Glitz

by Philana Marie Boles

  “Whack security guard is gonna regret treating us like that when I’m headlining one day,” Raq said. “Watch.”

  Backstage felt like a dimly lit sauna but no one seemed to care. Happy chaos filled the scene. People talking too loud, laughing too hard, just hyped. Raq tapped my shoulder again and again, harder and harder. “This is it,” she’d say. Or, “This is what it’s like, chica!” She led me through the dark maze as if she’d done this before, like she knew where she was going and what to do backstage. I had no clue and just followed her lead.

  The last concert I’d gone to was sophomore year when Kelly Clarkson was at the Palace of Auburn Hills in Michigan and Jewel’s grandmother drove us the nearly two hours to get there. Hip-hop, though? Live and in person? This was a whole new world for me. Still, I felt immediately at home. This was our night, mine and Raq’s. Our life. And we were here to enjoy it!

  Raq and I had to shoulder and shove our way through pockets of people, some of whom looked weirdly familiar. Was that DJ JD from “Hip-Hop After Dark”? Had to be! I recognized her gap-toothed easy smile from the billboard downtown.

  We even got cussed at once for bumping into some dude setting up a camera stand. Finally, we made our way through all the radio personalities, entourages, and random groupies, and settled in the wing of the stage. Looking up those big royal blue curtains, fat heavy ropes hanging, was a delicious reminder that we were officially backstage. Just then a red spotlight blasted the stage and the heat really ignited.

  DJ Kindred, the emcee for the evening, appeared, mic in hand, trying in vain to hush the crowd. We were just a few feet away from him, but his words were barely audible. People were out there going bananas. I just barely managed to hear him say that Piper would be next to perform. Raq and I linked arms, laughing, crunk beyond belief. DJ Kindred said there were two more performers that would appear after him—no doubt Woody Wood was going to be the main attraction—but Piper was our headliner. And look at us! We’d made it just in time and were in prime position for his show.

  Ripples of screams filled the room full of underground hip-hop heads, the most passionate of any type of music fans. We didn’t love performers like Piper just because they were on television or in mainstream magazines, we loved their music for real.

  A hand touched my waist from behind and the warm smell of liquor was heavy on my neck. The voice said, “Yo, Glitz. Pardon me, ma.”

  Sure, his braids were pulled back into a chubby ponytail.

  And yes, those tiny little eyes were narrow and tense.

  But it was him. Definitely.

  And he was looking. At me.

  The tattooed teardrop . . .

  Those flawless white teeth . . .

  But who in the world was Glitz?

  His hand lingering on my waist, I suddenly remembered my zip-up hoodie, the word Glitz in rhinestones on the back. I accepted the shudder in my chest but was annoyed by the heaviness in my feet. Why couldn’t I do what he so obviously wanted me to? Why couldn’t I just. Move. Over.

  Someone else pressed a hand on my shoulder and barked, “Move!” This time I did.

  I was unblinking, unbreathing, unthinking and, I’m sure, absolutely uncool.

  I said nothing. I could only look at Piper as he walked deeper into the wing toward the stage. I heard Raq say, “Wow. . . .” And then, “Dayum.”

  Dressed in all white, from the bandana around his neck to his impossibly clean work boots, Piper had eased past us, but his presence had been so magnetic that following him almost seemed like something I was supposed to do, like I was meant to be around him.

  A crew of men, about five or six, were rocking gold hoodies and old-school shell-toed Adidas. They followed behind Piper, all of them offering pissed-off game faces at everyone they passed, including me. Funny. They were all trying to be so hard, look so cool, yet Piper had been breezy like the wind, his smile full wattage like the sun. They all stood at the helm of the stage as Piper awaited his cue, fists frozen in the air as they waited, Piper’s loyal militia. And then ...

  5

  Nee, nee-ne-nee-nee.

  Nee, nee-nee-nee nee . . .

  Oh, the sound was so electric! Such a contrast from the hard bass thuds of Millionaire Mal. Piper’s beats were always unique, but this song, with an electric guitar as the main instrument, was the most unusual. It sounded more like heavy rock, without even a hint of stereotypical hip-hop bass. No one in hip-hop would dare spit over such a sound. Only Piper. The hungriest underdog in the junkyard. Mainstream success had nothing on underground love.

