White Room
Chapter 3: A Visit
Excerpt from A Visit by Ted Hughes
All around me that midnight's
Giant clock of frost. And somewhere
Inside it, wanting to feel nothing,
A pulse of fever. Somewhere
Inside that numbness of earth
Our future trying to happen.
I look up--as if to meet your voice
With all its urgent future
That has burst in on me. Then look back
At the book of printed words.
You are ten years dead. It is only a story.
Your story. My story.
-----//
Detroit Hip Hop Magazine – March 17, 2003
EMINEM DOES NOT REPRESENT REAL RAP
By Sara Tyler
People are always explaining to me the greatness that is Eminem. "His flows are sooo tight!" "I love the part where he rhymes about killing his baby's momma." "I can not believe Triumph tried to front on his ass, I woulda f'd that bitch up hardcore!"
These are typical things I hear "Em-heads" say regarding the modern genius. Yet for those that really care about music and hip-hop, Eminem's talent is highly overrated and overblown.
Ever wonder why most of his singles sound like music that came directly from a carnival, or perhaps the kind of music kids hear while on the merry-go-round? It is as if Dr. Dre could not get anyone to listen to his protege unless he put those childish "clowning around" beats into Slim's albums. The only other song Eminem knows how to make is the angry, self-pitying song about how hard his life is. These songs sound like hip-hop versions of Linkin Park. Eminem cannot hold a candle up to the great emcees, past and present. He is not as influential as De La Soul or NWA, nor is he as creative as Cee-Lo or Dizzy Rascal. He has no message for political or social change like J-Live or A Tribe Called Quest and he does not come close to the type of energizing flow of Busta Rhymes or Biz Markie……..
Sara Tyler is the daughter of conservative Michigan ex-senator Jackson Tyler. A Yale graduate, Ms. Tyler is a freelance writer who has contributed articles about the hip hop culture and reviews of many hip hop artists for Detroit Hip-Hop Magazine, Urban Magazine, Da Streetz, XXL, and The Source. She currently lives in Detroit, Michigan.
-----//
I used to be proud of articles like the one above. As a matter of fact, I still read my old articles with a sense of satisfaction and veneration; I managed to tell the harrowing truth without sweetening the details. My analysis was objective and straightforward like any journalist’s insight should be. For this undisputable fact, I was (and still am) the envy of the music journalism world. Honesty is the best policy, and it is my policy. If that makes me a bitch, then so be it. In my opinion, it is a compliment to be called a bitch, not an insult.
In fact, it is my tact that often gets me in trouble. When I attended pre-school at the ironically not sunny Sunnybrook Pre-school, the teachers would let the children play in an outside playground next to a forest. One day, one of my good friends and I snuck away from the playground and played in the forbidden forest. Not long, though, we both overheard two men having an intense argument. I clearly remember seeing the first man murder the second man by firing a bullet from his rifle straight to his head. My cowardly friend immediately ran back to the pre-school howling and screaming while telling the teachers of the events that had just transpired. However, when they asked her to describe the scene, she mentally went back to infancy and babbled incoherently. When I was then asked to describe the event, I thought long and hard about how to describe such a gruesome scene. After considering the pros and cons, my four year old mind decided that even though they were expecting a long and detailed narrative, I could not lie to them by adding erroneous details just because I couldn’t find the words to describe the story. So, I told the truth:
“Latisha couldn’t describe what happened because there are no words that can be used to describe this incident. I simply cannot describe it, Mr. Police Officer, because it cannot be described. It is indescribable.”
That comment earned me a week of time-out, the elimination of all of my “second desert” privileges, and the contempt of the Rochester, Michigan Police Department.
