Whatever You Say I Am_ The Life and Times of Eminem - Anthony Bozza [76]
“Can I get an autograph?” one Game girl asks.
“Yeah, I can give you an autograph,” he says, pulling a Sharpie marker from his pocket. “You got something you want me to sign?”
“Yeah,” she says and pulls one breast from her bikini.
“Yo, you want me to sign you?” he says, smirking.
“Yeah, right there.”
The scrawl matches the posters, angular and racy, and stretches across her breast and cleavage: SLIM SHADY. She giggles.
Insistent knocks go unanswered; Eminem’s security guard just leans against the door now. After a few minutes, he opens it a crack to see who is pounding. Standing there is a guy who says he manages Miilkbone, the white rapper whose anti-Eminem track, “Presenting Miilkbone,” will be released next month on the ill-conceived (produced from his prison cell) Death Row Records compilation Suge Knight Represents: Chronic 2000. On the rap, Miilkbone responds to a line he heard in Eminem’s “Just Don’t Give a Fuck,” from The Slim Shady LP. On his track, Eminem laced together the names of white rappers past, including Everlast and 3rd Bass, not so much on a mission to insult them as to proclaim his mission to defy the white-rap stereotype as a “quest to crush a Miilkbone.” Miilkbone didn’t see it that way. Miilkbone’s manager is denied entrance. Next there is a trio of white girls who squeeze by the manager, attempting to pass Eminem’s security guard while he is talking. They’ve tried three times so far. Patience failed to get them in; flirting, too. This time, they try sympathy.
The guard is holding the door open, blocking traffic, allowing smoke and heat out of the room and only air in.
“We just want to say hi. We’ve come all the way from New Jersey,” one of the girls says.
“Oh, yeah, all the way from New Jersey?” the guard responds.
“Yeah!” another says, hopeful. “We came all the way just to see him. We love him. We promise we won’t bother anybody. We just want to say hi and we’ll leave.”
“Can’t do it. Too many bodies in here.”
“But we came all the way here just to see him,” the first insists, “We’re small, we can fit. You won’t even know we’re in there.”
“You’re gonna see him onstage in a minute. Ladies, you gotta move back.”
A smallish guy in a baggy leather jacket tries to slip through the door.
“Hey, who you with?” Eminem’s security guard asks.
“I was just in there, dog. I’m with all of them, yo.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m K, man. KG.” The guy looks past the guard into the room at one of Royce’s crew facing him. “Yo, dog, what’s up man? How you feelin’?”
“Aiight.”
“He wit you?” the guard asks.
“Nah. I don’t know him.”
“Who you with?” the guard asks the guy.
“I was just in there, man. I know the guy at the label.”
“What label?”
“Shady’s label, man. Dre’s label,” the guy says. “I’m KG, man.”
“There’s no one here from the label tonight,” the guard says. “Keep it moving.”
KG steps back but doesn’t leave. The girls move in for another round. “Sir, I promise, we’ll just say hi and leave,” two say, almost at the same time. “We promise, we just want to say hi.”
We in the room move toward the door when it opens, breathing in the cooler air as the smoke escapes.
The guard has had it. “Everybody! Get away from this door right now. Do not block it. Move outside unless you were invited in here. I am closing this door!”
A line of people wring themselves out of the room, Game girls included, then the door again seals in the bong-water humidity. In the confusion, to the Jersey girls