Free Drama Is Her Middle Name by Wendy Williams Page A

couldn’t, they would rather hate
“them.” It was fun.
    The more Ritz outed or exposed celebrities, the larger her
audience grew. Ritz discovered this phenomenon by accident
one night, but the formula was perfected by Chas, the former
party promoter privy to scandals that could take down giants.
    â€œGirl, you better put that champagne down and get ready
for Mariah,” Chas said. “She just got out of her limo and is on
her way up as we speak.”
    â€œRelax, baby boy,” Ritz cooed. “You know mama is
always
ready.”
    The final commercial played and the red “On Air” sign lit
up. Ritz was ready on cue.
    â€œWelcome back to the
Excursion
, everyone. Buckle up for
safety!”
    Mariah burst in the door, bodyguards and entourage in
tow, carrying a couple of bags from Bergdorf’s and a few blue
bags from Tiffany’s.
    â€œOooooh! It’s Mimi, everyone! Welcome Mariah Carey to
the show!” said Ritz, as Aaron played applause under the introduction and the intro of her latest hit single. “And as
usual, the diva is bearing gifts. How much do I love you?!”
    The two exchanged air kisses on both cheeks as Mariah
took her seat in front of the mike.
    â€œI heard you had Moët, and you can’t drink it out of just
any old thing. So I stopped by Tiffany’s to get us a couple of
glasses,” Mariah said.
    â€œNow that’s what I’m talking about . . .”

8
    WINTER GARDEN, FLORIDA
    Tracee Remington reclined in her wicker chair on the balcony of her mini-mansion overlooking the ninth hole at
Stoney brook West—a community built on a golf course. She
didn’t play golf but she wanted a house with a view. The lush,
rolling greens and the rich golfers in their crisp golf outfits
were a pleasant sight for Tracee as she sipped her green tea.
    She would have to pack soon, throw a few things in a bag,
and get ready—physically and mentally—to go back to New
York, or the “cesspool,” as she had begun to call it.
    It had been a year since Tracee had been back in the Big
Apple, where she’d left so much of herself. It had been a year
since she walked away from success and accolades to settle
into a life suited for octogenarians.
    This part of Florida was coming up, but it was still very
slow. It wasn’t South Beach, Miami. It wasn’t quite Disney,
which was only a few miles away. This was the slow South.
People moved slowly, they talked slowly, they thought slowly.
And Tracee loved it. It was the perfect departure from the life
she left behind.
    Every now and then, though, Tracee longed for New York,
like the time she went to pick up a laptop from Circuit City
near the Millenia Mall just outside of Orlando. The salesman, Robby, dragged himself over to help her. He bragged
about being in the platinum club, meaning he was a top salesman. But when Tracee asked to feel the weight of the laptop,
he had to get a manager for the keys.
    â€œHe’s a good salesman, but I guess they don’t trust him
with the keys,” Tracee thought.
    She grabbed a seat when she realized that his “I’ll be right
back” actually meant fifteen minutes. When he came back,
he had the keys to unlock the display laptop but had to go
back and get the keys to get an actual new laptop from the
case below. Then Robby proceeded to tell Tracee about all of
the features and the free package of software. It came with
everything except Microsoft Word, Excel, and PowerPoint—
all of the programs she needed. Robby told her that he had a
master copy that he would burn for her, and he would have it
if she came back the next night and met him after he got off.
    â€œAnd maybe I can take your sweet self out to dinner at Red
Lobster,” he said, flashing a smile with gold outlining his two
front teeth.
    That was it. Tracee left without the laptop and had wasted
forty-five minutes of her