Drama Is Her Middle Name Page 6

  “I saw you on MTV Cribs,” Ritz started. “What a gorgeous home!”

  “Yeah, Cairo said. “I don’t get to spend much time in it.”

  “True that.” Ritz took off the gloves. “Word has it that day was the only time you spent in it, because that ain’t your house! Now tell the truth. Your label rented it for the day. You’re still living with your mama, aren’t you?”

  (Sound effect of the cash registering being tossed out of the window: Cha-ching, Crash!)

  Cairo sat there speechless, glaring at Ritz. He wasn’t prepared for that uppercut to his diminutive chin.

  “Silence says it all,” Ritz said. “Let’s go to a break.”

  As they went to a break, Aaron played Cairo’s hit song. Cairo stormed out of the studio, not saying a word. When Ritz came back, she explained his absence but also the method to her madness.

  “I know some of y’all think I’m cruel,” she started. “But what’s cruel is lying. There are so many young people out there who think that all they need to do is become a rapper or a singer or something and they’re set for life. The truth is, very few of these people really have money. The rest are projecting this image and don’t have the money to keep up their lifestyle. You remember TOTAL—hit records galore, but still living in the projects. Now that’s cruel. People need to keep it real!

  “I mean, look at Fantasia. How in the world is she going to come out with a book—one that we are to believe she wrote without any help because hers is the only name anywhere on it—and she can’t read.”

  Aaron couldn’t help but chime in on this one. “Think of all of the things she missed out on—like seeing Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. That was a good movie, she never got to see because it has subtitles.”

  “That’s a good one!” Ritz said, laughing heartily. “I wonder if she ever wrote a love letter. Or imagine how many boy-friends broke up with the poor girl in a letter and she never even knew it.”

  “She ain’t never played Scrabble. The girl ain’t never played Scrabble!”

  “Aaron, stop it!” Ritz howled. “I can’t take it.”

  “And let’s not talk about Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune. Ritz, imagine her trying to buy a vowel.”

  “And what was her mother thinking? Fantasia Barrino? How hard is that name to spell? That child must have been having fits growing up with that one.”

  “Okay, Aaron, now you have crossed the line,” Ritz broke in, trying to hold back the uncontrollable giggles that were building up inside. “You can’t talk about her mother. That’s going too far.”

  Aaron was on a roll. Ritz knew if she didn’t stop him, he would go on for the next three hours of the show and it was only going to get worse.

  Sometimes Ritz felt like she was performing a public service—keeping these celebrities in check and keeping her audience hip to what was real and what was fake. She ripped masks off for all to see the truth. She worked for the people.

  If a male star came through who seemed a little light in the pants or to have some sugar in his tank or whom Ritz had some gossip about him being on the down low but couldn’t substantiate it, she would have Aaron play the sound effect of an over-the-top gay man howling “Oooooh, how you doin’?!” The guest never had a clue. The audience did, though. And they loved it.

  If Ritz had hard evidence that the male star was indeed on the down low—pretending to be straight but actually enjoying the sexual company of men—she would simply ask him. And the audience could count on Ritz for that, too.

  She did have a few altercations after a celebrity got back to his or her camp and found out what really went down during the interview. One tough female rapper whom Ritz hit with the gay-man-howling sound effect—which could be used on a man or a woman—every time she opened her mouth wasn’t too pleased when she found out. In fact, she came back and waited for Ritz outside of the studio, threatening to “beat the bitch’s ass.” The cops were called. And the next day, Big Tony was hired to sit outside of the studio during Ritz’s shift. A panic button was also placed under the desk in the studio just in case things got nasty. Aaron and Chas were men, but neither had enough of a street game to handle potentially violent guests. Big Tony did.

  For the most part, though, celebrities took the whole Ritz experience in stride. Most understood the rule: The only bad publicity was no publicity. With Ritz’s five million (and growing) loyal listeners, they couldn’t afford not to show up. Ritz had such a great relationship with her audience that if she said that a CD was hot, it shot to number one. If she said that a movie was good, it would debut at the top spot. And as for books, she was having an Oprah-like touch there, too. While some people hated Ritz, they couldn’t argue with the results or the fact that her audience loved her.

