Any Way the Wind Blows (3 page)

“Oh, it is? I’m sure he won’t mind,” I said as I sat down without hesitating and opened my purse for a mint. A few minutes later, Marc Hudson, a big bear of a man, walked in cheerfully and took the seat right next to me. I wanted to whisper to him that suspenders didn’t look good on big men, but I resisted.

“So you ready to rock and roll, Yancey B?” he asked with a huge smile.

“As ready as I’m going to be.” I smiled.

“Then let’s make some money,” he said as he opened his leather portfolio.

“Lucy, can you get me a notepad and some carrot juice?” I asked. She looked at me, rolled her eyes and then looked to Mr. Hudson for confirmation.

“You heard our new star, Lucy. Get this lady a pad and some juice. Let’s go over the plans.”

This was the final meeting before the official launch of my album. My first single was due to be released in a couple of days, and I was ready to meet and greet my fans. There were five other people besides Lucy and Marc sitting around the table. They all had pads of paper and held their pens nervously like anxious executives on the brink of losing their jobs if they didn’t come up with a fresh idea soon.

“Anthony, what was the feedback from the listening party?”

“Very, very positive. Everyone loved the album, and they’re all on board for the promotions,” Anthony said.

“So are we all agreed on the first single?” Marc asked.

“Yeah, everyone loved ‘Any Way the Wind Blows.’ Everyone thinks it’s going to be a big hit,” Anthony added.

“Is anyone concerned about the lyrics?” I asked.

“Great question, Yancey,” Marc said with another smile. He then turned to a plump sista who was obviously a member of the Fake Flowing Hair Club and quizzed, “Vivian, what are the radio programmers saying?”

“Well, Marc, they think it will be controversial, but it’s such a beautiful song, and Miss Yancey B delivers on the vocals. Bottom line, they think it will help … if …,” Vivian said.

“If what?” I asked.

“If you’re willing to talk about the contents of the song,” Vivian said as she looked down at her yellow pad.

Before I could answer, Marc’s strong voice boomed, “Of
course she’ll talk about it. With the song and the video we plan to shoot, everyone will be talking about it.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to sell records,” I said, making eye contact with everyone at the table to let them know I meant business. Lucy came back into the conference room with the carrot juice and a fresh legal pad and placed them in front of me.

Anthony reviewed the cities where I would do promotional performances and record store signings.

“Of course, we’ll do the key major markets, New York, Chicago, Atlanta, Detroit, and since Yancey is from Tennessee, I thought we’d add Memphis,” Anthony said.

“How does that sound to you, Yancey B?” Marc asked.

“That’s great, but what about Los Angeles? And do we have to do Memphis?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course we’ll do Los Angeles. And if not Memphis, how about Nashville? I think we need to do New York first, so we can kill two birds with one stone by shooting the video and having the showcase performance in the same week.”

“Let’s just skip Tennessee altogether,” I said. Then turning to Marc, I asked, “What’s the concept for the video?”

“If you think the song is going to be controversial … wait for the video.” Vivian laughed.

“We are ready for you in New York,” said Michel Rodriguez, a small cute Hispanic man who was going to be my main contact in New York. He had come out the day before, and the two of us enjoyed a “get-to-know-you” lunch at the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills.

“Any Way the Wind Blows” was a beautiful ballad that told the story of a young woman, me, whose groom leaves her at the altar for another man. It was one of the first songs Bobby had written for me after I told him what my ex-fiancé, Basil, had done to me.

The plan was to shoot me all dolled up, in fabulous gowns, with a large canopy bed in the background. When I hit the final note, I was going to turn with a forlorn look on my face toward the bed and discover two well-muscled and good-looking men going at it, while tears rolled down my face.

I didn’t know if I was ready to talk about my personal life and would have preferred that the company make my cover of “I’m Not in Love” the first single, but it was their record company. I just hoped the world, and especially Basil, was ready for the way the wind was about to blow.

• • •

M
y ringing phone awoke me from a sweet dream. I was dreaming that I was at the Grammys receiving an award for Best New Artist from Lenny Kravitz. Just when I was about to make my acceptance speech, the phone rang.

