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“Did you make yours tonight? That motherfucker didn’t even pay me . . . I wish he would get a life, huh? Yo, you feelin’ me, Moet?” With the club music making a dying transition, from uptempo to slow jams, R. Kelly’s “You Remind Me” now drifted through the air, and the beats were strong enough to have the ground thumping. Claudine reached over to Moet’s torso, her body now twisted and hovering over the dancer. Then she stroked Moet’s elevated knee with her free hand and glided it down her stocking-smooth leg and thigh.
“Hmm . . . silky baby. I always liked your legs, chile . . . and you got that chocolate-ass skin too.” Claudine put her hand to Moet’s forehead, realizing a bit of moisture. She never really got to touch Moet like this before, and didn’t mind the frisky feeling she felt—like she was moving from first to second to third base in record time.
“Damn, baby, I don’t know if I got a feeva or if you just makin’ me hot all ova.” Claudine moved her breast closer to Moet and pressed her forehead into the area under Moet’s chin, looking again into the sky. She warmed Moet’s cool body with her own heat while her hands and palms freely caressed and pried for easy access into Moet’s crotch.
“Oh, Moet . . .” Claudine moaned. “Let’s be together tonight.” Claudine’s mind was drifting, still disoriented as she lifted her head to Moet’s. Now completely covering Moet’s body with her own, she pulled her own coat over the both of them and began to probe her bitter tongue into Moet’s half-opened mouth. The force of Claudine’s weight caused both bodies to move and rock on the ground in slow unison as she wiggled on top of her. Sleepily, Claudine kissed all over Moet’s neck, cheeks, nose and forehead. Moet’s forehead was extra moist now. Gooey even. Claudine changed her focus to Moet’s breasts until she had a nipple in her mouth. She eventually fell asleep there with the nipple feeding her . . . drifting finally into unconsciousness. Claudine was asleep. Out cold. But she wouldn’t have any idea that Nadine Butler (aka Moet) was stiff as a rock . . . and as dead as a doornail.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Letter to Mom
Dear Mom,
I finally got the chance to write you . . . after all these years. It’s just that I’ve been so very busy building my empire, my life and my future. Since I came out to visit you in California a lot has happened. I hope to come out there again to spend more time with you. I didn’t ever remember having one of those mother-son talks, like you see on TV and stuff.
Besides, I’m an adult now!
Meanwhile, I just wanted to take the time (at the beginning of my letter and on my 28th birthday) to say ‘I love you’ and that I’m doing everything I can with all that you have given to me. You always bounced back, Mom. With so many hard times that you faced. Financially, you struggled as an entrepreneur’s wife; forced to be resourceful. You were the homemaker, making our clothes and taking on the most stressful jobs to help keep the bills paid when Dad didn’t carry us. And you were strong, coping with Dad’s infidelities. You are so strong, Mother, and you have survived regardless of the odds.
One thing that I have indeed inherited from you and Dad is the initiative to work hard. Working hard for me is a natural: doing and being the best I can. I’m pursuing my talents relentlessly and by far, I’m feeling like the most resourceful black man on earth. All because of you. I don’t have one job, but so many responsibilities. Now, I haven’t been making my own clothes, like you once did, but I have been good at penny-pinching (being conservative) and cooking. When Stacy says she’s in the mood for pancakes, I know that means one thing or the other. She wants to be taken to IHOP (my lazy alternative) or I’ve got to get my black ass (oops!) out of bed and start making the batter. What a life! But just the same, thanks again, Mom.
I’m enclosing my latest videocassette of the TV show. It has an exclusive interview with Nancy Wilson that I know you’ll appreciate. Yes, Mom! Your son is reaching for the big time! Enjoy the tape and I’ll write to you again soon.
Oh! Stacy says hi!
Kiss, kiss,
Hug, hug.
Your son,
Douglass
Writing to his mother was a stretch for Douglass, since he’d been so far removed from the concept of family for years. His father was the nearest immediate member of the Gilmores that he related with on a day-to-day basis. And yet, despite how close they were with business affairs, the two were farther apart than they would have liked to admit. Convenience. That was the only “why” that kept them in close contact. But in the meantime, looking alike and (sort of) living together didn’t substantiate a bond. Being father and son was more or less coincidental.
