Standing On Top

Chapter 20c

Jake knew right away that The Northern Jungle was not going to be everything Greg predicted. In fact, by the time it was over — after an agonizing 176 minutes — he was starting to think that maybe Greg had just done irreparable damage to his career and credibility.

The movie was horrible. There was no other way to describe it. The very premise of it — that global warming had killed off most of the Earth's population and caused the Pacific Northwest to be one of the few habitable places left on the planet — was scientifically unrealistic, if not flat-out impossible. It was never explained just how global warming had killed so many people or how it had caused the collapse of the previous civilization. While it was explained that the Pacific Northwest had turned into a new tropical rainforest and that the rest of the planet was basically an empty desert, it was never explained just why the Pacific Northwest was spared this fate or just why the rest of the planet was doomed to its fate.

The premise itself was only the beginning. Though the cinematography was majestic, even grandeur in places, most of the dialogue was campy at best, embarrassing at worst. The protagonist — Greg's character, named simply, "The Traveler" — was the cliché reluctant good guy who wanders into a situation by being at the wrong place at the wrong time and then rising to lead the people on a magnificent (though painfully predictable) victory against seemingly insurmountable odds. The antagonist — a character who had actually been named "Taker Black" by the screenwriters — had been made overly evil to the point that his actions were predictable and laughable and his dialogue was among the worst in the film. It would not be until Jake watched the film Titanic some seven years in the future and saw how Rose's mother and fiancée were portrayed, that he would experience anything even close to the level of overdoing the evilness of an antagonist as Taker Black.

Nor was this even the worst of it. The plot holes in The Northern Jungle were many and some were wide enough to drive a tour bus and a freightliner through. For instance, the collapse of civilization was supposed to have happened so long before the events in the film that there were no written records or even genetic memory of a time when civilization was intact. Though no actual years were given, it was suggested that thirty or forty generations had passed. Yet, with all this, the evil army headed by Taker Black was in possession of working firearms, working matches, bottles of commercially produced Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo, and cans of Budweiser beer. The good people of Seattle were still in possession of working automobiles, generators, and gasoline.

And then there were the animals. The jungle was supposed to be full of ravenous tigers, herds of elephants, and groups of murderous gorillas, but no explanation was given for how these animals, after enduring the destruction of the rest of the Earth, had come to be in the Pacific Northwest in numbers great enough to establish their own ecosystem. There were also the dogs and horses. Though one of the plot points were that food was critically short (the evil army were cannibals who raided other encampments for fresh victims), many of the Seattle residents kept dogs as pets and horses as transportation, somehow managing to feed them while they themselves were always on the brink of starvation. There was also no explanation as to why food was so critically short since the jungle teamed with wildlife and there was enough rainfall that some sort of agriculture could have been established.

In short, Jake left the theater portion of the Hollywood Hilton after the screening feeling almost physically ill at the thought of having to face Greg and give an opinion on the film. Did the man really think he'd just made an epic film? Had they really spent almost one hundred million dollars on that piece of garbage?

"What did you think?" Pauline whispered into his ear as they emerged back into the main ballroom, where more food tables had been set up and the cocktail waitresses and champagne girls were once again circulating.

"That was quite possibly the worst movie I've ever seen in my life," he whispered back. "It was horrible."

Pauline breathed a sigh of relief. "Good," she said. "I was thinking it was just me. The way everyone applauded when the credits rolled, you'd of thought they'd just watched Gone With The Wind."

"Typical Hollywood phonyism," Jake said.

"So what are we going to say when Greg asks us how we liked the film?"

"Well... when in Hollywood," he said.

Greg did ask them how they liked the film, but only after hearing several dozen rave reviews of it by the other guests.

"Epic," said one veteran actress. "Absolutely epic."

"It's a real step forward in cinematography," proclaimed a famous director. "You simply must have Wallace share some of his techniques with me for my next project."

"It'll be a tremendous boon for the environmental cause," said another actor who was well known as an outspoken environmental activist. "A realistic look at what could happen if global warming is allowed to go unchecked."

And then it was Jake and Pauline's turn. Greg stood there, beaming from all the praise, a smiling Celia on his arm.

"Well what did you think, Jake?" Greg asked him. "Did you like it, or what?"

