MRS. CHEN
“How many boyfriend you got?”
JENIFER
“Excuse me?”
MRS. CHEN
“How many boyfriend you got last night?”
JENIFER
“Ummm . . . one?”
[MRS. CHEN’S squint grows tighter.]
JENIFER
[sheepish]
“Uh, uh, okay, two.”
MRS. CHEN
[growling]
“You listen to me very carefully. Two man. With one wo-man. Make one wo-man poison!”
How the hell did Mrs. Chen know I had sex with two men on the same day? I ran out of there as fast as I could. Years later, after reading Louise L. Hay’s You Can Heal Your Life, I learned that some people have the skill to just look at you and know where you are sick. It’s in your body language, your face, and, most certainly, the eyes.
I was thrilled to be part of the Eubie! national tour and grateful to be working with a wonderful cast of talented, fabulous gypsies. Touring companies are like unconventional families. We were young and energetic, dancing and singing through eight shows a week. Our stamina equaled that of any Olympian.
The show was getting rave reviews, and I felt blown away by the effusive praise my performance received from the newspaper critics:
“Half laser beam; half lava flow . . . vibrant stage presence.”
“Meteoric voice.”
“Could hold the note from here to September.”
When the show moved to the Studebaker Theater in Chicago, my father’s family bought out a couple of rows. My parents had separated when I was two weeks old. Daddy lived in St. Louis, but there was a huge contingent of Lewises in Chicago. These were South Side family people—you know, Patty, Pinky, Popo, Minkie, Keesha, Junior, and dem. I felt proud. These were the aunts and cousins who had heard me proclaiming my stardom since childhood. For them to see me on the stage of the Studebaker was exhilarating. They were so supportive and happy for me. “G’on Jenny!” they shouted from the audience, clapping and whooping as I belted “Roll, Jordan, Roll” and shook my money-maker.
The party continued well into the night when at least a dozen Chicago relatives came back to my hotel room after the show. They brought buckets of fried chicken and Tupperware filled with spaghetti, potato salad, collards, and chitlins. There were coolers of cold beer, soda (pop, as they say in Chi-Town), and Kool-Aid, plus nine or ten fifths of hard liquor and a bottle of Ripple to boot. I invited the entire Eubie! company. When you were on the road, home-cooked food was always a treat.
Gypsies are nocturnal creatures. We would do the show and then go to bars or clubs, where we’d sing, drink, and likely pick up a “piece,” the term gypsies used for the “civilians” they’d meet in a club and spend the night with. For me, nothing could extend the thrill of a standing ovation like great sex with a gorgeous guy. After all, I deserved my reward for a job well done! Not only was it fun, but I had discovered that sex could lessen the “crash” I sometimes experienced when I came offstage.
It’s pretty common to have a heightened sense of self when you are performing: a rush of bliss, and an almost uncontrollable sense of accomplishment, like what runners feel when the endorphins kick in.
The applause coming over the footlights is like a slow-motion tsunami of adoration, like jumping on a spaceship and riding it bareback to Pluto. The crash after the show, I assure you, is just as intense. Let’s just say that I had sort of an unconscious habit of using post-show sex to come back to earth.
Well, “unconscious” habit isn’t really accurate. I wore my sexuality like a medal. I was Cleopatra, Pam Grier, Marilyn Monroe, and Jezebel rolled into one. A jaguar with skin supple as a baby’s ass, capturing my prey with lust and laughter. Then, ever the alpha, it was I who chose the locations, the positions, and the durations.
Let me be frank—I did a lot of fuckin’ during those years of crisscrossing the nation in concerts and shows. But hey—everybody was having a lot of sex. The sexual revolution was still in full swing. Despite my Baptist upbringing, I’d been sexually active since my teens and, as a young woman, I was pleased with my ability to attract men and had never been shy about talking about my sexual escapades. In fact, I cracked everybody up with my exaggerated stories—“Girl, it was so big that when he stood up in the bathtub, he knocked out my front tooth.” Ultimately my girlfriends nicknamed me “Dick Diva.”
