I Thank Myself, Too

While this story is inspired by actual persons and events, certain characters, characterizations, incidents, locations and dialogue were fictionalized or invented for purposes of dramatization.

2002

Rain streaked the streets outside of the Dupont Hotel in Downtown Wilmington, Delaware at three o’clock in the afternoon in early May. The sun just peeked through the clouds. Mr. Kanye West sat at a table and saw her coming towards him. He got up. He shook hands with Miss Bette Midler. He wore black jeans, a navy blue and sky blue Polo rugby with a gold chain that held a diamond encrusted cherub angel of the same metal.

“It’s a pleasure, Miss Midler,” West mentioned, his eyes directed at hers after a brief handshake. She wore a gray blouse and red shawl with black slacks.

“It’s in my grasp,” she smiled and her perfume permeated the space. 

“I’ve ordered up some of the macaroons for us to nibble on,” West suggested.

“Thank you. I really shouldn’t but I oughtta!” Miss Midler decided.

West darkened. “I wanted to let you know about the whole concept behind the album.” He spread his hands out on the table as if a bird had opened its wings.

“Yes, I know you have the idea of schooling involved….” she contemplated.

“It’s actually the opposite. It’s called The College Dropout.”

“Oh. I see, now.”

The macaroons came fresh from the kitchen. The waitstaff served the confections. Mr. West had seen Miss Midler signing a few autographs and taking pictures. Inside him, he knew he’d be doing this one day. A fiery desire inflamed his consciousness. The taste of fame licked at him like little flames arising to roast a duck. His smile, brilliant and toothpaste white, vanished when he saw her with a few patrons. A small smirk crawled onto his face as she returned to where they seated.

“Oh, those look delicious!” Miss Midler exclaimed. She reached out her hand and plopped one of the cookies in her mouth and closed her eyes. Her tongue  savored the notes of almond. She digested.

“Well, that might be the most decadent….”

“The macaroons. Yes. They’re quite fancy,” West interjected.

Miss Midler looked up and smiled. “You’ve gotta take all of this in, kid. Mr. West I should say.”

West let out a small laugh and then straightened his face.

“The song is going to run about twelve minutes. It’s going to feature your part in…”

“Twelve minutes?”

“Yes.”

“My first album was a little longer than that!”

West looked down at his lap and scratched his head.

“Look, you’re going to be a big splash in this industry. You have nothing to worry about. I’m just giving you a hard time. I’ll be getting a check from this whole affair as it is. I can give you a head’s up about this business.”

West looked straight into her eyes.

“I can say that I’m confident that this album will be a hit. I’ve got a whole concept about the pitfalls of schooling and the street and the idea of entertainment.”

Miss Midler sweetened. Her face looked soft and the light hit her skin just right. “You’ve gotta get them in the pockets. It’s not just a money game, it’s about knowing where the money is going and coming.”

West picked his head up. He breathed in deeply. He looked around the room at the other occupants of the restaurant. His exhalation came at just the right time. “I have to tell you, you’re going to sound different on the track.” His confidence seemed like a stream of ice water rushing in a sea of assuredness.

“How so?” she asked. “You mean I’m going to sound like those chipmunks or something?”

“As a matter of fact, yes….”

Bette Midler caught a laugh in her throat then guffawed.

“I think I’m going to need something a little stronger,” She motioned for a waitstaff to retrieve a glass of rosé. West cracked that small smile.

“I could use something as well,” he admitted. The waitstaff arrived at the table.

“A bottle of your best rosé,” Mr. West ordered.

“Right away, sir.” The waitstaff said sir, instead of “Mr. West.” He felt a twinge of pain in his soul. He wanted him to say “Mr. West.” He took another cookie and quickly gobbled up the sweet.

“In the recording process, I will speed up the record and make that sound but it won’t be a distraction.”

“Oh, no?” Miss Midler queried.

“I can assure you that the percussion will serve as the key point in the whole process. Love’s “Doggone” will provide a percussive cushion for your luscious vocals to rest.”

The wine came to the table. Miss Midler and Mr. West both looked up and thanked the sommelier. He poured her a glass and one for the producer/rapper. 

“To a disaster waiting to happen!” Miss Midler announced and sipped. Mr. West seemed dejected. He looked down at his lap and then up again. His chin canted slightly upward. He completed the toast reluctantly.

“I’ve got to be back in NY by seven p.m. and this isn’t looking great? Why are you here in Delaware? Shouldn’t you be in L.A.?”

“I have family here. I knew you’d be fresh from your show at the Grand.”  

“Jerry would be in shambles over this. Thanks for all of this, but I’ve gotta get back to the city. It was a pleasure…Kane.” She popped a macaroon in her mouth, drank the rest of her rosé, grabbed her purse, got up and started walking away. She got about five paces before….

“Jerry Blatt,” Mr. West called after her.

Miss Midler’s eyes became like fireworks. She stopped and looked back at the young man.  “You did your homework. I’m creeping back to your side again. How much do you know about Jerry?” She strolled back to the table and regained her seat.

“I know he worked on everything with you from Clams on the Half Shell to Beaches.”

Miss Midler leaned back and placed her tongue in her cheek and nodded.

“I respect that, Mr. West. He was a very dear friend of mine we lost too soon.”
“Yes, he was not only your co-producer and co-writer he was…a friend.”

Miss Midler used the napkin to wipe away a tear.

