For the Love of Money (15 page)

“Why do you ask me that?”

I wondered if her face was turning red, but my agent was a dark-haired Jewish girl. Her face probably didn't turn flushed.

I answered, “No reason. I guess you'll just find out about that when we finally get this book deal,” I teased her.

“Find out about what?”

I took a deep breath. I didn't have the energy to get into it.

“Another time, okay? Another time,” I told her.

“All right. So what do you want me to do about these scripts?”

I thought about it. “Well, I'm too busy out here to even—” I stopped myself and thought again.
Maybe I
could
use something to take my mind off of all of the drama around here and think more about my future,
I pondered to myself.

“On second thought, go ahead and FedEx them to my parents' house. I could
use
something to look forward to.”

“Okay. Consider it done,” she responded again in that sarcastic little voice of hers.

I said, “Would you stop that? I am
not
like that. And if I ever
do
get a big head, I want you to mail me a letter and let me know, so that I can stick it in my purse and read it to myself at least three times a day.”

She said, “Hey, that sounds like a good idea,” and laughed about it.

I stopped and asked, “So you really feel that I'm getting bigheaded then?” I was definitely concerned about that. A Diana Ross “Super Diva” figure was
not
who I wanted to be,
nor
what I wanted to represent.

My girl said, “Tracy, I'm gonna level with you. If you didn't have the qualities of determination that it takes to make it out in Hollywood, you would have never made it
this
far. Trust me. You
have
what it takes, I just don't want you to overdo it.”

I smiled and said, “Thanks for the compliment, but I am
not
being big-headed.”

She just laughed. “Sounds like a guilty conscience to me.”

“Whatever,” I told her. “I don't have time for your head games right now. So get back to work,” I teased.

My girl went right back to that little voice of hers.

“Oh, yes, of course. I'll get on it right away.”

I hung up the phone with her and planned to pay my agent no mind. If I was getting bigheaded then so be it, because I still had shit that I wanted to do!

... the sun cannot reflect and shine upward.
The dirt looks extra hard and plenty thirsty.
And little boys and girls run inside
with blood gushing from their knees from bottle cuts
instead of grass burns that can be washed away
and kissed.

... the trash decorates the streets and sidewalks
with steel gates and wired fences that intimidate,
distracting clear vision on even sunny days,
and claiming to protect its tenants
from bad, outside influences,
while locking in the good ones who dream America.

... little girls pick up babies instead of lilies
and daisies,
while their boyfriends pick up rocks,
sticks, bats, knives and guns.
But seldom do they pick up their babies.
Maybe babies are too heavy to hold, like jobs.

... Mickey Ds, BKs, TBs, KFCs and Wendy's
are the cleanest and brightest things standing.
Or at least
on the outside.
Because the insides often need sanitation,
including the attitudes of some who work there.

... those who have checks may cash them
for a fee,
not to hold and collect dividends,
but to spend at the next corner
on their favorite friends and past times
instead of saving for a better day.

...neighborhood fights become entertainment,
paid not with golden belts and million-dollar contracts,
but with death
and deep scars that stop you from running,
while mothers cry and wear old dresses
to new Churches for their sons' funerals.

...powerless officials offer Band-Aids
for solutions
instead of signing budgets to uproot the soil
and fertilize the land for grass that grows,
and shines
which may take for generations.

But,
... no one living there has time
to wait,
because Yesterday barely made it,
Today is holding on by a string,
and Tomorrow is forever breaking promises.

Copyright © 1996 by Tracy Ellison

I
settled down in Baldwin Hills and was lazy as hell for my first two days in California. My car needed a break anyway after driving for four days from Philadelphia to get there. I just wanted to sit outside, suck up the West Coast atmosphere, and watch cars drive by from my second-floor balcony.

I had moved to California in style. I actually had a townhouse! I didn't plan to buy any furniture though, that was for sure. If I didn't get connected with a big job, substitute teaching was
not
going to pay my rent. I needed to make some serious money in order to stay there. I bought only a bed, some cheap dressers, and a few new dishes to eat from. I also bought a new color television set and a high-tech VCR with a stand. You cannot
possibly
plan to break into the business of television and film without
those
two necessities. I had given my previous television set and lower-grade VCR to my brother. The rest of my townhouse was empty, upstairs
and
downstairs. I mean, I was in
echo
territory:
HELLO, HELLO, HELLO!

I thought about the prospect of not having any furniture for a while and laughed out loud to myself. I was sure that people would tease me about it, but what was more important, having a nice place to live in a nice area, or buying fancy furniture for a crummy apartment in the 'hood? Excuse me, but I'll take the pretty townhouse with no furniture in a
heartbeat
! A lot of people did without furniture in college, myself included. I was used to it. However, my empty place also served as a reminder of how busy I had to get to make sure that it wouldn't
remain
empty. So I had plenty of work to do.

On my third day of officially living in LA, I finally decided to do a little exploring, you know, drive around on my own and see what I could see. I hopped in my black Toyota (which still had Pennsylvania license plates), and drove past the shopping center on La Brea toward Crenshaw. I just figured that Crenshaw was the place to be.

I guess I wasn't paying too much attention to the road when I came up on Crenshaw. I arrived much faster than anticipated. I jumped in the turning lane in front of an old gray Volkswagen Rabbit. I didn't think too much of it though. The young driver was moving slow and listening to loud rap music anyway. It was no big deal in Philly. You just wave politely to the driver and keep on going.

