Every Day I'm Hustling Read online

  We invited 260 people, including Madame King, the woman who put me in my very first fashion show. She was the biggest celebrity in my heart, but we also had Magic Johnson and Shaq, as well as my girls Holly Robinson Peete, Lela Rochon, and Tisha Campbell-Martin. I wore an ivory Escada gown that I kept sleek because I was terrified of looking like a poufy debutante. I wore my hair upswept, and you know I had the veil and crown. I also had my six bridesmaids in Escada, but I gave them Reebok sneakers with silver trim to change into for the reception. I needed no excuses for why they couldn’t be on the dance floor with me.

  Jeffrey Johnson, one of my boys from Arlington High, had become a pastor, so he married us. My mom loved that. Tisha serenaded us with “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” and Tichina Arnold sang the Lord’s Prayer a cappella.

  During dinner, we had this slideshow of pictures of us separate from age three, moving up until we were a couple. I looked at the face of little Angie, growing up into Vivica, and I was so proud. I caught Madame King’s eye, and she said, “Look at you.”

  At the reception, my husband serenaded me with a song, “The Love You Give,” which talks about roses. Then they pulled back a curtain and there were two giant vases of a thousand long-stemmed roses.

  I checked the box that said “Perfect wedding.”

  Then real life began. I was miserable. I hate to say it, but I was just miserable. After the first year, I knew I had made a mistake. But I stayed, and that huge house began to feel like a big ol’ prison that I had built for myself.

  My husband was very comfortable watching me work and be the breadwinner, and didn’t seem to have any idea about “our” finances. Money was just there. Now, do not get it twisted: If you’re blessed that your significant other makes real money, that’s awesome. But in a true partnership, each has to contribute in some way. Otherwise, you are inviting resentment to just come into your life and make itself comfortable. Resentment will work its way into every little interaction you have with your partner. That’s what happened to me.

  The first time I tried to talk about it, I had let that resentment back up so it came out fast and furious. It happened when my husband and I were picking out an outfit for him to wear to a premiere we were attending. At the store, he announced that he needed a new pair of black shoes.

  “You’ve got three pairs of black shoes at home,” I said.

  “But I want some new ones,” he said.

  I nodded my head, and I remember saying to him, so that no one else could hear us, “I’m getting really sick of me breaking out my credit card all the time.”

  He paused and shook his head. “Damn,” he said. “It hurts me as much as it hurts you.”

  Even then, I thought, What the hell? I have to pay for your shoes, your food, and the house, but we can’t simply acknowledge that fact because your ego is fragile?

  I heard my mother’s voice in my head: “Angie, I didn’t raise you to take care of a man.”

  I knew I would only resent my husband more if I wasn’t honest with him. At home I sat him down and told him that I needed help carrying the load. He talked about getting out there to hustle for work and budgeting more. I thought, Okay, we can go on from here. But it only lasted a little while, and soon he was back to his habits. It became a cycle, with me asking for help from him, and him trying for a short while. That resentment built up to a point where there was simply no room for love.

  When being honest with him didn’t create change, I had to be honest with myself. We were living in a house with five bedrooms and eight bathrooms. Our overheard was $12,000 a month. In the last year of our marriage, I was training for Kill Bill without getting paid. I had about $200,000 in the bank, and I just watched it whittle down while he didn’t seem to notice. He was not concerned at all.

  There was an exact moment when I made a decision. It was after driving home after a long day of Kill Bill training. I walked into my house, completely sore and drained. The TV was on, and I stood in the doorway. The words I said silently to myself and God were, Lord, I don’t want to do this no more.

  I had fallen out of love with him, and I grieved that. But I don’t believe in living miserably. I talked to my assistant Darren, who always knows just what to say.

  “I’m not happy,” I said. I think I needed someone to tell me it was okay to leave him, and he saw right through that.

  “You decide what you’re gonna do,” he said. “It’s going to be on you.”

