White Room
Chapter 7: Love Letter
Love Letter by Silvia Plath
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just toe me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.
That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter--
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chiseled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheek of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I saw was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in a dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mica-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.
Some nights all I had to do was close my eyes, and I would see it. Everything of importance would just disappear. And all I can gaze upon is the white walls. I hate white walls. I hate white rooms. My mind still gravitates toward the darkness, toward the mark, toward a stain. But there is nothing. I sense nothing. I feel nothing but white.
And I wake up. I always wake up. As if on cue, I would always wake up to find that I’m in bed with the most beautiful woman in the world lying next to me. Sometimes, she reminded me of that white room. Unblemished, pure, and perfect. Then, I wondered why I didn’t hate her. Why didn’t I just take a black marker and draw a mark on her? Or take her lipstick and smudge it all over her like I did with the bathroom toilet? If I bled on her, would she become like me?
At nights, normal people sleep. I stay awake and revel in the grayness.
It’s a fucking fact, though, that those sane normal people tell other sane normal people-- what goes around, comes around. You get what you give. You reap what you sow. One day, the chickens will come home to roost, etc, etc. Then, they quickly flash their eyes at me and smirk as if to say, “Now, look at him. He’s a great example!” And they’re right.
I’ve done a lot of fucking shit in my life. I’ve hurt a lot of people, sometimes without regret or second thought. Kim and my family are the usual victims, of course. But there are countless others—people who are just mere little fucking images; they now only exist in my mind. Now, since for the first time in 32 years I have the time to think, I think about them. Was I really sorry for hurting them or was I glad they didn’t hurt me?
But those thoughts don’t matter anymore. Being the sadistic bastard that he is, God has already damned me with a fitting punishment for all of my sins. The punishment? He made me fall in love again. After many years of treating love and sex as a game, he turned me from the player into a brainwashed pawn. It was a clever trick that only lonely insane fools fall for. And Sara? What about Sara? Did I hurt her or did she hurt me? I barely remember sometimes. I think she hated me for the same reason I loved her—we were both trying to hold on to sanity and happiness. I tell the doctor this, but he just sighs and shakes his head.
Now, I will never escape from the prison of white rooms, from the prison of medications, from the prison of doctors who pity me and thank God every night that they’re not in my position… in my condition. But, it is my punishment, and like any good prisoner, I have to serve my time and hope for some forgiveness. Still, my mind is quickly fading. The voices are growing stronger, the people are now clearer and reality is… somewhere… I don’t know… Are the people or voices reality? Or do I only wish they were reality? It’s funny because whenever I wish they were realities, they are. And that’s when the world becomes confusing… and strangely enough, sometimes beautiful. I find beauty in the chaos. I tell the doctor this (because this is seriously waxing some philosophical shit), but again, he only sighs and shakes his head.
He tells me that I am now only a dying corpse. It will be only a matter of time until I am fully dead so I have to tell this story before I… disappear…The memories are hard to remember, though.
Most are vague. Some are clear. All, like the people I hurt, are just fucking images burning in my mind, though. The doctors say-- before the flame burns out, write those memories down.
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just toe me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars
-----//A dull ring sharply buzzed in my sleeping head for 5 seconds before I eventually realized that it was the sound of the telephone. I struggled out of my temptingly soft sheets in order to answer the unwelcome wake-up call.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Daddy,” a melodious voice chimed. It was Hailie.
“Oh, hey, baby, why you callin’ me?” I answered.
“Oh, I don’t know… I think mommy wanted to speak to you.”
“She did? Well, put her on the phone!”
“Umm… She’s not here right now. She’ll be back in a little while. But I can talk to you till then,” she breathlessly continued, “Me & Lainie went to this birthday party in this mansion thiiiis wide—It was bigger than ours! With a huge ranch full of animals and clowns and games. It was like an amusement park. And there were soooo many kids. Can we get something like that?”
“We’ll see,”
“I really like it here in Rochester, Daddy. Everything is so bright and pretty and everyone is happy and rich. Like my dreams, Daddy!! Can we move here, please?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, baby. Plus Detroit’s not that bad,”
“But it’s not good either! Please, Daddy?”
“Is your mommy here?”
“Yeah, she’s here. Soooo think about it!!!”
I heard a huge clang and rustle as the telephone was passed from anxious Hailie to Kim.
“Marshall?”
“So I hear that Hailie and Alaina are really enjoying themselves up there in Rochester.”
“Oh, God, Marshall! If there is such a thing as a heaven on earth, it would probably be found in Rochester. I thought I was made for the fuckin’ urban life, but maybe it was because I didn’t know any better. You have to come visit!”
“Naw. Not interested. Reminds me of fuckin’ Pleasantville. Besides, I wouldn’t want to bother you and Adrian.”
“No trouble at all. He’d be happy if you came up here, I’m sure.”
“So are Hailie and Alaina ready to come back to Detroit tomorrow?”
She held her breath and hesitantly answered.
“Actually, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Is it alright if the girls stayed a couple more days up here?”
“What?! Why?”
“Well, first of all, they were invited to some play dates tomorrow, and also, Adrian had already planned to take us all water skiing at Lake Wasaiga on Saturday. He already reserved the hotel tickets and everything!”
“But this is the only time I have with the girls. I leave for L.A. on Sunday!”
“I know, but the girls are so excited to be going on this trip. I can’t break their hearts. Plus, they’re getting along so well with Adrian.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
“Are you bitter?”
Did I sound bitter? I thought by now I’d have a bit more tact.
“No.”
“Liar. When are you coming back from L.A.?”
“Next Wednesday.”
“Okay, I’ll send them back to Detroit by next Thursday then. In fact, maybe Adrian could drive them! I mean, it’s only a four hour drive. Maybe they can all continue bonding.”
“Oh, goody,” I said under my breath. Now, I was fully aware about the fact that I sounded bitter.
“I’ll ignore that last comment and end on a cheerful note. Have a nice day, Marshall!” And the call concluded with quick click and a monotone hum murmuring in my ear.
My eyes were fucking spinning from the rage. Holy fuck! The asshole! I knew that there was something sleazy about Adrian. That slimy motherfucker was slowly, but surely stealing my children away from me. Fucking virus tearing our little family apart from the inside. What the fuck was going on? Why are Hailie and Alaina bonding with a bastard that had only known them for six months? Compare that shitty span of time with the 8 and 11 years that I’ve known them. Besides, what was so great about Adrian anyway? He’s rich? I’m rich! I can buy Hailie and Alaina a whole fucking zoo if they wanted one. Has he made a song and dedicated it to them? Because I’ve done that twice! I may not be father of the year, but fuck it, I try! And it’s not fucking fair that someone is trying to steal the only thing that has kept my feet planted firmly on the ground.
Then again, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Hailie described Rochester… like a dream… happy… I’ve never been there, I thought. Maybe it was as magical as Hailie described it and who am I to stop her from spending time in a place she loves. She deserves the happiness—both of those little girls do…
I need to call Sara. That always cheers me up.
