Hot Boyz (36 page)

“I’m working to correct that. I’m really trying here, Cedes. I’m committed to this relationship, woman. Do you hear me? I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you.”

Mercedes spoke at full volume. “Then you call Dr. Little back and tell him that you still need to continue so that you can become a better person, no matter what happens to us.”

“Cedes.”

“You heard what I said. It’s up to you. And one more thing. I just know you’re not at Starbucks, are you?”

“No.”

“Keep your ass away from there.” She hung up.

Mason stood still. His head was splitting from the weight of all of his interactions. He felt fifty pounds heavier and ten years older.

His cell rang again.

“And one more thing. I met your little groupie. She was definitely not worth all of this.”

She hung up again, leaving Mason standing there with his mouth open. His thoughts were racing.

He dialed one more number and left a message.

“Dr. Little. Scratch what I said. We’ll see you next week.”

Mason walked along the course in Ireland wearing his black skin, black pants, a black shirt, black shoes, a black golf cap, and with his new, male, white Tideist representative at his side. He passed a long line of fans behind the ropes who were applauding as he walked with pride, enjoying his moment.

“Look at that nigger.” Mason Wilson heard the diseased word of hate coming from deep in the crowd. It rang out in his black ears in a reverberating, boisterous whisper, as if someone was too chicken to yell it out. But the volume of the words echoed in his head with jaw-tightening loudness. He missed a beat, turned, and his sight narrowed, praying to make eye contact with the perpetrator. It seemed all of the eyes that met his were sincere and joyful, basking in the moment of his landslide win. They were the eyes of his loyal fans.

“Did you hear that?” he asked the representative.

“Hear what?”

“Never mind,” Mason said, knowing it was not his imagination. His irritation mounted and his enthusiasm dwindled a notch, looking out amongst the melting pot of faces, wondering how one is ever able to tell the racists from the supporters. Were people ever really going to be sincerely happy that he was exploring his God-given talents and raising the bar for all athletes, not just minorities?

It appeared as though the blue skies were suddenly cloudy,
playing tricks on him with imaginary rain clouds about to release their tears upon the course lined with fans. The moment brought sadness to Mason’s soul for those who were not accepting of equal opportunities, so unable to handle the fact that all are God’s children.

“Thanks,” was his only response as he received his award and prize money.

He whisked past the fans and reporters, and got into his black limousine. The car pulled away, carrying a confused winner, suddenly feeling like a loser.

Mason sat in the lobby of the Howth Head hotel, sitting alone on a sofa, in deep thought. Atop the coffee table was an old English language issue of
Sports Illustrated
with Mason’s face on the cover, smiling under the caption, “A Colorful Course.” Instead of rereading the article, he picked up the day’s newspaper in the Celtic language, opened it wide and shielded his face from his surroundings, not able to read the words, just glancing at the photographs, in a trancelike state.

A well-dressed, sophisticated white man approached Mason and introduced himself. He was fast-talking.

“Mr. Wilson, my name is Phillip Drummond and I work for the All-Pro Sports Marketing Association. We think you need to be promoted on a whole other level.”

“Oh really?” Mason said, taking the man’s card and giving it a quick once-over.

“Yes. See, we noticed that you’re not the most popular golfer. I’m sure you don’t cause a riot when you go into 7-Eleven. But we can boost your career. I see your entire image re-identified, rebuilt so that we switch up your sponsors, get you more money, upgrade your image and your persona and just elevate the entire package. Mind you, you’re okay right now but we think we can take you to a certain level of success that America can relate to. You have to become more visible, Mr. Wilson.”

“So, you’re an agent?”

“I’m an image manager, so to speak.”

Mason made it clear. “I’ve never had one and I don’t need one.”

“You have a business manager, don’t you?”

“Yes, and he’s the best.” Mason resumed his perusal of the newspaper.

“Same thing. What I can do is manage your career, Mr. Wilson, not just manage you. You are a superstar but you’re not shining like you could in my opinion. Your wardrobe, the Sean John thing, that’s just not PGA quality.”

Without looking up, Mason asked, “What is PGA quality exactly?”

“The Nike-, Reebok-, Adidas-type sportswear.”

“I don’t have a contract with them, so I don’t wear them.”

The man continued. “But you will. You need a more universal image. Less hip-hop.”

Mason moved his paper to the side. “Sir, I am almost forty years old. I’m far from hip-hop. Do you even know what hip-hop means?”

“Let’s just say that just because it’s hip, doesn’t mean it hops.”

“What hops in your world, Mr. Drummond?”

“What hops is setting up an organization in your name where you travel as a role model and offer scholarships to our youth, appearing at schools and giving kids the impression that you’re there for them.”

“Impression?” Mason asked stiffly.

“It’s all about having a bankable image and public perception. People love that kind of thing. And you need a commercial agent so you can do commercials like for cereal and energy bars. And also, we need you to relocate to the East Coast or down South, to a different type of neighborhood, maybe even to the exclusive South Beach section of Miami.”