My men were handsome, talented, and accomplished. I mean no scrubs. For instance, there was the club bouncer in Chicago who looked like a black Clark Gable. One night, after earning two ovations, I knew I was not going to bed alone! I escaped drinks with the rest of the Eubie! cast and went off on my own to a disco. As the bouncer unhooked the velvet rope for me, he flashed a perfect set of teeth with a big Ultrabrite smile. He was so beautiful there was no thought in my brain other than “Nigga, you goin’ down!”
We spent a few hours at the club chatting about his travels and studies before I took him back to my hotel and drew a bubble bath. That was my ritual with new conquests, my way of assessing the goods. It was a tactic that I learned in Kinloch as a young teen.
Me and my girlfriend, Ethel Rue, decided to skip junior high school one day. We were walking down Cranberry Road when a big white Cadillac pulled up. It was Fat Jackie, the town prostitute. She hollered out of the car, “Y’all skippin’ school? Git y’all’s asses in this car. Go on. Git in the back seat.”
Me and Ethel were scared that we would get in big trouble for playing hooky. Fat Jackie was just driving along, and when she got to a stop sign, she put her right elbow over the seat and looked back at us. She had rings on damn near every finger, blond coif grazing the car roof, two gold front teeth, and a fried chicken leg in her left hand. She pointed that chicken leg at us and said, “Y’all fuckin’ yet?”
Personally, I had only made out once with Jessie under the bleachers at school. But I knew Ethel was already on the fast track to getting pregnant with Raymond’s baby. Naturally, we both said, “No, ma’am.”
Fat Jackie said, “Yeah, well, when you do start fuckin’, make sure you always check the meat.”
We didn’t know if she was talking about baloney, ham, or Spam, especially since she was waving the chicken leg. She went on to explain.
“I carry a flashlight wherever I go. Some men always want to keep the lights off, but I always check the meat. You girls hear me?” She jabbed the drumstick in the air to punctuate her words: “Always. Check. The meat!”
By this time, Ethel and I were pressed against each other in the back of the seat, scared to death. Fat Jackie pulled up in front of the school and said, “Now, git the hell out of this car and go git y’all’s education! Next time, Imo tell y’all’s mamas.”
Running from the car as fast as we could, we heard Fat Jackie yell once more, “Be sure you check the meat every time!”
In the bubble bath, I checked out the bouncer, Mr. Clark Gable, whose name was actually Maurice. He turned out to be a master of Shotokan karate with an eight-pack torso and a dick the size of a small garden gnome. I sank lower in the bubbles, thinking “Mer-ry Christmas!”
For the next couple of weeks while Eubie! played Chicago, Maurice joined my rotation of sex partners, which also included a musician I’d met named Steve, along with Ken and Perry via phone. Usually, I would see a guy for a few months, often juggling him along with a few others. Yes, y’all, I was skilled.
Things were going pretty well until I found out that Steve was planning to get married. Like I said, I’ve always been dramatic. Steve’s news gave me overwhelming pain, and I missed a performance because of it. Not that I wanted to marry him—I had a rule never to mess with other women’s men. But not to worry; Steve was soon replaced with Pierre and Jerome.
The tour moved on to the Music Hall Center for the Performing Arts in Detroit. They put us up at a dump called the Leland Hotel, which fortunately had a piano in the bar. Never show a gypsy a bar with a piano—the show
is on! We gathered in that bar every night.
Basically, I had a “man in every port.” Although I started out in Detroit dick-less, I soon met Leon, a professional masseuse who gave me a massage in my hotel room and came back two days later for sex.
Needing attention from more than one man, I felt the need to check in with all my boyfriends. I called Ken, the journalist in New York, and Maurice in Chicago. I hung up when a woman answered Maurice’s phone. I’ve kept a journal since junior high and wrote:
JOURNAL ENTRY: que sera, sera, motherfucker.
Despite this merry-go-round of men, Miguel, who was still in the Dominican Republic, always remained in the lead position.
One of the most popular recording artists around at this time was the sultry Phyllis Hyman. When I heard she was playing in Detroit, of course I had to go see her. Phyllis was a sexy, quiet Amazon who demanded your attention. You would bow down as soon as she hit the stage. Her stunning beauty, six-foot frame, and that big-ass hat she always wore made her an imposing and impressive live performer.
