“Who said we have to prove anything?” Blake said. “Why not let Lamont prove it himself?”
Chapter 42
I was confident of my next steps. At least I thought I was.
I knew Kyle had my back. Blake assured me that I could be a master of technology and quipped this could be done even at my age. Tyrell let me know that no matter the outcome, with his support I could start an organization that was ten times larger than LADS. I didn’t want to rely on Tyrell’s money or name to get a new organization started, but I definitely appreciated his willingness to support. Such a big difference from Deacon when I wanted to start LADS.
With nothing to worry about, nothing to lose, and new love on my side, I called Lamont Murphy and asked to schedule a meeting with him at LADS. He agreed.
Chapter 43
Lamont Murphy smirked as he opened the door to let me in. It was after business hours, but I’d made an appointment so he couldn’t back out.
“You wanted to talk about what, Malcolm?” he asked. “Transition?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Even though your style and focus is different, I still care about LADS. I just wanted to check in and see how things are with the guys. See if you needed or wanted any information that might help with your new vision for LADS.”
Honey, not vinegar, Malcolm.
“Come on in,” he said. “We’ll meet in your…I mean my office.”
Lamont Murphy operated with vinegar.
At this point I didn’t mind. Our office was where I’d hoped he would take me anyway. Perfect, if this plan was to work.
I followed the reverend and his old-school cologne through the hall and back to the executive director office. I cringed seeing Lamont Murphy’s name on the door, as if he were the one responsible for the legacy of success I’d left behind at LADS.
He offered me bottled water, which I declined politely. This wasn’t a social call. The nerve of him to try and display manners like his partner-in-crime Hamilton James. Didn’t matter. I just needed to remember the instructions Blake told me, including the first step—placing my bag on Lamont’s desk—and the rest would fall into place.
“I still keep in touch with some of the guys,” I started out. “They say it’s different around here. Not bad different…just different.”
“Of course,” he said. He sat and plopped his shiny purple shoes onto the desktop. If this was his everyday wear, I wondered what colors he’d sport for Easter next spring. “New leadership makes a difference.”
I’d let that one slide. Lamont’s critique of my leadership style was the last thing on my mind.
“How’s DeMarco working out as your front desk person?”
“Slow, unprofessional, always on the computer,” Lamont said. He sighed and continued after a beat. “And why is he so damn girly? How did you let him be the face of your organization acting like that? And those damn sunglasses…”
“I never had a problem with DeMarco’s demeanor,” I said. “He was a growing professional, but if you took time to know his story you’d see just how far he’s come. You know he used to turn tricks and do hook-ups with older men to make ends meet, so this job is quite a turnaround.”
“If you say so,” Lamont said, and adjusted his necktie. “Still a sinner. See, that’s what I’m trying to lead these young men to do. Turn their lives over to something more positive and productive, and away from their past sins.”
“If that’s what you call it,” I said. “You know, some would argue that it’s that type of…stance…that leads young men like the LADS to not talk to their families, not demand safe sex, live secret lives.”
“One would argue,” he said. “But not me.”
“Point taken,” I said. Didn’t want to agitate Lamont Murphy so much that he’d kick me out. Being in his office was the point of this meeting. “Anyway, let’s get back to the subject at hand.”
“So what about the transition did you want to talk about?” He picked up his cell phone and began toying with the screen, as if he had another pressing engagement that I was keeping him from. “As far as I can tell, it’s been smooth. The guys don’t even ask about you. We’re doing some new things here…new approaches.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. I hated engaging in small talk. But honey, not vinegar. “Tell me about your new initiatives.”
“Well, we’ve got some great counselors trained in man-aversion techniques,” he said and smiled. He seemed proud. Man-aversion techniques. I was sickened. “We’re integrating the groups with more young ladies to help the young men see their options. Eventually some attraction is going to happen. Going on some outdoor and sporting trips…summer is winding down, you know. We’re gonna help turn these girls into men.”
