Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [11]
The bad part of my day came when I returned home and Malik started pleading with me not to leave. When I told him I didn’t have a choice, the record company was calling the shots, so I needed to be in New York for a couple of months, Malik tempted me with my own Beverly Hills apartment and an audition for the remake of Sparkle.
“Sparkle’s being remade? That’s one of my favorite movies! You think I could play Sparkle?”
“Not Sparkle. That role’s already been cast. I think it’s one of those A or B girls. You know, Aaliyah, Brandy or Beyoncé. But you’d be perfect for the role of Sister, because you’re beautiful, sexy and a woman who can sing her ass off,” Malik said. Who did he think he was talking to? First, he was saying I was too old to play Sparkle, but just the right age for the older sister. Maybe it was just a twisted ploy to get me to stay in Los Angeles, but I had a song to promote, and not even an all-black remake of Gone with the Wind was going to keep me in Los Angeles.
“So can I come see you in New York?” Malik asked.
“It’s a free country. Look, I’ve got a flight to catch. Call me on my cell if you need to reach me,” I said as I gently pushed him out of the door.
While I was packing for my trip back to New York, I thought about my mother and how much she would have enjoyed the day I had. Not for me, but for her. The other day, an older black receptionist at Motown said, “Your parents must be so proud of you.” I looked at her and smiled and said, “I hope they are.” The truth is I never knew my father, and my mother, well, Ava’s story is more than just a story, it’s a miniseries. We all have baggage in our lives thanks to our parents. Some of us carry it in a change purse and others use a U-Haul. Me? I need a double-wide mobile home.
Bart Meets Miss Chicken
My friend Wylie David Woolfolk III is the kind of guy who can sometimes put on airs, but when he’s drinking, he’s always the life of the party. Wylie loves his “cocktails,” as he calls his libations. He’s a church queen and is always trying to talk me into going to service with him on Sunday morning and Wednesday evening prayer meeting. I am not into churches and all those hypocrites who pack them. Wylie comes from one of the most prominent African-American families in San Antonio, Texas, which was hard for me to believe since I had never heard of any well-to-do black families from Texas, period. His father and mother had created some magic potion hair product called Jeheri Juice Swirl, right before the hairstyle became popular and made millions. Looking at some of Wylie’s pictures from his youth lead me to believe they used the poor child as a human hair tester. Wylie told me he gets a chill anytime he sees someone wearing his or her hair in a jeheri curl. “Then stay out of prison,” I had jokingly warned him.
Sometimes it seems like Wylie is bragging when he talks about the private schools he attended. Not to mention the Jamaican nanny who raised him, and the annual trips abroad he and his sister took with their parents. He graduated from Southern Methodist University and Columbia’s J school. He’s a partner in an up-and-coming public relations firm handling books and entertainment and he speaks three languages, actually four if you count moogie, the language of B-boyz in New York City and its surrounding boroughs. I knew he sometimes talked about his family’s wealth just to make himself feel good. He suffers from time to time from LSE (low self-esteem). LSE is a common thing in the black gay community, so many of us struggle to find something to brag about. I remember a time when intelligence was considered hot in a man. Then you’d meet someone who couldn’t spell cat (even when given the c and the t) and you’d suddenly find yourself dumbing down just for the dick. Today it’s beauty, sex (which means a