White Room
Chapter 4: A Pink Wool Knitted Dress
Excerpt from A Pink Wool Knitted Dress
By Ted Hughes
In that echo-gaunt, weekday chancel
I see you
Wrestling to contain your flames
In your pink wool knitted dress
And in your eye pupils — great cut jewels
Jostling their tear-flames, truly like big jewels
Shaken in a dice-cup and held up to me.
I struggled to hold on to the phone while I readied the tape recorder. Honestly, I don’t know why I accepted to do this story for Vibe especially when I’m supposed to be on vacation in New York. As I sat there on the edge of my bed counting the rings, Grandfather chuckled at my workaholicism, reminding him of his own work-obsessed youth. I let out a sigh of relief when somebody finally answered the phone…
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Sara Tyler- freelance hip-hop journalist currently writing for Vibe.”
“Oh--- yeah… He’s right here ready for you to conduct your interview.”
“Thank you…”
After a few muffled scuffles, he finally answers the phone.
“Hello?”
“Nas? It’s Sara Tyler… ready to conduct the interview for Vibe,”
“Vibe? Thought you worked for the Source,”
“Oh, I’m freelance now… I still occasionally contribute to the Source, though. Right now, I’m contributing to Vibe,”
“Oh, sup. How you doin?”
“Fine, sir,”
“Listen, is this gonna take long?”
“No, not at all. It’s not a full-length article. It’s almost a little teaser to see how you’re doing with Street’s Disciple before you do you a full-length interview with Quentin Black next week. It’s going to be featured in the five questions section of the magazine where the artists are asked five questions and they answer them as truthfully as they can. Trust me, it’ll take a maximum of five minutes,”
“Shit, that sounds easy,”
“Alright… Question 1: How do you feel right now at this moment in your life?”
“This is the happiest I’ve been in two years, and the happiest I’ve been working on an album since my first album. It had me worried at first, ‘cause that’s not usually the formula for making rap albums. This is beyond the money-happiness. It’s me entering a third world. I’m 30 years old. There’s certain shit in life you didn’t know before, and now you understand. You look to the next level of your life. It’s like you don’t live until now,”
“I’m glad… Question 2: There are many beefs right now in hip hop with many that have the potential to turn tragic. How do you feel about them?”
“That’s not even where my head’s at. I don’t even wanna deal with… I got this record on this album that’s about so much more. I think that would be a downside to the game. I spoke to the audience what they spoke to me. That was all. That’s not what those things were said for. We shouldn’t even dwell on that, because other guys could use stuff like that to create controversy. Whoever wants to make a diss record, God bless. But nobody has to think about me, ‘cause I’m not thinking about nobody,”
“Good motto… Question 3: Eminem your major rap influences from when you were first starting out.”
“What?! Can you repeat that again?”
“I said, name your major rap influences from when you were first starting out.”
“Oh, okay, sorry. Fuck it. I must be hearing things because I swear I thought you said ‘Eminem your major rap influences’”
“Hmm… That’s really random!”
“I know… I completely misheard that shit.”
“Imagine that.”
“Anyway, my major rap influences where Rakim, KRS-ONE, Public enemy……”
-----//
It sucks when somebody haunts your subconscious. In all honesty, it makes it harder for you to weed them out. I was denial for several days about the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about the haggendas. I would, many times accidentally, bring him up in random conversations because I had this unexplainable urge to talk about him. In fact, I wanted to pin his hands and feet on a tray and dissect him like a frog. Then, take the heart out, watch it beat and ask why. I couldn’t explain to you the reasons why I had these desires. I still can’t to this day. Of course, I still hated him like every decent American woman does, but there was just something about him. Something mysterious that was a stronger pull than charisma, good looks, or money. His attractiveness is the thing that is truly undescribable.
In that echo-gaunt, weekday chancel
I see you
Wrestling to contain your flames
In your pink wool knitted dress
However, when problems arise, I usually look at them from a logical, rational perspective. I thought, Let’s consider the scientific facts:
1. I hate him!
2. I can’t stand him!
3. I can’t stop thinking about him!
There are three possible explanations for this behavior:
A) Madness
B) Delusion
C) Hormones
Or there is the always popular null hypothesis:
None of the above applies to Sara because there is no problem and she is not obsessed with a certain rapper.
My educated guess is that this problem is caused by a mixture between C (since those crazy hormones cause fits of madness anyway) and the null hypothesis (of course, that’s it!).
Possible Solutions:
1) Partial Lobotomy
2) The cheaper Self-Inflicted Amnesia (or a.k.a killing all your brain cells by hitting your head repeatedly on a chair)
3) Ignore him until he goes away!!