"It was very... uh... thought-provoking," Jake said, unable to bring himself to go any further than that lest a lightning bolt come shooting through one of the windows to strike him down...

"Yes," agreed Pauline. "It was a very original script, and some of the best special effects I've ever seen."

"Thank you, thank you," Greg said, continuing to beam.

Jake and Pauline escaped and went to go grab a drink from the bar.

"How long do we have to stay until it's no longer considered rude for us to leave?" Pauline asked.

"About another hour," Jake replied. "Let's just have a few drinks and lay low."

They were just starting their second drink when Celia came wandering over to them. The smile was no longer on her face.

"Something wrong, Celia?" Jake asked carefully.

"Oh... what could be wrong?" she asked. "My husband is releasing his epic film next week, isn't he? And the reviews should be hitting the papers in forty-eight hours."

"Yeah," Jake said. "That sounds about right. So tell me... uh... what did you think about the film?"

She snorted a little. "I think I can scrap that plan of following on Greg's coattails."

The silence that followed was a bit on the awkward side. It was Celia who broke it.

"Madres de Dios," she said. "That film was awful, an atrocity! What the hell was he thinking when he signed on for it? They're going to crucify him!"

"It's not that bad," Pauline said weakly. When Celia shot her a glare she recanted. "Okay, maybe it was."

"Have you talked to him about it yet?" Jake asked her.

"No," she said. "I lied to him and told him it was great. What else was I supposed to do? I have to support my husband, don't I?"

"Well... yeah, I guess you do," Pauline said.

She shook her head one more time and then looked at Pauline. "Tell me something," she said.

"What's that?"

Celia gave a hopeful smile. "Are you taking new clients? It seems I might be needing a new music agent."

Pauline was caught off guard by this question, but she recovered quickly. "I've never managed anyone besides Intemperance," she said.

"And you've done an absolutely wonderful job at it, from what I hear."

"Well... thank you," she said. "But I'm not really an established agent, not in the strict sense of the word."

"I understand that," she said.

It was obvious to Jake that Pauline was very hesitant about this. It was obvious to Celia as well.

"Is it because you think I'm a has-been too?" Celia asked quietly. "If that's the case, I... I understand. I just thought that maybe... you know..." She shook her head. "I think I've just embarrassed myself. Forget I asked."

"No no," Pauline said, shaking her head strenuously. "I don't think you're a has-been at all. Jake has told me that you're one of the best musicians he's ever heard. And from Jake, that means a lot."

"But there's a problem?" she said.

"The problem is with me, not you," Pauline told her. "I've never represented anyone else before. I'm afraid I won't live up to your expectations."

"Right now, I don't have any expectations," Celia said. "I just want to put some of my music down on a CD and get it out there for people to buy. My music, not some songwriting and choreography team's music."

Pauline nodded. "A very noble goal, I will admit."

"So what do you say?" Celia asked.

"I don't say anything right now," Pauline told her. "But I will consider it. Why don't we have lunch some time and we'll talk about it?"

"How about next week?" Celia asked.

"Okay," Pauline replied. "Next week it is."

Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena

August 11, 1990

The crowd was a bit rowdier than what typically attended an Intemperance concert — which was saying a lot. About half of the concertgoers for this particular show were black, about a quarter white, and the remaining quarter a mixture of Hispanics and Asians. Nearly all of them were between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. Jake, who had turned thirty back on March 7 of this year, was one of the oldest people there. The smell of marijuana smoke and beer was so thick as to be almost overwhelming. Fights broke out every ten minutes or so somewhere in their view, most of them interracial battles fueled by alcohol and loose tongues. Though Jake and his guests were in the VIP section of the arena, directly in front of center stage, and though there were two large, black bodyguards stationed in there with them, there were a few times when he began to feel a little nervous about his safety, especially when four gangbanger types tried to get in through the ropes around the section and had ended up scuffling with the bodyguards.

The man that most of the crowd had come to see was currently up on the stage, finishing up the final song of encore. It was Gordon Paladay, known throughout the hip-hop world by his stage name: Bigg G. He was dressed in black, his hair an unruly tangle of dreadlocks that hung down over his upper back. He had a large gold medallion hung on a gold chain around his neck. He had a gold hoop earring in his left ear and diamond rings on several of his fingers. His face was sweaty as he walked back and forth across the stage, belting out the lyrics to Got Your Sell-Out, the runaway hit from his recently released album Down With It, into a wireless microphone. Behind him on the stage were two bass players, two drummers, and a DJ — all of whom were new members of his band, replacements for the National Records assigned musicians who had played with him while he'd been under their contract.

