Nineteen Years, 364 Days Later...

(Dedicated to Mtume ya Salaam)

 

When he beeped me, I called him back immediately on my cell phone even though I was within blocks of returning home from overnighting one of those endless required reports (what a waste of money, there's nothing in most of my reports they don't already have, but, hey, like my man always says, they don't pay you to complain).

 

I had mastered the fine art of silence and of saying yes even when my “yes” only meant: yes I hear you and I'm just saying yes right now until I can figure out how to not do whatever it is you're demanding I do.

 

I'm a quick study, so it didn't take me long to learn that you get the best advice on how to survive from survivors: Kid, there's nothing more effective than silently doing your job. Learn to listen more than you speak, be quiet when people are talking in front of you about stuff you're not supposed to hear in the first place. Pay close attention when people are talking about you but not to you. And always resist the temptation to point fingers when someone is trying to dump their boo-boos on your back.

 

"You know, kid, they say you never see it coming and you don't. I guess they consider me a geezer who is in the way of pushing up the bottom line. They probably think I don't get it anymore..."

 

I had to admit to myself that there was something a bit unseemly about a fifty-something family man promoting adolescent singers and rappers, but, hey, his job description doesn't call for him to pick them, but simply to promote whomever the company is pushing.

 

"...And then again, maybe they have a point. We used to promote music, now we promote what they call talent. Some teenager who shaves once a week and sleeps with a different woman every night, if not every hour, or some young girl who wears designer lingerie for her public appearances and in-store autograph signings while giving interviews talking about getting respect. But you know all this."

 

He paused just as I pulled into my driveway. Like he and I joked one evening after an in-store with a female singing group whose talent quotient was strictly physical but who had a producer who knew how to cover up their thin vocals with phat beats: what this company is really looking for is a way to make records without having to bother with musicians at all.

 

"Man, I just wanted to make twenty."

 

He wasn't whining, he was just talking out loud, trying to clear his head, which had to be screwed up at the moment. He's 54. Been with the company since '77. He's seen a lot of money change hands under the table, a lot of overnight reversals in taste, and bunches of head honchos, HNICs, and industry hit men come and go. He's also seen how unpredictable popularity is. He says they used to laugh at that girly-voiced, skinny kid who wore leopard-skin bikini briefs as a fashion statement. Who would have thought he would go platinum and end up taking a name no one, himself included, could pronounce? In a similar vein, my man remembers Luther believing that he would never make it as a lead singer because he was shy, fat and gay--of course, he never called Luther gay. Being a pro, one doesn't say gay in public, cause outing people is not kosher, even when being gay is obvious. But, anyway, back when Vandross was first making his move from singing jingles, doing beaucoup backups for superstars who could barely carry three notes in a row without veering off key, and was occasionally getting to do leads with a no name, one hit group, Luther's physical attributes were not exactly the right combination for an aspiring R&B male icon slash sex symbol. But, just goes to show you, in this business, what counts is what sells. Period. And nobody really knows what will sell before it sells, which is why the company releases so many new acts who blithely cross from crass copycats to bizarre copycats in an attempt to make it by being different--now I sound like I'm whining.

 

At first I thought the industry was anti-music and make-a-buck- anyway-you-can oriented because 45-year-old, white, all-American business types were in charge, but since being here I've seen what happens when we get in. I can now definitively declare without fear of contradiction: when it comes to running the music industry, Negroes are just as fucked up as white folks and maybe even a little worse. The new black music division boss is an under thirty, gold earringed, dreadlocked, Howard grad who is well connected. He talks the talk, wears the gear, and has a string of hit records happening.  He could do whatever he wants to do, so what does he do? He hires Nintendo-playing underlings who order employees old enough to be their fathers to get some girls for the night--"not no whores like last time, some nice girls."

 

I guess that's the difference between working in promotions and working in sales. In promotions you have to be a pimp and a babysitter. I'm lucky, I'm in sales, so I get to be a shyster and a liar: "How does it sound? Oh, it'll definitely go platinum inside a month. You better order at least fifty, seventy-five to be on the safe side." I guess it wouldn't surprise anyone to know that a couple of weeks ago I put in my application at the post office. Needless to say, however, you never reveal a job jump until both feet are firmly on the ground somewhere else.

 

"I guess I'm going to get me a good lawyer."

 

He pauses, I’m using my hunched-up shoulder and my head tilted sideways to vice the small phone to my left ear. I don't say anything.

 

"With any luck, maybe I'll be able to swing a deal. I talked with the attorney who got a lifetime salary payment as a settlement for his client in that age discrimination suit the company settled out of court. Remember I told you about that? He says I've got a good case, especially since I kept records of everything. I've got every piece of paper anybody ever sent me and every response I made."

 

While I'm listening, I'm looking at all the junk on my home office desk. I used to be inclined to deep six most of this shit but my mentor has taught me the prudence of a four drawer file cabinet. I've got a good forty minutes of paper shuffling ahead of me.

 

"Man, it's incredible. The deal was so foul that the secretary, who gave me the papers and stuff, she was crying. She advised me to see a lawyer before I signed anything. I should of known it. Like I told you, I was expecting it, but then when I didn't have but five days left before I made twenty years..."

 

He exhaled loudly and I could hear the frustration leaking out of him. Out the clear blue, I suddenly remembered how a guy who had made promotions man of the year was terminated less than two years later and then brought back when a couple of major radio stations absolutely refused to play the label's product unless he was rehired. The company called him and said there had been a mistake. I heard that the only thing the guy said when he got the phone call was: oh, you mean you meant to offer me a raise rather than an involuntary retirement? And the caller says, yeah, that's exactly right. So, maybe the fat lady has a couple of more songs to sing before she's through. However, I don't hear any hope in his voice as he continues in a slightly bitter but resigned tone.

 

"I mean after Monday and Tuesday passed, and I only had to go to Friday to make twenty, I let down my guard and started thinking I had it made, you know. And then Wednesday they send me a ticket to jet to headquarters for a meeting on Thursday. I'm figuring it's a new act they want us to push or something. I mean who flies somebody cross country to New York to let them go?"

 

I couldn't say anything. The answer was obvious. Then he told me the guy never looked him in the eye the whole time. Some 26 year-old executive, sits a man down and tells an experienced worker who has been through countless ups and downs with the company that there has been some structural adjustments and that there's no job left for him. And that it just wasn't working out. It! What the hell is “IT”? Nineteen years, 364 days later and you're let go because “it” is not working out?

 

What would you do if “it” happened to you?

 

—kalamu ya salaam