When Jade came over last night, we started reminiscing about old times in the neighborhood where I grew up. Hard times. Thinking about how far I’ve come since then, how much has happened, made me even more excited for this next chapter. I feel something fresh happening inside of me, and I wanted the outside to reflect it.
“Well, you look about twelve.” Rhyson ignores the middle finger I slowly slip into the air in his honor. “Okay, Bris. Tell us what we’re doing.”
Bristol flicks a glance my way before diving in. I think she’s still adjusting to the new hair, or lack thereof. I am, too.
“Okay. Just to put us on the same page.” Bristol looks down the table at everyone. “We’re talking about the Target Exclusive.”
I still can’t believe it. Target approached us about an exclusive edition of Grip, my debut solo album. Usually reserved for the likes of Beyonce and Taylor Swift, an opportunity like this is something we can’t pass up. But we’ll have to work our asses off to get it done in time. Fortunately, working my ass off is one of my specialties.
“They want three bonus tracks that will be exclusive to their stores.” Bristol checks her notes before going on. “We need to choose the songs today. Rhys and Grip have several songs not included on the wide version of the album for us to consider. We have to move fast, though, because we’ll need to re-master the tracks and get that version of the project pressed and shipped out as quickly as possible.”
“And how exactly did this happen again?” Max frowns at the folder in front of him. “Are we rushing? Committing to something we can’t pull off well in time? I’m not sure about this.”
Before I can tell Max to go suck his own dick, Bristol beats me to it . . . if not more tactfully.
“Max, I don’t have time for you to punch holes in something because you didn’t come up with it.” She rests a fist on her hip and looks at him impatiently. “It’s a freaking Target Exclusive for a debut album. What’s there not to be sure about?”
“I do have legitimate concerns,” he replies firmly. “It isn’t that I didn’t come up with it.”
Bristol tilts her head and gives him a knowing look.
“Okay, maybe that’s part of it,” Max admits with a laugh. “But it’s a lot to turn around in a tight time frame. Can we do it with excellence?”
“Max, I get your concerns.” Bristol tosses her folder onto the conference room table. “But have you ever known me to commit to something we couldn’t get done? I’m not saying it will be easy. Between this, the shows we have with Qwest over the next few weeks, the reporter trailing Grip for the story, and let’s not forget a trip to Dubai thrown in the mix, I’ll probably have a bald spot by the time this is all said and done.”
There are smiles, snickers, various expressions of amusement from everyone at the conference table.
“But it’ll be worth it.” Bristol’s eyes land on me. “Grip will be one of the best albums of the year, and we’re damn well gonna treat it that way.”
I knew she believed in me, but the sincere passion resonating from her is deeper than I even thought. I wish she’d direct some of that passion to me, instead of my work.
“And that starts with positioning it for the best possible opportunities.” Bristol’s eyes shift from mine and touch on each person at the table. “This is something we can’t let get away. I promise you we can do it.”
“I say let’s go for it,” Rhyson says.
And if he says it, we’re going for it. Rhyson and Bristol often disagree loudly and vehemently, but when they agree, it’s done.
“Well, that’s settled.” Bristol shares a brief smile with her brother but then snaps her fingers. “I almost forgot. Grip?”
She turns to me me, and we look straight at each other. I barely catch the flash of vulnerable uncertainty before she shutters it.
“Yeah?” It’s the first word I’ve spoken since the meeting officially started, even though it’s all about my album. It isn’t that I don’t care about this stuff, but I’m much more interested in actually getting the music to listeners, for them to connect with what I created.
“Target wants you to film a spot next week.” She taps the iPad, her eyes roaming over the screen. “They sent over a treatment for the commercial. I have it here somewhere.”
“Lemme guess,” I say. “There’s lots of red and big dots.”
“Smart ass.” She shoots me her first natural smile of the morning. “I’ll show you later. Let’s listen to these tracks. My contact is waiting. Grip and Rhys, you guys walk us through our options.”
Rhyson dips his head to defer to me. Right.
“So this first song,” I say, pulling up the file sharing where we’ve stored the bonus tracks. “It’s called ‘Bruise.’”
There’s so much I could say to set up this song. I tell them bits and pieces of it. How personal it is. How cathartic it was to write about the tension and fear that marked my relationship with cops growing up. Before black lives or blue were preceded by hash tags, the debate dividing our nation, divided my family. There’s so much more I could say to make them know what this song means to me, but I don’t say any of it. I just play the song and hope it speaks for me. And while it plays, I can’t help but remember the day that inspired it.
Grip (12 Years Old)
“SEXUAL CHOCOLATE!”
I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve watched Coming to America. My cousin Jade, my boy Amir, and I know just about every line by heart. Every week, we watch this bootleg copy Ma bought at the barber shop, and not even the shadows of people’s heads in the shots or the sometimes-unsteady camera work make Eddie Murphy as Randy Watson and his band Sexual Chocolate less funny.
“’That boy good,’” Amir quotes when Eddie Murphy does the infamous mic drop and leaves the stage.
“’Good and terrible,’” Jade and I finish the quote. We all crack up laughing like it’s the first time.
“Ya’ll and this movie.” Jade’s older brother Chaz walks through the living room in his jeans, no shirt.
His body is like one of the graffiti walls off Largo Avenue, inked with five-pointed stars declaring his Bloods gang affiliation, “186” scrawled on his chest signifying the code for first degree murder. His other passion, the Raiders, vie for equal space on his arms and back. Ink stains every available inch of skin, but he left his face clear. Ma says thank God the boy is vain, otherwise he would have ruined that handsome face of his with tattoos. A teardrop or something.
Everyone says we look alike, me and Chaz. Ma and his father were brother and sister, but my uncle died before I was even born, so I never met him. Ma sometimes looks at Chaz with sad eyes and says if you’ve seen Chaz, you’ve seen his daddy. You’ve seen her brother.
“How many times ya’ll gon’ watch this movie?” Chaz’s bright smile flashes before he pulls his Raiders T-shirt over the muscular framework of his upper body. “If it ain’t this, it’s Martin.”
“Wasssssup!” Amir, Jade, and I parrot Martin’s signature phrase on cue, laughing while Chaz rolls his eyes.
“Ya’ll little niggas a trip.” The pager on Chaz’s hip beeps, and he plucks it off his waistband to read the message. I love that we made him laugh before we lost his attention.
Jade’s other brother Greg is LAPD, but we don’t trust cops, so they aren’t our heroes. Chaz is our hero. He may be a gangbanger, and he slings, but he’s cool. He always has the latest Jordans, the freshest clothes, and the sound system you hear before you see his car bouncing around the corner, hydraulics on point. His mom, my Aunt Celia, doesn’t ask where the money comes from when he pays her rent every month. She turns a blind eye, but Ma won’t take Chaz’s money, no matter how tight it gets at our house.
“Shit,” Chaz mutters, a frown puckering his eyebrows. He usually walks slowly so everyone can see his fresh kicks, to make it easy for what Ma calls “fast tail girls” to catch him, but he runs to the back of the house like someone’s chasing him.