Page 96 of A Storybook Wedding

“See that? Well, we didn’t know it at the time, but this was the beginning of a real big scandal for these two. The guy in the picture is Nate Ellis, the famous writer who everyone was calling the ‘Literary Nostradamus’ after his book, Work, took off and became an overnight sensation. And the girl, well, that was a student in the master’s program where he was teaching. Scan-duh-luss.” A knowing smile from Quest.

No big deal, huh, Ahmir? Just the end of my life, on full display for the late-night-viewing world. It’s very apropos for The Tonight Show to feast on the humiliation of poor souls like me to later turn it into fuel for America’s viewing pleasure. But I thought Questlove and I had something special, so I’m a little peeved to see him reminding the world of my alcohol-induced transgressions.

“Now, now, let’s just clarify—these are two almost-same-age consenting adults here. But because they kissed on TV, he could have lost his job. So here’s a real fairy tale for you—she cares so much about him that she marries him, just to save his job. Only, because he’s a man, somehow he finds a way to mess it up.” Questlove shakes his head. “Shameful. I mean, right?”

“Just like a man,” Black Thought sings.

A crowd of voices cheer and laugh.

“Anyway, he contacted my agent today and relayed this extremely sad tale to me—you know, boy meets girl, boy fake-marries girl, boy becomes unemployed, boy loses girl—just your typical romance story, right? I could write up this stuff—maybe for my next book. Yo, you guys know how it ends, right?” The camera cuts to The Roots crew, and Black Thought nods his head affably, running his hand along his beard. “Boy gets girl back, am I right?”

The audience cheers.

“So—I’ll have y’all know Jimmy had to move the whole schedule around for this, but without further ado, I present to you The Tonight Show’s first installment of Defusing the Kazoo Karaoke Bomb!”

The crowd applauds again, and the camera cuts to a dark stage. “Here goes nothing,” Nate says to me through the phone, which I am still holding up to my now-slack jawline.

The lights fade on, and Kamal Gray from The Roots plays a slow, sad yet familiar piano melody in the background. Captain Kirk Douglas joins in on an acoustic guitar. Questlove emerges from behind them all and takes a seat at the drum set. I recognize the tune, but it’s slower and softer than I recall, so I can’t immediately place it.

Then the camera cuts to a spotlight shining on Nate Ellis, in the middle of the stage, holding a microphone.

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

He takes a deep breath and puts the mic to his lips, his soulful eyes looking down at his feet, then up into the camera. “Ooh it’s somethin’ about, just somethin’ about the way she moves,” he sings.

Tears spring to my eyes. It’s a totally different rendition.

“I can’t figure it out, it’s somethin’ about her,” he sings. His voice drips like honey, thick and sweet into the microphone. “Said, ooh, it’s somethin’ about the kind of woman that want you but don’t need you,” he croons. “I can’t figure it out; it’s somethin’ about her.”

Nate is swaying with the melody, and absent the synthesizer, the song sounds completely different, like a ballad, an epic composition of love and adoration for the object of the singer’s desire. He works it, pouring himself into the lyrics in a way that seems almost surreal, and I can’t be sure if I’m dreaming. I have to consciously work to hold the phone up to my face, as my jaw is slack with disbelief at the scene unfolding on my television.

As the chords build up the crescendo of the chorus, Nate’s voice stays light, a huge contrast to the screaming and yelling we did at Sing Sing not six weeks ago.

“She’s got her own thing,” he goes on. “That’s why I love her. Miss Independent, won’t you come and spend a little time?”

As The Roots add more people and instruments for the second verse, Nate says into the phone, “Please let me in, CJ.”

I can barely answer, as my eyes are transfixed on the TV screen. “What do you mean?” I manage to ask.

There’s a knock at my door.

“Wait—you’re here?” I hop to my feet, almost dropping my dead laptop on the floor, and slide across the vinyl sticky tile floor to open it. I don’t let my gaze leave the screen. The second verse begins. I take Nate by the hand and drag him back to the couch. “Isn’t this live? What did you do?” I ask him, feeling his fingers lace into mine. I squeeze them tight.

“Ow,” he whispers.

“Sorry.” I smile. Tears stream down my face, but I don’t wipe them away.

“We filmed it this afternoon,” he explains.

I can’t speak. This is indescribable.

“Ooh, there’s somethin’ about the kind of woman that can do for herself,” TV Nate sings. “I look at her and it makes me proud; there’s somethin’ about her.”

The camera cuts to Questlove on the drums, notably absent his plastic kazoo, looking classy-casual in his black sweater with a matching pick in his hair. He raps on the drums as his upper body rocks with the slow sexy beat.

“There’s somethin’ oh-so-sexy about the kind of woman that don’t even need my help…”

I shake my head, my grin swallowing my whole face. I can’t stop staring at the screen. I know he’s sitting right next to me, but since this version of the song is laced in minor chords, it’s haunting. Nate’s voice isn’t singing-contest-winner status, but it doesn’t matter. It’s still the best sound I’ve ever heard.

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