I like number three the best because it is easier and less painful. And the best way to ignore people is by immersing yourself in your work. Problem solved. You see, this is why I hate those people who blame their irrationality for their mistakes. “Oh, I’m sorry officer, I shot my wife because I wasn’t thinking clearly.” Ha! Bullshit. If you take the time to approach every “emotional” decision in a logical, rational way, there’d be less crime and less whining in the courtrooms.
As my sick Grandfather shook his head, begged me not to work anymore, and do normal “girl stuff” while I was in New York, I continued typing in my laptop. I kept thinking, if I keep typing up my Nas interview for Vibe, then by next morning, I will not remember what’s his face? Ha! You see, I’ve already forgotten his name…
“Eminems?”
“Excuse me?” I asked startled by the comment.
“I said, would you like some M&Ms?” Grandfather repeated as he opened a pack and poured the hard-shelled candies into his hand.
“Oh! The candy! Thank Jesus…” I sigh. “No, Grandfather. I’m allergic.”
“Allergic?” he cocked his head, “To M&Ms? Since when?”
“Since very recently,”
Well, I thought, obviously I must reconsider my solutions. I’m beginning to hear things. As I gazed at my Grandfather downing the candied chocolate, I realized that he was right. Maybe it is time for me to stop working so hard and get some fresh air. Even though I’ve been to New York many times, it is still the most exciting city in the world. Besides, maybe the bright lights will make me forget about… him!
I decided to call Vanessa. She always has something fun to do.
For the readers who may not know, Vanessa Ithridge is the heiress to the multi-billion dollar Ithridge Toys fortune. Her skimpy clothing and unabashed… um… encounters of the sexual kind have earned her the nickname, “The Black Paris Hilton.” Everyone in New York knows of the so-called “10 minute fun fests” she has in the bathrooms of every club. People say that she’ll have sex with anything… There’s even an interesting story going around about her involving a toy Harry Potter vibrating broom and a hamster. Figure that one out! However, her capabilities of getting laid are in no way because of her looks. I can safely say, readers, that she is fake and nasty looking. Last year, she caused a sensation with her breast and ass augmentations. However, she still hasn’t confessed about her nose job and lip enlargement although it is extremely obvious. Think Michael Jackson’s and Angelina Jolie’s aborted daughter!
I’m only friends with her because of her social status and popularity among the hottest guys. It’s sad, but true! Actually, I don’t think anyone is her friend just for kicks. I mean, who’d want to be friends with the girl who was once so drunk that she tried to give Donald Trump a hand job in front of his girlfriend. I don’t want to even mention the embarrassment I felt for her when she tried to “get in on” with P.Diddy before throwing up all over him during the White Party in the Hamptons. Nobody in their right mind would chase after that skank unless if it was for that green blindfold called money.
Too bad… Maybe if she kept her legs closed once in a while.
Even so, I called her with the intention of inviting her somewhere (even though, secretly I wished that she would instead invite me somewhere). And Lo and Behold! She had plans! Though, she was very surprised I called because she didn’t think I would be in town. Anyways, she babbled on and on about how much fun the BCM ball was and how after the party, she sneaked out of the party and went to the club with this random hot guy that she ended “fucking in an elevator”. They were suppose to meet at the club again tonight, but apparently he was bringing one of his best “thug homies” (trust me, its hilarious listening to Vanessa talking “gangsta”). I just “uh-huh-ed” and “yeah-ed?” while twirling my fingers around the telephone cord. Her nasty slut talk often gets kind of boring and monotone. However, the one good thing that came out of that useless conversation was that she invited me to the club with Lionel and his best “thug homie”.
And before I could say, “Yes, Nessa, I’ll be there….”, I was standing in front of Vanessa’s gold-encrusted mirror in her bedroom full of light green, sky blue, and pink teddy bears. The walls were peach-colored with purple flowers and covered with posters about “God’s Ten Commandments” and phrases like “Live by God” and “Follow God’s Example”. Across her God wall, though, was a section of her room filled with pictures of her friends, boyfriends, ex-friends, ex-boyfriends, fuck buddies, ex-fuck buddies…. you get the point .A disgusting smell of spilled beer seemed to be rotting in the carpet. It was hard not to step on half-empty bottles of some type of drink. You could see the condoms laying around her “childhood” dollhouse and naked Barbie dolls. Her bed was not made and stained with… Oh, God knows what!
“Sorry, girl… The fucking maid hasn’t been in today. My room’s a mess! Just set your stuff down there. There’s my bathroom… you can get dressed in there.”
