Spike Lee and Me
I sat in the half full theater on Nebraska Avenue full of a secret love for the magic I was watching on the screen, Spike Lee’s Clockers. I had caught the film before it left town. To me, there was nothing Spike could do wrong. He was an urban dream weaver. At that time, I wanted to attend film school but was doing time as a Communications major. Not even the cool Mass Comm, but the plain old Communications. That was, of course, before I discovered Lynch. But Spike could pull a film together, and when released, I made sure to watch it fairly soon.
I hated to hear details about a movie and people’s opinions before I could levy my own. In my mind: my self-absorbed opinion counted more. Not that it really did, but I was a new film snob and had started snatching the Independent films off of the Blockbuster sidewall. That was before small films and medium-sized actors became the cult activity they were destined to be.
I had seen all of Spike’s movies up to that point and bear witness that he was the inspiration to a new generation. The little, angry black man with a message spread over two hours and worth eight to ten dollars a pop. As I said, I saw all of his movies and paid good hard-earned financial aid money on his last film. Clockers was about a drug dealer in Brooklyn who had a fascination with model trains. He would eventually find himself in a big mess when a rival drug dealer is murdered and his hardworking family man brother is arrested for the crime.
Spike’s movies were escapes from my own tumultuous life. I had just regained admittance to the University after a year and a half hiatus. The movie theater had always taken me away from the harsh realities of my existence.
Actually, I wanted be a filmmaker before Spike, it was Robert Townsend that inspired me with Hollywood Shuffle: the self financed film from he and Keenan that he shot guerrilla-style through the streets of LA. In my mind, I would forgo the traditional film school route and create my own way.
At that time I was dating a girl name Retta. She was my girlfriend and best friend; she knew about my cinema longing. She worked on campus and was privy to the special perks the rest of the green and gold minions didn’t posses. She could get to the areas that I could not and would seemingly never reach. Basically, she was on the inside and I was on the outside, drunkenly taking my shirts off revealing my unsculpted chest for the world. It was a beauty and beast scenario in a collegiate setting.
Retta came to the in the Campus Center during one of my impromptu comedy sessions. I would hold the freshmen hostage as I peppered whomever walked by with jokes and insults to the delight of my audience. She informed me that my favorite director (at the time) was coming to town. I couldn’t believe my ears. He was coming here? The reality of the situation left me aghast. Why would he venture to Tampa? Why would he visit the University of South Florida?
He was going to be there in the flesh, right down to the baseball hat and glasses. Retta had informed me we would be attending a pre-party of sorts for the higher ups to be held in the Alumni Center. She had gotten me a ticket to get inside, since it was invite only. The actual Spike Lee visit would be in the Sun Dome where the school held massive events that require more space than the Student Center could offer. The speaking engagement was already sold out and standing room only.
I went to my off campus apartment and dressed in the best clothes I owned to make a good impression. I had every intention of meeting the director, even though I had no idea what to say. Hopefully something profound, I hoped.
I walked from Suitcase City to the Sun Dome. I told no one of my mission. They wouldn’t understand. They would kid and make “man love” jokes. I had to keep the secret, only Retta and God knew.
I crept down to the VIP room like a ninja trying my best not to be spotted. Usually, I was a drunken berserker around campus and had a reputation for fighting and madness. I swore on my mother and both brothers to Retta that I would behave. Once inside, I searched around until I found her. She was elegant in her business suit styled dress. I gave her a hug and she pointed him out. My eyes froze on him, as I was caught in a hypnotizing trance.
In my young life I had never seen a celebrity. I guessed that’s why, to this very day, I never get excited to find a face from TV in real time and space. But that was my first close encounter: face-to-face approaching the famous. I circled the room to gather the courage. What would I say? How would I approach him?
Mind you, I was not yet skilled in the art of networking and social manipulation. I was a God honest drunk and womanizing college student, who wanted to be a filmmaker in some opposite universe where dreams might come true. What he could do for me never came to mind. I drew a blank: my brain was a blackboard with nothing written and my Medulla was a smoky gray.
There he was ten feet in front of me. I had to say something intelligent. There he was five feet in front of me. What if he hates me? Wait nobody hates you. There he was standing before me, all five foot three of him: thick-rimmed glasses and his trademark baseball cap ( New York Yankees.) He seemed more like constructed character than a real person. The specs and the hat seemed to be a Woody Allen-inspired disguise. However, he was not a man in hiding but a creative hombre on the run from his own genius. He stood alone: an island in the middle of a mediocre mayhem.
We made eye contact when I took a step forward. He stared up at me with a defensive gaze, as though I was some sort of Co-Ed assailant come to ravage him in South Central Florida. I probably disturbed his creative aura while he was in the midst of planning another film into which he would insert Denzel.
“Hello Mr. Lee”, I said humbly.