  Darren was right, of course. My husband was not about to end this, so it was on me to do it. Soon after, I got a letter from a real estate agent saying that there was a lot of interest in my house. The community around me had built up on a hill, and my home had the most spectacular view. The letter said that if I ever wanted to sell …

  Darren was there when I got the letter.

  “Darren,” I screamed, “there is a God and He is good!”

  I put the place on the market, and just as soon as I did, Quentin Tarantino dropped the bomb on us that we all had to go to China to continue our martial arts studies. Initially, it was just going to be Uma Thurman going, but now we all had to go. I admit I was really put out about it. So after a horrific number of hours in the air, I landed in China at the crack of dawn, exhausted.

  Just as I’d fallen asleep in my hotel room, the phone started going. Lord. It was Darren.

  “Darren, you know I have been freaking traveling forever,” I said. “What?”

  “I got somebody sitting right here in your house,” he said. “And she wants to buy it.”

  “Let me tell you something,” I said. “If you’re bullshitting with me right now, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

  “No, Viv,” he said, speaking in a calm, pleasant voice that did not let the buyer know for one second that he was talking to a sleep-deprived lunatic. “She’s about to go to the bank and make a down payment.”

  I sat right up in that bed. “Sold!” I said. “Sold!”

  When I got back from China, I wanted to end things with my husband as swiftly and amicably as possible. I told him I had set up a fully furnished apartment and paid the rent for the year. I also put $50,000 in the bank for him. And I was done. I didn’t hate the guy. I just didn’t want to be his wife anymore.

  When I left that house, it was like Escape from Alcatraz. I got a giant U-Haul and a bunch of my friends came over and helped me pack up my stuff. When the house was empty, we stood together, and they pledged that they would see me through this change. Then a couple too many of us squeezed into the front of the U-Haul. I was at the wheel, trying to be strong and keep it light for everyone, but I just started crying.

  I was taking these huge gulps of air, and one of my friends touched my arm, saying, “Oh, baby,” and probably thinking, Oh, baby, don’t you drive off this here road and get us killed!

  When I could speak, I said, “I’m free.” I am so grateful for their love and support.

  I made a huge profit selling that house, and I was now grown-up enough not to need another giant house to show people—or me—that I was a success. See there, I said to myself as we drove. You buckled down and you figured it out. You let go. Since then I’ve sold four houses, and I’m so proud of how well I’ve done. Real estate has been very good to me, and I highly recommend it as an investment. It’s a cliché, but it’s true: Let your money work for you, not against you.

  Looking back, I have to take responsibility for this: When I let him move in after four months, I started a sprint to win that ring. Once I was engaged, I got wrapped up in planning that wedding.

  I see young girls still doing this today, but I think it’s changing. I love watching them graduating, getting their degrees, and pursuing their dreams. I get asked if I have any marriage advice for young women. The first thing I tell them is to get a prenup. I had one, thankfully. Of course, I think there is nothing wrong with having a bank account with your spouse, but do me a favor and keep a little bank account on the side. Just in case he or she gets a li
ttle crazy—it happens—you can say, “Okay, you can lose your damn mind by yourself. Because I love me some me.”

  But the main thing is to take your time and get to know your partner, and yourself, before you rush into making a commitment before God and the IRS.

  And don’t hold on to stuff too tightly that you squeeze the fun out of it. In life, I travel a lot lighter now. I recently finished a project and realized I had six days to myself. When I have that time, it means I declutter. It’s not just that I am a neat freak. I am, but I just don’t want to hold on to stuff that could mean more to someone else. Goodwill does very well when I get in a purge mode, and I also resell my expensive designer clothes on eBay and through the Real Real, an online luxury consignment shop. And there are few things I like more than calling some girlfriends and saying, “Vivica’s garage sale is open, take what you want.”

  Do you have some purging to do? Think for a moment about your skinny clothes. The ones taking up room in your closet or in your drawer. Each day you see them, and each day they’re taking up space. Let them go. Sell them online or at a consignment shop. Give them to the needy and the skinny, because they are just getting in your way.

