Drama Is Her Middle Name (7 page)

“I mean, look at Fantasia. How in the world is she going to
come out with a book—one that we are to believe she wrote
without any help because hers is the only name anywhere on
it—and she can't read.”

Aaron couldn't help but chime in on this one. “Think of
all of the things she missed out on—like seeing
Crouching
Tiger, Hidden Dragon.
That was a good movie, she never got
to see because it has subtitles.”

“That's a good one!” Ritz said, laughing heartily. “I wonder
if she ever wrote a love letter. Or imagine how many boy-friends broke up with the poor girl in a letter and she never
even knew it.”

“She ain't never played Scrabble. The girl ain't never
played Scrabble!”

“Aaron, stop it!” Ritz howled. “I can't take it.”

“And let's not talk about
Jeopardy
or
Wheel of Fortune.
Ritz, imagine her trying to buy a vowel.”

“And what was her mother thinking? Fantasia Barrino?
How hard is that name to spell? That child must have been
having fits growing up with that one.”

“Okay, Aaron, now you have crossed the line,” Ritz broke
in, trying to hold back the uncontrollable giggles that were
building up inside. “You can't talk about her mother. That's
going too far.”

Aaron was on a roll. Ritz knew if she didn't stop him, he
would go on for the next three hours of the show and it was
only going to get worse.

Sometimes Ritz felt like she was performing a public service—keeping these celebrities in check and keeping her audience hip to what was real and what was fake. She ripped
masks off for all to see the truth. She worked
for
the people.

If a male star came through who seemed a little light in the
pants or to have some sugar in his tank or whom Ritz had
some gossip about him being on the down low but couldn't
substantiate it, she would have Aaron play the sound effect
of an over-the-top gay man howling “Oooooh, how you
doin'?!” The guest never had a clue. The audience did,
though. And they loved it.

If Ritz had hard evidence that the male star was indeed on
the down low—pretending to be straight but actually enjoying the sexual company of men—she would simply ask him.
And the audience could count on Ritz for that, too.

She did have a few altercations after a celebrity got back
to his or her camp and found out what really went down during the interview. One tough female rapper whom Ritz hit
with the gay-man-howling sound effect—which could be
used on a man or a woman—every time she opened her mouth
wasn't too pleased when she found out. In fact, she came
back and waited for Ritz outside of the studio, threatening to
“beat the bitch's ass.” The cops were called. And the next
day, Big Tony was hired to sit outside of the studio during
Ritz's shift. A panic button was also placed under the desk in
the studio just in case things got nasty. Aaron and Chas were
men, but neither had enough of a street game to handle potentially violent guests. Big Tony did.

For the most part, though, celebrities took the whole Ritz
experience in stride. Most understood the rule: The only bad
publicity was
no
publicity. With Ritz's five million (and growing) loyal listeners, they couldn't afford
not
to show up. Ritz
had such a great relationship with her audience that if she
said that a CD was hot, it shot to number one. If she said that
a movie was good, it would debut at the top spot. And as for
books, she was having an Oprah-like touch there, too. While
some people hated Ritz, they couldn't argue with the results
or the fact that her audience loved her.

The love affair began the night Ritz ruined the career of
the hottest newswoman in the business. It solidified Ritz's
place in the annals of radio history, but it also galvanized a relationship between her and “her people.” Ritz was their hero,
their champion. She was the one asking the questions they
were asking in their heads. She was the one not taking any
crap from these celebrities. She was weeding out the fakers
from the shakers. She was the ultimate BS detector. She created an “us” against “them” club, recognizing that there were
way more
us
es in the world than
them
s—the celebrities. She
also recognized that while everyone wanted to be a “them,”
when it was clear that they couldn't, they would rather hate
“them.” It was fun.

The more Ritz outed or exposed celebrities, the larger her
audience grew. Ritz discovered this phenomenon by accident
one night, but the formula was perfected by Chas, the former
party promoter privy to scandals that could take down giants.

“Girl, you better put that champagne down and get ready
for Mariah,” Chas said. “She just got out of her limo and is on
her way up as we speak.”

“Relax, baby boy,” Ritz cooed. “You know mama is
always
ready.”

The final commercial played and the red “On Air” sign lit
up. Ritz was ready on cue.

“Welcome back to the
Excursion
, everyone. Buckle up for
safety!”

Mariah burst in the door, bodyguards and entourage in
tow, carrying a couple of bags from Bergdorf's and a few blue
bags from Tiffany's.

