I Ain't Scared of You (14 page)

Rhonda told me, “Call me
Rhonda.
I'm sick of that ‘baby' shit.”

She's the one pulled my coat. “ ‘Baby' is for when you got a lot of bitches and you ain't sure who you're with.”

I'm all flustered, like, “Hey, hey,
hey!
What you mean by that, now?”

One time Rhonda asked me, she say “Have you ever committed adultery?”

I said, “Huh?”

“Have . . . you . . . ever . . . committed
adultery?”

I said, “You?” You got to flip it around, ask 'em, “You?”

“You tell me your'n, I'll tell you mine!”

“Naaaaaawww,
I ain't never . . . And if I did, I wouldn't say it.”

That sum'bitch is scared. I got to go to my grave with that information. I got to go to my grave!

Bernie with Byron Woods and the Moods.

I don't care what you
say.
What's important to me is what you
know.
If you don't put your hands on me, it ain't me. Everybody got somebody
look
like them.

It ain't me. Whoever said they dealt with me during my success is a
lie!

When I first shot the pilot to my TV show, I came home from LA and played it in front of my family and friends. Butter, Big Nigga, my in-laws—the people who had been with me while I was struggling. I just wanted to share it with them, get their thoughts and ideas on it.

Everybody liked it and everythang, man, but there's this one scene where I kiss my TV wife. Man, Rhonda ain't like that shit.

Now, everytime she sees that part, she be lookin' dead at me. Like,
mmm-hmm, muh'fucka.

I be lookin' straight ahead. Ain't sayin' nothin'. I play like I'm busy. She say somethin', I go, “Huh?”

She like, “Yeah, I don't see you kissin'
me
like that. Ya look like you was enjoyin' it.”

(Sigh.)
Man, niggas won't let you be professional. See, black folks ain't used to being actors. Those ain't jobs to us. That's a luxury. They don't look at it as work.

They think 'cause I'm laying on a woman, open-mouth kissin' her—I'm between her legs grindin'—they think we serious. The shit's actin'! But they don't look at it like that.

OK, so your dick might be a lil' “heavy.”

I wasn't “strong.” Just a lil' “heavy.”

But I do my own stunts, man. If I'm gon' to sit up there and go
through the glass door, I gotta go. If I gotta kiss the woman, I'm kissin' her. I gotta do what I gotta do. I told it to my wife.

So now, I can't sit around when we get to that part of the pilot. It ain't nothin' but a peck on the cheek, but so what. Everytime we get to that lil' part, I gots to get up and go get drinks.

That part come on, I just jump up and am like, “So, uh, anybody need more brews? Some water? Some milk? How 'bout you?”

It don't work. I come back, she just following me with her eyes.
Mmm-hmm, muh'fucka.

Now, we ain't got nothin' but four love scenes in the TV show. I told my wife that when we do it, she cannot be on the set. She needs to be at home. I'm serious. Rhonda will mess everything up!

The shit'll be all in
Jet:
“Rhonda Mac went
off!”

She come to the set, she gon' be tryin' to compare: “He don't do me like that. He pumpin'
for real!”

My wife is a nurse. I don't go to her job and give medicine to the patients, like, “Here, let me help you, baby.” I don't be doin' charts or takin' nobody temperature. So stay the hell outta my business!

I done laid down the law! I'm serious! Fuck around, we'll be on
Judge Judy!

It's my first chance at television, and I ain't gon' let nobody take it away from me.

I'm pretending, okay? I'm pretending like I'm fuckin' her, but I'm just pretending!

That's why I haven't done any love scenes in my movies. I stay away from that. Rhonda likes to fight. A love scene'll bring the nigga out. I don't feel like bein' up all night arguing.

See, TV is restricted. Kiss here, then they cut.

Movies, your booty be showin'. I can't show no booty? And be twistin' it, too? Nah.

I know whoever the girl is, she go home and her man be arguing.

I try to stay away from that. That's trouble.

Unless you makin' love to an ol' obese muh'fucka. Your woman can't see you fuckin' somebody 350 pounds, so they know you actin' then. They'll forgive you.

But let it be some Halle Berry or Jennifer Lopez or somethin'.

Man, that's them hippity critters.

I ain't got no outside woman, I ain't got no outside kids. I ain't got no vices with drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, stuff like that. Matter of fact I'm clean. All I need is some sandals, a robe, and a stick, and I'd walk on Lake Michigan.

My wife, she runs my company. Been knowing her since she was 15, I was 16. We tight.

But got-dammit, I can't do
nothing.
My wife gotta know
everythang.

My assistant is in on it, too. I have my little office downtown that used to be my sanctuary.

My assistant messed that up: “Your wife wants a key.”

My wife asked me. I said, “What you want a key to my office for?
My
office?”

She said, “Well, in case I want to show it off and show some people.”

“What you doing showing people
my
office? This is where I work, where I come down and try to create.”

She gon' go behind me and ask my assistant. She gon' put the squeeze play on her: “Uh, you know, I want you to get me a key made.”

Then my assistant gon' go, “Well, uh, Bernie, Rhonda wants a key.”

I said, “She talked to me about it already. Don't worry about it. Let me handle it. Don't you worry about.”

Three days later, Rhonda come lettin' herself in.

My assistant gon' tell me, “Oh, by the way, Rhonda said she wanted a key and I got one made. I forgot that you told me . . .”

