Page 86 - Esquire - USA (Winter 2020)

Jacket by Hermès;
T-shirt by Barneys New
York; jeans by Ksubi;
shoes by Ralph Lauren.
MBJ, who sat with immaculate pos-
ture, feet planted—none of that extra-
extravagant leg-crossing business—and
hands folded between his legs, peered for a
beat or two at the floor, then out at the the-
ater. “He’s a real-life superhero,” he said of
Stevenson and touched his chin. “After I got
a chance to really get to know him, and his
story, and his work, I felt like I had a great
deal of pressure to get it right.. . . And I felt
honored to be able to carry that weight.”
MBJ lowered the mic between his legs and
cupped the head of it. He looked to one side
of the stage and the other. He cast his eyes
to the floor, and the audience clapped and
cheered, cheered and clapped.
There was an after-party. Picture a
swanky interior with VIP sections replete
with couches, low tables stocked with buck-
ets of ice-chilled bottles, lights just the right
dimmed, several hosted bars, and dozens of
black-vested waitstaff offering hors d’oeu-
vres from gleaming silver platters. The DJ
spun at a level just low enough for talking
without shouting. MBJ’s security detail: fit
white guys in black suits, with close-cropped
hair and a white cord spiraling from an ear-
piece into their shirt collar. You don’t want
no smoke with the earpiece dudes.
He worked the room, snapped pictures
and shared laughs with the ceaseless proces-
sion of folks vying for a moment of his time.
At one point, MBJ bopped over to where
Foxx, clad in a gray plaid suit and a fedora,
was commanding his own section. They
leaned into each other, whispered some-
thing between themselves, and it must’ve
been a hoot, because they slapped shoulders
and threw back their heads and guffawed, an
audience of dozens gawking all the while,
their security hovering close.
MBJ floated around the shindig for another
hour or so, during which time I never saw him
drink. Near 1:00 A.M., he marched out with
an entourage, including the earpiece dudes Having up to that point only observed Jor- The school principal, Mr. Pedro, moseys in-
trooping in front of and behind him. dan, I was unsure of what to expect, wasn’t to the gym, emerald-blue-suited and booted,
If you ask me, black men, at least the ones sure if he’d let the glare of fame turn him unfazed, or so it seems, by the present hul-
I know best, are obsessed with authentic- solipsistic, wasn’t sure if my initial impres- labaloo. Jordan hustles over to Mr. Pedro
ity. A fake one, a perpetrator, a pretend- sion of him—as someone sincere, as an ac- just as soon as he sees him, to hug and say a
er, fugazy, fraudulent—all aspersions. But tor who’d achieved extraordinary fame and few words. Mr. Pedro is a family friend who
keeping it real, keeping it 100, being a re- had managed to resist letting it overcome worked at the school when Jordan and his sib-
al one, being the realest—aspirations. To him—would hold true. lings—his older sister, Jamila, and younger
be real is to live grounded in the world, es- brother, Khalid—were students here.
chew pretense, to thumb claims of entitle- Jordan is called back to the set. Mr. Pedro
ment. To be a Hollywood star, on the oth- finds a perch in the bleachers, watching his
er hand, is to exist as a myth to the masses. former pupil out there on the floor with
There are beaucoup tales of movie stars MBJ struts into the gym, and the varsity the current crop of multitalented preps.
who are ultra difficult, who’ve lost touch squad erupts in ooohs and aaahs. Some clap. “Michael stood out as a person who had di-
with the experiences of the common man, Others point with a fist smashed to their lips. rection, who had a focus,” the principal says.
who begin to accept or have accepted their Jordan ambles over to meet them, and they “He was destined for this.”
mythology. Or let me put it like this: Hol- circle around him while the crew stands on Jordan is having a blast being photo-
lywood breeds the antithesis of real ones. the periphery. graphed with the squad, posing at the mid-