Diamond Life

by Aliya S. King

  “She’s not involved,” Birdie said.

  A cameraman stood close to Birdie while an assistant adjusted some overheard lighting.

  “Can we talk about why? On camera?”

  “Nah, I’m good on that.”

  “We know she’s not on camera. But can you just tell the viewers that she’s not involved.”

  “No, we’re not even doing that.”

  Dylan came up to Birdie and put a hand on his shoulder. When Birdie was an underground rapper with a rabid cult following, Dylan ignored him at industry parties and never returned his calls when he tried to get tickets to events. Now, he was signed and officially blessed by his label mates Jake and Z. And suddenly Dylan made the oceans part anytime he walked into a room. Birdie had specifically asked for a different publicist. He even hated the sound of Dylan’s voice. It was too throaty and scratchy, like she was a sixty-year-old smoker instead of a twenty-something blonde with jet-black roots.

  “Can I talk to Alex?” Dylan asked, smiling. “I think I could get her to understand.”

  “We already discussed this when we put the show together,” said Birdie. “Why is this even coming up now? There’s nothing for her to understand. She’s not involved. Period.”

  Dylan and the producer exchanged a quick glance and then nodded.

  “No, it’s your show,” Dylan said. She closed her eyes and put a hand over her heart. “I’m just here to make sure we get the most bang for our buck. It’s ten episodes. That’s it. We have to make it count.”

  A Town Car pulled up and out of the living room window, Birdie saw Jake climb out of the back seat, his heavy denim jeans hanging low on his waist, a cell phone in the crook of his neck, and his hands clutching his ever-present water bottle. Instantly, the energy in Birdie’s house changed. The biggest name in hip-hop was standing on DeKalb Avenue. Jake’s handlers poured out of the car behind him, all on cell phones. Alan, the producer, went outside to talk with Jake’s people.

  “Let’s go!” said Alan, when he came back inside. “Jake’s ready and he’s only giving us ten minutes to get this right. Birdie, move.”

  Birdie walked toward the door, a cameraman keeping time with his every step. He opened the door and Jake threw out an arm and then pulled him in for an elaborate handshake.

  “What the hell is going on here!” Jake said, laughing. “No cameras! I’m here to work!”

  The crew tittered and stood back as Jake and Birdie made their way into the kitchen. Birdie felt awkward. All of a sudden he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to know his promotional budget for A Fistful of Dollars. He wanted to know if they were doing print ads or internet marketing. And he wanted to know when he was getting the second part of his advance.

  But none of that would be for the cameras. So he spent the next ten minutes talking to Jake about absolutely nothing. They trash talked sports and then freestyled for a few minutes. (Jake made a point to drop a verse from his new track with an R&B singer newly signed to the label.)

  Jake leaned against Birdie’s refrigerator. A cameraman panned close to his face.

  “So, Bird,” Jake said. “You ready to be famous?”

  Birdie noticed that Jake knew the game. He threw out questions that were innocuous but might make for good TV. It made Bird slightly uncomfortable that the president of his label was so good at being fake.

  “I don’t need to be famous,” Birdie said.

  “You just want a fistful of dollars,” Jake said, pointing at Birdie.

  Birdie groaned. Jake threw up his hands and yelled out at the crew.

  “Cut and print!” he said. “You see how I ended that scene? That’s your promo spot right there! You’re welcome.”

  The crew clapped and laughed out loud as Birdie smiled and shifted from one leg to the other. Wait. Was he acting now? What part of the game was this? Why was it so easy for Jake to act while Birdie felt like a fraud?

  Jake left in a blur, taking a bit of the air out of the room with him as he billowed out with his crew. He was his own little weather system, moving like a storm cloud.

  “Let’s get a little more random conversation between you and Travis,” said the producer.

  He motioned for a camera to start rolling and then Travis spoke up.

  “Do you know when you’re shooting your second video?”

  “Nah, I haven’t heard anything about it yet . . .”