"Got motherfuckers here, got motherfuckers there," he rapped.

"They wants a piece of me so they playin' like they care.

I ain't no fuckin' Tom, won't be owned like no ho,

It only me in this game, corporate whitey go blow

I got your sell-out, I got your sell-out right here

I got your sell-out, bitch! I got it right fuckin' here!"

And with each "got your sell-out right here" or version thereof, Gordon would contemptuously grab his crotch and squeeze. And with every crotch squeeze aimed at corporate whities and Uncle Tom sell-outs, the crowd would cheer wildly, many of the male members (who made up perhaps three-quarters of the audience) squeezing their crotches in unison.

To the crowd (and the 1.3 million people who had bought the single so far), the lyrics were particularly poignant, as Bigg G had now done what any self-respecting rapper would do after riding out a first contract. Instead of signing for a second with National Records or one of the other corporate whitey owned labels, he had signed with an independent black-owned label, in this case C-Block Records, which was owned by the notorious veteran rapper Cedric Jackson, an Oakland native who went by the stage name No-Bail Piece Prize. No Bail had just released his own album back in May, simultaneous with Bigg G's Down With It. The two acts were about halfway through a North American tour, their stop in Los Angeles one of three shows in southern California. And even though Bigg G had sold five times as many copies of his album and more than six times as many singles, and even though most of the fans bought tickets to the show in order to see Bigg G (No-Bail was considered a bit of a has-been rapper — it was agreed that he'd hit his peak with his Can't Leave The Hood album of 1988), No Bail was the headliner and Bigg G the opening act.

Jake was at the show, not because he was a big fan of rap music — he wasn't, although since becoming friends with Gordon last year, he had come to appreciate some of the legends of the genre, including No-Bail and Gordon himself. No, the reason he was here was because of Gerald and Delilah, Elsa's grandkids. Gerald was now a junior in high school, Delilah a freshman at USC. Both had bragged so much to their friends about how they knew Bigg G (oh, and Jake Kingsley too, they always added as an explanation for how they knew Bigg G) that their friends naturally assumed that they would be able to score some free front row tickets for the show. And so, after assuring their friends that of course they could score, not only tickets, but back-stage passes as well, they had come to Jake and begged him to use whatever influence he had to keep them from looking like idiots.

Though Elsa had been in favor of letting the two of them face the consequences of their bragging, she had not protested too much when Jake asked her if she minded him seeing what he could do. Her only provision was that they not be allowed to go unaccompanied by an adult (she did not think of Delilah as an adult just yet). And so, after spending the better part of an hour trying to track down Gordon, who had been in Salt Lake City (of all places) on the day in question, he managed to secure seven tickets for the VIP section and seven back-stage passes. The kids were each able to invite their two closest friends and it was amazing how many close friends they suddenly developed when it became known they were in possession of the tickets and passes. They rode to the show in a limo chartered by Jake and they all met Gordon (but not No-Bail — he was nowhere to be found) backstage for twenty minutes before Gordon started his set.

And now, as Gordon rapped out his last lines about motherfuckers and corporate whiteys, as the band engaged in a furious finale of bass, drums, and record spinning, the crowd cheered wildly, calling for more. Alas, there was to be no more. No Bail would be hitting the stage in twenty minutes and the roadies had to start clearing Bigg G's equipment from it.

"Good night, y'all!" Gordon said into his microphone. "Be good to each other and get it on at least once a day!"

Another round of cheers erupted and Gordon dropped his microphone into its holder. He then picked up the three empty forty-ounce King Cobra cans he'd drained during the set for theatrical effect (Anheuser-Busch was a major sponsor of the tour — but Gordon had already confided to Jake that he hated malt liquor and the cans were actually filled with Gatorade) and threw them into the crowd. Minor riots erupted over their possession. Without bowing or any other acknowledgements, Gordon and his band left the stage. The house lights came up. From all around them, many of the concertgoers got up and started heading for the exits, having seen who they'd come to see.

