by Omar Tyree
“Well, put some oils and bubble bath and shit in there with you.”
She shook her head and kept on walking.
Shareef turned back to his desk and picked up the cordless phone that sat next to the computer screen.
FICTION EDITOR WILLIAM SORENSKI, a tall, waifish, dark-haired book enthusiast in a button-down shirt, Dockside slacks, and casual leather shoes, sat in his corner office on the eighteenth floor of the Worldwide Publishing Group building in the middle of Times Square. He could see everything right out of his office window; one of the best views in the building, which proved how much the company liked him. Bill had made some great buys for WPG, including signing Shareef Crawford, who had become one of their strongest stars in African-American books.
Bill was leaning back in his extra high, black leather office chair reading through a soft-back copy of a self-published book entitled The Street Life. He read a few pages in silence before he grunted and closed the book. He picked up another self-published street book, this one titled A Game of Hustling. He seemed to have a dozen of them spread out across his desk that morning.
When his office phone rang, he ignored it and continued with his reading. He read a few more pages of A Game of Hustling before he shook his head and closed that book as well. A moment later, his secretary paged him.
“Bill, Shareef Crawford’s on line two. You want me to tell him you’ll call him back?”
Bill sat up in his chair and said, “Oh, no, I’ll take it,” and tossed the street book on his desk.
He jumped on the line with his celebrated author and said, “Shareef, how’s it goin’, buddy? The new book is doing great. We climbed up to number seven this week. Four more spots and you’ll break your old record.”
“That’s good, that’s good,” Shareef told him. “Let’s keep counting them peanuts.”
“Ah, they’re a little more than peanuts,” Bill told him with a smile. “They’re more like walnuts.”
Shareef laughed and said, “Yeah, as long as they keep adding up. But anyway, man, I got something new I wanna run past you.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
When you’re a star writer, everything is doable. So Bill was open for anything from Shareef.
“Yo, I’m thinking about writing a book about a Harlem gangster.”
Bill heard Shareef and paused. How ironic? He wanted to get into the street-fiction game himself, but with his celebrated author of romance titles? He wasn’t so sure.
First he asked him, “You can write that stuff?”
Shareef sounded offended. “Come on, man, I’m from Harlem. I know the streets. What, you forgot who you’re talking to? This is me.”
“Yeah, but I mean, you haven’t written anything like that.”
“But you’ve already said I have the strongest male characters, right? So what do you think street fiction is about? More male characters.”
Bill paused again to try and figure out how best to break the publishing industry taboo to one of his favorite authors.
He took a breath and said, “Shareef, book readers are extremely loyal to reading the same thing. So if you start off as a romance writer, that’s what they expect from you.”
Shareef cut him off and said, “Bill, I know this industry as well as you do. And that’s the first thing I said when someone mentioned this idea to me. Keep doing what you do. But at the same time, man, a good book is a good book. And nobody can outwrite me about Harlem.”
He said, “People mail me these street books every day of the week. And that shit never goes deeper than the surface. Not to mention how terrible half of that shit is written. They’re just on their hustle, man. I understand it. But now when the master decides to put his pen down on Harlem, it’s a wrap!”
Bill believed him. He really did. The words and the passion behind them were more than braggadocio with Shareef, he was a skilled professional, and was indeed a standout.
So he said, “I don’t doubt that you can outwrite these guys. But as I read through some of this stuff, I really doubt that the audience pays that much attention to how well it’s written. I mean, I think most of this material is pure, ah, sensationalism. And it doesn’t paint the best picture of the African-American community. So to throw yourself in the middle of that is going to be a more, ah, of an arduous challenge than you believe right now.”
Bill was trying to be as logical as possible, picking his words with tact.
Shareef responded, “But if I pulled it off, everybody would be talking about it, right?” He awaited an answer in the affirmative. Instead, Bill took another pause, a deep breath, and came up with a perfect parallel.
He said, “Sure, everyone may talk about it, but it may not mean that they’ll give you their support and blessings. I’m quite sure some of them, if not a lot of them really, would view your writing street fiction similar to an R and B singer putting out a gangsta rap album. And I don’t think that’s the kind of comparison you’d want.”
Shareef heard his analogy and broke out laughing.
“Oh, shit! It’s that bad, hunh?”
“Well, it’s not as if you’re some unknown writer who can just up and change directions without anyone knowing about it. You have quite a fan base now. I mean, what will your million women fans think?” Bill asked him.
Shareef fell silent for a spell with no immediate response. His editor didn’t like the sound of that. Shareef always had something to say. So Bill gave him a way out.
“Well, if you’re that serious about trying to write some of this stuff, then maybe we could come up with a pseudonym or something, I don’t know. We could call you The King.”
Shareef listened and started laughing again. He said, “You’re a funny guy, man. The King, hunh?”
Bill chuckled at it himself. “Yeah,” he said, “you know, short for The King of the Streets. Then you can have the best of both worlds. You’ll keep your walnuts with the female fan base and get some of the guys with the street lit. You’d be like ah, R. Kelly and Jay Z rolled into one.”