  His hype men right behind him, Piper stood waiting like the pro that he was. Calm, despite the crowd losing their minds. Patient. Too impossibly cool. He glanced back at one of his hype men, nodded, and flashed that smile. This was his type of crowd and he was gonna give it to ’em!

  Then Piper turned and bowed his head. From what I could see, his lips were moving. Were his eyes closed, too? Sure enough, they were. I also bowed my head. Despite having no idea what he was asking for, I asked God to please answer Piper’s prayers.

  After he finished praying, the house screams were so deafening that I could not hear my own. I could tell from the soreness in my throat, though, that I was definitely yelling. Thanks to Raq I was here. Piper had stopped through Toledo once before since he’d started touring last year and—just like tonight—it was at an eighteen-and-up party. This never would have happened when I was friends with the Fan Five. They were probably dressed up in store-bought witch and cat costumes, sitting around in Jewel’s basement with some lame boys from St. John’s and drinking spiked punch.

  A spotlight caught Piper’s very first step as he began pacing the stage, and it chased his hyper moves as he bounced around, working every angle for the crowd.

  They said beats make the songs,

  so I made the song

  wit’ da beat all wrong.

  Made your girl eye roll you

  throwin’ me her thong . . .

  Oh my goodness! And when the hook was near, Piper simply turned the microphone to the crowd. As if they’d been rehearsing for weeks, everyone sung the words. I, however, glanced over at Raq. Despite the sea of harmony blasting from the room, despite having heard Buckstarr—a reality show bimbo turned video groupie turned songster—sing the words so many times on the CD, in that moment, the only voice I heard, the only one that mattered, was Raq’s.

  It’s Piper . . . It’s Piper . . .

  He steps. He swags.

  He goes. You go . . .

  Follow-follow-follow-follow me.

  Follow w w . . . mee . . .

  He is . . . the Piper . . .

  Said, he is, the Piper . . .

  So do not forget.

  His fee . . .

  Piper pumped his fist in the air, loving every moment, exchanging dap with his hype men, a few of whom I now recognized from their profiles on the Underground Hip-Hop Web site where Raq and I both were members. Sure enough, there were Sir Gee and Cyn 21.

  Turning the mic to the crowd again, Piper couldn’t contain a laugh as the fans screamed through the chorus.

  It’s weird, the feeling you get when someone is staring at you, how most times you don’t even realize that that’s what the feeling is until you see the eyes on you.

  I just knew that I felt . . . something.

  So I looked back.

  And our eyes locked.

  Hitz.

  He may have seemed soft, but was he?

  Raq was bouncing to the beat, singing along, totally oblivious. But then she, too, must have sensed something because she turned and looked at me. I stood frozen and exaggerated a stare right back at her. She smacked her lips.

  “Chica!” She laughed. “The hell is wrong with you? All this and you’re just gonna stand there and lame out? ”

  “Hitz is backstage,” I said. “You think he knows you clipped him?”

  Her eyes grew instantly annoyed. “Piper is out there giving it and you’re
worried about that fool? Come. On. Kick it!”

  Piper’s anthem ended and he was now talking straight on to the crowd. The VFW, I bet, could hold about three hundred at most. That night, it sounded like thousands were out there screaming.

  “Yo ... y’all coulda been anywhere in the world tonight—”

  His talking was interrupted by more cheers.

  Raq was staring at me, her eyes dancing with a plea. Forget Hitz. Be over that.

  Then she smiled playfully, visibly begging me to be excited with her.

  It worked.

  Yeah. Forget Hitz. That fool. Over there sulking about a backstage pass. Ha!

  Piper continued, “But yo ... Y’all chose to be with me—”

  The crowd’s reaction was better than a touchdown during Super Bowl.

  “And for that,” he said, “I owe y’all my life—”

  The stage slammed into darkness. The speakers screamed with silence. Then, pow! One red spotlight focused on Piper. Frozen still, his head was down and his fist was in the air.

  I was trying to calm myself, to feel the intense moment Piper was working so effortlessly to create, but the excitement made it impossible.