I hate messes. I hate dirtiness. I admit that I’m a major neat freak, and I’m not ashamed of it since I read a report saying that 10% of the population of the U.S. is also obsessed with cleanliness (and that’s a huge chunk too considering the U.S. population). Her bathroom was a white room. However, you couldn’t tell with the dirt on the sink, the pink rings in the bathtub, hairs clogging the shower head, vomit blocking the mirror and floating brown goldfish in the toilet there was uncleaned shit in the toilet and on the toilet seat. It was disgusting! Vanessa let the most perverse things happen in her “bachelorette” pad! Before I changed into my outfit, I vowed I was going to clean up this bathroom. Opening her various cabinets, I looked for antibacterial toilet bowl and sink cleaners. After fitting myself with some old unused yellow gloves, I sprayed all kinds of cleaning juice around that bathroom, scrubbed out every disgusting thing that lurked around the sink, and flushed that toilet more times than I can remember. By the time, I was done with my “cleaning session”, everything sparkled and shined. My satisfied face reflected from every clean bathroom utility in that room. The bathroom was WHITE again.
I emerged from that bathroom smelling like Lysol and sporting my white Hawaiian dress- the same dress I was planning to wear to the BCM ball until my plans were ruined by you know who.
“Ooooh… girl! What are you, a nun?
“What are you talking about? This dress is covers only one fourth of my thigh… It’s slutty enough.”
“Please, Sara, it can always be just a little bit shorter… shit, you are such a fuckin’ wet blanket,” and with that, Vanessa began pulling up my skirt and lower the v-line of my outfit which accentuated my breasts.
I stopped her after my skirt barely covered my poor panties. Please, I thought, I still had my reputation to think about. Plus, I wasn’t about to walk into the club looking like Vanessa Ithridge’s twin. I mean, I was running a risk walking in as her friend! God, if I ran into anyone I knew, and they saw me with Vanessa, I would just die of horror. In order to survive my embarrassment with a speck of pride, I would have to tell them that she was just an acquaintance and that I had nothing to do with Vanessa and her world of sainted slutdom. NOTHING!
“Here….” she passed me a bottle of Bacardi.
“Uh… I don’t drink!”
“Don’t worry… once you drink a couple of these babies, you’ll start relaxing. And maybe you’ll stop being all nervous and shit,”
“Nervous? Me! I’m not nervous,” and I wasn’t NERVOUS, I swear.
“Your palms are sweaty! Don’t tell me you’re fucking not nervous! Allright, girly, tell me! Are you nervous about Lionel, his friend, or someone else!”
“What the hell are talking about? There’s no one else!”
“Come on, Sara, I can tell by the look in your eyes that there’s someone else! So come on, spill it, girly, who is it?”
“NO ONE! And even if there was someone, why the hell would I be nervous? There’s no chance in hell that he’s gonna be at the club!”
“Well, I dunno… But why are you so nervous? Look at yourself in the mirror!”
I turned my head and looked at the woman in the mirror. Her stunning white Hawaiian dress softly shone an almost angelic glow as if its brightness came from h
eaven. The dress was tight enough to showcase every undulating curve of her near flawless body. Her hair was straightened with a hint of melodious waves that rolled down her back. As she licked her supple lips, a faint spark of happiness surfaced in her deep dark brown eyes. The dark skin of her face shone, not because of any oily residue like most people, but because it was the indicator of a perfect, sparkly finish… like Vanessa’s bathroom after I cleaned it, I thought…. When she saw herself in the mirror, the woman smiled at the sight of herself.
“God, Sara, I’ve always been so fucking jealous of you… You have the perfect body, perfect face, perfect personality, perfect intelligence, perfect family, perfect life… Jesus, you are just so fucking PERFECT.”
After gleefully sipping the drink from the Bacardi bottle, I answered.
“Thank you. I know.”
It took me less than twenty minutes and two drinks to get a little tipsy (I wasn’t drunk, I was tipsy at that particular moment). Vanessa and I stumbled our way downstairs into the apartment lobby with a bottle of Bacardi and Cristal in each hand. As if on cue, Lionel and his “friend” (or more accurately, lack of friend) arrived shortly after. At first, Mr. Lionel Washington had to explain why his “gangsta homie” (my planned date) was missing in action. Apparently, this “street thug” had some problems with his “baby’s mamma” and had “to stay in the ‘hood tonight, fo real.” But I didn’t care. Lionel was gorgeous.