Yeah right, with your purple sweater and black slacks. It’s summer all right, I thought.
“Sounds good,” I said. But I didn’t want to hear any more. The guys had shielded me from all those details of the changes at LADS, which would have made me angrier a lot sooner. “Well, as for my transition. If you don’t mind, I need to retrieve my résumé from the computer…I can email it to myself if you don’t want me sticking my flash drive in…viruses.”
Lamont stood up and put his arm out, welcoming me to his side of the desk. He lingered a little longer than I wanted as I passed in front of him, all part of Lamont’s approach, I imagined, with the young men he directed in gay porn.
I sat in Lamont’s chair, but he didn’t go very far. He stood behind me…immediately behind me. I could feel his—gross—crotch easing toward my shoulder, I hoped by accident.
“This will only take a few minutes,” I said and pulled out the device Blake gave me. “I’m not the best with technology, so I apologize if this takes too long.”
“Take your time, Malcolm.”
I fumbled around some more until the blue light started flickering on the device. Exactly as Blake told me it would. I felt good about what was about to happen. Still, I had to stall just a few minutes.
“So I want to go back to DeMarco for a minute,” I said and turned around fast. It was deliberate that I wanted my face in his crotch so that Lamont would feel nervous enough to back away and get in line with my bag on the desk. Like clockwork, he moved and sat where I’d been a few minutes earlier. “I heard a rumor about a second job he took.”
“Really? I don’t know much about what the staff does outside of work hours. I don’t get into their business if it’s not LADS related.”
“I bet you don’t,” I said. “But I know you’ve met my nephew, Blake.”
“Blake…hmm, doesn’t ring a bell,” Lamont said. “He come by LADS?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Tell me if you recognize his voice.”
I turned up the volume of Lamont’s computer. The sounds of Compton, Deacon, and Blake were disgusting for me to listen to again, but caught the interest of Lamont, especially when he heard his voice barking orders of new positions and movements in the background of the uncut video. He jumped up from his seat.
“What the hell are you listening to on my computer?” Lamont asked. “This isn’t that kind of organization…anymore. How did you get that?”
“Lamont, I wouldn’t do anything crazy if I were you,” I said. “You’re on camera right now. Just sit back and listen to your work in action.”
He looked confused, but continued with his rant.
“I don’t believe you, you little Black faggot. How dare you come up into my workplace and denigrate it with these immoral accusations.”
“Immoral?” I asked. “How about what you’re doing to the boys you’re supposedly trying to help? Gay porn and young Black men?”
“What are you talking about?” Lamont asked. “I can see why we fired you from LADS.”
“I figured it all out,” I said. “You’re using your access to the guys at LADS, and probably the so-called ex-gays at your church, to make porn…which you’re using to fund the Family First campaign.”
He stared at
me. Speechless. So I continued.
“Not bad for a little Black faggot, huh?” I asked. “What about your church? Where your grandfather and father used to preach. What are they going to think about your involvements and immoral behavior with the little Black faggots, Reverend Lamont Murphy?”
“They’re not going to think anything,” a voice boomed from the hallway.
Lamont and I turned to see Hamilton James standing in the doorway with a gun in his hand, pointed in my direction.
This was priceless. And scary. My father used to say never to mess with a Black person’s pocketbook, or else there’d be trouble. He was right. Except in this case, there were two men’s pocketbooks, a network of mega-churches and ministers, along with the whole Family First anti-gay legislation machine.
“You’re as smart as they all said, Mr. Malcolm,” Hamilton said as he walked into the room, faux British accent ablaze again. “I wondered how long it would take for you to piece this all together. So now what?”
“Hamilton,” Lamont said and tried to motion to his co-conspirator in the direction of the desk and the camera in my bag. Hamilton was focused only on his plan, which was quickly unraveling. As far as I was concerned, it had unraveled, and it would be a matter of minutes before he knew how far gone and done he was.
