When the red light went on and the “Recording” sign flashed, I closed my eyes. I always think of Pooquie while singing. And, more than any other song I had been asked to sing on, this one fit us like a G. I could see us getting very freaky-deaky off of this. And I guess that visual helped bring out what they wanted.
For, five minutes and eleven seconds later …
“That’s a take,” Bryant bellowed. “We’re gonna play it back.”
We listened to it.
Kevron was thrilled with the result. “Yo, Money, them vocals was tight.”
Bryant agreed. “Yeah, Mitchell, this is exactly what we need. Jimmy was right—you were the best choice to help us out on this track.”
“Thanks. Does this mean I’m finished?”
“Yeah. I still have some mixing to do, but you’re done. Just make sure you sign the register so you get credited.”
I took off the headphones and I stepped out of the studio. Kevron and Bryant were no longer in the control room.
Montee was. What the hell is he doing here?
He grinned, slowly spinning left to right in one of the black leather swivel chairs. “Thanks for making my song sound so good.”
His presence truly worked me; all I could muster was a very weak … “Your song?”
“Yeah, my song. I wrote it.”
“You wrote that song?”
“Yeah, I wrote that song.”
Silence.
“Well … it’s a great song,” I congratulated.
“Thanks. You made it sound great.”
“Thanks,” I gushed.
“Welcome. You make him sound good—and that ain’t an easy thing to do. That brother thinks pitch is only something Dwight Gooden does.”
“Indeed.”
“It’s obvious you don’t. Alan was right: You got a voice on you. I wasn’t gonna come down tonight, but somethin’ told me to. I’m glad I did.”
Silence.
“So … who were you thinking about?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“While singin’, who was on your mind?”
“What makes you think I was thinking of someone while singing?”
“Singin’ that song the way you was? Don’t even try to front. I know. I been there.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I was … maybe I wasn’t.”
He grinned. “Was it me?”
I frowned. “No, it wasn’t.”
He studied me. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“ ’Cause if it was … I was just gonna say that … the feelin’ is mutual.” He rose and stood in front of me, our faces just an inch apart. “With me writin’ ’em and you singin’ ’em … we could really make some beautiful music together.”
We gazed.
I stepped back. “I … I’d better go.”
He followed me out of the control room. “Mitchell, wait …”
I stopped.
“I’ll be singing at a club called Oasis this Friday night. I play there once a month. I’d love for you to be my special guest.”
“I … I don’t know.”
“Just think about it, okay? After sharing your gift with us, with me … I just want to return the favor. And I’d really love to know what you think of me, of my act.”
“I … I … I’ll think about it.”
That was jood enough for him. “Great.” He took out a business card; he wrote on the back of it. “This is the address. If you need directions, you can call that number.”
I took it. “Good night,” I mustered, breezing up the hall. When I knew I was out of sight, I stopped to catch my breath. I felt flushed. They say it only takes a minute to fall in love, but it only takes a second to fall—and I almost did just that.
I needed some water. I had left my bottle in the studio, but wasn’t about to go back in that direction. I dipped into a nearby bathroom, failing to notice the “Out of Order” sign. It turns out it wasn’t out of order. It was placed there for a different reason.
As I was standing in the vestibule, the first thing I remember was the smell. Kevron’s smell.
And then the slapping. Something was being slapped. Slapped repeatedly. Slapped very hard.
And a yelp followed each slap.
I carefully pushed open the door leading to the stalls.
Whack!
“Mph, Big Poppa, spank dat azz!”
Whack, whack!
“Oooh!”
Whack, whack, whack!
“Oooh oooh!”
I was frozen. What do I do? Part of me wanted to see, really see, whether or not the rumors (from Gene and Pooquie) I heard were true. And if he was really trying to serenade me.
I crept to the final stall, stopping a head’s peek away.
“I’m gonna get one mo’ lick befo’ I stick ya …”
Slurpslurpslurp.