  “Wait,” said Dylan, popping up behind a cameraman. “It sounds like you aren’t being informed about things that are happening with the label. We can’t have that. You should probably word that differently. Say something like, ‘It should be soon. I’m waiting to hear back from the label.’”

  Birdie signaled to the cameraman that he was ready. The cameraman nodded and Travis cleared his throat.

  “Do you know when you’re shooting your second video?”

  Birdie caught Dylan’s eye. She was nodding.

  “It should be soon,” Birdie said. “I’m waiting to hear back from the label.”

  Birdie saw Dylan give him the thumbs-up sign, then she wandered away to take a phone call.

  After three hours of filming fake conversation throughout the house, the crew began wrapping cords and packing boxes of equipment.

  “Where’s Alex?” asked Daryl, looking around the house. “Is she even here?”

  “She’s in the office upstairs,” said Birdie. “She’s pissed off that I agreed to do this.”

  “Jess would have never let me do this shit either,” said Travis. “It’s fake and it’s ridiculous.”

  “So why am I doing it?” Birdie asked.

  “’Cause you’ll be in millions of homes for ten weeks right before the release of your album. It’s an infomercial. So say cheese and let’s get this money.”

  Birdie and Travis slapped each other’s palms three times, hard.

  “Can we get one more scene before we go?” the producer asked.

  Travis and Birdie took their usual places on either side of the kitchen and waited for instruction.

  “This time just Birdie,” said Alan.

  Travis crossed the kitchen to the area in the living room where there was no filming taking place.

  “It’s all you, superstar,” Travis said as he made his way out.

  “You gonna get enough of calling me that, Travis,” said Birdie. “I ain’t nobody’s superstar.”

  Alan had set up a space in the kitchen with a white backdrop for Bird to talk directly to the camera. Alan set himself up off camera, feeding him questions.

  “Your first album is dropping in ten weeks,” said Alan. “Are you nervous?”

  Birdie had to concentrate and make sure his answer didn’t reveal that he was being fed the question.

  “Am I nervous about my first album?” he said, staring directly into the camera. “No. Not at all. Whatever happens is exactly what’s supposed to happen.”

  After a few more questions, Alan gave him the all clear. Birdie looked over the man’s shoulder and saw his wife standing on the steps, her arms crossed over her chest. She smiled on one side of her mouth, gave him a thumbs-up sign, and continued up the stairs.

  “Next time we film, it’ll be at the studio so you don’t have to worry about—”

  “Bird, I’m sorry I’ve been so bitchy about the reality show thing.”

  It was midnight and the house was empty. It was so quiet that they could hear little Tweet’s soft snores in the next room. Birdie spread out Alex’s fertility medications on the dresser and then dabbed alcohol on a cotton ball. Alex lifted her pajama top and Birdie wiped off an area near her belly button.

  “It’s okay,” said Bird. He took out a syringe and filled it with the clear liquid. “I said I wouldn’t do a reality show and now I’m doing one. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

  “I want to be supportive. I really do. But . . .”

  Birdie pinched Alex’s skin between his thumb and forefinger and then sunk the syringe inside, pushed the
medicine in, and pulled it out quickly.

  “Ouch.”

  “All done,” said Birdie, kissing his wife’s belly. He cleared off the bed and guided his wife to it.

  “You’ve been working for this moment for so long,” said Alex, lying on her back. “I want you to do whatever you need to do to make this work. I mean that.”

  “So does this mean you’ll be on the next episode of Fistful of Dollars?”

  “Not on your life,” Alex said, laughing.

  “I was just checking,” said Birdie. He moved in closer to Alex and wrapped both hands around her waist, pulling her closer to him. As soon as he got hard, she laughed and then wriggled out of his grasp.

  “Don’t start,” Alex said. “Don’t you have a party to host tonight?”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

  “Daryl said you’re hosting a party at the 40/40 Club tonight. There are flyers in the kitchen with your picture on them.”

