Hi my name is Brett, and I live in New York City. With the exception of that time I spent in a Mexican prison for male prostitution, I’m pretty much just an average guy. The Mexican prison thing was really just a big miss understanding. While visiting Tijuana, out of sheer curiosity, I decided to ask these guys what the local rate was, say if a fella should want to “receive”, fellatio from a “working girl”. Since my Spanish is horrible, they thought I was male hooker trying to negotiate a group rate, and the whole thing just got blown way out of proportion.
I’m originally from a small town called Grand Rapids Michigan, home of the Keebler Elf and the 80s sensation The Debarges. After graduating with honors from a very “prestigious” online university, where I majored in neuro surgery and minored in lesbian studies, I eventually set out to the big city in order to make a big name for myself. Unable to find a job in my chosen fields, I somehow found myself working for a small midtown company, selling copiers. Trust me, it’s even more glamorous then it sounds.
For some strange reason, all my life the craziest things always seem to happen either to or around me. So finally, with not much else to do with my time, I decided to write about it. I’m definitely not on track to win a Nobel Peace Prize with this blog. However, if you ever just want a quick chuckle in the middle of your day, please stop on by.
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I got a tip from my supervisor Chris that the major account rep position I had been wanting had recently just become available. It seems that Gracie, the little 68 year old Jewish lady that originally had the position; went on another one of her drinking binges and apparently got hit by another bus. Since this time Gracie was going to be in traction for at least a year, the position was pretty much up for grabs. It’s no secret that I had been after this position for a while. However, since the owner of the company Mr. Randall is known for being somewhat distant and cold, it makes him extremely hard to warm up to. Every single morning for the past 2 years, whenever I pass him in the hall, I always smile really big and say “Good Morning Mr. Randall! How are you doing on this beautiful day?” And every single morning for the past 2 years, he just looks at me with a blank face and says absolutely nothing. Although once I got excited because I thought he was finally waving hi; but as it turns out there was just a stupid fly in the hall.
After years of trying to get into Mr. Randall’s good graces, this past Friday God finally threw me a bone. It turned out that his wife Mrs. Randall was in the city for the day doing some shopping, and decided to drop by the office to take her husband to lunch. Although I had never really met Mrs. Randall before, she seemed like a pretty nice woman. Unlike her husband, she actually smiled at me as I walked by. That’s was when it finally hit me. I thought “Wait a minute! Everyone knows the easiest way to a person’s heart is through their family. If I could somehow find away to make Mrs. Randall love me; Gracie’s position would no doubt then be mine.” Since I saw that she was expecting, it was easy. I’d just surprise her with a really nice gift for the baby. What lady wouldn’t get all mushy over that sh*t? The idea was dare I say genius. Why didn’t I even think of it before? Since they were going out to lunch I realized I had about an hour to work my magic. So with minutes to spare, I hit the streets of Manhattan.
I stumbled across this really nice baby store on 5th avenue. All though the prices were way more expensive than I originally thought; I figured it really didn’t matter. After all, I was investing in my own future. The saleswoman immediately sprung into action helping me to find the perfect gift. Shopping for wealthy people can be somewhat tricky. Mainly because you never want to get the wrong thing and come off as cheap. Sometimes you have to spend big in order to play in the big leagues. With that said, I spared no expense and decided to go with the most expensive breast pump in the entire place. Talk about state of the art. This thing even had a special little feature to massage the tit after the baby was done. I literally thought of everything. Who cares that it cost more than my damn computer? Because of my gift, Mrs. Randall and her child would now have a bond that would last for the rest of their lives; and in my book that’s priceless. I had them gift wrap it beautifully, and also bought a dozen pink and blue balloons to give it that extra “wow” affect. It was so huge by the time she was done that I could barely even get through the door.
Heading back to the office, I could hardly wait to see the looks on their faces when I walked in with my gift. When Mr. Randall sees his wife all overwhelmed with emotion from her new breast pump, he would have no choice but to finally take notice of me. As a result, Gracie’s position would definitely be mine. Walking down the street I also thought, “Hey, wouldn’t it be so cool if after this, Mr. Randall invited me out to the house one Sunday afternoon for a round of golf?” Being that I was never all that close to my father growing up, I imagined “What if Mr. Randall even became that father figure in my life that I always dreamed of? Wouldn’t that be incredible? I could go with them on their little family vacations to the Hamptons; and even call him whenever I needed a little fatherly advice on dating situations or early detection of STD’s. Believe it or not but I actually got a little misty eyed just thinking about it; and wondering just how long it would be before I could start calling him pops. Most other sales reps would never even dream of spending three hundred dollars on a gift for their boss’s wife. But, I guess that’s what separates losers like them, from ingenious business mavericks such as my pops and I. In life it just never pays to be cheap. Sometimes in you have to just take a risk in order to win big.
I just happened to walk back into the lobby at the same time that Mr. & Mrs. Randall were kissing each other goodbye. This was finally my big moment of truth. There in front of the entire office, I walked over with the gift and balloons in hand, and exclaimed “Excuse me Mrs. Randall, I’m sorry to disturb you. My name is Brett Sanders and I’m a sales rep here. And I just wanted to congratulate you on this very special time in your life. This gift comes from the bottom of my heart. And don’t bother thanking me, because we’re family here. That’s just what we do.” To my surprise, the entire room went completely silent. And for nearly two minutes no one absolutely said a word. Somewhat confused, I took the breast pump out of the bag so she could see it, and explained “I wasn’t sure if it was a boy or a girl, so I just got something you could use regardless. From the look of things you obviously don’t have long. Have you already started picking out names?” At this point Mrs. Randall’s face turned almost fire engine red. Still not catching on, said to her “I imagine you’re probably too over whelmed with emotion to speak right now.” At that moment Mr. Randall just looked at me like I was the plague and exclaimed “My wife isn’t pregnant.”
Talk about awkward. That was so not the response I had expected to hear. Freaking out inside, I thought “How the hell was I supposed to know? Her stomach is so big she almost looks overdue.” I couldn’t believe what I had just done. I was so embarrassed that I just wanted to melt. Not to mention that by now it was so quite on the floor that you could literally hear everyone’s heart beating. At a complete loss for words, and about four months too late to yell “April Fools”; the only thing left I could think to say was “Wow. Uhm…are you guys by chance planning to have kids anytime soon?” With fire shooting from his eyes, Mr. Randall very calmly replied “No. We’re actually not.” I thought, “F*ck!! This is not definitely going as planned. I guess there goes the father son sack race at the next company picnic “ At this point literally grasping at straws, I responded with “Uhm…would you perhaps believe me if I told you I was Psychic?”
With everyone on the floor still pretty much standing there in shock; I figured it would probably be best if I just left early for the day. With my head down as low as it could go, as I walked by my supervisor on the way to the elevator; he looked at me and remarked, “But even if she was pregnant Brett. A breast pump? Really?”