I forgot the date when I decided I was in love with her, though. Details like that are vague right now. Although, I remember sitting on my couch, with the T.V. turned to static, just thinking about her. I would remember the time I gave her a diamond bracelet,t and her dark brown eyes turned big and sparkly. And there was the time, we were cuddled on the couch watching a movie together in her apartment. While she was busy watching the movie, I couldn’t stop admiring her beauty and listening to the cute way she would laugh. When she turned to me to look at me, I would bury my face in her dark hair which would always smell like apples (must have been her shampoo). Her lips were supple enough to make our kisses soft and amazing. And every word that came out of those beautiful lips, which would have otherwise been shallow and meaningless, became interesting and insightful. All of her habits were absolutely adorable like the way she had to clean her whole apartment almost three times before she could call it clean. Or how she had to keep everything orderly and alphabetize everything she owned (even the cereal on the shelves were in alphabetical order). After we made love, I’d sometimes watch her comb her hair so delicately that it was almost sensual. Once, while she was cleaning her apartment, she found a butterfly on her windowsill and killed it with a violent swipe of her hand.
“Holy shit, Sara, that’s a fuckin’ butterfly. You don’t kill no fuckin’ butterflies!!”
“Well, why not? A bug is a bug is a bug. Besides, it’ll bring germs,” she said in that haughty voice I found so charming.
These thoughts would flood my memories, and all I could do was close my eyes and smile. I’d think, “Oh my fuckin’ God, she’s mine. That girl’s mine. I can’t fuckin’ believe it.” I guess you could say I was stalking her in my mind. Until one day, I thought, “It must be love. It can’t be anything else. I’m fuckin’ obsessed with her. I can’t stop thinkin’ about her. It must be love,” and that was the day I gave my obsession a label: love.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.
God, even the dialing her phone number to call her made me fucking giddy. I needed to call her, though, to take my mind off of the fact that I wouldn’t get to see my little girls until next Thursday.
“Hello?”
“Yo, Sara,”
“You woke me up—"
“Bright and early, I know,”
“Thanks, but I already have an alarm clock,”
“I know,”
There were a few seconds of awkward silence when I panicked thinking to myself, “Shit, I don’t know what to say. Better think of something quick,”That was always my fucking problem. I never could think of words to say to her because I was always too busy enjoying just being with her. I would be so caught up with my admiration for her that I would be at a loss for words. So then, that would cause awkward silences which tend to annoy her, and I hated seeing her annoyed. And she would always know when my conversation was forced which would annoy her even more. Maybe because the shit I would come up with was not interesting. Being interesting is hard work.
“So… Hailie called me from Rochester.”
“Really? Is she having fun with her mom?
“Yeah, she’s with Alaina and Kim… and Kim’s boyfriend.”
“Oh, what was his name again?”
“I think it was Adrian Ludlow.”
“Ludlow? District Attorney Ludlow? Oh, I think he’s a friend of the family.”
“Oh…”
Silence again. Fuck!
“And Hailie said she was havin’ lots of fun,” I frantically began.
“Really? That’s great. There’s always something to do and somewhere to go in Rochester. It’s not a
s cosmopolitan as New York, but it does have its charms. And it’s a great place to raise children,”
“Is it?”
“Yeah! I was raised there and you know what? It’s the best place on earth to live. Top-notch schools, beautiful houses, friendly people. You should think about moving there.”
“Move to Rochester? No fuckin’ way! I can’t leave Detroit! My whole life’s here.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. If you move out of Detroit, your whole credibility as an MC will be on the line. But I mean, it’s only four hours away by car. And it’s still in Michigan!”
“Don’t think so. My studio’s here. Besides Hailie’s perfectly happy in Detroit.”
A bout of silence attacked again, but this time I was prepared with enough ammunition.
“Well, Sara, there’s actually something else.”
“What?”
“Umm… I’ve been kinda noticin’ that my girls have been spendin’ more time up there in Rochester than here with me. It’s been depressin’ the hell out of me that I haven’t been able to see them as much anymore ‘cause I’m always away out of town or somethin’. Plus, that leech Adrian keeps spendin’ more and more time with them like he’s their dad.”
“Well, he is their dad, their soon-to-be stepdad to be more accurate.”
“I know, but this guy’s just slimy, and I don’t trust him around them.”
“So, wait, let me get this straight. You, Marshall Mathers, a grown man (but sometimes I wonder) are jealous of Kim’s new fiancé because of all the time he spends with your daughters?”
“You make me sound fuckin’ childish.”
“That’s because you are acting childish, Marshall. He’s taking over the role of being a father as best as he can. Last time I heard, Adrian has never had any kids of his own. So, fatherhood is a fairly new endeavor for him.”“He’s not their fuckin father.”
“But he has to be, now that he’s gonna marry Kim. This is complicated enough as it is. Don’t try and make it even more complicated.”
“But--”
“But what? Marshall, do you honestly think that Adrian is planning some sort of scheme to take Hailie and Alaina away from you? If you do, then you’re delusional.”
I hated to admit it, but Sara was right. I was being delusional again. I should really stop thinking so much because it was starting to make me hallucinate.
“Sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to go out of town so much ‘cause then I could spend more time with ‘em.”
“I know you do. Despite of everything, you’re a good father.”I smiled. “I love you, Sara,”
“Don’t flatter me, Marshall. It’s my job to make you feel better.”
“No, I really do. Not only ‘cause you’re my fuckin’ emotional crutch, but also ‘cause you’re wonderful, amazing, intelligent, beautiful… perfect.”
Silence once again. Shit! I must have run out of adjectives.
“In fact,” almost desperately I continued. “Why don’t you come join me at the studio today?”
“Today?”
“Yah, I workin on a song with D-12 and 50. For 50’s new album.”
“50 cent?
“Yah, just come and you can meet the boys. They gon’ be excited to meet you. You already probably know 50.”
“No, actually, that’s the one hip-hop artist I haven’t met, believe it or not. Yeah, I’ll definitely come. I’ll meet you there. I just need to clean some things first and get ready.”
“Okay, baby, bye.” I hung up the receiver.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.
Fuck, I felt like I was on top of the world. It was a little fucked up, though, how I would look forward to every single “meeting” with Sara, even though, I would always be busy doing something else like recording some new music. I mean, just the mere fact that I would see Sara later that day immediately cheered me up. I felt like a restless little boy waiting for his presents on Christmas morning. I was going to see my Sara… even though, I wouldn’t be able to pay attention to her 100%.
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just toe me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.
I couldn’t get her out of my head. She was just there constantly. When I ate my breakfast, I could see her face in the orange juice and in the toast. When I picked up my newspaper, her name was the headline, the leading story, and the editorial. When I drove to the studio, she was every driver and every passenger in every car I would pass by. When I took out my writing pad, every rhyme, every line was inspired by her. Truthfully, it was pathetic. This shit didn’t even happen when I was with Kim… so I was confused, at first, and didn’t know whether to call it love or insanity. Did I already say it was pathetic?
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
My hands were so fucking sweaty from anxiety that the buttons on the production boards of the studio kept slipping off my fingers. I kept praying that I would have enough strength to concentrate on this beat when Sara actually came. Because if I was this anxious when she was on her way to the studio, I would start acting fucking bananas when she was actually in the same room as I was.
“So when’s Curtis gon’ actually get here?” Rufus mindlessly said as he lazily sat on a chair trying to open a bag of potato chips.
“I thought he was gon’ get here real soon. What the fuck?” DeShaun answered opening a can of beer.
“He called Paul and said that he was on the way from the airport,” I tried to appease them while fiddling with those damn slippery buttons.
“Well, he’s takin’ a long fuckin’ time. I think we should just do the motherfuckin’ song without him,” Von called from inside the recording booth.
“We recordin’ a song for his album, nigga. We can’t do shit! What was it called again? Denaun, didn’t he tell ya?” Ondre asked.
Denaun replied, “Some shit called ‘Massacre’. His new shit’s dope. The Shady/Aftermath empire lives on, right, Marshall?”
