Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  “Fuck yeah!” I scream when my name is announced as the winner of the 2006 Winter Music Conference DJ Spin-Off for both categories, an unprecedented victory. Some people cheer, a lot boo, but I don’t give a fuck. Victory is mine.

  CHAPTER TWO

  April 2006

  I’M CHILLING AT THE PAWN SHOP, AN ECLECTIC NIGHTCLUB IN Miami’s Design District that is a haven for locals and a spot most tourists don’t know about because they don’t realize that there is more to life in Miami than South Beach. Most tourists are still shook over the carjackings of the ’90s all these years later, and if they don’t see the signs bearing a sun logo designating that they are in a tourist-friendly area, they freak out. I guess that it’s better safe than sorry, though, because one wrong turn in the Design District will send you straight to Overtown and Liberty City, two areas that even locals tread with care.

  I’m a South Beach girl all the way. Most of my life revolves around that strip of land between 1st and Alton Road, and I rarely venture west of Biscayne Boulevard, unless of course I’m going shopping. But now that I am the Winter Music Conference DJ champ, I go any- and everywhere that I can when I’m not working, although I’m almost always working now. I’ve got to get out there and network, because I’ve got big plans for my career.

  People treat me like a star now, and it’s only been a couple of weeks since my win. As far as I see it, though, I’ve always been a star, these people are just late. I get the VIP treatment, and I’m ushered to a table even though I’m rolling solo, the way I always do when I go out to kick it. I promptly order a bottle of JD and I’m told that my “friends,” a group of girls sitting at a table across the room, are buying. I scribble a thank-you note on a napkin and ask the waitress to take it over to them and to invite them over for a drink when the bottle comes. But I hope they decline the offer.

  I don’t have many female friends. They always bring drama and not much else to the table. Female friends will smile in your face and fuck your man behind your back. Your so-called girls will tell you that your hair looks good when really your weave tracks are showing. And don’t even trust what comes out of a female’s mouth when you ask her which outfit looks best when you’re going out. She’s going to tell you the one that looks worse so she can be the best looking. Women will lie and tell you that you look cute and let you walk around with your skirt unknowingly tucked into the top of your panty hose.

  I know that socializing is good for business, so of course I’m friendly to just about everyone, but I keep that shit real. It is what it is. Acquaintances and associates are not the same things as friends. I’m never at a loss for acquaintances, especially not now, but truth be told there are times when I miss having friends. Kaos was not just my man, but my best friend, and just as difficult as it has been to replace him as my romantic partner, it’s been equally difficult to find a friend that I can trust the way I trusted him. So until I find that special person, my boy Jack Daniels and I will kick it. He never lies to me and he never lets me down, which is why I keep him by my side almost all the time.

  I look out onto the dance floor from my perch in the VIP section that overlooks the psychedelically lit dance floor. The “friends” who bought me the bottle are out there doing their damnedest to produce their own version of a girl-on-girl porno, dry humping and grinding against each other in such a way that I’m embarrassed for them. They think it’s cute, but it isn’t. It’s as pathetic and desperate an attempt for attention as ripping off your shirt in a Girls Gone Wild video. I’m all for being sexy; I love being naked as much as the next chick, probably more. But when I show my shit, I’m getting paid. I raise the bottle of Jack Daniels that has been delivered, pour out a little liquor, and take a hearty swig. When I put the bottle down there’s a guy standing in front of me.

  “Hey, aren’t you that DJ chick?” he asks me.

  “The name is Ms. Bobbi,” I say. “But yeah, I’m that DJ chick.” The guy who’s joined me is tall, built like Adonis, and looks like a thugged out Ashton Kutcher if you can imagine that. He’s got that look that Kevin Federline is going for but gets all wrong: the edgy, street, but still fashionable vibe. He’s not my usual type, but he’s pretty fucking hot. He’s the type of guy that should be an underwear model or something. I’m usually not down for the swirl; I love black men. But I’m all for equal opportunity. Besides, Mr. Natty Dreadlocks had been a disappointment, so I figure that branching out into the spectrum might yield a higher probability of sexual satisfaction. After all, it’s what’s inside (his underwear) that counts.

