Once, I Made It Rain

The emergency exit door slammed behind us, sealing everything but the rhythmic bass inside. Flanked by two off-duty ATL police officers, we made our way to the waiting blacked-out SUV. As we piled in, someone in the distance started yelling in our direction, but the darkness of the club’s back alley made it impossible to tell where exactly the voice was coming from. I climbed in shotgun (I always rode shotgun) and handed the revised schedule to the manager. Never to the talent.

“Look,” I started, pointing to the printout, “we’ve got an early start tomorrow. I’ll be at the hotel at 5:30 a.m. to…”

“MATT,” he interrupted, “you ever been to a black club?”

“Kevin,” I thought, “I’m a six foot three average white guy with black rimmed glasses and an ever-present light blue cotton hoodie. I wear cargo pants.  I look like a guitar tech for a Weezer cover band.”

“No, Kevin,” I replied. “I can’t say that I have.”

“Okay,” he says, glancing from me in the passenger’s seat to the driver’s side, “Driver? Take us to Onyx.”

Three weeks before, I was startled by my coworker Steph appearing at my office door. Steph wasn’t particularly sneaky, but I had been really distracted of late. 

“You had Kevin Hart in before, right?” she asked. “Screen Gems is sending the entire cast of Think Like A Man in for the Atlanta premiere. You mind handling his press day?”

It’s difficult to remember a time when Kevin Hart wasn’t everywhere. I first met Hart in 2010 when he was doing press for his role in the final film of the Meet the Parents trilogy, Little Fockers. As a publicist for Universal Pictures, it was my job to book radio, TV, and print interviews for filmmakers and cast to support their upcoming releases and build word of mouth. At the time, Kevin was popular, but not FAMOUS famous. But based on the strength of his stand-up and roles in movies like Soul Plane, I was able to put together a full press day. Kevin was a publicist’s dream – punctual, hilarious, and consistently energetic throughout the day. Even though his role was a glorified cameo, it was easy to see that Hart had something special.  

In 2012, all of that was about to change with the release of Think Like A Man. As a standup comedian, he was moving from theaters to arenas, and Think, based on the Steve Harvey advice book, was his shift from movie sidekick to full-on leading man. The film was produced by Atlanta’s own Will Packer and his Rainforest Films, so the movie’s release served as a launching pad for them as well. The premiere quickly became an “all hands-on deck” event for our Atlanta agency, with a red-carpet screening, college stunts, multiple cast press tours, and a glitzy after-party. Kevin, as the film’s star, stood front and center of the film’s rollout. 

“Sure. We got along just fine,” I responded. “I can cover it.”  

“Thanks. Good luck,” she replied, handing me his schedule, with my name and contact information already on top. 

My job, on paper, is simple: get him to his press hits, get him to the premiere, get him to the afterparty, and get him on a plane to the next city. Press days, though, are extremely stressful. I have to keep the train running, while also balancing the egos of the talent, their team, the studio, the press, and the fans who just want a quick autograph or selfie. I’m not there to make friends with the talent. Often, in fact, the talent forgets your name at the airport drop-off at the end of the press day. 

“Matt!” he yelled as I walked into the hotel lobby. It was clear, this press day was going to be different. 

“You guys remember me?” I asked. I shook hands with Kevin and his team, the same guys from the Fockers tour. 

“Of course, we remember you, MATT,” Kevin replied, putting a pronounced emphasis on my name. “You’re with us today. You’re part of the team.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “I’m with you guys for the next two days. If you need anything, call my cell. It’s on the schedule. As you can see, we have a full press day, a break, and then the premiere and afterparty tonight.”

“No, Matt. You are WITH. US. You are PART of the TEAM.”

At the time, I didn’t really consider what he meant by the statement. All I could think about was getting everyone in the car and getting a jump on Atlanta traffic before it derailed our day from the start. “Right. Okay, Kevin. Let’s get going.”

We spent the next few hours traversing the city for interviews, stopping by at the hotel for a quick lunch and to roll phoners for a national press in other cities, before heading to Midtown for the red carpet. Because I’d been assigned to the press day and college events, I was just to hand Kevin and his team over to our premiere staff to walk the carpet. But before I could get away to take a break and catch up on email, Kevin pulled me aside.

“Matt, I don’t wanna sit through the movie tonight,” he said. “Let’s get some dinner before the afterparty.”

My eyes scanned the surroundings and landed on Strip across the street. “Okay,” I said, motioning in the direction of the restaurant, “I’ll go get us a table at Strip. As soon as you intro the movie, I’ll grab everyone, and we can head over until it’s time for the party.”

“Get us a private room,” he said. “Tonight’s a celebration.”

An hour later, we’re all gathered in the back room of Strip: Kevin’s entourage is there, along with the film’s director, Tim Story, and several members of the cast. Once I get them settled, I quietly pull Kevin and his manager aside, attempting to put some professional distance between them and their gathering.

“I’ll be at the bar,” I said. “If you need anything, just shoot me a text. The afterparty starts at 10, so we need to leave no later than –“

“MATT. Forget all that. Tonight, you’re part of the team. And THIS,” he gestures across the table, “is a celebration.” Kevin signals for the server, “Bring us three of every appetizer and a round of Patron shots.”