People often ask me if I feel any regrets or any slight hint of remorse over “what I had done”. First of all, I want to make it clear to anybody reading this that I did not do anything. I was always taught that only you are in charge of the life that God has given you. Therefore, I am responsible for my own actions; the haggendas is responsible for his own actions. However, if I had done something (and this is not an admission of guilt), then I would never, ever feel remorse or regret for any of my decisions or my actions. And why should I? No one can go back in time and change the circumstances so what is the point of feeling guilty over what happened and what didn’t. When I was little, my mother would often scold me over something I did wrong, and I would always lock myself in my room kicking and crying. In her usual manner, she would always yell, “Sara, you child! Stop your crying. What is past is past. Tears and whining will not change anything!” That lesson has always stuck with me. Besides, if this is all part of God’s greater plan for us, then I am willing to accept it. And the haggendas should too… but he is a sick, weak thing.
All around me that midnight's
Giant clock of frost. And somewhere
Inside it, wanting to feel nothing,
I know that to many of my readers, the last name of “Tyler” might sound familiar, especially if you live in Michigan. My father is, indeed, Jackson Tyler, the first African-American to be elected senator of Michigan from 1988 to 2000. He was (and still is) one of the most prominent leaders of the Black Conservative Movement--- a coalition that enlightens African-Americans to stop listening to rabble-rousing ridiculous black liberal leaders such as Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson and take back responsibility for his or her own life. The organization vehemently promotes limited government, more military spending, tax cuts, the end of the welfare program, privatization of social security and family values (such as the banning of gay marriage and abortion). My father worked hard under the dreadful Clinton administration against the idiotic liberals that roamed Washington D.C. As a reward, my father received a personal “thank you” from our current president, George W. Bush, for his determination to spread the “ideals of conservatism” to people that had been “idealistically hijacked by illogical liberal outsiders”. For this reason, my father, who is now retired, lectured at Morehouse College in Atlanta, Georgia about how detrimental President Bush’s war on terror is to world peace. He argued that Bush’s domestic policies are, indeed, beneficial to the black community. The man, considered a champion of civil rights, received a standing ovation for that speech. He deserves the praise too. From founding hospitals to visiting ghettos, my father has done everything for the black community, and that is why he is the most respected man in Michigan; a man most Democrats cower before.
If my father is the best example of a remarkable African-American male, then my mother is the perfect example of a remarkable African-American woman. Strong and unyielding, she cannot tolerate any “funny business”. She wears her pride and determination like a badge of honor, and I believe that this is what I have inherited from that inspiring woman. She is tall and beautiful, like me, with sharp brown eyes and a proud nose. Her thick black hair is always combed perfectly into a weave although recently she cut it off and wears it with natural curls. In my opinion, she looks even more stunning now. I will always thank her, though, for instilling religion on me and my brothers and sisters. Without God and Church, I would have definitely turned out to be a little heathen. People hate her because she often speaks her mind. For these reasons, she (along with my father) is my personal hero; both are brave moral warriors fighting against everything that is evil.
I am the oldest sibling in a family with four children. Currently, I am 26 while my second oldest brother, Ben, who is 23, graduated from Harvard with honors last year with a 4.1 GPA. He is currently enrolled in the Harvard Business graduate school seeking a master’s degree in international business. My little sister, Ebony, is 21 years old and currently attends the University of Michigan double majoring (out of all silly things) in Social Anthropology and Art History. Ebony has always been, to say the least, different from the rest of our family. Always with her head in the clouds, Ebony, throughout her high school career, spent most of her time painting and writing poetry rather than focusing on school work. Ebony’s situation was even more desperate due to the fact that she was never as intelligent as me and my brothers. For all of these reasons, Ebony was rejected from every single major university in the eastern and western United States. Sometimes, I still remember her sitting on the kitchen table crying tears that would stain the ink on the college rejection letters while my mother would sharply yell, “Stop crying!” Therefore, my sister was doomed for mediocrity when she was accepted to the University of Michigan. Even though they never explicitly show it, I’ve always known that my parents are extremely disappointed in Ebony. But it is an expected disappointed because from the time Ebony was in elementary school, they never had any high hopes for their academically lackluster third child.
