Antebellum (5 page)

“I hate you,” I said.

“I know.”

She gave me a quick glance, hit the intercom button, and put her focus back on her e-mail. The enthusiastic driver responded in record time.

“Yes, sir?”

“Hi...this is SaTia. I'm Da Nigga's manager. Can you get us to The Marbury restaurant as quickly as possible, please? We're late for a very important meeting.”

“Right away, ma'am!”

As our chauffeur pretended he was behind the wheel of an ambulance, I pretended I wasn't sitting beside a person who could turn my world like a nauseous stomach.

I had thought a lot of things before SaTia and I walked into that restaurant, but there were two things I thought I was sure of. First, I thought I had been to some of the best restaurants anyone had ever seen. I figured that was one of the perks of being rich.

Ironically, that was the second. I thought I was rich.

I had never seen anything like The Marbury. It looked like a place out of one of those black and white movies where a man and woman always end up dancing the night away. The floors sparkled, the glasses sparkled, the cups sparkled, the plates sparkled—I couldn't figure out how someone could eat here and not be depressed by what they would have to go home to. All the waiters had skin colors that contrasted with their white tuxedoes. There was lady in a black gown playing the harp, and a man in a black tuxedo playing the piano beside her. Their skin colors contrasted with their clothes as well.

I saw the patrons talking to one another, but I quickly realized that they were all speaking a language I wasn't wealthy enough to understand. To me it all sounded like “
Moneymoneymoney? Moneymoney...Moneymoneymoneymoney.”

I wondered if I'd ventured off to the bathroom, would I find unflushed hundred dollar bills floating in the toilet.

SaTia spotted Mr. Rose sitting at the back of the restaurant. She nudged my shoulder and motioned toward his table. He had a plate of culinary art sitting in front of him, and was focused on trying to eat as much of it as he could without ruining its beauty. After taking three steps in his direction, he managed to glance up long enough to notice our approach. His attention quickly shifted from his postmodern plate to the two urbanites coming his way. He stood up and spoke with a jovial seriousness.

“Nigger! Where have you been? I thought we were going to be able to eat, but we'll have to make this quick now. Come on here and take a seat!”

Sometimes people get killed for a reason no one ever finds out. You can question the person who did it for hours and hours, and even if they admit that they committed the murder, they won't tell you the reason. They'll get sentenced and go to jail and spend
huge chunks of their lives behind bars, but will never tell you what motivated them. They won't tell you, because a lot of times even they don't know. A normal guy may have never had any interaction with a gay person, until one day he gets hit on by a flamboyant man in a miniskirt and blows his brains into his wig. Or a girl completely suppresses her memory of being raped until a drunken guy shoves his hand under her skirt and ends up with an ice pick in his larynx. Someone says or does something that touches an unknown, unforgiving button, and in the blink of an eye a college athlete or a petite secretary is standing over a dead body wondering what kind of computer glitch just altered their reality...

Standing there, in that restaurant, with billionaire couples smirking at the privilege of hearing a racial epithet in public, I found out I had a button that could be pushed. And if I had a gun, Mr. Rose would have died where he stood.

Rage glued my Nikes to the plush carpet and held me there. Just as I resolved to do something violent, SaTia leaned over and whispered to me.

“You chose the name, Moe. I told you from the beginning that a lot of white folks don't know the difference. It was bound to happen sometime.” She paused and glanced up to see my top row of teeth sinking into my lower lip. “You better chill out. If you kirk out in here, you can kiss all your money goodbye.”

I swear having her around was like having a walking reality check.

All the black waiters had paused just long enough to see how I would react. A black guy in urban clothing with dark sunglasses and a grill in his mouth had just been called a nigger in front of about thirty rich white people. Two of the waiters looked poised to dive onto the ground. They glanced from me and to one another, smirking at the possibility of an oppressor being massacred.

It was too late, though. The image of me back in the hood, broke, with a dirty wifebeater and a malfunctioning Tech-9 had sobered me up. SaTia's inconvenient truth had left me flaccid.

After a few seconds passed, each member of the serving staff took turns calling me an Uncle Tom with their eyes before they returned to gently placing beautiful cloth napkins on the laps of rich white people.

“Let's just sit at the table so you can calm down,” SaTia said. “I'll do all the talking, you just pull yourself together.”

We walked up to Mr. Rose's table and sat down in front of him. As he opened his mouth, I found myself again trying to tame the wild animal trapped inside of me.

“I assume you all got tied up back at the hotel? I guess when it comes to making stars, we know what we're doing, huh?”

He looked at me, expecting some sort of jovial gratitude. I just stared back at him, trying not to envision blood squirting from his throat.

Not getting the reaction he was looking for, his eyes betrayed the smile on his face. At that moment, I was nothing but an ungrateful nigger. I reached out for the salt shaker with the worst of intentions. Before I could even get a good grasp on it, SaTia reached over and took it out of my hand.

“Thank you.” She smiled at me, but somehow whispered the word “stop” through her grinning teeth. Then she turned back to Mr. Rose. “I go completely postal if I don't have enough salt in my food, so he always makes sure I have it on my side of the table.”

SaTia always pressed what she called her “inner white girl button” when we went to meetings with execs. She said she learned how to do it in college. It was more annoying than hearing someone scrape the end of a fork against a plate, but it worked. We always
came out with more money, or the promise of more money, than we had before.

I could tell by the word “postal” that she had hit her button, but I was too angry to care.

Mr. Rose glanced suspiciously from me to SaTia, and then back to me. SaTia cut his thoughts short.