From the time he stepped out of his Escalade, my knees buckled at his sight. The man was tall and a bit lanky (not too noticeable though). I imagined the thick throbbing muscles that must adorn his legs and arms under his clothes. Speaking of clothes, the minute I noticed that he was wearing a thick brown jacket with a hood, I realized that it had been snowing and it was unbearably cold. However, as he walked closer to me, I started to heat up. His black face and stunning features were almost hidden by the hood. I could see the conspicuous sparkle of the bling bling under his jacket. When Vanessa introduced me to him, his gorgeous pearly teeth showed in his smile. Vanessa was right. This man was hot.
However, she never told me that he was a famous NBA basketball player for the New York Knicks. Lionel, also, never mentioned his celebrity status while he was driving in his Escalade. I only found out when we arrived at Club Elixir and attracted the attention of swarms of people. Tons of fans and slutty women with tight skin clothes showing God knows what were coming up to him. He seemed flattered and politely shook their hands and gave them autographs. It surprised me how unfazed he was at all the people staring at him and trying to talk to him. He turned to me and chuckled:
“This is what I deal with everyday. I’m used to it, but I know you ladies aren’t so I reserved the V.I.P room at the club just for us,”
“V.I.P?” Vanessa protested, “So we’re gonna be all alone!”
“Nah, there’s some people waiting for me up there,” he answered.
The bass of the music throbbed in my ears as we made ourselves through the hundreds of sweaty people. Bright lights of red, blue, green, purple, and then back to red again, bothered my eyes almost giving me epileptic seizures. My shoes’ heels started to crack when I tried to squeeze between some fat people as I was desperately trying to keep up with Lionel and Vanessa. After dodging someone spilling their drink, I could only hear muffled voices drowned out by the thumping of the music and the grinding of the dancers on the dance floor. The only sensations I could sense were the smell of disgusting perspiration and the coldness of the bottle of Bacardi in my hand. I thought I would get lost in the crowd. Then, I felt Lionel take my hand and lead me to the V.I.P. room. I closed my eyes because I knew that if I trusted him, things would be fine.
Pretty soon, we climbed upstairs and entered a spacious room with a huge glass window overlooking the rest of the main dance floor. Already, it was filled with hundreds of people already dancing and drinking. Many of them quickly clamored to where Lionel was and tried to talk to him. He invited everyone he encountered to his table in the corner of the room. Vanessa was thrilled at the chance of meeting new people while I scowled at the loss of intimacy with him. I just needed five minutes alone with him to make my move. I’ll casually make conversation and then, start to flirt with him (not flagrantly, but playfully at first). He has to fall for me. Every guy that I have ever tried to seduce has fallen desperately in love with me. The less shallow guys fall for me because of my winning personality and intelligence. I’ve never had a guy reject me before.
Just then, I heard the club explode with a frenzy of activity. I walked toward the window and looked down to see what the commotion was about. People on the dance floor were flailing their arms wildly while staring and pointing at someone. I couldn’t tell who it was, but he or she had some big bodyguards. The dancers went absolutely crazy bustling around their cramped spaces as if there had been a fatal shooting. I had never seen so much chaos in a dance floor. However, the commotion eventually stopped as a line of people began making their way upstairs… to the V.I.P. room. I turned around to spot the room’s double doors opening wide and revealing a wall of black bodyguards entering the room. The bodyguards retreated from the group of people they were protecting who emerged from the protective circle. At first, all I could see were a collection of nameless and faceless black men with their girlfriends (or more accurately, groupies, I scoffed). However, in the middle of their ensemble stood a lone white man gawking at the V.I.P. room with intent concentration. His concentration was broken when he looked at me, and his blue eyes quickly shot to the floor never to stare at me again. Meanwhile, my thoughts had clouded as my stomach fluttered causing feelings of nausea. God, it couldn’t be… it was him.
In that echo-gaunt, weekday chancel
I see you
Wrestling to contain your flames
In your pink wool knitted dress
And in your eye pupils — great cut jewels
Jostling their tear-flames, truly like big jewels
Shaken in a dice-cup and held up to me.
“What’s going on?” a concerned Lionel asked the “uninvited” guests. “I rented this room for tonight!”
“Like hell you did, nigga,” said one of the black men. “This shit was reserved over two fucking weeks ago!”
Thankfully, the owner interrupted the argument before this night turned into a scuffle fest.
“Yah, there’s a problem… Mr. Washington is fucking kicking us out of the room we reserved,” said the same black man.
“This is Eminem’s pre-record release party!” interjected another black man.
“Well,” began the owner. “Apparently, Club Elixir has made a little mistake and we accidentally booked our private room for two parties tonight. We’re sorry!”