There were times, when she was still in high school, when Ebony would randomly start crying and experience “depressive periods” as she liked to call it. Although my parents never really believed that she was depressed, they took her to a psychologist anyway because, if they didn’t, Ebony would blab to everyone that her parents were “uncaring bastards”. Of course, the psychologist diagnosed Ebony as “depressed” because that was what Ebony wanted to hear. My father, who, like me, does not believe that psychology is a real science, dismissed Ebony’s so-called sickness as “whine-it is”. I still whole-heartedly agree with him. It was so obvious that Ebony was trying to gain attention for herself. She has always been such a selfish person; always committing crazy, dramatic acts in order to worry my mother and father. If I would have been my parents, I would have kicked her out of the house long ago. But she is at college now so my parents do not worry themselves to death anymore.
All around me that midnight's
Giant clock of frost. And somewhere
Inside it, wanting to feel nothing,
On the other hand, my youngest brother, Kwame, who is 17 and an honor student at my old high school alma mater- Rochester High School, is the apple of my parents’ eye. He is not only good-looking like my father, but he is terribly intelligent. God above must have blessed him with the oratory skills of Winston Churchill because the speeches he gives as student body president can move apathetic teenagers to tears. He is an amazing debater and always defends the ideals that my father has worked so hard throughout his life to protect. In fact, my father is so proud of Kwame that he always introduces him as “my son, Kwame, the future first black president of the United States.” Far from a nerd, Kwame is the most popular senior at Rochester High School with literally hundreds of girls calling the house late at night asking for “my baby’s daddy, Kwame!” Mother had a fit the first time she heard a girl refer to his baby boy as “her baby’s daddy” until Kwame had to explain to her that it was just an expression. An “expression from the hip-hop generation” as he so eloquently put it. And he would know about the hip-hop generation. Like yours truly, he loves hip-hop especially street thug artists like Three Six Mafia, 50 cent, and Ludacris. He hates Tupac, though, because he is boring and “idealistically confused”.
You may be wondering why Kwame has such a drastically different name compared to me, Ben, and Ebony. The reason is because our family went through a “Let’s get to know our African roots” phase after we took a trip to Monrovia, Liberia. We never really visited any of the tribes there (“Too much sickness and AIDS infestation. A dirty place. Not vacation friendly,” my father would say). However, we did get in touch with the African side of our “African-Americanness” after watching many African dancers and listening to many African stories at the Hilton Hotel in Monrovia. My mother was so inspired that after she became pregnant, she named her new baby after our tourist guide from the Hilton, Kwame. My mother even renamed me Jywanza which I think means “Queen”, although I’m not sure. I often like to call myself Jywanza….
We never talk about our Brazilian heritage, though. This is because my grandfather, a Brazilian native, hated it there. Because my grandfather had denied his native country, my father grew up speaking not one drop of Portuguese or knowing anything about Brazil. This is why my father, in speeches, likes to say that his father was born in Nigeria rather than Brazil It’s best for his career anyway because there are more African-Americans in this country than Brazilian-Americans. Anyway, my grandfather grew up poor in Sao Paolo, but using his cunning and intelligence, made his first million by the age of 24 in the rubber industry. When he was thirty, my grandfather found a prostitute on the street and being the avid Christian soldier that he was, he converted the prostitute to an upright Christian lady. My father always likes telling this story to voters because it shows how through the power of God, one can save even the lowest and most despicable of people. Grandfather married this prostitute, and after he changed his name from Caetano Pedro Gilart to Peter Tyler, he moved with my grandmother to Detroit and thrived in the automobile industry making millions.
The prostitute he married- my grandmother- is a strange person, though. From the time I’ve known her, she has been crazy. She rarely talks, and when she does, she bursts out with the most lunatic-driven expressions. My grandmother Laura (my father changed her name when they moved to America also; no one remembers her original name, not
even she) spends every day staring at a blank wall and talking to herself. This is why she has been locked inside my grandfather’s house for over 30 years. Even though, the crazy lady is kept hidden from the world, gossip is still spread about her. People have even told me that they had heard rumors that my grandmother once tried to kill my father with a baseball bat. The lunatic may have converted to Christianity when she was in Brazil, but now there is no evidence of her participating in decent Christian worship. She never goes to Church and instead takes part in rituals worshipping strange creatures and talismans. My grandfather says that she is crazy because God is punishing her for a lifetime of sin and denying God. I never talk to her, though. She scares me.