“Getting down to business, Mr. Rose, Mr. Jenkins has been very pleased with his success since signing with your company.”

“Well, good. He doesn't seem like it at all.”

“It's been a considerably hectic morning, Mr. Rose. I requested that he quiet his thoughts a bit before coming into this meeting. He's just trying to pull himself together. Oh...and by the way, Mr. Rose, Mr. Jenkins likes to be called Moe or Moses when he's dealing with business.”

Mr. Rose glanced at me one more time. I kept the same stone expression on my canvas. He shrugged his shoulders and looked back at SaTia.

“Okay, fair enough. We're starting late, so let's jump right into it, shall we? How's the second project going?”

SaTia turned on her white girl excitement.

“It's going wonderfully! We're making progress quicker than we expected to. Mr. Jenkins has really learned a lot from the completion of his first album.”

Mr. Rose nodded his head as he methodically picked apart the sculpture on his plate.

“Good, because we're going to need to kick up the deadline.”

My righteous indignation went limp. “Whoa, what? You cain't just kick up the deadline without lettin' me know!”

“He speaks!” Mr. Rose chuckled to himself. I tried to grab at my butter knife, but SaTia had already moved it.

I looked over at her as she leaned forward, clasped her hands
together, and stared directly at Mr. Rose, and I knew I had nothing to worry about.

The inner white girl button had been turned off again. Now she was just plain old SaTia.

“Mr. Rose, we discussed a clear timeline in our last meeting and agreed that the dates that were set would be permanent. May I ask the reason our previously agreed upon deadline is no longer sufficient?”

Mr. Rose finished chewing the food in his mouth before he answered. He seemed vaguely amused at her, but he was too smart to underestimate her.

“Riggs and Baker, the head guys at Infiniti, got wind of our scheduled release dates. They kicked up all of No Parole's rap LPs by at least a month.”

SaTia started to respond, but I cut her off.

“But I outsell all them nigg...umm...bastards at No Parole! Cain't none of 'em touch me! Why I gotta move my stuff up 'cause of them?”

“They've got some new guys signed who are supposed to be pretty decent. They call themselves ‘P.' Silencers, ‘p' as in potato. Apparently they had quite a buzz around them in Idaho before hitting big.”

SaTia and I sang out in unison, “Idaho?”

Mr. Rose smirked at our ignorance.

“Yes, Idaho. There is a hip-hop scene everywhere in this country, and in most places outside of it. Idaho is no different.”

One of the waiters who had eyeballed me earlier now came and put water in front of SaTia and me. She picked hers up as she spoke.

“I'm still having trouble understanding how this affects my client?”

“It's a precautionary measure, Ms. Brooks. Just to make sure they don't get one up on us.”

“And will Mr. Jenkins be compensated for this precautionary measure?”

“Of course. We recognize the extra studio and production time he'll have to put in, and we'll make sure it translates into cash. We'll even throw in a $100,000 bonus at the end of the quarter.”

I didn't care if it was a wise man or a crackhead who first said it, but they're the truest words ever spoken—money heals all wounds. I raised my hand to signal for the waiter, and when he came around I gave him the biggest grin that the muscles in my jaw could manage.

“Yes, sir?”

I pointed to the almost empty plate in front of Mr. Rose. “I'll have whatever he's having.”

“Yes, sir.”

The waiter shot me another resentful glance as he left, and I smiled even harder. Mr. Rose laughed out loud.

“I see that put you in a better mood.”

“You know it!”

SaTia kicked me under the table to tell me to get hold of myself, and I reduced my grin to a subtle smirk. Once she saw I was a little more composed, she looked back at Mr. Rose.

“Let's leave that $100,000 up for negotiation. I wouldn't want to agree right now, as we don't know exactly how hard Mr. Jenkins will have to work in order to meet his new deadline. We'll need to tie down specifics on exactly how this extra working time will ‘translate' into cash.”

Mr. Rose seemed annoyed and impressed at the same time. He sighed to signal that he was no longer amused.

“Agreed. As long as Moses does what is asked of him, we can negotiate the whole thing to your liking.”

I could tell that SaTia and I had the same thought again. I decided it was best to let her speak.

“Exactly what is it that is being asked of my client, Mr. Rose?”

“Our plan is in two parts. First, we'll kick up the original deadline by three weeks, and release two singles instead of one for radio.”

That would be easy for me. I had my first single done, and already had a song in mind that would be perfect for the second. I started to grin again, but I thought about SaTia and tried to stay calm. She kept her gaze drilled on Mr. Rose.

“I'll talk it over with my client, but that seems doable. What is the second part of your plan?”

Mr. Rose finished the last bite on his plate and slowly put his fork down. “The second part is a little more interesting...”

We glanced at each other out of the corners of our eyes. SaTia telepathically told me to shut up, but she didn't need to. I didn't trust myself enough to speak.

“Do tell, Mr. Rose.” My spokeswoman was all ears.

“One of the main draws to this new group is that they are known for making battle records. We have an inside source who has informed us that their first single will be a battle record aimed at your client.”

My instincts took over.

“Me? What? I don't even know these dudes!”

Mr. Rose suddenly sounded lighthearted.

“It's nothing, Moe. They're just some ex-cons trying to make a name for themselves.”

SaTia almost knocked her water over.

“Ex-cons?”

Mr. Rose responded to her but kept his eyes on me.

“Yes. Apparently they met in jail and formed their group. It wouldn't be such a big deal, but you know how much a diss record can hurt a rap career. So, we would like for your second single to be a battle record against them.”

“Absolutely not!” SaTia said adamantly, but Mr. Rose continued to look straight at me.