Gerald and his two friends were talking animatedly about the show, all them using liberal amounts of profanity and slang that would've gotten their mouths washed out with soap had Elsa heard it. Though he didn't usually talk that way in front of Jake, Jake let it slide. He remembered what it was like to be sixteen and with his friends.

Delilah and her two friends were discussing the show as well, though with considerably less colorful language. They were also schooled enough in their manners to remember to thank their host for the evening.

"That was tight, Jake," Delilah told him. "Thanks for bringing us."

"Yes," said Lisa, the nineteen year old, cinnamon-skinned friend who had been making eyes at Jake ever since the limo. "I can't believe I got to meet Bigg G and Jake Kingsley. Is there anything I can do to show you how much I appreciate tonight?"

"Lisa, you're such a slut!" proclaimed Rhonda, a full-bodied white girl with tremendous breasts that were barely restrained by her spaghetti-strap top. "Don't you know how crude it is to mack on Jake right in front of D here?"

"I didn't see that stoppin' you from mackin' on Bigg G," Lisa shot right back. "I'm surprised you didn't drop down and start blowin' him right there while he was signin' that picture for you."

"That ain't the same thing," Rhonda proclaimed. "That was Bigg G! He's different. Jake is like a brother to D, ain't he, D?"

"Well," Delilah said, giving Jake a few eyes of her own, "maybe a second cousin."

"Okay," Jake said, standing up and checking to make sure his backstage pass was still hanging around his neck. "This conversation has suddenly taken a turn toward the disturbing. You guys still want to stay and see No Bail?"

"Yeah," said Lisa. "It should be cool. I used to listen to him when I was in junior high."

"Me too," Rhonda said. "I think I still remember some of his stuff."

"Okay then," Jake said. "Gordon invited me backstage after his set to have a couple of drinks with him. I'm gonna take him up on it. Are you guys okay out here alone for a bit?"

"Can't I go with you?" Lisa asked.

"Yeah, me too," Gerald said. "Bigg G is down with us, ain't he?"

"I don't think you guys really want to know what goes on backstage after a concert," Jake told them.

"The hell we don't!" Gerald proclaimed. "What's he got goin' back there? Is that when all the bitches come back?"

"Can't we have a couple drinks with him too?" asked Rhonda.

"No," Jake said firmly. "The invitation did not include my entourage. Now behave yourselves and I'll be back in a bit."

There was some more grumbling but it was mostly good-natured. All six of the teens figured that Jake was going backstage to score himself some of G's groupies. Gerald and his friends were envious of Jake. Delilah and her friends were envious of the groupies.

Jake approached one of the bodyguards. "Gordon asked me to come back after the set," he told him. "Is it cool?"

"Yeah," the bodyguard said. "Let me get someone down here to escort you." He spoke a few words into his radio and then listened for a reply. "All right. Manny is gonna meet you at stage left. Just hop on up there and go in."

"Thanks," Jake said. "And... uh... could you make sure my people there don't get in any trouble?"

"You got it," the bodyguard said. "Although your boy there..." He pointed at Gerald. "... has a joint on him. I saw his friend pass it when they came in."

Jake simply shrugged. "When in Rome," he said. "Go ahead and let 'em burn. I'm not their dad."

"You got it," the bodyguard said with a smile.

Jake hopped up onto the stage with the action of one who has performed the maneuver a thousand times before. Put your arms on the edge, use them to raise yourself up, and then swing your ass over so it's sitting on the stage. From there, get to your feet. Though many of the fans made note of the longhaired freak hopping onto the stage from the roped-off section, Jake's hat and sunglasses worked their magic and kept anyone from recognizing him. Before anyone could speculate too much on who he was and why he'd been allowed on the stage, he was walking through the stage left door.

He felt a powerful sense of nostalgia as he looked at the frantic activity taking place just beyond the door. Roadies were scampering everywhere, one set moving things off of the stage, another moving things onto the stage. Other than the fact that all of the roadies were black instead of white, it looked exactly like the between set rush at an Intemperance concert. Jake wondered when he would ever experience such a thing again. The way things were going with contract negotiations, probably no time soon.

Another large bodyguard type — this one Samoan in appearance — met Jake just inside the doorway. "I'm Manny," he said, his voice gruff and businesslike. "Gordon told me to escort you back to the dressing room."

"Lead the way," Jake told him.

