Antebellum (7 page)

Because it was causing so much controversy, the execs consulted an outside publicist. Mr. Rose (who, after my new album went platinum, told me to just call him Rose) called SaTia and me in one day and told us he had called in Lois Lane.

“Who?” I was high, so I figured I was trippin'.

“Lois Lane,” Rose repeated. “She's the best PR consultant in the business.”

“Is that her real name?” SaTia was documenting the meeting on her laptop.

“It might as well be. They call her that 'cause she's such a tough cunt she's probably the only woman who could survive screwing Superman.”

She walked in the door just as he'd finished his sentence, and I couldn't contain my laughter if you'd paid me. That's a downside to being toasted and trying to do business.

SaTia elbowed me so hard I thought I'd see blood on my next trip to the bathroom, but I couldn't stop. When Lois sat down, she looked at me with my head thrown back, laughing like Heath Ledger in white face paint, and then looked at Rose.

“Told him why they call me Lois Lane, huh?”

“Yep,” he said with a smile.

“I apologize for my client,” SaTia started. “He's...”

“Oh please.” Lois waved her hand nonchalantly. She was a middle-aged white lady whose skin had wrinkled before it was supposed to. Cigarettes had scratched up her throat like a DJ did a record. Her voice sounded like steel nails methodically grinding against sheet metal.

“I've had dreams about it. Give him a second to compose himself. I have to run to the restroom, anyway.”

I had stopped laughing when she returned, but only because I'd exhausted myself. Turns out, that would be the only thing funny about our meeting. She proceeded to advise Rose, SaTia, and me that whenever possible I should deny the racial divide that my stage name caused.

“Always tell the camera that you know plenty of white people who feel comfortable saying your alias.”

“Does it matter that I don't?” I inquired sarcastically. She answered seriously.

“Not at all. People expect to be lied to. Especially by celebrities. At the end of the day, your standpoint should always be that racism doesn't exist in this wonderful country anymore.”

“Hell naw. Look, I know you a hotshot and all, but...”

I still had my mouth open from the sentence she wouldn't let me finish.

“But nothing!” She slammed her palm down on the cherrywood table. I was prepared to put on a spectacle for being disrespected, but when I looked up Lois was staring at me like there was a countdown to the rapture and she was trying to bring me to Jesus.

“I'm sure, Mr. Jenkins, that you're aware of the fact that the largest demographic of people buying your music is young white kids. And believe me, the last thing a white person wants to think about while zoning out to music is whether or not they're a racist. You make this statement and you neutralize the situation. Your record sales have already gone through the roof, but if you do this, they'll go through the stratosphere.”

I didn't even have to look at SaTia. Lois had barely finished her sentence before she spoke up.

“My client WILL NOT compromise...”

This time, Rose cut her off.

“Ahem...umm...look, we know that this is a very sensitive situation. We feel, however, that this strategy will be lucrative for everyone involved.” As he spoke, he gestured to Loen and Mytino, the other two execs who had just walked in the room. I used to call both of them Mister, too, before my new record sales.

“In fact, Moses, we've already drawn up the paperwork for a healthy bonus for you—provided that you stay within the lines of certain public relations boundaries. Of course, we would never
force you to say or refrain from saying anything, but...well, the choice is yours.”

Now all that past conversation had faded and I was back on the set of Phil Winters' show. He was staring at me, showing his artificially whitened teeth, and waiting for my response.

“Actually, Phil, I got plenty white fans who say my name all the time. You probably got a bunch of 'em in that all-black section you was talkin' 'bout. Plus, you forgettin' the Latinos and Asians and anybody else who digs my music. They probably in that all-black section, too. Maybe we could cut on all da lights and see who sittin' where...”

Phil Winters could have a conversation about Armageddon and still keep a smile on his face. This little conversation about race was no different. It was interesting to watch him keep his cheekbones high and his pearly whites showing, but it wasn't a surprise. The surprise was from looking in his eyes up close, during this conversation, and seeing the fear flash through them like the lights on top of a police car.

