You can always tell who’s just landed their first big deal in Hollywood by the change in their transportation. The Civic or Jetta disappears, and they roll up to the valet stand of that month’s hot restaurant or club in a new BMW convertible or Range Rover with the dealer plates still on.
I was that cliché.
When the Soul Plane and Big House deals closed, I still had my two-door Ford Explorer Sport. I went out to celebrate and pulled up to the valet in front of a restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard. “Bring it around to the back,” the valet said.
“Nah, man, I’m trying to valet.”
“Go around to the lot and self-park.”
“Come on, man. I got the money!”
“Uh-uh, go around.”
Even valets didn’t want to be seen in my car. Hollywood was so shallow.
Conveniently, I was shallow too. The next day, I took out a lease on a black Tahoe Z71. One of the sponsors of Soul Plane was Lexani Wheels—if you watch the movie closely, you’ll see a Lexani symbol on the plane wheels. A guy named Leonard who did product placement for the company told me that since I was the film’s star, he’d hook me up with a set of wheels for my new truck.
As soon as I picked up my Z71 and Lexani wheels, the first place I went wasn’t the hot restaurant or club. I went to a place where approval was even harder to get: the barbershop.
Cars were what made the men there. When my barber, John, pulled up in his classic Mustang or Chris Mills of the Golden State Warriors parked outside in his ’59 Impala, everyone would run over to check out their ride. “Oh, shit, Mills got the mothership!”
Now it was my turn. As I approached the barbershop, I called John: “Hey, report to the bridge, because it’s about to blow up. Make sure you’re wearing something to protect your eyes.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Just come outside, motherfucker.”
I pulled up to the shop, ready for the boys to start freaking out. However, John was the only guy outside. And he was unimpressed. “Okay,” he said when I leapt out of the car.
“What do you mean, okay?”
“Okay, I like it, but yo, you gotta get rid of the rubber sides, and you gotta black out these panels, and you gotta . . .”
He gave me a long list of what I had to do to get the car to meet his standards. It wasn’t a critique; it was an education. I told him that when my movie hit it big, I’d hire him away from the shop so he could be my personal barber.
“Last week, you were driving a two-door Sport. This week you come in with a Z71 and think you the second coming of Jesus!” He laughed. “I’ll tell you this from experience: Cars are like breast implants for men. Don’t let it go to your head.”
After I left the shop, I went straight to 310 Motoring and asked them to do every single thing John had recommended and more. You couldn’t tell me shit after that. I’d bought confidence. I rolled back to that restaurant on Hollywood and up to the valet stand with an attitude: “Yeah, remember how I used to drive a Ford Explorer Sport? You remember that? Well, look what the fuck I got here now!”
They were unimpressed.
Torrei wanted her own car too, so I leased a BMW Z4 for her. My credit was so bad that the leases were ridiculously high, but, hey, I was rich. This meant that it was time to fulfill two promises I’d made: I put a down payment on a house for my mom and I bought Torrei a proper wedding band. One night, in the middle of a fight, I pulled the ring out of my back pocket and slipped it on her finger. She froze as she tried to process what was happening. Then she broke down in tears of gratitude.
I made a note to myself to buy about fifty more rings.
* * *
As I was working on episode ideas for The Big House, an ABC executive called. “Kevin, we want to fly you to the upfronts so you can announce the show.”
I bombarded him with questions.
What are the upfronts? The biggest television industry event of the season. Where does it happen? New York. What happens there? The big networks unveil their new shows to press and advertisers. Should I get a suit? Look your best. Is the rest of the cast coming? No, they only want you. Wait a minute, that’s not right. The network doesn’t have the budget to bring everyone. I’m sorry.
I wasn’t going to leave my Big House family behind. I wanted them to experience the excitement with me, so I told the network that I’d fly them to the upfronts on my own dime.
I got plane tickets and hotel rooms for everyone. Then I went to the Hugo Boss store on Rodeo Drive and bought every item of clothing that was on the window mannequin, from the brown pin-striped suit to the camel-colored shoes. It cost eight hundred dollars, the first designer outfit I ever owned.
When I stepped out of the airport in New York with the cast of the show, there were cameras flashing everywhere. At the hotel, another mob of photographers was waiting. On the night of the upfronts, there was a red carpet laid out from the hotel to the car services waiting outside. My heart was pounding with excitement. I couldn’t stop talking. I never wanted to walk on any other color of carpet again.
I got out of the car at the event, and—pah, pah, pah, pah—more cameras, more reporters asking questions. Publicists and handlers led me this way and that way, celebrities said hello, flashes kept going off. E! asked to do a red-carpet interview with me. That’s something famous people do. I did it. I felt famous.
This is my life now, I thought as I waited to go on stage and introduce the show to the nation. I was twenty-three and ready to own the world. This was my time.
There was a tap on my back, and I turned around to see a guy in a headset. “Excuse me,” he said, then held up a finger. “Wait a sec.” Someone on the headset was speaking to him, probably giving the cue for me to go on stage. “Mr. Hart? Uh-huh, I’m with him now.”
I’m about to go up. Into the spotlight. There’s no going back after this. I made a note to always remember Headset Guy—my escort into television history.
“Where do you want me?” I asked him.
“Mr. Hart, can you step back?”
“Okay, sure—like here?”
“No, you need to clear the walkway. They’re not gonna use you.”
“Huh?”
“They’re telling me your show isn’t part of the lineup anymore.”
All my excitement knitted into a tight ball and landed with a thud in the bottom of my stomach. “I-I-I don’t understand.”
“Your show. They’re telling me it’s canceled. It’s not happening.”
“That can’t be right, cause I’m here. I’m about to go on stage and talk about it.”
“They’re gonna go with the Kellys instead.” He pointed to a group of suburban-looking white people who were being rushed past me. They walked on stage, and the room filled with applause. My applause.
“Hey, I’m sorry, I’m just the messenger. I’m sure someone will talk to you about it later, okay? So sorry. I gotta go.”