Our hometown, Rochester, Michigan, is the “capital of upper class surburbia” as the New York Times once called it. For once, the liberals at the New York Times were right because our suburbs are the cleanest and safest in the United States with good moral people and churches in every corner. It is a town with the highest per capita income in the United States--- beating out several affluent Connecticut towns. Rochester is home to some of the richest lawyers, doctors, and businessmen in Michigan. Despite of what you may think, there is a great nest-egg of rich black people in Rochester who often throw social events at the Rochester yacht club. This is our social circle where my family has made all of their friends and business partners. It is also a town where 96% of the citizens vote Republican therefore, politically, it was heaven for my father.
“The other 4% are probably the janitors,” my father privately joked.
In high school, I was your typical popular black girl with amazing grades, many friends, and the captaincy of the cheerleading squad. I was pretty so I had many boyfriends and admirers. I was voted both “Homecoming” queen and student body president during my senior year. I was the envy of every girl in Rochester High School. In fact, I was so envied that in my yearbook superlatives, I was named “The Perfect Girl” and indeed, I felt perfect. Everything was under control. I could manage every obstacle in my way because I was loved by everyone and things would always turn out alright. And even if things don’t turn our fine, I had the courage and strength to go on because back then I still had my youthful optimism. In many ways, I still strive to be a perfect person. Everything in my house is always clean and beautiful. I must always look my best wherever I go. My white room cannot have a single stain or mark--- it must be perfect because that is what is expected of me--- PERFECTION.
All around me that midnight's
Giant clock of frost. And somewhere
Inside it, wanting to feel nothing,
A pulse of fever. Somewhere
Inside that numbness of earth
I was accepted to Yale University and after four years, received my bachelor’s degree in journalism. I was excited when my father approved of my profession because, in his words, “we need more real journalists to combat the curse of the liberal press”. However, I decided instead to focus my journalistic superpowers to popular music because there was not as much competition in music journalism as there was in political journalism. There was a great gap in hip-hop reporting for hip hop magazines so my plan was to thrive by filling the hip-hop void. I schooled myself with the hip-hop culture for two months listening to everything to Run D.M.C. to DMX. I memorized the history of hip-hop and schooled myself on all of the famous and up-and-coming rappers of the day. My shrewd scheme worked. I soon got a job writing for the Source Magazine.
Actually, I have my cousin Medea to thank for that job. His story is rather interesting. Medea is the son of my Uncle Steve who eloped with woman named Rita Scott in Boston, Massachusetts about 35 years ago. While Rita was pregnant, she found out that my uncle Steve had been unfaithful to her. Fueled by revenge, when her first-born son was born several months later, she named him Medea (who in Euripedes’ Greek tale, was the scorned jealous wife of the cheating Jason who killed her own children). After my Uncle Steve’s death, Rita moved to a middle-class neighborhood and disappeared into middle-class mediocrity forever. One day, Medea found out the meaning of his name and the circumstances, which brought about his strange name, so in an act to distance himself from “such a fucking evil girl’s name”, he changed it to Raymond. The boy Medea grew up to be an astute man just as shrewd and as cunning as our Grandfather Peter. His love of hip-hop and his sharp business skills drove him to found, along with others, the Source Magazine--- “the Hip Hop Bible”. He also made himself a decent living as a rapper although his talent, in my humble journalistic opinion, is somewhat limited (but with a hip hop magazine, one can play Big Brother and rule public opinion!). My father is so proud of his nephew that he often introduces him to his friends as “Medea Tyler, my third son”. My family and I still call him Medea; the world calls him Raymond “Benzino” Scott.
I must confess, though, that journalism has never really interested me. I have a much a deeper desire that I’ve kept hidden ever since I was a tiny girl. Ever since I heard Whitney Houston’s “Run to You” and Mariah Carey’s “Vision of Love”, I have wanted to be a singer. I would listen to these ladies on the radio or see them singing on television, and be awed by the power they possess. The beauty of their voices could literally make men cease their screaming, women cease their crying, children cease their playing, and dogs cease their barking. They open their mouths, and the world turns static. I’ve always wanted that power, and when I see them on television singing, it looks so easy.
