by Dee Simon
“Shut the fuck up, nigga. My man finna bust a cap in yo grill. Give me my Mariah now. He’ll be bustin caps up in this bitch.”
She then snatched her cellphone out of her pink leather Rocawear bag and began hysterically pushing numbers. Frankly, her last statement alarmed me. I had picked up some hood slang since I had been at the club, and I was well aware that the terms “grill” and “cap busting” being used together in this fashion did not bode well for me. But even though I was clearly being threatened, the ridiculous notion that I might be shot in the face because of a Mariah Carey CD made me smile. I lit a cigarette, sat down, and let her continue on with her rant. She was screaming at me and in her phone simultaneously. Struggling to maintain composure, I broke into a fit of laughter. Some of the other dancers noticed me laughing, which subsequently made them laugh. This aggravated the situation and made Selena furious. Now, she was screaming not only at me but at the other dancers as well, which caused one of them to confront her. A large black girl named Chantel knocked her phone out of her hand and faced off with her. I thought for sure there was going to be a girl fight. It was like a scene from some USA Network B-Movie, Psycho Prison Sluts from Cellblock 20. By this time, Joe stepped in between the two girls and yelled louder than both of them combined.
“Shut the fuck up! Now! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Joe demanded to know what had happened and glared at Selena. He had this power to terrify women, which is most likely the reason he spent several years in prison for domestic abuse. Nevertheless, it’s a good skill to have for a strip club manager. Selena pointed at me and started blabbering an incomprehensible version of the story. Unable to understand a word she was saying, Joe heatedly looked at me and demanded to know what had happened.
“What the fuck is going on over here, Sanchez?”
“Joe, the CD player ate her Mariah Carey CD. I tried to get it out, but it’s stuck in there. I attempted to explain this to her, but she won’t listen. She thinks I took it.”
I could see the rage forming in his eyes. Joe had an irascible nature, and when provoked, he didn’t calm easily. He paused for a moment to evaluate my testimony, like a judge would a defendant, before focusing the brunt of his anger on Selena, the plaintiff.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Listen. The machine ate your fucking CD. The DJ didn’t take it. What? Are you stupid? Look at me when I’m talking to you. If you can’t get along with the DJ or the girls in this club, you can get the fuck out right fucking now! And if I ever hear you threaten one of my employees, I’ll call the police and have your fat ass arrested. Now get the fuck out of my face!”
Joe’s outburst brought an abrupt end to the altercation. Fighting back tears, Selena cashed out, glowered a couple of times in my direction, and hastily left the club. I felt like I should have thanked Chantel for defending my honor, but I didn’t end up saying anything to her. I doubt she was fighting for me. It seemed more plausible that she had some personal grudge against Selena and this was as good a time as any to settle it.
The following Sunday, before my shift started, I stepped outside the club to smoke a cigarette and noticed Selena sitting in the back of a purple car parked across the street, smoking a joint with two men. I was surprised that someone would smoke a joint in such an absurdly conspicuous vehicle. The car was a purple 1980s Chevrolet Caprice that was perched on top of four tires with grossly disproportionate chrome rims. The rims had such a large diameter that the entire vehicle was raised almost three feet off the ground. But that wasn’t the absurd part. The absurd part was the airbrushed painting on the driver’s side door of Grimace—the purple McDonalds character—wearing a Kangol hat, a thick gold chain, and making gang symbols with his hands. Of all the McDonaldland characters to be misappropriated by “urban” culture, you’d think Grimace would have been towards the bottom just above the annoying bird girl. Now that I think about it, it seems like it would be much more fitting to choose The Hamburglar, as he seems like he would have more “street cred” than Grimace.
Once Selena spotted me smoking, she nudged the driver and pointed her finger out the window at me. Trying not to appear intimidated, I calmly finished my cigarette and pretended not to notice them. Around 10:00 PM, I took my break and saw that the purple Caprice was still parked across the street. The windows were rolled up and tinted dark black, which made it a bit difficult to tell if there was anyone inside, but I could hear loud rap music blaring from the vehicle. I chose to ignore the car completely and decided to walk to one of the pizza restaurants up the street and get a slice.
