Some moments you plan for. You imagine over and over in your head, trying to picture and remember every detail of something that hasn’t happened yet. And as I sat in front of my suited agent, his short salt and pepper mustache glinting with gel, I could have never pictured it going down like this.
The sun was just coming up and only the hurried promise of some big news could have roused me from my slumber. We’d been up recording until 3 last night--which for us, was an early night. With a mixtape deadline coming up, this was crunch time. I was in the middle of a recurring dream where our mixtape listening party turns into a drug-and-booze-fueled orgy of depravity when my phone woke me up.
Next thing I knew, I was in the passenger seat of the car, a cup of hot tea in my hand. The windowpane was cool against my forehead and I remember being able to feel the vibrations of the music blasting through the speakers. CA$H was chattering off excitedly in the driver’s seat, only pausing his rambling to take long sips of coffee. The calming effect of the black tea was keeping me from dying of exhaustion and annoyance.
The ride downtown, the parking, and the walk to Wade’s office went by in a blur of wordless fog for me. The world before twelve o’clock was no place I ever wanted to find myself. It was 5 now, so I was in hell. It wasn’t until Wade told us the big news that I actually fully wakened.
“I’m sorry,” I said, alert and alive, inching from the brink of confusion, “did you just say you booked us an international gig?”
Wade smiled and held his arms out in self-praise. “Come on, son. How long have I been telling you boys I was gonna make you big? This isn’t just an international gig. This is one of those huge poofy media-filled charity concert things. You’re gonna be opening up for all the big names.”
“Like that one guy with the…”
“Yup.” Wade nodded. “Just got off the phone with him.”
“What about that bitch, the one with the big…”
“You know I checked on the honeys already. She’s coming.”
“What about my…”
“No!” He laughed. “I made sure that she knew she wasn’t allowed to accompany us to anymore shows that required a plane ride after the Appletini fiasco.”
I sat back, knowing there was another question--an important one--to ask, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of one. I was imagining the glamour of it all. The plane rides, which I’d never be able to get used to, the hotels, and the novelty of being in another country. Then, the privilege of performing besides people we’d idolized our entire lives. Everything we’d been working so hard for all this time was coming together.
“So, where is Zamboni anyway?”
“Ice-land,” I quipped. No one laughed. I thought about explaining it but figured the joke was past saving. It wasn’t really that good to begin with. It’s too early for jokes. “It’s Zambia, idiot. And it’s a landlocked country in South Africa.”
They both looked at me. “What? Cause a nigga a rapper he can’t be smart? That’s racist. Y’all racist.” We all laughed, the sounds echoing through the small office for the next hour as we went over the details, opened a bottle of cognac and celebrated with a joint...or five. We were on top of the world, flying and invincible. It was a good feeling.
---
Like every other morning, I woke up to the sound of Beyonce singing to me from underneath my pillow. With my eyes still shut, I snatched the roaring menace and tried to silence it. When it continued to play, I gave up and tossed it into my closet, hearing it land with a thunk. Peculiarly, Beyonce was still belting out notes. In fact, she had grown louder.
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Short Stories for You
NouvellesAn anthology of sorts of short stories that people have asked me to write for them. The subject will vary from story to story, as will the characters. If you'd like to request a story, message me, and I'd be happy to oblige.
