White Room
Disclaimer:The O'Reilly Factor segment of this story is not from any transcript from any show and it is pure fiction and done without malicious intent. All of the panelist in the O'Reilly Factor segment are fake with the exception of Bill O'Reilly and Russell Simmons whose names and personas were used freely (don't sue me!) for pure entertainment purposes. Thank you and enjoy!
Ch. 6—The Moon and the Yew Tree
Epigraph from The Moon and the Yew Tree by Sylvia Plath
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky --
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.
Promptly after a day of fun and relaxation at Laura’s nail and hair salon, I returned back to my apartment to prepare myself for a whole evening with him… Whoever he was… I mean, of course I knew who he was—he was Eminem, famous so-called rapper bad boy who was making money off of the creation of African-Americans and simultaneously ruining hip-hop (and no, I did not learn that from my cousin Medea “Benzino” Scott). Other than the things you find out after one night of sex, I really did not know that much about him—the real person, if there was such a thing; if he was not some sort of mirage. Even though I found his public persona rather repulsive, back then, I really thought that there might be something more to him. I believed that his whole aura was just a publicity stunt used to sell records, and maybe, I would love the real Marshall Mathers. But, I found something else in him, and in a nutshell, I was foolish.
You see, he wasn’t my haggendas back then…
Staring at myself in the mirror, I brushed my shoulder-length thick black hair curling it in at the ends towards my face. My goal was to wear it down for this so-called “date”, just in case I needed a place to hide if my date became annoying. Plus, it was sexier down because it brought out my gorgeous brown eyes and chocolate-colored lips painted with a luscious firebrick lipstick shade. After thoroughly checking my skin for zits and blemishes (I’m still 100% zit-free), I examined my teeth and admired the same clear whiteness that has always been my best quality. The alluring crimson color of my dress contrasted my ebony skin while emphasizing the curves that have hypnotized men ever since I was thirteen years old. I almost prayed to God thanking Him for blessing me with physical perfection, but that would be blasphemous. The Lord says that, because of Eve’s sin, human beings cannot be perfect. However, whenever I admire myself in the mirror, I cannot find any physical or spiritual imperfection. My cup runneth over with the gifts from God.
My eye, though, quickly spotted something else that had runneth over—red nail polish that had spilled in the sink and was dripping down to the floor. If you squinted really hard, it looked like the bathroom was bleeding.
Shit, I thought. It’ll be noticeable because my bathroom is white.
Without missing a beat, my hand reached over for a bottle of vile-smelling acetone while my other hand grabbed a half-opened case of cotton balls. I was going to fix this mess. I already told you I was a clean freak. I can’t stand messes. Everything must be clean and orderly.
Suddenly, I remembered James, the only man I have ever fallen in love with, and the man I had chosen to grow old with until his accident. My true love; the only one who understood me; who could communicate with me. And then, something strange happened… I remembered something else… It happened about four years ago, but for some weird reason, I remembered…
James and I first started going out when we were both 20, while we were both still at Yale working on getting our Bachelor’s (mine in journalism; his in business). He was in love with me, and I was in love with him. However, after a year and nine months of a relationship full of bliss and fights, we broke up after an argument at the annual Drama Festival. James and I were deeply involved in the theatre back then; it was a hobby he and I shared. However, someone who also shared that hobby was a lonely, rather peculiar girl named Marisol. There was something scary and strange about that girl—her eyes would either sparkle with raging insanity or be cursed with unsightly dullness. Like a typical guy with emotional insecurities, James cannot be alone for long, and two and half months after the end of our relationship, he began a new one with Marisol. It turned out, though, that the girl had just as many emotional insecurities as James. My James never felt with her the strong emotional connection that he had felt with me, and I knew that.
So, I shrewdly came up with a plan to seduce James back to me. I became omnipresent in their relationship. I called James as often (maybe even more) as she did. I talked to him every chance I had. In the mornings on his way to class, I would make sure that I was always the first one he would speak to and in the afternoons, I made sure I was the last one that he would see before going back to his apartment. Every time, he looked the least bit depressed, like a superhero, I would come to the rescue, and I’d always get there first. Whenever she would try to talk to him, I would always butt in with a comment that made me seem irresistible. James quickly got the hint realizing that he was always the happiest with me. Two months into their relationship, he began ignoring Marisol and started to spend most of his free time. The poor girl was, at first, confused as to why her boyfriend was so emotionally distant from her until she finally snapped and asked James on the state of their relationship. James wrote her a letter speaking the truth, “I really don’t feel like we’ve emotionally connected so I think we should go back to being friends.” The next day, he asked me out to the movies, and we picked up right where our relationship had left off.
This Marisol character, though, did not respond well to the letter. After realizing that James and I were an item again, she confronted me:
“What the fuck? Why did you take him away from me? You’re perfect. You don’t need him. You don’t love him like I do,”
I coolly answered:
“You silly bitch, I never took him away from you. He came to me, and you know why? Because he loves me and I love him. And it’d be really selfish of you to come between true love!”
