Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [7]
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.
• • •
My 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.
Drop ’Em, Bart
The 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.