“Shh… Not now, I need to concentrate on this beat.” I need to get the instrumental on this beat exactly right or else the Shady/Aftermath empire wouldn’t live on.
“C’mon, nigga. Beat’s perfect. Ya need to relax, dawg,” DeShaun rolled his eyes because, like always, he was worried about me. Poor Proof… after more than 15 years, I’ve given him plenty of cause to worry.
“The beat’s fuckin’ shit, dawg, and don’t you lie to me! I’m fuckin’ psychic, man, I can tell when you lyin’ yo ass off,” I said.
I guess people who aren’t producers really don’t understand how crucial it is to get the just right sound… the right rhythm… the right instruments. It’s hard to explain what the right beat is because it’s on some mathematical shit. The sound coming off from those speakers is so symmetrically perfect… but at the same time, you can’t use a fucking ruler or compass to measure the sound. Your ears and instincts: those are your rulers. And when you bob your head and forget that it’s your beat (“someone else must have created this beat. I couldn’t have created something so close to perfection,” you think to yourself), that’s when you know you’ve created something dope.
However, this beat sounded really sub-par to my ears. I was ready to destroy the sound board out of fucking frustration. That is, until she finally arrived.
“So, am I late?” Sara asked as she entered the studio.
I will never forget what she was wearing that day (I really don’t know why I remember such weird details). A light green tube top so tight that it showed every curve on her ebony colored body. A short denim skirt that flaunted her gorgeous legs with high heeled black shoes. She had straightened her hair, and although she did that often, she rarely has it pulled back like she did that day. I guessed she only did that on special occasions. She took off her sunglasses so sexily that I swear if my dick had had control of my brain that day, I’d have pounced and fucked her right in that studio in front of everyone.
She must have dressed sexy just for me, I thought. How adorable! She’s fucking incredible.
“Nah, you’re just in time. Kiss?”
“Well, if you insist,” she jokingly sighed as she gave me a kiss.
“Ya know, you don’t have to dress all sexy for me at the studio,” I whispered to her.
“Who said it was for you?” she said coyly raising an eyebrow.
I started to tickle her for that smart comment, which made her giggle that infectious laugh that she usually giggles. To defend herself, she started to tickle me, but I immediately pulled away because I knew that if she tickled me, I’d start writhing and squirming and begging her to stop. I’m just that ticklish.
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just toe me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars
“Aww… Hate to break up this lover’s moment, but Marshall, you haven’t introduced us to your guest,” Von interrupted.
“Oh, sorry. This is Sara. Sara, these are my boys from D-12.”
“We can introduce ourselves, Marshall. My name’s Von or better known as Kuniva. The one tryin’ to open the bag of chips over there is Rufus a.k.a. Bizarre.”
“Yo,” piped in Rufus, a little mad that he was disrupted from his task.
“I’m Denaun or Kon Artis, if you like, or if you read the liner notes, Mr. Porter producer extraordinaire.”
“And I’m Ondre or a.k.a. Swift, but I’m sure you’ve all heard of us. And the quiet one back there who ain’t usually so quiet and I dunno what the fuck’s goin’ on is DeShaun. Proof! Stop bein’ quiet and say somethin’.”
“You look familiar. I know you from somewhere,” Proof said with a suspicious tone. “Aren’t you a hip-hop journalist?”
“Yeah, I am, you’ve heard of me? Sara Tyler.”
DeShaun raised his eyebrow. “From the Source?”
“Yeah, and from Vibe, from XXL, from Da Streetz, from Detroit Hip-Hop Magazine. I do a lot of freelance work,”
“Thas cool, thas cool, ‘cause if you’d been from the Source we’d a kicked yo hot ass out the door and that would have been disappointin’ especially since we’d had to kick out a fine lady such as yoself,” Denaun said. I immediately caught him checking out my girl.
“Down, Denaun, take yo eyes off my chick! She’s mine, right baby?”
“Well, can’t say that I’m not flattered by the attention,” Sara answered.
“Thas right, Marshall. Your new girlfriend is mad hot,” Ondre said licking his lips.
“Easy, Ondre!” I laughed. “Look, Sara, I need to get workin’ on this beat, a’ight?”
“So where’s 50 cent then?” she asked.
“He’s comin’ soon. I can’t get the song finished without him, but the beat is bullshit and I wanna fix it before he gets here.”
“Well, I’ll be the judge of that. Let me listen to it.”
“You wanna hear the beat?”
“Yeah, I’m not only a hip-hop journalist, but also an enlightened hip-hop critic.”
Von nodded. “Yah, Sara, listen to the beat, then maybe you can tell him that he’s fuckin’ crazy and the beat’s fuckin’ perfect and he should stop messin’ with it.”
In the swift push of a button, I played the beat. As soon as a boom started to vibrate on the speakers, she adorably wrinkled her nose like she always does when she hates something.
“Ya don’t like it?” I asked.
“It’s way too simple and it sounds like every other beat you’ve ever done.”
I glanced at the guys who looked stunned. “See? Told ya I’m not crazy! I gotta fix this beat before Curtis gets here.” I kissed Sara on the cheek. “This is why I love this girl. She ain’t no bullshitter.”
“No shit,” DeShaun whispered under his breath.
“I’ll just be workin’ on the beat so I’ll be right here and maybe, Sara, you can get to know the guys for a minute,” I said.
“Okay, sure,” Sara replied.
“C’mon, Sara, and sit by us,” Denaun called out. “We ain’t gonna bite you unless that’s what you’re into. Then again, we can’t really mess with you since yo’ boyfriend’s still in the room.”
Sara, trying desperately hard to hide her discomfort with a polite smile, sat down on a stool next to Denaun’s chair, which was turned backwards. Von gave Ondre a cheeky glance while DeShaun still stared at her as if she was the antichrist in high heels. With the exception of Rufus, who was still trying to open his beloved bag of potato chips, it seemed like the guys were in full “interrogation” mode.
Even though, I was busy trying to improve the beat before 50 arrived, I still kept one ear open to the conversation between Sara and the guys. These guys have been my friends for a little more than 15 years, and we’ve gone through a lot of shit in the past and present. In all honesty, I depend on these guys for more than rap collaborations. And their opinion was important to me. Just like I let them cross-examine my albums, that day, I let them cross-examine Sara.
“So, Sara,” Denaun began. “Since you so honest, how ‘bout you tell us what you really think of D-12?”
“Excuse me?” was her immediate reply.
“What you heard… Tell us exactly what you think of D-12,” Denaun smiled. “No strings attached and we won’t go buck wild with anger if we don’t like your opinion.”
“Why are you asking for my opinion?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” continued Denaun. “I guess it’s because Marshall said you was honest and we don’t hear the opinions of an honest journalist often.”
“Okay… You’re not exactly my favorite rap group.”
“Oooh, nigga, I told you she’d say that shit,” Von said to a nodding Ondre.
“Well, don’t sugar-coat it, Sara. Tell us how you really feel. You ain’t gonna hurt our feelings,” Denaun insisted.
“You’re testing me, aren’t you?” Sara replied.
“Naw, we just wanna get to know you, Sara, and since you so honest, then don’t give us that ‘not exactly favorite group’ shit. Be fuckin’ brutal like you was with Marshall,” Ondre said.
“Alright… I think your music is bland and unoriginal. The ‘shock’ rap shit is really getting old, and all of your lyrics and beats are wack.” The guys were, understandably, taken aback by the unflinching tone that Sara used to say this. They looked at me. I just shrugged. It’s just Sara being Sara.