To be perfectly honest, after our little conversation, she cracked. Marisol’s sanity jumped out of a window, and so did Marisol—from a twenty-story building ending her pathetic life in a pool of blood and broken bones on the city pavement.
Moron… How gruesome! Who would ever be dumb enough to end their own life? If your life is that bad, then pray to God to make it better! And if he doesn’t, then just deal with it. Suicide attempts are such a sign of weakness. People complain and bitch and moan about their sad lives, and they don’t do something about it. People just don’t know how to cope… then again, maybe it’s better that way. All the stupid people who can’t deal with life deserve to be dead. That way, we don’t have to listen to their whining anymore.
The memory made me a little depressed; however, I cheered up after reminding myself of my ultimate victory. James loved me and I loved James. And God loves me. There’s nothing more perfect than that.
After spending a good thirty minutes thoroughly scrubbing the mess that was made on my bathroom sink, I was ready for my “date” who was waiting for me patiently in front of my apartment building next to his gray continental Bentley. He looked silly wearing an oversized Shady Ltd. red hoodie with ridiculously baggy sweatpants. The blue that reflected off of his massive sunglasses did nothing to mask his true identity from the casual observers passing by him—the absurd outfit only made him even more noticeable. For one fleeting second, Marshall managed to take off the asinine sunglasses, glanced at me with his playful blue eyes, and said:
“You look nice,”
I was used to situations like these where you have to respond to the compliment by returning a bright smile and simply saying:
“Thank you,”
While putting his sunglasses back on, he opened the Bentley door trying to be discreet about his identity and his actions. I think his “secret agent” act worked only because it was dark in the streets of urban Detroit, and the people passing by him were too busy dodging muggers to notice a man dressed like Vanilla Ice meets Tom Clancy. In Detroit, people like him were too commonplace to be noticed despite the ridiculous outfit… because in Michigan, everyone is a lunatic. However, Marshall still acted as if some sort of invisible force was stalking him getting ready to chop his body into a million pieces. Not a great start to a first date, I noted.
I wasted no time admiring the state-of-the-art gadgets that decorated the inside of his posh Bentley. Unfortunately, it wasn’t anything that I haven’t seen before. Growing up in upper-class Rochester can desensitize you to the more luxurious things in life. However, I still feel impressed when I see any displays of wealth especially coming from possible future boyfriends. Smooth beige leather seats greeted your body as you sat down. Next to the driver’s seat, there was a screen showing the menu option for a GPS system. My car has one of those; it comes with a built-in 12 inch DVD/CD system with Sirius Satellite Radio and the local cable channels for some quality TV watching. There was a closed compartment above that, which I guessed held a small flat screen TV hooked up to a Playstation, for the people in the back, of course. There were several buttons used to control temperature with a precise temperature reading on the GPS screen. Other buttons were used to control other aspects of the car—from the radio station to the position of the seats. Every gadget had a chrome finish that complemented its wood-and-leather trimmed interior. If I would have been poor, my jaw would have hit the floor at this car commercial come to life. Even though I was a bit jaded, I still love expensive cars and gadgets.
Normal men would have turned every gadget on in order to woo his lady as if they were James Bond or something. Marshall is the only guy that has ever turned all of his car toys off with the exception of his discreetly humming GPS system.
“Nice car,” And I sincerely meant that comment.
“Thanks,” he returned as he pushed another button that brought up two screens showing what was directly behind and in front of him on the road. The paranoid moron, I thought, he has security cameras installed around his car. Did this guy think he was Tupac?
“So…. You seem to have a lot of interesting gadgets in your car. But it looks like you never use them,”
He paused for a second. I could see a faint blush under the sunglasses.
“Well, to be honest, I really don’t know how to use half of this shit. I’m a little technologically retarded,”
“I guess it comes from growing up poor. When you finally get all the things you have ever wanted, you find out that you don’t know how to use the stuff. See that was never a problem for me. My parents trained me in everything technological because they always said that technology is the way of the future…”
Behind those sunglasses, I could tell he was looking at me, half-stunned and half-interested. Like he was trying to figure me out and drive at the same time. It was kind of cute. I think, behind those glasses, he was pondering about how amazing I was.
After talking about technology, exotic foods from Zaire, and the foibles of the Hilton hotels of Paris, I ran out of things to say, and he quickly figured out that he had run out of things to listen. So we drove on in silence for several minutes.
We said nothing…….. nothing whatsoever…….. for about eight minutes……
It was awkward.
Very awkward.
It’s funny. Everything else is so loud when two people are so silent.
Just awkward.
I hate silence. I must have noise.
“So what kind of music do you like?”
I know! Lame question. But it is the only safe question I know to ask when things get awkward on a first date. The question is even lamer when it is asked to a famous rapper.
I could listen to him thinking.
“Classical music and Broadway show tunes,”
Wait?!
“Are you serious?”
“… and also, the occasional polka song,”
“Are you serious???”
“Were you serious about that question? Was the all-knowing, amazing Sara Tyler, renowned hip-hop journalist, serious about that question?”
“Motherfucker!”