  “My name is Cut,” he says.

  “Oh yeah? Well, nice to meet you, Cut. Where are you from?” I ask him.

  “Up top,” he says, referring to New York.

  “Where about up top?” I ask. If there’s something I like better than a dread, it’s a native New Yorker. But it depends on what borough he’s from. I don’t want some corny Wall Street guy, even if he commutes from Brooklyn. Matter of fact, I don’t want a guy from Brooklyn if he’s from Park Slope or Fort Greene. And Queens is out of the question; I may make an exception if it’s Queensbridge that he’s repping and he’s really, really fine. When it comes to guys from NYC, there are only a few acceptable points of origin: South Bronx, Harlem, or BK, but only the rough parts like Bed-Stuy or Brownsville. I need that rugged toughness that guys from those areas almost always inherently have.

  “I’m from the boogie down. You know this,” he says, popping his collar.

  “Well, where about in the boogie down?” I ask. There are some pretty nice houses in the Bronx, for all I know he could be a bougie little rich boy.

  “Patterson Houses,” he tells me. I can hear KRS-One in my head singing South Bronx, South, South Bronx. Winner!

  “Where you from?” he asks.

  “The Chi,” I tell him.

  “West Side?” he asks. I want to pop him in his mouth for asking me if I’m from the West Side. That’s an insult to a South Sider; the West Side is where the real Chicago hood is. I know I’ve got that tough chick vibe going on, and I might look a little rough around the edges, but not that damn rough.

  “South,” I say, turning up my nose. “You boricua?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I can tell from the way he pronounces certain words that he’s from PR. I love Puerto Rican men, and although Cut is more Ricky Martin than Daddy Yankee, I can see he has some flavor. He’s definitely not a pasty, pale, Marc Anthony type, thank God. I just hope he’s straight, because you know what they say about Ricky.

  “ Ya tu sabes,” he says.

  “Nice,” I say. “Well then, now that we have the formalities out of the way, Cut, can we?”

  “Can we what?”

  “Can we cut?” I ask.

  “It’s like that?”

  “It’s like that,” I say, taking another swig from the bottle. I hand it to him and he takes a sip.

  “Damn, girl,” he says with a grimace from the strong taste of the whiskey. “Damn.”

  “I’m going to take that as a yes,” I say, and I take the bottle with one hand, and his hand with the other.

  I don’t feel like taking Cut to my place, and even though I’ll fuck a stranger (with protection of course), I won’t go to one’s house. So we hop into my Range, I put in a Marc Anthony CD (hey, I didn’t say I didn’t like the man’s music, I just don’t think he’s sexy), and we get busy.

  Cut was just what I needed. He had a decent sized dick, and he knew how to work it. There was no kissing, no licking and sucking, barely any foreplay. I wasn’t in the mood for all that. I just wanted to bust a nut, and that’s exactly what I did, three times.

  After Cut and I handle our business, he asks me if it’s cool to smoke in my truck, and I tell him yeah. He pulls out a bag of weed and rolls a couple of joints. He lights one, and as it is dangling from his lips he says, “This is for now.” He places the other joint in my palm and says, “That one’s for later.” He gives me his number and tells me if I ever want to hoo
k up, to fuck or just to get some weed, to holler at him. I plan on it, until he starts telling me that he’s a DJ too, and starts in on how maybe we can get together so that I can give him some pointers. I nod and say cool, but it’s not cool. There ain’t no way I’m about to give away any of the tricks of my trade to anyone. Not even for a fine ass Puerto Rican with some good dick and some good weed.

  A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER I’M OFF TO NEW YORK TO DO SOME appearances on BET. I appear on Rap City, where I spin in the Bassment with Mad Linx, who is cool, but I’ve gotta admit that I miss Big Tigger. I am also a judge for Freestyle Friday on 106th and Park, but I really miss the hell outta Free and AJ. I always wanted to be on the show so I could find out where Free gets all her cute shoes and where on earth she finds jeans that fit in the waist but still accommodate her ass, because with all the wagon I’m draggin’, I need to know. My tailoring bills can get kind of steep. I also wanted to see up close and personal just what the hell AJ was wearing on his head: you know, those braid/dread things that hang from the back of his head like he’s the Predator or something. He’s got such a cute face, but someone needs to tell him that those shitlocks he rocks do absolutely nothing for him.