Denaun clapped his hands together. “Okay! Thank you, baby girl. That was good. That was honesty.”
“So then, what kind of articles do you write?” Ondre asked.
“Well, all kinds. You know, I do a lot of freelance and they can ask me to do interviews, opinion pieces, investigative works, or whatever they need.”
“You famous enough that people ask you to write articles for them?” Ondre lifted his eyebrow.
“Yeah! I’ve built a great reputation over the years working at Vibe and XXL and…” her voice suddenly trailed off.
“The Source?” DeShaun finished the sentence for her.
“Alright. I’m not gonna deny it, but yes, I did work at the Source at one point in my life. It’s not some shocking secret because Marshall already knows. Right, baby?”
I nodded. Damn, I really need to concentrate on this fucking beat. It still doesn’t sound right.
“And yes, the Source is where I mostly built my reputation. But I left in 2001 and long before, the beef between you and Mede—I mean, Benzino began.”
“Yah,” said Proof. “I knew you looked and sounded fuckin’ familiar. Why’d you leave the Source?”
“There were actually many reasons. Like, there were some internal conflicts with some of the other journalists and I—jealousy is what I call it. Also, my fiancé had just died, and I need an appropriate mourning period--”
“Your fiancé died?” Von asked.
“Yeah, car accident. Three weeks before the wedding.”
“Oooh, sorry,” Ondre said.
“It’s okay… But in all honesty, I really got tired of working in such a shady environment, pardon the pun.”
“Aww, shit!” Rufus finally got distracted from his potato chip bag. “You gotta tell us some details we can use against those bitches Benzino and Dave Mays!”
“Well, I think you probably already know about most of the stuff that has gone on at the Source. Favoritism, unfair dealings, corruption everywhere. Nothing really that you already don’t know. And as far as I’m concerned, you’ve already won that battle.”
“Huh, will you look at that!” Denaun nodded. “We got a compliment from Ms. Honest Journalist. It must really mean somethin’, dawg!”
“No doubt, nigga,” Ondre laughed.
“I like this girl,” Rufus commented and finally, stopped messing his potato chip bag. “She really is honest!”
“And fine!” Von added. “Don’t forget fine!”
They all laughed except for DeShaun.
“Tyler?”
“Excuse me?” Sara answered.
“You’re last name’s Tyler?” DeShaun repeated.
“Yeah, it is.” I sensed that Sara knew that DeShaun was about to provide another challenge for her. That’s why she raised her chin high at the mention of her last name.
“Like Jackson Tyler?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, shit, you related to that Senator, aren’t you?” Denaun asked.
“Yes. Senator Jackson Tyler. Well, it’s ex-senator now. I’m his daughter.”
“Damn, Marshall. You may be datin’ a powerful woman!” Ondre called out.
“So, then does that mean Peter Tyler is your grandfather?” DeShaun continued.
Sara nodded.
“Who the fuck’s Peter Tyler?” Von asked.
“He was one of the most influential chairmen that General Motors has had in its history. Detroit owes a lot of debt to my grandfather.”
“Apparently, Detroit owes a lot of debt everybody, nigga. Just walk down 7 mile road and you can see all the fuckin’ debtors living in all of them shitty homes.” DeShaun muttered to the other guys.
For a second, I glanced at Sara’s confused face. I don’t think she understood the subtle political jab that DeShaun had taken against her. She was partially oblivious to the new challenge that DeShaun had presented to her. In all fairness, I didn’t realize until he told me later that day. After a couple of seconds, DeShaun realized that Sara didn’t take the hint. Therefore, he decided to make his challenge a little less subtle.
“So, Sara, tell us, what political party does yo daddy belong to?”
“He’s a Republican,” Sara’s eyes brightened. She finally understood DeShaun’s motives.
“Jackson Tyler’s a Republican?” Denaun asked. “Damn! And I voted for him too. That’s fucked up! I just thought since he was black, he was a Democrat.”
“Oh, no. It’s very possible to be both black and a proud Republican.” Sara set her purse down and stood up from her chair as if she was standing up for black Republicans everywhere.
“Oooh, interesting. Both black and a proud Republican. So you can’t say that you a proud black and a Republican,” DeShaun noted.
“No, it sounds awkward.”
“What?!”
“I mean, it’s incorrect grammar to say ‘a proud black and a Republican’, Proud and black are both adjectives and Republican is a noun. So, adjectives can only describe a noun and not other adjectives.”
“So, you’re saying that black can describe Republican, but black can’t describe proud,” DeShaun concluded.
In a split second, I witnessed the “calm and collected” Sara disappear and replaced with a “mad as hell, oh my fucking God, I can’t believe you just said that” Sara. It was actually kind of cute how she turned slightly red, pursed her lips, and flared her nostrils.
“Alright, you’re starting to play political mind games with me! And if you’re really challenging me to a political debate, Proof, then let’s go ahead and quit the semantics talk, and get down to business!”
And she had plenty of reason to be angry. A trash-talking rapper with no college education had just won Round 1 in a political spar against a Harvard graduate journalist. Plus, Proof was attacking not only her family, but also her point of view and way of life. If she did not defend herself, her values would be barbecued by five men wearing Air Force Ones and Doo-rags. The Republicans and the Republican way of life would be unfairly sautéed thanks to the healthy dose of liberalism common in urban Detroit.
She turned her head furiously at me and glared at me with flashing brown eyes as if she was blaming me for this travesty. I just shrugged my shoulders. I needed to fix this fuckin’ beat. Besides, I hate Republicans. Let the barbecue begin!
Like an obedient disciple of a cult, Sara feverishly defended her “religion” and “religious leader”. She went on a tangent about the Iraqui war, abortion, Christianity, social security, the use of welfare among African-Americans, and the unfair liberal bias of the media. She went on and on about how we had been brainwashed by the liberal media, run by the liberal elite, into thinking the way we did.
“The fact of the matter is that the reason why African-Americans can’t overcome the poverty problem is because we’re so used to squandering the welfare system that the Democrats have shamelessly set up, so we don’t work our way out of poverty… blah, blah, blah.”
Denaun just rolled his eyes and started to read a magazine. Von sat in the seat left empty by Sara and looked over Denaun’s shoulder so that he could read the magazine too. Ondre left the room half-way through Sara’s speech to call his kids. Rufus went back to opening his potato chip bag. DeShaun just raised his eyebrows at every snide comment she made and said nothing. He was probably having fun making her squirm with his defiant silence. Or maybe he was waiting for me to shut her ass up.
However, I was still trying to improve my fucking beat.
“So what do you say about that, Proof?” Sara spewed, proud of her enlightened view.
“I ain’t got nothin’ to say. You the one who’s makin’ excuses.”
“Oh, this is typical! This is how most niggas react! When they hear the truth and the most logical proof, they close their ears and start reading magazines,” Sara said pointing to Denaun and Von. “They decide to wallow in ignorance rather than listen to the truth!” With her fists clenched and veins popping, she stamped her foot to the floor and furiously walked out of the studio.
“And fuck you too, Condoleezza Rice bitch!” DeShaun yelled as she was leaving.
“Shit,” Rufus began. “Thank God, that bitch’s gone. I was ‘bout to fuckin’ slap her.”
“Marshall, how can you be going out with a fuckin’ Bush groupie?” Denaun said as he slammed his closed magazine on a stool next to him.
“I don’t give a fuck about her political opinions,” I said while turning up the volume of the drum… still trying to fix the beat.