When I was 11, I started taking private voice lessons from this old lady who used to be a legend of Motown music in Detroit. My father paid her huge sums of money so that she could help me develop my talent. He told me once that the lady said that one day I would be the biggest music star on the planet because of my beautiful voice. It’s funny because she never told me that herself. My father said the reason for her reluctance to praise me was because this lady was jealous of me because she was now more than fifty years old, fat and washed up… and I was young, pretty, and talented. Memories like that give me a warm, special feeling. Readers, you have not lived until you have sung a song on a stage. The rush that you get from the audience is more intense than any high from drug that has ever existed. You listen to the notes and they escape from your mouth like--- umm… Actually, I’ll be honest with you. It cannot be described. It is indescribable. Ha! There I go again. Four year old Sara!
All of these singing memories remind me of my ex-fiancée, James Avery. My heart still melts whenever I think of him. Usually, I’m not a dreaming, sighing romantic woman who expects to be swept away by her knight in shining armor. However, James was, to my surprise, my heroic knight who (as corny as this sounds) really did whisk me away to some magical land. Whenever I looked into his eyes, I would see my future life reflecting off of his eyes. It was almost as if this perfect life full of happiness and joy was waiting for me deep in those black-brown eyes of his. All I had to do was snatch it.
He was beautiful. I still remember his dark skin as black as the coffee-colored night. His thick comfortable lips fit perfectly with my thin ones. I shudder right now as I think about those lips softly caressing my body as he leaned in for a kiss. Like I’ve said before, his brown eyes were hypnotizing. There was something about the way he stared at me that, sometimes, made me cum right there and then. When we made love, I would sometimes bury my head in his chest and get lost in his strong body drowning in his sweet musk. I’d gently tug his hair while he moaned my name as he entered in and out of me. His nose was strong like an African king, and his warm hands always knew how to stroke every inch of my body until my juices exploded running down his thigh. Our relationship was not completely physical, though. I should mention that he was a generous person who dreamed of becoming a missionary, teaching the word of God to poor kids in South East Asia. My mother once commented that he was the “most polite and sweet man alive” and my father would present him as evidence of “the existence of saints”. James was also witty and funny with a booming laugh that echoed in your head even after he was gone. James was from another wealthy black family; even wealthier than ours, but that was never an issue. Our love was based on more than the material or the physical; it was purely based on an emotional connection. He was the PERFECT man.
And somewhere
Inside it, wanting to feel nothing,
A pulse of fever. Somewhere
Inside that numbness of earth
Our future trying to happen.
Three weeks before our wedding, though, I found out that God had different plans for him. My James was involved in a car crash and died instantly; as if God couldn’t wait to take him. When he died, my world tore to pieces. The perfect life in his eyes was gone from me forever. I quit my job at the Source and became a freelance writer for several magazines (I was successful enough to do that). One day, while I was still wallowing in my misery, I reminisced about one particular event. During one passionate night of love-making, I told James about my dream of becoming a singer. He couldn’t believe it and asked me to sing for him. After I sang “Amazing Grace” in perfect pitch, he sat there amazed at my singing abilities. He was the only other person, other than my father, to compliment my singing.
“You should be a pop/r&b singer, Sara. I see you as the next Mariah or Whitney!”
Those words still echo inside my head. One day, I woke up from my deep depression and decided to make my dreams (and James’ dream as well) come true. With a renewed confidence in myself, I bowed to get a record deal, cut an album, and become famous. I subtly even promised myself to look for a new boyfriend without seeming like the desperate fiancée who was frantically trying to replace her dead lover. Finally, I would live the life that I wanted to live without any fears of mistakes and consequences. Then…I met the haggendas. I will never forget him or the time we spent together. I could tell you that our time together “cannot be described. It is indescribable.” But that would be a lie and I’m all about honesty.