“No, no, that's not necessary,” he said.

The host still had his smile, but he couldn't hide the red cheeks and forehead.

“Bottom line is—” I began to get heartburn as I was talking, “—I don't believe we got no more racism in America. All dat stuff was back in the past, man.”

Phil Winters broke character for about a half a second, and looked at me completely shocked before he caught himself and put his smile back on. Clearing his throat, he took in a deep breath and kept going.

“So...getting down to business, you've had an amazing couple of months, have you not?”

He was desperate to change the subject, as was I.

“Yeah, most definitely. Last few months have been crazy.”

“Can you tell us how everything got started?”

He was talking about the diss record, but I saw an opportunity to be coy. I couldn't pass it up.

“Well, it all started back when I was eight, and I heard my first rap song on the babysitter's radio...”

I could hear the chuckles from the crowd. Winters smiled at the lighthearted joke.

“As much as we'd all love to hear your life story, I was talking about your musical career. Specifically, the record you made that had such a big impact on the hip-hop world. What is it called again?”

I had to smile slightly as I recounted the name I'd given the song.

“Piss On The Silenzas.”

Phil leaned forward and rested his chin in his palm.

“And we know who it was about, but tell us the story of how it came to be.”

“Well, I got word one day that Trigga and Barrel were makin' a diss record 'bout me...”

“Trigga and Barrel would be the two members of P. Silenzas, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, dat's them.”

“And who did you hear about their diss record from?”

“Some of my inside sources let me know 'bout it.”

“Care to share any names?”

I gave Phil a look and shook my head. Not wanting to break the momentum, he picked back up with his next question.

“Okay, so, you decide to make ‘Piss On The Silenzas.' Did you know when you were making it that it would be such a huge hit?”

“Naw, I had no idea. I mean, it just took off. Label put it out as a single, and it was curtains from there.”

“What do you think made it such a big hit?”

I paused for a second to think.

“It was all 'bout the timing, Phil. They was getting ready to release their first single, which happened to be 'bout me. Matter-of-fact, my label was so slick wid it that we got my single put out the day after their single came out. Made it seem like we was sittin' back waitin' for these niggas to make da first move.”

“And the name of their single—and I know we can't say the real name on the air—but the title of the song they made...?”

“‘B-word Nigga' was the name of their song. Don't worry, Phil, I'm not gon' cuss on ya show. I'm not tryin' to get you in no trouble.”

“Well, I appreciate that. Why do you think they named their song that, though?”

“Well, I'm Da Nigga, so I guess maybe they was tryin' to be creative. Somebody shoulda told 'em they was messin' with da wrong one.”

“Well, I would guess that they know that now. We're going to show a quick clip from the video...”

“Oh, really?”

I wasn't expecting for them to show any clips, but I didn't have a problem with it. A large screen came out of the floor and rose up behind us. I saw Phil begin to turn, so I turned around and faced the screen as well. As it turned on, I immediately recognized the portion of the video that the clip was starting from. I bent over on the loveseat and started laughing. Phil looked at me and smirked. “You still get a kick out of seeing the video?”

I had gotten control of myself, and was wiping my eyes with my shirt sleeves.

“Hell yeah. This is classic stuff right here.”

The lights faded slightly and the video began to play.

I was dressed in baggy jeans and a black hoodie that had “Silence these nuts” written on the front of it. The word “nuts” was blocked out by one of those boxes that distorts the image it covers. The scene took place in a jail, and I was standing outside of a cell while two men were on the inside petting and caressing each other. The words rang out across the studio...

Y'all some bootyhole rappers

Dick in da booty trappers

Y'all n***as drop da soap on purpose

And laugh after

Got up outta jail

Tried to battle da best rapper

Man, they ain't tell you?