  The love affair began the night Ritz ruined the career of the hottest newswoman in the business. It solidified Ritz’s place in the annals of radio history, but it also galvanized a relationship between her and “her people.” Ritz was their hero, their champion. She was the one asking the questions they were asking in their heads. She was the one not taking any crap from these celebrities. She was weeding out the fakers from the shakers. She was the ultimate BS detector. She created an “us” against “them” club, recognizing that there were way more uses in the world than thems—the celebrities. She also recognized that while everyone wanted to be a “them,” when it was clear that they couldn’t, they would rather hate “them.” It was fun.

  The more Ritz outed or exposed celebrities, the larger her audience grew. Ritz discovered this phenomenon by accident one night, but the formula was perfected by Chas, the former party promoter privy to scandals that could take down giants.

  “Girl, you better put that champagne down and get ready for Mariah,” Chas said. “She just got out of her limo and is on her way up as we speak.”

  “Relax, baby boy,” Ritz cooed. “You know mama is always ready.”

  The final commercial played and the red “On Air” sign lit up. Ritz was ready on cue.

  “Welcome back to the Excursion, everyone. Buckle up for safety!”

  Mariah burst in the door, bodyguards and entourage in tow, carrying a couple of bags from Bergdorf’s and a few blue bags from Tiffany’s.

  “Oooooh! It’s Mimi, everyone! Welcome Mariah Carey to the show!” said Ritz, as Aaron played applause under the introduction and the intro of her latest hit single. “And as usual, the diva is bearing gifts. How much do I love you?!”

  The two exchanged air kisses on both cheeks as Mariah took her seat in front of the mike.

  “I heard you had Moët, and you can’t drink it out of just any old thing. So I stopped by Tiffany’s to get us a couple of glasses,” Mariah said.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about . . .”

  8

  WINTER GARDEN, FLORIDA

  Tracee Remington reclined in her wicker chair on the balcony of her mini-mansion overlooking the ninth hole at Stoney brook West—a community built on a golf course. She didn’t play golf but she wanted a house with a view. The lush, rolling greens and the rich golfers in their crisp golf outfits were a pleasant sight for Tracee as she sipped her green tea.

  She would have to pack soon, throw a few things in a bag, and get ready—physically and mentally—to go back to New York, or the “cesspool,” as she had begun to call it.

  It had been a year since Tracee had been back in the Big Apple, where she’d left so much of herself. It had been a year since she walked away from success and accolades to settle into a life suited for octogenarians.

  This part of Florida was coming up, but it was still very slow. It wasn’t South Beach, Miami. It wasn’t quite Disney, which was only a few miles away. This was the slow South. People moved slowly, they talked slowly, they thought slowly. And Tracee loved it. It was the perfect departure from the life she left behind.

  Every now and then, though, Tracee longed for New York, like the time she went to pick up a laptop from Circuit City near the Mille
nia Mall just outside of Orlando. The salesman, Robby, dragged himself over to help her. He bragged about being in the platinum club, meaning he was a top salesman. But when Tracee asked to feel the weight of the laptop, he had to get a manager for the keys.

  “He’s a good salesman, but I guess they don’t trust him with the keys,” Tracee thought.

  She grabbed a seat when she realized that his “I’ll be right back” actually meant fifteen minutes. When he came back, he had the keys to unlock the display laptop but had to go back and get the keys to get an actual new laptop from the case below. Then Robby proceeded to tell Tracee about all of the features and the free package of software. It came with everything except Microsoft Word, Excel, and PowerPoint— all of the programs she needed. Robby told her that he had a master copy that he would burn for her, and he would have it if she came back the next night and met him after he got off.

  “And maybe I can take your sweet self out to dinner at Red Lobster,” he said, flashing a smile with gold outlining his two front teeth.

