Issuu

A Writer Without A Word (Hong Kong) I was at work when I got the message on Facebook from Mark Peter congratulating me on a fantastic set during the Jazz Poetry. And then he also told me that he really liked my voice and asked if I would be interested in coming to the Skylark Lounge to do a cameo with him on the keyboard and me doing the vocals. I was ecstatic. And he ended the message asking me to send him a message of all the songs I could sing and he would prepare. I instantly updated my Twitter via my Blackberry to invite everyone to come to the cameo. And when my meeting was over I hurried to Facebook and replied, “I can sing anything from ‘When Harry Met Sally’ soundtrack, most of Stevie Wonder’s songs such as ‘Lately’ and ‘Superstitious’. But I prefer to sing R&B and neo-Soul such as Keith Sweat, Dwele, and the former lead singer of the 70s band The Gap, Charlie Wilson. Very excited and see you tonight.” I continued to check for new messages the remainder of the day but nothing came. I informed my boss that I would be performing that night and he said he would drop by with his wife. After work, on the MTR from Taikoo Shing to Sheung Wan, I clicked through my iPod shuffle from song to song mouthing the songs. Now looking back, I should have paid attention that I only knew the words for the choruses and not the stanzas. Typical style, I was late to the Skylark Lounge and SMS’d Mark Peter that I was on my way. I was hurrying fast up Hollywood Road. And I could feel the breeze of Autumn sweeping between the skyscrapers of Hong Kong – and my adrenaline was pumping. Suddenly I asked myself a question: “How many different directions creatively am I going to branch into?” And then the next question came, “You are being erratic. Focus on one and complete that.”

Then I began to have a conversation with myself. “I am doing this for the grandmother who I never knew – Bobbie Jean Brazil.” My biological grandmother, Bobby Jean, was a Portuguese beauty who was a singer and performer out of Los Angeles – who toured up and down the West Coast – from San Diego and going as far north as Anchorage, Alaska. In the meantime, she was separated from my biological grandfather and raised two boys single handedly – one being my biological father and the other a biological uncle I have never met. She was deeply in love with my biological grandfather – so much so – she feigned a suicide in an attempt to lure him back. Sadly, it backfired and it ended up taking her life. She died with curlers in her hair, sitting in a kitchen chair, with the cord of the rotary phone wrapped around her wrists, and the open bottle of the few remaining sleeping pills scattered across the tiled floor. My biological father, nearly six years old, came home from school first to find her. She went to sleep and never woke up again. Her suicide left my biological father and his brother – without parents because their father would never take responsibility for them – and they were shuttled from uncle and aunt to uncle and aunt but mostly left to fend for them selves. Maybe that is one of the numerous reasons that my biological father had done the same to me when I was three years old and the State of Georgia put me in Foster care. So tonight I felt like I was going to channel the spirit and talent of my biological grandmother. I also felt like she was with me – as I was walking hurriedly down the side walk, under the SoHo escalator, past the open windows of Mix, past the blue neon doors of Home, formerly known as Homebase, and past my new favorite bar Priory. I entered the lobby beside the 7-11 and smiled at the security guard. He waved. I entered the elevator and pushed the button beside the badge entitled Skylark Lounge. The elevator moved smoothly and the doors opened to a darkened and mahogany hallway. I followed it out – and there was a lounge filled with leather chairs and a single candle flickering on each table top. The spotlights were already on Mark Peter and he was already performing. The lounge was mostly empty except for two Chinese women sitting near the window with the owner of the club. And there was an older business man sitting on a stool by the bar. I went to the bar and ordered a Jack and Coke. I lingered as the Chinese waiter prepared it. He smiled. “Sir, I will bring it to you.”

“Thanks,” and I spun around and took the nearest leather chair. Mark Peter was finishing his song. I clapped. He cupped his hand over his brows and tried to look through the spotlights. “Thank you. Its so hard to see through the spotlights. Who is out there?” His eyes squinted. “Hey, it’s Jackson! Good to see you. We going to do some songs tonight?” “Definitely man!” I responded back. Mark Peter laughed. Just then the waiter deposited the whiskey glass with the Jack and Coke with the bill on my table. I dug into my wallet and laid down a 100HKD. “Thank you sir.” And he went away. Mark Peter began introducing the next song, “Here is a song I wrote recently but I have no words for it yet. It’s actually about a recent break up. It’s painful for me but I hope you enjoy it.” And then his fingers started fluttering over the 88 black and white keys. The waiter deposited the change of my 100HKD on my table in a binder. I sipped at my Jack and Coke trying to build courage while listening to Mark Peter’s heart breaking through the piano. As the song was ending, I saw two people walk into the bar and recognized it as my boss and his wife. They took a seat beside me and through the music we said our hellos. “Como estas?” I said to his wife. “Muy bueno,” she said and smiled. “So are you singing tonight?” my boss asked. “You weren’t lying were you?” I laughed. “Yes, I promise, I am.” That’s when Mark Peter finished and the stage went quiet. The room clapped. “Okay,” and he squinted again and looked through the spotlights, “Jackson come on stage – let’s do something.” I stood up and realized I drank the Jack and Coke too fast. I walked up and had the stage lights flood over me. He took his mouth away from the microphone and said quietly to me, “What do you want to do?”

