Daniel Price - Slick

I smiled. “You want to make your mark.”

“I want to make my mark.”

“You want to make your presence known.”

“I definitely want to make my presence known.”

“You want to raise the roof!” I yelled.

“Yeah, raise the roof!” she yelled back.

“Well, what do you think we’re doing? We’re raising the roof!”

“I know!”

“So enjoy it!”

“I will!”

She was more amused than infused, but I had reached her. I’d lifted her up just a little bit.

I, on the other hand, was bursting with wild energy again…and fierce desires. This morning’s twinge was back in full force, except now I found myself melding the fantasy to reality. I planned out the logistics of my gratification as if it were a jewel heist. The hotel was crawling with journalists, many of whom knew me, but I could sneak past them. I could work my way into the tower, all the way up to Harmony’s suite, all the way to her giant bed. Her abstinence was the final lock, but even that could be overcome. Consciously or not, I’d been chipping away at her defenses from the moment I met her. A few more taps of the hammer and the seduction would be complete.

It was a dangerous thought, a conceited one at that, but my higher functions chased it away. For the first time I could see the edge of the cliff that so many influential men had driven off — all the evangelists and politicians, actors and athletes, singers and rappers. With extraordinary success came a sense of entitlement, plus the ability to rationalize even the basest of urges. I could do it. I could have it. I could get away with it. It’s not a crime anyway. She wants it. Nobody will tell. Nobody will know. I’ve worked hard. I deserve it.

So many men have fallen into that trap. So many crises have come out of it. I was smart enough to stop where I was. I’d only tempt fate so much.

“I will, “ Harmony repeated. “I’m gonna enjoy it from now on.”

“Good,” I said, back to my old cautious self. “As long as you don’t look like you’re enjoying it.”

________________

In his opening monologue, Jay Leno joked that investing in stocks now was about as smart as leaving your daughter alone with Hunta. When guest Cameron Diaz referred to her boyfriend as frisky, David Letterman quickly followed up with “You mean like cat frisky, or Hunta frisky?” On Politically Incorrect , Bill Maher and his guest panel spent eight minutes discussing the new allegations. The most generous sentiment came from veteran rapper LL Cool J, who claimed it was ridiculous that the deplorable actions of one man were being held up against the entire music industry.

I guess it wasn’t right to celebrate when the man I was hired to save was still drowning in the river. From his point of view, all I did was heat up the water. Despite my assurances to Harmony, I had no idea how he was doing. I never once tried to call him. What could I say that I hadn’t said a thousand times before? I was all out of words. I felt the urgent need to do something, anything, if only to remind myself that I was still on his side.

At half past midnight I opened up the laptop, created a new account through Yahoo! Mail, then composed a quick note. The message was, like the recipient, short and explosive.

Harmony Prince is lying.

From the very beginning, I knew I’d be portioning out Harmony to three different journalists. Andy Cronin got her past. Gail Steiner got her present. And now, with a click of the button, Miranda Cameron-Donnell just got her future. Well, a hint of it. This was a gift that came in installments. The final piece would be the big prize: the confession. There was no real strategy in saving the best for Miranda. Truth be told, I simply owed her a climax.

The moment I sent the e-mail, my guilt spun like a compass needle from Hunta to Harmony. That was exactly how the media’s rage would flip. God, let them forgive her. Let her forgive me. Let the story end right. And since I’m here on my knees, Lord, let the writer get away, alive and uncredited.

The Bitch was always talking, but she only spoke in numbers. As the nation went to bed, the data from five thousand Nielsen boxes were parsed and tabulated, translated from raw digits to industry language. On Friday morning the trades spelled it out in common tongue: Harmony Prince was a hit. The people — at least those with Nielsen boxes — had taken her into their homes and kept her there.

That was all the affirmation the networks needed to pick her up for a full order. The morning telecasts changed their over-the-shoulder box graphics to incorporate Harmony’s image, usually the one from the Polaroid. Her written statement to the press was chopped up and spit out so often, you’d think “I never asked to be abused” was her personal catchphrase. And in the headlines and readers, the teasers and bumpers, she was no longer introduced as the “Hunta accuser” or the “alleged Hunta victim.” She was simply Harmony Prince. Her tale was eponymous now. Her name was laser-burned onto the cultural landscape.

And the story grew. It seemed that everyone wanted to add to the script, just to score some quick prominence. Witnesses at the Christmas party (“I saw them dancing up close. He was all over her. She didn’t seem to like it”). Her former co-hostesses (“She told me what happened the next day. She was a mess. I said, ‘Girl, get a lawyer’”). Even her roommates supported the story. The most genuine and compelling statement came from Tracy Wood. She was a squat and unattractive woman, but her tears fell like bombs.

“She never told me,” she cried to the camera. “She never said a word. But she wouldn’t lie about something like that. Even for money. She’s the best person I know.”

Hunta, by contrast, was an enemy of the people. The unattributed details that had sprung up overnight were pointed and cruel. He threatened to kill Harmony. He tried to kill her. He sodomized her with a beer bottle. He tied her up. He smacked her down. And, of course, he videotaped the whole thing. That was the rumor that just wouldn’t die. It was UPI that reported, through anonymous sources, that Hunta liked to plant a Panasonic digital minicam at the scene of his sexual encounters. At the end of the article, a Los Angeles police detective claimed that if Miss Prince had only come to them, they could have seized the damning footage, which by now had surely been erased or destroyed.

The drama was getting bigger, stronger, and meaner by the minute. By next week it would be absolutely feral. I didn’t expect the attacks to get so vicious, so soon. I had assumed that in the spirit of political correctness, the media would keep themselves to body blows. Apparently, I miscalculated. Apparently, there were psychological forces at work here beyond the drive for profit.

If there’s one thing I learned in my many years in the field , Maxina had told me, it’s that the press always finds a way to make the black man the bad guy.

No. Sorry. I worked in the same field and I still couldn’t subscribe to that, not when the airwaves were seeping with hypertolerance to the point of condescension. I wagered this had more to do with our sexual neuroses. We could handle a man who looked like a young god, but not a man who looked like he fucked like a young god. That pushed some serious buttons with us, both men and women. It made us uncomfortably jealous, aroused, insecure, or just plain wanting. Watching Hunta squirm, especially at the hands of such a sweet and virginal young beauty, was like aloe for the mind. I was providing cheap relief to millions of people. That didn’t make me feel good, considering how easily I could relate.