadn’t been laid in months, maybe years. Ezette was the perfect gift. She was happy to oblige. We got her a hotel room with a view. When we got to the conference, we told all the radio guys that we needed that there was a gift waiting for them in Room 3261.

  The radio guys flew to the room and Ezette gave them each the time of their lives. And of course, Murder Inc. would have another amazing year at radio.

  When dropped at the airport, Ezette was grateful for the generous tip that she got.

  “My real name is Karinne.”

  This is part of the game—never delivering. To be hugely successful in entertainment, people have to want to fuck you. Women have to want to fuck you and men have to want to be like you. Think about Michael Jackson and Prince. They’re enigmas that never delivered on the dream. Here’s the dream for fans. I’m at a concert. I love Prince. I can see him, but I can’t touch him. I can’t talk to him. I can’t get to him. This is an example of never delivering. So, the person goes to concert after concert, trying to get closer and closer. This never delivering on the dream made the business go. It made fans come back for more and more. When Usher made his first album, he was a single guy and women adored him. When he got married, his fans’ dream of sleeping with him was shattered. I believe this was reflected in the sales of the albums as a result. See, the biggest stars never deliver. They are the dream. But it has all changed drastically now with social media. Now fans feel like they know you. We get to speak on Twitter. Being more accessible lowers a performer’s value.

  I’LL NEVER FORGET the time Aisha and Dennis and I were in the Range Rover going into the city. We were in the narrow-ass Lincoln Tunnel. Aisha said something that I don’t even remember, but I’m almost sure it had to do with women or the fact that I was away or going away again soon. She might have said something about the video I was going to make next week or the interview that was on the newsstands where I had insinuated that I was available. She cringed every time she saw me in a video, sexing up another woman for the whole world to see. “Why did you have to touch her butt like that?”

  This time, I snapped. I started swerving the car from lane to lane, recklessly. It was my way of saying that I had had it. That I didn’t want to have that conversation again. I was screaming, “I’ll kill us all!” I was out of control. I was angry at myself for who I had been to Aisha over the last few years. I was angry at myself for driving her crazy. I was angry at life for being so complicated.

  At that moment, perhaps it would have been better if we had hit something to stop the lunacy that had gotten us to that point in the Lincoln Tunnel. Aisha was frustrated, too, but she wasn’t afraid.

  When I look back on that night, I think I could have killed us. I could have hit the wall or another car filled with innocent lives. I could have killed someone else’s family as I swerved in and out of my own problems. God always looks out for children and fools and that is what I was.

  PART THREE

  Pain Is Love

  *

  April 6, 2012

  Today is Jordan’s Birthday and I’m happy I was able to call home to tell him I love him and wish him one. He turns 9 today, my youngest and most pleasant child, HA HA. He doesn’t really understand all this jail bullshit and it’s hard to explain to him why I can’t be there for his Birthday and even harder to explain if I wasn’t able to call due to this fucking slug I just caught. Luckily they didn’t serve me yet so I was able to hear his happy lil voice. AAAHHHH such joy the little things bring when you’re in prison. The things I often took for granted—I missed so many Birthdays and Holidays when I was home on the road doing shows. I used to think that was more important to make money so they can have nice things for their birthdays instead of being there for their birthdays. I guess that comes from me growing up not celebrating birthdays. To me it was just another day. But it’s not so much about the birthday, as it is about spending quality time with my kids. Somewhere along the way I guess I missed that point. Lucky for me that by this time next year I’ll be home for Jordan’s 10th and I’m not just talking home from prison, I’ll be home with my son.

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY . . . JORDAN NILE ATKINS

  I LOVE YOU!!!

  *

  ELEVEN

  My Father

  WHEN MY COUSIN COREY CALLED TO INVITE ME TO DINNER AT his parents’ house, the idea of a home-cooked meal with Aunt Dell and Uncle Walter sounded like just what I needed after the tornado of shit that I’d been through. Corey heard about my sold-out show in Miami, and hoped that I could make time for a Sunday dinner. Moms always said that I should stay in touch with my father’s family, although it got harder and harder for her to stay close to them. It was rough on Moms because of what had happened between them.

  I did stay in touch, but not every day. When I moved from always-in-trouble to famous, I became the golden child of the family. Rather than hold anything against my family, mother’s side or father’s side, I always tried to take the high road. I’ve always considered family the most important thing in life. I was never spiteful when my family disfellowshipped my mother. I didn’t hold it against them and I continue to let stuff roll off my back. I don’t bring up old wounds. When someone in my family has a financial crisis, of course they call me first. I don’t feel burdened by it because I know they only call if they really need it. They definitely don’t take advantage. I have never forgotten the struggles I went through growing up, so I recognize that people need from time to time. Being accomplished makes it my responsibility to help to make each generation stronger in my family. White households have generations of successful people. As Black people we’re working on that still.

  When I accepted the invitation, Corey said something that I wasn’t expecting. “Oh yeah, your father will be there.”

  I had been thinking about my father a lo
t and wanted to reestablish a relationship with him. I’d heard that he was thinking about me, too. My father was always in me, even when he wasn’t with me. Like him, I mistakenly thought that drugs and alcohol would be able to slow my life down because it always felt like being in a speeding car without a seatbelt on. Instead of slowing things down, drugs accelerated everything, sending my life spinning out of control. Although drugs seem to temporarily calm you, when reality hits, it hits hard, shattering everything that ever mattered.

  That Sunday, Aunt Dell and Uncle Walter’s small brick ranch house was packed with my father’s family, who I hadn’t seen in over a decade. Everyone was there, Cousin Corey, my Uncles Gary and Glenn and my Aunts Marie, Brenda and Cathy were all there. I was sorry that Moms wasn’t there. She had been so close to Aunt Brenda back in the day when they all lived in Queens and Aunt Brenda worked at the same hospital that Moms worked at. The house was full of family and smells of good food that triggered warm memories of my past.

  The last time I had seen my dad was in Florida, where my grandparents eventually moved. I was about sixteen and my Moms took me. My father was at the house and after all those years, my parents were right back where they started. Moms was getting mad and my father was ready to get physical, which is all he knew how to do. He asked Moms to go into a room so that they could discuss the issue without me.

  “I’m not going to leave you in the room alone with my Moms.”

  “Son, this is not your fight, please get out of the way,” he said as if he thought he had a place in our family. As if he had a say about me or her.

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I jumped on him, took his head in my arms and put him in a headlock. My father was taken aback when I grabbed him. He was breathing heavily and threw me against the wall. I headed towards him again, like a bull, until my paternal grandfather came into the room and pulled us off of each other. Moms was crying in the corner.