Drama Is Her Middle Name (13 page)

Following Ritz's bomb drop, Hardcore's third CD barely
reached gold, and he was officially done. So was Tracee, but
it took a few more incidents to seal it for her.

One evening she was at an appearance with one of her female rap artists at Club New York on the West Side. Tracee
didn't remember how or why, but there was something about
a shoe being stepped on and some finger-pointing that led to
some weave-pulling. Before she knew it, she was in the middle of a melee, looking for an exit, while pulling her artist by
the arm. The cops came and Tracee found herself with a split
lip; her artist had a black eye. And Tracee had had enough.

“I can't do this shit anymore!” Tracee said to no one in
particular.

The cops asked her if she wanted to press charges. But
Tracee made a decision right then that all she wanted was
out. She wouldn't press charges, she would press on. She had
had enough. Enough of the weed-filled limo rides to appearances and award shows. Enough watching the overindulgence in the E-pills, the coke and the gratuitous sex. Enough
of the groupies and the fear of rape charges. Enough of getting grown people to be responsible enough to show up for
booked dates like for the
Regis & Kelly
show (which on more
than one occasion one of her artists completely blew off).
Enough watching these same grown people blow fortunes on
jewelry and drugs, cars and toys—things that they couldn't
even sell if they got in a bind and needed money. Tracee
was dead tired of the Mr.-Bojangles-Nigga-Samboing-Stepin-Fetchit-pimps-and-hos cartoon that rap music—hell, all
music—had become and how more and more young girls preferred to be video hos than video producers, writers, and
teachers.

Tracee was tired of the industry and her “bosses.” They had
put her in charge of the “black music” division, but these days
no one could define what black music was.

“What in the hell is ‘black' music?” she asked her boss one
day. “I mean, really, Jim. What is black music?!”

“You know, Tracee, urban music—R&B, rap, hip-hop.
Black music.”

Tracee didn't want to go down that road with him. What
was the purpose? He wouldn't understand. Or perhaps he understood completely, which was an even scarier thought for
Tracee. At least if he was ignorant she could feel somewhat
okay about working there.

The notion that there needed to be a black music division
was one of the most racist things Tracee could imagine. Overwhelmingly more whites bought hip-hop and rap. In fact,
about seventy percent of rap music was bought by whites.

“How is that black music?” Tracee thought. “If they depended on blacks to buy rap, there wouldn't be any sales—
with all of the bootlegging going on. Blacks will bootleg a CD
in a minute. They must be kidding.”

What Tracee found out was that having a black music division gave the record companies an excuse to spend less money
on promotions, contracts, and other perks than on rock and
country. It was a way to keep “those niggas” in their place.
While R&B and rap artists like Usher and Nelly outsold both
rock and country, both got the tail end of the resources. Hip-hop was influencing an entire culture and an entire generation, but it was getting the short end of the stick in terms of
expanding the playing field and developing new artists.

Black music?

It wasn't black music when the Beatles stole their style
from Little Richard. It wasn't black music when Tina Turner
taught Mick Jagger how to dance and flow. It wasn't black
music when Elvis borrowed Chuck Berry's entire act. It was
innovative. It was historic. It was music. Janet Jackson, black
music. Britney Spears, who does a poor imitation of Janet
Jackson, pop star.

Tracee's soul was tired. Soul? She hadn't contemplated
that in quite some time. But it was her soul that ached every
time it had to witness something crazy, and everything seemed
to be getting crazier. Her soul. She needed to find it. And
when she did, it needed to be replenished.

She decided for the first time since she was a little girl
when her grandmother used to make her say her prayers on
the side of the bed every night that she would pray about the
situation. It was all uncharted territory but she had nothing
to lose. She rediscovered church and joined Harlem's Faith
Baptist and started finding some real answers. Tracee even
dragged Ritz there one Sunday, and she seemed to enjoy it.
That was a breakthrough.

Tracee kept praying and finally an answer came. A decision came down that an executive under her needed to be
fired. Tracee wondered why it had to be someone from the
black music department. She received a memo stating that
her department was over budget and someone had to go and
that they would be well taken care of. She learned that as an
executive with more than five years in the company, that person would receive what was called a golden parachute. She
decided that that someone should be her. She walked away
from her quarter-of-a-million-dollar-a-year job and floated
away in her
platinum
parachute that netted her three and a
half million, before taxes.

“If I can't live off of that and make it work for me, I'm a
damn fool,” she said to herself.

Tracee was always good with her money. She was smart
enough to buy a loft in the SoHo area in the 1980s when she
first got her gig at Uni-Global. The real estate market was
down then, and she got an apartment for wonderful price. As
she started making more money, she was able to pay it off.
Living in the city, she didn't waste money on fancy cars. (She
did break down and buy that Lexus right before she left for
Florida.) She was well invested in money markets, mutual
funds, she had a stock account with Merrill Lynch filled with
stocks like Exxon, GE, a concrete stock, and Martha Stewart.
(This one turned out to be a real winner. She only bought it
because she admired the way Martha did business.) With the
platinum parachute, Tracee was set for life.

