Now, I know a lot of my sisters may not agree with my methods. Some might even go so far as to call me a user and even a slut. I don’t care what you think or what you call me, just as long as you call me happy!!
I have the dream job of dream jobs. I’m editor in chief of a new urban culture magazine called Bling Bling and Davis made it all possible. I met Davis on an American Airlines flight from Chicago to New York when I was on my way to interview for an associate editor position at Vanity Fair. I knew who he was because he’s always in the media. Open any Fortune, Wall Street Journal or Forbes and there he is. He’s rich, powerful, and somewhat handsome in a nerdy kind of way. I was working as an associate editor to my mentor Linda Johnson Rice, the publisher of Ebony, and I figured maybe an article on how Davis had built his empire and a photo spread on some of his homes would be a great story, even though Linda said Davis McClinton didn’t do black press.
As I was boarding the plane, I looked down and I stared at Davis while he was reading a newspaper, his glasses resting on the edge of his nose, and asked him how he was doing. Davis removed his glasses and looked at me from the tip of my leather boots up almost every inch of my five-eight, one-hundred-twenty-eight-pound body, lingering at my honey-brown eyes, and in a very deep and cultured voice asked, “And you are?”
“Zola Norwood, with Ebony magazine, soon to be publisher and editor in chief of my own magazine. I just wanted to say I think what you’re doing is great. Keep it up,” I said.
I moved toward the back of the plane and my coach seat. I didn’t have anything against coach, but since I flew on American Airlines so often, they should have upgraded me no matter how much I had paid for my ticket. When I saw important people like Davis sitting in first class, I wished I could afford first class all the time.
I put my laptop and garment bag in the overhead and took my seat in Row 27. Just as I was getting settled, the flight attendant approached me and said in a firm voice, “May I see your boarding pass?”
“What?” I asked.
“I need to see your boarding pass. I think you’re in the wrong seat.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Miss Norwood, your boarding pass, please.”
I reached into my bag and of course I found everything but my boarding pass. I wanted to tell Miss Flight Lady to just throw me off the plane, when she looked at me and said, “Please get your luggage and come with me.”
I was getting ready to throw a black-girl hissy fit complete with hands on hips and head rotation, when it hit me that a lot of other important people besides Davis McClinton flew the Chicago-to-New York route regularly, and perhaps this wasn’t the best moment to show out, so I decided to revert to my Miss Porter’s correspondence course behavior and act like a lady.
I followed the flight attendant down the aisle, smiling like I hadn’t done anything wrong. Once we were a few feet from the cockpit door, the attendant turned to me, smiled and said, “This looks like your seat.”
“What?” I asked as I looked at the third row and the very sexy smile of Davis McClinton.
“You heard the lady,” Davis said as he patted the large leather seat.
As I was lifting my luggage into the overhead, Davis barked, “Thomas, get the young lady’s bag.” A tall, lean white man swooped up from the seat in front of me and placed my luggage in the overhead. I suddenly realized I was sitting next to the opportunity of a lifetime.
By the time the plane arrived in New York, I knew I was right. During the two-hour flight, I told Davis about my big plans for start-
ing my own magazine. I wanted to do something like Vanity Fair and Ebony combined. I even had a name for my magazine, U.S., short for urban soul.
When I was a girl around thirteen, I spent my allowance not on music like most of my friends but on magazines. By the time I graduated from high school, my room had become a fire hazard from all the magazines I just couldn’t part with. I would read copies of Jet and Right On! at least three times before protecting them with plastic covers I made from freezer bags. I would write “Property of Zola” in Magic Marker and the name of the store where I purchased the magazine.
I told Davis the mini-version of my life story and he listened intently and would ask questions when I would take a breath and sip some white wine.
“So you grew up in Nashville? Nice city,” Davis said.
“Yeah, it was a great place to grow up. I went to Tennessee State University and majored in journalism. I worked for a few years for Memphis magazine as a fashion editor and then I went to graduate school at Northwestern. After that I worked as an intern at Ebony and was later promoted to associate editor,” I said.
“Did you work for Linda Johnson Rice?”
“Oh, she is my shero, and I’ve learned a lot from Linda. Sort of like a law school grad working for a Supreme Court justice,” I said.
“Then why do you want to leave?”
“Because I’m smart enough to know that I’ll never be editor of Ebony, and it’s time to move on,” I said.
“Sounds like a good reason,” Davis said.
When we arrived in New York, Davis had his driver take us to my hotel. I invited Davis to the bar for a drink, and to my great surprise he accepted. Five hours and two very expensive bottles of wine later, Davis had convinced me to skip my interview and start a magazine for him.
I thought this was the birthday for Urban Soul but Davis said that was a nice title but he already had a title, Bling Bling. It didn’t knock me off my feet, but Davis explained that we should do something hip and on the cutting edge. He said young people bought magazines these days and were the first generation of African Americans who expected to do well and have nice things. Davis also pointed out how young white teens were fascinated with Hip Hop and African American culture.