Back then, the haggendas was called Eminem—or Marshall or Slim Shady. I don’t know. I would always forget. But so would he.
A pulse of fever. Somewhere
Inside that numbness of earth
Our future trying to happen.
It was the weekend of the Black Conservative Movement annual meeting in New York. This year was going to be an especially happy event due to George W. Bush’s re-election that previous week. Basically, it was a formal black tie dance ball where the leaders of the BCM talked endlessly about politics, the state of the black community, and the importance of family values. Meanwhile, the kids of these politicians flirted and had sex with each other in their Ferraris. Of course, that’s not a very Christian thing to do. I’ve never partaken in any of those activities. But, I will admit I’ve received many dating offers from the hottest (and richest) of guys in the country. My father couldn’t go this year because he had some business affairs back in Rochester, therefore my esteemed Grandfather Peter had to fill his place. These meetings excited him and reminded him of the days when he was younger and still had the energy to hob-nob with the African-American elite. I went with him to New York, not only out of boredom, but also because I felt a sense of duty for my Grandfather. We were staying at the Hilton Hotel, and we both had our own separate, but connecting rooms. After I had finished primping for the ball, my grandfather told me to wait in the lobby for him because he was still not ready. So I went downstairs to the Hilton lobby and waited…
I remember I was wearing my white Hawaiian dress that my father had bought for me straight from Versace’s new summer collection. It was such a new and pretty design that all of the top models of the fashion world were desperately fighting to wear it. My father bought the dress for a ridiculous price (I’ve forgotten the exact numbers, but they were high), and made sure that no one but me could wear it since it was a one-of-a-kind. As a token of her appreciation, Donatella Versace, herself, gave me a yellow lei to go along with the dress.
I fiddled with the lei as I greedily slurped a martini that I had bought while sitting at the hotel bar. With this dress and my curled hair, I was sure to attract any decent, nice, intelligent, physically attractive, normal person… instead I ended up with the haggendas...
I look up--as if to meet your voice
With all its urgent future
That has burst in on me. Then look back
At the book of printed words.
You are ten years dead. It is only a story.
Your story. My story.
At first, I couldn’t believe that this person was approaching me. Until then, I had only seen him in magazine pictures, on T.V., and posters. But there he was… eyeing me like a hunter ready to hunt his prey. I could feel him staring at my body. The fact that he was visually raping me was a disgusting thought to me. He wasted no time in sitting next to me at the bar while I tried my hardest to ignore him. Closing my eyes, I wished he would go away and hoped that when I opened my eyes back up again this THING would go away.
“Hey, how you doin?” he politely uttered to me after he ordered Cristal from the bartender.
I held my head high. “I’m fine.”
“What’s your name?”
“Sara Tyler,” I unwittingly muttered. I should have lied.
“Sara Tyler… That’s pretty,” he answered. I just shrugged.
“My name is Marsh--”
“I know who you are, Eminem,” I coldly answered.
He sighed and sternly repeated, “My name is Marshall Mathers. How are you?” He extended his hand and gazed at me. I reluctantly shook it while I dissected his looks.
In all the years that I’ve written articles about the haggendas, I’ve never thought he was physically attractive. I could never understand why this thing--- barely even a man--- is so popular among young teenage girls. First of all, he was so short that I easily towered over him even when we were sitting down. In fact, he looked so skinny that I could probably break him half. Ha! Grandfather could probably beat him up. He had a weird shaped face with the strangest of features. A huge forehead was accompanied by slanted cheeks that formed to make a pitiful mouth with lips that looked like they had been previously bitten. His jaw formed the most unfortunate cleft chin. Right in the middle, there was a pointy nose filled with freckles and acne. His eyes were blue; not the pretty cornflower blue or sky blue--- it was a squeamish sort of gray blue. I couldn’t see his famed platinum blond hair because it was hidden under a cap and a doo-rag.. His whole attempt to mock black culture was even more repulsive (but more on that later). He looked like some sort of alien. This haggendas was indeed an ugly creature.
You are ten years dead. It is only a story.
Your story. My story.