“Shut up, Lamont,” Hamilton said, gun still aimed at me. “You are such a loser for a middleman. Can’t even keep a few little Black faggots under control.”
“Those little Black faggots can’t be controlled,” I said. “We’re too smart…and we’re not gonna take it anymore from people like you, Hamilton, who force celebrities not to be themselves, or you, Lamont, who use your church and position to keep people silent and hurting.”
“And what exactly are you gonna do now, Mr. Malcolm?” Hamilton said. “I’ve got the gun. And remember Sunset Boulevard? I got those guys back to make sure you don’t live to tell whatever it is you think you know.”
“So you were behind my gay-bashing too?” I asked. “Perfect. Just perfect. All this for Tommie Jordan and a few dollars. Perfect.”
“That mouth of yours,” Hamilton said and moved closer to me. “Before I have you taken care of, why don’t you use that mouth to take care of me and Lamont. Show us what you got, like you did in those GayClick videos with our little Deacon.”
The idea of performing that on Hamilton or vintage-dressing Lamont made me sick. A click and his gun pointed to my head made me assume the position on my knees. One hand on zipper. A tug. A quick adjustment to pull them out of boxer briefs. My face moved closer. My eyes closed. My mouth open.
Then.
A brick flew through the window of Lamont’s office, which unhooked the curtains from the valance and brackets. Thank God.
Soon after the brick we heard one car horn, then another in the parking lot behind LADS. Then, chanting picketers showed up with signs featuring pictures of Lamont Murphy, Hamilton James, and Tommie Jordan, and slogans describing just how dangerous the men were to the Black gay community.
“What the fuck?” Hamilton asked and zipped up his suit pants as he looked outside the window. “Shit, I’m ruined. What’s with all those people out there?”
When television news trucks from the local stations showed up minutes later, I knew that Blake was onto something when he schooled me on the merits of flash mobs, political art, and the power of the Internet. All this from someone who seemed only to concern himself with becoming a rapper and the next piece for whoever paid.
“Fuck,” Lamont said. “Why are you doing this to LADS? What are you doing to your father’s legacy?”
Now he was concerned with legacy and image.
“What about your father’s legacy?” I asked. “You ruined yours the moment you started doing business with Hamilton James and Tommie Jordan.”
I pulled on my bag and Blake’s camera fell out on the table. Lamont looked at it as if it were a weapon.
“You were recording this conversation?” Hamilton asked and reached for the camera. “This is unauthorized, Malcolm. I’ll sue you for all your Silver Lake–living ass has. I’ll keep you tied up in court for years.”
“I just want you to know this is going out live on the Internet as we speak, so I wouldn’t make any threats or try to harm me, unless you want to add murder to your list of crimes,” I said. “Oh, and how’s this for an encore?”
I pressed another button on Lamont’s computer. The video Blake had shot on his first day in L.A., when we were the invisible and unimportant witnesses to Tommie and Hamilton’s post-sex club intervention, with Tommie outing himself and his secret gay life, streamed across the screen, and again, thanks to Blake, was making its debut on the Internet. The whole private conversation broadcast for the public record. So much for that interview on The Black Morning Radio Show. The world would now know Tommie Jordan was a liar.
“You’re no better than the white man out there trying to lynch a brotha,” Hamilton said. “This is what you’re teaching in LADS. Gay shit over uplifting the race?”
I thought about responding, but left it alone.
Lamont chimed in, his head in his hands, as he realized his mega-church kingdom and family legacy was crumbling.
“Lord, please help me,” Lamont said. “I’m a married man with kids. I ain’t done nothing wrong but try to give some young Black men opportunities to make a little extra cash. I didn’t put a gun to their heads and make ’em do nothing.”
“Lamont, the money is the gun,” I said. “And as for white men bringing down Black men…I’ll give you that argument on a structural and systematic level. But just take a look in the mirror or the camera. Ain’t nobody in this room white.”