As soon as I started walking, the Caprice roared to life, whipped out of its parking spot, pulled a U-turn across Broadway Avenue, and slowly crept behind me. The bass from the car’s subwoofers boomed so loudly that it rattled the car’s chassis, creating an obnoxious rattling sound that set off the alarms of several parked cars. For a Sunday night, the streets were desolate. I didn’t even see any drunken tourists milling about. Now I was beginning to get nervous, and at that moment, I found it much less humorous that I might get shot because of a Mariah Carey record. They tailed me for two blocks to the restaurant, parked on the corner, and watched me walk inside. I briefly considered asking the cashier if I could borrow his phone and call 911, but nothing had happened to me. Yet. Would these guys really “bust a cap” in me for something so insignificant? Why would they risk life in prison for something so trivial as a Mariah Carey record? And a mediocre record at that. I felt thick beads of perspiration slide down my forehead when it dawned on me that these are the type of people who murder other people for their shoes. I’m fucked. I tried to soothe my anxiety with a couple of bites of my greasy slice of mushroom and cheese pizza, but my appetite had vanished. I quickly glanced over my shoulder to see if the car was still parked outside. It was still there. And to make matters worse, my fifteen-minute break was quickly coming to an end. My options were limited to calling the police, ordering more food and hiding out in the restaurant, or returning to work. I reluctantly chose the third option, took a deep breath—not sure if it would be my last—and timidly pushed the glass door open. I shoved a cigarette in my mouth and turned to walk back towards the club when I noticed the tinted passenger side window of the Caprice roll down. This was it. I’m about to be shot on a sidewalk in North Beach. I braced myself for the salvo of bullets, but none came. Instead, the window rolled down to reveal the chubby face of a young black man in his mid-twenties wearing a black Oakland Raiders hat, dark sunglasses, and a Raiders football jersey over a white T-shirt. He was smoking a massive blunt, and as I walked by his window, he removed the blunt from his mouth and slowly exhaled a thick grey plume of pungent marijuana smoke and laughed. His teeth were capped in gold. Though I couldn’t make out the face of the driver, I could hear him laughing in the background as well. My heart was beating so fast that I felt I might be having a heart attack. I practically ran back to the club and only stopped to catch my breath once I was safely in the DJ booth.
My shift ended a few hours later, and I waited for Casey to leave with me so we could share a cab back to the Tenderloin. When we left the club and walked up Broadway, I saw that the purple Caprice was still parked there, waiting for me. Perhaps it was out of hubris or fear that he’d confront them, but I chose not to mention anything about the incident to Casey. We caught a cab, and ten minutes later, I was home safe in my studio apartment. I lay back in bed and was about to turn on the TV when I heard the ominous bass-filled boom of rap music coming from outside. No way. There was no way they could have found out where I lived. I jumped out of bed, shut off the light, and cautiously lifted up the window blinds, only slightly, so I could peer out onto the street below. And sure enough, there was the purple Caprice parked on the street in front of my building. Pangs of fear shot through my gut like spoiled Mexican food. They know where I live. How? Did they follow the cab, or did someone give them my address? It didn’t matter because they were outside right now. Not wanting to draw any at
tention to myself, I carefully lowered the blinds and slowly stepped backwards away from the window. I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up high and lay there listening to the boom of the bass blasting through the night. If their goal was to scare the shit out of me, they had certainly achieved it.
I didn’t have to work the next two days but didn’t leave my apartment. Every so often, I’d sneak a quick peek out my window to see if the purple Caprice was still parked outside. It was still there. They hadn’t left. They were waiting for me to walk outside. And then what? A severe thrashing? A bullet to the chest? Soon it was Wednesday and I had to work that night. Maybe I could slip out the back of the building and hop in a cab, but then they’d just follow me to work or be waiting for me when I return. I could call the police and have them sort this out, but I really didn’t want to do that. I didn’t trust the police any more than the gangbangers. I had no other choice but to confront them and find out what they wanted. I refused to be held hostage in my own apartment, especially by two guys driving a Grimacemobile. It took about a pint of whiskey and a series of deep breathing exercises to summon the courage to walk outside my building and approach the purple car. I stood next to the driver’s window for a full minute before it slowly rolled down, allowing a thick cloud of marijuana smoke to escape from the cabin. The driver was a well-built black man who couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five. He had a shaved head and wore dark sunglasses and a gold chain with a Raiders helmet pendant hanging in the middle of his broad chest. His face looked very familiar. I must have seen him waiting for Selena outside of the club. His heavyset companion with the gold teeth sat in the passenger seat, and both men stared out the driver’s window at me, stunned to see me standing there.