  That was it. Tracee left without the laptop and had wasted forty-five minutes of her time. She should have known that Robby was trouble when she saw the gold fronts and the huge faux gold high school class ring with the blue stone.

  “What grown man wears a high school ring?” thought Tracee.

  But if that was the worst she had to deal with (and it was), she would take it. It was still better than the cesspool she left.

  It had been a year in the sticks—a year away from the stress and hustle of New York City. It was a year of discovery and peace for Tracee. She focused on building her spiritual muscles. Was she strong enough to go back? She was going back, anyway. She was going to be there for her friend’s big debut. But Tracee was going back for more than Ritz’s Grammy red carpet event, she was going back to New York to reel her friend back in. In their last conversation, she could hear Ritz coming undone.

  “I don’t know what I am doing all of this for sometimes, Tray,” Ritz said. “My ratings are going up. I am getting offers from everywhere. I am making more money than I ever imagined making in my entire life. But I am not happy. Why’d you have to leave?”

  “Because I wasn’t happy,” Tracee said.

  “We were happy. We were having fun. I know if you came back, things would be better.”

  “I couldn’t hear with everything going on, Ritzy. I was drowning there.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe when I get some time, I will come to country-ass Winter Garden and get some fresh air and clear my head for a week.”

  “You need more than a week, Ritzy. In the first week it actually gets worse before it gets better.”

  “Then I’m staying put. I can’t wait for you to get here. I think being here without the pressures of your job will be a big difference.”

  Tracee didn’t comment. She knew that while she planned on having a good time in New York—where she still had an apartment—she was never moving back.

  She admittedly had run away from there. But she knew she wouldn’t be completely free until she was able to go back. After being in Florida for a year, Tracee realized that the drama wasn’t connected to a place. Drama could be found anywhere, even in Winter Garden, Florida. If you looked hard enough, you could find drama at the Vatican with the pope. Tracee had stopped looking for drama. That’s why she took the buyout package and paid cash for the four-bedroom, three-bath, three-car-garage house on the golf course with a balcony and a swimming pool and a bonus room. It was too much house for Tracee, but she thought she would meet someone and have enough children to fill the bedrooms. She envisioned having someone to share this exquisite home with.

  Until then, it provided her with a haven—a place to detox and get the filth out of her system. Tracee even found solace in writing. She purged by keeping a journal. She thought about writing a book about her experiences—a guide for those wanting to break into the music business with inside secrets, exposing all of the evils. She knew it was sure to be a bestseller. But, for now, she was content enjoying her “retirement.”

  Tracee smiled as she remembered telling her mother she was retiring.

  “Retiring?! Retiring?! Chile, you done lost your mind!” her mother said. “You ain’t but thirty-five years old. I haven’t even retired yet. Who the hell do you think you are?!”

  Tracee was one of the youngest executives ever at Uni-Global Music Group, which had gobbled up just about every major recording label, leaving just a few independents to fight over the scraps. She was also the one of the youngest ever to take a golden parachute—or, rather, a platinum parachute— when the company decided to downsize the black music department. Tracee volunteered to leave.

  Tracee had met Ritz during her ascent at Uni-Global. She presided over one hit act after another, responsible for everything from refining their performance to shaping their relationships with the media. Ritz wasn’t the Ritz Harper then. She was on the rise, but she was very much a part of the media, part of the world that Tracee’s artists had to conquer.

  Tracee brought up-and-comer Majita to the studio to talk about her debut album. It was routine. But during the break, Ritz pulled Tracee’s collar.

  “You have to tell that young lady that she needs to make sure she has breath mints before talking to the media,” Ritz said. “Can you say ‘Enter the Dragon’?”

  Tracee was a bit surprised; she hadn’t gotten close enough to Majita to notice. She was also grateful for the honesty and even more grateful that Ritz didn’t say anything about it on the air. The new Ritz would have. Tracee missed the old Ritz. She had a lot more in common with the old Ritz, who was thoughtful and honest and compassionate. She was ambitious and strong. They were two women tackling a male-dominated world. As their friendship grew, it seemed that the two of them were fighting together.