Home Sweet Home
The Gilmore family, in the past 2 generations (at least), had never grown into a position of great wealth. Douglass couldn’t ever recall any relatives having more than a working man’s luxuries. At best, the really consistent aunts and uncles maintained their own homes, cars and middle class lifestyles, if merely due to hard, diligent work. But for sure, nobody moved to that level of affluence to deserve a 10,000-square foot, 24-room home with a 4-car garage. Not until Douglass learned about real estate.
In Douglass’s teen years, the family began to break out in different directions. Different destinies. His mother eventually sought a divorce. She left for sunny California to live with her parents who had retired there from New York decades before. Douglass’s two sisters simultaneously followed their mother to eventually marry into their own separate family start-ups. But, all told, the divorce between Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore left the family in shambles. With everyone left to sow their own oats in their very own mismatched worlds with no backbone, and no sound leadership or role models to turn to or rely upon.
Against those odds, Douglass still managed to spend many hours learning sales techniques and the many strategies of buying real estate with “no money down.” From seminars to the mail-order cassette courses, Douglass absorbed himself in the basics of finding distress properties, identifying the “don’t wanters” of these parcels, and he drew up his own offers for them. Before and during the issues which led to the breakup of his parents, Douglass was searching for a home. Inspired by pain that was pervasive and self-perpetuating in their Mt. Vernon home, he thought that closing on a new deal, a new home, in a new area might encourage a new family attitude. So for Douglass, although the Gilmores always had a roof over their heads, finding a home was necessary. And it wasn’t merely to keep the family together either because Mr. Gilmore was so busy with his own lifestyle that he had been neglecting the rent payments for 3 or 4 months.
Douglass searched for days, concentrating on the neighboring towns of Pelham and New Rochelle. He spent the most time in New Rochelle, where his parents had arranged for him to attend junior high school and part of high school. One day he stumbled upon a huge property that showed all of the signs he’d been looking for: Tall-as-hell grass. Dingy windows. Need for a paint job. This was the “don’t wanter” that he was trained to look for!
At first the home seemed unattainable because of its size. A four-story Colonial with a breathtaking panoramic view of the town’s main artery, North Avenue. This was a four-lane road that connected one end of New Rochelle with the other; the only road to do so. Just across the street was the town landmark, the Thomas Paine statue. It stood 25 feet tall and represented the history of the Huguenots, the army which battled under the leadership of then-General George Washington. To the immediate right of the house were two mile-long lakes, divided by a small bridge and walkway. Finally, just behind the lakes was New Rochelle High School, known best for its state championship-winning football team. It was also known as the #1 school in the country for its impeccable curriculum and grade-point average. Douglass also attended New Ro (the pet name for the high school) and kept no more than a A or no less than a C average in his classes. Yet he was an above average girl watcher. It was well after his school years, and his stint in the Marine Corps when he found this vacant corner property on North Avenue.
Part duty and pa
rt nuts and bolts know-how, Douglass sought out the homeowner. Digging into the town tax assessment records he discovered that the owner was a Japanese doctor who practiced acupuncture. He could not obtain a license to practice his profession in the United States as he hoped. He actually gambled on the process, but found himself caught between a rock and a hard place. Forced to continue his practice in London, the home which he’d purchased sat unoccupied for over 2 years. Thus, the New Rochelle home was useless to him and became the best-kept opportunity for an entrepreneur looking for a home.
Douglass contacted the doctor, and taking advantage of the circumstances, offered him $1,000 a month in a lease-option deal. The doctor appreciated Douglass’s aggressive approach. He wasn’t offended by the below-market offering. Instead, he was happy to have a committed buyer. Bottom line: this deal would be a family in the home, one that would hopefully take care of it, and the investment would continue to appreciate in value. This residential neighborhood was an attractive one, to say the least. Immaculately kept. It was quiet during the day and night, with the exception of garden workers, gas-powered mowers and leaf blowers in the early mornings. Every home had a large front yard. If the front yard was small, it was because of an oval driveway or a massive backyard. Most every home in the area had these amenities and all of the benefits of affluence.
