A Woman’s Work: Street Chronicles (7 page)

I sat in that damn bathtub until my fingers resembled those of an elderly woman. Just when I got the willpower to leave the bathroom, Amanda knocked on the door. “Come in,” I said pleasantly while wrapping my towel tightly around my body.

“My boss just called and said you’re on the schedule to work tomorrow. Girl, you got the job. He said he’s going to start you off with something easy until you get fully trained. You’re going to be a hostess.”

“Hostess?” I asked, not knowing what the hell a hostess really does.

“Basically all you have to do is smile, politely greet the customers, and escort them to their seat. I’ll train you on everything else.”

“Are you kidding me? I got the job! Did I really get the job?” I began to jump around for joy. “Thank you, Jesus, thank you so much. Thank you too, Amanda. I owe you my life.”

“Girl, I didn’t do anything that you couldn’t do for yourself,” she modestly replied. “Just don’t make me regret this shit. I’ve
seen a lot of girls get caught up in a lot of bullshit; don’t be one of them.” We exited the bathroom, and she made her way to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Deer Park Spring Water. “If you’re serious about this music thing, you’ll need photos, a bio, and a demo. What do you have?”

“Not a damn thing,” I replied. “I don’t have shit to my name. Those bitches took everything from me. Now, I can write my own bio, but I don’t have any pictures or music. But I met a guy named Fatz earlier and he’s going to manage me, so I’ll have something very soon.”

Amanda did a 180-degree turn, nearly breaking her neck. “Fatz? Fatz from NBE?”

“Yeah, he said his label is called …”

“Never Broke Entertainment,” she finished. “Girl, he’s nothing but trouble. He’s a big fat-ass freak. Because he’s got money, these bitches are out here throwing themselves at him left and right. He’s all about him and no one else.”

I almost vomited. I felt horrible because I was one of those girls she was talking about, and what makes it worse is that today was my first damn day in Atlanta and I already managed to do some smutty shit. “Well, all I want him to do for me is take me to the studio and introduce me to some producers so I can get this demo completed and then I’m bouncing.”

“Melissa, please don’t get caught up with that nigga. Get your songs recorded and bounce like you said. That fool is a nasty fat ho.” Amanda then wrote down a number and handed it to me. “Anyway, call this guy Greg tomorrow morning and tell him I referred you to him. He studies photography at Georgia State University and is always looking for new faces. You can help him build his portfolio, and he can give you pictures. He was one of the first people I worked with out here, and trust me, he knows his shit.”

“Girl, I don’t have any clothes to do a photo shoot. After I get my first paycheck I’ll call him and make an appointment.”

“Chill out, Melissa. I have more than enough clothes in my closet, as you can see. All I ask is that you respect my shit. I told you we’re going to help each other, and I mean that. Get your photos done, write your bio, and hurry up and get your songs recorded. After that, I expect you to be grinding by day and working at the restaurant by night.”

“Trust me, I plan to do just that,” I assured her.

The next morning I called Greg to schedule my photo shoot, wrote my musical bio, and gave Fatz a call to discuss our little business arrangement. He told me I could record in the mornings, but I had to be out of the studio by 6:00 p.m. because other artists had those time slots locked. That was perfect for me anyway because I’d be working in the evenings and could only record in the mornings.

Later that evening, I went to work and did the damn thing, even making a few of my own tips. I was doing an excellent job, if I did say so myself, considering that this was the first job I’d ever had. The following weeks, I worked six nights a week and spent my days in the studio with Fatz. Just as he’d promised, he introduced me to many producers, who were eager to work with me as soon as they heard my voice and saw my potential. Pretty soon I started making money on the side by writing for local artists and collaborating with a few, even jumping on a couple hip-hop mix CDs to get my name out there in the streets.

But of course everything came with a price. As long as I continued to make Fatz and his friends happy, they made me happy. I’d had threesomes before, but now you could add foursomes to my list. While other artists were paying top-notch dollars to record, all I had to do was suck and fuck a little and my debt was paid in full. It took me no time to record an entire CD greater than the songs I wrote and performed for Pretty in Pink.

