Are You Sure That’s Not James?

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Sometimes I swear if it weren’t bad luck, I wouldn’t have any at all.  For instance, today I was all set to close on a pretty decent size copier deal; and by descent I mean two midsized machines and a fax.  Definitely not enough profit for me to go traipsing off to Dubai to kick it with P. Diddy; but certainly enough to at least keep my manager off my behind for the next three weeks.  Everything was set; I had already spent the last several weeks haggling over prices with Mr. Williams, the President of a little rundown music company in Harlem.  The only thing left to do was simply go get the contract signed.  How easy is that…right?

I arrived at the record company just before noon.  The receptionist stopped eating her potato salad and wing dings long enough to escort me to the office, but not without first letting me know how annoyed she was.  When I entered, Mr. Williams was on a call.  Definitely not the friendliest man in the world, without looking he motioned for me to sit.  I took the seat directly across from his desk and waited patiently.  Mr. Williams looks more like an old pimp than a music executive.  He had on a fluorescent green suit with what looked to be sixteen buttons going down the front; an old Gary Coleman afro with a part up the side wide enough to land a little 727 on; and a thick mustache that looked as if he had spent all morning blow-drying it out.  I swear if it wasn’t for the picture of Jesus behind his head, I would’ve sworn he prayed to Steve Harvey at night.  I slipped the contract directly in front of him, hoping since he was obviously busy, he would perhaps just sign it while on his call, that way we wouldn’t have to speak at all.  But as luck would have it that was not the case.

Mr. Williams continued with his call as if I wasn’t even there; talk about rude.  Bored, I began glancing around the room to kill time.  Hanging on the walls were pictures of all of the recording artists he’s worked with over the years.  Such legendary mega stars like; Carl Carlton, Orange Juice Jones, Sheryl Pepsi Riley, and Peaches’s solo album after the big split up with Herb.  Looking around I thought, “Damn, this brother ain’t had a hit since music switched over to cassette tapes.  No wonder he is so cheap.”  On his desk were several family pictures.  One of him and his wife Musetta (think…Eddie Murphy’s Rasputia character but without the cute smile); and I swear what had to be the ugliest damn kids I’d ever seen presented in a frame.  For a second I couldn’t tell if it was his family portrait, or if he snapped a shot in front of the gorilla exhibit at the Bronx zoo.  Believe it or not, but the cutest one in the entire shot was actually Musetta’s little Boston Terrier.  And even he had a look on his face like, “Good lawd these are some ugly mutha fkas.”

Mr. Williams finally finished up his call and began inspecting the contract for mistakes.  Looking back in hindsight, if only I would’ve just shut my damn mouth, I would’ve been out the door with my contract signed.  But seeing how for some crazy reason, I have this perpetual need to always make stupid small talk, I couldn’t leave the room without saying something.  Glancing at a picture I remarked, “Wow Mr. Williams, that’s so cool.  I had no idea you knew James Brown.”  Without looking up he replied, “What are you talking about?  I don’t know James Brown.”  I then picked up the picture from his desk and restated, “Yes you do.  See, you have this picture right here of you with your arm around him.”  Puzzled, Mr. Williams finally looked up to see what I was talking about.  After literally a ten second pause, he looked directly at me with a stone face and replied, “That’s not James Brown.  That’s my mama.”  Now I’m not exactly a musicologist, but dammit I know James Brown when I see him.  Not only was it his exact same face; it was his same hair; same sweaty forehead; and even the same little tight white suit from the “Living in America” video.  Surely this all can’t be a coincidence.  So naturally I asked, “Are you sure that’s not James Brown?  Because if not she’s definitely a dead ringer for him.”

With temples bulging, Mr. Williams completely snapped yelling, “N*gga didn’t I just say it wasn’t James Brown!  I know my own damn mama when I see her!”  In a matter of seconds, my sure thing suddenly just took an entire 360.  I thought, “Dammit Brett, he was just about to sign.  How in the word did you mess this one up?  Now I’m gonna have to go back to my boss and explain yet again how I messed up another deal.”  This did not look good.  Trying to salvage the situation I explained, “I’m so sorry Mr. Williams!  It was an honest mistake.  Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is.  Hell, I love James.”

At this point Mr. Williams was so mad I could actually see steam coming from the part in his afro.  He jumped up from his desk and shouted, “N*gga, get the f*ck out of my office!  Get out!”  Startled and afraid, I hopped up and quickly began gathering my things.  Still somewhat optimistic I asked, “Mr. Williams, about the contract.  Did you want to maybe…just fax it to me later?”  Enraged, he yelled “No, actually just stay yo’ ass right there!  We can take care of it right now!”   So mad by now he literally had tears running down his face; he began frantically searching through his desk.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he wasn’t searching for a pen.  Not being one for surprises, I leaped over the chair and ran out the door.  Walking back to my office empty handed, something told me that it wasn’t Mr. Williams first time hearing that.

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