For the Love of Money (19 page)

“And what about your mortgage payments?” I asked her.

“Shit, Tracy, mortgage payments are like rent. I can do that. It's the damn down payment that stops most people from being able to buy houses, not the mortgage payments.”

“You still have to qualify for the bank loan to get the mortgage,” I told her.

“And how hard is that to do? It's plenty of people walking around out here with three-hundred-thousand-dollar houses and
terrible
credit.”

“Yeah, but they have higher-
rated
credit because they have the income, whether their credit is good or not. And most people with money are going to pay their mortgage,
first.
Or at least those who have any sense.”

Mercedes went back to eating her cheesecake while I shook my head again. It was just too obvious of a scam.

“What?” she mumbled through her food. “You think I'm trying to get over on you? We go back too far for that shit, Tracy.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” I told her. “You're thinking that I can't turn you down because we're cool like that.”
But
are
we?
I asked myself.

“Tracy, nobody's holding a damn gun to your head, so you can do what you want to do.”

“And what if I choose to say no?”

She paused. “You just say no then.”

I knew better than that, but what could I do? I felt like I was being blackmailed through our supposed friendship, but Mercedes was no friend like Kiwana was. Mercedes had only influenced me to do the
wrong
things, and never the right things.
If you can get somethin' without doing anything with him, then do it. But if you can't, then make sure you play with his mind
real good before you do,
she told me when I was young and very impressionable.
'Cause see, a lot of guys are stingy until you give them some pussy. But once you do, they start actin' dumb, all in love 'n shit.

What kind of shit was that to tell a young teenager who looked up to you? Was that the kind of friendship that I felt committed to protect? Hell no! However, I
had
used many of Mercedes' emotions, her reciprocal sexuality, and her turmoil of drug addiction to play out some of my role in
Led Astray.
So in a sense, I
owed
Mercedes.

I asked, “So how much do you need?” I just wanted to hear a number. I was curious to see how much our “friendship” was worth.

“Twelve thousand dollars,” she told me. At ten percent for a down payment, the house was worth one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.

I said, “I'll have to think about that,” and left it alone.

Our conversation was stale for the rest of that night. Mercedes drove me back home, and before we went our separate ways, she said, “;I know it seems like a fucked-up thing for me to do, me asking you for money like that, but we only live once. If you could help me out like that instead of me having to kill myself to buy this house, then that would mean a hell of a lot to me.”

I stopped and thought about her comment before I responded to her.

I said, “You know what? If you don't learn how to have some faith and dedication in whatever it is that you're
trying
to do, then even if I give you the money for this house that you want so badly in Yeadon, it won't mean a damn thing. Because tomorrow you'll kill yourself with the next project that you have no faith in, and you'll start looking for someone to bail you out again. And I might as well tell you right now,
I'm
not gonna be the one.”

“Tracy, I wouldn't even—”

I cut her off with my hand raised in a stop sign and said, “Whatever. I'm telling you now,
I'm
not gonna be the one. And you can blame your father all you want for your problems, but this is
your life
and
your decisions
now. So just like
he
mellowed out,
you
need to get with the program and get
your
priorities back in order!”

I could tell that Mercedes wanted to curse me the hell out before I left. I could read it in her spiteful eyes, but she couldn't do it. Not yet anyway, because I still had something that she wanted. She hadn't changed a fucking bit, and it was getting harder for me to continue feeling sorry for her ass! So I just walked away and left her hangin', hangin' on a damn string, just like
she
was used to doing with everyone else.

It makes you hurry up
only to slow back down
and await
a green light
that may never come.

Limbo City,
Bimbo City,
this is what it feels like;
a rhythmless poem
in need of perk.

YET, infatuation,
anticipation
calls your name at night,
while you sleep walk
toward the fortune
AND the fame.

Copyright © 1998 by Tracy Ellison

A
fter Tupac Shakur's murder in September, there were eight or nine shootings in the Los Angeles area (several of them fatal) that were reported as gang retaliations. I had a chance to see the infamous LAPD in action out there (not on the streets myself, but on the Los Angeles news). By October, when things had cooled down a bit, I had enrolled in the UCLA Extensions program for screenwriting, and I knew a lot more concerning what to do and where to go, and more important what
not
to do and where
not
to go in LA. I began to brainstorm different ideas for my first attempt at writing a script for the course that I was taking. I also had received twenty hardback copies of my republished book
Flyy Girl,
with my portion of the advance still on the way. However, that did not mean that I was at peace with things. Hollywood had this greedy edge to it that made you feel unsatisfied with anything less than being an “A-list” star, and I was
far
from it! I was only a novice, trying like hell to learn how to swim in a hurry and make it upstream with
Crenshaw,
an urban love story.

In writing my first screenplay, I nearly spent the night a couple of times while using the computers at Kinko's copy store. Through my years of undergrad, grad school, and teaching, I always had access to computers so I never bothered to buy one. However, it became inevitable once I started writing scripts out in LA. A personal computer was an essential.

My plan for the plot of
Crenshaw
was as follows:

Act I: An aspiring model who is new to the city of Los Angeles accidentally cuts off a young gang member who is on his way to
carry out a retaliation murder for a friend who was killed by a rival crew. The gang member, irritated, nearly shoots the model for cutting him off because he was in a hurry and ready to kill someone. Although she escapes unharmed, the timid model is scared out of her wits, and the young gang member arrives a minute too late to carry out his murder as planned.

Plot Point I: The model arrives at her first photo shoot that same day, and unknowingly becomes attracted to the gang member's older brother who is also a budding model.