  He waited a long time for silence, couldn’t get it, and so, sans music, he began regardless.

  Raised in the guttas, the block my mother

  Dope game my sista, fiends like my brothas

  Monsta it made me,

  Monsta money it gave me . . .

  Monstuuuuuuh . . .

  The beat kicked in, slow and melodic, some John Coltrane sample, and Piper flowed through “Monsta in the Mirror,” his autobiographical ballad. Respectful, the crowd hung on every single word, didn’t dare breathe during every bar of confessions. His lyrics were grim, full of grit and regret. Beautiful.

  Unconsciously though, I guess I was wondering if we were still being watched. And so I turned my head.

  Hitz was off to the side, his stolen VIP pass replaced now with a fresh one. His eyes were locked hot on Raq’s backside.

  I looked around, desperate to recall the way we’d come in, to find the corridor we’d walked through. But backstage was jam-packed now with all of the people concentrated in one area to watch the show, so it was nearly impossible to see the way out.

  Finally, I spotted a neon red sign above a door. EXIT. A clique of groupies, repped strong and looking determined, were standing in front of it. Still, if push came to shoving past Hitz, I decided that we could get through them.

  DJ Kindred was standing beside Hitz, making small talk, not realizing that Hitz was only halfheartedly responding with an occasional laugh and a quick look at him every once in a while. Then, something he said must have been funny because Hitz gave in and exchanged agreeable dap as they cracked up laughing. Thank goodness for DJ Kindred.

  Raised by the streets, but God bless my mother

  Swift money my first love, Glock nine my other

  Monsta it made me,

  Monsta pain it gave me . . .

  Monstuuuuuuh . . .

  I nodded my head and rocked to the rhythm.

  And I couldn’t believe it.

  Piper had touched me.

  He’d called me—

  He’d dubbed me—

  Glitz.

  No, I couldn’t sing like Raq. If the two of us walked into a room, she would be noticed first. I’d have never had the nerve to steal someone’s pass—or to steal anything, for that matter. Gramma would sense it and teleport herself in front of me to remind me what she taught me when I was just a little girl: “When you steal, eventually you’ll be stolen from. It’s wrong. And it’s bad karma.”

  But if it weren’t for that pass, I’d have only daydreamed of being backstage, of seeing Piper up so close. I nodded my head to the beat and this time felt my whole body moving as well. And no harm was even done—Hitz already had a new pass. Plus, I hadn’t stolen anything. Technically.

  Immediately after Piper’s concert, Raq grabbed the arm of Sir Gee, his number one hype man, as he and the other guys made their way past us backstage. Security was too close to Piper for her to reach him, but Sir Gee was accessible. A big, burly guy, he had a crunchy-looking beard and irritated eyes. He was the least attractive of the crew but because he was Piper’s right-hand man, he was definitely important.

  “I’ve been dying to meet you,” Raq told Sir Gee, gently holding his arm.

  I looked around. No sign of Hitz. Whew.

  Sir Gee checked out the cutie before him, his eyes softening. “Word? ”

  “Yeah,” Raq said. “You’re, like, my favorite.”

  Sir Gee shouted ahead, “I’ll catch up!” And the huddle of hype men and security that surrounded Piper continued on to the dressing room as Sir Gee turned back to Raq. “What’s your name, ma?”

  “Raquel.” She put her hand out for him to shake.

  Instead, Sir Gee turned her palm down and pulled her hand to his mouth. After kissing it, he said, “What’s good, Raquel? ”

  Raq stepped in closer as he kissed her hand again. “My ex-boyfriend is lurking around back here and I don’t feel like having no drama—”

  Sir Gee backed away a step but still didn’t let go of Raq’s hand. “Ay, ma, I’m not tryna be dealin’ with no drama either—”

  “Please.” Raq rolled her eyes. “I said ex. Some fools don’t know how to push on, you know? But I do wanna kick it with you for a minute,” she said, moving in to close the space between them once again.

  For such a big guy, it was hilarious to see Sir Gee nearly blush.

