Antebellum (6 page)

“Look, these guys are going to say all types of things about you. They've been asking people about you and getting information you would never think they could have. Girls you've slept with on the road, ex-girlfriends from D.C., old friends who are mad because you left them in the ghetto—I mean, these guys have been serious. They were going to surprise you with it—have you turn on the radio and here is this song tearing you apart—but we found out about it. We found out and now you have the chance to strike before they do!”

SaTia plucked me upside my head. She had been calling me, but I hadn't heard her. I finally turned away from Mr. Rose and looked her in the eyes.

“Don't listen to him, Moe. This is ridiculous. People get killed over this kind of stuff! We can find another label before we get involved with some mess like this.”

I heard everything my best friend had said, but Mr. Rose's seed had already been planted. I was already having visions of people laughing at me when I walked onstage, reciting lines to someone else's diss record.

My pride wouldn't let me go through it. I turned back to Mr. Rose.

“How am I supposed to write a diss record against people I've never heard of before?”

“I've had my people look into them, and I have got enough
info to fill a college textbook. All you have to do is write the song and record it.”

SaTia reached over and grabbed my chin, turning my head toward her. The show of affection even took Mr. Rose by surprise. His eyes went wide as he sat back in his chair.

“Listen to me, Moe. This is dangerous. People take diss records to heart. I...I don't like this...”

“Ahem...” Mr. Rose reached into his pocket and pulled out a CD case. “I was able to get a rough copy of the song. It's not mastered at all, but the words will be the same.”

I looked back and forth from SaTia to the CD case. Finally, I stopped at SaTia.

“I'm gonna listen to it, okay? I just wanna hear what they say.”

SaTia realized she had lost the battle. Her eyes dropped as she let go of my chin. After a few seconds, she took in a deep breath and lifted her eyes back up to Mr. Rose.

“Okay, if we do this, we are talking about a whole new level of negotiations. Scratch your bonus and try multiplying it by five, at least, in addition to hourly compensation for studio time and increased control over the production process for the entire album.”

While she talked, I reached out and grabbed the CD case. This time, it was Mr. Rose's turn to grin.

“If this project is successful, you can have whatever you want.”

I took the CD out of the case and played around with it in my hand.

Mr. Rose glanced at his watch and stood up. We stood up with him, and he took turns shaking both of our hands.

“Unfortunately, I have to catch a plane, but this has been a very fruitful meeting. Ms. Brooks, someone from HQ will call you within twenty-four hours. We can work out all the fine details
the next time we meet. And please, stay and enjoy whatever you like from the menu, on me.”

SaTia hid her distress well as she extended her hand.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Rose.”

“I'll holla at you later, man.” My farewell was a bit less professional, but I had a lot on my mind.

We both turned and watched Mr. Rose walk away, then sat back down at the table. I could hear SaTia's disappointment in her breathing.

“Look, Tia, I think—”

“Stop. Just stop, okay? You're the superstar, and you made your decision. Can we please get out of here?”

“Yeah, let's go.”

We stood up as the indignant waiter came around the corner with my dish. He placed it on the table as I was putting my sunglasses back on.

“You're not going to eat, sir?”

“Naw. Give my compliments to the chef, though. It looks like a million bucks.”

I got one last distasteful look before SaTia and I walked back to the limo.

3

Why is every makeup artist that I've ever seen ugly? Isn't that some sort of conflict of interest?

I sent the text message to SaTia and the guys while a very scary woman tried to improve my countenance. She either got regular Botox, or someone had recently stuck her head in a freezer. Her eyes reflected emotions that her face simply couldn't show. I found myself imagining holding up a chisel and lightly tapping on her cheek. Her face would probably fall apart. Ray would walk in and think I dumped a puzzle on the floor.

Meanwhile, I sat in a chair that looked as if it was meant for a movie director and wondered if putting foundation on a man qualified him as being metrosexual. It couldn't, I thought to myself, because I was definitely not the first MC to ever be on a late-night talk show. Either Leno and Letterman only invited ambiguously gay rappers to sit on their couch, or I was in the clear and this was a necessary suspension of my manhood.

Orlando, Ray, Brian, Henry, SaTia and I had all arrived at the studio a half-hour earlier. Our days had been long since the diss record dropped. We'd been flying all over the place. I was doing TV interviews and performing in almost every major city in the U.S. This was the biggest primetime television opportunity we'd had, though.

About a month ago, I was sitting in my hotel room eating a bowl of Froot Loops when SaTia burst in with a grin on her face.
She told me the producers from the
Phil Winters Show
had just contacted her. They wanted to know if Da Nigga would be available to come to Chicago in five weeks and be a guest.
The Phil Winters Show
had been the number one late-night talk show on TV for over a decade. I almost choked on a loop.

These kinds of things had been happening regularly in the last eight months. I dropped one song, and all of a sudden I couldn't perform in clubs anymore because the crowds were overcapacity. I went from being recognized by four or five people every time I went out to having to wear a disguise and notify local police departments where I'd be going so they could have their squads on standby to deal with the mobs. It was insanity. Even my crew was changing. They'd caught the residual effects of my newfound superstardom, and had decided that they no longer wanted to be referred to by their real names. Instead, they always wanted to be known by their aliases.

“You're kidding me,” I told them in the VIP section of a club in Dallas. “You want me to call all of you by your stage names? The only time you're even on stage is when you're with me!”

“We know, man,” Henry said for the group. They had all seen how much pressure had been put on me lately, and they figured Henry would be the best person to approach me without getting me upset. “But with you being so famous now, people actually startin' to recognize us, too. Couple a times you did interviews and used our real names, and befo' it wasn't really no big deal, but now...well...I mean, you ain't got to if you don't want to, but we already said we was gonna start callin' each otha by our aliases, so we jus' wanted to know if you was down to do the same thing?”