“Did you get my email?” I asked nervously. He shook his head. “Nah man, I am sorry. I didn’t get to check my email before I came out tonight.” “Oh. Well, that’s okay. You got the words to Stevie Wonder to ‘Superstitious’?” He shook his head again. “Sorry man, I only have sheet music but no lyrics. You haven’t got the words memorized?” Then I shook my head. “But I can wing it. But how about we start off with the song we did at the Jazz Poetry show, ‘It had to be you’.” “Alright man. Let’s do this.” And Mark Peter turned to the side and keyboarded on his MacBook and suddenly sheet music showed up on its large 15” screen. Then his fingers found the keys and began to play. As he began the starting chords, I felt awkward. I was trying to remember all the things that my former chorus teacher at Early County High School taught us about performing nearly fifteen years ago - how to stand straight, keep your hands by their sides, and most importantly how to breathe. But still I felt clumsy standing beside him – slouching and the microphone uneasy in my hands. And then I missed my lead in and he circled back and looked over at me then paused. I took the microphone. “It had to be you…” I crooned. “It had to be you. I wandered around and finally found – the somebody who…” And suddenly I felt I was back in Atlanta, Georgia with the Rowland Hills Baptist Church Youth Group watching “When Harry Met Sally” for the fiftieth time at somebody’s house on an empty Saturday night. I watched out as best as the spotlights would allow me – viewing the crowd’s reaction. And I believe it was one of surprise that my voice came across so strong. And I liked Mark Peter’s timing – and we complimented each other. Then suddenly I was on the big finish and I belted it out – and then there was quiet. Then the crowd applauded and the owner yelled out, “Fantastic!” Mark Peter leaned over to me, “Let’s do something else. You want to try Stevie Wonder?” “Sure, but I don’t have the words.”

“It’s okay.” And Mark Peter turned to his MacBook and found the sheet music. And then he began to play. I knew the chord progression – it was ‘Lately’. But suddenly, my mind blanked. And I could tell he was approaching my singing entrance but I stayed quiet. He looked over at me confused and then began playing again. I shook my head sadly and whispered, “I don’t remember the words.” He then began again and he eased into it slower and we eyed each other and he tried to mouth the words to me, “Lately I have been having the strangest feeling…” And I cut into him and began overtaking his singing but then the second line was blank for me. He did that one too – and again I cut into him again. Then he would leave me to do the chorus but I butchered the correct chorus line making up words and doing a little scat – be-bob, tooty-loo. I could see Mark Peter grimacing. Finally, at the end of the song – which ended prematurely on a chorus too early – Mark Peter asked again, “Okay, what words do you know?” And suddenly, I couldn’t remember any songs or any words that I could remember. Suddenly the older man at the bar yelled out, “Sing Craig David!” The owner of the bar said loudly, “How about Frank Sinatra?” I was frozen. Mark Peter offered a Beatles favorite, “Let it be”. And he turned to me, “You should know this one. Everyone knows this song.” But sadly, I didn’t or I couldn’t remember it. Nor could I even remember the chorus. Again, I just echoed Mark Peter’s words. When he did most of the singing and I was just standing there – stupidly – new patrons to the Skylark Lounge said directed to me, “Do you know any of the words to any song?” I didn’t nod or shake my head. I just stood there. And I turned to Mark Peter and handed him the microphone back. He smiled and said softly, “Next time we will get you sheet music. You got a good voice.” “Thanks man.” But I thought to myself as I stepped off the stage what good is a voice without lyrics to sing. And what good is a writer without a word.