Now you know that ain't nothing but some old low-down bullshit!

Work for me and gonna
betray
me! I ain't never forgave her for that! Ain't nothing but a ol' stool pigeon. I ain't never forgave her—and me and her man tight as a pair of draws. But that's one thang, man, she was supposed show her loyalty.

Women, they're the 12 Faces of Fu Manchu. You can't trust 'em, man, you know what I mean? They're in the same union.

No matter what you do, women, they're insecure. If I come home late, man, my wife put her hands on me. If my wife call me and I take 15 minutes to call her back? Muthafucka got a problem. That's my fault. I did that: because everytime she call me, I call her right away.

A half an hour, 15 minutes? You know she can't just say, “Hi.” She got to know where I am. “Where ya' at?”

Damn.

It ain't that I don't know the answer to the damn question. But man, I'm a grown ass man. I gotta feel like a little boy again.

Mama'll say, “Where you going?”

“I'm going down the street.”

“Where?”

“Around the corner.”

“Which corner?”

“Right there, the blue house.”

“Which blue house? It's four of 'em.”

That's how my
mother
used to do me.

Man, I'm 43, and I feel like I'm a little ass boy. You know, “What you eat today?” She just called and asked me what I want for dinner—and now I got to go home like it's eight o'clock. The street lights come on, I got to be there. If I ain't there at eight
o'clock, this muthafucka mad. See, I did that. I spoiled all of them.

My daughter's in with 'em on that type of shit, too.

I can't say somethin' bad without her gettin' on me. “Daddy, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

They always hear you say wrong shit when you they daddy. But when it comes to they mama? All of sudden, she deaf. Mama can be cussin', yellin' and shit, but she don't know nothin'.

One reason my wife and I only had one child is we were dealing with our careers. My wife's a nurse, and I was doing comedy. So after Boots, there would have been so much of a difference in age, we said, “Why?”

I didn't want to be 44 and my baby's five, four. Because I wanted to do the same thing I did with my daughter. And that is grow up with her. And at the time, being young, my wife wasn't really keen on having another baby. She wanted to get her life together. And I respected that.

Do I have any regrets? I have some. Kinda sort of wish I had another one. Then I think on the flip side: Would the other be just as great as the first one? Because my daughter is great. My daughter never gave me any problem. She's an excellent daughter and person.

And just my damned luck: I'd have another one and the mutha-fucka'd be a criminal. Stress me out. Go to the lineup and got to pick him out.

My wife got bad seeds on her side of the family. We were lucky on this one. I just know; I just feel it in my
bones,
man. That sum'bitch ain't gon' be no good. I ain't never told Rhonda, but I know that muh'fucka ain't gon' be no good. I ain't gon' lie to you.

I don't want no hoodlums. Her family got some hoodlums. We doing too much good. She doing good. I'm doing good. My daughter doing good. The devil, man, he gon' throw a wrench.

Probably my grandkids gon' come around and be messed up. You got to have one.

Look at the Smith family that lived on my block. They had eight boys and girls.

Every last
one
of them was criminals. The girls was hoes, and the boys was gang-bangin' thieves.

And the mama, man, was about 6' 8" with no teeth on the right side. They say she used to play with the Globe Trotters. If you said that shit, her kids would tear your ass up.

Still, people used to call her Meadowlark Lemon.

With my daughter, I never had those problems. I never had to worry about her fallin' in with the wrong type of people or nothing. I mean, she coulda brought home a homeboy.

She got that thump in her. I'm glad, too. I want her to have that nigga in her. So she can take her earrings off—or the new thang now, takin' out ya contacts—and get ready to serve a motherfucka.

She handles herself like a lady, but she'll bring out the nigga. One time, I was watchin' her get ready to fight. I was standin' by just to let her know I was there. She's very soft-spoken. But that time, I heard “muh'fucka!” Her voice got a lil' deep. I said, “Is she a man?”

A girl was talkin' 'bout she wanted to fight my daughter. My baby was just like, “You better hope somebody around so they can break it up.”

She brought out that nigga.

I'm very happy with my daughter and how she's turned out. She's going to get her master's degree. She's doing wonderfully for herself. I have no complaints. She never gave us no real trouble,
and she was a great young girl. Now, she's grown up into a beautiful young woman who's about to get married.

The guy she picked is a good guy, too. He sincerely likes her, and he has character, style, ambition, and desire. I respect the young brother.

They have my blessing and won't have any interference from me—as long as there is no physical stuff, we cool.

Now, if there is, there'll be another book. And the title'll be some shit like:
How Did You Kill Him?
Or
Where's The Body?
Or
What Gun Did You Use?

They'll have a picture of me on the cover of the book with a stocking cap on, with a title like:
Where Did He Go Wrong? What Made Him Snap? What Gun Did You Use?

I'll be sitting up there doin' interviews butt-naked on a couch in the jail.

I was cool with everything about my daughter, but when she started havin' sex, man, I had a real hard time with that. I ain't gon' lie. When she hooked up with her first boyfriend, that was trial and tribulation for me. By her being my daughter—and me being the hypocrite I am . . .

You
are
a hypocrite in that situation: You want pussy, but don't want nobody messin' with your daughter. Man wants all the pussy—but when it come to
his
daughter, he wish he could sew it up.

When she told me she was “seein' ” the guy, my heart was like, “Damn.”

My daughter was a good girl, very mature for her age. So the trust thing had always been there.