“Damn, then why you ain’t tell her to shut up?” Ondre scoffed.
“Freedom of speech. She’s allowed to say whatever the fuck she wants, even though most of it is conservative right-wing fucked-up bullshit. Who said you had to listen?” I answered.
“Yeah, but there’s other things, Marshall,” DeShaun said. “She’s kinda…”
“Kinda what?”
“Arrogant?” finished Denaun.
“Stuck-up?” added Ondre.
“In love with herself?” replied Rufus.
“Spoiled little rich girl who shouldn’t even speak on poverty ‘cause she ain’t never experienced it!” Von exclaimed.
“Yeah! All of those things,” DeShaun said. “But she’s also… in my opinion… a little too much for you.”
“What the fuck!!!” I cried. “Did you just fuckin’ imply that I don’t deserve Sara?”
“Naw, dawg. That’s not what I meant. I mean that… um… you both are different people and even though they say that opposites attract, I honestly don’t think that this shit is gon’ work between you. I guess what I’m sayin’ is (oh, fuck, I can’t believe I’m ‘bout to say this shit) that you sorta need someone like Kim.”
“Oh fuck! I finally get it,” I said clenching my teeth trying to control my temper. “I’m too fuckin’ insane to date normal people, is that it? Oh no, Marshall, you can’t date her. She’s way too intelligent and beautiful and perfect! Nah. Go pick up some blond bimbo slut with a pill addiction at the nearest trailer park. That’s more of your style, Marshall!”
“Marshall, I didn’t mean it like that, nigga,” DeShaun insisted.
“Oh, better yet. Go to the fuckin’ insane asylum and get a Mariah Carey type chick that’s just as insane as you!! Is that what you’re thinkin’, motherfucker?!! YOU FUCKIN’ ANSWER ME!!”
“Naw, man. It’s just that you two come from different worlds and I’m frankly amazed that you two are even together… I can’t explain, dawg, but I have a feelin’ that this is gon’ end badly.”
“All of better listen up and listen good! I fuckin’ LOVE SARA!!! I love her now more that I’ve probably ever loved Kim, which I NEVER THOUGHT WOULD BE FUCKIN’ POSSIBLE!!! It’s true that we’re different or whatever, but I love her so much that I’m willing to make it work. And fuck it, I thought my best friends would be happy for me because I’m finally happy and in a normal healthy relationship. But shit, I was wrong.”
“Alright, nigga, whatever makes you happy… But answer this: how come you accept every honest opinion and harsh criticism from Sara, but when I give you my opinion, you get all pissy?!! I’m startin’ to think that that girl has you wrapped around her little finger. That bitch can get you to do anything, dawg!!! That’s a dangerous position to be in. And that was all good when you were with Kim ‘cause you could manipulate Kim back, but…,”
“But… what, Proof, spit it out!!!”
“She don’t seem to have the same devotion to you as you have to her!!!”
“Fuck you, DeShaun!!! You figure that out and you’ve only known her for twenty minutes? You don’t know her!!! And since when are you an expert at this shit???”
“Fuck it! You know what? I wish I hadn’t said anything.” Fuming, DeShaun sat back down on his chair. “Oh, and by the way, Jackson Tyler is one of the most corrupt bullshitin’ Senators ever and Peter Tyler was a fuckin’ slave driver back in the 60’s, workin’ niggas half to death and payin’ ‘em next to nothin’. Her whole fuckin’ family’s evil, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the same way.”
“Shut the fuck up, DeShaun. I’ve got a beat to make. I can’t deal with this shit anymore.”
After half-an-hour, the beat was still hopelessly mediocre. I guess to many people, it must seem strange for one person to obsess over a 6 second loop of music. I don’t know. I guess I see so much more in those 6 seconds than the average person does. In my point of view, if I don’t make those 6 seconds the best 6 seconds of fresh, original, head-bobbing music, then the whole song is not worth recording. I mean, if I make a shitty beat that’s repeated over and over in the course of a 5 minute song, the fans are going to eventually tune out, no matter how dope the lyrics are. That’s how important music production is to hip-hop.
Though, there are some days, more than others, when I’m reminded that I have a long way to go before I can be considered a “good producer”. I remember listening to some of the old songs that I produced and thinking to myself, “Damn, this beat sucks,” or “This beat needs to faster/slower,” or “This part has too much violin,” or “This part has not enough guitar,” or “This beat is boring. Should have spiced it up more.” In fact, just yesterday, one of the security guards guarding my area was playing one of my old songs that I produced a long time ago, and I called the doctor and some of the nurses and pointed out exactly what was wrong with the beat. Like always, the doctor just sighed and shook his head.
That day in the studio, though, I just could not improve that fucking beat no matter how hard I tried. I added some extra drums, but it sounded distracting. I added a flute, but it made it too light-hearted. I changed the synth piano melody, but it wasn’t catchy. I started to miss the drum, so I added it again, and then I took it away. Maybe some violins, but that took away from the melody. I changed the synth piano melody again, but it took away from the flute. I took away the flute, but it made the beat too dark. Maybe some harmonica. No, it sounds too bluesy when it’s suppose to be a happy song with dark themes. I should bring the drums back and maybe some of the violin, but add the flute to make it happier; not too much because that will make it too happy. Then again, maybe the harmonica can counterbalance the flute, or better yet, scratch the flute and just add the drums. That could fix it…
Denaun was finally running out of patience. “Dawg, stop messin’ with that beat! I’m gettin’ tired of you messin’ around with that shit. I’m a fuckin’ producer too and I think it’s fine!”
“Fuck you, Denaun,” I muttered under my breath. “Just… leave me alone.”
After the huge argument DeShaun and I had over Sara, the other guys wanted to talk about anything but what had just taken place. They would comment on a lot of superficial shit, and they would occasionally roar with laughter, but nothing they said aroused my interest. Nothing was more important than fixing that goddamn beat. Proof, however, just sat there on his chair not saying a fucking word; occasionally throwing in a snappy comment, but he mostly kept to himself. I was glad too. I didn’t really want to hear his voice at the moment.
I love Sara, I thought. And even though she hasn’t expressed it back, I’m sure one day she’ll fall in love with me. Our relationship is going great. We may have our differences, but we do understand each other at a deeper level. WE DO!! He’s only known her for twenty minutes, and he’s already predicting that it won’t work. What the fuck??? Does he still think I’m the needy crazy fucked-up Marshall who couldn’t live without the needy crazy fucked-up Kim? I’m not that person anymore. I’m normal. I’m sane. I’m happy with myself and with my life. It’s perfect. Like the white rooms in my dreams except I’m not afraid of them anymore.
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just toe me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars
Shit, I have to concentrate on this beat. Maybe that’s the problem; there are just too many goddamn distractions. Why am I even analyzing this relationship? The more I fucking analyze, the more I start to fucking hallucinate. Like my delusional fear of Adrian taking away my kids. I’m an expert at imagining problems and making them a reality. I invent them and conjure them to life. What was wrong with me?
Fuck, the beat is still not perfect. Why do the drums sound weak? What about the fucking flute? There should be more violins.
Suddenly, a heavy set black guy wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt entered the studio with a carefree but slightly cocky grin.
“Yo, Big Dee, my man. What’s up, nigga?” Ondre stood up and gave a quick handshake.
“Nothin’ much. Just ‘nother day as 50 cent’s bodyguard,” he answered.
“’Sup wit’ the Hawaiian shirt, nigga. Makes ya look queer, homie,” said Von.
