A House Is Not a Home (11 page)

He remembered.
. . . “No. But I may be soon. I got an offer today to helm a new Black magazine. They want to meet with me on Tuesday.”

“That's great, Mitchell! What's it called?”

“Nothing yet. They say that's up to me.”

“Wow. Have you made a decision yet?”

“No. I'm gonna see what they have to say next week.”

“Good luck with that, man.”

“Thanks.”

“You still in Fort Greene?”

“Yeah. I bought a brownstone six years ago.”

“Ah, we're both home owners. Your settlement must've come through.”

He remembered that, too.
. . . “It did.”

“And you live in this big brownstone all by your little brown self?”

“No. With my daughter and—”

“Your who?”
This time Montee stopped so cold in his tracks he almost tripped over his feet.

“My daughter.”

“
You
. . . have a
daughter
?”

“Yes. Her name is Destiny. She's five.”

“Hmmph . . . this is a conversation I
have
to have sitting down.” Montee opened the door to Tiffany's.

Mitchell entered and couldn't believe his eyes. The place had received a total makeover. Everything was different: the floors, the wallpaper, the booths, the tables, the chairs, the stools, the bar, the menus, even the silverware and table napkins. For a moment, he thought he was in the wrong restaurant. Time really does fly: he hadn't been there in close to a decade. One thing hadn't changed, though: the place was packed with SGL men (and a few women) of various shades of brown, kee-keeing away. He laughed to himself as they settled in a booth.

“What's funny?” Montee asked.

“Just thinking about my times here when it didn't look like a Four Seasons knockoff.”

“I take it they were very good times.”

“They were. I first ventured down here fifteen years ago. I didn't know how I managed to exist without it, and
couldn't
imagine not coming down every weekend. But now . . . my nights taking the homo stroll down Christopher Street, then eating here and watching the sun come up are over.”

“But not your days of
being
a homo?” Montee chuckled.

“Never.”

The waiter took Montee's order and left. “So,” Montee began, “I know you've got a wallet full of pictures of Destiny you can't wait to show me.”

He did. There were twelve pictures arranged chronologically, beginning with her first day on earth in her hospital bin and ending with her Easter-egg hunting in Central Park two months ago.

Montee couldn't get over how beautiful she was. “She is a
baby doll
.”

“She is.”

He studied father and daughter. “She's got your eyes.”

“Well, she should.”

“Are you telling me you
actually
. . .”

Mitchell laughed. He revealed how she was conceived.

“Damn,” Montee said, as he chomped down on his cheese-burger and fries. “I thought you fathering her was wild, but that story is even wilder.”

“And why is it so hard to believe that
I
could have fathered her?”

Montee didn't miss a beat. “If the phrase
strictly dickly
was in the dictionary,
your
picture would be next to it.”

“Yes. But as a wise man once explained to me, ‘Just because someone is oriented toward one sex does not mean they cannot be attracted to or be intimate with the other.'”

It took a few seconds, but it registered:
he
had said that. “What are you, an FBI agent?”

Mitchell chuckled.

“So, you're raising a daughter.”

“And my godson, Errol.”

“The fifteen-year-old having the birthday party?”

“Yes.”

“How did he come to be with you?”

Mitchell gave his stock answer. “Since I live two blocks from his high school, his mother and father felt it was best he live with me.”

“And . . . you're raising them alone?”

“I am.”

“Ah . . . so, that brother you were with when we met . . .”

“We're . . . no longer together.”
I haven't said that out loud in some time . . . feels like the first time
.

“Did you tell him about us?”

“I did. But we didn't break up because of you.”

“Ah. How long has it been?”

“Close to four years.”

“So, what happened between you two?”

Mitchell gave him a very abbreviated version of the breakup. By the end of that story, they were sharing a slice of strawberry cheesecake.

“Do you two still talk?”

“Like twice a month. Mostly about Errol.”

“Are you seeing anyone now?”

Mitchell knew he'd get around to asking that. “No. Looking after a teenager and a kindergartner doesn't leave much time for a social life.”

“Even more reason for you to have one. When's the last time you had any?”

“Now,
that
is
none
of your business.”

“That long, huh?”

Mitchell hesitated. “It's been a year.”

“Who was he?”

He told him about Vinton Woodson, the contractor who redesigned and rebuilt his brownstone (built in 1792, it had been abandoned for thirty-five years until, through a neighborhood revitalization program, Mitchell purchsed the unit from the city for ten thousand dollars). Mitchell ran into Vinton at Dayo's in July 2001, and they dated for a year.

“Was that your longest relationship since . . . ?”

“Yes.”

“Why did it end?”

“He wanted something more permanent.”

“And you didn't?”

“I . . . I just wasn't sure if I wanted it with him.”

“What was wrong with him?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what was wrong with
you
?”

“Nothing. I just realized I was with him because he reminded me of my ex.”

“Mmm. Does ol' boyee know he's got you strung out like this?”

“He doesn't have me strung out.”

“What would you call it?”

Mitchell searched for an answer. “I still have feelings for him.”

“Yeah,
strong
feelings.”

Mitchell turned the tables. “Are
you
seeing anyone, socially or sexually?”

That was another Montee-ism being thrown back at him. “You got a good memory. I'm not at the moment, socially or sexually.”

“I heard through the grapevyne you're seeing Bill-E.” Bill-E is a new singer on the scene, a high-yellow Tyrese from Denver whose debut Montee coproduced. Like Montee, Bill-E is bow-legged and has a booty way out to
there.
Montee, who is knockin' on forty, is twice his age.

Montee frowned. “Where you hear that?”