He started to laugh, “I’m just jokin’ with you, Sara. I’m just being a smart-ass, that’s all. I’m sorry,”
“Well, you know what? You can come up with a topic of conversation because I’m tired of talking,”
“I thought you liked talkin’. You seem to enjoy it! Besides, I was listeni
n’, even though half of the time, I ain’t got no fucking clue what you’re talking about. Frankly, I like listenin’ to you because…”
“Because what?”
He sighed. “…Nothing.”
“Lord, this date is a disaster!”
“Wow, glad to see you giving up on this date so early and we haven’t even gotten to the restaurant yet. By the way, where are we going?”
“I don’t know. Where do you wanna go?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t really care. Just as long as I’m with you.”
I sharply turned to look at him and he gave me a quick smile. If I wasn’t so mad, I would have thought that comment was sweet.
He started to softly chuckle under his breath.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He answered. “Again, where do you wanna go?”
“I don’t care,”
“I don’t care either. But you grew up in the lap of luxury, and you seem to know all the fancy restaurants in the Detroit area. I don’t generally go to restaurants, but you seem to love ‘em… so… you choose a restaurant,”
Dickhead, according to dating etiquette, it’s the guy who is supposed to choose the restaurant, I thought. Have you ever been out on a date before, asshole?
“Okay,” I began to speak mostly to avoid more awkward silence. “There is this restaurant if you turn right here. It’s Italian. It’s called Palladino’s. It’s a really nice, expensive restaurant with a separate V.I.P section where we won’t be bothered. It’s my favorite,”
“Alright. Sounds good. We’ll go there then,”
Sixteen awkward silent minutes later, we arrived at Palladino’s.
-----//
Fox News Transcript Dec. 2, 2004
The O’Reilly Factor
[Theme song plays]
Bill O’Reilly: In the “Unresolved Problem” segment tonight, as we told you in the "Talking Points Memo," we here at the O’Reilly Factor, believe that if there is an issue that is crucial to the well-being of America, it is worth exploring. So today, stay tuned to our special segment tonight: Hip Hop—America’s worst weapon of mass destruction— where we will talk about the destructive influence that this violent music has on our children. We are joined here by the representative of Families for a Better Tomorrow, Cheryl Donahue. Welcome, Cheryl.
Cheryl Donahue: Thank you, Bill. It’s nice to be here.
Bill O’Reilly: And with us, we also have a representative from African-Americans for Togetherness, Damon Wellington.
Damon Wellington: Good afternoon, Bill.
Bill O’Reilly: Welcome. And we also have with us former Michigan senator Jackson Tyler. How are you, Senator?
Former Senator Jackson Tyler: Very good, Bill. Great to be here.
Bill O’Reilly: Great to have you, senator. And finally, we have the co-founder of the hip-hop label Def Jam who is considered one of the most important hip-hop entrepreneurs in history, Russell Simmons. Welcome, Mr. Simmons.
Russell Simmons: Thank you, Bill.
Bill O’Reilly: And everybody welcome to the No-Spin Zone. Our show, as you know, deals with the dangerous effects that hip-hop music has on the children of America, and I wanted to start off the show with a very specific example: the violent and extremely misogynistic rapper Eminem—-----//
Palladino’s was strangely empty that night so it was easy to sneak through the back door and straight into the V.I.P. room undisturbed. It would have been a welcome sense of privacy if we would have had something private to say or share. Needless to say, this date was not going well. At least from my point of view. He didn’t look mad or disappointed, though. No, he looked like he was enjoying himself just fine. Jackass. I hated him so much.
After sitting at a table, the waiter handed us the menus.
“Order anythin’ you want, Sara. Not that I need to tell you, you’re probably used to it,” he said that in a tone that was a mixture of sarcasm and sincerity. As the night went on, he became harder and harder to comprehend. For the first time in my life, I could not figure out whether this guy was falling in love with me or was ready to slap me. Maybe it was both.
“Okay, I’ll have…” and I ordered the most expensive things in the menu. At least, he’s courteous enough to pay for my dinner. This is what I love the most about dating. Not to be shallow or materialistic, but spending money on a woman is probably the sincerest form of flattery. Of course, there are many women who would deny this claim, maintaining that it’s the personality of a guy that counts and that money isn’t everything. But, of course, those women are self-righteous liars who are probably secretly more wooed by money than I could ever be. It is also a great tool for getting to know your date. It says that a.) they are successful and have money to spend on you, b.) they really like you and are trying to impress you, and c.) that, for now, you are his first priority, and they are willing to spend as much cash as possible to keep you happy so that at the end of the night, you’re willing to spread your legs and let him stick whatever he pleases in there (God knows, that’s what most men want). I usually play the religiously pious virgin, and tell him, “Thank you for a wonderful evening, but I’m waiting until marriage.” However, Marshall knows I’m not a virgin. That trick won’t work on him. Besides I’m trying to establish a relationship here! If he gets fresh with me, though, he will be tossed aside like a two-year old Dolce & Gabbana purse.