After we shook hands, he turned his seat back toward the bar, and his eyes drifted downward. When he received his shot of Cristal, he drank some of it, and then, absent-mindedly began tracing his fingers around the edge of the glass. After 30 seconds, I thought he had finally gotten the hint, but he quickly snapped his head up.
“So, Sara, what do you do?”
“I’m a music journalist. Mostly for hip-hop,” I thought I’d add that.
“Really? I’m a hip-hop artist!” he remarked obviously trying to be cute.
“I know.” Dumbass. I turned my head away from him in order to non-verbally tell him that the conversation was over.
He tapped my shoulder, and I stupidly turned my head around.
“You wanna hear a corny pick-up line?”
“Why?” I asked. “Are you picking me up?”
“Maybe… It depends on whether you laugh at my pick-up line.”
I nodded. Out of boredom, I thought I’d give this guy a break. His eyes instantly sparkled.
“Well, even though you seem to be such an expert, I was wondering if you'd like to get ‘lei-d” he said pointing at the lei around my neck--- the one Donatella Versace gave to me.
“Moron,” I snapped.
“Wait! I admit that that pick-up line was really fucking lame. I just said it to make you laugh, you know… And it didn’t work, but this next one is kinda funny,” He then continued, but using a perverted horny guy voice:
“Hey, baby, if I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together!”
I had to admit. That was fairly clever. Unintentionally, I gave out small chuckle. No! Stupid! I shouldn't have done that! This guy was like those cats who followed you around in an alleyway. If you give them any food, they’ll follow you with those sad eyes pleading for more. Now, this guy was never going to go away.
A pulse of fever. Somewhere
Inside that numbness of earth
Our future trying to happen.
You are ten years dead. It is only a story.
Your story. My story.
“See, I told you… My pick-up lines are fucking funny. Did it work?”
“Nope,” I answered and turned away from him trying to ignore his gaze.
Where was Grandfather ?! And what was taking him so long? He better come down soon before I get out the pepper-spray and chase this weirdo away. Oh! How I longed at that moment to be with my best friend from high school, Rebecca. I remember when we used to go out to the club, there would always be some creepy 40 year old fat guy who would get a little too “close” to me while we were dancing. On those matters of emergency, I would call my friend Rebecca who would put his arm around me and pretend I was her lesbian lover. Now, that would either A.) discourage the guy who would move on to some other piece of “fresh meat” or B.) turn the guy on even more. When scenario B occurred, we moved on to Plan X--- hit him in the balls and run. Plan X never failed because Rebecca knew the exact spot to hit to make the guy scream for his mommy. She always promised to teach me, but she never did. I could really use Plan X right about now.
Oh, my god! Grandfather! Grandfather! Grandfather! Please hurry! My foot was nervously tapping and the haggendas took notice using it as an excuse to continue the conversation.
“So, who are you waiting for?”
I hesitated. “My boyfriend.”
“Your boyfriend? Who is he?”
You readers must know that when ignoring the situation doesn’t work for Sara Tyler, Sara Tyler goes on the offensive. She takes no prisoners.
“He’s a big burly black guy that will beat you up if you keep on stalking me like this!”
“Okay! Fine then! I’ll leave you the fuck alone! I was just trying to make friendly conversation. Fuck!” he finally snapped and revealed the raging rapper that he so often portrayed in his music.
Good, I thought, very good.
Just then, a hotel employee with a British accent approached me while the haggendas sat back and curiously watched.
“Ms. Tyler, I presume.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“It’s about your grandfather. He says that he is not feeling well and would rather skip the BCM ball that you were both planning to attend. He apologizes deeply, but still wants you to go and have fun. Here are the invitations, miss. Your grandfather gives you full permission to go and take any date to the ball that you desire.”
OH! GOD!, I thought, NO! PLEASE! AAHHHHHH!
My hands were trembling as the hotel employee hands me the two invitations.
The hateful haggendas smirked, “Grandfather? Ball?”
I stay silent and try to kill him with my murderous stare.
He smugly continues, “So, Cinderella, maybe I can take you to this ball?”