  In an effort to seal the deal, Raq went on telling Sir Gee about her “ex-boyfriend.” “He used to beat me,” she said. With her big brown eyes and sincere voice, she looked like a tiny damsel standing next to Sir Gee, a protective grizzly bear. “You know him, right? Hitz?”

  He laughed. “Are you serious? That skeleton?” He frowned. Then he scratched his beard and laughed a nervous chuckle, wrinkles denting his dark skin. “Yo, he did that to you, ma?”

  She sighed. “Crazy, huh? So that’s why I’m just saying, you know ... If he sees me talking to you he might ... But I would like to kick it with you.”

  Sir Gee took his tenth glance at Raq’s thick thighs and mature hips and sighed. Without another word, he nodded for us to follow and continued up the corridor, passing two dressing rooms before stopping in front of another. Once again Raq had worked it so we were positioned like we belonged. Dudes are real stupid when you act like you’re gonna put it on ’em, Raq had once said.

  Cyn 21, the pensive-looking member of Piper’s crew, was standing by Piper’s doorway like he was security. Shaking his head, he looked at Raq then at me. To Sir Gee, he said, “Let me holler at you, man,” With a huff and a frown, he waited.

  Sir Gee sniffed. “Later,” he told Cyn 21. Then he took Raq’s hand. “Come on, ma.”

  As if it were no big deal, like she’d expected this to work, Raq prepared to follow Sir Gee into Piper’s dressing room and I stuck close behind them.

  “You know, Pipe don’t like no damn drama,” Cyn 21 said.

  “Won’t be none,” Raq chimed.

  Sir Gee added, “Cyn . . . I got this, man.” He began knockknock-knocking on the heavy metal door. “Yo! Yo!” he called until someone opened it.

  Cyn 21 still looked peeved, but he just shrugged as we all went in. I glanced up at the digital clock next to the exit sign up ahead. A half hour until midnight.

  No point in sweating it. No way was I making it home on time.

  What was I supposed to say? Raq, I know we’re just about to get into Piper’s dressing room, but I have to miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity so I can go home. Have fun without me. No way!

  I’d never missed curfew though.

  Well, at least it’d be worth it.

  What’s Gramma gonna do? Punish me forever?

  Piper’s dressing room was minimally furnished and a bit disappointing. It was so bare and small—not at all what I imagined. The
only light was a bulb hanging from the ceiling. Where is the dressing table? I wondered. The vanity lights?

  On the far end of a sunken-in green couch, with a steaming wet white rag covering his eyes as he leaned back and chilled, was Piper.

  He didn’t even bother to look up as his other hype men and a small entourage of unfamiliar and forgettable faces—cats from the hood he was reppin’ no doubt—exchanged dap with Sir Gee and Cyn 21 and crowded the room. I settled into position by a rickety-looking coatrack and watched Raq perform. I noticed that we were the only two girls in the room and I eyed the door just in case. The deadbolt was off. Good.

  Raq was fluttering her arms around like an anxious butterfly, making exaggerated gestures as she laughed and joked around, keeping Sir Gee in her spell. Like she belonged.

  Like she’d been here before. Like this was her show. Her destiny. Quietly I was proud of my friend. Look where she’d gotten us. My goodness. Backstage with Piper! And yet she was being so cool. I wished I could be like that, too.

  Sir Gee cracked up at something she said, and when he leaned back, I noticed a digital clock on the wall behind him: 11:41.

  I thought about borrowing Raq’s phone and calling Gramma to tell her I was soon to be on my way home, that I was just going to be a little late. Then I remembered that there was no reasoning with her. No way would she have just said, “Okay, see you when you get here.” Yeah right. I was better off to just deal with her fussing later. Why ruin my fun?

  Some guy called out to Piper and he responded—without taking the rag off of his face—by nodding. Someone pushed a glass into his hand and Piper caressed it. Then he took a sip. I watched his wristband, snow white like the rest of his gear, and noticed his nails. Clean and well-filed.

  The room was stuffy and it smelled liked cigars. It was hard to tell who had been smoking them, but I guessed it wasn’t Piper. Unlike the average MC, Piper never once mentioned smoking anything in his rhymes. He was a straight fool, though, when it came to rhyming about his champagne.