As soon as the waiter left, we continued our silent exchange of uncomfortable glances, even though I could barely make out his eyes beneath the sunglasses (he was still wearing them, even inside the restaurant). Except after a while, I noticed that he wasn’t staring at me anymore. Instead, he was looking straight ahead over my shoulder into a blank wall—concentrating intently on what seemed to be an invisible hole emptying out into eternity. It reminded me of the time I caught his null, empty stare at the club the other day.
I decided to, once again, break the silence.
“So, I’m guessing you’re not very talkative unless you’re having a telepathic conversation with that bare wall behind me,”
“Huh? Oh… Actually I was thinking…”
“About what?”
“About conversation topics we could talk about since you love talking so much,”
“Well, why are you having so much trouble?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fuckin’ fact that we could talk about retarded leprechauns, and I would consider it a meaningful conversation,”
“Look, Marshall, I really don’t want to be some groupie chick that you can nail every second Tuesday. Are we on the same page here?”
He bit on a breadstick.
“Sara, I’mma be honest with you. I really don’t know what the fuck I’m expectin’ from this thing that we’re tryin’ to do. I really don’t know if this relationship or whatever is gonna even work or not. Frankly, I don’t care. All I know is that I’m attracted to you, and I don’t usually meet girls that are complete bitches to me, but that’s what I find so attractive about you… Do you like my music?”
“It’s fucking garbage,”
“Do you think I have talent?”
“A little. But you are overrated and you don’t deserve most of the butt-kissing you receive,”
“See! You’re honest and strong-willed and different from any of the other little girls I meet. This is why I agreed to a date. So that we can get to know each other as more than fuck buddies. So that I could catch some more of that Sara attitude that I find so… irresistible,”
No, this guy is definitely out of his mind. The more insults I spew out at him, the more enamored he becomes with me. He’s a nut!
However, I wanted to clearly establish my position.
“I’m still not going to sleep with you until I’ve gotten to know you better. I fuck the men I hardly know (and only usually when I’m drunk), I sleep with the special men that I like, and I make love with the special men that I love,”
“That’s fine. I don’t care. Or did you think I was some sort of horny pervert psychopath ready to jump at you?”
“You never know… You don’t make it easier to get to know you… You barely talk,”
To this comment, he bit his lip and didn’t say a word.
I continued, “… Because, you know, normal, perfect, successful relationships consist of something called communication and also, an emotional connection,” At least with James, I had both, I thought. “And since we’re being honest, I don’t think we have either. I’m not getting good vibes from all of this,”
His blue eyes remained hidden— looking down as his mind wandered.
He faltered a little as he started to speak:
“Sara… I think you have to be a little patient with me when it comes to the communication and emotional connection shit. I ain’t that good with all that fuckin’ shit and expressin’ my feelings without screaming at a person or writing a rap about ‘em. Also, it’s kinda hard to find people I can trust, especially if you consider what I do for a livin’. So, please Sara, don’t immediately give up on me if you feel like I’m doing something wrong,”
Immediately after he made that comment, I entertained the thought that maybe I could deal with this relationship or whatever this thing was. Maybe there was something more to him, even though I couldn’t figure out exactly what it was. Back then, there was a good chance that Marshall might turn out to be the man of my dreams. I’d just have to get to know him better.
And even if he wasn’t the right man for me, there were other incentives for me staying in the relationship. I know. I know. It sounds really shallow and materialistic to solely depend on physical chemistry, money, and power to sustain this relationship or whatever Marshall and I had, but I had to admit that those things can sometimes be more satisfying than true love… for a little while. But it’s not enough because a woman soon begins to grow bored.
However, it’s not good to judge that quickly, I thought. Who is to say that this man— the rich and powerful Marshall Mathers whom I have no physical attraction or emotional connection but lots of sexual chemistry with— is not the love of my life? But, who is to say that he is?
To find out the answer and to get to know him better, I had to behave like a journalist. During an interview, the goal of every successful journalist is to get to know the subject personally while maintaining an objective distance. Over our next few dates, which took place in a three-month span (he was busier than I thought he would be!), I would play the journalist and play the “getting to know you” game in order to establish some emotional connection.
-----//Bill O’Reilly: Now, Cheryl, as a representative of Families for a Better Tomorrow, describe to our viewers the concern you have over Eminem’s vicious lyrics affecting the youth of America.
Cheryl Donahue: Well, you see, Bill, Eminem is a great example of corporate music companies making millions of dollars off of promoting music poison. This man makes songs about killing his wife and raping his mother, and this is dangerous because he is one of the biggest selling music artists and his music is reaching millions of impressionable children.
Bill O’Reilly: I absolutely agree. And what gets me is the fact that this man is a father and he puts out this garbage! It’s enough to make you ask yourself, “Does this man have no morals?”
Cheryl Donahue: Exactly, Bill. His morals definitely come to question. And now that you brought it up, Bill, I’m also very concerned with the well-being of his child. I mean if he is immoral enough to make trashy music and market it to kids, who knows what he is capable of doing to his daughter?
Bill O’Reilly: It’s enough to take his child away. Someone should definitely investigate because this sort of child abuse—
Russell Simmons: Uh… Bill…
Bill O’Reilly: Excuse me, Mr. Simmons. I think we should let Ms. Donahue finish her part of the discussion. We will get to you soon.