“Holy shit! Well, one of us has to leave. And it ain’t gon’ be us,” said one of the black men.
“We can leave,” the ‘supposed’ ring leader of this party finally cowardly peeped in the conversation. “Come on, I’m sure there are plenty of clubs we can go to--”
“Wait!” interrupted Lionel. “Eminem, I’m sorry. I lost my temper. We can share the room,”
“Sounds good to me!” exclaimed another one of the black guys. And the party continued.
Maybe his appearance at the club was a blessing in disguise because after Lionel suddenly lost his “big celebrity status”, he had nothing to do but talk to me and Vanessa. Wait! Never mind, not Vanessa. The slut was also star struck by the eminent Eminescence of the room. She unceremoniously introduced herself to him by sitting down on his lap with a sex-filled glare in her eyes. Poor Vanessa. What a whore! I hate girls who pretty much offer themselves to men. It’s embarrassing to the female race. But she didn’t matter. All I cared about was seducing Lionel.
In the privacy of our own table, we talked for hours, which seemed like only fleeting minutes to me. I tried out a new drinking game. Every time he’d say something cute or laugh in an adorable way, I would take a swig out of my bottle of Barcardi. It didn’t take me long to get completely… drunk? No, happy! I was happy…
“I basically grew up in the poor ghetto in Bed-Sty, Brooklyn. I dreamed of playing professional basketball all my life. But it was hard, ya know. A poor kid like me could barely afford sneakers. One day when I was still in high school, I was playing a game in the ‘hood when these random white guys (real business-like) came up to me and told me that they were scouting for talent and that I had real potential or some shit like that. I played for this one local team in Brooklyn for a couple of years before they drafted me into the NBA and the rest is fucking history! But ya know, I try every once in a while to go back to Bed-Sty and help the kids there. Ya know, give ‘em a few words of inspiration. Last year, I started my own non-profit organization for some after-school programs….”
I didn’t really care what Lionel had to say. I just loved hearing his voice.
In one of my drunken (happy!) whims, I stopped listening to Lionel and glanced at him sitting in a booth surrounded by people. It was funny because for a guy who is so cocky and arrogant in his rap rhymes, he seemed so removed and withdrawn. He received all of this attention, but he neither reacted to it nor returned it. In addition, he kept gazing at a distant with this fixed look in this eye. He was absorbed with some other thoughts beyond this room (of course, I knew he wasn’t staring at me because he was consciously avoiding me). I noticed his eyes took in everything like a sponge, and he never made conversation—he motioned with his eyes, or interjected with some comment—that’s it. It was annoying to me because I couldn’t understand why a man who has everything in the world at his disposal did not at least look like he was basking in it instead of staring at air. Still, my journalistic side had the urge to do some investigative reporting as to what the hell he was looking at.
And in your eye pupils — great cut jewels
Jostling their tear-flames, truly like big jewels
Shaken in a dice-cup and held up to me.
After a while, Lionel stopped talking and noticed that I wasn’t paying attention. Damn it, I thought, I’ve been “casually glancing” at him for way too long.
“Shit, not you too!” he rolled his eyes.
“Aw, no, Lionel baby… I don’t really like him. He ain’t my type. I hate stupid arrogant white asshole bullies like him.” I never noticed that I was slurring. To me, it sounded like perfectly normal “happy” talk.
“Are you okay, you sound a little drunk? How much have you drank from that bottle you’re holding?”
“Uhh…. I don’t know. But I’m fine, really I am. And I hate Eminem! Look at him—such a little culture stealer, pretending he’s black with his baggy pants and cap… I’m telling you, Lionel, as a hip-hop journalistic, I believe he represents the downfall of hip-hop... Like Elvis, he’s gonna start stealing our music and pimp everything from the streets to white America. He’s a disgrace, Lionel,… a fucking disgrace!”
After my triumphant little speech, Lionel cocked his head a little and simply answered:
“So, Vanessa told me you once worked for the Source? And that Benzino is your cousin?”
“Oh, yeah… I worked at the Source, but I’m freelance now, baby, ‘cause NO ONE CONTROLS ME… ha, ha, I said that sooo loud… Anyway, yeah, Benzino is my big cousin, but I don’t call him Benzino, OH NO, I call him Medea ‘cause that’s what his momma named him. And well, about me… I grew up in Rochester, Michigan…”
With great finesse, I told him every detail about my life that my “happy” mind could muster up. I offered opinions about everything and everyone I could think of—my work, my family, my friends, my ex-boyfriends, politics… This was my time to make sure to wow him with my intelligence, rationale, and my determination.