I'll hang you from da rafters

Keep talkin'

Watch I put ya face through da pavement

Make you pay for da damages

And put it in my savings

It's basic

You n***as is pussies

So just face it

Came from outta nowhere and failed

Like Sarah Palin...

By the last four lines of the song, it seemed as if the entire audience was reciting the lyrics word for word.

“Wow...” I couldn't hide my shock as the lights came back up and the screen that was behind us lowered back down into oblivion.

Phil looked back over at me.

“Are you surprised that the audience knows the song so well?”

“Yeah. I mean, you would think I'd be used to it by now, right?”

The talk show host leaned forward and crossed his hands on top of his desk.

“This is how someone explained this whole phenomenon to me...well, wait...would you agree that it's a phenomenon? Your instant rise to superstardom, I mean?”

I leaned forward to meet his gaze.

“Real talk, Phil? Look, I thought I was big before. I thought I was already a superstar. But now, with this diss record—man, it's a whole other world. I cain't think of no better word for it than a phenomenon.”

“Okay, good...so here's how someone explained it to me: no matter how peaceful and civilized people try and make themselves out to be, in the end those same people want to see some conflict. And it had been a really long time since rap music had any serious conflict. Small little arguments here and there, yeah, but this thing between you and P. Silenzas has gotten serious. There have been some death threats involved, correct?”

My entire demeanor changed. I shifted back in my seat, rubbed my nose with my thumb and pointer fingers and let my head hang to the side a bit. It wasn't purposeful, but my street instincts kicked in—never show fear.

“Whateva, man. Niggas just mad 'cause I ruined they career. They ain't 'bout to do nothin'.”

“Do you feel as if they have a right to be mad about how things have turned out?”

“At themselves, maybe. Ain't no use in bein' mad at me when you was da one makin' battle records in da first place.”

“That's a good point—they did start it. But you most definitely finished it. I mean, after your record, they couldn't perform anywhere without people reciting your lyrics. People would even call in to their radio interviews to tease them. And, of course, we all know how it turned out. The final indignity.”

“Yeah, we do. They couldn't rap noways. They was gonna get dropped from that label no matter what. I just sped up the process.”

“So you do admit that you played a role in P. Silenzas getting dropped from their label?”

“Look, I'ont know what the conversations sounded like on that end, 'cause I ain't signed to that label. What I'll say is the same thing I been sayin' since the whole thing started—if I ruined anybody's career, then I ruined the career of two fluke rappers who wasn't goin' nowhere to begin with.”

“Well, I guess there's...”

“YOU A DEAD MAN!”

Our heads shot around so quickly, you could hear the wind breaking. I knew where the voice was coming from, but because of the stage lights shining on us, I couldn't see anyone in the audience. Phil stood from his seat.

“Who is that? Security!”

“YOU A DEAD MAN, NIGGA! YOU HEAR ME? I SWEAR TO GOD, YOU...”

I heard what could only be described as a ghetto warrior cry come from Ray or Henry, and then the sound of a grown man colliding with another grown man. They must have landed on or around some other audience members, because two ladies screamed out simultaneously, after which it sounded like nine or ten full rows of people jumped out of their seats to avoid what was happening. As the seconds rolled by, the commotion grew exponentially.

It was the two gunshots that sent everything into utter chaos.

“CUT THE FEED!!!!” I heard someone in charge yell out. Almost immediately, the screen attached to the main camera that had been recording us cut to those multicolored bars that show on public broadcasting channels late at night. The lights came up just in time for me to see three different security guards try and pick a man up from under the stomping feet of Brian and Orlando. I would find out later that Henry was the closest to the guy and
had run headfirst into him. After being knocked down, the assailant managed to climb to his knees, take aim, and fire a shot at the stage before Henry pulled him back down again. The gun went off a second time as they were rolling around on the ground. Henry was bleeding from his right arm, and Ray was trying to get him some help while the studio audience rushed out through two different emergency exits like a stampede.