She was the model type. Shorties like her were a dime a dozen. Watching her throw her belongings into her designer bag did nothing for me, except give me clarity that there’d be more counter space in the bathroom.
I sat watching her make a show of leaving me. To be honest, it was beyond dramatic. Only, it was while taking a moment to study the pretty features of her face that I realized I couldn’t recall what her name was. Huh. The blonde curls on her head told me she wasn’t a Chanel. Perhaps Amber? Or Jasmine?
Looking closer, I shook my head. Nah, she wasn’t the type to be named after a flower. It was definitely something exotic or on a rare occasion, something normal.
All I really knew as I continued to watch her pack and mumble swear words under her breath, was that she was the typical model type. An urban model with a pretty face, classic Coke bottle figure, honeyed brown skin and a few hidden tattoos for only private eyes to see.
I should’ve been upset at her impending departure, but again, girls like her came a dime a dozen, especially in the industry I was in, key word: was.
“You’re nothing but a child, Marc!” Her words suddenly came in clear as she finally finished packing – I mean, how many things did she have? “You really need to get your life together. You’re nothing but a little ass boy with commitment issues.”
She’d said “boy” as if it were a profanity. I suppose my male ego should’ve been bruised, but really, I was just waiting for her to hurry up and go. We were in my bedroom and she had all of her essentials on my bed, shoving an item in her bag one after the other.
When I didn’t respond to her remark she merely scoffed and flipped me the bird, turning on her heels and finally making her exit.
It was then that I sat back in my chair and let out a breath.
My “commitment issues” were the least of my worries. There was so much more on my plate already, some clingy model was the last thing I was going to care about.
The thought caused me to reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone. And just as I’d suspected, its screen was void of calls, texts or even e-mail alerts.
Perhaps for a regular person this was only mildly annoying, but to me, it was a loud and harsh message.
I was persona non grata.
My manager, Tim, said all would smooth over eventually after it had first happened. That was two years ago. I’d put out an album and it tanked, selling only a measly seventy-eight thousand copies its first week, which was low for Marco Brown. The media ate up my failure and labeled me “washed” and “done.” My name was often attached to negative press, as I was painted as angry and violent. My so-called friends lost my number and the industry blackballed me. And the silence set in.
But the girls didn’t stop coming. The “bad boy” image coalesced with my crooked smile and dimples made the allure easy. When I came in the game at the age of sixteen my team had suggested I fix my grill since my teeth weren’t so perfect and straight, but it reminded me of home so I kept ’em as was. My team suggested I hit the gym to pack on a more muscled look, besides playing basketball, I just didn’t see the appeal of hitting the weights. Whenever I was in New York and hit up Power 105.1 Charlamagne tha God was quick to call me out on how skinny I was and how much I needed a haircut. He’d dubbed me “the Beige Skeleton” as a joke. I wasn’t the clean-cut example of “handsome” yet it was never a problem with the ladies.
Hence why the model could easily be replaced.
My career, though, not so much.
It was late in the evening but still I was hungry and decided to gather my keys and head out for some food.
My house was generously large yet cooking always felt redundant. There was only me and my pit bull Pac. Before, I cooked all the time, even better, my mother would fly out to visit and she’d cook up a storm, often filling the house with the smell of her cooking for breakfast, lunch and dinner, whenever I was home. Now, takeout and quiet restaurants were the way to go.
I zipped up my hooded jacket as I was on my way out. As always as I passed by the large portrait that covered an entire wall in my keeping room I stopped and stared. It was a large picture from the shoulder up done in black and white of the most beautiful girl in the world. The portrait did her no justice, as her hazel eyes weren’t depicted, but still, her beauty was unanimous nonetheless.
Sometimes I would just stop right in front of her picture and stare for hours, remembering the conversations we’d had, the future we dreamed of, and the life we’d lived together. And in my darkest dreams, I envisioned how I’d snatched it all so effortlessly from us like a thief in the night.
Pac came running up to me and I briefly petted him before moving along and going out into the late Los Angeles night.
I hopped into car and left the quiet development I stayed in and started heading for anywhere that resembled a good eatery.
The radio was on and I didn’t even care to frown at the lack of spins my records got. I was more offended in the direction R&B was going in as of late. It was all about partying, all about girls and sexual encounters, or anthems calling women out of their name and downgrading their worth. There was no heart, no soul, no stories, nothing.
If they didn’t want me involved in music any more the least they could’ve done was replace me with worthy singers who had something to sing about and didn’t rely on auto tune.
“And let’s kick it back to the late and beautiful singing sensation Robyn. Here’s her smash hit ‘Me & You,’ ” announced the DJ. “We miss you, Robyn, every day.”
My insides went hollow as her vocals soon filled my ride.
“It’s just me and you, daddy. It’s just me and you,” Robyn crooned, stilling my heart and mind.
I was at a light and I knew I could drive no further. To my left I spotted an all-night diner and once the light flashed green I turned and pulled into the lot.