I admired Phyllis not only for her talent. In television interviews, she had spoken out about racism in the music industry and the price she had paid for being a black woman and telling it like it is.
Phyllis was not a belter like me; she was softer and quieter but still very powerful. Most important, she had achieved the success that I dreamed of. Watching her sing was a rush because it was proof that my dream was possible; through my eyes that was me on the stage. Her performance and mastery thrilled and excited me to the point that I couldn’t get to sleep until eight the next morning, which caused me to sleep right through our matinee show. But I was willing to take the hit of losing a day’s pay to experience the great Phyllis Hyman.
During the weeks on the road, it seemed like I always had a cold. No surprise, considering my diet consisted of chips, pickles, and Manischewitz wine. I ate lots of cheese, which I now know puts mucus on the vocal cords. I also had no clue that a steady diet of Kentucky Fried Chicken and doughnuts wasn’t a good idea. It wasn’t surprising, then, that midway through the Detroit run, I had to have my costume let out a full inch. Maxie, the head of wardrobe, looked me dead in the eye and gave me some of the best advice of my life. She had spent years in the theater and witnessed numerous svelte entertainers bloom beyond the point of no return. “Don’t do it, Jenifer,” she said sternly. “You will never be able to get it off.” Her advice has stayed with me and is one of the reasons that thirty years later, I am still in pretty good shape and still cute, thank you very much!
After Detroit, there was a short break in the tour, so I flew back to Manhattan for a couple of weeks. Landing at Kennedy, I took a bus to Columbus Circle. It was in the midst of the great transit strike of 1980, so I had to roll my suitcase the few blocks down 8th Avenue to my apartment. It felt good to be home, to feel invigorated by New York City’s unique pulse.
I walked to Colony Records and bought the new Dionne Warwick album that included “I’ll Never Love This Way Again.” I couldn’t wait to wrap my vocal cords around those high notes come the next audition. Despite my resolve to watch my weight, I treated myself to a sundae at Howard Johnson’s. I started to crash from having been on tour so long. I found it very difficult to adjust after the excitement and elevation of performing every night. My solution was to blast Ethel Merman until the wee hours. My poor neighbors!
Come the next morning, I was back into my routine of dance classes and voice lessons every day. I was hanging tough with Terry Burrell and Shirley Black-Brown, who would always bring the weed (I never bought it). Then we’d go shopping—you do not want me shopping while I’m high! After dropping serious dollars at Bergdorf and Saks, we spent a good hour in Ray Beauty Supply on 8th Avenue getting every product needed to maintain our diva-ness! Hanging with the girls was great, but you can best believe I always had calls out to a couple of my men.
Within a day or so of arriving back in the city, I was having phone sex with Ken around one in the morning when someone buzzed from downstairs. To my surprise, it was Gregory Hines, who had just returned from the Continent. He was a bit tipsy and had brought over some African wine from his trip. I suspected that he didn’t realize I was back in town and that it was Debbie Burrell whom he was really looking for. I had sublet my apartment to her while I was on the road.
When Gregory and I performed together the previous year, our flirtations were pretty minor, and I was among the few women on the Broadway scene with whom Gregory hadn’t had sex. Allllthoughhhhh—there was that one time after the first act in Eubie! We came off stage exhausted from the last number, an uptempo piece called “Jazz” that ended with about fifteen roundhouse kicks. The dressing rooms were several flights up and I just couldn’t make it. I sat on the stairs and as Gregory climbed toward me, I made a request:
JENIFER
[heaving to catch her breath]
Gregory, I am sooooo thirsty, but I am just too tired to go all the way back down for some water. Could you go get me some?
GREGORY
[sweetly]
Jenifer, I’m tired too.