“Shit. Don’t I know it? My daughter gave it to me. It’s the only thing I got that’s clean.” Big Dee chuckled and then called out, “’Sup, Marshall?!! Workin’ hard over there?!!”
“Shh… Don’t disturb the genius at work,” Rufus said sarcastically.
I raised my middle finger in response.
“So where’s 50?” DeShaun asked.
“As always, bein’ the playa that he is. He’s back there tryin’ to impress a lady.”
“Damn 50… Guess he really is a P.I.M.P.,” Denaun chortled to himself. “So who’s the chick, Big Dee?”
“Don’t know. You can ask him yo’self, though, ‘cause here he comes.”
Suddenly, a familiar female voice filled, “See that’s why I think A Tribe Called Quest is underrated. Their first album is a classic. As classic and maybe a little more classic than Jay-Z’s Reasonable Doubt, but it doesn’t get us much hype, in my opinion.”
“Damn,” 50 began. “I still remember back in day with Bonita Applebaum. Now that shit was pure classic. Rakim is still the man, though, especially when it comes to lyrics.”
“True,” the woman continued as she entered the studio with 50 cent. “But I still think KRS-ONE is the better rapper overall. Even though his political rhetoric can be sometimes jarring, his wordplay and rhyming skills remain excellent. I think you’d agree with me there, 50.”
“Naw, none of that 50 shit, Sara Tyler,” he gently reached for her hand. “You can call me Curtis.”
Sara giggled and smiled. “Okay, Curtis.”
Shit! 50’s here! And I haven’t even fixed the beat yet. Fuck, I gotta concentrate. Add maybe a trumpet, but that could sound corny. Did Curtis just flirt with Sara? I think he just fucking did!! I swear I saw him touch her hand and she smiled at him!! She smiled at him!! God, the melody does sound corny especially with that synth piano. I better change that melody. Maybe it’s the guitar that’s wrong and not the trumpet. Why don’t I take the guitar sounds out, and add a little trumpet, and maybe, I’ll bring the flute back. Shit, maybe I just imagined it all in my head. Maybe they weren’t flirting. Maybe she’s just being polite since Curtis has never met her and probably doesn’t know that she’s my girlfriend. Am I being delusional again? Fuck that, the flute is ruining everything. Where is the violin? I can’t hear it anymore. Maybe because the melody is so distracting. I think I should add more of the harmonica. But I don’t want it to sound too bluesy. I’ll add more guitar then. Sara would never do that to me. She would never cheat on me. Especially right in front of me; that would be stupid. Maybe the beat is just too slow. I need to speed it up and lose the harmonica, but keep the trumpet, and the original synth melody (the dark, but not too dark one). Is that a good combination? I think Sara is getting along a little too well with 50. I’ve never seen her so happy to be with anyone. God, I’m over-analyzing this again. I gotta go back to fixing my beat. Fixing the beat is the most important thing especially since 50 is already here.
“Umm… Curtis?” Ondre began.
“Shit, I said Sara can call me Curtis, not you, nigga!” he sharply answered and then a few seconds later, began to laugh. “I’m kiddin’, dawg. Ha! Should have seen yo’ face! So what? No greetin’?”
“‘Cause nigga, you steppin’ on some dangerous territory,” Von answered.
“’Wait, dawg.” Curtis’ huge hands once again grasped Sara’s silky petite arms. “I was just about to ask this lovely lady to come back wit’ me to my hotel later for some more quality time. So whatchu say, shorty?”
“One problem, Curtis. She’s taken,” Ondre warned.
“Oh, yeah? By who?”
“By me,” I said threateningly (but surprisingly calm).
After swallowing hard, Curtis immediately let go of Sara’s arms and backed away from her. He desperately tried not to look at her as if he was punishing himself for flirting with someone’s girlfriend.
“So when exactly were you gon’ tell him that, Sara?” DeShaun asked, clearly trying to start another argument with her.
Sara rolled her eyes. “Oh, blow it out your ass, Proof. I was just enjoying the attention for a little while. I wasn’t gonna do anything! Besides, I was gonna tell him… that is, before y’all jumped in.”
“Yeah, right,” DeShaun muttered.
Curtis tried to retreat from the ensuing battle by talking to me. “Umm… Yo, Marshall, so you ready wit’ that beat, dawg.”
“Naw, man. The beat is wack. I can’t get it to be just right. It’s fuckin’ annoyin’.”
“Really? Lemme hear it?”
“Okay, but I already warned you that it’s shit.”
I pressed the play button and let him hear my shamefully mediocre beat. I cringed in disgust at how shitty it was. The drums were a little off, and I could barely hear the guitar. The melody was horrible and didn’t go along with the flute.
“This is dope. I like it.” Curtis bobbed his head to the beat. “Yeah, this is fine, Marshall. Why you keep messin’ wit’ it?”
“What?! But the drums and the melody and the-- ”
“They ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ it. Besides, it’s my album and I like it just the way it is.”
“No!!” I insisted. “The beat is utter horse shit, Curtis!”
“Marshall,” Denaun interrupted. “Look. Like Curtis, I think the beat’s fine too. But since you don’t like it then just let Curtis use the beat, and we can put in the liner notes that I produced the beat.”
“No fuckin’ way. This beat ain’t getting the Shady/Aftermath stamp of approval. I got a rep to keep, bro!!”
“C’mon, dawg, please! If the beat really is wack, then it’ll be all my fault then ‘cause my name will be on the liner notes and not yours.” Denaun just doesn’t know when to give up.
I gave in, though, and let Curtis use it. If they wanted to take responsibility for this retarded piece of shit beat, then fine! It’s 50’s album… his credibility… his music. I didn’t care anymore.
“You won’t be sorry, nigga!” 50 reassured me. “This is gon’ be one hot-ass song! I wrote some lyrics on the plane.”
Looking rather bored, Sara just stood there playing with her bracelets and sighing every time 50 said the words, “hot beat.” As I approached her, she smiled at me, pointed at Curtis with her thumb, and rolled her eyes.
I hugged her and after a long sigh, I set my tired, aching head on her shoulder. It was then, when I realized that my back was killing me from leaning over the boards, and my ears felt like they were about to bleed from listening too closely to the speakers.
“The beat’s still shit, isn’t?” I whispered.
“Yeah, baby, it still is.” After giving me a quick grin and hug, she broke off from my arms and sat on an empty stool next to the glass overlooking the recording booth where Curtis was putting on his headphones and adjusting the microphone. Once he was done taking the pieces of papers that contained his new lyrics out of his pocket, Curtis gave Denaun the signal to start recording to which Denaun obeyed eagerly. “Don’t worry, Marshall. The song is gon’ be dope. Like I told you, man, the Shady/Aftermath empire lives on.”
I answered by putting my head down on the boards. My head was just fucking aching with excruciating pain.
Of course, the headache worsened when I heard my embarrassingly awful beat; it seemed that every time the beat vibrated off the speaker, my brain would throb to the painful pulse of the equally painful music. I hated that fucking beat; especially the version that 50 decided to use for his new album. It had way too much violin and not enough flute. In addition, the melody played by the flute is too simple and should be something a little bit catchier. It can’t take away from the drums, though. However, the melody played by the synth piano was much better than before, but it was still too mediocre for my tastes, and I know I can do better. Maybe if I could have just added more trumpet, then it would make the beat more exciting or maybe a harmonica. How about the chorus? I hope Denaun can at least come up with a great chorus to counter-balance that terrible beat.