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Sometimes I swear that my parents must’ve lost a bet to the gods the day I was born; because no one on earth could possibly have any worst luck than mine. Case and point; last Friday night after having one too many vodka gimlets in the city, I decided to take the A train back home to Brooklyn. Even though the A train is notorious for having somewhat shady characters late at night; I figured “Hell I’m a guy, what’s the worst that can happen to me?”
It was about 3am, so the trains were all pretty much a ghost town by now. When I stumbled on to the A, I immediately noticed a group of about 6 girls huddled over on the other side of the car. Judging by the fact that sitting there together, you would’ve sworn that you were looking at the Wu Tang Clan and with voices just as deep; I think it’s pretty safe to assume that they were all lesbians. In fact, I’d never seen so many manly looking women before in my life. Between all of their work boots; their baggy jeans sagged low over their boxers; and the way they pulled their Yankee caps low as they each took turns spitting their favorite Jay Z lyrics; it suddenly donned on me that they actually kind of looked more masculine than me. Sitting there in my skinny jeans, new white espadrilles, and my yellow metro-sexual v-neck I just got from American Apparel; I think it was pretty darn obvious who the bitch was on that train. With that said I just leaned back in my seat, and continued listening to The Best of Mariah Carey on my Iphone. I’ll tell you; absolutely no one belts out a ballad like that lady.
When the train made a stop at Canal, to my surprise another big group of lesbians got on. Believe it or not, but this group was even more masculine than the first. Actually this group of women was so big and Black, that my first thought was “Wow, there must be a Biggie Smalls lookalike conventions in town.” In fact, these new bitches were so butch that they actually made the first group look like The Pussy Cat Dolls. Several of them even had goatees, which really f*cked me up. At 3 am when you’re already tipsy, the last thing you need to see is a bunch of women looking like Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes. It took me a few extra minutes to process it. Now normally, it would be every guy’s fantasy to be stuck on a subway car at three in the morning surrounded by large groups of lesbians. However, this was most certainly not one of those occasions.
Apparently, the two groups of lesbians must’ve been some kind of rivals. Because moments after the 2nd group got on, there were lots of dirty looks followed by several nasty comments coming from both sides. Eventually things escalated because before I knew it, both sides had jumped up and began squaring off right there in the center of the train. Just as I’m really starting to get into Dream Lover; I looked up and suddenly everyone is now holding knives, bats, and brass knuckles around their fists. One girl even whipped out a big 12 inch black dildo with metal spikes around the head. I thought “What the f*ck is she going to do with that monstrosity?” Truthfully, it kind of scared me a little. I thought to myself, “I hope to God these sex toy companies are not using “real” models when they come up with these sizes. Because if there are really guys out there that big; then my ass is in a heap of trouble.” It would certainly explain why after all these years, women never seem to get a call back the next day.
Suddenly from out of nowhere, the prettiest one of the bunch who looked like a cross between Marsha Warfield and Refrigerator Perry threw the first punch. The next thing you know the entire train broke into complete pandemonium. Meanwhile here I am, a little 5’6 Black guy, trapped in the middle of a pack of big lesbian gang bitches out for blood. I had never seen women fight like this before in my life. Truthfully, men either. There were chin checks, body blows, and bitches hitting bitches with bats. For a second there, I actually thought I was watching that movie The Warriors in 3D (The Deleted Scenes). The only thing missing was the little guy with the freaky voice clinking two bottles between his fingers. It was pretty clear that the first group of lesbians were no match for the second. They did their best to hold them off; but as soon as the train came to a stop at Hoyt Street, they decided to make a run for it. The second group took off running right after them. Now here I am, still completely floored, and thinking “Okay, did I just stumble on some kind of secret underworld war zone?” Who knows; maybe lesbians always fight each other to the death, late at night on the trains when no one else is around? As far as we know, this could’ve been going on since the beginning of time. I could hardly wait to go write a letter to the people from True Blood and tell them damn those werewolves. If they really want to up it a notch, they need to introduce a pack of butch lesbians on the show. Talk about scary; those poor vampires wouldn’t knew what hit them.
Since Hoyt was also my stop, I got off the train too. Walking up the stairs, I thought “Damn why didn’t I take pictures, because no one is ever going to believe what I just saw.” Still giggling to myself, I pulled out my phone to send off a tweet. Just as I was pressing send, I heard a voice yell out “There goes another one! Get em’!” When I looked up, I saw the 2nd group of lesbians running towards my direction. Still a bit tipsy, I thought “Wow, it’s still not over! Let me get phone ready so I can record it this time.” Just as I turned around ready to push record; I realized that for some crazy reason, they all had now surrounded me; hyena style. Somewhat confused, I explained “Oh I’m sorry. There’s obviously some kind of confusion here. I wasn’t with that group of girls just now.” The leader of the pack all of a sudden stepped up and said “Don’t try to sell out yo’ crew now! I’m sick of you bitches always talkin’ shit at the club!” It suddenly hit me what was going on here. I quickly exclaimed, “Wait, you have this all wrong! Really! I’m not a lesbian.” At that point, all of the girls literally fell out on the floor laughing. The leader then replied “Bitch please! You may not be the most masculine one of the bunch. But I know a tired ass dike when I see one. Y’all get that bitch!!”
Thinking fast; I quickly socked the smallest one in the eye who looked just like Gary Coleman, and then took off running. So now here I am, running for my life through the streets of Brooklyn, with a pack of angry butch lesbians hot on my ass. This was definitely not the way I wanted to end my Friday night. The next thing you know, I tripped over one of my damn espadrilles; and before I knew it they were all standing over me kicking and punching me in the side. And just for the record, lesbians are extremely heavy handed. Next, a few of them held down my arms and legs so that I couldn’t get up. Suddenly, the leader steps up and yells “It’s time to really punish this bitch now! Break out Big Brutus!!” Now of course I’m thinking “Uh oh…what the hell is Big Brutus? This is not looking good.”
The next thing you know, one of the girls pulled back out the big black 12 inch rubber dildo with the spikes from earlier on the train. Then as if on cue, two others began unbuttoning my pants. I swear; you would’ve sworn that Liam Neeson had just announced for them to “Release the Kraken!”; because as soon as I looked up and saw that big black rubber dildo whipping back and forth in the wind; I thought to myself “Oh God, No!!!.” Panicked beyond belief, the only thing I could do was yell out “Jesus please be with me” right before I passed out cold. I guess my brain had seen enough episodes of OZ to realize that I probably wouldn’t want to be conscious for what was coming next. So just like when I was five, and my alcoholic grandmother used to breastfeed me, just so she could buy Colt 45 with the money my mother left for food; I went inside to my little happy place to hide until it was all done.
