For the Love of Money

  I don’t know what Kendra was talking about, but Susan sure sounded like a seasoned agent to me. I like how she used the term short list of contacts. She almost made it seem as if my Rolodex of working business relationships amounted to next to nothing.

  I asked, “So, when will we be able to sit down with some paperwork where I can see what we’re talking about?”

  I sounded real pushy, but Susan had to understand that she was moving into a business relationship with me, and I was always pushy in business. Blame it on my Virgo sign again for always wanting to be on top of my game plan.

  Susan said, “We can sit down and discuss it this weekend. You want me to swing by your house?”

  She was still taking it light. I admired that. It looked as if we could work together.

  I smiled, pleased with the idea of Susan Raskin representing me. I said, “Yeah, swing past my house when you get a chance and we’ll talk about it.”

  $ $ $

  To make a long story short, I signed with Susan and by the end of March she had sold two of my spec scripts to NBC and ABC respectively, for twenty-five thousand dollars each. Both scripts were produced for mid-season pilot shows. Susan was outright earning her money, but like Reba Combs had said about agents, it was easy for Susan to walk me through the doors with my talent and track record. Nevertheless, she still had to have the keys to open the door.

  Yolanda looked over the paperwork and said, “This is where you need to be, at the big networks. And don’t you dare think about going back to that small-time shit either! But you have to fight to stay up there!”

  Kendra called me and said, “Well, I guess you made the right decision with Susan.”

  Coe called and asked, “Can you get me on one of those NBC shows?”

  Tim Waterman called and said, “Keep up the good work, Tracy. You got me in your corner all of the way.”

  Reginald called and said, “I guess you’re untouchable now, hunh? Watch your back up there, Tracy. I hear it’s treacherous.”

  My mother called me from home and said, “I guess you’ve proven me wrong. Again! Your father and I are very proud of what you’re doing out there, Tracy. Keep up the good work.”

  Raheema called and said, “As they say, you’re ‘blowing up the spot’ in Hollywood. Now tell me something that I didn’t know would happen.”

  Reba called and said, “What do you think about the chances of our own pilot show being picked up now?”

  I told her that I was working on it.

  I got a call from Rich, and all of the praise stopped there.

  “So, you ditched my show for NBC and ABC, hunh?”

  It was a no-brainer. Brothers and Sisters was headed for a fast exit on a smaller station, and he actually expected me not to write for an NBC or an ABC pilot. He had to be out of his mind, but I still felt guilty about it.

  I said, “It wasn’t in my plans for things to happen this way, Rich. Honestly.”

  He paused over the phone for a minute before he laughed. He said, “Yeah, I knew you were the money type. You tried to play it off like you were not, but it all comes out in the end.”

  “You were the one chasing the money,” I snapped at him defensively. “All I want is good opportunities, and your show was not one of them. I’m sorry.” I had to be real with him.

  Rich said, “You think those NBC and ABC pilots you wrote for are gonna last? Hell no! They only did those shows to appease black people while they get ready for next season. At least UPN sticks to the audience.”

  I was speechless. Rich was right. None of the major three networks had much patience for black television shows. Even FOX, the new upstart, was beginning to get stingy with black audiences as they moved their way up the ratings chart.

  “What do you want me to say?” I asked him.

  He said, “Well, I really can’t blame you. I was just pissed off when it first hit me, you know, because I felt like second fiddle. My show wasn’t good enough for you, and you got better pay over there.

  “I guess that anybody would have done the same thing,” he admitted with a chuckle. “And I guess I’m a little jealous about it, but that’s cool. Just remember to hook me up like I tried to hook you up.”

  I paused. It was a setup. I said, “Rich, to be perfectly honest with you, your writing has to get a lot better. I mean, your ideas are great, you just have to focus more on developing those ideas.”

  Rich laughed out loud and right in my ear. “Oh my God!” he responded. “You get a couple of writing credits with the big boys, and all of a sudden you become an expert.”

  “I didn’t call myself an expert, ”I said, “but we both know that scriptwriting is not really your forte. And to be honest, if I were you, I’d put more of my energy into creating and producing shows and leave the writing to other people.”

  He said, “That’s what I told you last year.”

  “And then you went ahead and tried to write the first four episodes of Brothers and Sisters and you ruined a great idea,” I told him.

  He chuckled. “You think my writing is that bad, hunh?”

  I didn’t even respond to that. He knew that his writing was bad.

  “Well, thanks a lot, Ms. Expert. I’ll take your advice, and the next time I create a show, I’ll let you write the first four episodes.”

  I didn’t make him any promises, and when I hung up the phone with him I felt hollow for some reason. All that response to my moving up in the industry made me feel as if I was hungry, but I wasn’t. I just felt eerie. It was as if I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I called my girl Raheema in New Jersey to talk about it.

  I said, “Raheema, it feels like things are moving too fast for me or something. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel yet.”

  “Success anxiety,” she told me. “Everybody feels that way when they get there. Now you just have to keep going.”

  “But what if I can’t make it at the next level?” I asked her. I didn’t want to verbalize it, but I was afraid of failure. People’s expectations of me were rising, including my own.