  Don’t hold on to stuff that isn’t working, whether it’s a house you can’t afford or a relationship you shouldn’t invest more time in. I promise you, if something you thought would make you happy has become a burden, you are better off letting it go. Sometimes you’ll make a profit, and sometimes you’ll just cut your losses. But you’ll be free.

  LESSON TEN

  THE DEVIL IS FINE, AND THAT’S HOW HE GETS YOU

  For years, I took the high road with him. In my own twisted way, I was being true to the man I knew Curtis wanted to be.

  I actually had no intention of even mentioning his name here. When I talked about this book with the publisher, he didn’t even come up. I guess I was afraid that if I mentioned him, he would take credit for this, too. He’d say I sold a book on his name. Yet when Curtis has been on TV, in his 50 Cent role, he has made up stories about me and repeated them and got a reaction.

  I see the comments his followers leave on my Instagram sometimes. I admit I can’t help but click their profiles, and they’re usually about sixteen with as many followers. Little boys who probably got their feelings hurt by a girl.

  I keep getting dragged on back like it’s Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doomed Love. Well then, let me put on my archaeologist hat and go back in to end this foolishness once and for all so we can all move on. Because there might be a lesson in there for you. I know there was one for me.

  *   *   *

  “Who’s 50 Cent?”

  It was early 2003, and I was sitting with one of my girlfriends, KimStacy Carter. Kim was reading a magazine, and had just told me, “You should date this guy 50 Cent.”

  She turned the magazine my way to show me the review of his Get Rich or Die Tryin’. The album cover had him shirtless, wearing a Louis Vuitton–patterned gun holster.

  “He’s hot,” she said.

  “Enhh, why’s he got all that grease on him?” I asked.

  “To show all those muscles.”

  “Not my type,” I said.

  His song “In da Club” was everywhere, so I kept hearing his name. But I swear he wasn’t on my radar at all that spring. In June I was invited to the BET Awards, and I wore a short purple dress with a low cut and coral accents. I had my Kill Bill body and I wanted to show it off.

  The photographers kept asking me for more photos on the carpet—just saying—so by the time I got into the theater the show was beginning. And there was that 50 Cent guy onstage, opening the show. I’d brought my makeup artist friend Tysula, and we were kind of cutting through the audience to get to our seats. As a fellow performer, I worried that this appeared rude. So I turned my head to look at him directly as I sidled to my seat.

  And he stopped. It was this moment where he just got stuck. His boy onstage had to tap him, like, “Come on.” And he went right back into the performance. Tysula and I sat down to watch him.

  But it felt like he was watching me.

  “Does it feel like he’s looking at me?” I murmured to Tysula through a closed smile.

  “Um, yeah,” she said.

  Later, when he went back onstage to accept the Best New Artist award, he leaned on the podium and looked right at me. “And I want to thank Vivica Fox for wearing that dress.”

  The camera panned to me and my look of shock. Well, I was shocked. I was there minding my own business. But, yes, I was flattered. I just didn’t know what I was about to get into.

  *   *   *

  After that public display of flirting, I didn’t hear a single word from him until a month later. It was around my thirty-ninth birthday in July and a van rolled up to my house. Two men came to the door, each holding a huge bouquet of lilies. They were my favorite, white Casa Blanca lilies.

  “We have a flower delivery for Vivica Fox,” one said.

  “Come on in,” I said. I started to talk about where they should put the flowers in my living room when one delivery guy politely stopped me.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “there’s a lot more.”

  “It’s the whole van,” said the other guy.

  In and out they went until the house looked like a florist. Everywhere I looked, there were white petals with dots of the gorgeous red stamens.

  “Who sent them?” I asked.

  “We’re not supposed to say, ma’am.”

  Finally, they were done and I tipped them for their marathon delivery. Not five minutes after they left, my phone rang. It was my girlfriend Terry Christanio.