“Oooooh! It's Mimi, everyone! Welcome Mariah Carey to
the show!” said Ritz, as Aaron played applause under the introduction and the intro of her latest hit single. “And as
usual, the diva is bearing gifts. How much do I love you?!”

The two exchanged air kisses on both cheeks as Mariah
took her seat in front of the mike.

“I heard you had Moët, and you can't drink it out of just
any old thing. So I stopped by Tiffany's to get us a couple of
glasses,” Mariah said.

“Now that's what I'm talking about . . .”

8

WINTER GARDEN, FLORIDA

Tracee Remington reclined in her wicker chair on the balcony of her mini-mansion overlooking the ninth hole at
Stoney brook West—a community built on a golf course. She
didn't play golf but she wanted a house with a view. The lush,
rolling greens and the rich golfers in their crisp golf outfits
were a pleasant sight for Tracee as she sipped her green tea.

She would have to pack soon, throw a few things in a bag,
and get ready—physically and mentally—to go back to New
York, or the “cesspool,” as she had begun to call it.

It had been a year since Tracee had been back in the Big
Apple, where she'd left so much of herself. It had been a year
since she walked away from success and accolades to settle
into a life suited for octogenarians.

This part of Florida was coming up, but it was still very
slow. It wasn't South Beach, Miami. It wasn't quite Disney,
which was only a few miles away. This was the slow South.
People moved slowly, they talked slowly, they thought slowly.
And Tracee loved it. It was the perfect departure from the life
she left behind.

Every now and then, though, Tracee longed for New York,
like the time she went to pick up a laptop from Circuit City
near the Millenia Mall just outside of Orlando. The salesman, Robby, dragged himself over to help her. He bragged
about being in the platinum club, meaning he was a top salesman. But when Tracee asked to feel the weight of the laptop,
he had to get a manager for the keys.

“He's a good salesman, but I guess they don't trust him
with the keys,” Tracee thought.

She grabbed a seat when she realized that his “I'll be right
back” actually meant fifteen minutes. When he came back,
he had the keys to unlock the display laptop but had to go
back and get the keys to get an actual new laptop from the
case below. Then Robby proceeded to tell Tracee about all of
the features and the free package of software. It came with
everything except Microsoft Word, Excel, and PowerPoint—
all of the programs she needed. Robby told her that he had a
master copy that he would burn for her, and he would have it
if she came back the next night and met him after he got off.

“And maybe I can take your sweet self out to dinner at Red
Lobster,” he said, flashing a smile with gold outlining his two
front teeth.

That was it. Tracee left without the laptop and had wasted
forty-five minutes of her time. She should have known that
Robby was trouble when she saw the gold fronts and the huge
faux gold high school class ring with the blue stone.

“What grown man wears a high school ring?” thought
Tracee.

But if that was the worst she had to deal with (and it was),
she would take it. It was still better than the cesspool she left.

It had been a year in the sticks—a year away from the
stress and hustle of New York City. It was a year of discovery
and peace for Tracee. She focused on building her spiritual
muscles. Was she strong enough to go back? She was going
back, anyway. She was going to be there for her friend's big
debut. But Tracee was going back for more than Ritz's Grammy
red carpet event, she was going back to New York to reel her
friend back in. In their last conversation, she could hear Ritz
coming undone.

“I don't know what I am doing all of this for sometimes,
Tray,” Ritz said. “My ratings are going up. I am getting offers
from everywhere. I am making more money than I ever imagined making in my entire life. But I am not happy. Why'd you
have to leave?”

“Because
I
wasn't happy,” Tracee said.

“
We
were happy. We were having fun. I know if you came
back, things would be better.”

“I couldn't hear with everything going on, Ritzy. I was
drowning there.”

“I don't know. Maybe when I get some time, I will come to
country-ass Winter Garden and get some fresh air and clear
my head for a week.”

“You need more than a week, Ritzy. In the first week it actually gets worse before it gets better.”

“Then I'm staying put. I can't wait for you to get here. I
think being here without the pressures of your job will be a
big difference.”

Tracee didn't comment. She knew that while she planned
on having a good time in New York—where she still had an
apartment—she was never moving back.

She admittedly had run away from there. But she knew she
wouldn't be completely free until she was able to go back. After being in Florida for a year, Tracee realized that the drama
wasn't connected to a place. Drama could be found anywhere, even in Winter Garden, Florida. If you looked hard
enough, you could find drama at the Vatican with the pope.
Tracee had stopped looking for drama. That's why she took
the buyout package and paid cash for the four-bedroom, three-bath, three-car-garage house on the golf course with a balcony and a swimming pool and a bonus room. It was too much
house for Tracee, but she thought she would meet someone
and have enough children to fill the bedrooms. She envisioned having someone to share this exquisite home with.