Everyone was losing their minds. It seemed like the only sane person around me was SaTia, and even she had to admit that as long as nothing changed down the road, making the battle record might have been the best thing I could've done.

Lost in my own thought, I didn't even notice the porcelain lady stop what she was doing and glance over my shoulder. It took for an energetic voice approaching me from behind to snap me out of my daze. I looked up and into the mirror just in time to see Phil Winters prepare to slap his hand down on my shoulder. Even though he was over twice my age, his visage beamed with the vivaciousness of a teenager. I guess daily professional grooming and sex with younger women really is the fountain of youth. I turned my head to look into his eyes as he spoke.

“Thrilled, absolutely thrilled to have you on the show! What should I call you, huh? Should I call you Moe or ‘Da N' or ‘Da N-word', or what? Man, I swear you picked one helluva name!”

I had been getting this question a lot lately, and it was starting to piss me off. SaTia constantly told me I'd asked for it.

“You can call me whateva, man. Most white folk jus stick to Da N-word, though. Seem like y'all don't know the difference between nig-ga and nig-ger, so you're better off playin' it safe.”

Phil vigorously nodded his head.

“I totally agree, totally agree! Is Sandy treating you okay?” He motioned to the lady with the frozen face. “She's a miracle worker with makeup. Makes me look great on my worst days...”

“Yeah, she's great,” I said, as I glanced at Sandy. I could tell by her eyes she didn't care what I said one way or the other.

“Great! Listen, I'm so glad we got you on while the dissing record is still hot! It's been lighting up the airways for months now!”

I laughed to myself and shook my head. “It's called a diss record, Phil, not a dissing record. Anyone who knows anything about rap is gonna laugh at you if you say that.”

Phil immediately yanked a notepad out from the inside pocket of his designer suit. He scribbled the note down, said it once out loud to himself, and then slipped the pad back into his pocket.

“Got it! Won't make that mistake on the show, I promise! And
just so you know, I'll probably ask you more questions about the record tonight than anything else. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah, it figures. Just make sure you push the new CD.”

“Already covered that with your business manager, and everything's under control. Is there anything else you need? Anything at all?”

“Nope, I'm good.”

“Wonderful! See you on the set!”

He slapped me on the shoulder again and briskly walked out, leaving Sandy and me to an awkward silence.

“I can finish up if you like.” She talked with so little enthusiasm that I started to get sleepy.

“Yeah, that'd be good.”

She made her way back over to my face and began wrapping up her masterpiece. Five minutes later, SaTia burst through the door.

“The show's starting, Moe. He's gonna call you out in ten minutes. We need to be in place.”

I glanced at Sandy again, and this time she gave me a slight smile. It looked like it hurt.

“We're all done here,” she declared with indistinguishable triumph.

“Thanks, Sandy,” I said as I got up. She nodded, and turned to gather her equipment as I walked out with my manager.

“The set is this way,” SaTia said and pointed to the right as we began speed walking. “I've already run down what he can and can't ask you, but it sounds like most of his questions will be about the record.”

“I know, he told me.”

“Just be careful what you say, okay? The record is out and it's done its job—there's no use in rubbing it in.”

I could hear the concern in my best friend's voice.

“You not still worried about those fools, are you?”

“Just be careful what you say, okay?”

We approached an open doorway with a curtain in front of it, and two men who looked like the guys on the runway at the airport. One pulled off his headphones and turned to us while the other kept up a conversation over a walkie-talkie.

“The stage is on the other side of this curtain. You'll be coming on from the far right, and the camera will be on you from the time you emerge until the time you sit down with Phil. This is live, so please no profanity or lewd comments. Have a great show.”

SaTia nodded at the stagehand and then turned to me. “I'll be waiting back here during the interview. If something goes wrong, I'll come out during the commercial break. Otherwise, see you when it's over.”

I had the urge to kiss her. I always had the urge to kiss her before I went onstage, like just in case someone was waiting in the crowd with bad intentions, at least I got one in before I died. Instead, I did what I always did, which was nod at her. She nodded back, and took two steps behind me.

The ground controller began a silent countdown with his hands. When he got down to seven I took a deep breath and checked myself. My jeans and Washington Wizards jersey were on point, my Jordans were fresh, and both my chain and my grill were bright enough to power a solar vehicle. I was ready.

Three fingers...two fingers...one finger...

The guy extended his arm out toward the curtain and I walked through.

I wasn't expecting people to be so excited about seeing me. I'd always thought late-night talk shows were for rich, white insomniacs, and I figured the most I'd get was a modest applause before I made my way to the couch and sat down.

Instead, there was this huge roar that seemed to originate from everywhere. It started when I came out from the curtain, blinded by the stagelights and waving to people whose faces I couldn't make out. It was like a huge, deafening tidal wave.

By the time I made it across the stage and was sitting down beside Phil, the room seemed to be split down the middle. One side was simply yelling and cheering, while the other side was chanting my name like a mantra.

“Da Nig-ga! Da Nig-ga!...”

It took a while for Phil to quiet everyone down, but he managed to do it without breaking a sweat. We both took a seat, him behind the same desk that his nightly fans were so used to, and me on the comfortable loveseat beside it.

Phil spoke with the same energetic tone he always used.

“Well, I guess we know what side all the black people are sitting on in the audience, huh? I imagine that most of your white fans don't feel comfortable saying your stage name.”

Even as I sat in front of a nationally televised audience, time seemed to freeze for a second.

The truth was that he was probably right. Now that I had reached this new superstar status, there had been this big thing about who could and couldn't say my stage name. Every white person I met acted like Phil back in the dressing room. They were terrified of saying “Da Nigga.” There had even been a news report done on all the white guys who got punched in the face at my concerts for screaming it after the show.