After Curtis was done recording, he stepped out of the booth beaming with glee. “Those lyrics were dope, man! Best shit I’ve ever done, nigga! And it only took with 20 minutes to write it!”
Fortunately, the lyrics were decent, at least in my opinion. Nothing too horrible, but nothing extraordinary either. But did he really spend just 20 minutes on the lyrics? Shit, I could never write three lines, let alone one song in 20 minutes. Damn! When I write my rhymes, I go over every word a million times and think to myself, “This could be better!”. I agonizingly try to better my wordplay by making it cleverer and maybe think of ways to switch up my flow. I’m also constantly switching lines and verses or coming up with better and more original crazy ass words. I could never write a whole song in 20 minutes. I wonder what it’s like to be 50 cent? To write a song in 20 minutes and not agonize over it for 20 hours. He’s either just foolishly oblivious or the ultimate genius due to the fact that he’s foolishly oblivious. I predict he’s going to live a happy, healthy life and die when he’s 100 years old.
“So Sara,” Curtis began. “How’d you like the song?”
She sighed and closed her eyes, obviously thinking about what exactly to say.
“Look, Curtis, I’m not gonna lie to you because lying goes against my moral values, which I hold very dear… but the song is terrible. The lyrics were trite and uninspired. I mean, how many times can you rap about hos and partying and guns? Plus, the beat that Em made is horrible. But I’ve already said that like about a million times.”
Unfazed, Curtis just chuckled. “Well, you know what? I like this fuckin’ song, and I think it’s the dopest shit that I’ve ever recorded. Just ‘cause you said it ain’t good, don’t mean it’s no good. Difference of opinion.”
“That’s right, Curtis. I’m glad you respect the difference of opinion and take my criticisms gracefully. It’s very respectful.”
“I just don’t listen to the damn critics. I listen only to myself.”
“Another great quality to have. People that listen too closely to other people’s opinions are cowards, in my opinion. They don’t listen to themselves because it’s so much easier to just take other people’s advice rather than come up with your own advice. It takes courage to advice yourself,” Sara nodded in agreement.
Meanwhile, Rufus walked his massive self over to Denaun who was listening to the playback of the song coming from the speakers. “Yo, man. We all ready to record our verses.”
“Ay, just go in the booth and show me what you got!” Denaun called out as the rest of the members from D-12 flocked into the recording booth leaving only Denaun, 50 cent, Sara, and me behind the production board.
“Ay? We ready,” Denaun said as he turned up the music and began the recording process.
“Yah, I agree,” Curtis said. “It’s harder to listen to yourself than to listen to the critics. It’s all hype, though, and you just have to brush it off.”
“True,” Sara chuckled. “The whole industry’s hype. I wonder if it’s not all just a big machine, and we’re all robots in that machine.”
“Shit, if I was a robot, I’d let that nigga do all the work for me so I can just sit back and go partyin’ all day.”
“For real. I’d definitely like that.”
Goddamnit, that beat just keeps getting more and more annoying every time I hear it. Did Denaun speed it up? ‘Cause now it sounds worse. And the drums are still out of place. The violin part should come at the beginning and not the end because it takes away from the goddamn flute. And what the fuck? He could at least incorporate some more harmonica. Although, that could distract from the violin.
“So, how come you know a lot about hip-hop, Sara?” Curtis asked.
“Well, I’m an avid listener, like you.”
“But what do you do?”
“Oh, you mean as an occupation? I….um… I’m a waitress.”
“A waitress that knows a lot about hip-hop?”
Maybe speeding up the beat was the right thing to do. ‘Cause slowing it down would add too much chaos to the mess. I think the piano synth melody should be played at a higher pitch that way it could balance out the darkness of the guitar. Or I could play the piano synth melody at a lower pitch, take out the guitar, and balance the darkness of the piano synth melody with the flute. That might work. No, wait! What about the drums?? Shit, slow the beat down!
“Well,” Sara continued. “I know a lot about hip-hop music ‘cause I grew up with hip-hop music, even though at my house, it wasn’t allowed. But, my big brother Ben and I would sneak hip-hop tapes from the other kids to our house and secretly listen to them. Back then, hip-hop was a huge threat to my parents. Now, my parents let my younger sister Ebony and my younger brother Kwame listen to hip-hop as long as they promised to get good grades and stay out of trouble.”
“My mom died when I was young so I ain’t had any discipline like you and yo’ brothers did. I was alone, but hip-hop was my solace.”
“For me too.” Sara sighed and looked down as I noticed her hand slowly moving towards Curtis’.
Motherfucking beat!! It’s so fucking wack that it’s making me physically ill. My head hurts like hell, I feel like I’m about to hurl, and I think I’m fucking hallucinating once again because I could have sworn that Sara’s hand is gradually getting closer to 50s’. But shit, I’m acting like a jealous boyfriend once again, and I should stop over-analyzing this relationship, and believing in my own delusions. I swear to God, I will stop thinking about this! God, that beat is so annoying! The melody is not right, and the drum is ruining everything. The flute shouldn’t be so fucking prominent because that takes away from the power of the guitar. Yet, it’s important to distract people from the off-beat drums. Trumpets playing a higher pitch melody should do the trick. Maybe the last time it didn’t work because it had a lower guitar pitch to counterbalance it. Maybe without the guitars or the flute, it could work.
“Hip-hop, to me, at least, is like a man,” Sara continued.
“For real? How so?” Curtis curiously asked.
Sara turned to him and inched closer. “Well… not any man, but the perfect man. It’s strong and fearless. Truthful; honest; yet not judgmental. It’s amazing and wonderful yet powerful which makes it even more amazing and powerful.” The whole time, she didn’t take her eyes off of him as she smiled coyly. “And I was about to say black, but we now have rappers like Marshall over there, so that’s not entirely true. Right, baby?”
It could be that the drum is the thing that’s making the beat too slow, and if we speeded the drum up just a little, it would sound a million times better.
“Yeah, baby! Not entirely black,” I answered back. I felt my teeth biting my lips again. It’s a habit that I’ve had since I was a boy. Sweat was dripping from my forehead, either from the splitting headache, or the intense thinking process I was engaged in. It was making me a little dizzy, further worsening my nausea.
So then if the flutes are taken out and the guitars are too, then where does that leave the guitar? Maybe I’m just better off messing with the melody than the drums. I mean, it’s not too late to bring back the harmonica and trumpets either. Sara is getting along with Curtis perhaps just a little too well. Every time, I look at them and listen to their conversation, they seem to be moving closer and closer to each other. Am I witnessing an intimate moment with my supposed love and a rapper from my own label??? No, these are delusions. Shit, why can’t I stop thinking about this? I promised myself I should stop thinking about this. Sara is not flirting with Curtis, or anyone. End of story. Wait… African drums!! Maybe if instead of standard drums, I add African drums to the beat. Throw in a few trumpets, and maybe some of that crazy harmonica. Would that even fit with the song, though? And what about the melody? The drums could be kick-ass, but it would still suck shit without a great melody. A guitar wouldn’t fit with the African theme, but maybe a flute would.
Sara and Curtis were standing next to each other watching the D-12 guys record their album. Their elbows slightly touched. Sara looked at him with a gaze that I had never seen before. Like she was completely and utterly mesmerized. It was just my imagination, though. This is what’s expected. This is just my untrustworthy nature playing tricks on me again.
“’Kay, I see your point,” 50 said. “But, in my opinion, hip-hop is more like the perfect woman.”
“Oh? So then, what’s your perfect woman called hip-hop like?”