I rolled over and picked up the phone. “Hello,” I mumbled. I figured it was Malik trying to get a little sumthin’ sumthin’ early in the morning, but then I remembered that he had a key and his wife was in town.

“Do you miss me, Mommy?” the voice of a little girl asked.

“Who is this?” I asked as I sat up straight in my bed.

“Do you miss me, Mommy? I miss you.”

“Who is this?” I demanded.

There was silence for a few moments, and then an adult female voice came over the phone and said, “I’m sorry. My daughter is playing with the phone.”

I was quite relieved. “You need to keep your daughter under control!” I said as I hung up the phone.

T
he third week of January was proving to be much better than the first. I had been able to pick up two night wait shifts and had two “go sees” in one day. I knew that didn’t mean I was going to get the job, but at least I was getting in front of clients.

I showed up ten minutes early at CBS Music on Avenue of the Americas, where I was welcomed by a lobby of good-looking black men. The same ones I saw on most calls. From the look of the lobby, the client hadn’t specified light or dark, since the room was filled with men with skin tones that ranged from vanilla-yellow to chocolate fudge. I nodded and gave my fake glad-to-see-you smile to a couple of guys I always saw on castings. I checked in with a receptionist who seemed to be enjoying all the male company, took a seat and pulled out
USA Today
. I had just finished the Life section and was looking over the front page when the receptionist announced, “Bart Dunbar! You’re on.” I grabbed my bag and rushed to the desk.

“Someone will be out here in a few seconds,” she said. A few moments later, a short black girl dressed like a boy said,
“I’m Audrey. Come with me.” I followed Audrey down a long hallway and then into a conference room.

“This is Bart,” Audrey said to a tall, thin white boy with slouching shoulders and a big-boned, brown-skinned sister with an auburn pageboy wig on that didn’t fit her round face.

“Come on in, Bart. I’m Steven, the casting agent.”

“Nice meeting you,” I said as I shook his frail hand.

“This is Suzy, the casting assistant,” Steven said.

“Nice meeting you, Suzy.”

“Have a seat. Did you bring your book?” Suzy asked.

“Sure,” I said as I pulled out the large black binder filled with pictures of yours truly. I passed the book to Suzy, and she and Steven began to look at my photos.

“Oh, that’s a nice one. Great-looking body,” Steven said to Suzy. They both were acting as though I wasn’t there. When they finished they looked at me like I was a piece of prime sirloin hanging in a meat freezer.

“We’re looking for someone to be in a music video. Can you dance?” Steven asked.

“I do all right,” I said. Great, I thought, a video, which meant if I wasn’t cast as a principal, I would end up making about two hundred dollars for unlimited hours of work.

“You’ve got to have a great body,” Suzy said.

“No problem,” I replied quickly and confidently.

“Do you mind standing up, taking off your sweater and dropping your pants to your knees?” Steven asked.

“Sure,” I said, grateful I had decided to wear underwear. I stood up, pulled off my navy blue turtleneck and dropped it on the table and then unbuckled my belt and dropped my
jeans, not to my knees but to my ankles. I figured they should see the entire package. I gave Steven a look like if Suzy weren’t here, I would make sure you gave me this job in sixty seconds.

“Turn around,” Steven directed.

I turned around slowly like I was on top of a music box, and then back again.

“You have a great body,” Steven gushed.

“Thank you. Do you need to see more?” I asked with a wicked smile.

“Oh, no. You can pull your clothes back up,” Suzy said.

“Do you mind answering a few questions?” Steven asked.

“No.”

“Tell us about yourself,” Suzy said.

“I’m from Cleveland,” I said, thinking, Oh no, this is one of those let’s-play-male-beauty-pageant calls. I could anticipate the next question.

“Give us one word that describes you,” Steven said.

“Expensive.” I smiled.

“How long have you been modeling and acting?” Suzy asked.

“I don’t consider myself an actor. I’ve been modeling for about five years,” I said.

“What type of music do you like?”

“All types, but mostly jazz and R and B,” I said.

“Do you have any questions for us?” Steven asked.

“When are you going to make a decision?”

“In the next forty-eight hours,” Suzy said.

“I would
love
this opportunity,” I said. It always helped to beg for a job.