  Raheema chuckled. She said, “Fear has never stopped you before, so why should it stop you now? If I know you, you’re already thinking about creating your own show ideas, writing screenplays for the big screen, and everything else.”

  I broke out laughing. Raheema knew me back, forth, and sideways! I said, “But people out here are already saying that I’m moving fast enough. I guess I should feel content.”

  “Content? What is your name again? Tracy Ellison from Diamond Lane in Philadelphia? The Flyy Girl? Content? Girl, please! You better do what you went out there to do. I know you, Tracy. Those people out there don’t know you. They can read your book and still don’t know you.

  “You’re on your own pace, Tracy, not theirs,” Raheema told me. “You’ve always done things fast, because you plot out your plan, and then you do whatever you have to do to get what you want, while other people just sit around and talk about it. You know that. They just don’t know it. So keep working right along to get to where you want to be.

  “That’s why you don’t know how to feel right now,” she added. “You know that you’re not really there yet. And you’re in your zone whenever you’re working toward something and not when you’re being praised for things that you’ve already done.”

  When I hung up with Raheema, I smiled and felt at peace again. “That’s my girl!” I told myself, and I was inspired to write another poem, called “Volcano,” before I went to bed.

  Volcano

  Hot, creative

  lava

  boils in my brain,

  searching for an orifice

  to erupt on nature,

  violently

  burning the old soil,

  and terrifying the settled creatures

  who have gotten used to things

  as they were,

  so they run, shriek, and squeal

  as my lava rolls

  quickly down on them br />
  from up high.

  But when it is over,

  I cool off in fresh ashes,

  raising those old things

  to higher levels,

  so that the creatures can return,

  enlightened,

  and start again,

  while the earth awaits

  my next

  eruption.

  Copyright © 1998 by Tracy Ellison

  April 2000

  As soon as I arrived back in LA, I went out to the video store by my house in Marina Del Rey, and rented Barb Wire, starring Pamela Anderson Lee, to do some research. I figured that I would hate the thing because the movie didn’t really create any positive buzz outside of her breast size, her reckless rock-star husband, and her pregnancy. However, after watching Barb Wire for the first time, I liked the movie, and I could see exactly what my brother was talking about by making a pretty woman believable with fast reflexes, violence, and plenty of weaponry. I didn’t particularly like the flashbacks though. Flashbacks tended to slow movies down. I didn’t particularly care for character narration either; it tends to get in the way, unless you really like the sound of the narrator’s voice.

  I had a million things I wanted to do, including shopping for something to wear to the meeting that would fit the character Alexis; something sexy enough to turn a man on, but sane enough not to alert him to a setup. I also wanted to begin picking out and typing up twenty-five or so poems for my sequel book deal.

  I went out to a thrift store to buy some inexpensive clothing for my character. I bought a couple of denim skirts and shorts with bright and colorful halter tops. I went to a nearby adult store and bought some of that freaky, black leather lace to give Alexis some of the edge that her name implied. When I arrived back at home, I hooked up a complete outfit for the meeting, planning to show up in character and seal the role as quickly as possible.

  I decided to wear the pair of black leather strapped sandals that I had bought from the adult store with a pair of baggy denim shorts that would allow room to keep a small gun on my hip underneath. A pair of silk pink panties would do the trick to give me that extra feminine appeal. I could wear the red halter top so that I could keep a knife in the back where my bra clip would be. Around my neck, I’d wear more black leather straps that crisscrossed like a bra and matched the sandals. I’d put my hair up, or in a ponytail to keep it out of my way, like a woman on the go, a jogger or workout nut or something.

  I put on all of my props and looked at myself in a full mirror, absolutely loving it! However, my mother was right, my arms and legs needed toning, but the look was working, so I told the mirror, “My name is Alexis, and I’m one tough bitch, but don’t call me black; I know what I am, and who I am. Okay? Now let me go find some psychos. I want to give them a taste of how it feels to die.”

  While still wearing my gear to feel out my character, I read the Road Kill script again with a red pen in hand, making all of the changes that were needed.

  $ $ $

  I met my agent at twenty of eleven, up the street from the studio lot, so that we could do a final game plan before going into our meeting with the producer at his office. He was a forty-something guy named Donald Hollis, who liked to refer to himself as “The Don.” My girl told me when she briefed me about him over the phone that morning.

  As soon as she saw me stepping out of my black Mercedes convertible, in character, she smiled and said, “Good idea.” She was dressed in a dark gray suit with a hot pink silk shirt, and looked hip herself.

  “What statement are you trying to make with that color?” I asked Susan out of curiosity.

  “That we’re hot chicks here to take care of business, man.”

  I laughed at her.

  “So, we drive in together in my car and leave yours parked out here?” I asked.

  “Yeah, let’s show some solidarity,” she answered, moving quickly to my passenger’s side. I hadn’t told Susan any of my plans of execution to get the role, but I had plenty.

  “Well, here we go again,” she said. “And this time, we’ll be ready to shoot for a three-film deal if they’re offering us enough money.”

