At least some of the Campbell family good home training stuck. I was sure most of it had, underneath the rough edges.
“Yep, we don’t use it,” I said. “Anyway, Tyrell is my friend, and if we want it to stay that way, that camera is staying here and locked up forever.”
“Of course,” he said and smiled. “I’m not shady pines like that.”
“Good to hear. You’re not as bad as Marlena said you are.”
“Oh God, Ma,” he said and leaned up. He grabbed my arm and pulled me in for a hug. Grown as he and his mom thought he was, Blake was still only nineteen, still a teenage boy. “Thanks, Uncle Malcolm, for letting me stay with you this summer. If I had to live in that house one more day with Ma, I don’t know…”
“No problem,” I said and hugged my nephew back. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Of course, there will be rules to follow.”
“Awww, Unc. I’m an adult.” He made a face that let me know he wasn’t quite there—an adult—yet.
“You’re staying in my house,” I said. “There are rules. But we’ll talk about those in the morning, after you’ve settled in and all. It’s been an exciting few hours in L.A. for you, huh?”
“So what’s up with you and Tyrell Kincaid, Unc? He is so…damn, if you wasn’t up on that…” Blake said and made a little sound with his mouth, like he was sucking in air. “And you know Tommie Jordan too? No one back in Indianapolis knew you was rolling like that with the famous people.”
“I wish,” I said. “There’s a lot to explain. But first, I’m hungry. Did you eat up all the food I cooked?”
“Nah, Unc,” he said. “But you could forgo a meal, it looks like. That don’t look like a six-pack under that shirt.”
“I’m thirty-five, Blake. I’ve earned that paunch,” I said and we laughed. “Let me grab a plate and we’ll talk.”
I got up from the sofa and walked to the kitchen. On my way, I looked at myself from the side in one of the mirrors I passed. It wasn’t that big. But it wasn’t Tyrell Kincaid or Tommie Jordan tight either. They were paid to have six-packs. I wasn’t. But with my new unemployed status, I could be a permanent gym rat. It would give Blake and me something to do, working out and bonding over gym boy crushes.
After fixing my plate—with less food than I would normally eat, since Blake had me all self-conscious about my little paunch—I joined Blake in the living room again.
“When can I meet some of the guys at your work, Uncle Malcolm?” Blake asked. “I want to meet some guys my age, not just your friends. Though your friends are cool because they’re famous. They’re just…old…for me, ya dig?”
At some point, I knew I’d have to explain to Blake, and even to my sister Marlena, why I wasn’t working a daily nine-to-five anymore. I’d wanted to talk to Marlena first, just to give her a heads up and prepare her, though she’d probably get some indirect scoop about me from Tommie and Tyrell’s scandals on the entertainment shows tonight. That was if I wasn’t too invisible to be considered a newsworthy sidebar to Tommie and Tyrell’s drama.
“So, Blake, there’s reasons why your mom is strict on you,” I said. “They’re the same reasons I’ll be as strict on you. Because I don’t want you become a statistic, or go through the same dramas and heartaches I went through growing up. It’s why I started LADS and wanted to work with the young guys. Too much out there for you to get into.”
“Is this the message moment?” Blake grinned. When I didn’t grin back, he said, “Oops, just kidding. Go on.”
“So I met this guy a couple years back…” I started.
For the next hour or so, I explained to Blake about Deacon, our breakup, the sex videos posted online, meeting Tyrell, the LADS Board of Directors, losing LADS, the earthquake, and Tommie / Tyrell. Blake had questions, which I answered honestly, so that he understood why my life was complicated at the moment. In between questions and answers, Blake and I snacked on our lukewarm turkey chops and applesauce.
“So other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the show?” Blake replied.
“Huh?”
“Just playing, Unc,” he said. “Well, I think you’re handling all this very well. A lot more calm and controlled than I probably would be.”
“Well, I did toss Deacon’s laptop in the pool,” I said and smiled. “Highly inappropriate thing to do. I don’t recommend it. I mean, in the long run we’re all brothers and we need to support and uplift each other. That’s why I started LADS.”
“But what about when your so-called brothers don’t support and uplift you?”
“You think about the bigger picture,” I said, not quite convinced I believed what I was telling Blake. But I knew flying off the deep end was not the way to teach a young man like Blake how to handle life’s challenges.
It was then I realized how much I would miss the work with LADS, and helping young men like DeMarco and company become the men they were meant to be.
“You’re so deep, Malcolm,” Blake said. “I’m really glad to be here with you this summer.”
“I’m glad you’re here too,” I said. “In the morning, we’ll talk about the rules for staying here. Because you’re not having the revolving door of Hotel Blake like you did at your mom’s house.”
“Huh?” Blake asked. “What you talking about?”
“My sister says you were the human mattress of Indiana,” I said. “That’s not going to be the case in my house.”
Chapter 22
I thought after the high drama of the day before, Blake and I would have a low-key day around the apartment.
There was still some cleaning of his space to do, and Blake needed to unpack and make his room feel like his own. But that could wait for a while. Blake was still sleeping, and snoring up a storm. With the time change from Midwest to West, I was surprised he wasn’t awake with the morning sunrise.