In the middle of being unconscious, I suddenly heard them saying, “Oh sh*t… we f*cked up! He really isn’t a lesbian.” When I came to seconds later, with my underwear still down to my ankles; the lesbians were all extremely apologetic saying repeatedly how sorry they were; and how it was an honest mistake; and that it really could’ve happened to anyone. But as I stood up to gather myself, I realized that they all seemed to be looking at me with judgment, and snickering. When I realized exactly what they were all laughing at, it absolutely infuriated me. I yelled “What the hell is so funny? Obviously this isn’t my normal size! I was scared! ” Hell, everyone knows that being petrified is just like being in water. It causes severe shrinkage. Still snickering as they walked away, they tried patronizing me by saying, “Hey man… it’s not a problem. We totally get it.” As I walked back home that night still battered and bruised, I declared in that moment that I absolutely hate all lesbians: what the hell do they know about penises anyway? And I can’t wait until I see another one on the train, so I can finally show them what my “normal” size looks like.
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It all started with a call from my friend Dave. Dave works part time at the local senior citizens home taking patients out for their daily walks. Some people walk dogs for a living; Dave walks old people. Apparently Dave had lost his wallet the night before, and was now stuck all the way in the Bronx. He explained that he would definitely be fired if he missed one more day at work, and then begged me to cover for him just this one time. He pleaded, “Please, I promise you it’s so easy. My patient’s name is Miss Clarabelle, and I swear she’s literally the sweetest old lady in the world. All you have to do is go take her on a walk around the block; and then to her favorite little diner on 7th Ave. She even pays for lunch, how simple is that?” Of course I’ve learned from experience that nothing is ever that simple with Dave. However as much as I had no desire to spend my whole Saturday afternoon “Walking Miss Daisy”, I couldn’t just let my friend lose his job. Mainly because then his stank feet would be on my couch for the next 3 months. So, I finally agreed to cover for his ass just this once, for 45 bucks and plus of course the free lunch.
When I arrived at the center, as promised Miss Clarabelle was already sitting in her chair ready to go. Miss Clarabelle was a little frail 75 year old white woman with varicose veins and and a huge cigar. With a big smile I introduced myself and explained that I would be replacing Dave for the day. To my surprise, she didn’t say a word. I assumed she had a bit of a hearing problem, so I repeated myself again much louder. Still, although she was looking right at me she said absolutely nothing. At that moment Miss Clarabelle’s day nurse walked in the room and said “Oh she heard just you fine. She’s just being difficult. She won’t say too much to you today at all. Although she may call you a spear chuckin’ nigger if she gets the notion. But pay her no mind.” I thought “Wow, this is just great. I’m stuck for the day babysitting Mel Gibson’s grandmother. Dave strikes again.” As I began helping Miss Clarabelle to her walker, the nurse turned to me and said “By the way, did Dave tell you? Because of Miss Clarabelle’s medical condition; she must go to the bathroom every single day at noon. If bowel gets backed up in her system, she could get real sick and die. Now she’s not going to remind you, because she absolutely hates to go. But it’s extremely important she does. She doesn’t have a choice.” I thought “Great, another thing that asshole conveniently forgot to include.” I swear it never pays to be nice. Miss Clarabelle and I then began our journey around the streets of Brooklyn.
I quickly learned that nothing on this entire planet is near as excruciating as trying to take an old 75 year old woman for a walk. Every single step seemed like an eternity. First, it would take everything she had just to scoot her little walker up literally a whole half an inch. Then, I’d have to sit there and watch patiently while she spent the next five minutes trying to catch up to it with her feet. Then if that wasn’t bad enough; every now and then she would somehow get confused and forget which way she was walking. This of course meant I’d have to wait an additional 6 minutes just for her to untangle her legs and head the right way again. Believe it or not, it took us close to 45 minutes just to make it out front to the sidewalk. Finally not able to take it anymore; as soon as we got out of eye range of the building; I placed Miss Clarabelle in the little built in seat and proceeded to push her the rest of the way. I figured at that rate, summer would be over by the time we made it back.
We finally arrived at the little diner around the block, and sat down for what had to be the most awkward lunch of my life. The entire time we ate, Miss Clarabelle just sat there and dog stared me in complete silence, while she gummed away at her little low sodium pretzel sticks she brought from home. I mean, you could literally hear a pin drop at the table. This lunch could not go by fast enough. I just happened to look at the clock and realize it was noon. Remembering the stiff warning I got from the nurse, I immediately sprung into action. The following is a transcript of our conversation:
Me: Uhhm Miss Clarabelle. You see the clock? It’s 12:00pm.
Clarabelle: So.
Me: Well, you have to go to the restroom right?
Clarabelle: No I don’t.
Me: But your nurse said you have to go every day at noon.
Clarabelle: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Me: She said it’s kind of crucial that you go, or else you’ll get sick.
Clarabelle: I don’t have to go. I went before we left.
Completely baffled, I’m now thinking “Well if she doesn’t have to go, I certainly can’t make her.” Just to be safe, I called up the nurse and informed her that she obviously didn’t have to go. The nurse then replied, “Don’t pay her any mind. She does this all the time. You need to make her go otherwise she will die.” I thought “WTF!! I basically had minutes to force Miss Clarabelle to go pee against her will; or else end up with an old dead white woman on my hands. What kind of a f*cked up Bruce Willis movie was this? I felt like I was starring in “Pee Hard 2 With a Vengeance”. This was not how I imagined my Saturday afternoon going. I finally took a deep breath; and then calmly explained, “Miss Clarabelle, I just spoke with your nurse. She says that you have to go to the restroom whether you want to or not. Now either we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way. It’s up to you?” Miss Clarabelle just looked away and began whistling like I wasn’t even there. I realized then that this was not going to be pretty.
Determined to save this old lady’s life, I stood up from my seat and exclaimed, “Okay Miss Clarabelle, time to go make water.” To my surprise, as slow as she moves; she suddenly jumped up without her walker and tried to make a mad dash for the door. Or at least her version of one. The diner was small and pretty narrow, with about 5 booths on each side and a little restroom back in the center of the room, just big enough for a toilet and a sink. With no other choice; I grabbed Miss Clarabelle by the arm, and literally began pulling her back to the restroom kicking and screaming. Now picture me; a little 5’6 Black guy; struggling to pull this 75 year old white woman into a public restroom against her will while everyone in the whole diner looks on. In that instant I thought, “Why does this sh*t always end up happening to me?” Of course being the only Black guy in the place, I could only imagine what was going through everyone’s head. I’m sure they all thought I was some perverted little geriatric rapist, out for some poontane at any cost. Any second now, I just knew someone was going to reach for their pepper spray. After about several minutes of us seriously struggling in the middle of this dining room; one of the ladies eating at the counter shouted out “The other guy usually just carries her in there. It’s much easier that way.” Then everyone went back to eating as if this happens every single day. I immediately thought, “I’m gonna kill that f*ckin Dave!” Then just as she suggested, I picked Clarabelle’s old ass up over my shoulders, and carried her into the restroom with her screaming and fighting.
