Mama Dearest (2 page)

“Yancey!” a familiar voice calls. I look offstage. It’s my mother. She’s wearing the same silver dress that I have on, the same jewels and—even though I’m certain it’s a wig—her hair is styled exactly like mine.

The sight of her makes me feel like this fantastic bubble of excitement and accomplishment and recognition of my talent by the world is suddenly about to pop. Her sharp, disapproving glare could pierce
a hole through me and the silver screen where this dream is coming true. And I literally hear a popping sound as she speaks:

“Yancey, Yancey.” She says my name like I am in trouble; her voice shoots through the cheer and excitement in a way that makes me feel like I’ve been smacked in the face. “So you think you’re big time now, huh? You still got that birthmark?”

She’s walking toward me as if I’m still a kid and she has a switch in her hand, ready to whup my behind for doing something bad. She is coming toward me dressed like a black June Cleaver, carrying an iron with a massively fake smile. And even though I’m standing on the stage with the adoring smiles and applause of Denzel and an auditorium full with superstars, I cower and tremble. Suddenly my voice sounds meek:

“No, Mother, I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“You got that right,” she snaps with a disgusted twist of her mouth. “So, when you gonna thank me?”

I point to the bottom of my list. “I’m getting to that. See? Look here. Here’s your name.”

My mother smirks with a crooked grin, then shouts:

“You still ain’t shit, bitch!”

Then, as always, the curtains fall on this dream-turned-nightmare.

I wake up. My body trembles under a cold sweat. My eyes burn with hot tears. And I fear my real dreams will always be out of my grasp.

As I savor the first sip of my second glass of wine, my eyes move to the television and I say to myself, “Yancey, that’s the bitch who got your life.”

Here I am in a third-rate hotel (it used to be a Days Inn) down the street from the Jackie Gleason Theater near South Beach in Miami. I’m in the second week of my role as Deena Jones in a bus-and-truck company of
Dreamgirls.
The producers aren’t extravagant when it comes to lodging, and I can’t wait until this tour is over and I can get my beautiful ass back to New York City where I belong.

I’m sitting here watching the DVD of the 2007 Grammys, and there is Beyonce singing and gliding across the stage with Tina Turner. That should’ve been me singing with Tina or on the stage alone, but things haven’t turned out the way I’d planned. And I don’t have much time before it will be too late.

My name is Yancey Harrington Braxton, and I’m a singer and actress. I’ve been close to stardom and even had a big pop hit at the
beginning of the decade, but just as I got near Beyonce and Tina status, something happened that slammed the door in my face.

I’m thirty-six in actress years, which really means I’m a sneeze away from turning forty. At times that scares me, but thank God I still have my looks, especially a body that could compete with a twenty-year-old on the beach and in the bedroom.

I had come to Miami with a plan to make a second comeback but I’m running out of ideas. Maybe I need a stalker; then people would feel sorry for me. I could do the drug thing and go into rehab. It looks like it might work for Miss Whitney and Lord knows it ain’t hurting that crazy singer from England, Amy Winehouse. I’m much too vain to put on a few pounds and then become a spokesperson for one of the weight-loss companies like Queen Latifah. But there has to be something legal that I can do to push myself back onto the national scene one last time. This is a time when it seems everybody and their mama has a reality show. Surely there is still room for a legitimate star of my caliber. Yeah, that’s the ticket—I need my own reality show.

I took this job even though I hate working with a bunch of no-talent people who’ve never set foot on a Broadway stage unless they were pushing a broom across it, but I’d run into some tough times with my finances. Besides, I’ve played the role of Deena Jones since I was in my twenties and could do it in my sleep. Gone are the days when I can demand first-class transportation, suites and car service. Let’s not forget my name over the title on the theater marquee. Most producers and directors aren’t savvy enough to recognize talent and class in one package.

Thank God I still own a really nice town house on the Upper East Side. I’d always planned to use it as my nest egg but now when I need to sell it, the real estate market has gone to hell in a handbasket. A lot of people were interested in purchasing it, but with the banks tight with money, even so-called rich white folks are having a hard time getting a loan. My real estate agent told me that my best hope for
getting my asking price is if some rich Russian falls in love with it and pays cash. I told her that she needs to get her ass on a plane to Russia quick, fast and in a hurry.

If I sell the house, I’ll get myself a smaller place and there will still be enough money left over to get new headshots and some new outfits and go sit my ass in some spa where rich men hang out. I just can’t take another night in a seedy hotel when somebody with as little talent as Beyonce has all the things I’m supposed to have, including a rich, powerful husband. It should be me who’s the toast of the red carpet, with my own clothing line and preparing for yet another world tour.

As I watched Tina and Beyonce complete their performances and take their bows I thought, “I can sing better than both of them.” I’d give them a run for their money on the dancing as well. When did it all go wrong for me and why? I was born to be a star.

I’m a statuesque five feet eight inches, 125 pounds with a twenty-two-inch waist. A beige princess with a diamond-shaped face, golden brown eyes and auburn-tinted hair that falls just below my shoulders. My arms are long and slender, almost perfect … almost. I am still as beautiful as any actress, black or white, working today. I just need to remind Hollywood of that so I can move from the D-list back to the A-list.

As I tried to figure out what I could do to get some positive press, I thought back to almost ten years before when I was on Broadway starring in yet another
Dreamgirls
revival. I guess I should be thankful that Jennifer Hudson and Beyonce made the movie musical. Still, I’m pissed that I couldn’t even get a role as an extra in the glitzy film. Maybe the first step for me should be to get another agent and by this I mean a good one. And I don’t mean somebody calling himself an agent/producer like the current fool who represents me, Zeus Miller. First of all what kind of name is that? But for now he’s the best that I can do.