After calling Marlena and updating her with my version of the past few days’ events, I made a short to-do list for the morning. Mainly things I could do within walking distance of my place. That was one of the reasons I liked living in Silver Lake. Everything you needed was within a few-block radius of where you lived—markets, street fairs, restaurants, and bars. A mixture of old and new buildings, apartments and houses, Silver Lake housed a diverse mix of young professionals, immigrants, hipsters who thrived on blue-collar living even with their million-dollar trust funds, and artist / creative types. I had lucked out years earlier finding a rent-controlled apartment with a landlord who knew all the residents and their families by first name.
I set a bag of trash on the landing outside my apartment, knowing I would take it to the building’s garbage bin in the alley when I came back from my errands. My plan was to walk over to a fruit market, florist, and newsstand on Hyperion early in the morning. I wanted to pick up some bananas and lemons, an assorted bunch of flowers just because, and the Los Angeles Times before it got too busy with people starting out their morning routines.
The morning air was crisp, clean, and cool. Not a hint of smog anywhere. Perfect running weather for the jogger taking a stretch across the street from my building. I knew the weather would soon give way to the dry heat that went with L.A. summer days. As I walked toward Hyperion, I noticed that the one single jogger I’d seen just outside my apartment grew to six. They were running alongside me as I walked my morning errands. They all had cameras and questions. The scene grew from nothing to something in a matter of minutes.
“How’s the video career?”
“So is the ball player good in the sack?”
“When’s the wedding?”
“How many three-ways have you done with the baller and the singer?”
“How much are they paying you for your services?”
“How many positions can the basketball player play off the court?”
I had no media training. But I knew to pull my hoodie over my head and turn around to walk the one block back to my apartment. I called 9-1-1 like numerous other celebrity-li
tes did when they found their paths blocked by paparazzi.
“Nine-one-one. Where is the emergency?”
“I’m in Silver Lake. Near Hyperion and Sunset Boulevard.”
“What’s your emergency sir?”
“I’m a regular, everyday citizen, and I can’t even get through the pathway to my apartment,” I said as I continued walking. I almost tripped over a photographer who’d gotten on the ground trying to shoot an up-angle picture of me.
“Can you be more specific how this is an emergency sir?”
“The paparazzi and cameras are out of control. They came out of nowhere and are following me everywhere.”
I imagined the operator taking down my story in preparation of dispatching the police. Instead, I got, “Excuse me, sir, but who are you again?”
Chapter 23
Finally I made it back to my apartment building. About fifteen minutes later, and without any assistance from the police. Thanks, but no thanks. My everyday status didn’t raise a blip on the emergency radar of LAPD.
The trash bag I’d left before the morning attempt to run errands had been opened and the contents strewn across the landing at my front door. Reporters. They were good and hungry for any dirt they could get on me. And I wasn’t even the main attraction. Tyrell and Tommie probably got a thousand times more paparazzi scrutiny. But they also had a thousand times more resources to keep the reporters and photographers at bay. They also had fans who would support them. I had nobody who’d advocate for me.
I decided to phone Kyle for advice as I sat down at the kitchen table with a hot green tea and the Los Angeles Times.
“Well, well, well, Mr. Snag A Baller,” Kyle said as he picked up his work phone. “I saw some picture of you and Tyrell going in for, or pulling away from, a kiss. Must be nice.”
“We didn’t kiss,” I said. “Where you see this at?”
“Girl, let me email you some links.” He laughed. “Of course, they’re focused more on Tommie and Tyrell, since they’re the moneymakers. But all the Black and gay gossip sites gave the story top billing. I’m surprised your phone isn’t ringing off the hook, or no one’s banging on your door trying to snap a picture or interview you.”
“No, they’re after me too,” I said. “I tried walking a few blocks this morning to the newsstand and fruit market, and the photographers were all over me. Like six of them.”
“Oh my God, Malcolm, are you serious?” Kyle said. “You need anything?”
“Like what? Privacy?”
“That’s a start,” Kyle said. “I can get you a bodyguard type like yesterday if you want.”
“That’s crazy,” I said. “I just want to be left alone so I can give Blake a normal summer. We probably will need some groceries delivered, especially if I can’t leave the house without all the…”
“Consider it done, my friend,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Maybe you can stop by here today when you have time,” I said. “This whole thing is crazy. Why would they come after me? Tommie Jordan’s the one involved in a scandal, not me. He’s the one that got this whole thing initiated.”
“Malcolm, let me school you on how Hollywood works,” Kyle said. “The legitimate news sources won’t give any time to the story. Black gay men don’t make real news. They don’t even make tabloid news. Sad, but true. But the gossip sites and the bloggers…girl, some of them will be and are calling you the home-wrecking porn star because of those videos your ex put out there. Some are saying you, Tommie, and Tyrell did threesomes on a regular basis. But whatever. No one really knows the truth but Tommie and Tyrell, and I know you’re no home-wrecking porn star. The good part is that tomorrow, there will be more gossip about other people and this will all be forgotten.”