Russell Simmons: It’s just that I don’t think it’s appropriate to—
Bill O’Reilly: Again, Mr. Simmons, your turn will come later. Be patient.
Cheryl Donahue: Well, I just wanted to emphasize once again, Bill, how America can generously give success and Grammy awards to a man who obviously has no moral compass? I would even call in to question his capacity to love and function in normal relationships.
-----//November 30th, 2004—4 days later
During a quaint dinner….
“So,” I said, “Who do you love?”
“Excuse me?” he said almost choking on his drink.
“Well, this is the getting to know you part of the relationship process, and if you don’t mind, I want to ask you some personal questions,”
“Okay,” he answered looking more than hesitant.
“So… Who do you love?” I repeated.
“Who do I love? Okay, let’s see. Well, first of all, I love my daughter more than anything in the world… easily the best thing that has ever happened in my life. My niece is also another great blessin’ in my life. Actually, they’re both right now in Rochester, which is your hometown I think, spending the weekend with my ex-wife and her new District attorney boyfriend. They’ve been spending a lot of time there. Actually, I’ve been missing them a lot these days. It’s like-- ”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing… Forget I said anything,”
“So you love them?”
“What? Oh, yeah, yeah! Of course, I love them… more than anything in the world,”
“So who else do you love then?”
“Hmm… My brother, my friends, my family--,”
“Your family? You love your family? Like your mother?”
He paused.
“Yeah, I do love ‘em, believe it or not. They’re my family. I’d do anything for ‘em, even though we don’t always get along,”
“Why do you love them, especially when you profess in your lyrics that they did you wrong?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t fucking know. Maybe ‘cause I’m a fucking idiot. Because it really doesn’t make sense to love people that fuck with you over and over. But I love ‘em anyway. It’s pathetic,”
He was right. I mean, how could anyone love someone that has hurt them badly? If my mother ever did the things that Marshall has claimed his mother did to him (Back then, I still thought they were exaggerations made up by the music companies), I would hate her name forever. Well, he does hate her. He makes that very clear in his music, and in the disdainful way that he talks to her, but to hear that he also loves her at the same time was strange. Was that even possible?
-----//Bill O’Reilly: Now, Mr. Wellington, I know that you are especially concerned with the effect of hip-hop on children seeing as this trash music affects the African-American community above all.
Damon Wellington: That’s right, Bill. I’m also glad that Ms. Donahue mentioned the rapper Eminem because I believe he is a prime example of not only violence and misogyny in hip-hop, but also racism.
Bill O’Reilly: What do you mean?
Damon Wellington: Well, think about it this way. This man is promoting the same things that other African-American rappers are promoting, and yet, he’s more famous and sells more records than those other African-American rappers. It’s really only because of his race, Bill, because it is always easier for a white man to succeed in a black man’s medium. Now, unlike the other guests on this show with the exception of, of course, Mr. Simmons, I am a fan of hip-hop. But I’m not a fan of the hip-hop that Mr. Eminem puts out and the ultimately racist precedents that he has set. He is a danger to not only hip-hop, but also the black community in America. If Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X were alive, they would surely agree.
-----//December 13th, 2004
While we were driving through downtown Detroit…
“Why do you love hip-hop?”
“Dumb bastard, I’m gonna pass this fuckin’ idiot. He keeps blockin’ me. Watch me flick this dickhead off, Sara. Yeah, fuck you asshole! Learn to drive retard,”
“Stop swerving, Marshall. You’ll spill my--,”
But it was too late. My chocolate mocha latte from Starbucks spilled on my lap causing me to stand up and hit my head on the ceiling of the car.
He couldn’t stop laughing at my misfortune. “Oh my God. Sara, I’m so fuckin’ sorry,”
“Stop laughing!” I snapped and threw the rest of the coffee that was left in the cup in his face.
“Holy fuck, that burns! Shit, I can’t drive anymore,”
Marshall pulled over at a virtually empty gas station parking in the darkest part of the parking lot.
I squealed, “Oh, no! My jeans! They cost me like 200 dollars. How am I gonna get this stain out?”
“Well, I could lick it out,” he answered suggestively widening his eyebrows and giving me a fiendish smile. After rolling my eyes at his cheeky comment, I tried to clean my jeans in the bathroom of the gas station. I didn’t have much luck, which made the neat freak side of my personality quite furious. Upon coming back to the car, Marshall suddenly asked:
“Wait, did you ask me a question?”
“Uh… Yeah, I think I asked you why you love hip-hop?”
“Why do I love hip-hop? Hmm… Good question. Why do I love hip-hop? Lemme turn that around to you,”
“Huh?”
“Why do you love hip-hop?”
“I asked you first. You answer first, and then I’ll give you my answer,”
His eyes wandered as he thought… suddenly the blue hue in his eyes became glazed with a faint spark.