As late as it was the place was filled with a few off duty officers, some teens and a few older couples. No one to really notice me enough to take out their phone and snap a picture for the net.
I grabbed a booth in the back and skimmed my menu before settling on wings and waiting on the waitress.
Eventually she came over after cracking jokes with the two officers at the counter. She removed the pen that was tucked behind her ear and gathered her pad from her waist apron.
“Good evening, welcome to Webbie’s. Do you need more time or are you all set?” she asked with a friendly smile.
I handed over my menu after telling her what I wanted.
And then to depress myself I took out my phone and sifted through all my social media apps, soon I was immersed in images of my former friends enjoying their lives and tours and TV spots.
My last tour had only been five cities. And it hadn’t been heavily promoted or anything. My last movie had gone straight to DVD. And scripts had ceased coming in after the first year. Clubs didn’t want me promoting any more, as if my face on the bill would incite a ghost town or something.
It was the industry’s way of suggesting I humbly bow out.
Seeing how Tim was barely calling with good news, it almost felt as if I hadn’t a choice.
My female fan base was steady supportive, but that was more about my looks than about me. Most of ’em wanted to play wifey, as if knowing my full name and date of birth equaled out to the real me. What I really wanted, was for it be real. For a shot at being Marco Brown again.
And yet I sat in my own personal hell, waiting for salvation and forgiveness.
By the time my wings came I wasn’t really hungry any more. My waitress was so attentive I felt the need to eat every wing. The last thing I wanted to do was waste her time and service. Her eyes held no light in them each time I caught eye contact with her and she smiled. Even she wasn’t having a good time.
When my bill came I signed my name, figuring an autograph would do her good, and I stood and left.
It was the type of night where it was time for bed for some, and time for a studio session for others. I’d written hundreds of songs in the past two years, most about her, most about myself, some about life and others about frivolous things. Each time a minute passed without a call from Tim, I lost the nerve to sing a single note.
“Hey!” A voice shot through the air, eliciting my attention. Upon turning around I caught my waitress coming out of the diner after me.
Oh great, she wanted more.
“Look, I don’t do pictures anymore,” I told her as she advanced towards me.
She walked with such pace and force that I knew something was off. The closer she got I could see that she was pissed.
I’d given her my autograph, what more did she need?
“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but around here we pay our tabs with a whole lot more than our signature.” The little lady waved my bill for emphasis as she glared at me.
The media hated me, but it had still been a very long time since I’d been asked to pay a tab at a restaurant. Infamous or famous, my meals were always on the house. At least I had that much left to my name.
Confused, I looked at the waitress sideways. “That oughta be worth more than the $13.70 that was the meal.”
She was taken back, staring at me as if I’d had the audacity to say what I’d said. “Excuse me?”
I pointed to the receipt in her hand. “Sell that on eBay or something.”
The girl scoffed.
So maybe she wasn’t a fan. “Do you want a tip?”
Now she looked dumbfounded. “Just who exactly do you think you are?”
She had to be kidding. “Don’t you listen to R&B?”
“No, I’m a death metal kind of girl.”
The way her chest poked out with fuming rage and the way she stood with her hand on her hip, her entire stance reading of aggression, I didn’t have the guts to question if she were serious or not.
The nametag stuck to her shirt read LAURYN P.
P for Pissed-off.
“Aren’t you a little too old to be dining and dashing?” she asked.
Dining and dashing, really? The diner wasn’t even five-star enough to do such a thing. “I could buy this place tomorrow.”
Lauryn snorted. “I’m getting the police.” She turned around and began heading back to the diner.
Just what I needed, a future headline about being “so broke” I couldn’t afford to eat.
I fished out a bill and raced after her. “Here.”
Lauryn eyed the fifty in my hand and shook her head. “Not so big and bad now are you?”
She looked at me, really looked at me, as if I were just a regular person standing in her wake. It seemed as if I wasn’t Marco Brown superstar to her, I was just Marco Brown, some guy she’d waited on. The more I continued to stare at her as she peered up at me; something told me she really didn’t know who I was. That as far as she was concerned I was some lunatic trying to get out of paying for his meal.
While there was some relief in the pit of my stomach to be seen and looked at as a regular person not plagued by a fatal error, there was just one thing that deterred my mood further that night.
Two years off the radar and I had become that obscure?
“Keep the change,” I told her as I handed over the money.
I walked around her and headed back to my car.
Tugging my hoodie close, I hung my head low.
I should’ve just stayed in.
___________
I was asked by those working on the beyond the lights movie campaign to write an original short story about overcoming a challenge to be with your true love. Ironically, I was online and saw the movie poster for beyond the lights and had quickly added it to my Watchlist upon reading its summary. It’s from the writer / director of Love & Basketball, and for those of you who’ve read my book Playin’ Hard you know how much that movie helped inspire me. So to be asked to assist in any way to help promote what is sure to be another classic by Ms. Gina Prince-Bythewood, I’m truly honored.
I hope you enjoy Fallen Starz and don’t forget to go and see beyond the lights out Nov 14th!
- Whitney