  “50 Cent would like to speak with you.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  There was a pause and then a bashful, thick-tongued voice came on the line.

  “Happy Birthday,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you like the flowers?”

  “This was you?” I screamed. “Oh my God, they’re gorgeous. They’re my favorite.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “How?”

  “I asked around.”

  I later found out that he’d had his assistant reach out to Terry. While I was talking to Curtis, I leaned back on my white couch, bobbing my knee up and down like I was back in Indiana on the phone with a boy.

  “Listen, where are you?” I asked.

  “On tour.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said. “Well, let me give you my private number so next time you just can call me.”

  “Sure.”

  “And what do I call you?”

  “Just call me Curtis.”

  For the next month, Curtis and I were always on the phone while he was on tour. The calls started kind of slow, and then it was morning, noon, and always before he went to sleep. Sometimes he would be talking to me just as he was about to perform. I could hear a tech say, “All right, come to stage,” and then I could actually hear the audience’s screams. “Okay, baby,” he’d say, “I’ll call you after the show.”

  Especially those times, hearing the crowds cheer, I was amazed. “He is a rock star!” 50 Cent was blowing up, and Curtis was taking the time to share it with me.

  Our conversations would usually go for an hour, sometimes longer. He was very proud of his son Marquise from a previous relationship with his ex Shaniqua Tompkins. Marquise was six and idolized his dad. Curtis also talked to me about his dreams, and what it was like to meet his heroes. We talked about my friend Tupac, who put me in one of his videos. And he talked about Biggie singing, “Watch me set it off like Vivica” in “What’s Beef?” Yes, there were eleven years between us, but at twenty-eight he seemed to have the same work ethic I do. We got each other. I told my friend Lita Richardson, “I found a worker bee like me.”

  One time I asked him if touring made him miss things. Did he ever want to just go home?

  “To what?” he said. “I worked so hard to get out of Queens. But you know wh
at I’d like?”

  “What?”

  “We gotta figure out when you can come see me.”

  We did. He invited me to his show in Atlanta. “Bring a friend,” he said. “I don’t want you to have to come alone.” So it was me and my girl Terry Christanio, who also did my hair and makeup. He flew us on a red-eye—first class, of course. Everything was always first class with Curtis. When I got to the airport, a limo waited to take me to the hotel. It felt like we were going to a premiere.

  As we started driving, the driver lowered the partition.

  “I’ll be on standby for you during your stay, Miss Fox. Anywhere you want to go, I’ll take you.”

  When the driver raised the partition, my friend Terry gave me a look. “Okay,” she said, “I see 50 Cent is coming with his A game.”

  Truth be told, I was playing it cool for my friend, acting like I didn’t care. Curtis was going all out courting me, and I had never been wooed like this before. Never.

  *   *   *

  Once I was in my hotel room, I kept standing up and sitting down, knowing he was going to come see me at any minute. We’d only ever talked on the phone. What if it was awkward in person? What if his breath reeked—please God, no—or what if he had some idea of Vivica A. Fox that was not me?

  When he knocked on the door, I slipped into actress confidence. It’s a bluffing trick you can use when you’re nervous. I walked over in full Elizabeth Taylor grace, opened the door, and lifted my head to look him in the eye …

  … and I melted. Bluff over. Curtis has the most beautiful eyes. You think the devil’s ugly? Unh-unh. The devil is fine, and that’s how he gets you. Curtis was six foot, wearing a doo-rag under his Yankees cap, and what I later found out was his best jersey. He was all muscle and smile.

  He hugged me, and I just kind of fell into his incredible body. I looked up, and he kissed me. I was knocked out. TKO. I think I laid in bed with him the whole damn day, tracing my finger along the tattoos on his back, reading SOUTHSIDE and 50. He teased me about the little fox tat on my left arm, which I got at Shamrock Social Club on Sunset when I turned thirty.