“I love hip-hop because it saved my life. When I’m listenin’ to hip-hop, I feel like I’m part of a community. I grew up feeling like I never belonged anywhere or with anyone. But when the spotlight’s on me and I hear the beat, I feel like I’m accepted in some sort of brotherhood. I dunno. I can’t really describe it. It’s not logic, it’s more of a feeling,”
“And it keeps your bank account full, right?”
“Honestly, it don’t even matter to me ‘cause even if I don’t make any money doin’ hip-hop, I’mma still be writin’, I’mma still be rhymin’. That’s what I did back when I was poor as fuck, and I ‘ll keep rhymin’ if I’m ever poor again,”
“What if for some reason, you had to stop rapping, if your music was destroying hip-hop--,”
“My music is NOT destroying hip-hop!”
“Well, pretend! This is more of a hypothetical question anyway. If you were contributing to the destruction of hip-hop, would you stop?”
I could hear tiny gulp as he swallowed the heavy lump in his throat.
“Yeah, I’d stop. I’d go insane, but I’d stop. Why would I deny someone else the same good things that hip-hop brought to my life? But my music is not destroying hip-hop!”
“I never said it was,”
“So, how ‘bout you? Why do you love hip-hop?”
“Sort of the same as you,”
And then I told him some story about hip-hop being inspiring or whatever (I really don’t remember).
-----//Bill O’Reilly: Now, Senator Jackson Tyler, I see you squirming there and just itching to put in your two cents in.
Former Senator Jackson Tyler: Seeing as this Eminem is from my home state of Michigan, I would like to say that his despicable music and behavior is not representative of the God-fearing decent citizens of Michigan—both black and white.
Bill O’Reilly: Of course.
Former Senator Jackson Tyler: Now, I don’t claim to be an expert on this kind of music. To be honest, I’m more of a James Brown/Marvin Gaye fan. But I do have relatives that have explained this music to me. For example, my daughter Sara is a famous hip-hop journalist. My younger son Kwame and daughter Ebony are adamant hip-hop fans. My nephew Medea Scott actually co-founded one of the most famous hip-hop magazines in the world… what was it called again?
Russell Simmons: The Source?
Former Senator Jackson Tyler: Yes, that’s it!
Russell Simmons: Your nephew is Benzino!?
Former Senator Jackson Tyler: Actually, I remember my nephew telling me that he found tapes that proved that this Eminem fellow was racist. He was rapping some racist comments against our beautiful black sisters. So Mr. Wellington has a point in Eminem promoting racism.
Russell Simmons: But what does this have to do with--
Bill O’Reilly: Mr. Simmons, please let former Senator Tyler talk. He’s trying to make a point.
Former Senator Jackson Tyler: No, he’s right. I’ve been a little slow in trying to prove my point. So here it is. I don’t think Mr. Wellington and Ms. Donahue need to worry about Eminem destroying anything. From the descriptions that my daughter Sara, my son Kwame, and my nephew Medea have given me, I’ve deduced that this rapper is an extremely insecure and unstable person. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m an extremely observant person, and I’m excellent in analyzing and figuring people out. And racist bullies, of course, are insecure people who attack other people because they have no inner confidence. I mean, if he’s mad at his mother, he attacks her in a song. If he’s mad at his wife, he attacks her in a song. This is a very volatile individual. These types of people tend to destroy themselves very easily. Therefore, we don’t have to worry about Eminem destroying American morality or African-American music. He will destroy himself first; before he has any opportunity.
Cheryl Donahue: Wait, Senator Tyler. Are you actually suggesting that Eminem’s music will not have any lasting impact because he will destroy himself? Isn’t that a little far-fetched?
Damon Wellington: Yes, I agree with Ms. Donahue. Right now, millions of teenage kids worship him like a god.
Former Senator Jackson Tyler: Yes, it’s true that millions of teenage kids—white and surprisingly, black—listen to his music and hang on every word he says. But what reasonable kid would follow the example of an insane lunatic?
Bill O’Reilly: How would you prove to kids that he is an insane lunatic?
Former Senator Jackson Tyler: We won’t have to. He’ll do it himself.
-----//January 8th, 2005
During a quiet dinner at his mansion (He cooked microwavable bagels—I forgot why we didn’t go to a restaurant that day)….
“Do you have any insecurities?”
“Ya know, I have a question for you, Ms. Tyler. Why do you keep asking me these deep questions,” he countered as he licked butter batter from a spoon.
“Ew… butter… uh, why am I asking these questions? Well, I already told you. It is part of the getting to know you stage of normal relationships. Plus, I’m a little curious,”
I noticed that there was a huge glob of butter on his nose. With his finger, he wiped some of it, and then dabbed a little on my own nose.
“Why did you do that?”
“’Cause now you look as fuckin’ silly as I do,”
“Are you trying to avoid answering my question?”
“Maybe,” he answered as he continued licking the spoon.
“No, really, Marshall, do you have any insecurities?”
His face suddenly became serious, and his own eyes squinted slightly as he looked directly into mine.
“Hell no, I think I’m perfect,”
“You’re a crummy actor, Marshall Mathers,”
“Shit, at least I tried. Do ya want an orange?”