Once inside the little bathroom stall, Clarabelle still refused to go. For the next 10 minutes I had to literally wrestle with her to get her panties and stockings down; while she tried to bite my hands with her dentures. I thought, “Man…this picture is wrong on soooo many levels.” As soon as I finally managed to get her little old lady stockings down below her saggy ass; she quickly crisscrossed her legs so I couldn’t get them down below her knees. This old brawd had skills. When I still didn’t give up, she yelled out “Rape! Rape! There’s a spear chuckin’ nigger in here trying to rape me!” I then heard a random female voice yell casually back from the other side, “Clarabelle honey, you know its noon! You have to go or you’ll get sick and die!” I guess Clarabelle finally exhausted herself out and decided to give in; and talk about “Thar she blows.” The second her old ass hit the seat it was like a giant pee bomb suddenly went off inside her vagina. Honestly, I had no idea pee could even shoot out at that velocity. And nothing on this entire planet, can compare to the odor of a 75 year old woman’s piss. The flies in the room even had a look on their faces like, “Man…what the f*ck is that?” I mean; I’ve even been tear gassed before, but tear gas had nothing on Miss Clarabelle’s piss. I could physically see the oxygen leaving the room. I quickly realized if that was what number 1 smelled like; there was no way in hell I was waiting around for number 2. Unable to hold my breath a second longer, I mustered up enough strength to say, “Miss Clarabelle I’m going to step out for a moment and give you your privacy.”
I went back to my seat and attempted to catch my breath for a few minutes. I seriously could not believe what I had just gone through. I immediately pulled out my phone and tried to call Dave, but of course that bastard was nowhere to be found. I eventually calmed down when I realized that as crazy as that whole ordeal was; I was just beyond grateful that the difficult part was now at least over. I thought, “Finally, I can finish up my little lunch in peace.” Just then; the bathroom door suddenly swings wide open; and Miss Clarabelle is sitting there on the toilet with her panties down to her ankles, for the whole world to see. Then… at the top of her lunges; she yells out,”Okay I’m done. You can come wipe now!!!”
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Great News!!!!!!
Brett and the City is now a Nationally Syndicated column… which means you now get B&TC twice a week! In addition to every Monday here on the site; every Friday you can also swing by my new home over at The Fresh Xpress: The Pulse of Young Black America.
I am super excited to get to share Brett and the City with over 100,000 brand new readers; and also to be the very first African American Humorist with a weekly syndicated column. And I owe it all to you, my dedicated readers who have always gone above and beyond to support the blog series, and promote it to your friends, coworkers and loved ones!!
Please make sure to spread the word… and also click the link below to check out the very first episode on TheFreshXpress.com and leave a message below.
Thank you all tremendously for your continued support !!!
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Selling copiers in New York City, literally every day is a new adventure. One moment you could be at a Fortune 500 company on Wall Street; and the next some hole in a wall organization in the Bronx, set up to teach old retired street whores how to read. There’s literally no telling where the day might lead. Once without knowing; I was accidentally scheduled an appointment with, what ended up being the New York branch of the KKK. Boy were they surprised to see my Black ass walk in. However, being the consummate professional; I actually still ended up selling them three copiers that day. In fact I gave them such a great deal, that the grand wizard himself even walked over to me and said, “Son, thank you kindly. And if you weren’t a coon chassin’ nigger…I’d actually shake your hand.” Strangely enough, I was actually kind of touched. I guess you just had to be there. Today was definitely one of those days as well. After months of trying, I was finally granted a meeting with the Permanent Mission of Nigeria; which basically is Nigeria’s embassy located here in Manhattan. From KKK grand wizards, to a room full of Nigerian diplomats: you couldn’t possibly get more polar opposite.
When I first arrived at their building, I was completely blown away. In one of the most exclusive sections of Park Avenue, was this enormous townhouse made completely of marble with two big Nigerian flags posted out front. It felt like a scene right out of Coming to America; and in any moment James Earl Jones himself, was going to answer the door wrapped in a Lion, followed by three topless women sprinkling rose pedals. As I approached the grand foyer that was carved out of gold; even with my suit on I still felt somewhat underdressed. After giving myself the standard pep talk, I eventually rang the bell. After stating my credentials I was finally buzzed in. Once inside, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Looking around the room, it was evidently clear that whatever decorating budget they had; must’ve been spent entirely on the outside. Because inside had to be one of the most ghetto offices I had ever seen in my life. The paint was chipping off all the walls; the sofa and chairs were all covered in plastic; and above the fireplace was a gigantic poster of their president, stuck to the wall with scotch tape. For Nigeria to have so much money; their décor was… let’s just say, very “apartheid-chic”. When I informed the receptionist that I was there to meet with Ambassador Obutu; he instructed me to have a seat in the lounge.
At 98 degrees, today had to be one of the hottest days we’ve had all year; and as a result waiting for Mr. Obutu, my ass had already began to stick to the plastic sofa. Across the room they had one of those old wooden floor model TV’s from the 70’s; and then propped on top of it, was a little 17 inch flat screen TV that actually worked. Apparently they didn’t have cable, because sticking out from the back of the flat screen was a stretched out hanger used as a make-shift antenna. Now you would think that in a place as official as a government embassy, the TV would broadcast CNN or the BBC all day. However to my surprise, the TV stayed locked on The Jerry Springer Show the entire time. And judging by the reaction from everyone in the room; you’d swear they were watching Masterpiece Theater. Now I’m assuming that the place also served as some sort of residential center; because sitting on the sofa I saw several pets just casually stroll by. There was an old dirty cat; a couple of mangy dogs; I even saw a little chicken run by the TV, which scared the living sh*t out of me. I thought to myself, “Now if I see a damn wildebeest run through this room, I am out.”
Ambassador Obutu and his advisory board finally came down, accompanied by one of Nigeria’s highest ranking ministers who had just flown in that morning. After our introduction, we all took a seat in the boardroom and began going over the presentation. Inside the boardroom had to be about 110 degrees easily. I had never in my life experienced such heat before. And the craziest part of all was that nobody else in the room seemed to be bothered by the heat, but me. Finally I in the middle of his speech I said, “I’m sorry to interrupt Mr. Obutu, but is someone going to turn on the AC?” To my surprise, he replied in his strong accent “We don’t have an AC. We don’t like them.” and then continued on with his speech. Now, inside my head I’m thinking, “Is he f*cking kidding me?” That room was hotter than a damn oven; not to mention without any ventilation, that strong Nigerian funk they were all giving off, seemed to be intensifying with every second. It smelt like somebody let loose a bag of angry skunks in the room; after they played 3 games of basketball. Suddenly in the middle of his speech, I interrupted again “I’m sorry…but can someone please maybe open up a window?” The head minister himself then replied, “No Window. It’s way too loud out there.”