950 North Avenue was no different from the rest. There was a great lawn in front, accentuated by a 230-foot oval driveway that curved around from one road to the other. The backyard was long and wide enough to fit another small home on. The house was an all-white Colonial with a crimson-red clay tile roof. There were even two addresses since the home sat on a corner property. 950 North Avenue faced the main road, while 11 Braemar Avenue enjoyed the scenery of the lakes.
The icing on the cake (a boost to Douglass’s ego) was to live just across the way from his old school where high school acquaintances used to tease him about his homemade orange tie, his high-water jeans and the overall miscoordination of clothing. The youngster had no sense of detail and nobody to show him style. But if those hecklers could only see Douglass now! He was living in a damned mansion! And it only added to his ten-ton collection of “last laughs” for everyone who was curious enough to ask themselves, “How the hell did he do that?”
Unfortunately, the doctor’s acceptance of Douglass’s offer did not come in time to salvage the family unity or to support whatever could be salvaged. So while his mom and sisters traveled westward, Douglass was left to live side by side with his father in this big home, with the most lavish living conditions, and his only responsibility was the fun and excitement of managing the ever-popular family nightclub, Gilmore’s Fool’s Paradise.
The Beginning of an Empire
New Rochelle, New York, was and is considered suburbia. And yet this community, with its Good Morning America ways, has fast become a melting pot where residents from every other country have sprouted up faster than vines. Many Spanish, Haitian, Oriental and Caribbean immigrants found New Rochelle to be an even mix of city-like resources in the most suburban surroundings. Grass. Trees. Lakes and streams; all of these elements lending their energy to the clean air that contradicts the realities of the big city only 25 minutes south. That once-upon-a-time all-white town, with its all-white infrastructure, has been forced to rub elbows with and adjust to the realities of culture and all of the spices that come with it. These realities have even forced New Rochelle into an economic surrender, where over half of its commercial businesses, including banks and restaurants, have bailed out. Four big nightclubs closed permanently. So while the majority of the city’s large businesses fled or shut down, the new opportunities opened up for niche businesses which could adapt to the shift in this town’s new cultural realities.
All things considered, with his new home, his know-how and business savvy, Douglass embarked on a new plan. This would go further than his selling shoes door to door when he was 7, or his mining for Cabbage Patch Kids when toy store shelves went dry. This venture (he planned) would be a multimedia empire which focused on an experience that the world could not escape. Black entertainment. A fan and a student of black entertainment, Douglass enjoyed recording the events through the decades. The icons stood out like massive billboards: MOTOWN; BLACK ENTERTAINMENT TELEVISION; NO LIMIT; DEF JAM & ROC-A-FELLA RECORDS. Douglass observed the growth of these institutions, much like millions of others. But unlike many who simply observed, he vowed to be a part of it. The growth and popularity was becoming so obvious. Black artists were now being seen more on video. More and more, week after week, black artists would strike pay dirt until it was no longer unusual. Now, instead of rock and pop artists, urban music became a fixture on the world’s top pop charts. Finally, America was realizing the creativity, richness and longevity of black music, regardless of the skin color behind the sounds. This was music and entertainment that was just plain addictive. The beats, the bass, and the grooves were enticing. The days of K.C. & the Sunshine Band and Hall & Oats (groups that relied on soul) were replaced by a sea of newcomers. Not just The Whispers, Temps, Tops or Miracles. But new editions like Luther Vandross, Whitney Houston and Stephanie Mills. In their shadows came Boys II Men, Babyface, Toni Braxton and the many productions of Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. These groups among others moved into the top ranks of popular music. They were the new A-list, to the point that rock music began to question its own mainstream appeal. And bigger than that, this all had a profound effect on impressionable young men like Douglass.
