The Crossover (22 page)

“Your mother is absolutely correct. I was still in seminary during that time. The church didn’t understand that you don’t vote a pastor in. It’s not a popularity contest.”

“So, who decides who runs the church?”

“The District Superintendent of Churches or Church Bishop usually determines the pastoral leadership of a congregation.”

Pastor Smith continued.

“There was a power vacuum within the church after your father passed. After the church lost the battle for their candidate, many members left. The ones who remained loyal to your mom left when she did. After I completed seminary, I came back to my roots, right here. I was appointed just a few months ago. Your mother and I still keep in touch.”

“Pastor Smith, my dad’s sermons dating back to the 1970s are on CDs boxed up in my mom’s closet. It would mean a lot if we could restore his library in the conference room.”

“It would be an honor.”

“What about his portrait? Could we put it back up?”

I interpreted his smile and wink as consent.

Pastor Smith freely conveyed some of the challenges he had with being such a young pastor with a new family.

“Clay, I have an hour radio ministry on WVPN on Sunday nights. At least once a month I am unable to meet that commitment due to other obligations. It’s hard to find supply ministers on short notice.”

I could hear the concern in his voice.

“Pastor Smith, what if you used my dad’s sermons to fill in when you can’t make it? His messages are timeless.”

Pastor Smith stood from behind his desk.

“That’s an excellent idea! Thank you, Jesus. God is good all the time and all the time God is good. I can’t wait to tell my family. Sometimes it’s nice to go home after service and have family time without having to run back out. I’ll talk to the program manager at the station. This is a blessing.”

After our divine-inspired conversation Pastor Smith escorted me to the door and shook my hand. We were both elated and driven by this new direction. The station had a podcast on the internet so I would be able to listen to my dad’s sermons back in England, and so would the rest of the world.

I knew my mother would be happy that dad’s legacy would be restored. I had my own message to my father.

Dad, I got your message. I’m working on it. I miss you.

W
elcome to
Denny’s,
are you ready to order?”

Monet and I were still looking at the menu when the waitress asked for our order.

“Wow, I guess Grand Slams aren’t $1.99 anymore,” I asked.

“Babe, that was back in the early nineties. Prices have gone up since then,” Monet replied.

I quickly realized how much things had changed since I last lived in the US. When I left in 1996 we still had albums and cassette videos and we had to wait a week to get film developed at the local store.

“I’ll have a French Slam with a side order of grits. Can I also have a coffee with a side of whip cream, please?” I asked the waitress.

“I’ll have the same but hold the whip cream,” Monet requested.

Monet had some breaking news she wanted to share. She was excited.

“Clay, I got a provisional offer this week?”

“Offer?”

“I got the job in Birmingham. The company needs to iron out a few details regarding my relocation, but it’s a done deal, I’m headed to England!”

“Wow, that’s great, honey. This is what we’ve been praying for. When do you think you’ll be coming over permanently?”

“I will be back and forth for a little while until my work visa is approved, but it will be soon.”

I should have been more excited but there was something underlying that took the shine off, just a bit. Monet noticed.

“Clay, what’s wrong, honey? We never wanted a longdistance relationship, this is the answer.”

“I know, babe. There’s something bugging me and I need to talk about it but I don’t want to spoil our first night together.”

Monet reached across the table with both hands and held mine.

“No secrets, remember? Talk to me.”

I sat up in the booth and looked Monet in the eye.

“Don’t you think it’s strange that we have a son together and we never, ever talk about him? I want to but I don’t feel like I have the right. But I should have the right, I’m his father,” I said with concern.

Monet withdrew her hands from mine and crossed her arms; she was on the defense.

“You’re his biological father. There’s a big difference, Clay. Robert has a dad. Marc was a lousy husband but he’s a damn good father. I don’t want any of that to change. If Marc knew we were having this conversation, he would go absolutely insane. Let it go, okay?”

Before I could reply I was interrupted by the waitress pouring our coffee. It was probably a good thing I was interrupted because I was ready to challenge Monet with resentment in my heart. The situation was diffused, for the time being.

After we had breakfast, Monet had more news to share.

“Clay, we have a busy schedule the next few days,” Monet said enthusiastically.

“I was hoping to chill with you and maybe see a movie. What have you signed me up for, babe?”

“Clay, I know you. All you want to do is stay in bed and make love. We’ll have time for that but this is important. Did you bring the new manuscript like I asked?”

“Of course. I had it bound at
Kinkos.
Here it is,” I said as I slid across the table.

“Great, I called in a few favors and I got you a slot on the
Steve Bracy’s Amateur Hour Show.
It’s a local cable show. Last week he had a local chef who cooked in his underwear.”

“Whoa, maybe that’s the break I’ve been looking for,” I said as I came out of my funk.

“I should be your PR rep, Clay. I also got you a book signing for
The Mogadishu Diaries
at the
Barnes and Noble
on Green River Road.”

I was ecstatic and impressed how Monet was able to pull this off. I would have gladly spent thousands of dollars to get this type of exposure. But I didn’t have to; I had a million-dollar girl who had my back. Monet wanted to celebrate that night but I wanted to wait until the last night.

We should have celebrated when we had the chance, I would regret we didn’t.

I had to get up at the crack of dawn to be at the studio on time. I didn’t know it was a morning show. At 4:30 in the morning the studio was hiving. Behind the scenes there were dozens of staff scurrying about and running into each other to support the show. I quickly learned there was a pecking order in television broadcasting.