“My sources.”

“Who?”

“They're
my
sources; if I told you who they were, then they'd be
yours
.”

“Well, as the white men in dark blue suits from Enron and WorldCom told America: ‘On the advice of my attorney I invoke my Fifth Amendment privilege to respectfully refuse to answer questions on the grounds that they may incriminate me.'”

Mitchell then went in for the kill. “What about Noble?” Noble is a rap artist Montee was kickin' it with when they met.

To Mitchell's surprise, he was willing to talk about him. “We haven't been . . . together since the beginning of '96. When I came out swingin' in that
Source
interview, he was on that month's cover. So I'm sure he was glad what we had ended long before then.”

“I'm glad you went there in that interview. And that you shut down Miss Conflama on
Oh Drama!
”

Montee rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, I'm tryin' to forget that mess!”

“And that you put Arm
wrong
in his place.”

“Somebody needed to. He's such a moron. Not to mention biphobic and homophobic.”

“Indeed. You deserved all the attention you got. It's just too bad you got it for the wrong reasons.”

“Uh . . . do you still respect me?”

“Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?”

“You know . . . fanning the ‘who is the Gay Rapper?' flames.”

“You didn't fan the flames; you tried to blow the smoke in another direction. You were the only voice of reason during the whole episode. Besides, if anybody should be able to exploit such a phantom concept, why shouldn't it be a bisexual singer who knows firsthand who is gay in hip-hop?”

“Well, thanks. I knew we could juice it, the
right
way. Without the publicist's knowing it, I had an intern add the line ‘Mr. Simms, who has had relationships with both men and women' to the press release. The very next day, we were getting calls, and they were all related to that.”

“I'm sure the record company wasn't pleased.”

“Nope. They were ready to pull the single and the CD and cancel the contract, arguing that I had breached the agreement since I signed on as a ‘straight' artist.”

“No, you didn't. They just
assumed
you were.”

“
See
. They couldn't go into a court of law and argue that I misrepresented myself, since no one ever asked me the question, and there's no clause stating that. But they changed their tune when
Soul-full Sounds
started flying off the shelves.”

“But they still dropped you.”

“Yeah. With the second CD, they wanted me to be quiet about it, as if people would forget—and
I
would forget. They wanted me to sign a statement saying that I would not talk about it in interviews.”

“You're kidding!”

“Nope. So we agreed it'd be best to part ways. I went right to work incorporating FoReal, hiring a small staff, and roping a distributor.”

“I know you said you wanted to do that. I was so happy to hear you did.”

“It's no big deal. Everybody and their aunt has their own record label these days.”

“But they all don't have the kind of vision or talent you do. And I don't know of any other out acts who do gay and straight versions of their songs.”

“As you know, flattery gets you
everywhere
with me.” Montee winked.

Mitchell blushed then frowned. “Did you experience a backlash from others in the industry?”

“
Did?
I still
do
. I knew going in that I'd lose a few friends and gain some enemies. But I'm not bothered by the cold shoulder. I
am
bothered by the hypocrisy of some who don't wanna be friendly with me in public but try to get friendly with me at the after party . . .”

“
Or
, in the hotel lobby . . . ?”

“Right.”

“Why don't you just blow their cover?”

“They just ain't in the space to do what I'm doin', and that's okay. But if they get stupid and start goin' off on some homo or biphobic rant, the whole world will know when, where, and
how
they sucked my dick and spread them cheeks.”

“Mmm. Since you brought
that
up: I loved how you spread
yours
in
Playgirl
.” When he was still
the
talk of the industry, Montee posed for the magazine. While there weren't any frontal nude shots (although his hard-on could be seen through the mesh wrap that draped him), there were plenty of his bare bootay.

Montee gushed. “Folks
still
bring it to events for me to sign. I never would've thought so many brothers read that magazine.”

“Ha, they weren't
reading
the magazine!”

They cracked up.

“Do you think other acts will follow your lead?”

“Posing in
Playgirl
?”

“No, silly. Being out.”

“I hope so. But folks act like I'm the only one. There are many out artists; they just haven't gotten the press I have. But the time is ripe for a brother in hip-hop who has proven he's got skills to just break out. Hell, the world's most popular rap artist is a white boy and the most popular golfer is a brother.
Anything
is possible.” Montee pointed to Mitchell. “
You
could follow my lead.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Have you been singing?”

“Just for Destiny.”

“Ah. What do you sing for her?”

“Number one on her list is ‘Now I Know My ABC's,' by Patti LaBelle.”

“From when she was on
Sesame Street
?”

“Yes. Then there are nursery rhymes, Christmas carols, songs from
The Wiz
and
Willy Wonka
. They're her favorite movies.”

“Mmm. I'm sure she loves to hear her daddy sing.”

“She does.”

“
I'd
love to hear her daddy sing.”

“Now?”

“Not now. After we get out of here.”

Hmm
. . . “And just
where
would this performance take place?”

Montee thought about it. “How about the Monster? They have a piano.”

“Uh-huh, which someone is
paid
to play.”

“So, I'll talk to the manager.”

“He won't let you play. He probably doesn't know who you are.”

“Then it's time he did. Come on, for old time's sake.
Please?
”

Some things never change: the man knew how to beg—and knew that it worked.

Montee bypassed the manager and just slipped Dalton, the piano man, fifty dollars to take his stool during his half-hour break. Some of the bar's patrons were men of color, but Mitchell still had his doubts.

“Maybe we shouldn't do this.”

“Why not? You got cold feet?”

“No. I just don't want to humiliate myself.”

“And how could you humiliate yourself with
me
on the keys?”