  Birdie rolled out of bed and grabbed the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door.

  “Nah, something’s not right.”

  Birdie took the stairs down two at a time with Alex padding along behind him.

  “I don’t see anything,” Birdie said, his eyes sweeping the kitchen.

  “Here,” said Alex. “I put it on the fridge.”

  Alex peeled off the flyer and handed it to Birdie. He groaned.

  “See, it says right there that you’re hosting this party.”

  “Look closer, Alex.”

  Alex peered at the postcard.

  “What? I don’t get it.”

  “It doesn’t say I’m hosting. It says it’s in honor of me. Which means even if I don’t show up, they kept their word. I’m gonna kill Daryl. Why would he do this?”

  “Did you tell him you would do a party?”

  “No!” Birdie said. “I mean Daryl told me he wanted to celebrate the reality show getting picked up and all that. I thought they were planning to take me out for drinks or something. Not promote a party with my name on it.”

  Birdie reached for the phone and dialed Daryl’s number. There was no answer, and he trudged back up to his bedroom, mumbling and cursing under his breath. He threw on sweats and an old pair of Timberlands and shrugged into his heavy coat.

  “Where are you going?” Alex asked.

  “I gotta go down there and see what’s going on.”

  Birdie drove across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. He parked on the street and watched the club. The line was long. He could see Daryl at the front door, next to the bouncer.

  Birdie was stunned at how quickly his boys had gotten out of line. They’d joked about what would happen if one of them blew up. How the rest of them would find ways to make money at the expense of their newly famous friend. Just six months ago, they laughed hard at the idea of Travis getting a deal and Birdie making money by taking people on bus tours through Red Hook to see the house where he’d grown up. And now. Already. He had beef. And it wasn’t a small thing that he could overlook or just mention in a offhand way. This was a major violation. He got the deal. Fine. But he’d sworn that he would take care of everyone. And he was. Travis and Daryl were getting 5 percent of Birdie’s performances as his road managers. And they were paying Corey to handle different odds and ends. So why promote a party and not even tell him about it? Birdie called Daryl, watching him from the car.

  “Yo, what’s up, Birdie.”

  “I’m across the street.”

  Daryl trotted over and got in the front seat of Birdie’s truck.

  “How are you gonna throw a party with my name on the flyer and not even tell me?”

  “We told you we were going to put together a little something after the show. We were already having an after-party for the show and we figured you might come through.”

  “Are you selling tickets?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you’re promoting a party.”

  “I guess. But it’s not really—”

  “Come on, man,” said Birdie. “You can’t put my name on stuff and not tell me.”

  “It’s not that deep,” said Daryl. “You don’t even have to come inside.”

  “It is that deep. You got people thinking I’m going to be there. And then it makes me look bad when I’m not.”

  “I can’t believe you’re tripping over a party. It’s cool, though.”

  Birdie sighed.

  It’s cool, though was code for “I see how you are, superstar.” Daryl was trying to throw the fame card at Birdie, making him feel like he should cosign on their side projects since he was the one who got the deal.

  “Wait,” said Birdie. “You really don’t see why—”

  “I said it’s cool, Birdie,” Daryl said. “I hear you.”

  Daryl got out of the car and crossed the street back to the entrance to the club.

  Birdie pulled off. It was too early for things to change like this. They had been on an equal playing field for so long, Birdie didn’t know how to interact with them any other way. But he couldn’t let them take advantage of his newfound fame either. He was looking out for them in every way he could—probably more than he should. How much did he have to change to prove he’d never change?

  When am I going to see you?

  Jake sat up in bed. He was soaked to the skin in a cold sweat. He turned and felt around the bed for Kipenzi. He always woke up feeling for his wife beside him. And every morning, he remembered again that she was somewhere else.