He soaked it all up, absorbed it all. He knew that the world (overall) was accepting the truth. Black talent and black culture, as expressed through black entertainment. He watched how MTV even changed its format from a rock video channel, in order to keep up with black videos, black artists, rap artists and the many events which embraced the genre. Douglass recognized all of this and he vowed to play a strong part in it. In his manifesto—unsaid and undocumented—he pledged to create that vacuum which would inevitably seduce and attract the black community en masse, inviting one and all to his empire. SuperStar Communications. Brainstorming for a substantial company name wasn’t a tough task. The name would have to have some “umph”. It would also have to indicate technology, future and endurance. The name would have to flow. It would have to look good in bright lights. Yet it would have to be pleasant enough to be accepted as a household word. And finally, the name would have to stand on its own and overcome any shadow of a doubt by its mere mention. So Douglass chose “SuperStar.” He picked the word for its many meanings and for its self-prescribing decree of the very best. The “communications” tag on the company name was a natural, indicating there was information to be shared.
To claim and register this title as his very own universal address was a great feeling for Douglass. He felt as if he’d created a new, unprecedented home for the black entertainment experience. A simple $35 filing fee and some forms were the only necessary criteria for operating such a business in Westchester County. No specific licenses or permits were necessary, just a visit to the county clerk’s office and some deliberate ideas to create a cash flow.
Douglass tried to begin a singles organization, thinking that a weekly gathering of lonely, horny people would create that cash flow he wanted. But when that seemed more wayward than not, he did a little research and thought up a plan whereby amateur performers from the tri-state area would come together under one roof—one event. He formatted the event as a variety show so that any age and any talent might attend. Next, he set up an inexpensive registration fee of $10, affordable to most anyone. After an onslaught of street advertisement, there was a big reception and audition, after which over 500 performers were scheduled for an ongoing theme of shows with 25 or 30 acts per night. Furthermore, each entertainer was required to sell 10 tickets for each of their appearances. That would create revenue and bring a consistent audience of hundreds.
So it was settled. This would be a big event. And New Rochelle would be the home of his idea. Dougl
ass went about addressing the event with a title; one with some credibility, because surely anyone could throw together a talent show. To lend some sort of traditional edge (without the need for any such approval or permission) and to additionally create the climate of a “community atmosphere” (as opposed to a business venture), Douglass named the event The Westchester Talent Competition.
Business and Pleasure
Talk of the big audition spread throughout the county and the state. The ads in the local newspapers, in pennysavers, on posters and by word of mouth, created the blitz of attention. The event was coordinated from his home office, and ultimately became the most talked-about talent showcase in the county’s history of entertainment. All along, he’d tell himself: “It’s going just as planned. Now, make it better.” He also placed ads on the local cable television community bulletin board. And as the $10 fees began to pour in, Douglass put the money back into television commercials that were placed on MTV, CNN and various other highly visible cable channels. But to his surprise, the print ads, television and word of mouth attracted nothing close to the amount of responses that the hand-made tree signs provoked. These were his most successful tools; those 400 modestly sized slices of sheet metal with an 800 number and the words “TALENT WANTED.”
So many signs were put up in so many high-traffic areas that the message became a nuisance. People began to call just out of curiosity, and even then, some signed up and got involved. Phone calls came day and night, and along with them came the flow of innocence and naiveté, ignorance and fever. A script was created, telling the average caller everything that an amateur performer with the fever to perform would want to hear. The script made no unfounded promises, but it was attractive and suggested that most anyone should ready their $10 application fee for a try at fame. Another technique which Douglass executed was to put the caller on hold momentarily. Douglass’s girlfriend Stacy would conveniently handle calls from the male respondents, while he accepted female callers. The idea worked well. They were both passionate about the event, and they both developed savvy as they became comfortable with the routine. Stacy always kept the guys’ hearts pounding. She excited them so much they called back frequently, asking for her by name. In the meantime both Douglass and Stacy were focused, asking all callers for their full name, address and phone number. The duo talked to callers for long enough to ensure that application fee would be in hand within a matter of days.