Manny led the way. They went out the back of the backstage area, through a doorway, down a flight of stairs, and into an access tunnel that led beneath the arena floor. Jake could clearly hear the stomping of thousands of feet being transmitted from above his head. They went up another stairway at the end of the tunnel and emerged into a hallway. A short trip down two corridors led to a door labeled Dressing Room C. Two armed guards were standing in front of the door.

"This is Jake Kingsley," Manny told them. "G is expecting him."

"Right," said the first. He used a key to open the door. After thanking Manny for escorting him, Jake went inside and the door was shut behind him.

Once again, Jake found a familiar scene, made only the slightest bit unfamiliar by the fact that all of the humans inside were black instead of white. There were the tables full of catered food, the ice chests full of beer, the bar stocked with hard alcohol and mixers, the smell of pot smoke thick in the air, and the band sitting around in chairs, eating, drinking, and smoking.

Gordon was sitting in a recliner, his medallion, earring, rings, and shirt now missing. He had a plate of enchiladas on his lap and a mixed drink sitting on a table next to him. He put the plate aside when he saw Jake enter.

"Jake, my man," he said, standing and walking over to him. "Glad you could make it back."

They exchanged a triple-grip handshake. "Thanks for inviting me," Jake said.

"You remember the guys, right?" Gordon asked.

Jake did. He had been introduced to them only two hours before. "I do," he said. "Good show, guys. I liked it a lot."

They all muttered various versions of "thank you" to him and then went back to their drinking, smoking, and eating. Gordon led Jake over to a chair next to his.

"Have a seat," he said. "You want some grub? We got plenty."

"I'm cool on the chow," Jake said. "I will take a drink though."

"Help yourself," Gordon said. "My spread is your spread."

Jake quickly mixed himself a double rum and coke, drank half of it in one swallow, and then freshened it back up. He lit a cigarette and sat down in the chair next to Gordon.

"Want some smoke, Jake?" asked James, the lead bass player, as he held out a silver tray with a bong and large pile of greenbud on it.

"I won't insult you by saying no," Jake said, taking the tray. He loaded up a healthy hit and sucked it down. He then did the same for a second hit. By the time he exhaled that one, he was feeling pretty good indeed. "Good shit," he commented.

"We demands the best," James told him with a grin. "You want some blow too? We got some of that over there if Rickie ain't snorted it all."

"I'm cool on the blow," Jake said. "It makes me feel a little too good, if you know what I mean."

"Ain't no such thing," said Rickie, the DJ, as he snorted up a fat line.

"So how you been, Jake?" Gordon asked after putting away the last of his enchiladas and rice. "I ain't had a chance to talk to you since before that shitstorm you went through. You hangin' in there?"

"I'm trying," Jake said. "I've been talking to people from National, Columbia, Capital, and Aristocrat about a solo album now that Intemperance is broken up. So far, we ain't even close to seeing common ground."

"No shit?" Gordon asked. "What's up with that? I woulda thought you'd be hot commodity."

"I would be if I was planning to do Intemperance sound-alike tunes," Jake said. "But as soon as I told them that I wanted to move my music in a different direction, they started to balk."

"Yeah," Gordon said. "That's just like them motherfuckers, ain't it? They don't wanna give up the control."

"No, they certainly don't," Jake said with a shrug. "I'm not too worried though. Eventually we'll work something out. Hell, maybe I'll talk to Cedric and see about signing on with C-Block Records for an album or two."

Gordon and every member of his band cracked up at the thought of a white rock singer signing a record deal with C-Block. Rickie laughed so hard that he actually blew about thirty dollars worth of Bolivian cocaine off the mirror.

"You a funny motherfucker, Jake," said James, shaking his head.

"Yeah, sometimes I even crack myself up," Jake agreed.

"So what about the rest of your peeps?" Gordon asked. "I heard your guitar player already signed himself another deal."

"Yeah, that's what I hear too," Jake said. "He decided to go without a manager and strike out on his own. He signed a two-option deal with National. And since it was with them, they've already released him from our contract. I hear he's putting his band together and getting ready to start putting a demo together by the end of the year."

"Who's gonna sing for him?" Gordon asked.

"He's gonna do it himself," Jake said.

"No shit? Can he sing?"