Shareef laughed even harder.
“R. Kelly and Jay Z? What do you know about R. Kelly and Jay Z?”
“Hey, man, I’m up on things. I read,” Bill answered. “So, what do you think about that idea?”
Shareef paused again. “I mean, I don’t know yet, man. I was actually thinking about writing something as a nonfiction, to tell you the truth.”
Bill raised his brow. “You mean about a real person?”
“Yeah, that’s how the idea came up.”
“Well, is this guy still alive or dead?”
“He’s in jail. I’ll have to go in and visit him.”
That changed everything for Bill.
“Well, that may come under the Son of Sam law,” he responded.
“Even if he doesn’t accept payment for it?”
“What, this guy would give you his story for free?”
Bill seriously doubted that. In America everything was a deal.
Shareef said, “Or, he could donate the proceeds to someone else, couldn’t he?”
“I’ll have to check on that,” Bill told him.
“In the meantime, I’ll do a little research trip up in Harlem next week to see what kind of material I’ll be dealing with.”
Bill heard him and became a little concerned.
“Hey, ah, you be careful hanging out up in Harlem.”
Shareef laughed again. “What do you think, these guys who are writing these streets books are any safer than I am? It’s just regular research, asking the right people the right questions, like any other book.”
“Yeah, but a lot of these guys are still on the streets. I mean, the last time I checked, Shareef, you were living quite comfy down in Florida.”
Bill was opening Shareef up like only a professional editor could. To get the right material, you had to push your way into the truth.
Shareef made note of that himself. He said, “That’s why I like you, man. You�
�re always honest with me.”
“Hey, if an editor can’t be honest, then he’s not doing his job.”
“Aw’ight, well, I’ll try my best to stay safe up in Harlem for you,” Shareef humored him.
Bill joked back and asked, “You know of any, ah, bodyguard services or anything for while you’re up there?”
He had Shareef laughing more than usual that morning. “Bodyguard services? That’s the last thing you want to do in research. That only brings more attention to you. And this is my old neighborhood we’re talking about. People still know me there.”
“Yeah, I was only joking with you,” Bill responded. “Unless you really want to use one.”
Shareef told him, “Look, man, I will not be walking around Harlem with bodyguards. Okay?” And that was that.
When Bill hung up the phone, he thought to himself for a second.
“I bet Shareef could pull this off,” he said out loud. He took another moment to convince himself. Shareef had all the research and writing skills, and like he kept saying, he was from Harlem.
In the meantime, Bill had his own research to do on whether any of the street writers were worth signing. He picked up the next self-published street book from his desk—this one titled A Hard Way to Die—and started reading.
BACK DOWN IN FLORIDA, Shareef hung up the phone and immediately went searching through his cabinets for the business card on which Cynthia Washington had written her number. He was not concerned at all about being safe in Harlem. That was ridiculous. Harlem was his people. So he thought no more about it.
He found Cynthia’s card and dialed her number on his office phone. Her card said she was a legal secretary for a law firm, Taylor and Scott. Shareef wondered if that’s how she met Michael Springfield. She answered his call on the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Long time no hear, no speak, no see,” he answered.
“Who is this?”
“Shareef Crawford.”
“Oh, hey stranger. What a coincidence? I just thought about you today,” she told him.
“About writing your jail story?” he teased her.
“Among other things, yeah. So you called me back, hunh?”
“You didn’t expect me to?”
“Actually, I was going to give you until August before I started calling you. I figured you would still be on tour until then.”
“Yeah, I just finished touring. So outside of your jail story, what else were you thinking about me?” he quizzed her.
“Umm…how strong your stroke was. And your strong conversation, of course.”
Shareef chuckled and spun his chair around. He didn’t want to have Jacqueline walk out and catch him on the phone with another woman talking about his stroke. A mistress was more than a one-night stand. He had to protect his security with her.
“Oh yeah, in what order?” he asked Cynthia, while eyeing the bathroom door.
“The conversation came first.”
“But that’s not what you said first.”
“Well, that’s what I meant to say.”
Shareef chuckled and said, “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about this Harlem crime story you asked me about.” He figured he could flirt with her anytime, and in person, where he could do more about it. But he was calling her about business.
He asked, “Does Michael Springfield expect me to meet up with him in jail?”
Cynthia perked up. She answered, “Oh, yeah, he definitely wants to see you.”
“Can you set that up for next week? I want to see how much of a story he has.”
“You’re coming back to Harlem next week?”
“Unless it can’t happen?”
“Oh, no, it can happen, I just want to make sure.”
“Well, yeah, that’s what I’m planning.”
“All right, I’ll set it up then. What day next week?”
“I’m thinking Tuesday or Wednesday. I wanna get back in the city like, Sunday night, and get settled first. I want to take a few days to see what everything looks like now. I hear there’re a lot of changes going on.”