“Ssss, yeah, eat dat azz, eat it all up, yeah!”
I peeked. I geeked.
Holding on to the top of the stall, Kevron was kneeling on the handicapped handlebar attached to its wall, his big azz stuck out and being eaten out by Bryant. Both were naked, although Kevron had on his sneakers, do-rag, and (of course) the jewelry.
I thought Bryant was jerkin’ off as he feasted, but he was actually rolling a condom down his dick. Now that’s what you call skill.
After arming himself for battle, Bryant stuck one, then two, then three, then all four fingers up Kevron’s hole, preppin’ it for the real thing.
“Ooh, come on, Big Poppa, yeah, give it ta me, come on,” Kevron begged as that booty shivered.
The position was perfect; Bryant didn’t have to rise on his toes, stoop down, or maneuver Kevron’s ass (Hmm … I got the feeling they’d been there before). He just aimed for and slid that very long and very thick dick all the way inside. No red or yellow lights, no yield or stop signs.
Kevron took it all—with a big ol’ smile. “Oh yeeeeaaaah, Big Poppa …”
“Ha, ya like dat dick, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Kevron liked it so much that he started twirlin’ and twistin’.
“Uh-huh, yeah, work dat dick,” Bryant demanded.
Relaxin’ for the ride, Bryant crossed his arms behind his back and started bumpin’ ’n humpin’.
“Uh-huh, Big Poppa, mph, take all dat pussy, yeah!”
“Ha, don’t worry, this pussy gonna be all mine …”
Bryant slid in and out, teasing Kevron.
“Nah, nah, nah, Big Poppa, don’t fuck wit’ me like that, now, she-it!”
“Ha, I’ll fuck witcha any way I want … now take that!”
He plowed inside.
“Ooh yeah, Big Poppa, you da man, yeah!”
“Yeah, I’m all the man you need, right,?”
“Uh-huh! BP, bang it like ya knooooow!”
He did.
Bryant began violently banging Kevron (or, rather, his head and shoulders) into the stall wall, never missing a funky fucking beat.
“Ya better act like ya know! I … better … not … EVER … hear … you … singin’ … a … song … fuh … some … OTHER … nigga … like … that … A-GAIN!”
And all through that, the brother’s glasses never moved, even though they were hangin’ right on the tip of his nose.
Every word was accented with a THRUST that I know had to be so painful it couldn’t be nothin’ but pleasurable.
And Kevron showed just how pleasurable it was: he started sangin’.
That’s right, sangin’.
I mean, this boyee was wailin’, okay? Starting off in the low basement bass register and going so soprano high, my ears popped. The harder Bryant bootay-slammed him, the louder and higher that voice soared.
With Bryant pumpin’ up that jam (“I’m gonna FUCK that song right OUTA yo’ AZZ!”) and Kevron sweepin’ the scales (“I’m singin it fuh you, bay, I’m singin’ fuh YOU, bay, ya know I’m singin’ it JUST fuh YOU, bay, so keep on DOIN’ it ’n DOIN�
� it ’n DOIN’ it RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!”), I almost busted out laughing. I had to get out of there before I did.
Kevron does know what pitch is. If Bryant could only get him to sing like that on CD …
14
I JUST CALLED TO SAY I LOVE YOU
“Hello?”
“Hay, Baby.”
“Hi, Pooquie. Where are you?”
“Back at tha hotel.”
“Why? The show isn’t over yet.”
“It is fuh us,Baby.”
“Ah.”
“I can’t believe them mutha-fuckas.”
“Well, I know you were rooting for Warren. And he really deserved to win both. But the Queen and Salt-N-Pepa were overdue.”
“Yeah. But at least I got ta meet him.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. He madd cool, Baby. And y’all could be twins.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. You’ll see. I took a picture wit’ him. He invited us ta a party at his spot later on.”
“Us?”
“Yeah. Me ’n’ Malice. And his posse.”
“Mmm. You meet anybody else?”
“Yeah. Snoop, Dre, Yo Yo, Ice Cube.”
“Boy, the whole West Coast crew. I know you were in heaven.”
“And I met one of them brothas from Boyz II Men, tha real skinny one.”
“Shawn Stockman?”
“Yeah. He had his Grammy. And I ran inta that fella hostin’ tha show.”
“Paul Reiser?”
“Yeah. I was comin’ outa tha bathroom and he was comin’ in. He is one unfunny mutha-fucka.”
I chuckled. “I agree. He was a bad choice. I’m sure he won’t ever be asked back.”
“They shoulda got somebody like Martin Lawrence.”
“Ha, he’d be too much for them. He’s not tame like Paul.”
“Don’tcha mean borin’?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You still watchin’ tha show?”
“Uh-huh. But with the sound down. Never know when a Negro may pop up. How did the scene go this morning?”
“It went a’ight.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“Well … it ain’t like all my bizness was out there fuh tha whole world ta see. My back was ta tha camera.”
“Ah. So the world will get to see Raheim Rivers’s rump, huh?”
He sighed. “Yeah.”
“I don’t think you should worry about it. It’s not as if they had you all do it just because. Men do walk around nude in a locker room.”
“We’ll see what ratin’ they give it now. It was guaranteed a R wit’ all that cussin’. But wit’ us walkin’ ’round butt-bootay nekkid, they prob’ly gonna slap it wit’ a NC-17.”
“As many times Kevin Costner has shown his pale ass in a film? I don’t see why they would.”
“C’mon, Baby. We talkin’ ’bout brothas, not some white boy. They gave them folks behind Jason’s Lyric grief over a movie poster. I can imagine what they gonna say about this.”
“Well, it’s really a man thing, not a Black thing. They tripped over how Jada was positioned on the poster. If it were Allen Payne, they wouldn’t have cared. And speaking of Allen: when Rebound is released on video, I’ll have two of the most beautiful asses ever captured on film in my collection.” I giggled.
“I better be number one.”
“You know you are.” I kissed into the phone. I could feel him blush. “You just have two more scenes to do, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you need to go over your lines?”
“Nah, cuz I only got one line in both scenes.”
“Mmm … when it comes down to it, they actually paid you to shoot hoops and walk around nude in a locker room.”
“Uh-huh. Tha easiest green I ever made. So, how was yo’ day?”
“It was okay. Nothin’ special. Just went to work and came home.”
“Ah. How my homie, Willoughby, doin’?”
“He’s doing fine. You’ll be happy to know he received the highest grade in the class this term.”
“He did?”
“Yup.”
“Wow, Baby. I know he gonna flip.”
“I’m sure the ones who will flip are the parents of some of the other students when they see their children’s grades. I’m gonna get an earful tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s open school night.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You better not fuhget yo’ Tylenol this time.”
“Ha, I already have my pouch ready. I’m not gonna be caught off guard again.”
“Jood. Any word from Jozie?”
I sighed. “Well … she didn’t receive the agreement today. They said they need another week.”
“Another week?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Why?”
“As Jozie expected, it all comes down to language. They are trying to put things in a way that puts them in the best light. And, as they’re no doubt discovering, that ain’t gonna be easy. But Jozie told them they have to show her something by Monday so we can see what direction they are headed in—and if they are going the wrong way, point them in the right direction.”
“A’ight. You feelin’ better about it?”
“I … I guess I am.”
“You should, Baby. They’ll know better next time ta fuck wit’ one of us. When I get home, we gonna celebrate.”
“How you think we should?”
“Ha, you know how.” He giggled.
“Uh-huh. Now, you know we never need a reason to do that.”
“Nah, we don’t, but that’s as jood a reason as any.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Oh, at least your papers came today.”
“Did they?”
“Yup.”
“Didja look ’em over?”
“I started to.”
“Whatcha think?”
“Your rental agreement looks okay. Are they really giving you the last month free?”
