Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [37]
“Oh. Well, nice meeting and seeing you ladies. I’m going to take a bath.”
“Yancey, don’t you remember me telling you about Marlana? She’s a singer-dancer. Remember? I sent you her demo tape when you were out in Los Angeles.”
“I don’t think so. Are you working on something?” I asked Marlana as I turned toward her. I studied her face, and it was clear to me that she needed full makeup on a daily basis to achieve her look. Marlana was attractive, but she couldn’t touch me.
“I just left the national tour of Smokey Joe’s Café. I actually auditioned for Chicago when you were doing it on Broadway, but I didn’t get the part. You know Broadway can’t stand more than one or two black divas at a time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Next time you’re up for a show, give me a call and I’ll see what I can do.” I wanted to say Diva? Chile, please, don’t make me knock some sense into you.
“Thanks, but I won’t be doing Broadway anytime soon. I just turned down the lead in Annie Get Your Gun,” she said confidently.
“Why would you do that?” I asked. I bit my tongue to prevent myself from suggesting the producers would have to change the title to Annie Get Your Switchblade, with Marlana in the lead.
“I have a deal with Virgin Records. My single is going to drop in a couple of weeks,” she said.
“Really? Good luck. This is a tough business. You ladies have fun,” I said as I was leaving Windsor’s room.
“Oh, Yancey, there’s an envelope on the counter for you,” Windsor said. “Dionne saw it outside and brought it in.”
“Thanks.”
I walked into the dining room and over toward the bar area, where Windsor usually left my packages and mail. The brown cardboard envelope didn’t have a return address or a post mark, so I was a little bit leery about opening it.
I was sorry I did. Out fell two more photos of two little girls and another note. It read, I’ve narrowed it down to two. Do you know which one is Madison yet?
• • •
I opened my purse and took out a small mirror to check my makeup. I was getting frustrated. Michel and I had spent over six hours screening guys for my video. Almost fifty great-looking guys with bodies to match had responded to our casting call. But when we told them what they had to do in the video, all but one declined. You would have thought we were asking them to pierce a treasured body part. Even after we explained that viewers might not be able to see their faces, most declined. I wanted to tell them it was called “acting” for a reason. Yet most of these guys were models and probably didn’t know the difference. In one scene we wanted them to appear shirtless and embrace another man, and in the other we wanted them to wear some sexy underwear and look lovingly at another man. What was the big deal? Nobody had asked them to kiss. And the few who were interested were way too unattractive to be on the same screen with me. I mean, we’re talking bad skin, gold teeth, missing teeth and bleached blond kinky hair. One guy who had more bounce in his step than me had the nerve to decline for religious reasons. I wanted to say, “Honey, don’t you think God knows about you?’
“Michel, didn’t we tell the agents what we were looking for?”
“Sure did! But when they see a casting for a black man, they send anyone and everyone without really giving the guys the full story.”
“I certainly don’t appreciate their wasting my time.”
“I hear ya. Do you want something else to drink, Yancey?” Michel asked.
“No, I’m cool.” I said.
Michel was very attentive and always made me feel like I was a star who already had a number-one hit. When my song moved up only a few spots last week, I was concerned it’d reached its peak. Michel assured me that once we got the video in rotation on BET and VH-1, the single would shoot to the top.
Michel looked at his watch and said, “I’m going to see if this guy is waiting in the lobby. Sometimes models don’t always follow instructions.”
“Okay,” I said as I pulled out a mint and popped it into my mouth. Just as Michel reached the door, a handsome man with