“Excuse me, fellas. Do I know you? H-h-have I met you bef—”
The driver answered before I was finished. “Yo, you work wit’ my girl and you gaffled her shit.” He had taken a drag off a blunt before he spoke, and small plumes of smoke slid from his lips with every word.
“Oh, okay. You must be friends of Selena. Umm. Actually, I didn’t gaffle her shit. What happened was—”
He cut me off again. “Yo, I ain’t here to listen to yo bullshit. I came to get my girl’s Mariah CD.”
“Okay, that’s the conundrum. I don’t have her CD. I think it’s stuck in one of the shitty CD players at the club.”
When I said this, his friend in the passenger seat spoke up, “Fuck this. Teach this nigga a lesson, Rome.”
I could feel this parley taking a turn for the worse and had to think of something fast.
“You don’t have to teach me a lesson. I feel horrible about this whole situation. Selena is a wonderful person and one of my favorite dancers. You know what? I’m going to buy her a new Mariah Carey Rainbow CD right now.”
Rome, the driver, took a hit off his blunt and looked me at me for a few seconds before muttering, “Damn right you finna buy that shit.”
“Hey, since you guys have a car, would you mind giving me a lift to Tower Records? It’s just up Market.”
“Hell no,” Rome said as both he and his passenger erupted into laughter. “This white boy’s trippin’.”
“Hey, a guy at work gave me a blunt filled with the chronic. You guys can totally have it if you give me a ride.”
The hefty companion glanced at me and then shifted his attention to Rome. “Chronic? Yo, Rome, we ain’t got much left. Let’s give this nigga a ride.”
I didn’t wait for a response. “Great. Let me run upstairs and grab the blunt. Are you fellas hungry? I have Doritos.”
Rome gave me a slightly annoyed look and shook his head, but his friend seemed excited.“Yeah, bring that shit. You got any beer?”
“I think so.” I headed back to my apartment and returned a few minutes later with a massive blunt, a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, and a six-pack of Corona. I climbed into the backseat of the car trying not to crush the empty fast-food bags lining the floor. The exterior of the vehicle was far better maintained than the interior, but to be fair, these guys had been camping out in front of my apartment for a couple days and didn’t have much time to clean. The seats were covered with black leather upholstery, which matched the dark interior of the car, and as I sat down, I noticed that the vehicle’s suspension was modified so that the front end was raised slightly higher than the rear, causing me to slide back into the leather seat. This car really was ridiculous.
“Hey, thanks for giving me a ride. My name’s Dave but everyone at the club calls me Sanchez.” I reached out my hand, but neither of them bothered to take it.
“I’m Omar and this big nigga over here’s Rome,” said the heavyset guy in the passenger seat, straining to turn around and face me.
“Nice to meet you. This is a great ride. What do you call this? A hooptie?”
“Hooptie? This nigga said hooptie! Nah. This shit’s a motherfuckin’ box!” Omar seemed somewhat offended by my question.
“My apologies. I didn’t know. Well, you have a nice box.” I handed both Rome and Omar a Corona and sparked the blunt. When Rome started the car, the engine was so loud that it startled me and I almost dropped the lit joint onto the floor. Luckily, I caught it before it ignited the piles of discarded fast-food bags. I took another hit and passed the blunt to Omar.
He took a long hit, smiled, and nodded. “Good shit.”
Rome took a couple hits, but it was mainly Omar and I who passed the blunt back and forth.
“So, I mean no offense by this, but what the fuck is Grimace supposed to be?” I asked.