  In his dream, she was sitting on a lilac settee that used to be in their bedroom. Her right eye was hanging by a bloody membrane. She didn’t seem to be fazed by this at all. The hanging eye even blinked. And for some reason, it seemed perfectly normal for Jake to see Kipenzi as he imagined she looked at the site of the plane crash. Her face was bruised, her clothes burned. One finger on her left hand was missing.

  Jake. When am I going to see you?

  That’s what she always asked him. Right before he woke up.

  And in the shower, in his closet, in the car with his driver on the way to the studio, it’s all he could hear in his head.

  When am I going to see you?

  Her voice was so crisp in his ear that for a moment, he thought he really was going crazy. Or that she was haunting him the way she jokingly promised she would if she died before him.

  When am I going to see you?

  Jake sipped from a water bottle filled with vodka on the way to the studio, wincing and shuddering as he choked the liquid down. He passed a billboard for Peter Luger’s and thought about Lily, the waitress who had blown him off. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since that night. And he couldn’t understand why. He’d had sex with at least a dozen women since his wife’s death and could barely recall their names afterward. He’d had one brief conversation with Lily weeks ago and she was still on his mind. The only other time in his life that a woman had that effect on him, he married her. Jake thought about how that ended and drained his water bottle.

  His driver pulled up on Eighth Street and he slipped into Electric Lady Studios and headed directly to Studio B.

  Ten years, ten albums. All recorded in Studio B. He’d met Kipenzi here. He’d gotten head from groupies in the lounge. He’d eaten at least five hundred Chinese dinners on the black leather couch with the stuffing coming out. He’d coached Faith on a hook, wrote a track for Mary, ghostwrote an entire album for Puff. All in Studio B.

  His engineer, a sixty-year-old man named Paul who’d been in the business since before hip-hop was invented, sat at the boards.

  “Pull up what Jus sent over.”

  “It’s not finished,” said Paul.

  Jake peeled out of his coat and dropped it onto a chair. He walked into the booth, slipped into his favorite headphones, and closed his eyes. The words when am I going to see you seemed to match up perfectly with the beat Just Blaze had sent over. It was a laconic track, almost as slow as screw music. He bega
n to speak, slowly first, as his rhythm adjusted to the beat. Then faster. He nodded his head at a place in the song where he’d get someone to sing a hook. And then he dove into the second verse, weaving stories about his early days as a crack dealer and how he paid the price by losing his wife years after going straight.

  When he finished, he was sweaty and spent. He sat in the booth alone for a few minutes until someone rapped on the glass to get his attention.

  Jake looked up to see Z standing at the boards, talking to the engineer.

  Jake came out of the booth and slapped hands with Z.

  “I like that!” Z exclaimed.

  “What’s good with you, Yoga Boy?” Jake asked.

  “Nothing. Just stopped by on my way to class.”

  “On your way to what?”

  “You heard me. Class. Continuing education at Rutgers.”

  Jake shook his head. Z never ceased to amaze him. Ever since rehab, he’d transformed into more than just a reformed drug addict. He ate fruit and salads. He went home to have dinner with his family every night. He never cheated on Beth. He just did his music and hung out with his kids. And then he started doing yoga. And now he was in school.

  “What class?”

  “Poetry.”

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Jake said.

  “That’s what we do, right? Ultimately, we’re poets. You’d be surprised how similar some of the old-school poetry is to hip-hop. It’s crazy.”

  Jake laughed. “I’m gonna need you to leave now.”

  “I’m leaving. Just wanted to know what Zander’s first week sales look like.”

  “Are you asking me as the president of the label or as Zander’s godfather?”

  “Both.”

  “We shipped 250,000. It’s looking like he’ll bring in less than half.”

  “Not bad for a R&B record with only one or two rap hooks.”

  “The song with the most potential is the one with him and Bunny,” said Jake.

  “Don’t start me up on that chick. Did you see her at Zander’s party? She’s nuts.”

  “Indeed,” said Jake. “But if we can keep those two from killing each other, they can both be huge.”

  “My class is starting soon, I gotta get on the turnpike. You should come one day,” said Z.