“Yeah, you’ll see. They have new construction all over Harlem now.”
“Construction of what?”
“Condos.”
Shareef smiled, thinking about his own condo back home.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, and they’re expensive, too. I even asked about a few of them.”
Shareef nodded. He figured he would get to all of that once he arrived back home. He said, “So, see what you can set up and get back to me by the end of the week. You need my number again?”
“Is this it on my phone?”
“Yeah, this is my office number. So keep it business.”
She chuckled. “I got you player. I won’t mess up your game. It’s strictly business then.”
He said, “I’m just talking about with the phone calls, not when I get up there.” And he grinned. He surely wanted to explore Cynthia’s vibrancy again. He only got a chance to do her once before she dropped her book proposal in his lap and broke camp on him.
“Mmm, hmm, you want your cake and eat it, too,” she commented.
“Don’t we all? So call me up later this week and let me know.”
“Okay, I’ll call you.”
Shareef hung up the phone, smiling with stimulating tingles from the conversation and expectations with Cynthia. Then he remembered to join his fine, playful mistress in the Jacuzzi. He stripped his boxers off and moved butt naked toward the bathroom. But the office phone rang and stopped him.
He froze and thought of letting the answering service take a message. But he checked the number to see who it was first.
“Jennifer,” he answered. He took a breath and decided to see what she wanted. Their conversations were rarely long anymore. They had only general information calls, mostly regarding the children.
“Yeah,” he answered drily.
“I just wanted to remind you that we have that meeting with the marriage counselor set for next Tuesday at ten in the morning,” she told him.
Shareef recalled it and responded, “Shit.”
“You didn’t plan anything else did you? I asked you to put that on your calendar before you went on tour.”
“Yeah, I do have it on my calendar, I just haven’t looked at it since I’ve been back.”
“Do you have some other plans for next Tuesday morning?”
“I was going to fly back up to New York to start doing research for a new book.”
“When? You just got back from the tour. You know Shareef wants you to take him to football practice.”
Jennifer got frantic whenever Shareef changed the plans on her, which was often. It wasn’t as if he did it on purpose, but he did make new commitments without much regard for previous ones.
Shareef responded, “He has a whole three-month season. This is only one of the first practices.”
“Well, how long do you plan on being up in New York?”
“I planned to be there for a week.”
“So you won’t make our meeting with the marriage counselor, either? When are you leaving?”
“I planned to leave on Sunday, but I can wait until Tuesday afternoon.”
He was actually interested in seeing a marriage counselor. After struggling without help for the past three years of their marriage, a professional point of view on their beefs would offer a breath of fresh air. Or at least he hoped. Hearing what his wife had to say about her loss of passion in their relationship was enough for him to want to stay and go through with it.
“Your son is going to be disappointed,” she told him.
Shareef thought, Tell me something I don’t know.
“I’ll spend extra time with him this weekend then,” he responded.
“And what about Kimberly?”
“She can stay with you. You know how Shareef gets when she starts whining.”
“So what? He has to get over it. She wants to be with
you, too.”
“But you said my son was going to be disappointed, not my daughter.”
“You know what? You do what you’re gonna do.”
When Jennifer hung up the phone with him, Shareef responded, “I am.”
He placed the cordless office phone back on the charger and marched his naked behind to the bathroom. When he stepped inside, Jacqueline had turned off the lights, lit up the candles, and filled up the Jacuzzi with warm water, bubbled just like he had asked her to.
When he quietly closed the door behind him and crept over to the tip of the tub, she smiled with bubbles on her shoulders, in her hair, and on her nose.
“I was just about to come out there and get you.”
“Why, I’m a stalker. Remember?”
Jacqueline started acting with a squeamish look and put her hands out in front of her. “Oh, God! Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Shareef stopped and frowned at her. Then he chopped his right hand into his left palm.
“Cut. That was terrible. Take two.”
She grinned and splashed water at him.
“Whatever. I’m not an actress anyway.”
Shareef climbed into the Jacuzzi with her and countered, “Yes you are. You’ve been acting up all night and all morning.”
She grinned and kissed his lips, getting bubbles on his nose.
She said, “But that wasn’t acting.”
He grinned back in a lip lock and said, “Oh.”
AT 8:43 AM, Tuesday, August 1, Shareef labored over what he would wear to his first marriage counselor appointment with his wife.
“Do I go casual or professional?” he asked himself out loud. He had pulled out gray sweatpants and an orange I LOVE THE BAHAMAS T-shirt, versus a white button-down shirt, beige sports jacket, and blue denim jeans.
He looked at both outfits laid out on his bed and pondered.
“Nah, I’m a professional, and I need to be respected that way. This counselor needs to see me the way most people see me when they first meet me.” And he began to put on his button-down shirt, sports jacket, pants, fine shoes, and cologne. He drove his Mercedes, too.
Halfway to the meeting at a downtown office in Fort Lauderdale, Shareef found himself stuck in a traffic jam on I-95 North at 9:35.