Now cut to me sitting at a table full of powerful smelling Nigerians; my suit dripping with sweat; while everyone else at the table was basically cool as a cucumber. This was not looking good. As much as I wanted to leave, I desperately needed the sale to make quota. So with no other choice, I took off my jacket and just continued on with the meeting. Moments later, everyone at the table began looking at me strangely as I slowly began peeling off layers of my clothing one by one; anything to cool myself down. The next thing you know, I was literally sitting at the table in my white Fruit of the Loom tank top, fanning myself with some guy’s organizer. I mean, this was some serious ass heat. I must’ve lost consciousness for a second; because I was suddenly awakened by Ambassador Obutu yelling, “Mr. Sanders!! In Nigeria it is considered unacceptable to sleep during a meeting!” Now I’m not sure if deliria had set in; or if I just went loopy due to the heat-to-funk ratio in the room; but all of a sudden I just snapped. Not able to take it any longer, I stood up and shouted “Dammit I wasn’t sleep! I passed out! It’s hot as Satan’s ass in here! I don’t know what yall do in Africa; but over here in America, we use AC’s!” From then on, suddenly everything just went completely black. When I woke up, I was laying on the floor with a bunch of frantic Nigerians standing over me. I thought to myself, “Sh*t! I done died and went to the wrong damn heaven. I knew one of them mutha fka’s had a blow dart on him.” I realized I probably shouldn’t have opened my damn mouth. Now I’m gonna have to smell Nigerian funk for the rest of eternity.
I must’ve gone right back under; because the next time I woke up, I was at NYU Hospital with an IV sticking out my arm. Never in my life had I ever been so happy to see white people. As it turned out, I suffered a heat stroke and it took nearly two days for them to restore all of my fluids. And just in case you were wondering; once again, I did not get a sale. But the good news is; this morning I received an email from the President of Nigeria apologizing for my hospital stay; and stating that he would gladly reimburse me $10,000,000.00 dollars for all my medical expenses. All I had to do in return was simply email him back my social security number and bank account information.
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When we left off last week in “Part 1″, I had just gone to Starbucks to meet my blind date, who ended up being this psycho “Special Needs” super model with “Fake Down Syndrome”.
So now here I am, standing there looking bewildered while this little 4’6” women with “fake Down syndrome”, beats the crap out of herself in the middle of Starbucks, with everyone looking on. At that point I just looked up to the sky and said “Wow God, really?” Unfortunately this is all just a typical day in my world. With no other choice, I finally said to her “Alright already, I’ll go with you to your stupid event! Just stop making a scene!” At that point she literally stopped crying on a dime, and said “About f*ckin time. Look Buddy; I get that that there’s no love connection here, on either part. Obviously, I can tell buy those shoes you need cash. So, there’s five hundred bucks in it for you if you make it the end.” Appalled, I shouted under my breath “What a f*ckn bitch! You know, I can tell you don’t have really have Down syndrome. Because I watched that documentary on HBO, and they’re all much nicer than you! And for the record, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with these shoes!” As much as I wanted to call the whole thing off, I realized she had a valid point; I really could use the cash. So with minutes to spare, we jumped in a cab and headed over to Midtown Manhattan.
The cab pulled up in front of The Jacob Javits Center, and I could not believe my eyes. The Marquee read “The National Down Syndrome Awards”, and the entire place was filled with people with Down syndrome as far as the eye could see. There were literally thousands of them, in all shapes and sizes too. To be honest, at first it kind of freaked me out a bit. I don’t care how cool you are; nothing in your life ever prepares you for seeing two thousand Down syndrome patents at the same time, wandering around aimlessly in formal wear. It was almost as if we had stumbled onto the set of some weird new Tim Burton film. Some had on little tuxedos with top hats, some had on glittery evening gowns, and there was even one woman there dressed like a Down syndrome version of Lady Gaga; which to my surprise actually kind of turned me on a little. We eventually pulled to a stop at an area designated for celebrity drop offs. Sensing I was still a bit confused; Rena turned to me and said “Listen up; I don’t want to be around these freaks anymore than you. So let’s get this sh*t over with.” I kid you not; as soon as we stepped out onto the red carpet the crowd literally went berserk. Hundreds of people started running over. There were cameras flashing, teenage girls crying; I had never seen anything like it before. In all the frenzy, I even suddenly started to get excited myself. Turning to see what all the commotion was about, I said to Rena “OMG! Somebody big must be here! You think it’s Oprah?” She looked at me and replied “No, idiot it’s me. Look; just shut up and look pretty. You’re here to make Mama look good alright.” In that moment it then finally hit me, “Holy Sh*t, I’m here with the Down syndrome version of Madonna.” The entire way up the red carpet we were constantly bombarded by both fans and paparazzi alike. Even the reporters had Down syndrome, which made it a little hard to understand their questions. But excited to be there; every time they asked me a something, I just smiled real big and said into the camera “Down syndrome rocks!”
We made it to our seats just as the show was beginning, and oh what a show it was. In addition to all of the many awards being given out that night, were several choreographed song and dance numbers performed by the honorees. My favorite was the three girls that attempted the Down syndrome version of Beyonce’s “Single Ladies”. Talk about cool. With the exception of the one girl that kept stopping in the middle of the number to wave to her mom, and the other one that accidentally got tangled up in the curtains; it had to be hands down one of the most entertaining versions I’ve ever seen. During intermission, Rena and I went back to the greenroom to relax a bit before her appearance. Just as we were sitting at a table having a bite to eat; suddenly this 5’8 Down syndrome version of a gangster rapper, with gold chains and a baseball hat walked in, with his entourage in tow. Instantly the whole room became silent, and for some reason everyone started looking at me. Having no idea what was going on, I just continued eating my little sandwich. The next thing you know, this guy starts flipping over all the tables like a madman as he walks over in our direction. So now I’m completely freaking out. With my sandwich still in my mouth, I look over at Rena like “WTF? Is there something here I should know?” She then just rolls her eyes very casually and says, “Great, I can’t go anywhere. I knew this was going to happen.” With food spitting out of my mouth, I asked “Wait…what do you mean you knew this was going to happen? What’s going to happen???”
Now standing directly over us, the crazed rapper yells “Oh, so you come up in here with this cheap shoe wearing N*gga to get back at me?” Pissed, by now I’m thinking “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with these shoes!” Rena then shouts, “Killa G, I told you last night you and I were threw. I don’t love you anymore. This is my new man now!” Now really freaking out, I shouted “Why’d you tell him that? Look Killa G, we just met today!” Suddenly Killa G starts taking off his jacket and all of his gold chains as if he’s preparing for battle. Meanwhile, Rena shouts “Oh really Killa G, that’s so original! He always does this Brett. Just ignore him and act like he’s not even here.” Frantic I respond, “What the hell do you mean ignore him?” The next thing you know I felt a huge blow to the back of my head. Killa G had whacked me one. He then grabbed me in a headlock, and pulled me backwards out of the chair. I could not believe I had just gotten snuck by a gangster rapper with Down syndrome. This was indeed a new low point in my life. With no other choice I turned around, and to my surprise beat the living crap out of Killa G right there in the greenroom. I’d never whooped anybody’s ass like I did his that day. I discovered apparently people with Down syndrome don’t fight all that well. But that was his problem. Because he should’ve thought about that before he snuck me in the back of the head. Several members of his entourage jumped in to help, and believe it or not I whooped all their asses too. Never in my life did I dream I’d be able to kick a room full of guy’s asses. Talk about cool. It was like a scene right out of a karate movie. I thought, “Where are all those damn youtube cameras when you need them?” Suddenly, security came running over and tasered me a few times to calm me down. I was then escorted out of the back door and banned from ever attending the Down Syndrome Awards again. And the worse part of all was I never got my damn five hundred bucks.