Until then, it provided her with a haven—a place to detox
and get the filth out of her system. Tracee even found solace
in writing. She purged by keeping a journal. She thought
about writing a book about her experiences—a guide for
those wanting to break into the music business with inside
secrets, exposing all of the evils. She knew it was sure to be a
bestseller. But, for now, she was content enjoying her “retirement.”

Tracee smiled as she remembered telling her mother she
was retiring.

“Retiring?! Retiring?! Chile, you done lost your mind!” her
mother said. “You ain't but thirty-five years old.
I
haven't
even retired yet. Who the hell do you think you are?!”

Tracee was one of the youngest executives ever at Uni-Global Music Group, which had gobbled up just about every
major recording label, leaving just a few independents to
fight over the scraps. She was also the one of the youngest ever
to take a golden parachute—or, rather, a
platinum
parachute—
when the company decided to downsize the black music department. Tracee volunteered to leave.

Tracee had met Ritz during her ascent at Uni-Global.
She presided over one hit act after another, responsible for
everything from refining their performance to shaping their
relationships with the media. Ritz wasn't
the
Ritz Harper
then. She was on the rise, but she was very much a part of
the media, part of the world that Tracee's artists had to conquer.

Tracee brought up-and-comer Majita to the studio to talk
about her debut album. It was routine. But during the break,
Ritz pulled Tracee's collar.

“You have to tell that young lady that she needs to make
sure she has breath mints before talking to the media,” Ritz
said. “Can you say ‘Enter the Dragon'?”

Tracee was a bit surprised; she hadn't gotten close enough
to Majita to notice. She was also grateful for the honesty and
even more grateful that Ritz didn't say anything about it on
the air. The new Ritz would have. Tracee missed the old Ritz.
She had a lot more in common with the old Ritz, who was
thoughtful and honest and compassionate. She was ambitious
and strong. They were two women tackling a male-dominated
world. As their friendship grew, it seemed that the two of
them were fighting together.

Ritz loved Tracee's realness and spirit, and Tracee could
see the real Ritz through her tough exterior. They kept in
contact because Tracee always seemed to have a hot artist
that Ritz wanted to get on her show. Tracee made it so easy
for Ritz, who was beginning to feel like she had connections.

When Tracee was promoted to head of the black music division, there was no one prouder than Ritz. This was truly the
first time Ritz had a female friend she could actually let her
hair down with, who was equally happy for all of the success
she was experiencing. Tracee was searching spiritually and
developing a better relationship with God. Some of this was
rubbing off onto Ritz. Not a lot, but some.

While Ritz was not heading in the same direction as Tracee,
she was a great sounding board and always had an honest response. In the months leading up to making the final decision
to leave her job and New York, Tracee was wavering, searching for answers. She had dinner with Ritz at Mr. Chow's, a
popular spot on tony Fifty-seventh Street, which featured pigeon on the menu.

“I can't take it anymore,” Tracee said to Ritz right after she
sat down.

“I can't believe you,” Ritz said. “People would kill for your
position. Hell, I think people
have
killed to be in your place.
Why are you complaining?”

“Ritz, I can't explain it, but I feel like I'm dying—like my
spirit is being squashed,” Tracee said. “I'm not happy. But it's
deeper than that. If I'm not covering for some rapper who has
gotten himself in trouble, I'm playing interference for some
singer who is cheating on his wife. And that's the mild stuff.
Every day it seems like I'm laying yet another brick paving
my road leading straight to hell.”

“Whoa! Why you do you have to bring so much drama to
everything? Girl, lighten up. It ain't that serious. Just think,
if you were not in that position—making all of that money, I
might add—some white boy would be sitting in that seat
making all of that money. At least you care about the trifling
Negroes you are forced to work with. At least you try to help
them. Who else is going to do that?”

“Yeah, Ritz, I do care. I care too much. I also have to start
caring about me. I don't know who I am sometimes. I am doing things I know I shouldn't, and I feel like shit about it.”

“Have another drink and get some sleep and you'll feel
better,” Ritz said, waving for their waitress. “Can we get two
more Sapphire martinis, with an extra olive. Thanks.”

Tracee got some sleep that night, but she didn't feel better
the next day. The next morning she decided to check out a
church she had heard about—Faith Baptist. They had a new
young minister. Maybe he would have some answers.

She was desperate.