“And archived on the Internet forever,” I said. I sipped my green tea. “This is so embarrassing. I’m not a home-wrecker, and I’m far from a porn star. I don’t even know Tyrell that well, and I didn’t really know he and Tommie were together until Tyrell took Blake and me to their house.”
“You went to their house?”
“Yeah.”
We were silent for a few seconds.
“I was right about him liking you, huh?” Kyle asked. “Girl, you got a baller sprung on you.”
“Who likes me is the least of my worries,” I said. “It’s weird, but yeah. I think he likes me. Don’t ask me why.”
“I know Malcolm Campbell isn’t fishing for compliments,” Kyle said. “Of course we all know you’re smart, fun to be around, good-looking…and has Tyrell seen those videos of you yet? Because I’m sure he’ll be happy to know you got skills in the bedroom too.”
I smiled at Kyle’s attempt to make me feel good about what I’d have to offer to Tyrell.
“As far as I know, he hasn’t seen the videos…yet,” I said. “We haven’t talked about the subject. But he’s gotta know by now, with all that’s coming out about Tommie and their relationship and my so-called little connection to them.”
“We’ll get you an agent and write a bestseller when this is all over,” Kyle said. “I have to get to a meeting, but I’ll swing by later to see you and meet your nephew.”
“Cool,” I said.
“Hey, you should turn on The Black Morning Radio Show,” Kyle said before hanging up. “My assistant just handed me a note. Tommie Jordan’s about to do an exclusive interview. Supposedly his version of what went down.”
Chapter 24
Tommie was good. Or at least his agent Hamilton was, in prepping Tommie to sound convincingly full of it.
“I am a family man and a man of God,” Tommie said to the male host and female sidekicks of The Black Morning Radio Show. “I’m raising a young niece, who is an orphan, and who fortunately is away at boarding school in Vermont. I just thank God she has not been subjected to the rampant lies and innuendo about my personal life and career.”
I rarely listened to The Black Morning Radio Show, preferring the live and local broadcasters on L.A.’s independent stations in the morning. I liked the comedic aspects of The Black Morning Radio Show sometimes. The journalistic standards were often pushed aside so that Black entertainers could push their products shamelessly or spout the lines their publicists came up for them. The host and team of The Black Morning Radio Show were giving Tommie an open mic. Basically.
“So let’s just set the record straight,” the host said. “Because I’ve been the subject of rumors in my personal life, and I know what this game is all about. This is your platform to tell us your side before they tell their side.”
“Thanks, man,” Tommie said. “I knew I could count on you and my community to listen. We know it’s all a game, but the average listener doesn’t know how this works. First of all, my agent got me in a movie—a legitimate movie—about the lives of sex addicts. It’s a small art-house film that will probably get a lot of attention at awards season, and I’m playing the role of a bodyguard and assistant who has to help his gay client keep his sexual addiction out of the public eye. To get in character, and to understand the lives of people who will do anything for sex, including having dangerous encounters at sex and swinger clubs, I started doing a little research—because I don’t know anything about that lifestyle.”
“Right, right,” the host said. “I’ve been in movies too. You want to be as authentic as possible. It’s not just reading some words on a cue card. It’s about being in character.”
“So I was recording some tracks in the studio one night,” Tommie continued, “and I noticed these guys—only guys—going in and out of this discreet little building across the street from the recording studio. I asked around, got the information I needed, and knew it’d be a good place to take a break from recording and do some research for the film.”
“Right, right,” the host encouraged.
“And you know I’m well-known,” Tommie said. “I’m not gonna announce I’m Tommie Jordan while I’m in one of these establishments observing what’s going on. But there a
re a lot of haters out there, especially if you’re Black and trying to make it in the public eye, you know about that…”
“We all know about haters,” one of the female sidekicks chimed in and giggled. “The Black Morning Radio Show gets hated on all the time.”
The whole interview was starting to make me sick. Like puke sick.
“Oh, and did you know the person who tipped off the paparazzi got fired from one of the tabloids, but got forty thousand dollars for that footage? They won’t tell you that part.”
“Forty thousand? Get me that gig for a day’s work,” another female sidekick chimed in.
“White reporter?” the host asked. It didn’t matter, really, but I knew what the host was trying to get the audience to sympathize with.
“You know it,” Tommie said. “My team did some investigating and found all this out. They are always looking to keep a Black man down. You see how the Republicans are treating Obama, and he’s barely been in office six months or so.”
“Amen,” the host said. “Now, what about these rumors about you and the basketball player, Tyrell Kincaid?”
“I’m glad you brought that up,” Tommie said. “Let me assure you and the audience of The Black Morning Radio Show that Tommie Jordan is absolutely, under no circumstances, not gay. I’ve known Tyrell Kincaid for almost five, six years when we met at a charity basketball tournament in Los Angeles. I think you played at that one too, don’t you remember?”
“I sure do,” the host said. “It was just a bunch of us old and young folks out there raising money for needy children and literacy programs in L.A.”
“And at that time in my life and career, I was a little down on my luck. But I was still there for the children. Tyrell is a good man and offered me and my orphan niece use of his oceanfront house until I got my career back on track. He’s hardly there, with the basketball season, ya dig? Tyrell Kincaid is kind of like my landlord.”
Play It Forward Page 10