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This past Friday I was beyond nervous as I headed off to Starbucks to meet my blind date, although technically it wasn’t really a blind date. We met a few weeks back on JDate, and since had spent a great deal of time swapping messages back and forth. Talk about an instant connection. There was however just this one little catch. Since she was this really big fashion model, and unable to post her picture due to contractual restrictions, which I totally understood; I literally had no idea what she looked like. Now under normal circumstances I would never dream of going on a date with someone sight unseen. But I figured, since she was a big famous model in all, I pretty much had nothing to lose. After all, how often does a guy get to go out with a real live super model? Honestly, I found the whole mystery of not knowing to be very romantic. I figured realistically, so what if her eyes are really only “dusty” blue instead of ocean; or if she’s really just a 34C cup instead of a 36DD; I can live with that. Hell, everyone fibs a little on line. I mean…truthfully I’m not exactly 5’8” tall, and technically I’m not really Jewish either.
We agreed to finally meet one another face to face, and my palms were literally dripping from anticipating how hot she would be. I even wondered if I’d recognize her from one of her many magazine covers; man wouldn’t that be cool? The plan was to first meet for coffee, and then head off to some big fancy event that she was modeling in that night. Talk about hitting the jackpot. I thought, “Not only am I now dating a famous super model. I was escorting her to a big celebrity event, which meant our red carpet photos would surely be seen all over the net.” I couldn’t wait to rub it in my grandmother’s face either; especially after spreading that huge rumor around her entire congregation that I was really a “big gay”, and had a thing for gerbils. I knew I shouldn’t have ever showed her how to work Twitter. So it goes without saying, just before walking in I called up my grandma’s voicemail and said, “Yeah Bitch. Make sure you catch Access Hollywood tonight. Something tells me you’ll be surprised at what you see. That is, if your cataracts isn’t flaring up again.” That’s just how we talk to one another.
Walking into Starbucks, I could not believe my eyes. There sitting alone at the bar was this beautifully exotic brunette with the legs of an Amazon. This girl looked like she stepped right out of a James Bond film. I instantly began to smile. I thought, “Wow Brett! You’re finally about to meet the woman you’re gonna spend the rest of your life with.” It actually felt surreal. For a second, I even got a little verklempt as I shed a little tear. I thought, “All of those cold lonely nights, God really had been listening.” Just as I wiped my eyes and began to make my way over to my new destiny; suddenly from behind in this weird little voice, I heard…“Brett? Is that you?” I turned around, and there sitting alone in a chair was this 4’6” little chubby woman with Down syndrome, and big yellow flower in her hair, smiling from ear to ear. Baffled, I replied “I’m sorry, do we know each other?” And with a sarcastic smirk she answered, “Well, I should think so.” Now, with all the nonprofit organizations I sell copiers to, I figured there’s literally no telling where I know this woman from. We probably met in some waiting room. Attempting to brush her off, I replied “I’m sorry if I seem a little rude, but now isn’t really the best time. I’m sort of here on a date.” Then with the biggest smile, she suddenly replied “Duhh… I know. You’re here to meet me, Silly. I’m Rena, I recognized you from your photo. And 5’8” my ass.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was beyond mortified. It was if someone had just pulled the world out from under my feet. I thought “WTF? I came out of my house expecting to meet Giselle, and somehow ended up with Blair’s retarded cousin from The Facts of Life. How on earth does this sh*t always happen to me? After waiting literally 12 minutes for Ashton Kutcher and his crew to come running out of from the bathroom, it finally settled in that this was really happening. I finally had to take a seat just to stop myself from passing out. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact I had been duped, yet again by another handicapped woman. “Are you okay?”, I heard the little voice murmur. “What’s wrong with you?” Enraged, I snapped “What the hell do you mean what’s wrong? You lied to me!” “I did no such thing.” she defensively replied. Trying my best not to make a scene, I whispered “You never told me you had…Down syndrome!” Then with a smug look on her face she replied back, “Well, did you ask?” “Did I ask???”, I shouted. “Who asks that? Besides, you told me you were a freakin’ super model, which obviously was another lie!” “It’s not a lie.” she answered, “I am a model. In the Special Needs industry.” “What do you mean Special Needs industry?”, I asked. “Well genius; you’ve obviously heard of sports and plus size models haven’t you?” She continued on very ‘matter of fact’, “Well, I’m what they call a Special Needs super model. I do lay outs for all the big healthcare magazines, medical catalogs, and pharmaceutical pamphlets. You know, really lame sh*t like that. But the pay is phenomenal!” Still confused, I asked “Well why don’t you sound like other people with…Down syndrome?” She then confessed, “Well technically, I really don’t have DS. I was just somehow born with this look. Which is why I do so well at modeling. I take direction way better than those other retards, which saves the clients tons of money.” Disgusted, I remarked “So you’re really just a fake?”, to which she replied back “Hey, a girl’s got to eat. And Mama likes sirloin.”
Finally hearing all I could take, I stood up to leave. She then quickly interjected, “Wait, you’re not leaving are you?” Still appalled, I shouted “Are you f*cking kidding? You surely don’t expect me to stay after this? You actually sicken me!” Suddenly, from all of the women shooting me evil looks as they stormed out calling me an “Asshole”, I instantly realized how this must’ve looked. Rena then replied, “You can’t leave now. I mean, we have a date. I can’t show up at the event alone. Besides, you’re not exactly my type either Buddy. You’re way too short.” I grabbed my things and whispered, “Look lady. You’re obviously off your meds or whatever it is you take. But I’m out of here. And I’ll have you know I’m considered tall in over 75% of Mexico!” Now this is where it really gets crazy. Just as I was leaving, Rena suddenly began to cry hysterically, and then started slapping herself repeatedly in the face while shouting, “I can’t do anything right! I’m just a big piece of sh*t!!” Okay. Now…cut to me standing there looking bewildered, while this little 4’6” women with “fake Down syndrome”, beats the crap out of herself in the middle of Starbucks with everyone looking on. Welcome to a typical day in my world.
Tune in next Monday to see what happened next. Believe it or not it even gets crazier…
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Every Friday at noon I have a standing appointment to see my therapist, but this past Friday was way more difficult than most. This past Friday was the anniversary of the day my mama killed my monkey.