1. TV Producers
   
2. TV Personalities and celebrity guests
   
3. Everyone else
   

It seemed if you didn’t belong in the first two groups you were a nobody. The caterers got the least respect and were almost invisible. Everyone on set had perfect hair, cosmetic surgery in one form or another and were dressed to the nines. They were treated like royalty.

I saw Steve Bracy walk in to the studio with his entourage. He was just over six feet tall, dark-colored, curly, gelled hair and a massive attitude. He didn’t dignify his staff with verbal commands, he made a lot of hand gestures and snapping of the fingers. He had a large poster of himself on the rear wall in his wardrobe room. I later found out Steve Bracy also was a co-anchor on the Six o’clock News.

I sat outside the producer’s office in the waiting area. It was chaos and I felt out of place, until an old Japanese woman dressed in a kimono sat next to me. I knew a little Japanese so I addressed her.

“Ohayo go zaimasu
,” I said the best I could.

“Good morning to you too. You speak good Japanese,” the old woman replied with a slight bow.

After a brief conversation with the woman I realized the station double-booked us. Monet never told me who arranged my interview so I had no point of contact. Steve Bracy headed into the producer’s office and backtracked.

“Houston, we have a problem!” Steve Bracy yelled to his producer.

Steve stood in front of the old woman and put his hands in his pockets.

“Whatcha got for me Lady Kung Fu?”

“My name is Ms. Wantanabe. Today I’m going to talk about Green Tea.”

Steve Bracy stormed into the producer’s office. I could hear him from outside.

“Bill, you’re killing me. Green Tea? Really? It’s green and it’s fucking tea. The end. Let’s go with Bo Jackson sitting next to her. What’s his deal?”

Thirty minutes later Steve came out.

“Ms. Wannabe, there’s been a mix-up. Sergio, please see the tea lady to her car. And get me a caramel macchiato on the way back.”

I wasn’t impressed nor intimidated by Steve. I thought he was rude and arrogant as hell.

Steve stood directly in front of me and we did the stare down contest for about a minute before he spoke.

“It really must be a slow day at the office when we have to interview a self-published author. Do you know what I think about self-published authors?”

I’ve been chewed out by four-star generals, shot at by Somali insurgents, there was no way I was going to let someone like him sweat me.

“I don’t know what you think, but is that shaving cream in your right ear?”

He stuck his finger in his ear and out came a nice white lather. He took off in a huff and had a few words with his makeup staff. I was not bothered at all if I got dropped from the show because our chemistry was like oil and water. However, the show would go on and I would be on it.

“Ready on the set. Five, four, three, two and one!”

“Good morning Evansville. It’s the top of the hour and today we have an interesting guest from London, England. Mr. Thompson, welcome to the
Steven Bracy Amateur Hour.
What brings you to the show?”

I wasn’t nervous, I was excited. Steve was able to ditch his nasty personality for TV and I was ready to talk about my passion.

“Thanks Steve for having me. Today I’d like to talk about my novel
The Mogadishu Diaries
. It’s a memoir that pre-dates
Blackhawk Down
and captures the early days of pursuing the beloved Somali warlord Mohammad Aidid. In fact, I have a book signing on Wednesday at the
Barnes and Noble
on Green River Road.”

The back and forth between Steve and I was cordial and he was the consummate professional, until we addressed my next project.

“So, do you have any irons in the fire?” Steve asked.

I walked right into his trap completely unaware.

“Glad you asked, I’m just putting the finishing touches on my latest work titled
The Seduction of a Military Wife.
It’s a story of love won, love lost and love reunited,” I replied.

“Let me stop you right there. I read your manuscript. This isn’t a story about love, that’s a lie. This is a story about a cheating wife who uses hypnosis as an excuse to get her groove on. That’s what this story is really about,” Steve said as he held a copy of my manuscript in the air.

The studio fell silent, the cameras were still rolling and I was speechless. I didn’t have a comeback. I was being humiliated in front of everyone on live TV. My first instinct was to walk away. My palms were sweaty and my embarrassment led to anger. I needed to salvage this moment.

“There are things in the book that I am not proud of but the story is genuine and I hope the readers will not judge the main characters too harshly,” I replied.

Steve intensified his attack.

“Let’s be clear, the main characters are you and this Monique chick. Is that her real name?”

“No. I wanted to respect her privacy so I changed her name.”

Steve grabbed his earpiece; apparently he was in communication with his producers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our producers have identified the real Monique Simpson in the book. Monique Simpson is actually Monet Dawson. There you have it, you heard it here first.”

I wanted to do a Jerry Springer on him and kick his ass on live TV. Again, I had no comeback. My fists were tight and my heart was thumping fast and hard. I wanted to injure him in the worst way. I wanted revenge. I plotted.

“I can’t believe you just said her real name on TV.”

“Sue me, ha, ha, ha,” he laughed.

We broke for a commercial.

“Clay, don’t take it personal it’s all about the ratings. Shake?”

Steve stood from his chair and extended his hand. I grabbed his hand then I tightened my grip. He tried to pull away but I wouldn’t let him. He panicked.

“Security, security!” he screamed like a sissy.

With his hand in mine, I stared directly into his eyes intently. I suddenly jerked his hand and whispered a posthypnotic suggestion in his ear. The next thing I knew, I had two large security guards in black muscle T-shirts lift me off the ground and escort me out. The suggestion was planted. I just had to wait until the six o’clock News.