The beginning of the week had been a frenzied drone of meetings, presentations, and reunions of co-workers from Europe, all of Asia-Pacific, and the United States. Each night had been capped off with binge drinking, intoxicated dancing, off-the-record conversations about the future of the company, and direct observations about my demeanor. “The problem with you,” Schmidt said drunkenly holding firm to his pint of beer, “is Gary you are too unpredictable. You will never move up in the company because people don’t where you are coming from or where you are going. You are chaos.” I nodded. My buzz was wearing off on the Club 97 dance floor because I had been dancing non-stop for nearly an hour. “Maybe I don’t want to move up in the company.” “Apparently because you don’t play the political game.” He added. “I hate poltics.” I said. “It’s part of the corporate game. If you don’t play it, you get ignored.” He took a swig of his beer. “If I was your boss, I would have fired you when you put in your resignation letter last week.” I was quiet. “I need people I can depend on. All I have when I hire someone and they work for me is their word. If I don’t have their word – I have nothing. And so I can’t keep them or employ them.” “I am just a bit lost now.” “Well get un-lost. Find a direction. And do it quickly.” Schmidt pushed up his beer glass to his mouth. He wiped away the froth from his face. “Your boss is such a great guy. You need to thank him everyday for putting up with you.” And then the hot Scottish woman who was with the British race car driver lifted her shirt and exposed her pink lace bra – and all conversations ended. Later in the night, I wandered beside my boss who was smiling from the glasses of champagne bought by our European counterpart. “Hey, I wanted to thank you. Thanks for putting up with me.” He laughed. “Life is always interesting with you.” “But I am sorry to cause you issues. That’s the last thing you need.” “No,” he said quickly. “It’s a pleasure to be surrounded by the best and sometimes that means – to be the best you have to accept their worst moments.”

“Its an honor to work for you,” I said. He didn’t reply he just smiled and we watched one of our colleagues have his business tie knotted around his neck by the hot Scottish woman and she started spanking him. Schmidt took a digital photo. I knew immediately that shot was destined for Facebook.

Wednesday night was overbooked. I had a meeting with a magazine publisher about getting a column, then I had a part two video and photograph session for Arati to complete our project, and at the tail end – I wanted to hang out with Schmidt for his last free night in Hong Kong. Usual style, I began the meeting at Café O with the magazine publisher – late. When I got there, he was already buzzing from whiskey. But the conversation about the books, short stories, and screenplays we were contributing to – was incredibly interesting. He was complaining about how the traditional ad revenue for magazines and websites was quickly going extinct. I gave my insights and ideas on how to revitalize the print market – and it had nothing to do with print. But it had everything to do with social networking and trusted relationships. He smiled and said he believed my ideas would work. I informed the publisher that I had to hurry off because I had a video and photo shoot I had to run to – and then later that night – I had a close friend that I wanted to send off because I might not see him for a long time. “Can I tag along?” he asked. I was a little concerned because Arati had taken awhile to get used to the idea of being photographed and doing video – and I didn’t want to abuse that trust. But I also didn’t want to be rude to my possible future magazine publisher and editor-in-chief. “Sure.” I said reluctantly. So we walked together to the IFC. Just at that time I felt my Blackberry vibrated and it was Schmidt, “Are we going to hang out tonight?” While the publisher was talking about how he got started in the magazine publishing business, I typed quickly, “Yeah I am down.” And hit send. That’s when I noticed my Blackberry was nearly out of power. The red light on the top was already blinking. We arrived at the Starbucks on the ground floor of the IFC. I got the publisher a latte and a muffin. He found an empty table for us.

I sent a SMS to Arati asking where she was – because my schedule was already messed up. There was no reply. I was explaining to the publisher why I wanted to be apart of his magazine. “A writer without a word for the world to read is not a writer. He is just a typist.” “Well, I liked your jazz poetry the other night. Very powerful. Very passionate.” “Thank you very much.” I said just as my Blackberry vibrated. It vibrated more than twice so I knew I was getting a phone call. I pulled it out and saw it was Arati. She asked immediately, “Where are you?” “I am at Starbucks.” She laughed. “I just passed by there! I am so sorry. I had to put my kids to sleep before I left.” “That’s okay. Just get here as soon as you can.” And we hung up. “You know I started out as a photo journalist,” the publisher said. “I can do the photos while you do the video.” He offered. Down deep I was very flattered that he wanted to tag team, but I was concerned about the trust I had built up with Arati so far. I didn’t want to lose that. When you film and do a photoshoot – you have to gain the trust of your subjects – in order for the media to show their true selves and it allows you to push the envelope for later video and photo shoots. So I was candid, “Well, I have to admit, I think Arati is very nervous as it is. I think if I introduce another person – it might make things a little awkward for her.” The publisher looked a little hurt. And I felt worried that he would never want to collaborate in the future. Suddenly, I saw Arati appear around a column in front of Starbucks. She smiled. I stood up and went to kiss her cheeks and hug her. Then she saw the publisher sitting at the table and looked at me nervously. “Arati, he is a magazine publisher and a famous photographer. So he and I were talking about the possibility of working together in the future.” She reached out her hand for the publisher to shake. “Gary is a fantastic writer and photographer.” I was flattered. “Thank you Arati.”