Although no one would ever guess now; when I was a child, I was actually clinically diagnosed as being developmentally retarded. I even had to wear a special helmet until I was ten. Because of my severe learning disability, when I was seven years old my doctors assigned me my very own specially trained monkey. Yep, some people have guide dogs; I had what they called a “guide monkey”. The philosophy was that, since monkeys are naturally so much more smarter than retarded kids; they figured that by mimicking the monkey on a daily basis, they could help us with our basic cognitive skills. It was an extremely revolutionary program at the time. For the life of me, I don’t know why it didn’t catch on. My little monkey’s name was Bobo, and he was the best damn monkey any mentally disabled kid could ever ask for. In no time at all, Bobo and I became fast best friends. My grandmother even made us both little matching outfits for every day of the week. We did everything together too. We played together; ate together; bathed together; and at night we even prayed together. Bobo had the best little sense of humor too. I remember he used to do this little thing where he would pee in the bed, and then blame it on me in the morning; and we would just fall on our backs laughing at that for hours. With the exception of that big knock down drag out fight we once got into, over which Power Ranger could kick Superman’s ass; it was literally the happiest time of my life. That is, until the day my mother went and ended it all.
Truthfully, my mother and Bobo never really got a long all that well. If you ask me, she was always just really jealous of what we had. As a result she would always try to keep Bobo locked in his cage, complaining he was “unruly”. I will admit that Bobo could be a bit rambunctious at times, but he really didn’t mean anything by it. That was just his way. Unfortunately Bobo really didn’t help matters at all. He knew that Mama didn’t like him, and being the big jokester he was; he would sometimes like to do funny little things just to push her buttons. But just innocent little monkey stuff like; using her toothbrush in the morning, hiding dead mice inside her purse, or turning the water up as hot as it could go when she was in the shower. His favorite thing to do was to wait good until Mama was on her way out the door for work, and then he’d suddenly run up and snatch her keys, and then shove them up his ass and run out the room. Looking back, Mama lost a few good jobs behind that one. But it was all just typical stuff you’d expect with a monkey. What used to really get mama worked up, was when she would be in the kitchen cooking greens. Bobo would hop up on the stove, and then stick his finger in the pot and taste them. And everyone knows you can’t mess with a Black woman’s greens; but certainly that’s still no reason to kill a person.
For the record, I think there are some pets that Black people were just not meant to own. Black folks like pets we can yell at and curse out when we get mad. Take a dog for example. If you yell at a dog, he’s going to stop whatever he’s doing instantly, and run out the room with his tail between his legs. Try that with a cat and he’s going to just look at you like your crazy, then keep on doing whatever he’s doing. Monkeys are the same way. You can yell all you want at a monkey. Not only is he going to keep doing what he’s doing; he may even yell back, and that doesn’t work to well for Black people. Whenever Mama would get mad and yell at Bobo, he would just flip her the bird and then go upstairs and pee in her shoes.
The night of the big incident, Mama was already in a particularly bad mood. As a result I had warned Bobo to just leave Mama alone. But for some reason he was in an extremely silly mood that evening. I remember I was upstairs sleeping in my room, and Mama was down in the kitchen having cocktails with her special friend Aunt Bruce, and that’s when it all happened. Bobo used to have a tendency to like to show off sometimes in front of company. So apparently, he thought it would be really funny to go strutting through the kitchen with Mama’s good house shoes on. And that was when she completely lost it. All of a sudden, I heard Mama scream at the top of her lunges, “Lawd…if you don’t get yo’ little monkey feet out my good house shoes!!!!!”, and then the sound of fighting: pots clanging, pictures falling off the wall, etc. Panicked, I ran down to the kitchen to see what all the commotion was. By then Mama had Bobo off the ground choking him with both hands. I had never seen my mother like that. With tears in my eyes I cried “No…Mama no!!!” Mama’s special friend tried to stop her, but Mama had the strength of a mad woman that night. Bobo tried his best to hang on; but he was no match for Mama. I just remember seeing his little hairy legs flailing about, and his little monkey feet kicking out from under those house shoes. Then all of a sudden they just stopped kicking, and the shoes slowly dropped to the floor. I screamed for Bobo to “Stay away from the light!”, but obviously he didn’t hear me. And that was when I must’ve blacked out.
When I woke up the next day I was in the emergency room. I guess in all the excitement, I accidentally swallowed my tongue. Apparently that’s pretty common with retarded kids. And that was the last I ever saw of Bobo, or Aunt Bruce. Believe it or not, still to this very day I break down crying whenever I see a picture of a little monkey or a pair of pink Isotoner slippers.
This post was for you Bobo. I know you’re somewhere up in heaven right now helping little retarded kids learn.
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Sometimes I swear if it weren’t bad luck, I wouldn’t have any at all. For instance, today I was all set to close on a pretty decent size copier deal; and by descent I mean two midsized machines and a fax. Definitely not enough profit for me to go traipsing off to Dubai to kick it with P. Diddy; but certainly enough to at least keep my manager off my behind for the next three weeks. Everything was set; I had already spent the last several weeks haggling over prices with Mr. Williams, the President of a little rundown music company in Harlem. The only thing left to do was simply go get the contract signed. How easy is that…right?
I arrived at the record company just before noon. The receptionist stopped eating her potato salad and wing dings long enough to escort me to the office, but not without first letting me know how annoyed she was. When I entered, Mr. Williams was on a call. Definitely not the friendliest man in the world, without looking he motioned for me to sit. I took the seat directly across from his desk and waited patiently. Mr. Williams looks more like an old pimp than a music executive. He had on a fluorescent green suit with what looked to be sixteen buttons going down the front; an old Gary Coleman afro with a part up the side wide enough to land a little 727 on; and a thick mustache that looked as if he had spent all morning blow-drying it out. I swear if it wasn’t for the picture of Jesus behind his head, I would’ve sworn he prayed to Steve Harvey at night. I slipped the contract directly in front of him, hoping since he was obviously busy, he would perhaps just sign it while on his call, that way we wouldn’t have to speak at all. But as luck would have it that was not the case.
Mr. Williams continued with his call as if I wasn’t even there; talk about rude. Bored, I began glancing around the room to kill time. Hanging on the walls were pictures of all of the recording artists he’s worked with over the years. Such legendary mega stars like; Carl Carlton, Orange Juice Jones, Sheryl Pepsi Riley, and Peaches’s solo album after the big split up with Herb. Looking around I thought, “Damn, this brother ain’t had a hit since music switched over to cassette tapes. No wonder he is so cheap.” On his desk were several family pictures. One of him and his wife Musetta (think…Eddie Murphy’s Rasputia character but without the cute smile); and I swear what had to be the ugliest damn kids I’d ever seen presented in a frame. For a second I couldn’t tell if it was his family portrait, or if he snapped a shot in front of the gorilla exhibit at the Bronx zoo. Believe it or not, but the cutest one in the entire shot was actually Musetta’s little Boston Terrier. And even he had a look on his face like, “Good lawd these are some ugly mutha fkas.”