I finished my glass of wine and looked around the tacky room for the rest of the bottle. Another glass would ensure me of at least a sound sleep and I wouldn’t spend the night worrying about how I was going to keep the bank from foreclosing on my home before I could sell it and hopefully make a nice profit or at least break even.

Just as I got up, there was a knock at my door. I figured it was housekeeping finally bringing the extra towels I’d asked for three hours ago. If I was staying in a Four Seasons or the Ritz Carlton South Beach, I would have had those towels before I hung up the phone. I miss those days more than I can say. You get what you pay for.

I pulled together my robe and opened the door.

“You got a corkscrew I can borrow for a few?” It was Violet Smith, one of the understudies for the musical and my next-door neighbor. Violet is an okay-looking young girl when she has makeup on. She’d made it to the top ten on
American Star
a couple seasons back and landed a small part in the
Dreamgirls
movie, something she never fails to tell people when she meets them. Now with shows like
American Idol
and
So-You-Think-You-Can-Do-This-or-Do-That
, any clown can have a little time in the sun. Gets on my damn nerves. When I first entered the business you had to have talent before you appeared on stage or television, let alone being cast in a movie. I have sold millions of CDs, had a number-one hit and appeared on Broadway countless times. Damn, I was even nominated for a Tony Award. I should have won and would have if Patti Lupone had taken her old ass somewhere and sat down.

Violet stood there impatiently. “Yeah, but I’m not lending it out,” I said. “Bring your bottle of wine to my room and I’ll open it for you.” Maybe Violet will have the decency to offer me a glass and I can save my corner for later on tonight in case I wake up.

Violet gave me an are-you-serious look. “Girl, quit playing,” she said, “I promise to bring it right back. I got a real nice man I met at the after-hour’s club off Lincoln in my room waiting on me. I know we
normally hang out and talk but I can’t tonight, hon. I got some catching up to do. Some of the cast is watching the semifinals of
American Star
in Dalton’s room. Why don’t you go down there? I think they got some drinks.”

I ignored her suggestion that I join a bunch of sexually confused chorus boys watching a bunch of no-talent teenagers and walked over to the desk and picked up the corkscrew I’d stolen from the hotel we’d stayed at in Tampa. It was one of the few times we’d stayed in a hotel that had a wine list and twenty-four-hour room service. Still, it wasn’t a five-star hotel, but more like a two and a half.

When I turned around, Violet had let herself into my room and was sitting in the chair making herself at home. I made a mental note to make sure to let Violet know I didn’t like people invading my space without my permission. I don’t have roommates on the road, no matter how much money it saves.

“Did you hear who was in the audience tonight?”

“Who, Michelle Obama?” I asked, being cute.

“No, honey, but I hope that she and the president will come to this show. That would really put us on the map. It was Nicole Springer. She was one of the Deena Jones that played in the show when it was on Broadway back in the day. Do you know her?”

“No” I lied. Of course I knew Nicole Springer, and if there was one person I despised more than Beyonce it was Nicole “Miss Perfect” Springer. I’d understudied her on Broadway and plotted her demise by spiking her coffee. I don’t think she ever found out or suspected me because I was a better actress than she was. I have to admit that the reason I dislike her so is that everything came so easily to her. Talented, beautiful and nice to almost everyone, and to me that took just too much work.

“That’s funny, she said she knew you. Dalton and I were going to bring her to your dressing room but we were so busy talking. Dalton used to take voice lessons from her in Atlanta and was a member of
her theater group. She was the one who talked him into auditioning for this show,” Violet said.

I was not going to engage her in this Nicole banter so I just handed her the corkscrew. “Now don’t make me have to knock on your door to get this back.”

“Thanks,” she said popping up from the chair, “and don’t worry, you won’t have to. As soon as my company leaves I will bring it back. If you don’t answer I’ll leave it by your door.”

“Don’t do that because if it comes up missing, I’m still coming back to you. Understand?” What did it say about my depressed life that I was clutching a corkscrew the way a diabetic relies on insulin.

“I hear you. Thanks, Yancey. You’re the best.”

I shut the door and thought, I once was the best and very soon I’ll be the best again. These bitches better get out of my way!

I
WAS SITTING AT
my dressing-room table removing my makeup when I heard a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I shouted.

Dalton McGurdy, the understudy for C. C. White, stuck his head in and asked if he could talk to me for a moment.

I like Dalton more than most of the chorus boys but now I was a little apprehensive since he knew Nicole. He was talented and a bit unusual. I assumed he was gay but he was also in charge of the weekly Bible studies the cast held that I never attended. I didn’t see how a gay boy could conduct biweekly Bible study. But this was the theater, where conventional rules didn’t apply.

“Sure, Dalton, come on in.”

Dalton was light brown and on the thin side. He had an unshaven face and had recently cut his dreads, which made him look boyish
and not old enough to play the main character, Effie’s brother, and my love interest in the first half of the show. Thank God we didn’t have any kissing scenes.

“I only need to see you for a few moments. Here’s a CD of some of the songs I’ve written. It’s classic R & B kinda like Stephanie Mills and Angela Winbush used to sing. I think you have the perfect voice for the songs.”

“Okay, lay it on my dresser and I’ll listen to them when I get a chance.”

Why did all of these kids think they could write music or choreograph dances just because they were in a show?

“Take your time because I just found out I might have a gig in New York after this show closes and we’ll have plenty of time to talk about it.”

“I thought you were going back to Atlanta.”

“No, hon, I’m from Athens, Georgia, you know, the University of Georgia, go bulldogs.”