Jake nodded. "His voice is pretty good. He's a baritone, like you are. Doesn't have the range to get into the tenor or the bass though."

"He's not as good as you, I take it?"

"No," Jake said objectively, "but he's not bad either. If he can avoid the comparison game I think he'll do well."

"I don't think he's gonna be able to avoid the comparison game," Gordon opined. "He's got a pretty tough act to follow."

Jake shrugged and took another drink of his rum and coke. "Time will tell," he said. "I hope he finds what he's looking for."

"Really?" asked Gordon. "No hard feelings for him?"

"There are a few," Jake admitted. "He's been a royal pain in the ass these past six months or so, I'll be the first to agree. But, at the same time, we've been through a lot of shit these past eleven years. Hell, we got thrown in jail in Texarkana together once."

"Texarkana?" Gordon said with horror.

"Oh man," said James. "I heard some shit about doin' time down south."

"It's a good thing ya'll is white," said Rickie. "Otherwise you'd still be there."

"Yeah, now that you mention it, that did not seem to be a brother-friendly environment," Jake said. "Anyway, he might hate my guts now, but I still wish him the best."

"What about the rest of your homeys?" Gordon asked. "How they set up?"

"They're getting by," Jake said. "Coop is talking about playing drums with a new band that's forming up. The bass player from Earthstone is hooking up with the guitarist from Gold Rush and the singer from Destination. They're looking for a drummer and a keyboard player and the word is they'd love to have Coop play for them."

"Think he'll do it?" Gordon asked.

"Yeah, he'll do it," Jake said. "He's working on bringing all four of them over to using my sister as their manager. The rest of them are using Ron Shaver at the moment..."

"That fuckhead?" Rickie said, shaking his head. "I heard he'll fuck you so good you'll think it was prime pussy."

"Yeah," Jake said. "He was our first manager before we... you know... decided to go with someone else."

"You renegotiated your contract," James said. "We all know about that. It's a fuckin' legend in the industry, homey."

"It is?" Jake asked.

"Fuck yeah," James said. "You stuck it to The Man, nigga. Right up his fuckin' ass! Word gets around about shit like that."

"You're kind of a hero in the industry, Jake," Gordon told him. "Don't you know that?"

"I guess not," Jake said.

"What's Nerdly doing?" Gordon asked. "I fuckin' love that geeky motherfucker. Tell me he's doin' all right, Jake."

"Well, Nerdly is now working full-time with his wife in National's studio as a sound engineer. It seems to be his calling in life. He was perfectly happy with ending the tour and working a nine-to-five schedule. They're paying him pretty damn good too since he's so good at what he does."

"He does know his shit when it comes to engineering a record," Gordon said. "I wished a thousand times we woulda had him when we was puttin' together Down With It."

"What about that faggot you had playin' bass?" asked James. "Did he really know that tranny was a fuckin' dude when he tapped into it?"

"He says he didn't," Jake said, repeating the standard company line. "And he's having some problems of his own because of all that. He had a couple of restaraunts going in the south. They were doing pretty good until that whole transsexual thing hit the media — especially the part in the magazine that did the spread on the dude."

"That was fuckin' disgusting!" said Rickie. "I used to like that mag because they'd show sisters in there every issue, but when they showed some bitch with a fuckin' dick... man, that's too fuckin' far."

"That ain't no shit," James agreed.

"Yeah," Jake said. "So whatever the truth is, he had to close down all his restaraunts in the south. People ain't into that sort of thing there and they stopped patronizing his establishments long before the tranny even did the spread."

"You reap what you fuckin' sow, man," James said seriously.

"That ain't no shit either," Rickie agreed, and the two of them exchanged a complex handshake over this proclamation.

"Anyway," Jake said, "he's still doing okay with royalties from our last three albums. And someone suggested to him that opening one of his restaraunts in San Francisco might not be such a bad idea."

"Was that you that told him that?" Gordon asked.

"Yeah," Jake said. "I'm pretty good at making the best of a bad situation."

They all had a laugh at this.

"Hey," said Gordon, "what about this fuckin' Greg Oldfellow motherfucker? Ain't he one of your homeys too?"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call him a homey," Jake said. "His wife and I are friends. That's how I know him."

"Oh yeah," said James lasciviously. "Celia Valdez. That girl's got a booty on her that won't quit."