  The BET appearances go very well. Everyone gives me my props and no one patronizes me, which I find refreshing. But the real fun time in New York happens after my work is done and I’m hard at play. I go to the 40/40 Club to kick it at a party hosted by an up-and-coming starlet named Bianca.

  Bianca has just posed for the cover of Vanity Fair, quite the coup for a Puerto Rican and an Indo-Jamaican. Bianca has gotten rave reviews for her portrayal of a crackhead turned nun in some independent movie directed by the latest flavor-of-the-month NYU film school dropout who is being touted as a boy genius that will undoubtedly change the face of modern cinema. What people don’t seem to realize is that Bianca wasn’t acting like a crackhead—she is a crackhead!

  Bianca’s fingertips are nearly brown from holding a smoldering hot pipe, and she’s got to weigh about ninety-two pounds soaking wet. She twitches, jerks, and rambles when she speaks about incoherent nonsense, but everyone loves her. Go figure. I never can understand what the bigwigs in Hollywood and New York are thinking when they decide that some mediocre talent with a nice rack or a famous parent is the next big thing. But people are drawn to Bianca and just about every A-list celebrity that you can think of is in attendance at the soiree.

  One guest in particular has garnered all my attention, Adwele Olatunji, a rookie for the New York Rush. Adwele is seven foot four and fresh from Africa. He looks a lot like that brother from the movie Amistad, and I really want to “give him his free.” His skin is so smooth and ebony that I just want to reach out and touch him all over. Every inch of his luscious body is muscled and powerful. He is delicious.

  Adwele doesn’t drink or smoke. He doesn’t swear. And his eyes don’t roam all over my body even though my leather pants and corset don’t leave much to the imagination. Adwele likes to dance though, and when his body grazes against mine, I almost come on the spot. He moves with the grace of a gazelle and the ferocity of a lion. The sexual tension between us is so thick it seems like the entire club can feel it.

  “Do you want to get out of here so we can talk?” he asks me in his heavily accented voice.

  “I’d love to,” I tell him.

  So we go to the Hotel Gansevoort and get a room, and can you believe it? Brother really wants to talk! I mean really, who goes to a hotel to talk? I flirt, I’m suggestive, but he doesn’t get the hint. And just as I am getting so frustrated that I figure I ought to just tackle him, rip his clothes off, and pop his dick in my mouth because surely he’d take that hint, he asks me if I’ve heard the good news of Jesus Christ. That’s right; he’s a Jehovah’s Witness. There will be no sweaty tribal sex. I won’t hear the drums of the Congo as he brings me to climax after climax. My body will not be reunited with the motherland.

  “Too many times,” I tell him, and I leave him there in the room.

  PARTY AND BULLSHIT AND PARTY AND BULLSHIT. THAT’S MY LIFE in Miami; it ain’t just a song by Biggie. But I’m not complaining one bit. I love the life I live and I live the life I love. I can’t imagine getting dressed at the crack of dawn to go work in corporate America, and I feel sorry for the poor slobs that do it every day. In my opinion corporate America is the devil. Think about it. Only in corporate America are the so-called values that politicians are always stressing that Americans lack totally ignored: Fuck your family. The corporation is your family. Your kid gets sick and you want to take off to stay at home with him or go to the doctor? Not their problem. Need some time to decompress because your blood pressure is sky high due to some office politics? Fuck you. Do it outside of the forty-plus hours you’re scheduled to be at work, because the “team” can’t function without you and we all know that there is no I in team.

  They hire you because you’re bright, creative, and talented, but if you flex any of that muscle without being told to do so, crack goes the whip; now get back into the box, you fucking gimp. And to top it off, you get to look just like everyone else in a gray, blue, or black suit. How fucking original. So you put up with that shit because what’s the alternative? You work or you starve. And in the end, you’re lucky if you get a gold watch because more than likely some of the higher-ups have made off with the pension fund and they won’t serve a single day of prison time for robbing people of their entire lives, even if the matter goes to trial. That’s why I will never, ever work a nine-to-five job in my life. I won’t even date a so-called corporate thug. You know, a guy from the hood who has made it to the boardroom. There’s usually too much corporate and not enough thug. Those kinds of guys just don’t take the time to stop and enjoy life, which is way too short to be spent stuck in some office tossing a bunch of buzzwords back and forth to mask the fact that you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.