“Yes, well, I don’t like to ruin my makeup so I’m going to move on to the subject of when this whole project will be released.”

“It should be within a year or two,” West claimed.

“That seems promising,” Midler replied.

“Yes, I’m going to be Mr. ‘Rockefeller.’ Except the record company spells it differently.” A gleam in his eye and an assuredness colored his countenance.

“Oh,” Miss Midler’s eyebrows raised and fell and she sipped more rosé. Her smile seemed to enchant and lull Mr. West who flashed his own smile like a chrome pistol that got tucked in into his trousers. He cleared his throat.
“I’m going to go platinum and it’s going to be the biggest hip hop record of all time.”

“I’m glad you said ‘hip hop.’ It puts you in greater striking distance of achieving such a lofty goal,” Miss Midler mentioned. She grabbed her purse again but to look in the mirror. A youngish woman walked over to the table.

“I’m sorry, but you’re Bette Midler!” The woman looked pert in a blue and white striped dress and a small umbrella and a magazine with a white page for perfume. The sweet stink of the page remained pungent in the noses of all three people at the table.

“Yes, I am. And this is Mr. West.” She said it like she introduced a foreign diplomat or a burgeoning magician. Her tone, notwithstanding, matched her moxie as she found her purse once more and pulled out a pen and sketched the young woman’s magazine.

“Thank you so much!” The woman beamed and walked away from the table.

Mr. West held his head down and looked up and flashed his pistol grin again.

Miss Midler looked at Kanye West. “Oh, you’re going to have to get used to it if you’re going to be ‘Mr. Rockefeller.’ With this fame thing, you’ve just got to appreciate it and treat it like any other business,” Miss Midler explained.

Mr. West picked up his head and canted his chin even more. He looked down at his Cartier Pasha watch.

“I’m not keeping you?” Miss Midler asked.

“No, I just want to make sure you have enough time to agree to this sample.”

Miss Midler’s smile looked bright and daring. It looked like a woman of a certain age with enough knowledge and wisdom about the industry of music that she could burst forth with the force of a gushing geyser.

“Well, I thank you for that. What do you plan on naming this song?”

“‘Last Call.’ It will close out the project. It will concern my rise from producer to when I start rapping in earnest.” He sipped rosé and looked down at the diamond encrusted angel expecting it to cry tears of earned glee.

Miss Midler sipped some more as well. “I see you rappers. I don’t get it. Never did. But the freedom of expression states that you can say whatever you want. That’s what I acknowledge. You could have just gone to the record company. You chose to see me face to face. I appreciate that.”

“It’s nothing.” Mr. West laughed but it sounded like a cough. He brought a fist to his face and drank more rosé. He then grabbed the bottle and topped off the legend of stage and screen and recordings.

“This record could be the one that will be viewed as one of your shining achievements. Young man, you’re going to find this business will wear you out…if you let it. Don’t let it. You’ve got a way about you. There’s something that belies your shyness. You're sure of yourself as a clock ticks.” 

“My mama raised me to be like that. I got some understanding from my dad. I’m built for this. This is supposed to happen.” Mr. West wiped his brow with a napkin.

“You want to call it ‘Last Call,’ huh?” she asked.

“That’s right. It will tie up the entire disc. I’m going to get my mama on there, record personnel, the executives of the label and the artist you know, Jay-Z.”

“I’ve heard of him, yes. He redid the Annie song, right?”

Mr. West’s eyes became like offices to be cleaned in a skyscraper at night. “Yes, that's my client at the moment. I’ve been supplying him with beats.”

“Did you make the Annie production?” Miss Midler queried. She seemed generally interested and leaned in a bit.

“No, but I did produce for his platinum selling albums. I’m going to be bigger than him one day. Don’t tell him I told you that, though,” he sniggered like a black child rubbing vanilla frosting all over his face and then showing his mother proclaiming he’s white. 

Miss Midler made the notion of zipping her lips and tossing the key. She smirked. She looked at her own watch.

“I’ve got to scoot in a few,” she admitted.

“Don’t let me hold you up. Please, if you would just give me your good graces on the record….”

“Like I said, this business can really bite you and eat you up. Don’t let it. Ensure that you’re going to make it. Huge. Make sure you take the game for all it’s worth.” 

“Jerry Blatt really helped you, but did you truly appreciate him? He played the background like I’ve been. You are the star.” Mr. West’s face looked casket pressed somber.

Miss Midler cut a look at him. “Jerry felt privileged to just be the artist he was. I don’t know where you get off even mentioning him again.”

“Forgive me. I meant nothing malicious. Honest. I just wanted to know how that dynamic worked….”

Miss Midler sipped the last of her potent potable. “I’ll tell you this. You’re going to be big, young man. I can see you’re hungry and not just for those macaroons. What Jerry taught me was to always press forward despite the snares and ugliness of the game. And that’s what it is. It is a game. But he showed me how to hold my head up when I’ve got tears in my eyes. That’s what you’ve gotta do. So, yes, I will sign off on this song. I don’t get the rap scene. Maybe I never will. But I think you’re a man of integrity and pluck. That goes a long way.” She rose from her seat. Mr. West followed her. She motioned to hug Mr. West. He stretched out his arms and embraced her. “The record would have been cleared anyway, but I thank you for sitting down with me here to ensure that I was giving one of my babies to someone with good hands. Thank you very much, Mr. West.”

“I thank you and I thank myself, too,” he chortled. Miss Midler giggled as well.