Mr. Williams finally finished up his call and began inspecting the contract for mistakes. Looking back in hindsight, if only I would’ve just shut my damn mouth, I would’ve been out the door with my contract signed. But seeing how for some crazy reason, I have this perpetual need to always make stupid small talk, I couldn’t leave the room without saying something. Glancing at a picture I remarked, “Wow Mr. Williams, that’s so cool. I had no idea you knew James Brown.” Without looking up he replied, “What are you talking about? I don’t know James Brown.” I then picked up the picture from his desk and restated, “Yes you do. See, you have this picture right here of you with your arm around him.” Puzzled, Mr. Williams finally looked up to see what I was talking about. After literally a ten second pause, he looked directly at me with a stone face and replied, “That’s not James Brown. That’s my mama.” Now I’m not exactly a musicologist, but dammit I know James Brown when I see him. Not only was it his exact same face; it was his same hair; same sweaty forehead; and even the same little tight white suit from the “Living in America” video. Surely this all can’t be a coincidence. So naturally I asked, “Are you sure that’s not James Brown? Because if not she’s definitely a dead ringer for him.”
With temples bulging, Mr. Williams completely snapped yelling, “N*gga didn’t I just say it wasn’t James Brown! I know my own damn mama when I see her!” In a matter of seconds, my sure thing suddenly just took an entire 360. I thought, “Dammit Brett, he was just about to sign. How in the word did you mess this one up? Now I’m gonna have to go back to my boss and explain yet again how I messed up another deal.” This did not look good. Trying to salvage the situation I explained, “I’m so sorry Mr. Williams! It was an honest mistake. Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is. Hell, I love James.”
At this point Mr. Williams was so mad I could actually see steam coming from the part in his afro. He jumped up from his desk and shouted, “N*gga, get the f*ck out of my office! Get out!” Startled and afraid, I hopped up and quickly began gathering my things. Still somewhat optimistic I asked, “Mr. Williams, about the contract. Did you want to maybe…just fax it to me later?” Enraged, he yelled “No, actually just stay yo’ ass right there! We can take care of it right now!” So mad by now he literally had tears running down his face; he began frantically searching through his desk. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he wasn’t searching for a pen. Not being one for surprises, I leaped over the chair and ran out the door. Walking back to my office empty handed, something told me that it wasn’t Mr. Williams first time hearing that.
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Every block in New York has its legendary characters that everyone in the neighborhood knows. Meet mine: an old homeless crack hooker whom everyone refers to as “Holler Back”. She got her name because morning, noon, or night for the past eight years, she stands on the same corner with a sun dress on and a 40oz bottle in her hand, shouting “Holler Back Mutha Fckas!” to everyone who walks by.
Holler Back, is pretty much known throughout all of Brooklyn for her trademark salutation. Whereas, it’s probably customary for most to smile and wave hello to people in the neighborhood as they walk or drive by: Holler Back instead lifts up her skirt and shows everyone her twat; flies and all. Talk about “Distracted Driving”. I think poor Oprah may be focusing on the wrong cause. I’d sure love to see that bumper sticker. Holler Back is an extremely colorful character to say the least. Whenever you walk by her corner there’s literally no telling what she might be doing. She could be hanging off the light post doing chin ups; she could be uprocking to her boom box in the middle of the day with no shirt on; or completely passed out, face down on the sidewalk taking a nap. Last week at 8:30a.m, I saw her straddled across a traffic barricade as if on a horse, with one hand in the air shouting “Wild Wild West Mutha Fckas!!!” at the top of her lunges.
Although Holler Back is notorious for shouting obscenities and cat calls to people walking by; for some odd reason she’s actually obsessed with me. This means whenever she sees me, she amps it up even more. I’ll never figure that one out. I can barely get a regular girl to call me back; but apparently to old homeless crack whores, I’m the next best thing to Denzel. The very second she sees me approaching; she literally stops whatever she’s doing and begins licking her lips. This is of course followed by her yelling, “N*gga come give me some of that! You little short mutha fcka!” from all the way across the street. It’s weird, because I can actually feel her undressing me with her one good eye. She lost use of the other one in a fight with a pit bull a couple years back. In his defense, she had been picking with that pit bull for months.
This Friday for some strange reason, Holler Back seemed to be in particularly rare form. On my usual route home from work, I suddenly felt someone grab my ass from behind. Startled, I whipped around only to discover Holler Back standing there with a look in her eye that was even strange for her. I immediately yelled, “Holler Back…what the hell has gotten into you?” to which she replied, “N*gga…I’m sick of you taunting me! I’m about to get me some of this!” Now, I’m not sure if she accidentally got a hold of some bad crack; or if all of those years of fantasizing over me had finally just taken its toll, but something told me right then that I was in trouble. It was as if she was Clarisse “Precious” Jones, and I was that bucket of chicken. She proceeded to grab for my “Johnson” several times as I quickly pushed her hands away. “What in the world has gotten into this crazy bitch?”, I thought. Thank God I caught that Oprah episode on How to Protect Yourself Against Date Rape. Just like the expert on the show instructed: I made direct eye contact, and in a deep firm voice shouted “Stop…Holler Back! No means no!” But apparently, Holler Back doesn’t watch that much Oprah. Because the more I resisted, it was like the more she got turned on. This was not looking good.
The next thing I knew, Holler Back and I were literally rolling around the sidewalk wrestling at 5:30 in the day. I thought, “How in the world does this sh*t keep happening to me?” I called out several times for help to people walking by; but instead everyone just laughed and pulled out their phones to record the fight. By this time she was so close that I could literally smell her breath; which smelled just like a combination of Spam, Maxwell House, and old vagina. I struggled like crazy to keep her from unzipping my pants. I don’t know what mutated strand of crack she was on, but it was like she had the strength of two gorillas. Perhaps it was all of those damn chin ups. Panicked I thought, “OMG, maybe Holler Back is gonna’ finally get her some of this today after all.” I had already made up my mind that if she somehow got a hold of my penis with her grimy little hands, there was no way in hell I was going to keep it. I’d just as soon cut it off and live out the rest of my days as a lesbian. I wanted to die right there from the smell of her breath alone; but the thought of everyone walking by and watching her do “God only knows what” to my lifeless corpse was just too much to bear. With that said, I began fighting for my life.
I finally managed to get her off of me long enough to hop back to my feet and run, but to my surprise she still took off after me. Now here I am in my suit and tie, running down Dean Street with an old homeless crack whore chasing behind me. Yes…welcome to my world folks. As soon as I got home I called the NYPD to file a sexual assault charge. However, hadden already heard tale of the incident; instead they all just laughed and asked if they could take pictures of me for their Facebook pages. Talk about unprofessional. Guess who won’t be getting a check for the Policeman’s Ball this year?
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