Act II: The plot thickens when all is revealed and a feud breaks out between the two brothers regarding LA gangs, sissy modeling, the girl's meddling, and her lack of understanding of street culture. Ultimately, all three characters are forced to reevaluate the meaning of life, love, and career aspirations in Los Angeles.

Plot Point II: As the model begins to learn more and becomes sympathetic to the blighted subcultures of LA through her association with her new lover, he is also shot and killed by the rival gang and the intensity of the rivalry escalates.

Act III: The model and the young gang member meet again at his brother's funeral where their mother cries out for someone to stop the madness on the streets. Meanwhile, the younger brother and his gang friends develop plans to carry out a massive shootout.

Resolution: The model is inspired to action. She tries all of the words in the world to talk the younger brother out of throwing his life away in the gangs, and actually sleeps with him to stop him from joining his friends in the big plan. In the missed attempt at another retaliation, five of his gang member friends are killed, along with nine members of the rival gang. However, a police SWAT team arrests everyone involved, killing several more gang members in LA's worse shootout in years. The young gang member then has nothing left to fight for and has a lot of thinking to do concerning his life. The model goes on with her career with a better understanding of the streets, and the young gang member finally sees the light and thanks her by sending her a diamond bracelet to her photo shoot.

After thinking out all of the details and finishing my first screenplay, I turned it in for review and discussion at the UCLA Extensions course, and it was immediately called a
West Side Story
meets
Colors
and
Boyz N the Hood
with a
Jason's Lyric
and
A Bronx Tale
twist.

I couldn't believe it! After all of my hard-ass work on that damn thing, it was blatantly unoriginal! That made my whole illusion of becoming a Hollywood screenwriter seem impossible. The question was: How in the world can you create something that hasn't already been done and make people want to see it?
Or,
more important, as I learned in the business of Hollywood films and television: How can you take an old dog story, and turn it into a
new
dog with plenty of kicks and tricks with a major
spin
of the plot?

Actually, I had presented a major “spin” in
Crenshaw.
I had written a plot where the girl fucks
both
of the leading men, who were brothers, but that twist of the plot was called highly unbelievable. One silly white guy in my writing course chuckled and said that my screenplay had a pornographic arc to it.

He said, “You're telling us that this hardcore gang member is gonna stop to knock boots and just forget about his plans for the big shootout? I mean,
come on!
Wouldn't his gang members look at him as being pussy whipped if he did that?”

We all broke out laughing. I had to laugh at it too. It was comical and true.

I said, “Hey, don't ever underestimate the power of great sex.”

“Oh yeah, well, just point
me
in the direction of
any
model like that. I'd tell her, ‘I have nothing left to live for. I'm ready to kill myself. I need great sex to save me.
Please!
' And she'll say, ‘Oh, sure, meet me at my apartment at eight.'”

They were having a field day with me, and it was no longer funny.

“All right, all right, let's just settle back down,” our instructor told us. He was a dark-haired short guy with a long name that started with a K. Everyone called him Professor K. instead of trying, unsuccessfully, to pronounce his name correctly, and he said that he didn't mind it. He was also well connected in the business, so no one took him for granted either.

After we finished class that day, with everyone planning on sharing my humiliation with their Hollywood friends (I'm sure), my confidence had dropped a level. I was thinking about writing comedy, or even porno movies if they would let me. I thought about any- and everything, but ultimately, I didn't fly out to Hollywood to make a fool of myself and embarrass the people back home who loved me. So whatever I did, it was going to be based on a sane decision.

“Now you know what we're up against,” someone said from behind me as I walked to my car.

The sister's name was Juanita Perez. She was from New York, and she
looked really into the hip-hop movement with her twisted baby dread-locks and baggy, colorful clothing. Prior to that day, she hadn't said a word to me. I just took it that she was there strictly for business, so I left her alone.

I smiled at her and said, “I was wondering if you were ever going to speak to me before this course was over. I mean, we
are
the only sisters in here. Then again, with your name being Juanita Perez, I wasn't sure if you were more down with the Latinos or something. I figured that you
looked
brown enough to be black.”

She returned my smile. “My father's from Panama, but you wouldn't know it from looking at him. He looks like the average dark brown brother. But with
your
eyes and
your
look, I was thinking the same thing about you; that
you
were maybe a little extra.”

I laughed at it. “Girl, I'm from Philadelphia,” I told her. I guess she didn't know. “My father is probably as brown as yours. He just happens to have light-colored eyes and he passed them down to me,” I added.

“I guess that we were
both
misled then. I'm sorry about that, but I've been burned out here too many times,” she said.

“What, with people who didn't identify with being black?” I asked her. We stopped at my car.

“Yes. I was like, where are the real black people out here?”

I laughed and said, “Well, girl, you just found one.” I went further with it and opened the trunk of my car. “Matter of fact,” I said, grabbing one of my hardback books from the box, “I'll even let you read about it.”

She looked at the illustration on the front cover and read the summary inside. She asked, “You have a
book
written about you?” She seemed really excited by it.

I said, “Well, you know, we all went through those flyy years back in the eighties, girl.” Juanita looked my age, so I just assumed that she was.

She said, “Don't I know it! I had the big earrings and the drug-dealing boyfriends too. You should think about making this into a movie.”

I didn't think too much anymore about making a movie about my life. After learning how skimpy screenplays were written as compared to books, I just figured that my life story was too damn long and detailed for a movie. My story would have been more like six to eight hours than two. They would have had to make a television miniseries about me like
Roots.
So I just thought that it was better told in a book.