I wasn’t in the comfort zone long enough to call him Spike. He was also my elder so I found it was my duty to show him respect. The words were painful and seemed to take forever to flow from my throat, past my tongue, by my teeth and into the universe, hopefully picked up by his ears. I folded my hands as if I was ready to give a sixth grade science presentation,
“I just want to tell you”
My thoughts solidified as my hero stood before me. This might be my one chance. That would be my one moment in time. This was it buddy. It would never come around again. Famous Directors didn’t show up in Tampa every day. Why the hell would they? For the Cuban food? For the Buc games? For Ybor? For Clearwater?
I couldn’t fathom after a long meeting at the DGA building on Sunset, that Coppola and Eastwood would jump on the red eye to Tampa international, for some Arroz con Pollo and a lap dance at Mom’s Venus.
“That”...
My body shivered and hands shook. I fought to keep them still. Nervousness was not the trait of a strong man it reaked of weakness.
“You have been an inspiration to me.”
Those words never seemed truer. I was hitting my stride as my heart took over where my mind had abandoned me. The sincerity flowed like sweet syrup. Maple syrup.
“I would just like to thank you”
I continued to spout words out of my sweet, sincere college boy smile.
“You have bee an inspiration for me and brothers all around the world. So I just wanted to thank you again for the inspiration.”
There I said it. I felt so good after my impromptu monologue. I stated what I wanted and felt as if I was somehow connected to greatness. Plain and simple.
But an uneasy silence filled the air. It seemed as if we were standing in vacuum. I felt my voice echo, like one would in an empty, Masonic Hall. He peered up at me and said nothing. He threw condescending daggers with his eyes. I felt foolish. Why was he not saying anything? Did the cat have his tongue in bondage? ‘Wake up Spike!’, ‘Wake up!’ He stood there like an angry lawn jockey. The air was so uncomfortable, I suffocated on the tension. Had I made a mistake? Should I have just gone to the gym and shot baskets? I thought to myself. Why did I start this doomed conversation?
I might as well end it. To this day, I don’t know where my next words came from. They just popped into my head. “So when are you shooting your next film?”
I said it more out of ‘I have nothing to say’ than actual interest. Suddenly life flashed back into the Lawn Jockey as he pointed his lantern in my direction. “Ah, that’s what I thought you wanted to know!” He said in his watered down Brooklyn accent.
My mind and my faith in mankind crashed like the Hindenburg. I felt like the spectators in Lakehurst, New Jersey as the fiery mass of gas fell on them. I felt like a victim to a bitter world. Was it an act of retribution? Why had I been the object of Spikes rage? Maybe someone didn’t like me? My mind was young and knew not of the evils of the movie making industry. My heart was broken. My desire to be a filmmaker instantly faded from my dream- filled mind. I was numb and searched for a way to save face. I grabbed Spike and slid into the only defense I had known to that point: humor. Be the funny guy. Duck behind the clown paint. Make them all laugh. I felt like hiding from the world. Shame had grasped me around the waist and seductively whispered in my ear. I leaned down put my arm around Mr. Lee and laughed it off.
“Someone take a picture of me and my boy Spike!” I said with jovial jest even though my soul cried with pensive pain. Gary, a guy I knew, snapped a picture. Well, he went through the motions. He had a queer look on his face as he raised the camera and I never did see the picture. At least he went along with the whole charade. I released Spike and allowed him to return to breaking hopes and poisoning the air with negativity.
I looked back one last time. I felt neutered, like I left my balls back around the area Mr. Lee and me stood.
I humbly took a seat in the front row. I don’t know why. I already had the Spike Lee experience; now it was time for the City of Tampa to feel the joy. He sat on a stage as the masses eagerly filtered into the empty, waiting seats. It was not often that a black superstar came to the campus. The Sun Dome was stirring with excitement never felt during the last five hundred basketball seasons. A small man with so much power, at this time he seemed to rule the world.
Mr. Lee spent the next three hours on his thrown. He appeared bored like he had better places to be. These people were way to small for him. He was used to Cannes, Toronto and NYU. He was slumming at good old USF. We didn’t even have a film program. Well we did; a small one. We stilled used Bolex hand-held cameras. I was in the class for about two weeks. The young mulatto teacher was too busy flirting with co-eds rather than teaching me how to assemble camera. I left the class knowing I could teach myself more than that Charlatan.
Spike dismissed people left and right as they came to the stage for his autograph. I never liked autographs. Still don’t. Why was it so paramount to possess a famous person’s John Hancock? I don’t even want John Hancock’s John Hancock (Hancock is a very funny name I just had to state that for the record.) I guess with a signature, it’s like you have a peive of them. I left the Sun Dome still wounded from the Spike slight and went to Retta’s dorm room to relieve my pain. As I slept in the single bed forced to hold two people, I wondered, “What was John Singleton doing tonight?”