“Wow, you’re a very interesting woman, Sara Tyler. I’m glad I met you,” he said as he looked at me with his deep brown eyes.
For one ephemeral second, Lionel reminded me of James. His mannerisms, his smile, the way he looked at me. It was as if James was returning to me in the form of Lionel. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t let such an opportunity slide like this.
Swiftly, I put my arms around him and began to passionately kiss him.
Fiercely, he pushed me away.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he screamed.
“Kissing you, motherfucker! What the hell did you think I was doing?”
“Shit, I never asked for you to kiss me, Sara,”
“What?!”
“Look, you’re a nice girl, Sara, but I don’t want to get myself into some deep shit with you,”
What the fuck? Was this guy crazy? Oh shit, this fucker must be gay… He must be! Because how could he fucking reject me like that unless he was gay.
“Okay, then, Mr. Washington, why the hell do you not want me?” I pushed him violently out of the table almost tripping over my own feet.
“Why?” I repeated. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you gay? Tell me why exactly are you rejecting me before I mutilate your balls with my heel,”
At this, Lionel completely lost his temper and screamed at the top of his lungs so that the whole room could hear.
“Okay, ya little bitch! Want me to tell you exactly what’s wrong with you? All right! I’ve known you for only three fucking hours and I could already tell that you are a VAIN, SELF-CENTERED, ELITIST, ARROGANT BITCH! People don’t love you because of your personality! They love you because they’re afraid of you! You fucking pass yourself off as so fucking perfect when you are fucking fake!”
Vanessa quickly clamored over to Lionel.
“Baby, what’s going on?”
“Your good friend, Sara, tried to kiss me!”
“What?! You slut!”
Shit. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was too happy (fuck it, I was drunk) to take it. I smashed the empty bottle of Bacardi on the ground and proudly… oh, so proudly… I exclaimed:
“Well, fuck you! Fuck you both! Fuck you, Vanessa. YOU are the fucking slut with your sex parties and forty second “head” sessions! Have you told Lionel here how many condoms there are lying around your room this very moment? I cleaned up your dirty bathroom, for Christ’s sakes. And you, Lionel, are nothing but a dirty rotten dumbass nigger! I mean, you think that playing basketball is a big accomplishment. Wrong, fool! Any moron with pea for brains can fucking play basketball! You probably have the education of a retarded third grader. Look at you… you probably spend all of your money on diamonds while some white people have you dance around like some Uncle Tom monkey… You can take your fucking bling bling and fornicate yourself! What the fuck did I ever see in you? You probably carry all kinds of sick diseases, man slut! Ah well, that means that you and Vanessa are probably the best match… Tramp and trampier! Ha! Well, I’m off to find some decent people and not some low life niggers like you.”
Pompously, I turned my backs to them and started heading toward the door. That’s when the laughing began.
“What the hell is so funny?” I sneered as I turned right back around and glared them.
Soon, everybody in the room started laughing and pointing at me. What the fuck is going on, I thought.
“Shit, look at her dress!” I heard one person shout.
I looked down at my white Versace Hawaiian dress. Perfect as always! There was nothing wrong with my dress. These people were just insane!
“No, Einstein,” Vanessa snapped full of disdain. “On the back of the dress. Near your ass!”
Twisting my upper torso while pulling the back of my dress toward me, I looked for the thing that was causing the hysterical laughing.
It was stain. A red stain. A bloody red stain.
Shit, I thought.
I felt my face turn as red as the stain on my dress. I had never felt such a sensation before in my life. It was as if my face emitted a painful heat causing tears of frustration to seep down my eyes. Everyone was laughing, and all I could do was turn my head away and try to run for the door. In doing so, the heels of my shoes which had been so fragile before finally cracked, and I fell onto the floor. The laughing increased, and I shuffled my way outside through the backdoor into a snowy New York alley.
A flashback occurred. I remembered this tall awkward white girl with braces and a unibrow named Constance who attended our school when I was in 7th grade. She was beyond ugly. This girl was hideous. She always smelled of onions, and there was a rumor that she never washed her hair. By that time, I had my own little clique of friends, and as any good leader of a clique, I needed to find tasks that new clique members had to do in order to be initiated into my group. Throughout the year, I had enjoyed making fun of this girl by spreading rumors, throwing food at her, and making up the funniest names to call her like “Dr. Herbert.” I still crack up at how funny it was. Anyways, I decided that all new members of the clique had to do something outrageous to Constance. One girl wrote a fake love letter to her signing it as her “secret admirer.” Another girl dressed up as her, entered the talent show, and won by imitating her. However, when it came to Constance-torturing, I took the cake. One time, she had her period and forgot to bring anything for it so a noticeable red stain showed through her pants. Everyone looked away in horror, but I took some tampons out of my purse, threw them at her face, and said, “oooo, girl… You need to dam up the Nile river ‘cause God must have caused some plague down there!” It was the hit of the school! Wherever she went, girls were throwing their tampons at her and screaming “dam it up, Constance”. Not only did my popularity skyrocket, but I also felt prettier and more confident every time I made fun of her. It was nice.