She picked up and moved to a small town outside of Orlando, Florida, where she had hoped to find some peace and
serenity—much needed after the years spent in the music
business. She would go back to New York every now and
then to check out her friends and get a little dose of the fast
lane—Broadway plays, all-night restaurants, and movie premieres.

17

It was a rare evening when Ritz found herself without anything to do. She didn't have any appearances. There were no
interviews. No brainstorming sessions with Chas, who had
become increasingly busy over the last few months.

Ritz didn't quite know what to do with herself. Her life
had changed dramatically. In just a year she had gone from
being a fairly successful disc jockey, with a middle- to upper-middle-class lifestyle, to queen of the radio, syndicated around
the country, with a very healthy bank account. She had endorsements, which included a Denali she didn't drive that
much, despite contract stipulations, because Chas said she
had an image to keep up and a Denali was a little low-rent
and just didn't fit that image.

Ritz bought the car of her dreams and the house of her
dreams—moving from her upscale Jersey City condo to a
gated community. She had every material thing she ever
imagined. Her mother would be proud. But Ritz hadn't had
real fun for more than a year. She hadn't had a real gut-wrenching belly laugh since Tracee moved. And she hadn't
had a really good fuck since Kevin. Boy did she miss his
strong, confident hands, his talented tongue, and his abnormally thick member. He knew exactly how to use it. But she
also missed the safety and security he brought.

Ritz never considered them serious. But he was steady.
When she called, he was always there. She never imagined
that he would grow tired of the arrangement and want
more—something she simply could not give.

“I understand you have a career, but I want a woman—
my
woman—to put me first, Ritz,” Kevin said one evening after
he'd invited her to go away with him to Bermuda and she'd
turned him down. “It's all about your career, Ritz, and all
about you. I need more.”

Ritz had had nothing to say. He was right. She was on a
mission, and at this point in her life she was not going to let
anything or anybody—not even a good man and a good lay—
get in the way of that.

As she reclined on her six-hundred-thread-count Egyptian
sheets, fantasizing about one of the last times she and Kevin
were together, Ritz wondered if she had made a mistake.

“No, no, girl, don't go there,” she said to herself. “That's
just your coochie talking.”

It wasn't just talking, it was yelling ghetto-style as Ritz
moved her hand over her smooth, chocolaty belly down to
her perfectly manicured thatch. She let her middle finger explore between her lips and dip into the hot wetness just below. Ritz let out a light moan. She imagined Kevin sliding in
bed behind her, pressing his thick mass lightly into the small
of her back and inching down slowly to the opening between
her legs. She imagined one of his hands on top of hers, guiding her to all of the secret places that only he seemed to know
about. His other hand pinched her nipple lightly. His tongue
found the back of her neck and was making its way to her ear.
Ritz was writhing in her bed in rapt ecstasy. Kevin had entered her from behind, slipping in just the tip of his member,
slowly driving in more and more, faster and faster.

Ritz's hands worked furiously as she was about to explode—

Ring! RIIIIINGGGGGG!

“What the fuck!”

It took Ritz a full minute to realize that the ringing was
coming from her phone. It was the guard at the front gate
telling her she had a visitor. It took her another thirty seconds to remember that she had called an emergency twenty-four-hour electrician she found in the Yellow Pages. The
power in her Jacuzzi was out. Ritz had planned to take a nice
long bath this weekend.

She quickly washed her hands in warm vanilla salts, put
on her robe and slippers, tried to straighten her hair, and
went downstairs to let in the electrician. When she opened
the door, she not only let in the electrician, she let in a whole
lotta electricity, too. Maybe she was just incredibly horny, or
maybe . . .

“Good evening,” said the electrician, who introduced
himself as Randolph. “Show me where the problem is.”

It was too tempting to tell him where the real problem
was. So Ritz stood at the door, not saying a word.

“Um, ma'am? It's a little chilly out here. And it costs a lot
to heat outside your home.”

“Sorry,” said Ritz, still a little disoriented. “Come in.”

Randolph Jordan had a Morris Chestnut–like smile and
deep mocha dimples. He was about six-two and had a linebacker's build. He was neatly dressed in khakis, a Polo turtle-neck, and a Polo jacket with chocolate brown Timberlands.
He looked to be in his mid-thirties—it was hard to tell—he
was in such great shape, but he could be a little older. After
all, forty was the new twenty-five.

Ritz, with her aching loins, had her charm meter up to
about a nine and three-quarters out of a possible ten.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Ritz cooed. “Some
wine, perhaps?”