JENIFER
[in joking whisper]
Gregory, if you go get me some water, I’ll let you suck my ti-
Schwinggg! Gregory took off like the Road Runner! In a matter of moments he was back with a cup of water. When I finished drinking Gregory stepped toward me. I said, “Gregory you know damn well I was playing!” He smiled and said, “A promise is a promise, Jenifer.” And with that Gregory gently lay me backward on the floor, opened my robe, revealed my right titty, and proceeded to suck it vigorously for at least a couple of minutes. I squirmed in protest (hey, I had to act like I didn’t like it), but I probably came twice in that brief session. A few of my castmates saw what was going on and shook their heads, but I didn’t care—they were probably as turned on as I was.
When Gregory showed up at my apartment with the wine, there was no hesitation on either of our parts and we quickly took our relationship to a new level on the kitchen counter. We were pretty wild and somehow wound up naked, with me riding piggyback and shushing Gregory from making so much noise as he trotted out of my apartment and down the hallway, singing loudly. Like bare-ass fools, we hopped into the elevator to the lobby and Gregory galloped around the concierge desk a couple of times before we made it back to my apartment without being seen by anyone. Oh, to be young, silly, and free! Years later, I started to regale some friends with my Gregory story. My good friend Lorraine Fields stopped me cold. “Oh, Jenifer, Gregory told everybody that story the day after it happened!”
During my break from the Eubie! tour, I enjoyed dates with several guys from the corral of men I had assembled in New York. Besides Ken, there was Ron and Patrick. But then I was forced to go to Roosevelt Hospital with a raging yeast infection. The burning was terrible. Fortunately, it cleared up by the time Miguel called. He was back from the Dominican Republic and invited me to Brooklyn. When he opened his apartment door, we fell upon each other and I sucked his entire body. I loved him so much. No other man got this kind of attention from me. Here he still wanted to marry me, yet he knew I’d been with other men while we were apart. I didn’t mean to treat him badly—it’s just how things had been between us for years.
The first night back on the Eubie! tour in Kansas City, I met a conventioneer named Nick at the hotel bar. A day later, we had sex. I felt terrible; how could I have sex with a stranger right after sharing such a beautiful time with Miguel? He deserved better from me. Nick showed me a picture of his girlfriend back home. Her name was Becky, and she was a home economics teacher. He called me from the airport.
JOURNAL ENTRY: Poor baby. He’s in love.
My family drove from St. Louis to see me in the show. On one hand, I loved having them. But on the other hand, I felt a higher level of stress because I wanted them to be proud of me, especially Mama. She seemed to always find something to criticize.
We all ate at Gates Bar-B-Q, and I
was so happy that my sister Jackie stayed with me in my hotel room. Her son, Michael Quinton, was a toddler at the time, and shared my bed. It was so cozy and sweet until I awoke with a full diaper in my face!
The combination of my guilt about Miguel and the stress of having my family in town made me irritable, which caused some bad blood with a couple of members of the Eubie! company. I felt remorse about being on the outs with my castmates, but I just didn’t know how to fix it. I lacked certain social graces. I had no boundaries, I teased and joked and often went too far. I also always flat-out spoke my mind, resulting in people either loving me or hating me.
A week later during the opening-night reception in Boston, I drank too much and basically acted a fool, even jumping onto the piano and rudely hushing the crowd so that I could sing to them. When I finally took a breather, a beautiful blond woman who had been in the audience approached me. “Your performance was extraordinary. We just had to meet you.” This is how I met my friend Temi Hyde. She took my hand and in a refined Boston accent, introduced her boyfriend Billy. Temi was gorgeous in a beaded silk dress and dripped of culture and wealth. I guessed she was in her mid-forties. We chatted awhile, and I became enchanted with this elegant, worldly woman who thought I was brilliantly talented.
As the evening wore on, I went with my castmates to a disco, where I continued to drink, trash talk, and act out. By the time I went back to my room, I was a drunken mess. Crying, I called Debbie and Miguel, but their words of comfort did not help much. I thought about calling Mama, but instead called Miss Mitchell, one of my mother figures, who I knew would comfort, not criticize me. Afterward, I still felt sad as I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, “God, what is wrong with me? The show went great, so what’s wrong, baby?”
JOURNAL ENTRY: 2:30 a.m. I’ve failed. I need a cause in my life.
The Mother of Black Hollywood Page 5