Then the conversation dipped into cordial discussions about each other’s lives and creative pursuits. I kept checking my Blackberry for the time – and I noticed that my red light to my Blackberry’s power was blinking more fiercely. One of the Starbucks staff came to our table and said in nervous English, “We are closing.” I needed this to get things moving. “Okay, I think Arati – we need to get started. I got a very important appointment after your shoot.” The publisher spoke up again, “You sure you don’t need a hand?” I looked Arati and her eyes seemed to plead, “I don’t know him.” “No, that’s okay.” I said. “But I promise we will do something together in the future.” We all stood up and walked toward the escalator. The publisher said goodbye and Arati and I hurried to the top of the IFC. I was hoping that the lights were still on for the IFC One so I can sneak in some shots with it as a backdrop. Next to the Red bar and restaurant on top of the IFC, I began double duty as a videographer and photographer – trying to complete the project what we had started a week ago. The goal was to get her exposure – and get her comfortable to be filmed. There was another secret plan – and that’s to gain the trust of the Nepalese and Indian communities in Hong Kong – and do a short film or a feature film talking about their lives. So Arati was my stepping stone to that. In the midst of an improvisational dance, my Blackberry vibrated. I pulled it out and it was an angry Schmidt and in a SMS he wrote, “Am I supposed to stay here by myself all night? Where are you?” And just then my Blackberry vibrated again and it was email with the subject with the same words. I hit reply and began typing and then suddenly my Blackberry vibrated and a message came up, “Battery drained.” Arati saw the concern on my face, “What’s wrong?” “My buddy – the guy I need to meet with after this – is mad at me for being late.” She smiled. “If he is a friend, he will understand.” And she laughed. “Besides, we just need a few more shots and then you can go.”

I let out a breath and smiled too. “Yes,” I said outloud. “A friend will understand.” And I dropped my Blackberry back in my pocket. And we continued. An hour later I was yawning and exhausted. Arati noticed. “You tired?” she asked. “Yes, I am exhausted. People make fun of models and photographers – but its not an easy job.” “But it’s a lot of fun,” Arati added. “Wow, I am proud of you,” I said. “When we started this, you were so shy. Now look at you. You are showing the world how beautiful you are.” “Thank you, Gary.” And her face showed vulnerability. I lifted my camera up quickly to capture it. Finally we wrapped up and I escorted her down to the MTR. “Are you sure the trains are still running?” Arati looked down at her watch. “Yes, I got one more train if I hurry.” And while she rushed to the MTR – I snapped a couple more photos of her. Finally we said goodbye at the turnstiles. “I had such a great time. Thank you so much. You did a fantastic job,” she said. “But make sure if you post this on Facebook – only show the hot pictures.” I laughed. “Actually I am going to post the ugly ones and keep the hot ones for myself.” She laughed. We hugged goodbye and I watched her use her Octopus card to get through the turnstile. And then exhausted – I turned the other way and headed to the SoHo escalator. My shoulders were tired from carrying the various cameras and the tripod. When I got home, I dropped everything in the floor and then quickly replaced my Blackberry in its charger. I checked on my Facebook – there were two messages from Schmidt sent via his Facebook mobile. “I have been waiting for two hours. And you didn’t have the decency to call or send a message. I would never have done this to my worst enemy. Tonight you have shown me what a real friend is and what a real friend isn’t.” Then there was a second message, “You have shown me tonight – that your word is worthless. You knew tonight was the last night I was available in Hong Kong – and you chose to ignore me. I question if you were ever a friend of mine.”

I tried to reply as quickly as possible, “Hey dude, I am so, so sorry.” And I tried to explain my Blackberry died and the video and photograph session lasted much longer than I had intended. His last and final reply, “Words are shallow. And your word is nothing.” I didn’t reply. I just went to bed but I couldn’t sleep. The thought that kept looping in my brain was: I was a writer without a word.