The Strong Word

Studio lights permitted the viewer enough visual stimulation as a NASA engineer’s workspace. The producer, Latrell “Real Weight” Voight, looked black as root beer. He queued up a video of a documentary depicting the construction of a skyscraper in Wilmington, Delaware a few blocks away. The engineer, Argent “Clean Bill” Boggs, possessed the skin color of an oak tree.

“When is he supposed to get here?” Boggs asked, some concern creeping in his voice.

“It’s alright. He just sent me a text. He’ll be here soon,” Voight assured. Some steps, muffled but pronounced, came up to the door to the studio. In walked rap superstar Ellmore “One Shot” Winters with skin color as white as birchwood.

“That’s $1,500,” Boggs reminded One Shot.

“Got it. I’m just going to hop in the booth. Voight nodded his head and music flowed through One Shot’s headphones. “I need my snare,” the rapper announced.

He opened his mouth to rap. He flowed from the top of his head, completely noteless. As he laid down the track, the door swung open. A well-dressed man with a laptop strolled through the room. His skin looked as brown as rye.

Voight stopped One Shot’s flow by cutting off the headphones. He spoke into them nonetheless. “Come on out here, One,” Voight suggested.

The rapper came out of the booth and looked at the figure standing at about six foot three inches tall. He possessed locks that stretched down his back in a perfectly woven braid. Like a rare bird, he seemed to stand out amongst the other occupants of the studio.

“This is Posner ‘Poppin Tags’ Gardner. He’s going to be your songwriter for this new project,” Boggs explained.

“I don’t need a writer, though.”

“We know that,” Voight replied. “We just think you could have someone to strengthen your lyrics to make history.”

“What do you mean?”

“You say this and you go diamond,” Voight curled an acidic smirk. Twenty-eight, he looked like a drug dealer who just got released from prison. Probably because he was just that. He replaced shackles for platinum and diamond cuban link chains. He looked fit like he had trained while locked behind the wall.

“No, I can’t even say this around y’all!” One Shot exclaimed.

“Why not?” asked Garner. “I know you say it when only your white boys can hear you. I know you say it around your lighter-skinned compadres.”

“No, I don’t. I’m not rapping those lines.”

“You’ve got a contract which you signed which makes you responsible for delivering whatever we say to you.”

It was like a cold blast of air came in and almost suffocated One Shot.

“Should we just drop him from the label?” Boggs mentioned. Boggs sat at about five foot eight and had a lazy eye. He sat in a studio chair and swung back and forth like a horizontal pendulum. He had a spiky Afro and glittering titanium teeth.

“I know about the contract. I’ll get out of it if I have to do so. But I’m not saying those lines for anyone,” One Shot countered.

“We can get you out of the contract, then. You’ll have no luck with any other label. And good luck going independent….” Boggs replied.

One Shot snorted. He was about six feet tall and had natural sandy blonde hair. He looked at the screen with the flagrant language printed for his eye to see.

“All Popping Tags is going to do is make it possible for you to memorize these lines and create a hit that will blow the hinges off of the industry. Hell, the world.”

THe door swung open again. This time it was the Mason Music Group CEO Cantor Fitz. He was blue black and had strong trapezius and deltoid and bicep muscles. He came into the studio with two white women on each shoulder blade like angels floating in the air. He puffed a thousand dollar cigar. One Shot looked at him and rolled his eyes.

“You want me to say the lines, right?”

Fitz just laughed. It reverberated and felt like it came from his soul. “No, dammit. I’m here to save everyone in this room from disaster. For far too long, there have been songs with certain words in them that feature white artists, but they somehow cannot even say the lines to the other rappers’ songs. Latrell, Argent, Posner, and Ellmore. You all would’ve made a grave error in judgment. The more that this continued, we would have experienced great losses.” His voice seemed grave and laced with anguish. “I can’t have that on my conscience. Just call the whole thing off and move onto the next song.”

“But––” Boggs started.

“But what? You don’t like being paid? You can always engineer for someone else….”

Boggs just shook his head.

‘Alright then.” He shot a glance at One Shot. “You know you’re my platinum white boy, right?”

“That’s the way it seems.”

“I’m going to make you into a diamond artist. I’m not going to let you go out and not only embarrass yourself but threaten to end this company.” He turned to the women who appeared to hover. “Ladies, let’s allow these gentlemen to work on a better idea before someone gets hurt over a word.”

“I want to do it!” One Shot piped up.

“What did you say to me?” Fitz asked his voice went up an octave but the clarity rang true.

“I’ll do it. I’ll say it. I don’t care. I’ll buy myself out of my contract. I want to say it. I’ve been meaning to say it. Too many songs I’ve been featured on, as you’ve said have involved me not saying such a word. Now, I’m willing to risk my own safety to say it.”

