hip-hop heaven
Lisa Marie moved out for about the 8th time this month. This time she took the little wicker trash can from the bathroom. Now I have to go all the way to the kitchen to throw out a q-tip.
At least there was no blood or broken glass this time. I must have been insane to ever let her back in my home after she trashed the place twice. But when you start to get really horny, you tend to gloss over some personality flaws in your former mate—like the fact that they would stab you in your sleep.
Breaking up with me seemed to give her a surge in strength. She carried her 27” tv out to the car like it was a beach ball. She took drawers of clothes, but left the dresser. She took her vibrator. She always takes her vibrator. That’s how I know if she’s really going to be gone for a while, when she takes her vibrator.
She left her cat again. She leaves her cat because she knows I’m soft hearted enough to feed it even though it will “meow” me out of bed at four o’clock in the morning for no particular reason.
Anyway, I smoked a cigarette on the porch until she finally zoomed away in her aunt’s grand Cherokee. Then I tried to write something, but I just didn’t have it in me. Then I started to smell smoke.
Shit, did she light the place on fire?
I looked all over the place for a sign of arson. Then I found it out on the porch. I had thrown my cigarette into this faux Roman vase and it had caught some paper on fire. I poured a couple glasses of water on it.
There was a booming rhythm coming from the waterfront. It was that big rap concert with about five or six different acts. I recognized that song by Ludicrous.
Move, bitch!
Get out the way!
Get out the way bitch!
Get out the way!
I decided to go check that out. It would be better than moping around here.
I rode my bike down to the water front. It was hip-hop heaven down there. Escalades, Navigators, Impalas all with bling-bling twenty-fours. Everyone had on their chains and sweat pants and jordans. (I really don't know what you call hip-hop clothes these days).
Up on stage one of the rappers was going:
Fuck that niggah! Fuck that niggah!
He must have said that for five minutes, but it was one of those things where it was okay because he was black.
Then he started singing,
We in charge of this mutha-fucka!
We in charge of this mutha-fucka!
It was kind of amazing because “mutha-fucka” was being blasted by a dozen, zillion watt speakers across downtown. You could almost see the words “mutha-fucka” as they echoed off the coral colored condominiums where rich white folks were trying to drink scotch and watch the golf channel.
Anyway, I guess it’s not something they hadn’t heard before. I started to cruise away from the concert, letting the chanting of “mutha-fucka” push me along, like a strong, southern breeze.
I did my course around the pier and then the bayfront center. I stopped at this one light and looked up about seven stories to where a single apartment was lit up. There was a Che Guevara banner in the window.
Hmm, I thought.
I pedaled a few more blocks up to the art center. There’s this one girl that works there that I have kind of a thing for. Her name is Ana. I met her the same night I met Lisa Marie, coming up on a year ago. The next morning, I had two phone numbers on two scraps of paper. I called Ana’s first, but she didn’t answer. Then I ended up going out with Lisa Marie. The rest is history.
Ana’s car was parked out front of the art center. She must be putting up a show, or something. I circled by the window and caught her eye. She smiled and unlocked the door.
“What are you doing out here?” she said.
“Oh, just riding around,” I said.
“We’re gong to have big opening this weekend,” she said.
“You don’t say,” I said.
“Hey, why don’t you come inside,” Ana said.
“Sure,” I said.
10:23:57 PM 
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