So there I was living out my dreams in Atlanta just as I’d planned. To be perfectly honest, I no longer needed Fatz to manage
me because I was doing a damn good job all by myself. I really didn’t enjoy compromising my body and dignity day after day, and now that I’d established myself, I could finally break free from Fatz and his friends. Once again, the stars seemed reachable, and I knew I was only seconds away from getting my big break. This time around, I was much stronger and wiser, and I had destiny eating out of the palms of my hands. No one was going to stop my shine, and I meant
no one
!

I
contentedly walked into the radio station holding my CD with pride because I knew it was phenomenal; every track was a banger. I worked with some of the best producers in town, and of course my writing and vocal skills were off the meter, so it came as no surprise that this CD would ultimately get me signed. I had all my ends covered so I figured this should be a walk in the park. My bio was well written, thanks to me. My photos were breathtaking, thanks to Amanda’s friend Greg, and on top of it all, I had a remarkable CD, thanks to Fatz and his many, many friends. Furthermore, my single, “Shake That Water,” was popping off in all the strip clubs, which threw my name out in the streets. I’d been in Atlanta for eight months and already I’d accomplished way more than I did with Pretty in Pink, or should I say Jazzy Girls.

My appointment was scheduled for 2:00 p.m., but at 3:15 I was still sitting in the waiting area in anticipation of the program director coming out and meeting with me. It wasn’t like I just up and came in unannounced; I’d called and made this appointment a week ago, so I really didn’t understand the holdup, but I guess situations like these came with the territory.

I was damn near dying of boredom when suddenly a very prissy lady walked out from the back laughing at a joke shared among her co-workers and called out, “Are you Melissa James?”

“Yes, that’s me,” I enthusiastically answered as I quickly jumped from my seat and walked over to formally introduce myself. “Good afternoon, how are you? Are you the program director?”

Miss Thing barely looked my way as she turned and snobbishly replied, “Follow me.” Deep down inside I wanted to tell this bitch off, but I couldn’t because my future lay in her hands. I wanted to ask her why she was acting so high and mighty. She was probably more approachable when she was interning at the radio station, but as soon as she got that promotion she thought it gave her the right to treat local artists like myself like crap because we needed her to play our music. This was the part of networking that I dreaded the most. The part where you have to kiss up to people who are undeserving.

“Take a seat,” she ordered. “Jay Spinz will be in shortly to meet with you.” Oh, my goodness. This smart-ass bitch wasn’t the program director after all. I wish I knew that a minute ago. I wouldn’t have been so obedient toward her bony ass.

So once again, I was sitting in a room waiting for the program director. This was a very humbling experience for me. I swore, as soon as I got this deal, I was going to put this radio station on blast, especially that prissy little bitch. You’d have thought I was in here asking for handouts. All I was asking for was some airtime.

I did everything I could think of to keep from losing my sanity, including reading all the banners and flyers hanging on the walls. When the door finally opened and a very tall man walked through, I hoped and prayed it was finally the program director and not another wannabe like Miss Priss.

“Hello, pretty lady. I’m the program director, Jay Spinz. How are you today?”

Thank God. Those were the words that I’d been waiting to hear all damn evening. “Oh, I’m fine,” I answered with a warm smile. “I’m a little nervous, but happy to be here.”

Jay was different from the others I’d seen so far. He was far more hospitable, with a very pleasant attitude. “Oh, don’t be nervous, sweetheart. I’ve heard about some of your work, and you’re hot, Melissa. To be honest, I wonder why it took you so long to come in here to holler at me.” At that very moment, my confidence level rose to the roof. A huge smile crossed my face to the point that my cheeks were actually hurting. It was so fulfilling to know that the people at the radio station actually knew of me. “You really know your stuff, baby girl. From what I hear, you’re the shit.”

“Thank you so much. I’ve been working tremendously hard on this album, and I really wanted to showcase my talent. There’s so many things I can do if I only have the opportunity and the right people in my corner.” Of course your girl knows how to sell herself, so it should come as no surprise that I was working the room. Jay sat for almost ten minutes as I ranted and raved about my progression as a solo artist and how I ghostwrote for many local artists here. “Like I mentioned before, I just need the right people in my corner,” I emphasized, hoping he was willing to jump on the bandwagon to help promote me. “So do you think my song will do well on the radio?” I asked.