I turned onto Crenshaw and started cruising with my eyes bouncing from left to right as I took everything in: the shops, the people, the buses, the billboard advertisements, and everything. Crenshaw was definitely BLACK, and I felt at peace with my California people as if I was on North Broad Street back home in Philly. All of a sudden, the young guy driving the VW Rabbit jumped back out in front of me. I went to switch lanes so I could have clear vision from my front windshield. The VW Rabbit swerved in front of me again. I moved back to the first lane that I was in, only for this nutcase to jump in front of me for a third time.

I finally got pissed the hell off and started to yell, “WHAT THE—,” but I stopped myself and realized that I was no longer in Philadelphia. I thought,
What if this asshole has a gun and he's ready to shoot me just for cutting him off?

The next thing I knew, he had switched lanes again and slowed up so that he could pull up right beside me. He looked and grilled at me, and I didn't know if he was reaching his right hand for his stick shift, or for a gun, but I was
definitely
not planning to wait around and find out. I jammed my breaks in the middle of traffic and tried to make a U-turn.

BURRRNNNMP!

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!”

BURRRNNNMP!

“YOU CRAZY ASS!”

People were blowing horns and yelling all kinds of things at me, but I made that U-turn and just missed hitting two oncoming cars. I was a nervous wreck from fear. My heart was practically on
fire
it was beating so fast! I was looking for the first police car I could spot to save me, and there was none in sight. My hands began to shake at the wheel while I looked around for that crazy guy in the VW Rabbit who was hounding me.

I didn't see him, but I took off up Crenshaw and made a left turn back
toward my townhouse anyway. I was thinking about that crazy movie
Menace II Society,
starring Larenz Tate and Tyrin Turner.

“Please, God, let me make it back home!” I hollered to myself while driving like a lunatic.

When I arrived at my townhouse, I hopped out, ducked down, and sprinted back to my door as if a killer was stalking me. I could barely get my key inside of the door I was shaking so badly.

“Hurry up, hurry up!” I told myself. I finally turned my key and lunged into the house before locking my door. I threw my purse to the floor, relieved, and yelled, “SHIT!”

I could barely breathe, and my chest was hurting. I tossed my hands to my face and mumbled, “Oh my God!” My ass was ready to fly back home to Philadelphia
quick,
because I was
not
driving again in LA. Kendra was right. Those Negroes out there were stone cold
crazy!
Just because I cut him off. It wasn't as if I had done it on purpose. I was even afraid to sit out on my balcony, thinking that the guy would drive by and aim up at me with a shotgun.

Of course, everything I did that day was an overreaction. Nevertheless, how the hell was
I
supposed to know that you don't cut people off in LA. Or at least not young black males who listen to loud rap music. When I sat down on my empty hardwood floor and thought about that, it made me sad. My thoughts about the incident fed into the whole stereotype of young black men, rap music, movies, and violence, but shit, if those Negroes didn't
act
so violent in the first place, the stereotypes would have never been started!

I must have sat there on my empty floor and thought about things for a hour. When I was done thinking, I went and grabbed my handy notebook and began to write the most political poem that I think I've ever written, “When the Grass Is No Longer Green...” I used a lot of the information that Kendra had already presented to me, added what I had seen out there with my own eyes, and went from there with my creativity. When I finished it, it was also one of the
longest
poems that I had ever written. However, I wanted to make it even better, so I knew that the initial idea was only a first draft.

I called Kendra to tell her about my crazy drive on Crenshaw, but she was not at home from her school day yet, so I decided to call my girl Raheema long distance in New Jersey. It was three-thirty in LA, which translated to six-thirty in New Jersey. I called Raheema at home instead of at her office at Rutgers. Knowing her studious behind, she was probably working late at the university. I was surprised when she answered the phone.

“Hello.”

“Hey, girl, you busy?” I responded. “I'm officially out in LA now, and
already
I have things to tell you.”

“Long distance at that,” she teased me with a laugh.

“Well, how else am I gonna tell you, through telegram?” I snapped sarcastically. Raheema and I were forever playing a game of smart mouth with each other, no matter how old we were.

“So what happened that's so important already? You met a big-time Hollywood producer who wants to turn your life story into a movie?”

“No, but I was almost shot at today like a movie.”

“Well, that is Bloods' and Crips' town out there,” she told me. “You need to find a book called
Do or Die
by Leon Bing and
Monster
by Sanyika Shakur, and read all about it.”

That was my girl! Raheema knew something about
every
-damn-thing! She was like a walking encyclopedia.

“Well, let me tell you what happened,” I started.

“Actually, I'm getting ready to go out,” she cut me off. I guess Raheema knew that I was overreacting. She had dealt with my drama all before.

I stopped short and asked, “You're going out? With a guy?”

We both laughed. Raheema's dating life was
always
news to me. Sometimes I felt that she would join the scholars' monastery and never have any use for the flesh.

“Yes,” she answered me, guarded. All that did was make me curious.

“What's he like?”

“He's smart.
And
he's patient. Unselfish. And actually
handsome.”

She said each thing as if it stood alone.

I asked, “What, he wasn't supposed to be handsome?”