I agreed, and the next afternoon Davis had me sitting in a conference room with a group of business planners, interior decorators, and employment counselors. Two months later I was having my first staff meeting. A week later I signed an employment contract, a high six-figure salary with perks, the most important being the chance to buy the magazine from Davis after five years. That night, to celebrate, I showed Davis how thankful I was, and he was very impressed with my talents.
Now, don’t think for one minute I used my body to get my job. I am very attracted to Davis, although I have to admit it might be the power thang. Besides, I got skills.
I was raised in a solid middle-class family. Both my parents were educators. My daddy, Edward Norwood, was dean of students at Fisk University, and my mother, Virginia, was the first black female to receive a doctorate degree in education from Vanderbilt University and taught there.
I studied piano and ballet and was president of Jack and Jill. I won several piano competitions and won the only pageant I ever entered, Little Miss Black Nashville.
My parents always told my sister, Pamela, and me that we could do anything we dreamed and encouraged us to dream big. I listened. My sister, Pamela, didn’t because she was too busy whoring around and doing drugs.
Bling Bling is going into its third year of publication with a circulation of more than 250,000 a month, and despite the competition has been growing at a rate of over 20 percent a year.
I just love my job! I get to go to movie premieres, fabulous parties, and meet interesting characters almost every day. So what if some of them are ill-informed rappers, BPWTTR (Black People Who Think They’re Rich) and DWDs (divas with drama)?
Raymond
Winston Tyler Jr.
_________________
Children should be the only ones allowed to believe in dreams with happy endings. It sure would save a lot of grown-ups so many sleepless nights.
I don’t remember when I gave up on happy endings and can’t really explain the sadness I felt for months when life dealt me my latest disappointment.
Just when I was thinking my love life was going to end up in the happily ever after way I’d dreamed it w
ould, I was once again reminded how cruel life and love can be. If I’d just hung up the phone a moment earlier, maybe my life and my love for my partner, Trent could have gone on the way it had for more than seven years. If only I hadn’t had a craving for a pepperoni pizza.
I was in the family room, looking over some contracts I was reviewing on a freelance basis for a firm in Seattle. I don’t think Trent realized I was home. Why else would he risk having a phone conversation that would cause our relationship to end?
When I picked up the phone to satisfy my pizza jones, I heard a female voice screaming, “When are you going to tell him? I can’t and won’t wait forever.” She was shouting so loud that they didn’t notice I’d picked up the phone. I started to hang up but thought they would hear the click, so I just held the phone close to my ear. I then heard Trent say “Okay, baby. Okay. I’ll tell him.” I knew I shouldn’t be listening, but I was intrigued . . . Tell who what?
“Well, if you don’t tell Raymond, then I will, ’cause I am not doing this alone,” the female voice said. Well, now I knew who “him” was. But I couldn’t help wondering what she wouldn’t do “alone.”
“Michelle, you can’t do that! I told you I would tell him. Give me a couple of days. I’ve got to go,” Trent said.
“You’ve got twenty-four hours. If you don’t tell him by then . . . I’ll file my paternity suit,” Michelle said.
“I told you, don’t worry! I’ll take care of it,” Trent said before he hung up the phone.
For a few moments I just held the phone close to my chest, hoping I was in a crazy dream. Had I heard what I thought I heard? I just hung up the phone and stood silently, deciding what I should do next.
I could hear Trent moving around in our bedroom and thought maybe I should march upstairs and demand to know what was going on though a part of me didn’t want to know.
But when I heard Trent coming down to the family room I decided I needed an explanation. Immediately.
Trent bounced into the room with his usual wide grin. There was nothing unusual about that. Trent was one of those people who always seemed to have a smile on his face and made anyone who saw him wonder what he was so happy about. It was one of the things I loved about him, even though right now I hated to admit it. But when he came toward me with his lips puckered, I felt a sharp pain, like someone was driving a dagger through my heart, and then jiggling it around for good measure. I pushed him back and said, “Trent, we need to talk.”
“Don’t I get a kiss?” he asked playfully.
“Trent, who is Michelle?”
“Michelle? Are you talking about Michelle Adams?”
“I don’t know her last name. Who is Michelle Adams?”
“She works with me. Remember? We worked together on the new ballpark. She joined the firm about two years ago. She’s from Miami,” Trent said with a puzzled look.
“Was that who you were just talking to on the phone?”
For a few long sounds Trent didn’t respond. When he finally spoke, his voice was accusatory. “So, you’re listening to my phone calls?”
I started to defend myself, but instead I screamed, “Why is she talking about a paternity suit?”
“Michelle is pregnant,” Trent said calmly.
“Yes, and what would that have to do with you?”
“I’m the father.”
“What?”
“Michelle and I are going to have a baby,” Trent said as he glanced around the room to avoid looking at me.
I was telling myself not to give him drama, to remain calm even though I felt my life disintegrating before my eyes. I remained silent, but my eyes looked at Trent and said, “Mutherfucker, you have got to be kidding me.”
“Raymond, talk to me. Let’s talk about this,” Trent pleaded. I still didn’t say anything, and Trent got nervous and started talking so fast he erupted like a geyser letting loose for the first time in years.