For a second there was silence as Jay began to lustfully scrutinize me from head to toe like I was a piece of meat he was getting ready to sink his teeth into. Again, I repeated my question, because it was obvious that his mind was traveling to all the wrong places, like a typical man. “Do you think my music will do well in the eight p.m. mix?”

Jay immodestly smiled as he leaned closer toward me and turned the lock on the door. At that moment I was wondering what the hell was going on because the mood had suddenly shifted
from professional to personal. “Yes, I agree with you one hundred percent, Melissa. You are certainly talented, and I for one want to be in your corner.”

Feeling a bit awkward and out of place, I tried to steer the conversation back to my music, hoping he was still on that subject, although my better judgment was telling me he wasn’t. “So here’s my CD.” I reached into my bag for it. “Tracks 1, 5, and 9 are my favorites because they really showcase my range and versatility.”

Jay took the CD, set it on the table behind me, and took the liberty of putting his hands on my thighs. At that moment I knew exactly what was up, but there was no way I was sleeping with this man. Who does he think he is to leave me sitting in this fucking office for hours waiting for him, just to have him bluntly make sexual gestures toward me?

“Maybe you don’t get what I’m trying to say to you. I heard about
you
, not your music. Fatz told me all about the good work you put in, and I really want to see if you’re as good as they all say you are.”
Oh, my God
, I thought. The moment he said Fatz’s name, I knew my secret was blown. No one knew what was going on behind closed doors at the studio but me and the family, but it’s apparent that Fatz couldn’t be a real nigga and keep his mouth shut. Still, I wasn’t going to let this fool put me down and, furthermore, he wasn’t going to insult my character like that.

“Excuse me,” I replied, as I pushed his grimy hands off me. “I came here for you to listen to my music and hopefully to get my songs played on the radio. I didn’t come in here to get insulted.”

Jay looked at me as if I was speaking Chinese. “Come on, FFB. You slept with the whole damn NBE label and you’re in here talking all proper and saying you didn’t come in here to get insulted? Did you feel insulted when you fucked Fatz in his truck five minutes after you met him?” FFB? What the hell does that mean? He started to laugh dead in my face as I sat stunned and quiet. “Now, that’s what you call an insult, a nigga blowing your back out in his
truck. I, on the other hand, am simply asking you to provide me with some of your wonderful services. Maybe you can show me a little something right now. I heard you’re mad flexible.”

I wanted to sink into the ground and never show my face to anyone ever again. The way he labeled me as a first-class whore was inexcusable. Yes, I did sleep with the whole NBE label, and yes, I did have sex with Fatz as soon as I met him but that didn’t make me a freak. I was only doing what I had to do to survive at that moment. I was damn near homeless and starving when I first arrived in Atlanta. I needed some friends to have my back until I got on my feet. Every time I slept with someone, I always reminded myself that once I got my record deal, I would never degrade myself like that again. Jay Spinz didn’t know me from a can of paint, and he’d never understand where I was at. Mrs. Tarsha told me a long time ago that there’s nothing wrong with having sex to get a check. She said she did it and it landed her a rich lawyer husband, so I could only have faith that it would work out for me too.

Jay continued to proposition me, but I was in no mood to hear any more of his offensive proposals. “I thought you wanted to make it in this industry,” he said. “I heard you were serious about getting signed and becoming big and famous.”

“Yes, I want to make it, but I don’t have to sleep with you or anyone else to accomplish my dreams because I’ve got talent, and my CD speaks for itself.”

“Man, the only talent you got is sucking and riding a hell of a dick, from what I was told, so I thought you wanted to add me to the roster. But I see you’re not serious about your music career.” Jay then stood up, opened the door, and practically put me out of his office. “Now I feel insulted,” he said in a joking manner as he rubbed his hand across his face and looked in the mirror. “I know I look waaaay sexier than Fatz’s big ass, and you treated him like a king. I guess I’m not fat enough, is that it?” He lifted his Polo shirt to broadcast his washboard abs in hopes of me getting turned on,
I guess. “Look, baby girl, come back when you get your head right. Remember this, though: If you want me to play, then you have to lay! Have a nice day, FFB.”