However, there was no evidence of that pretty and confident 7th grader when I began to throw up in a snow bank in the alley. God, I felt so wretched. I was drunk, sick, and with a red stain on my beautiful Versace white dress. How the fuck did I let this happen? I am always so careful with my periods. I can always calculate when they are going to happen so I always plan ahead. What the fuck happened this time? I couldn’t have forgotten? I’ve never forgotten about such a thing… Maybe, I thought, I’m hemorrhaging… This vaginal hemorrhaging will probably be diagnosed as some serious disease, and all the fucking idiots at the club will have to swallow their own malice for making fun of a dying woman. I’d like to see Vanessa’s and Lionel’s face then. I’ll be some sort of martyr and maybe a Lifetime movie will be made featuring my courageous battle against this disease. Of course, Halle Berry has to play me… Jaime Foxx can play Lionel because he is an amazing actor and can probably manage playing a mentally retarded basketball player… Lil’ Kim can play Vanessa…
But, as God as my witness, those fuckers are gonna get what they deserve!
Yet, when I closed my eyes, I could hear this strange little voice inside my head telling me, “You know, they’re right… Look at you, you drunk! And you’re not perfect! Look at the fucking stain on your white dress!”
However, I dismissed it as a secondary effect from the alcohol because voices in your head never talk to you like that. Delusional auditory delirium can only inspire you like-- Jiminy Cricket. The voices inside your head don’t insult you unless you’re drunk (which I was) or schizophrenic.
Suddenly, I heard a noise coming from behind me. The music from the club grew louder as the door to the club opened with a creak. Then, the music dulled again as the door was closed once again, and I heard snowy foot steps approaching me.
My heart fluttered. Maybe it was Lionel who had changed his mind and wanted me back? Oh, he was feeling like shit and saw what a big mistake it was to be with Vanessa so he dumped her and wanted to get back with me! I didn’t care for all the past transgressions anymore. I loved him!
“Lionel?” I optimistically squeaked without turning around.
“Wrong. It’s me,” said the voice.
I looked behind me. It was him.
In that echo-gaunt, weekday chancel
I see you
Wrestling to contain your flames
In your pink wool knitted dress
And in your eye pupils — great cut jewels
Jostling their tear-flames, truly like big jewels
Shaken in a dice-cup and held up to me.
“Goddammit!” I whispered as I buried my face with my cold hands
.
“Goddammit? What the fuck happened to the good little Christian conservative black girl from the hotel lobby?”
“So, you’ve come to gloat, have you?” I told him.
“Gloat? Gloat over what? I didn’t do anything. You did that by yourself,”
“Very funny, motherfucker. Now, please leave!”
“Not so fast, baby. I wanna help you,”
“Excuse me?” What the hell was this asshole up to?
“I can take you back to your hotel room where you can get cleaned up.”
“No, thanks,”
“Well, no offense, but I don’t think your friends are giving you a ride back to your hotel room,”
“Wait, hold on! Why are you helping me?
“I don’t know. I know I shouldn’t be helping you because you really fucking deserved to be smacked in the face after all of the things you said to Lionel Washington and that girl. And he is right; you are an arrogant, conceited bitch. But, I don’t know. You’re drunk and a little out of control. Plus, I think I feel a little sorry for you,”
“You have no fucking clue what I’m feeling right now! I mean, one works so hard to be this perfect little person and then suddenly when everyone realizes that you’re not perfect they laugh at you.” Holy shit, where did that come from? I must still be drunk. I’m making up insecurities I don’t have.
I continued. “They laugh at you the minute you get a red stain on your white dress! You could never know what the hell I’m going through,”
“Ha! Maybe I do…..”
“You know what it’s like to get your period?”
“Not that! But…. Everything else… maybe…”
For the first time, I got a real good look at this guy. He still looked ridiculously tiny in his huge clothes as he approached me and handed me his hand. I still found everything about him unattractive and unappealing. However, his eyes were another story. They still exuded the sickening blue color that they had in the lobby. Though, now he squinted those eyes slightly as he stared at me with a hypnotizing gaze, and the blue from his eyes had this sort of lucid glow suggesting… sincerity? Maybe… I really don’t know. This color was inviting. It made me want to kiss him. Suddenly, he became very beautiful to me despite of all of his physical flaws. I can’t describe him anymore. It cannot be described. His beauty is indescribable.