“I don't drink, thank you. I'm fine.”

You sure are!

“Well, um, how long do you think it will take to fix my hot
tub?” Ritz asked. “I just moved in and I don't know what
could be wrong with this thing. I've only used it once. I came
home today, looking forward to putting on my iPod, lighting
some candles, sprinkling in some Aveda salts, and relaxing in
the tub. I set the timer to have the water prepared by nine,
and nothing happened.”

“Don't worry, we'll have you in your bath in no time,” he
said.

I can only hope!

Ritz sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi as Randolph worked
from the access panel on the side of the tub. She leaned over,
allowing her robe to open slightly, exposing the fullness of
her breasts.

“Can you hand me my wire cutter?” he said, completely ignoring the peep show. “It's next to the screwdriver.”

Ritz got the wire cutter, and as she handed it to him she
allowed her bare thigh to brush against his hand. She thought
she saw him blush.

“Okay, I think it's fixed,” he said. “Let's test it out.”

He flipped a switch and the bluish LED lights came to life.
It was ten-thirty. He set the timer for ten-thirty-one. After
one minute the tub was activated. The water, programmed to
be exactly 78 degrees, came out of the spout.

“You're in business,” he said.

“Excellent!” Ritz said. “Are you sure I can't get you anything?”

“Um, no.” Randolph seemed to pause for a bit. “Thank
you, again. If you could just sign this work order I'll leave you
to your bath.”

“Do you have to go?” Ritz said. She hadn't been this bold
since . . . Actually, Ritz had never been so bold. She always
waited for the man to make the first move. She felt more in
control that way, less vulnerable.

“Um . . .” Randolph hesitated again. Ritz thought he might
not be prepared.

“I have condoms,” said Ritz, remembering that Kevin had
left a pack of Magnums in her nightstand drawer. “I hope you
can fit Magnums.”

She was hoping. If she was going to go out on a limb like
this, she wanted that limb to be big, thick, and strong.

Randolph blushed and then broke out into a deep, sexy,
nervous laughter.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I just can't believe this.”

“Can't believe what?” asked Ritz, getting slightly defensive.

“I can't believe that I am going to go home and take a cold
shower,” Randolph said. “You are a very beautiful woman and
believe me I would love to stay a bit longer, but I can't.”

“What?!” Ritz said. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Ritz asked. “Not that it matters, I am not looking for a relationship.”

“No.”

“Gay?”

“No,” he said. “I just want more. I want a meaningful relationship with a woman, and I don't want to spoil it by getting
into something frivolous, no matter how tempting it is. And
believe me, it's pretty tempting. I made a vow that the next
woman I make love to will be my wife.”

Ritz paused on that statement. So many emotions ran
through her at that moment. She felt cheesy and slightly insulted. It was also a moment of harsh realization.

I'm not marriage material.

“Wow,” was all Ritz could muster. “I respect that. I'm sorry.
I'm really not like that at all.”

“You have no reason to apologize,” Randolph said. “Believe me, you did nothing wrong. If you'd caught me six
months ago . . . well, let's just says things would be different.
Very different.”

“There I go with my fucked-up timing!” Ritz laughed. “So
what happened six months ago? Or who happened?”

“Who? That's an interesting question,” said Randolph.
“It's a long story. A lot of it has to do with my father and
watching him and how he's been with women—never really
committing himself to anything or anyone. I guess I saw myself following in his footsteps and I didn't like it.”

“At least you know who your father is,” said Ritz. “I have
never met my father. And I'm kind of glad. I don't have any
images of an imperfect man who may have mistreated my
mother, screwing me up with a whole bunch of problems—as
if I don't have enough. But that's another story for another
day.”

“I'd like to hear it,” Randolph said with a soft smile spreading across his face. “You're a very interesting woman, Ritz
Harper.”

“Maybe we can pretend the proposition never happened,”
Ritz chuckled. “And maybe we can start over. You never
know, I could be that woman you're looking for.”

“You never know,” Randolph said. “Now sign this paper so
I can get out of here before you make me forget my promise
to myself.”

“I'm still hoping,” said Ritz with a wink. Randolph crossed
his arms across his broad chest and gave her a look.

“Okay, okay. Where do I sign? Geez, you can't blame a sister for trying, can you?”

“Okay, good-night, Ms. Harper,” he said, heading for the
door. “It was a pleasure meeting you. If you have any other
electrical
problems, call me.”

Ritz grabbed his hand as he reached to open the door.

“Hey, thank you for being a good man,” Ritz said. “I
haven't encountered one of those in a while. Please forgive
my naughty behavior. Perhaps I can call you sometime when
I don't have an electrical problem.”

Randolph put his hand over hers, cupping it between his
big, but surprisingly soft, hands.

“You can call me anytime,” he said.