“What?” Rome asked as Omar burst into laughter.
“You have a picture of Grimace on your car, and I’m wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to be? A big, retarded gumdrop? A monster? What is he?”
“I thought he’s a grape milkshake or summin,” Omar answered as he took another long hit of the blunt and passed it back to me.
“No, he’s definitely not a milkshake. McDonalds doesn’t even have a grape milkshake. All of the other McDonalds characters make sense. You know. The fry guys are French fries. Mayor McCheese is obviously a cheeseburger. The bird chick is supposed to be a McNugget or a McChicken sandwich. But what the fuck is Grimace? He has no relation to a McDonalds’ entrée.”
“I dunno. I thought he was a milkshake wit’ arms and legs,” Omar answered.
“You both got it wrong. Grimace is an anthropomorphized tastebud,” said Rome.
“Really? An anthropomorphized tastebud. How would you know that?” I don’t know what surprised me more: the idea of Grimace being a tastebud, or Rome’s use of the word “anthropomorphized.”
“For real. That’s what he is. I worked at McDonalds for three years, and this old dude who worked there schooled me about Grimace. He said Grimace started out as an evil motherfucker, stealing Ronald’s milkshakes and shit. Back then, he was a tastebud with four arms. He was O.G., but then they made him into a good guy and gave him two arms. Now, he’s kind of a retarded purple tastebud that chills with Ronald.”
Omar took a hit off the blunt and burst into a fit of laughter and coughing. “This nigga said retarded purple tastebud.”
“That’s what he is, nigga. A tastebud. Look that shit up if you don’t believe me.”
“Really? I had no idea. I suppose I never gave it much thought,” I responded, sounding somewhat impressed.
“Tastebud, huh? Damn. I thought that nigga was a milkshake,” said Omar.
We continued driving up Market in silence, each of us contemplating how this revelation had forever altered our perceptions of the purple simpleton. Our reverie was broken a few minutes later by Omar.
“Where those Doritos at?”
“Here,” I said, tossing the bag into the front seat.
We soon arrived at Tower Records, and I leaned forward to say goodbye. “Hey, thanks for the ride, man. I appreciate it. I’ll buy your girl the Mariah CD.”
Omar turned around to face me and shook my hand. “You bette
r get that girl some Mariah cuz this nigga over here ain’t had no pussy in a week.”
“Shut the fuck up, nigga!” Rome replied angrily and raised his fist as if he was going to punch Omar in the face.
“Well, thanks again for the ride.” I exited the car and stood on the sidewalk, watching it glide into traffic. That was probably the first and only time I will ever ride in a “box.”
Honestly, I did feel remorse about this whole situation. It’s an unspoken rule that the DJ must assume full responsibility for a dancer’s CDs during his shift. While it was the fault of the club’s equipment, I still felt personally responsible for the whole fracas. I had to make amends. And I did. I even endured the ridicule of the snarky Tower Records store employees to purchase that CD. Believe me, it’s a very self-effacing experience for a man in his early thirties to approach the counter at a record store and ask for a copy of a Mariah Carey album. I attempted to explain the situation, but the heartless bastard just smiled and reassured me that Mariah Carey had many male supporters. He then asked a couple of other employees to help him lead me to the Mariah Carey section. Not even masking their puerile inside jokes, they told me that I would find many other fine Mariah Carey records in this section to add to my collection. I really wanted to beat them, but I was so stoned that I didn’t care. Regardless, I bought the CD for Selena and gave it to her with a sincere apology. She didn’t even have the courtesy to thank me. She merely smirked, grabbed the CD from my hand, and sauntered away from the booth muttering something about how fortunate I was that I didn’t get “capped” by her man. My actions might have been unappreciated, but at least my conscience was clean. Six months later, the club’s CD player officially stopped working and had to be replaced. When they moved it, Mariah Carey’s Rainbow CD fell onto the ground along with about five or six other discs. Joe was working that night and made sure to save it for me. He ceremoniously presented it to me at the end of my next shift amidst a round of applause from my coworkers and several dancers. I still have it in my personal collection, as it’s somewhat of a keepsake now.