  But since my win at the Winter Music Conference, I know that I’m going to have to start adopting more of a corporate mentality if I want to really blow up. Because I want to be more than Miami’s hottest DJ; I want to be the world’s hottest DJ. I’m after world domination, a total global takeover. So after thinking about things, I’ve realized that I need to maximize my exposure and diversify. I had hoped that the Winter Music Conference wins would garner the attention needed to acquire a sponsorship from an equipment company, but that hasn’t happened yet, probably because my style can’t be easily categorized. How can these companies sell me if they can’t label me?

  I’m not just a house DJ, or just a hip-hop DJ, or just a reggae DJ; I love all three genres. I won’t fucking touch techno but I throw in rock, punk, metal, and pop into my mixes whenever I can. Still, I definitely can’t be categorized as a rock DJ or a pop DJ. I thought that having universal appeal would help me, but it hasn’t. It has gotten me fans from all walks of life, but it hasn’t translated into dollars yet. I’ve debated whether or not to hire a manager, but I’ve decided against it for the time being, because I don’t want to give up 15 percent of my money while I do all the work. Besides, no one knows me or can sell me better than myself, so I’ve decided that I’m going to knock down some doors, bust through some ceilings, and get things done my way.

  “I want to see George, and I know he’s here, because I saw his car. So don’t give me any more of your bullshit,” I tell the girl at Opium Garden when I go there to show the manager a proposal I’ve created. I want to pitch a new hip-hop night featuring myself and also bringing in some of the nation’s hottest female DJs, and I want to boot the current promoters out of their spot. Not only do I want to DJ, I want a cut of the door and the bar. A healthy one. I don’t want to rent the venue on some off night and pay some exorbitant fee and just get paid from the door revenue. That shit’s too hard. I want Saturdays. Saturdays haven’t been poppin’ in Miami for a minute.

  The secretary is a total bitch and she’s coming up with all kinds of excuses as to why I can’t see him, and not only
that, but she’s demanding that I leave. I don’t take no for an answer. Especially not from people with no power.

  “He’s in a meeting, a very important one, and he can’t be disturbed,” she says in a snooty voice. “You won’t be able to see him today so you may as well just leave and come back some other time.”

  “Is he in there with Jesus?” I ask her.

  “No,” she says curtly.

  “Then tell him Ms. Bobbi is here. He knows me. I’m here to do him a favor,” I say.

  “Looks like you’re the one who needs a favor,” she says under her breath, but I hear that shit and I don’t like it one bit. I want to smack the shit out of her for getting out of pocket, but it wouldn’t do me any good to hurt an employee when I’m trying to hustle up a job. She’s a nobody, a gatekeeper, but she’s no pit bull. I know I can get around her and if I can’t, I may as well hang it up and try another profession. Instead of letting her get the best of me, I stroll right past her and head to George’s office.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she asks me, and has the nerve to grab me by the arm.

  “You’ll be on your way to the hospital if you don’t get your hands off me,” I tell her. She knows she can’t stop me; I’m playing the gangsta girl role to the fullest and she has no idea that it’s an act. I’m not a punk. If I have to fight, I can throw bows with the best of them, but I’m a lover not a fighter; it’s not like I’m going to pull out a gat or a shank. But she has no idea, and since I’m dressed like a chola in a white wifebeater, tight jeans, Converse Chuck Taylor All Stars, and a fedora cocked jauntily to the side, she buys it. She follows behind me helplessly as I turn the knob and enter the office.

  “I tried to stop her but she insisted that she knew you and just barged in. I can call the police,” she says to George meekly, but he laughs at the suggestion.

  “Ms. Bobbi,” George says with a smile. “What the fuck are you up to? Being a troublemaker, I see.”