“You know this is just as much your fault as it is mine. If you’d been here at home with me instead of running back and forth to Alabama and San Diego, this wouldn’t have happened. I needed somebody. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I was lonely. Michelle and I didn’t plan to have a child.”
While he was talking I was thinking about returning to my undergrad alma mater, the University of Alabama, to teach at the law school for a semester. Was this the same man who told me what an honor it was for me to be asked to return and teach there and that I’d be a powerful role model for minority students? Was this the same man who told me I should get on a plane to go and comfort my baby brother while his marriage was crumbling?
I suddenly felt like Trent was sucking all the air out of the room and that if I stayed there listening to him, he was going to suck the life out of me, too.
I walked toward the stairs, and suddenly Trent grabbed me and shouted, “You’ve got to listen to me. Let me explain. This doesn’t have to end our relationship!”
I could no longer remain silent. As I pulled away I said, “Trent, what relationship?”
I walked slowly up the stairs, praying he wouldn’t come after me, but hoping somewhere in my heart he would.
He didn’t.
I spent the night in a hotel, where I had cold pizza and warm beer. I couldn’t sleep, so I watched a lot of Nick at Nite and ESPN. I started to call Trent several times to ask him to explain himself. How could he have done that to me? To us? Infidelity is infidelity, so at first I didn’t focus on the fact that he’d been unfaithful with a woman, but I now wondered if his infidelity had included men as well.
I wanted to call my baby brother, Kirby, and tell him what had happened, but he was still nursing his wounds from his own divorce. I thought of calling my mother, who I knew would make me feel better, but she would tell my father and he would tell her, and maybe me, “I told you so.” Calling my best friend, Jared, was an option, but I knew after he’d let me have my say, he’d start talking about the kids and how wonderful married life is, and I would be cursing the day I accepted the fact that I was gay, that I would never really experience the joy I heard in Jared’s voice when he talked about Nicole and the kids. Besides, they were in the throes of moving from New York to Atlanta.
Maybe Trent believed he could risk taking a chance since he knew about my “three strikes you’re out” theory when it came to relationships. As far as I knew, he only had one strike against him. Several years ago his transgression with an undercover cop had cost me a chance to be on the federal bench. But now, it was time for me to move on and not risk being shocked by what strike three could be.
A few days later Trent and I finally got together. I was still angry, but I had invested too much in the relationship to at least leave with Trent as a friend, and he’d been a great friend for as long as I’d known him when we were fraternity brothers at Bama.
We didn’t talk a lot about what had happened as we sat around the round glass table where we often shared dinner. He kept telling me how sorry he was. Since I’d been away so much, Trent had started to feel sorry for himself and used the rationale that he didn’t want to be with another man, because he didn’t want to jeopardize our relationship. He didn’t think that being with a woman would harm the relationship, especially if I never found out. The baby had been a huge surprise to both him and Michelle. When I quizzed him about safe sex, he said the condom broke.
“So what are you going do?” I asked.
“I want to work this out with you because I still love you,” he said.
“What about Michelle?”
“Michelle said she loves me and wants to marry me.”
“What are you going to do?” I repeated.
“I want to do what’s right,” Trent said, looking away.
“So you want to take a wrong and make it right. Sounds like there is no place for me in that solution.”
When Trent remained silent and didn’t reassure me there was room for me in his situation, I knew my so-called good thing had come to an end.
/> We decided to put the house on the market, and agreed to let some time pass before we resumed our friendship. When he asked me if I was going to stay in Seattle, I really didn’t know the answer. Seattle held so many memories for me. Trent and I had moved there because we thought it was such a beautiful city. It was. Still, I knew that every restaurant, shopping mall or gym would remind me of Trent. Seattle meant Raymond and Trent, and since we were no longer a couple, I thought I should move on.
A week later Trent moved out. I don’t know where. I assume with Michelle. I contacted a headhunter, Heather Sparks, whom I had met while teaching law school at the University of Washington. When Heather asked me what city I wanted to live in, I told her anywhere but Seattle. I was thinking about San Diego and even Los Angeles. Anywhere but here.
A couple of days later Heather called me and said, “I think I have a wonderful opportunity for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Have you ever heard of a magazine called Bling Bling?”
I thought for a moment and said, “I don’t think so.”
“Have you heard of a man named Davis McClinton?”
“Sure everyone has heard of him,” I said. “We studied him in business school.”
“Well, he owns a publication called Bling Bling. It’s a hot, up-and-coming Hip Hop magazine. He also owns more than one hundred radio stations across the country and a couple of television stations in South Africa. A real media mogul,” Heather said.
“I think he’s one of the richest men in the country,” I said.
“And he’s African American,” Heather added.
“No, stop!” I said, kidding Heather. I remembered how proud I was when we studied Davis McClinton when I attended the University of Washington executive MBA program. I was the only African American male in the class and I loved hearing how Davis had bought several radio stations on the brink of bankruptcy and turned them into huge moneymakers. He took his company public and made millions. Later, in a shrewd move, Davis McClinton purchased the stock and turned it back into a private company, bigger and more powerful than before. I thought it would be great even if I got the chance only to meet Davis McClinton. Now, the prospect of working with him was just as exciting.
A Love of My Own Page 2