  Ritz loved Tracee’s realness and spirit, and Tracee could see the real Ritz through her tough exterior. They kept in contact because Tracee always seemed to have a hot artist that Ritz wanted to get on her show. Tracee made it so easy for Ritz, who was beginning to feel like she had connections.

  When Tracee was promoted to head of the black music division, there was no one prouder than Ritz. This was truly the first time Ritz had a female friend she could actually let her hair down with, who was equally happy for all of the success she was experiencing. Tracee was searching spiritually and developing a better relationship with God. Some of this was rubbing off onto Ritz. Not a lot, but some.

  While Ritz was not heading in the same direction as Tracee, she was a great sounding board and always had an honest response. In the months leading up to making the final decision to leave her job and New York, Tracee was wavering, searching for answers. She had dinner with Ritz at Mr. Chow’s, a popular spot on tony Fifty-seventh Street, which featured pigeon on the menu.

  “I can’t take it anymore,” Tracee said to Ritz right after she sat down.

  “I can’t believe you,” Ritz said. “People would kill for your position. Hell, I think people have killed to be in your place. Why are you complaining?”

  “Ritz, I can’t explain it, but I feel like I’m dying—like my spirit is being squashed,” Tracee said. “I’m not happy. But it’s deeper than that. If I’m not covering for some rapper who has gotten himself in trouble, I’m playing interference for some singer who is cheating on his wife. And that’s the mild stuff. Every day it seems like I’m laying yet another brick paving my road leading straight to hell.”

  “Whoa! Why you do you have to bring so much drama to everything? Girl, lighten up. It ain’t that serious. Just think, if you were not in that position—making all of that money, I might add—some white boy would be sitting in that seat making all of that money. At least you care about the trifling Negroes you are forced to work with. At least you try to help them. Who else is going to do that?”

  “Yeah, Ritz, I do care. I care too much. I also have to start caring about me. I don’t know who I am sometimes. I am doing things I know
I shouldn’t, and I feel like shit about it.”

  “Have another drink and get some sleep and you’ll feel better,” Ritz said, waving for their waitress. “Can we get two more Sapphire martinis, with an extra olive. Thanks.”

  Tracee got some sleep that night, but she didn’t feel better the next day. The next morning she decided to check out a church she had heard about—Faith Baptist. They had a new young minister. Maybe he would have some answers.

  She was desperate.

  9

  Faith Baptist Church in Harlem was the fastest-growing church uptown. Its size rivaled the Harlem powerhouses, Riverside Church and Abyssinian Baptist Church. Pastor Edwin Lakes Sr. had started Faith Baptist more than thirty years ago with just a hundred parishioners and a dream. His sudden death left the completion of that dream on the shoulders of his son, Edwin Jr.

  Edwin was anything but ready when he took over nearly seven years ago. But he had to get ready. He didn’t have a choice. It was understood that he was the heir apparent and that was that. Edwin Jr. attended seminary at Drew University in Madison, New Jersey—following in the footsteps of his father, Edwin Sr., the great Reverend Dr. Samuel Proctor, and so many other prominent and powerful preachers throughout the country. He went through the motions of everything he was supposed to do, everything that was expected of him.

  He went to seminary because, as the only son of Edwin Lakes, that was his legacy. But when he graduated, Edwin wasn’t sure if he wanted to go into the ministry. He wasn’t sure if he had the right stuff to lead a church. Hell, he wasn’t sure about a lot of things.

  He told his parents that he needed some time to “find himself ” and decided to move to Miami, Florida, where he could enjoy the weather and be free from his father’s awesome shadow and the pressure of being his son. He had never been to Miami but from all he’d read and seen on television, it was a place where he could have some fun for once. For his entire life, Edwin felt that he’d had to live up to an impossible standard. Most PKs—preacher’s kids—buckle under the pressure.