"You ever bang her?" Rickie asked. "Tell me you tapped a piece of that ass, Jake."

"I've never tapped a piece of that ass," Jake admitted. "We're just friends."

James and Rickie were both disappointed by this revelation. So was Gordon, for that matter.

"That's too bad," Gordon said. "But what about her old man? What the fuck was that shit he put out a couple a months ago? That fuckin' jungle shit?"

"Oh man," Rickie said. "That was the worst fuckin' movie I ever seen, even if it did have a couple a titty scenes in it."

"Yeah," said James. "Why the fuck didn't they just eat the elephants? Where'd they get all the fuckin' dog food?"

Jake shook his head in silent sympathy for Greg Oldfellow. The reviews had indeed come out less than forty-eight hours after the premier and none of them were good. The best he achieved was one and a half stars from the San Diego Bee on the basis of the cinematography. The LA Times and the New York Times actually gave the film zero stars — a rating they'd only employed two times in their entire history of movie reviews. Once the reviews came out, the movie was on its way to being doomed. It only cleared two million in box office receipts on its opening weekend. Once word of mouth got around that it did indeed suck, things got even worse. Total box office receipts for its entire national and international movie theater run amounted to less than thirty million dollars. The film had been released the previous week for video rental and the numbers weren't doing well there either. Less than two million as of last Saturday, according to Celia, who was in constant communication with Pauline, her new manager (although no one was willing to sign her to a record deal, leaving little to manage). The film was already being touted as the worst flop since Shanghai Surprise.

"From what I hear," Jake said, "Greg is seriously regretting signing on for that film. It would seem in retrospect he learned that just because you spend a hundred mil making a film, that does not guarantee success if the material sucks ass."

"Yeah," said Gordon. "You can't polish a turd, man."

"That's The Truth," James agreed, prompting another exchange of handshakes between him and Gordon.

"Well, homey," Rickie said, "I'm finna go hit the shower. They'll be bringin' the bitches back in a few minutes."

"Yeah, me too," James said, standing up. The other band members stood up as well, all except Gordon.

"You comin', G?" Rickie asked.

"I'll be there in a few," Gordon told him. "I'm gonna finish my drink first."

"Sound good," Rickie said. "Jake, you wanna hang out and tap a few groupies with us?"

"Naw," Jake said. "I gotta be getting back to my seat before No Bail hits the stage or I'll have to push my way through the crowd from this side."

"Yeah, I guess that make sense," Rickie said. "Well, if I don't see you again, it been a pleasure."

The rest of the band echoed this sentiment. Handshakes were exchanged and the group headed off to the showers, leaving Jake and Gordon alone.

"So," Gordon said. "On a completely different subject, what do you think about this whole Iraq and Kuwait thing? You think it's gonna go all the way?"

This was a subject that had been on everyone's lips lately. Nine days before, Iraq had invaded the small, oil-rich country of Kuwait, overrunning it and claiming it as a province of Iraq. The American and international response had been immediate and forceful. The words of warning and condemnation toward Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein that were coming out of the White House and the UN Building since the invasion seemed to be a little bit more than the standard diplomatic rhetoric. American and British troops were already on their way to Saudi Arabia to help defend that country should the Iraqis decide to forcibly annex more territory.

"I think," said Jake, "that if Saddam doesn't pull his troops out of Kuwait, and fast, it'll go all the way to a shooting war. The man is fucking around with our oil supply, after all. We'll tolerate a lot of shit in this country, but we won't tolerate that."

"That's my thought as well," Gordon agreed. "I think that A-rab motherfucker just bit off a little more than he can chew."

They talked a little more about Operation Desert Shield, as it was being called, a subject that was dominating the news and even overriding stories about the turbulent Mindy Snow/Michael Stinson romance (rumor had it that Mindy might be pregnant and the he might be cheating on her). Jake noticed that once Gordon's bandmates left the room, his speech became considerably more intellectual and less peppered with slang. He did not make mention of this observation.

Eventually the topic strayed away from the turmoil in the Middle East and back to the music biz. Jake made mention that although Gordon was on a different label now, he was still able to perform material from his earlier albums, which had been under the National Records label.

"That's because C-Block Records ain't exactly as independent as people believe. Remember when we talked about this over at your pad? Cedric is still using National Records as his production and distribution network. Since I'm still affiliated with them, it's in their best interest to let me do my old material on tour."