“No, I want you to answer the question,”
“Okay… Do you mean physical insecurities or… other insecurities?”
“Let’s start with the physical. If you could change anything about your physical appearance, what would it be?”
His fingers started absentmindedly peeling the skin of the orange.
“Well, I hate my crooked nose, my butt-lookin’ chin, my weird lookin’ mouth, I have freckles and acne; I’m short, and really skinny and don’t let me go on ‘cause I sound so fucking pathetic. If I could change anything, I’d change it all. So how ‘bout you?”
“I’m not really insecure about anything to be honest. Plastic surgery is for the vain,”
Even though I had my back turned to him and couldn’t see him, I could hear him mocking my answer, “Of course not, Sara, you’re perfect,”
“Okay, then, wise guy, tell me what my physical flaws are then?”
His hypnotized eyes gazed at every part of my body and face. Softly kissing my forehead, he replied:
“You have none. You’re beautiful,”
“So how about your other insecurities?”
“Other insecurities? I don’t know. I don’t really spend my whole time purposely thinkin’ about all my insecurities. That would be so fuckin’ depressing. When I’m reminded of ‘em, I think about ‘em. When I think about ‘em, I’ll tell ya about ‘em. But couldn’t you just figure ‘em out?”
“No, I want you to tell me!”
“Well, ain’t it funner to figure people out rather than have ‘em tell you everything about ‘em?”
“Never mind then. Obviously, you are trying to evade the question because you have too many emotional insecurities, and it will take you all night to explain them,”
“See. It ain’t that hard to figure me out,” he sighed, “Maybe one day, I’ll talk about all of my issues. Not now though. Here. Suck on the orange, baby,”
Yes, my initial analysis was indeed correct. He was a tremendously insecure individual. Back then, though, I didn’t just how insecure he was. There was no way to know. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m an extremely observant person, and I’m excellent in analyzing and figuring people out. In conclusion, I realized that he was insecure, but I failed to see the gravity of the situation. My father always warned me of people like that; you can’t save or destroy them because they destroy themselves first.
-----//Bill O’Reilly: Now, Mr. Simmons, I see that you’ve been anxious to say something.
Russell Simmons: Yeah, well, I don’t think it’s fair to completely place the blame on one artist. Also, it’s not fair to say that Eminem promotes racism just because he is a successful white rap artist. Now, Senator Tyler, I don’t know if your nephew told you that Eminem has actually apologized for the tapes, and the fact is, that he has given more opportunities to more African-Americans than many other white artists—
Damon Wellington: But he is receiving praise that is more deserving to other—
Russell Simmons: I’m not finished—
Bill O’Reilly: Mr. Simmons, if you do not allow for open debate, then I will cut your mike off—
Russell Simmons: Wait, so if I say something, it’s called interrupting, but if someone else interrupts me, it’s called open debate. Please, let me speak my piece!
Bill O’Reilly: Really, Mr. Simmons. No one is cramping your freedom of speech here. But have some respect. Continue.
Russell Simmons: All right. Ms. Donahue, I don’t feel it’s right for you to call someone immoral and suggest taking his child away.
Cheryl Donahue: I never suggested taking his child away, Mr. Simmons. Bill suggested that. And who knows maybe this Eminem is not an immoral guy when he is at home with his kid, but the taking on of an immoral personality just to sell records to impressionable children is an immoral action in itself.
Russell Simmons: Also, Senator Tyler. I don’t think it’s fair to call into question his mental state. Especially since this is a forum about hip-hop music, I think we should concentrate on all artists and not just one individual.
-----//January 29th, 2005
Fifty minutes after the official closing hours, we were parked in an isolated park at night in suburban Detroit……
I was explaining to Marshall about one of my less-celebrated ex-boyfriends with whom I broke up with because things were too “physical” with not enough of the “emotional”. (Besides, he annoyed me, and he was a little on the ugly side).
Until…
“Ahhh, Oh my God, Marshall!”
“What?”
“There’s a spider in the car!”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know. It was here. It landed on my hand! Oh my God!”
I bolted out of the car and let him scramble to kill the spider.
“Come back in. It’s dead,”
“And let another spider attack me? No thanks!”
“What are ya gonna do? Walk home?”
“Maybe-- ”
Suddenly, a black flying creature quickly swished by me as it rustled the nearby trees of the park. I ran back into the car.
“Holy crap, I think I saw a bat,”
“A bat? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure! I’m not safe anywhere,”
“Well, at least you’re back in the car,” and he gave me a passionate kiss. It continued until we were interrupted by a strange beeping sound.
“What the fuck was that?” he blurted out of breath.
“I think those are police lights,”
“Holy shit! That’s a police car!”
“Oh my God, Marshall, I told you we shouldn’t have gone to this park after closing hours,”
He started to scramble to the back of the car.
“Sara, I can’t let ‘em fucking catch me here or else it’ll be all over the news tomorrow. I gotta hide,”
“What will I tell him?”
“I don’t know! Make some shit up! I’m gonna hide under the seat,”
Discretely, I moved to the driver’s side of the car and sat calmly pretending that there was nothing out of the ordinary going on.