“We’ll get back to you,” Suzy said firmly. It was definitely a don’t-call-us, we’ll-never-call-you tone.

“Thanks,” I said as I grabbed my portfolio and headed for the door.

S
ometimes the best Christmas presents come after the holiday season has ended, like the end of January. And for someone in the competitive business of sports management, the best present comes in the form of a 6′4″, 225-pound All-American tight end.

“So you’re sure you want to do this?” I asked.

“Folks, are you crazy? Just show me where to sign, and it’s goodbye CSU and bling, bling, hello NFL,” Daschle said.

“You’ve read the contract?”

“Yeah, I read it. It’s chill.”

“And your mother approves?”

“Yeah, she’s ready for a new house and a new car,” Daschle said, with a huge smile on his face. A smile I’d seen several of my clients flash when they talked about their mamas.

I was thinking how many times I’d heard “gonna buy a house and car for my mama, and one for my girl.” I wanted to make sure that I arranged a meeting with a financial planner immediately for Daschle Thompson, my first client of the year. I hadn’t expected to sign Daschle so soon, since he was only a
sophomore. I’d actually been trying to sign his roommate, who was a certain first-round choice until he had a career-ending injury during the third game of the season. I had mixed feelings about signing someone who had spent only two years in college, and I always made sure potential clients knew the moment they signed on the dotted line, or accepted a meal or trip from an agent, it was bye-bye college days. I also warned them that the NFL not only stood for National Football League but also Not For Long. A halfback from Itta Bena, Mississippi, Daschle had pulled in over eighty-two receptions for more than 1,200 yards and had been told by scouts he could be a certain first-round pick if he decided to leave college early. That was all D, as his friends called him, needed to hear.

Daschle leaned over my desk and signed his name very slowly. I wondered for a moment if he was having second thoughts. It looked as though he was filling in the holes on a test card rather than signing his name. When he finished, I looked at his signature and chuckled.

“Daschle, from the looks of this signature, if you don’t make it as a football player then you could be a doctor. Your handwriting is bad,” I joked.

“A doctor?” Daschle asked with a puzzled look on his face.

“Dawg, haven’t you heard about … forget about it. I was just kidding,” I said. I guess the doctors in Mississippi had good penmanship.

“I feel ya,” Daschle said as he shook his head.

“So what do you feel like eating? We need to go out and celebrate,” I said as I moved the signed contract into my
in
basket.

“Don’t matter. Some chicken or maybe a steak or
sumthin’. I ain’t choosy. I just want to go to a tittie bar and get me a private lap dance and then get some Z’s,” he said.

“I’ll have my assistant find us a place that has both. I mean, chicken and steak. There are a couple of places we can go for a lap dance.”

“Cool,” Daschle said as he stood up and stretched his healthy body. He then walked over to my large picture window overlooking Columbus Circle and the entrance to Central Park and looked out onto the city.

“So how tight are you and your girl, Allison? That’s her name, right?”

“My dip, yeah, that’s her name and we tight. I ain’t ready to walk down the aisle and shit, but she’s cool.”

“I hear ya,” I said as I pressed the intercom button for my assistant, Kendra.

“Yes, sir,” Kendra said.

“Kendra, see if you can get me a reservation at Jimmy’s Uptown Café in about an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

I looked at Daschle and said, “I think you’ll like this place. It’s up in Harlem and it’s the top shit right now.”

“Dude … Harlem. I’ve always wanted to go to Harlem.” He had a child’s smile on his face like I had just told him I was giving him an all-day pass to Disneyland.

“I’ll even have my driver give us a little uptown tour. Harlem all of sudden is the hottest spot in New York City. Can you excuse me for a second?”

“Cool.”

“Make yourself at home. If you need to use the phone or listen to music, go ahead. I shouldn’t be but a few minutes. I
need to talk with my partner, Brison,” I said as I moved from behind my desk.

“Take ya time, dawg. I think I’ll just enjoy this view,” Daschle said.

I left my office and walked the few yards to Brison’s office. His door was open and I could see him looking down at his desk. I knocked once firmly, and Brison looked up and motioned for me to come in. When I moved closer to his desk, I saw that he was studying a glossy color brochure.