"So you record and engineer the tunes in your own studio and then pay National to manufacture and distribute the album?" Jake asked.

"For the most part," Gordon agreed, "although in truth, Cedric don't own a recording studio either. For my album we rented studio time from Jam-On Productions up in Oakland. It's owned by a couple of friends of Cedric's from his earlier days. We put together a master and gave it to National. We paid for the promotion costs and they did the rest."

"And what percentage of the profits does National keep, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Forty percent," Gordon said. "Like I told you before, being hot commodity brings in a better deal."

"So you're doing pretty good now that you're independent?"

Gordon barked out a cynical laugh. "I ain't in the poorhouse or nothing, but remember, it ain't me who's independent, it's Cedric. I still had to sign a contract with him and I still only get paid royalties for Down With It."

"Oh yeah," Jake said. "Did you at least get a good royalty rate?"

"Twenty percent of retail rate," Gordon said. "A little less than what National and Aristocrat were offering. A few more recoupables too."

"So you're losing money by going with C-Block?" Jake asked. That didn't sound like a very good way to do business.

"Not really," Gordon told him. "Making the move to C-Block gave me the street cred I need to sell my album in the numbers it's been selling. Remember, for a rapper, street cred is just as important as talent, sometimes even more so. I couldn't go out and rap about how I got your sell-out right fucking here if I'm signed with a record company owned by whitey and therefore, by definition, a sell-out myself."

"But you still use their network," Jake said. "Does that not meet the requirements of being a sell-out?"

"Not if it's not common knowledge, which it isn't. If you look at my album cover, nowhere does it say National Records on it. National knows the game just as well as Cedric does. They're the silent partner in the deal and they just quietly and anonymously collect their money off the top."

Jake shook his head. "What an intricate and self-deprecating game this business is."

"That ain't no shit, homey," Gordon agreed.

"So what's next for you?" Are you gonna stay with C-Block for awhile? How many option periods is your contract for?"

"It's an album by album contract," Gordon said. "I can walk away from it at any time. That's the only way I'd do business with Cedric. He wanted me to sign for at least three options but I held my ground on that. I took ten percent less royalties and twenty-five percent more of the production costs and tour expenses, but he finally agreed to it."

"So are you walking after the tour?"

"Hopefully," Gordon said. "Though I may have street cred by working for Cedric, in reality it's no different than working for National. Cedric is a brother but he's just as sleazy and money-grubbing as Doolittle and the boys — maybe more so since C-Block Records is not a publicly traded corporation."

"Interesting," Jake said.

"Not exactly the word I would've used," Gordon said. "And then there's the fact that I can't stand the motherfucker."

"Oh?"

"He's a fuckin' has-been rapper who doesn't want to admit that it's over for him. He's lost his touch. He's been living the good life so long, consorting with rich white people so much, that all of his new material is lacking in authenticity. And most of his older material, the shit that made him what he is, is too dated to be relevant."

"The half-life of a rapper is not very long, is it?" Jake asked.

"One of the hazards of the business," Gordon agreed. "Cedric's problem is he can't accept that, can hardly even conceive that no one takes him seriously as a musician anymore. I'm on top of my game right now and my album has sold five times as many copies as his. Most of the people out in that audience every night are there to see me, yet he made himself the headliner. We sell out every show but every time he steps out on that stage, half the audience has already left. And every time he sees that, he gets more and more pissed off and harder and harder to deal with. It's got to the point where we just avoid each other. I haven't actually been in the same room with the man for almost a month now."

Jake nodded sympathetically. "Believe me, my man," he said. "I know what you're going through."

"Yeah," Gordon said. "I guess you do." He drained the last of his drink and then stood up. "And, on that note, I'm gonna go hit the shower and then enjoy me a nice round of groupie sex."

"Have fun," Jake said, standing as well. "Thanks for the drink."

"Anytime, Jake," Gordon said. "Glad you could make it to the show."

They shook hands and Gordon offered Jake a piece of unsolicited advice.

"Don't compromise on your music, Jake," he told him. "Don't let The Man tell you what you should and shouldn't be playing. Even if it means getting less than you deserve, it's worth it."

Jake nodded. "Thanks, Gordon," he said. "I'll keep that in mind."

And he did.