“License and registration, please?” the policeman barked as he shone a bright flashlight in my eyes.
“Here’s my license, and this car actually belongs to my friend,” my shaking hands reached for my license in my purse and Marshall’s registration papers in the glove compartment. Please God, I prayed, let him not recognize Marshall’s name. The policeman gave me a funny look as he read over the papers.
“He lent it to me, honest!” I insisted.
“Is there someone else in the car?”
“No, I’m here by myself. Sometimes, I need some time to meditate so I drive out here by myself and just think,”
“I could have sworn—never mind. Anyway, park hours are from 8 in the morning to 10 at night. It’s ten minutes past eleven. Were you aware of that?”
“Oh, I didn’t know the park closed that early,”
“Well, we were getting ready to close the gates, and before we do that, my partner and I drive around to make sure that there is no one in the park left,”
“Whew! Good thing. I wouldn’t want to be stuck here in the park all night,”
“I’m sure, you wouldn’t. There’s a Wal-Mart close by. You can meditate there,”
“Thank you, officer, for the warning. I’ll leave right away,”
“Have a nice night, ma’am,”
Still trembling, I stuck Marshall’s keys in the ignition and as casually as possible, drove his Bentley to the Wal-Mart nearby.
“It’s safe to come out, Marshall. He’s gone,”
“I’ve got an idea, baby. How about you come back here… in the backseat?” his shout was muffled by the fact that he was still hiding under the seat, “I got a surprise for you,”
“Marshall, he might come back! We gotta go now!”
“Come on back here. He’s not gonna bother us,” he struggled trying to get out of the snug space under the seat bumping his head once or twice, “Shit! That fuckin’ hurt!”
I almost bent my poor ankle as I climbed over the front seat of the Bentley trying to get to the backseat. On cue, I landed right on top of him.
“Well, this is interesting,” he peeped suggestively.
“I’m not kidding, Marshall. We have to go… NOW! I almost got arrested, and I’m not risking my neck again,”
“Don’t worry. We ain’t gonna stay long. And I’m not gonna fuck you right here if that’s what you’re wonderin’,” he kissed the side of my neck working his way down to my shoulder. “I wanna stay like this… for a while,”
“Okay,” My calm voice hid the fact that I was still paranoid about the policeman coming back. Oh my God, if he had found out about us, he could have leaked it to the tabloids. Then, everybody would have known about Marshall and I—my friends, my co-workers, my family, my father (the ultimate embarrassment!)—I would have died. I don’t want anyone to know about us yet. Not until I knew more about this “relationship” that I was getting myself into.
“Sara? Can I ask you a question?”
“Maybe. Depends,”
“Our relationship is open book, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, before all this policemen shit happened, you were tellin’ me a story ‘bout how you broke up with your ex-boyfriend ‘cause the relationship was too physical and not enough emotional, or too emotional and not enough physical or somethin’ like that. I dunno, you broke up with him after a week, and it seems like you broke up with him with no warning… like out of the fuckin’ blue… the minute you decided you were unsatisfied with the relationship. So, I’m just askin’ that… if you were unhappy with our relationship, you’d tell me, right? You’d give me a fair warning before leavin’ me?”
“I guess so,”
“Nothing’s taboo between us, right? If you feel unhappy— ,”
“Yeah, I’d tell you!”
“So… do you feel like there’s anything wrong with this thing… this relationship?”
“Honestly?”
“Yeah, Sara, please,”
“Well, to be honest, we’ve been dating for over 3 months, and I still feel like I don’t know that much about you. The times we connect emotionally are few and far between, and we spend much of the time kidding around or bickering--,”
“Bickering?”
“Yeah, and I’d also like for our relationship to be more of a balance. I feel like there is too much of the physical and not enough of the emotional,”
“I told you to be patient with me on that, Sara. Trust me, I’m tryin’. I’m doin’ everything possible to salvage this relationship because I…”
“You what?”
“Nothing… Sara?”
“Yeah?”
“Not that I do, I mean you did say that you can’t fall in love with a person after only knowing ‘em for 3 months… but….”
He struggled to continue his question.
“Do you think that someday, maybe in the not-so-distant future, that you could ever love me like you loved James?
I could have said that I didn’t know. I could have changed the subject. I should have not given an answer. But, I gave one. The wrong one.
“Yes,”
“Really?”
“Yes, I think so,”
In fact, I think, back then, I really did believe that. I believed that if I could ever love somebody as much as I loved James, that somebody would be Marshall. They were the thoughts of a naïve woman who could not possibly anticipate the fickleness of love, the disintegration of illusion, and the trappings that a relationship with a haggendas would bring. In a couple of weeks, this relationship would go to hell.Author: bellababyblu@hotmail.com
These stories are for entertainment purposes only. They are completely fictitious, and the authors mean no harm to EMINEM, his family, friends, or anyone else that may have been depicted as a 'real life' character. No money was made on the fiction here, either directly or indirectly, i.e. paid advertising. In other words - it's just a bunch of shit we wrote for fun. Please don't take it seriously.