As the shots are delivered, Kevin stands up with his arm raised for a toast. “Tonight is a celebration. Tonight, we toast our work. We toast our success. Tonight, we toast… Matt. TO MATT.”

Every eye in the room turns to me. Kevin and his team are clearly getting a kick out of the toast. Everyone else is looking around the room as bewildered as I am. On one hand, I’m on the clock and I’m not there to party or to be the talent’s friend. But I am there to keep the talent happy.

“To me!” I exclaim, as I take the shot. Subsequent shots appear, each one greeted with another round of “To Matt!” I still have a job to do, and a long night ahead of us, so with each new tequila delivery, I get up to pretend to take a call and slyly set my shots on a nearby table. I probably should have called my wife to check on her, but I opt for elaborately loud fake phone calls each time.  Five or six rounds later, I gather everyone up to head to Reign for the afterparty. Once we arrive, I, along with two off-duty police officers, tonight’s private security detail, escort the group to the VIP area set aside for the cast. On the way, I see my agency coworkers gathered by the emergency exit.

I get them settled in with bottle service and yell over the music, “Kevin, I’m going to check in with our team. When you’re ready to go, just shoot –“

“MATT. I ALREADY TOLD YOU,” Kevin said, leaning in to emphasize his point, “TONIGHT, YOU ARE PART. OF. THE. TEAM.”

“Kevin, look,” I replied. “I really, really appreciate that. But all of my coworkers are here and, technically, I’m on the clock. If I party with you, I could lose my job.”

“I respect that,” he said. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Thirty minutes later, I look up from my Blackberry and coworker small talk to see Kevin on top of a sofa waving his arms at me. As I make my way through the velvet rope, I text the driver to pull around back, and signal the officers to walk us out. One of the officers points at the emergency exit, and the cool Atlanta spring night welcomes us as we walk to the SUV.

“Driver? Take us to Onyx.”

Our driver looks over, gives me a wry smile, and manuevers through Midtown to Cheshire Bridge. This isn’t the first time he’s taken a client to one of Atlanta’s signature strip clubs. I’ve never been a “strip club person.” At my bachelor party, one of my only vivid memories is having a conversation with a dancer mid-lap dance about allergies and the difference between Allegra and Zyrtec. In case you’re wondering, it’s team Zyrtec forever. 

As we pull into the parking lot, an expensive sports car pulls up beside us. The scissor doors open up like a sleek butterfly, revealing a familiar face.

“Oh!” exclaims Kevin. “What up, Ne-Yo? Thanks for coming out. You know the crew.” He gestures in my direction, “This is Matt.” Ne-Yo gives me a slight head bob from underneath his signature fedora. 

Ne-Yo joins our party and head for the entrance, stopping for a quick security patdown. Kevin turns and looks at me as the guard wands me with a metal detector.

“You sure you’re good with this,” he asks.

“Yeah, man,” I reply. “As long as the needle doesn’t go off the record when I walk in.”

We’re barely in the club before the house deejay announces our arrival. 

“NE-YO IS IN THE BUILDING!” he exclaims over the pounding bass. “KEVIN HART IS IN THE BUILDING!”

I look around as we walk towards the club’s private section. There are just a few dancers, and scarcely more patrons. “Probably a typical Monday night,” I think.

But then everything changes. As we enter our VIP area, dancers surround us.  Kevin and Ne-Yo, meanwhile, are off to the side, assessing the dancers.  

“Alright,” Kevin says, “That one. That one.” He points at select dancers as Ne-Yo nods in approval. “You. YOU. You. Her.” As he continues, a bouncer gives each of the selected women a garter belt.

“What’s with the garter belt?” I ask one of Kevin’s crew.

“These women stand to make a lot of money tonight. The garters help security recognize who belongs in here and keeps all the dancers from rushing in here for a cut.”

“Alright, bring it in!” Kevin yells. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is a celebration. THIS,” he turns and points at me, “is MATT. This is Matt’s first time at the club. Let’s show him how we GET DOWN.” He grabs a test tube shot from a nearby shot girl. “TO MATT”

They all raise a glass. “TO MATT!”

Suddenly, as if cued, the music washes over our party. Bottles are everywhere. The garter belted dancers reappear and magically occupy every available table, pole, and sofa. I look over and see Kevin cut a conversation short and head my way.

“Matt!” he approaches, carrying something with both hands. “This is five hundred dollars in ones. You need to TIP. THIS. SHIT. OUT. If you see something you like over here,” he looks left, “throw some money at it.” He hands me the stack. “This is a celebration,” and disappears into the crowd.

I stared at the cash in my hand, and my mind was racing. Twelve miles north of the club, my wife lay sleeping, eight months pregnant with our first child – conceived through an expensive and mentally taxing IVF process. Three hours south of us, my mom lay in her bed, just two months from losing her mercifully short battle with cancer. My life was on the precipice of changing in unimaginable ways, and I had spent the last few weeks riddled with fear of the future ahead of me. Unsure if I could be a good father. Unsure if my mom would get to see her grandson. Unsure if I could step into everything that was rapidly approaching.

I looked back at the stack and I glanced around the room at the unbridled joy – the culmination of years of hard work and hustling to get to this moment – and I realized that for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t racked with anxiety or fear. I grabbed a wad of paper and, just for once, I made it rain.