  I hadn’t even been thinking about the money, just about getting the part and tailoring the script to meet my needs, but that was what agents were for, the money talk.

  I asked, “How much do you think we could get for a three-film deal?”

  “Actually, I was thinking about negotiating some kind of an elevator clause, starting at two to four million for the first film, and rising at least two million for each additional film, depending on the box office gross for each prior film.”

  I did my calculations and came up with a minimum of twelve million dollars for three films, but it could end up being more.

  I looked at Susan and asked, “You really think we can ask for that much so soon?”

  She gave me this long lingering smile. “That, my dear, depends on you, and a million other things at the box office,” she added with a chuckle. “However, Led Astray did twenty-eight million, which earns you a check of one point four million and some change, from the five percent gross that we negotiated on the first deal. That check should arrive at the office any day now.”

  I thought about that and said, “Shit! We’re about to roll in some serious money, Susan.”

  “You better believe it,” my girl said.

  I responded, “Twenty-eight million ain’t bad for a movie that released in less than a thousand theaters. We almost made four times our budget. You think they’ll give us ten percent gross now?” I asked Susan.

  She grinned. “That’s what we still want,” she answered. “That’s why a lot of the studios don’t like to give up those gross points, because if it pays off for the talent, they know that you’re going to want more of the same. And we do,” she commented with a laugh.

  Ten percent gross sounded damn good to me. Ten percent of a blockbuster movie, pulling in a hundred million dollars, equaled ten million dollars after my initial payoff. That sounded like gravy over the potatoes and rice,but first we had to get more theater releases for my films. Distribution was a real bitch, especially for black movies! However, Latino and Asian films were not doing half as well as black films were.

  I thought about all of that and nodded my head before starting up my engine. “Well, let’s go do it then,” I told my girl. I was determined to move my way up in the industry.

  We drove up to the security gate and gave our names and who we were there to see before we drove in amongst the cars of the people who made deals with the stars.

  We parked in the visitors’ section and headed right into the luxurious office building to make sure that we were there on time at eleven o’clock sharp. The office building had three levels and was full of open light for the many plants and small palm trees. It was like an inside safari. We were really moving up the ladder.

  “Can I help you?” we were asked by a sister receptionist.

  I gave her that black people nod and a smile. She smiled back at me and kept it cool.

  Susan said, “We have an eleven o’clock meeting with The Don,” and smiled herself.

  “Your names please?”

  “Susan Raskin and Tracy Ellison Grant.”

  The sister smiled even wider and made the call. “Susan and Tracy are here.” She buzzed us into his office. “By the way, Tracy,” she added before I left, “I loved Led Astray.”

  “Thank you,” I told her. I guess she didn’t want to assume who I was before she praised my work. That was smart, because stars have huge egos, and they damn sure don’t like having their names or their work confused with that of others.

  We walked into the office of The Don, who was dressed in all white and still talking on the telephone. He looked up as we were walking in.

  “Ah, I have to take a meeting right now, so I’ll get back to you after lunch. Okay? Ciao.”

  I had to read him as fast as I could to see how to play him. So far he seemed s
upercool, so I planned to be cool myself.

  Susan said, “Don, this is Tracy Ellison Grant,” and left me alone. She knew that I knew how to work it. An introduction was all that I needed.

  He stood up and took my hand lightly in his. “Is this your rendition of the character?” he asked me of my outfit. He was moving faster than what I had planned.

  I said, “You know, there are a lot of different weapons that a girl could hide in an outfit like this, but I still look normal, almost like a sweet-and-sour thing going on. It’s definitely attractive to a man who’s looking for a good time.”

  Don smiled and said, “Yeah, I can see that. Have a seat.”

  Susan and I sat down in the tall, comfortable brown leather chairs that flanked his huge desk. He sat down behind his desk, with his chair evenly spaced between us.

  “So, what do you think about the script?” he asked me.

  Perfect question. The Don was straight to the point. I guess he had a busy day ahead of him, but I had practiced myself silly with the pitch, so it was no problem with me; the sooner the better.

  I said, “You know, I don’t see this character as a woman who doesn’t talk much.I mean, what are we trying to do here, create a female Clint Eastwood?”

  He chuckled, but I had no time to waste, so I kept going with it.

  “If anything, a woman who doesn’t talk much would send all kinds of alarms to a man,” I told him. “Talkative women are easy, right? Everyone knows that. Or everyone assumes. So we give her an advantage of playing the easy, talk-to-anyone-about-anything role, and then her violence will catch the audience and the bad guys totally by surprise.”

  He nodded, in deep thought about it.

  “And this hand-to-hand combat thing will be a real turnoff for the mostly male audience that we’re going to attract with this movie,” I added. I slapped my black sandal on his desk to illustrate my point. “I could slide a couple of thin black knives in these straps, and you would hardly notice them.” I stood up and undid the thick black leather belt that held up my baggy denim shorts. “Inside of these big things, I could hide up to four guns. I could have one in the front, one in the back, and two on the sides, but one gun on the right hip would do just fine, preferably nickel-plated. And who knows what I could do with this big-ass black leather belt in my hand.