Page 33 of A Crazy Kind of Love
It tickled me that he wasn’t only reading tweets directed at him, but searching out comments about him. It made me laugh that he interacted with his haters as much as his fans.
The phone buzzed again while I was spying on his tweets. He’d sent a direct message following up.Stop at the will call before the show. I’ll leave some backstage passes.
I sat down hard on the sidewalk and read the message over again. With my back pressed against the wall and my feet crossed under my knees, I hit reply and typed,Thank you. I look forward to it.But when I hit Send, I got an error message rudely informing me that the recipient didn’t follow me. I retyped the message on the public feed instead. It occurred to me to let him know he wasn’t following me, but I couldn’t think of a way it wouldn’t sound desperate. I considered unfollowing him and following him again. How pathetic could I be?
Before I could decide my next step, hip-hop legend L.L. Stylez appeared around the corner, and I was on my feet in seconds, snapping pictures. He acted put out by my attention, but he preened for my shots nonetheless. I called out, “L.L., could I get a comment about the announcement you’re retiring?”
One of his handlers followed behind, speaking for L.L. “His comment was his press release. Please take a step back.”
I swung wide around them and beat them to the front of the restaurant so I could get some shots of him strutting toward me. He wore sunglasses and a track suit, but he vogued like he walked the runway. I blurted out, “You’re looking fine, L.L.,” and he stopped dead.
He pulled his sunglasses up an inch and scanned my entire body, starting with my feet. “You’re looking fine, little lady. Who you with?”
I handed him my card, and he eyed it. Cursory.
“You want a statement?”
I flipped the switch on my camera from still photo to video and began recording. I could do this without looking down. If L.L. made a statement, I wanted it on camera. I wouldn’t get the video, but I’d at least have a documented record. And I needed him to say it without uttering the three deadliest words:Off the record.
“I’d love to get your thoughts, L.L.” Could I pull off cool and flirty?
“I’ll give you a statement.” His handler had grown skittish and had started to urge L.L. toward the restaurant, but he swatted the hand away. “Yeah, I’m retiring. Not from music. I’m going to be helping young musicians grow, sheltering them from the agents and the snakes that prey on the creative. This industry is a cesspool of no talent wannabes looking for the next buck. Where’s the integrity?”
He glanced down toward my camera, and I knew he was aware everything he said had been recorded. I still didn’t dare lift the camera to shoot video. He clearly had more to say, and I didn’t want to blow the moment. He leaned in close now. Inches from my face, and I could smell the traces of liquor. He didn’t appear drunk, but at some point that day, he’d had a drink. He looked in my eyes and waited until I stopped and locked eyes with him. He laid a finger on my chin, this legend of hip hop and blues. The stubble on his chin had begun to turn silver. I suddenly felt humbled by his intense attention—until he whispered, “This industry ain’t no place for a pretty little thing like you.”
And just like that, he whipped away from me, dragging his entourage in his wake. For half a second, I felt dejected for standing out on the street chasing after photos and scandal rather than finding ways to make photographs of trees interesting. But as the last of his entourage disappeared through the doors, it struck me that he wasn’t any better than me for all his lofty criticism. He retained a cadre of personnel whose only job was to cater to him. He was fixing to spend the money he’d earned in the industry on an eighty-dollar sirloin.
At the thought of food, my stomach growled, and I remembered I needed to eat before I got sick. I walked a few blocks to a street vendor and ordered a bottle of juice and a whole lot of spiced lamb. I sat down on a nearby bench to eat it and scroll through my pictures. This was my chance to get some respect from Andy finally.
When I got home, Zion lay on the sofa watching a game show, half asleep. I shoved him over so I could start writing.
“Listen to this.” I hit Play on the recording, and L.L.’s voice sprang to life.
Zion hit the mute on the remote. “Who is that?”
“L.L. Stylez. I got him to talk about his retirement.”
Zion’s mouth became an O. “Ho-ly shit. Start it over.”
I played it all the way back. “I have pictures, too. You think Andy’s gonna shit or what?”
“If he doesn’t try to steal it. That’s gonna print on the front page of our whole website.” He stuck out his foot and hooked the coffee table leg so he could drag it over without getting up. Once it was close enough, he grabbed my laptop. “You better get this in tonight. If L.L.’s talking to you, he might be talking in general.”
“Good point.”
I folded my feet under me on the sofa and shoved a pillow behind the small of my back. When I opened the laptop and fired up an empty document, the cursor flashed at me, taunting. I’d never been much of a writer.
“Transcribe the interview,” suggested Zion. “Nobody cares what you say around his quotes. His words will take up eighty percent of the article.”
“Right.”
I typed a temporary headline: “Legendary hip hop artist L.L. Stylez opens up about recent retirement.” Andy would clean it up anyway. I chose a picture from the group that showed L.L. in all his glory, sweeping down the sidewalk. Zion was right. The only thing I needed to write was a little contextualization. “Last week, L.L. Stylez announced his retirement from the music industry with little explanation. Speculation has run hot over the past week, but L.L. has offered no further insight into his decision. Until Monday night.”
The rest wrote itself. I uploaded the article with all the pictures to the work server. Then I opened my email client to let Andy know to look for it.
“Hey, I got an email from Eden.”
Zion had disappeared into the bathroom. Instead of yelling louder, I opened the email.