“Why? I’m raising my kids in Los Angeles.”

The man spoke as though he’d done his homework. “The school system in South Beach is much better than where you live now. I know you lived in Ladera when you were a teen, but sometimes you need to stretch out beyond your comfort zone.”

“So, you’re saying once we Negroes make it, we should move away to the white world? Where should I have been living while in
California? In Bel Air, Malibu, Orange County, Beverly Hills?” Mason asked, seeking clarification.

“Even that would do wonders for your image.”

“Mr. Drummond is it?”

He nodded his head yes.

“My image is just fine. I don’t believe that my fans are thinking about what section of town I live in when I’m out there on the green. I just don’t buy it. I have no desire to change anything.”

“We call it zip-code recognition, Mr. Wilson. See, you’re seen as a black golfer living a mid-level existence, without the savvy and leadership that comes from taking yourself to pro status. No one will take you seriously until you make a change. Get out of that 90056 mentality.”

“I beg to differ. I let my game speak for itself. It’s no one’s business what I do away from golf or what my zip code might be.”

The tone changed. “I guess so when you show up for a tournament smelling like Tanqueray, how serious do you expect to be taken? I know you don’t want that to get out. Aren’t you a member of Alcoholic’s Anonymous?”

Mason was fast losing his patience. He put the paper on the coffee table and stood up. “I’m about to go up to my room.”

“For a little private minibar nightcap?”

“Good night.” Mason’s jaw grew tense. “And if you come back around me… just good night.” Mason walked away.

“Good night, Mr. Wilson. I see you put my card in your jacket pocket. Use it. Because you wouldn’t want those photos of you and your lovely wife leaving a sleazy nudie bar to be circulated, now, would you? Or maybe the information about your chick on the side.”

Mason reached inside of his coat pocket, pulled out the card and tore it in half. He dropped it on the marble floor just outside of the elevator. He pushed the up button and stood in front of the elevators, staring at the doors.

“And wasn’t there a shooting in your neighborhood a couple of years ago?”

Mason balled up his fist just as the arrival of the up-elevator
chimed. He took three steps in, turned around and pushed the button to the top floor. He faced the open door and locked sights on the revolting face of Mr. Drummond, giving him a killer look, squinting until the closing doors met to cut off his stare.

Mason headed back to his room and sat in silence in the dark. His mind drifted and his eyes fixed upon the view from the hotel window of the rugged landscape, green hills and rough blue ocean of the Irish land of Dublin City. His hotel room phone rang and his cell phone rang repeatedly, seemingly all at once. He ignored them both.

After an hour or so, he stood up, turned on the light and disrobed down to his boxers and socks. He decided to turn the television on just so he’d have company in the room.

He sat on the bed, took his briefcase from the nearby chair and looked inside to check his schedule for the next day. Tucked inside one of the business cards slots was a wallet size family picture of Mason, Mercedes, Rashaad, and Star. It had been taken a few years earlier. To him, the smiles were brighter and more carefree back then. He ran his middle finger across the photo and then brought it up to his lips, kissing it and then clutching it to his chest.

Also in his briefcase, to his surprise, conveniently slipped in front of his itinerary, was a note from Mercedes. It was handwritten on one of his formal note cards with the scripted initials,
MW.
He sensed her scent, sniffed it and smiled. It smelled of the gardenia fragrance she always wore. He broke the seal and began to read.

Mason placed his briefcase back on the chair. He spoke out loud. “Now that is what unconditional love is all about.” He put the note on the nightstand next to the bed and then knelt down on his knees. He pressed his palms together under his chin, closed his eyes, and began to pray.

Thank you, Lord, for another chance with my family. I ask you to save me from the generational curses in my life and allow me to be the man you designed me to be. I know that I can change. I put my faith in you, dear God. I want to be the best man I can be. I ask this of you and know that it shall be done. You’ve blessed us dearly. I let go and let You do Your will. Amen.

He then laid back and laughed out loud as
Girls Gone Wild
came on the cable channel. He turned off the television, no longer needing it. He no longer felt alone. He leaned over to reach into his briefcase again and pulled out the book that Star had given him on father-daughter relationships. He leaned back, turning to chapter one, reading along with a smile on his face.

The day Mason was to arrive back home, Mercedes decided to let an anxious Kailua run out onto the yard to get the morning paper. Her encouraging head nod, along with the word, “Fetch,” sent him running at breakneck speed, overrunning his target. He grabbed the rolled-up morning edition and raced back to Mercedes, placing the paper at her feet and wagging his chocolate tail.

“Good boy,” she said as Kailua jumped around her as if wanting his reward. “Just a minute,” she said.

On the front page of the local edition of the
Laderian News
was a photo of her husband’s face, and not a very flattering one at that. The article read as follows: