I'm very nervous. I've had entirely too much caffeine even though it's the mid afternoon, but I needed it. There's something about carrying that Starbuck's Bold™, venti with a single splenda and a dollop of cream, that makes me feel efficient and effective, self assured and, well, bold.
But I'm still nervous, and I think it's because I am out of place here. Most of the people around this neighborhood are older than me, or at least they feel more sophisticated. Even the kids have a swag about them that says “I'm awesome." I'm wearing a gaudy red Ecko hoodie with gold lining while most of the folks here have muted autumnal jackets. The computer bag that is draped to my side is old and cumbersome but the people around me have designer purses and monogrammed briefcases. I'm black, and they are overwhelmingly white. My difference is in every way conspicuous, and with each step, I feel as though a thousand eyes are piercingly boring into me, tacitly but not so subtlely demanding that I leave.
“Come on up," draws an easygoing voice from the downstairs speaker. I've arrived at a beautiful redbrick apartment building and hurry in to escape the encroaching paranoia threatening to have me lose my nerve and abandon my task altogether. On the second flight of the walkup, I notice that I've started to sweat and I remind myself to breathe.
Suddenly, it occurs to me that the person that I'm about to see might not know that I'm black. My phone voice, after all, is accent free and there is nothing in our discussion that would have indicated my negritude. With a bizarre logic, I begin to convince myself that perhaps the person I'm seeing is actually black himself, and that he too had effectively sounded like the Caucasoid majority. I almost titter at my ridiculous thought process when, before I can knock, the door swings open and a white man greets me by name.
My first thought is that he is mildly attractive. He's got blue eyes, that seem to smile. He has a mild stoop to him that is endearing, as if he's ever bowing to his client's needs. His blond hair is cut close, but I can see that grown out, it would be extremely curly, and I vaguely wonder if he IS in fact black. He's young or at least my age, and he's definitely sophisticated.
His studio equipment is state of the art. He's got synthesizers that are one of a kind, an absolute fact he makes certain to repeat again and again. The acoustics of the room will make dance pop like the material I'm writing sound “large" and he compliments the demo track I play for him saying that it's “sick". He's let's me know that he “digs" the vocal melodies on my songs and assures me that he's got a stable of singers that would sound “slammin" on them.
I nod a lot but don't speak much. I never talk, especially when I meet people for the first time, and I eye the stuff in the studio. The synths LOOK really cool for sure with their flashing lights reds and greens and blues... As he heaps on the encomiums about my songwriting, my attention wanders to the skunky scent of latent weed in the space. My brain registers the expensive equipment, the large gorgeous apartment that clearly doubles as studio and home, and the man's expensive clothes. Does he live alone? How could he afford a spot like this? Is he wealthy? Why is his rate so low? Why does he need my business at all? I feel the knot in my stomach tighten as my concerns begin to well up. To my great surprise, however, I hear myself say that I will sign up for 10 hours of studio time. He smiles at me.
By now, his cheery nature has worn down my natural neuroticism, and I'm feeling pretty good about this business transaction. I know I'm too uptight and I'm hoping that I haven't come off as a complete square. I begin to chastise myself for my ever present anxiety and command myself to relax. Relax , I tell myself, relax. He's cool. Relax. He likes you. Relax. Its cool. Relax. There's no reason to be so anal all the time. Relax relax relax.
A tidal wave of calm washes over me, and I laugh, quite involuntarily, when he emerges from an interior bedroom with a four foot bong. “We're buddies,” I think to myself as I take the first of three monstrous breaths required to get just one hit out of the huge device. I'm stoned on the first pull but take 3 more for good measure. His smile has taken on a smug quality now, but I know it's the weed fucking with me. We're friends. Pals. Smoking is what pals do.
It takes a little while for me to realize that I'm talking. That I had actually beem talking for a little while. I'm saying something clever about dance music mimicking the gelatinous nature of a puddle of water and the man nods. He's very interested in what I have to say, and lets me know that we will complete my nuanced revelation at our first studio date. As he shows me out of the apartment, I thank him, but I can't remember what for.
The street is beautiful in the radiant crepuscule of early fall. The cars passing by are like too rigid rectangular cement slabs on doughnut holes made of licorice. Balls of licorice. Duncan doughnut licorice balls. Balls. I am laughing. Convulsing in laughter. Writhing in mirth. Doubled over in hysteria. Licorice balls in mania. Haha, I cry. I feel my bladder close to bursting. Hahaha. Hahaha. Hahahahahahahahahahahahsaaaaaaaaaasaaasaaaaaaaaasah...
As the policemen approach me, I realize with detached indifference that I've been laughing blood. Crying blood. Pissing blood.
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