“Yeah, cuz I’m payin’ a full year up front.”
“I just knew that was a misprint. But if they’re gonna do that, they can at least do something similar with your mom’s co-op. Since you’re paying for it in cash, they should knock five or ten percent off the purchase price and give you some kind of break on the closing costs.”
“A’ight. Did they say when her apartment is gonna be ready?”
“The letter says you’ll be able to show it to her in a couple of weeks, after they finish the bathroom.”
“Jood. You think she gonna like it?”
“She’s gonna love it.”
Silence.
“Little Bit?”
“Yes?”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, Pooquie.”
“Uh … how ’bout givin’ me some mo.’”
“Huh?”
“Gimme some mo’ of that long distance love.”
“Don’t tell me you want a repeat of last week …”
“Yeah.”
“You can’t make it to Sunday?”
“Hell no!”
I laughed. “You got enough time? What time are they supposed to be picking you up?”
“In a half hour.”
I considered it. “So … are you in your birthday suit?”
“Yeah.”
“You are?”
“Been in it all this time.”
“Hmm … you got on the Timbs and the cap?”
“Yup. And I done already assumed tha position.”
“Well … when you all oiled up and ready to go, how can I refuse?”
15
I GOT MY EDUCATION
Now I know how my teachers felt on open-school night.
The last thing a parent wants to hear is that their child has done something wrong. It’s not that they can’t believe it—after all, I’ll bet many have whooped their kids for disobeying and misbehaving—it’s that they don’t want to believe it. I get two earfuls of tha
t disbelief during parent-teacher conferences, the most common refrain expressed being: “Oh, no, not my child!” The sisters have it down to a science: that neck starts to twistin’ and those hands get to flailin’ and those eyes get to jumpin’ and those teeth get to knashin’ and those nostrils start to flarin’ and those temples get to pulsin’ and that forehead gets to perspirin’—and they just implode. Not only could their child never, under any circumstances, talk in class, be late for class, disrupt the class, be caught doodling during class, not complete their homework assignment, not turn in their homework on time, not turn in their homework at all, cut my class, or play hooky from school altogether, but you, the teacher, are more than mistaken for even suggesting their child is capable of such things—you’re insane.
“Are you crazy?” several have said in a joking manner, but I knew they weren’t joking. One would have to be crazy to accuse their baby, their baby boy, their baby girl, their baby cakes, their cupcake, their Pooh bear, their honey bear, their sweetums, their candy cane, their candy apple, their apple tart, their apple dumpling, their cream puff, their muffin, their angel cake, their angel face, their angel, of anything. I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news, but I often have to shatter that glass bubble they’re living in. Some of these kids have their parents so hoodwinked, so wash-bucked, so bushwhacked, so bamboozled, so snowed that even when the evidence is presented to prove the charges, they still can’t (or won’t) accept it. I see just how manipulative children—and how gullible their parents—can be. But it’s usually the parent that has duped themself—and they expect you to join them in the delusion.
I do temper the not-so-good news with the positive in a tone that isn’t judgmental (I don’t plan on being mowed down like that obnoxious teacher was by Kathleen Turner in Serial Mom). But that still isn’t good enough for some. In addition to being personally offended, a few have the gall to demand that you admit their child is your favorite. All teachers do have favorites—and I am no exception. There are those students who literally light up the moment I walk into the room—their notebooks are opened, their homework assignment ready to recite to the class, and they’re rocking in their seats with anticipation. It’s a joy to see them so excited, and that gives me joy. And there are students who are a little rough around the edges, challenging me to work a little harder to reach them, and when I do, the payoff is great for the both of us. But while I may have my favorites, I don’t play favorites; I make sure each student gets the attention and receives the adulation they need and deserve—and with three classes that each have no more than twenty students, this isn’t hard for me to do. But playing favorites is exactly what I would be doing if I, like other teachers, disclosed to any parent that their child is the top—and because I don’t, folks get indignant.
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