Panicked, I quickly spot the bartender as he cleaned the glasses with a rotten rag. The man was slightly short, dark haired, Italian looking kind of guy. He’s cute enough, I thought, he’ll have to do. This is an emergency.
I literally fly over to him and mindlessly blurt out, “Okay, I’m having a dilemma. My grandfather is feeling under weather so he can’t take me to this BCM ball that I was supposed to be attending. So I have an extra invitation with no date! I know we’ve just met, but would you like to go?”
Like a deer frozen under a truck’s headlights, he blinked at me several times. Numbingly, he answered, “I’m working… um, kinda late.. uh, um… no?”
Defeated, I sadly returned to my seat to meet my fate with the interrogator from hell!
“You know, I’m still available----“
“Look, Mr. Slim Emmy—whatever your name is---- I really do not want to go with you! And even if I did, I couldn’t anyway,”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because… I’m going to the Black Conservative Movement ball and you’re not exactly Alan Keyes either.”
“Oh? There are black conservatives?”
“Yes, you ignorant idiot! There are many of us… why don’t you go read a newspaper?”
“Goddamn it! You’re a rude little bitch!”
“Okay, sorry, but if my parent’s friends and business partners saw you at the ball, they would have a heart attack!”
“Yeah, well, that Italian bartender wasn’t fucking Mr. Black Conservative material either!”
He had a point. At that fleeting moment, I briefly glanced at him rubbing his eyes and grabbing his forehead. I could’ve sworn he was crying, but I quickly scrapped that thought as he closed his eyes hard and pounded his fist angrily on the bartending table. After he buried his face on his hands, he composed himself by letting out a wistful sigh.
I look up--as if to meet your voice
With all its urgent future
That has burst in on me. Then look back
At the book of printed words.
You are ten years dead. It is only a story.
Your story. My story.
“Alright, Sara. Lemme be frank with you. I like you. I think you’re gorgeous and sexy and…. opinionated. You don’t have to take me to this ball or whatever, but I’d to like to go out with you sometime. Now, I know you may think I’m some sort of prick or asshole because of my music or whatever… but I promise you that I actually want this to be more than just sex because I’m willing to actually form a relationship with you… So what do ya say?”
I have never heard a man plead for a date like that in my entire life. His voice was so desperate. In my opinion, he sounded pathetic. He probably had so many other hos and sluts waiting outside his hotel room begging for him to have sex with them. I’d be happy for him if he just goes and has sex with his seedy little whores…. Let trash be with trash, I always say. But why is trash attracted to me? Why is it clinging on to me? Why won’t he go away?
I ripped up the two invitations into pieces and threw them at his face.
“Go get herpes from your sluts! I’ll never go out with you!”
“You fucking bitch,” he whispered as he stared at me. His eyes were now fiery, and yet they still retained their sickening blue color. In return, I turned my eyes upward along with the rest of my head holding it high as I walked away from him feeling the triumph of victory.
That night, I felt so powerful. I craved watching powerful women kicking ass… Therefore, instead of spending the night at the ball, I watched a marathon of old Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes while Grandfather slept peacefully in the next room. During my all-night T.V. celebration, I debated on whether to tell Grandfather that I didn’t go to the ball that night. Even though he deserved to know the truth, I didn’t want him to know about my famous stalker, and I was too lazy to make up a lie explaining what happened to the invitations. It was much easier to get up the next morning, read the society pages of the papers, and make up a beautiful story about my wonderful experience at the ball based on the report from the society page.
By the next day, I was feeling refreshed and anew. Back then, I thought that I would never see the haggendas ever again.
But, for the first time in my life, I was wrong. So wrong….
It is only a story.
Your story. My story.Author: bellababyblu@hotmail.com
These stories are for entertainment purposes only. They are completely fictitious, and the authors mean no harm to EMINEM, his family, friends, or anyone else that may have been depicted as a 'real life' character. No money was made on the fiction here, either directly or indirectly, i.e. paid advertising. In other words - it's just a bunch of shit we wrote for fun. Please don't take it seriously.