Fitz started to slow clap. “The cajones on this guy!” Get over here!” He wrapped an arm around him in his nine thousand dollar suit. “You’re alright with me Ellmore.”

The three other men just nodded their heads in tacit agreement. Fitz looked around the room. “Why don’t I see Ellmore in the booth? Why haven’t you sent the lyrics to his mobile phone, Posner?”

“Sir, I just….” Popping Tags started.

“You just do nothing. Latrell, keep on delivering these gems and the world will be yours. I’m not mad at you. And Boggs, continue to engineer as if your name was on the front of the record.” He walked the two women out of the room and didn’t return.

“So, we’ve got some decisions to make…” Latrell announced. One Shot looked a bit agitated but still maintained his composure. He walked around looking at his phone with the lyrics that Gardner had provided. He looked like he was in a seance or some mystical trance that only a believer would swear was genuine. In reality, it was just the rapper laying down his words in his brain. By working and manipulating them, he found himself in a position to say the words.

All attention laid on One Shot. His focus was that of a laser beam. The door opened again. A black man about five feet, aged with a haggard beard about seventy years old carried saffron and amberwood into the space.

“This is your chance to erase the errors of the past. Remember that,” He said to One Shot. He then turned around and left with a quick speed. One Shot looked around at the faces stunned by what just happened.

“Who was that?”

“That’s the guru named Omni. He comes around every so often to spread positive vibes,” Real Weight imparted.

“How can any of this be positive?” One Shot asked, sincerity and pluck powering his words. Some sweat glistened on his forehead and his breathing increased a clip. He wore a suit as well and had already started to sweat it out a bit. He turned to the booth. It seemed to have a glow, a luster that it had lacked before. The wooden panels and the black microphone set up seem to gleam.

“Alright. I’m ready,” he said.

“Well, I’m not,” Clean Bill proclaimed. “I mean, this is going to go out into the world. Anybody who hears is going to think it’s okay to repeat the content. They’re going to want to say it in the streets, in the halls of Congress, for Chrissakes! No, I’m not going for this.” He got up and left the room.

Real Weight stood up, squared up with One Shot. “Look, the sonics are already produced. We can get a different engineer. We’ve got plenty of time before the album comes out,” Latrell reminded him. Like a gust of oxygen pumped directly to his lungs, Winters sensed that he could accomplish this task with the right amount of stamina. Voight called for another engineer even in the middle of the night.

He took his time while Popping Tags outlined the document on his computer. The same writing that now illuminated One Shot’s phone. Trance like, the rapper went over his lines again and again. Real Weight looked at One Shot. He didn’t break his gaze from the rapper.

“Clean, get out of here. You, too, Tags. ” The two men didn’t protest and got up from their chairs and exited. With a pensive look, One Shot knew Real Weight showed an eye for productiveness. He looked straight into his face.

“Now, you could change the course of history with this one single. I’m not naive enough to say that people of all stripes don’t say the strong word. Hell, you've been featured on songs where other rappers use it, as you’ve mentioned. Now, you must focus on the history of that word and how with your valiant stance, you could modify the course of this nation and the world. Of course there have been recordings with artists of your hue saying it. They later apologized. But not this time. This time you’re going to say it with such bold conviction that there would be no room for anyone to chastise you. Upon delivering the verse, you’ll have the capacity to bridge a gap that served as a detriment more than a benefit. Just say the line. I know you have said it privately. Now say it to the whole world.”

One Shot’s right eye twitched a little. A pensive look colored his countenance. He wiped sweat from his brow. The stinging sensation of ambition struck him. He thought of all the media backlash that would erupt around this choice. He also thought of the explosion of hypocrisy that would send splinters and shrapnel of falsehood in the wake of exposing the truth behind the word. He sniffed sharply and returned to the booth. Real Weight looked at Clean Bill and Popping Tags. He motioned for them to return to the studio.

Once the door shut, One Shot cleared his throat. The production, lush and luxurious strings with heavy drums oozed through the booth into his head phones.

When it came to the line, he said it without hesitation and with his chest poked out. The other men grew slack-jawed and the eyes glowed like embers. They sat amazed at the cogent boldness of this twenty-year-old white boy saying the ultimate unmentionable. One Shot took off the headphones and placed them on the stand. He almost descended like a god from his perch.

Clean Bill and Popping Tags just held their fists to their faces while Real Weight nodded in agreement. A small smirk curled around his mouth. “You did it. Now, all we have to do is release this song to the streamers and this will be a trend. Everyone will be saying the word without recourse, without regard. It will be placed among the lexicon of words that will not have the same bite as before this date. It will resonate with its history, for sure. No one will ever doubt its evocative power and its provocative might. It will, however, not belong to any group but made available to all individuals.” Clean Bill looked at his monitor and noticed that the vocals synced up perfectly with the track.

“We’ve got a hit in the making,” Clean Bill observed.

“Say less,” One Shot replied.