Curtis glanced away for a second, as if Sara’s stares were a little too much for him. “Excitin’; alive; intelligent; fearless. Something you can love for so many fuckin’ years, and it will never leave or abandon you and… umm…umm... Oh, shit….”
“What?”
“I can’t describe it. It’s fuckin’ indescribable.”
African drums???? What the fuck was I thinking??? Eminem can’t come out with a song with African drums!!! There’d be so much backlash from the African-American community. They’ll crucify me by saying that I not only stole from African-American culture, but now I’m stealing from African culture.
Sara chuckled to herself.
“What’s so funny?” Curtis asked.
“That’s my saying,” Sara answered.
“What?”
“When I was little, that’s what I would always say when I couldn’t find the words to describe something.”
Fuckin’ beat!!! Fuck!!! It’s so useless… I can’t fix this piece of shit! No matter how hard I try, this beat just can’t fuckin’ work. I’m so fuckin’ exhausted, and I don’t think I could take much more of this. Damn, does this mean that I’m losing it? I’m losing my talent… I’m losing my ability to make music… What’s next? My emcee skills? No, this has to be another one of my delusions… But why isn’t there a way to make this beat doper? Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough…
“So you couldn’t find words to describe something?” Curtis asked.
“Well, there are many concepts that I find completely indescribable.”
“Like what?”
“Like hip-hop, the example you described.”
Shit! If this beat were a real live person, I would beat the shit out of it. Stupid retarded beat!! No matter what I fucking do, you’ll never be fucking dope!!
“…. Friendship…”
I wish I could fucking hit you, motherfucker!!! I know you’re only a motherfucking piece of music, but you’re causing me to lose my mind…
“…. Happiness…”
Fuck you!! Fucking beat!! I fucking hate you!! I fucking hate you!!
“…. Genius…”
If I could only strike you, motherfucking beat!! ‘Cause I’d beat the shit out of you!! I could even kill you right now. I swear I fucking could, you fucking beat!! FUCK YOU!!!!
Sara gently touched Curtis’ hand.
“… Love…."
POW!!!!!!!!!
OOOOOOOWWWWW!!! FUCK!!!! SHIT!!! OW!!!
“What the fuck?” Curtis immediately turned around to find me writhing on the floor holding my left hand tightly with my right hand.
I guess I could understand Sara’s and Curtis’ distress when they noticed that the fingers of my left hand were completely skewed, and there was a fair amount of blood dripping to the floor. The purple fingers could feel nothing but shocking throbbing pain. I could barely breathe because of the sudden jolt of agony. My eyes watered with hot acid tears that burned my cheeks intensely. With eyes closed, I tried in vain to squeeze my left hand with my right hand in order to stop the bleeding and the unbearable pain.
Denaun instantly stopped his producing duties, and the rest of D-12 took off their headphones and rushed out of the recording booth.
“What the fuck’s going on???” DeShaun screamed.
“Marshall, what happened???” Sara cried alarmed.
I struggled to form a coherent thought. It proved even harder to say a coherent sentence.
“Umm… I… punched the production board…”
“WHAT?! WHY?!” exclaimed Sara.
“Because… the… fuckin’ beat’s shit… I couldn’t… find a way to fix it! I got so fuckin’ mad… I punched it! I PUNCHED THE BEAT!!!”
They didn’t even have to say anything. The look on their faces said enough. They truly thought I had become insane. It was too fucking painful to bear; more painful than my bleeding hand and jammed fingers could ever be. I still remember the look on Sara’s face. A mixture of fearful bewilderment and disappointing pity. And those weren’t qualities brought out by hip-hop or the perfect man…
So I ran… out the door of my studio and through the maze of hallways and offices that made up other studio complexes. I had to find a place. Any place. Someplace where I can tend to my wound and be left alone. Preferably, a bathroom, though. Instead, I found a door, apparently, leading to nowhere special. Perfect, I thought.
Upon opening the gray door, I found that it opened up to an alley behind the studio building. The brick walls of the back of another building lay in front of me with dumpster emitting a putrid smell. March snow was piling up on the ground mixing with the rotting garbage and grimy dirt, which turned the snow into a disgusting brownish color. Good, I thought, that shit is staining the snow. It’s not white. Just the way I like it.
As soon as I entered the alleyway, the cold winter air sharply snapped my face, and I quickly realized that I stepped outside without a jacket on. I didn’t care about cold, though, and sat down after my right hand reluctantly let go of my poor bleeding left hand. Shit, it was a fucking mess! Even though the cut had stopped bleeding slightly, it looked like my index and my ring fingers were slightly dislocated because both finger stuck out at different directions. I had no movement in those two fingers, and they were an unhealthy shade of purple and blue.
Fucking beat, I thought. Look what you made me do!!!
Now, it’s all fucked up. I’ll never be a great producer thanks to that fucking beat. I bet more superior producers like Dr. Dre and Kanye West would know how to fix that fucking beat. But, it just wasn’t in me to make that beat dope. I just don’t have enough fucking talent…
Fuck, that can’t be true! What the fuck am I saying? I mean, Sara is right. I have to find the courage to listen to myself instead of everybody else. But what if the problem is with myself?
Shit, there I go again… Mr. Over-analyze everything to death. Most of my beats are dope. This is just a dry spell. It’ll pass, and I’ll be back with a vengeance as soon as I know it.
That fucking beat!!! If only I could have just added more trumpet and changed the melody of the synth piano a little…. Dammit, I feel like I’ve been mentally going around in circles for the last hour.
Squeak. The door behind me opened and a woman shuddered.
“Marshall?”
“Sara?”
“Marshall! There are you are! Everyone’s been looking everywhere for you…and… why are you sitting Indian-style on the snow?”
“What?”
“You’re sitting Indian-style on the snow?”
I was sitting Indian-style? Never noticed.
“I’m sitting on the goddamn ground! How else am I supposed to sit?” I grumpily answered. For the first time since I started dating her about five months ago, I didn’t feel like talking to her.
“Marshall, let me see your hand?”
I just sat quietly looking down at my injured hand and cradling it on my lap.
“Seriously, Marshall, stop acting like a baby and let me see your hand!!”
In one swift movement (without looking at her, though), I showed her the deformity that was my left hand. Purple skewed fingers. Bleeding knuckles. Trembling.
“Wow, this looks brutal! I think you might have to go to the emergency room.”
Awkward silence once again. I didn’t care though. I really had nothing to say to her.
“Are you mad at me, Marshall?” For the first time, it was her trying to break the awkward silence.
“No… I already told you. I’m mad at the fact that I couldn’t fix that shitty beat. I’m mad at myself ‘cause I ain’t talented enough to produce dope music--”
“Nothing happened with 50… just in case you were wondering. I was being polite. It was all just friendly banter.”
“I know that… I honestly wasn’t thinkin’ about that shit… Okay, maybe I did for one second, but I reminded myself that, again like always, I was hallucinatin’. I was being delusional. I was inventin’ problems that weren’t there.” Tears started pouring out from my eyes, but I caught them before I started outright sobbing. I refused to cry. I refused to cry over non-existent problems.
In response, Sara put her tiny arms around me, turned my chin toward her face, and kissed me deeply.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.
I broke off from the kiss. “God, Sara, I wanna make love to you, tonight…”
“First, I think you should go to the hospital and take care of your hand. C’mon! DeShaun and the others must be crazy worried about you.”
She took my hand (not the left one, of course) and led me back inside the building.
“Sara?” I stopped her.
“Yeah?”
“I just wanted to tell you… that I’m not crazy.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.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.