Chapter 44
An amazing thing happened that evening.
After the eleven o’clock news, the remaining members of the LADS Board of Directors held an emergency meeting that lasted until almost two in the morning. I got my job and my organization back. It took some debate, apparently, because I was still considered tainted goods due to those Deacon videos on GayClick. But my overall work record and contributions to LADS prevailed.
And then the next two weeks. The issues of Black gay men made local and national headlines in legitimate news sources and the credible blogosphere, as well as the titillating gossip sites. Of course, all sources looked at the story of Tommie Jordan, his agent Hamilton Jones, and the Reverend Lamont Murphy through different lenses.
To some, the three men symbolized the polarizing opinions keeping their constituents locked in a closet of denial. To some, they represented victims—more Black men being brought down by the so-called white man’s evil (i.e., homosexuality). To others, they represented an opportunity to speculate about who else within Black celebrity lived similar stories, and they pursued these with a vengeance. Livonia Birmingham, successful gossip columnist that she was, put it bluntly in her call for more outings—and sought all the jaded exes of gay closeted celebrities to come forward. As she put it in her TV show promos immediately after the Lamont, Tommie, Hamilton blowup, “For every closeted gay celebrity, there’s a bitter ex whose been told to shut up. I wanna hear you speak!”
So when I received an invitation to The Livonia Birmingham Show in New York City, it confused me. I was scared, to say the least. Kyle flew with me, acting as my agent and attorney, as we negotiated what the interview would focus on.
I’d seen Livonia Birmingham skewer celebrities for anything she found annoying, even in the middle of the live interview segments. Plus, her flair for the dramatic and an unpredictable personality—anyone would be scared, even with the prospect of reaching ten million viewers. I didn’t want her going off on me for, as she billed it in the promos, “Bringing down the house of Tommie Jordan and the most powerful Black agent in Hollywood, Hamilton James.”
But she didn’t. Blame it on my naivety.
“Livonia, I’m a little mad at you for not having me on earlier,” I said and chuckled before she even got to introduce me in her s
cripted monologue about me and my work.
The audience hushed. Ready for a famous Livonia Birmingham rampage.
“Huh?!? What did you just say?” She flicked a piece of her honey-blond hair out of her face. “This is the Livonia Birmingham Show, not Malcolm ‘the do-gooder’ Campbell Show.”
“I wish you’d had me on earlier,” I said. “I could have given you the scoop long before anyone else, girl. I had the original footage…but I wanted you to have the exclusive, because I love you so much.”
“Oh,” she said and flicked more hair around her shoulders. “Because I love you too. You’re about to blow up, Mr. Malcolm. You brought down Hamilton James. I hope you have an agent for all the good things coming your way.”
“Thanks,” I said and smiled. Relieved that she didn’t read me on national television.
“You’re lucky you’re so cute today,” she said, “because I was this close to pulling a Livonia on you.”
And I don’t know what came over me…the cameras, the audience’s laughter, the adrenaline and nerves, or just the confidence in knowing that underneath the hair, big boobs, and mean-hearted gossip, Livonia was just another person. So I replied, “Livonia, girl, I ain’t scared of you. You haven’t seen me pull a Malcolm.”
The audience loved our interplay and the rest was a coup for me and for LADS.
“Now that we’re best friends, Malcolm,” Livonia said and moved in closer to me, as if we were longtime gay man and fag hag BFFs, “tell me about that tall glass of chocolate ball player they say you’re drinking from.”
I didn’t tell her about Tyrell and me. Kyle had advised me not to talk about romance yet. Too soon. Besides, I wanted to give Tyrell space to tell his own story in his own time.
I could see the audience members breathe a sigh of relief, some a little saddened, because Livonia and I had a friendly and serious conversation about the state of Black, gay men. She even allowed me to challenge her on why outing people wasn’t the best policy, but that we needed her influence to make changes in our communities of color so people wouldn’t feel like they had to hide being gay.
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