In that echo-gaunt, weekday chancel
I see you
Wrestling to contain your flames
In your pink wool knitted dress
I took his hand.
And in your eye pupils — great cut jewels
Jostling their tear-flames, truly like big jewels
Shaken in a dice-cup and held up to me.
“There ya go,” he answered. “I’ll call Big Doc, one of my bodyguards. He’ll drive us back to the hotel room-- ”
“Wait, Eminem-- ”
“I already told you. My name is Marshall,”
“Okay, Marshall… Please don’t take me back to my grandfather’s room… um… I don’t want to have to lie to him. Plus, he worries about me so….”
“Well, then, you can stay in my room… if you want,”
“Oh, I don’t want to bother you,”
“It’s no biggie. My hotel room has a living room. I can sleep on the couch,”
“If you insist… uh…Thank you?”
He smiled, “Your welcome… I’ll just tell Big Doc to stop by a store somewhere to buy panties and tampons ‘cause I ain’t got none of that shit back at my hotel room. We can take your dress to the dry cleaners tomorrow morning. It’s a fucking shame. I really like that dress. Isn’t it the same one you wore that night we met at the lobby?”
I nodded. He noticed?
Standing in the cold snowy alley in a numb daze, I watched as he went back to the club and came out with a burly black man who motioned me to follow him and Marshall into a black van (I didn’t notice the mark and type, but the shiny rims were stunning). Marshall laid out a big blanket over the passenger front seat of the car and pointed at it:
“This is the emergency puking blanket. You can sit on it in case… ya know…”
Big Doc drove us to a nearby pharmacy store where he bought tampons (with a slightly embarrassed color on his otherwise dark cheek) and then to a nearby department store where he bought me panties (with an extremely embarrassed crimson color that covered his whole face). He also brought back some ugly dark green baggy pajamas for me to sleep in tonight. Of course, I should have complained about their absolute hideousness and reiterated as evidence that men have no sense of taste, but I was too drunk and feeling amazingly sick.
When we arrived at the Hilton and crossed the lobby toward the elevators, I hid behind Big Doc’s massive body just in case anybody in the lobby recognized me and the fact that I was Peter Tyler’s granddaughter coming back to the hotel with a famous rapper and a red stain on her dress. Marshall rolled his eyes at me, but I argued that I had every right to do this. Big Doc was after all a “body guard”.
The second I walked into Marshall’s hotel room and noticed the puke-green color of the walls, I ran into the nearby bathroom and performed the very thing the walls suggested—puke. Solemnly, Marshall walked into the bathroom while I was throwing up and set down the tampons, panties, and pajamas near the sink. Gazing at me, he said:
“There’s a hamper right over there where you can put all of your dirty clothes… and you can sleep in my bed tonight… I’mma be in the living room if you need anything… Oh, and I’ve got Tylenol in the kitchen so help yourself,”
After nearly vomiting out my insides, I took a shower and changed into my new panties and ugly pajamas. I didn’t look at myself in the mirror, though. It was too foggy and frankly, for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to look at my drunken self. All I wanted was sleep. Before I left the bathroom though, I noticed that the lid of the toilet had a huge red mark on it. It looked like someone drew on it with lipstick. I looked for cleaning devices in the cabinets in order to clean up the line, but I could find none. Therefore, I improvised. With some water from the sink, I wet the toilet lid and tried to wipe out the mark with some toilet paper. After I was done, instead of a red mark, there was now a pink smudge on the toilet lid. Frustrated, I kept wiping and wiping the stupid stain from the white toilet lid. Nothing I did got the stain out. Plus, I was too tired to continue so I went to bed.
I woke up about 4 in the morning with a deafening headache and with excruciatingly aching cramps. I barely stumbled out of my room and into the kitchen passing by the living room. On the couch, I saw him sleeping. Suddenly, I had an unexplainable fluttering feeling in the pit of my stomach. It made me almost forget the cramps. Then, I had the silly thought of kissing him. But, of course, that was temporary. This hangover is making me crazy, I thought. Now where was that Tylenol?
And in your eye pupils — great cut jewels
Jostling their tear-flames, truly like big jewels
Shaken in a dice-cup and held up to me.
The next morning, the polite goodbyes, thank yous, and you’re welcomes were uneventful. And I left him in silence.
Thank God Grandfather didn’t ask what had happened that night. He was feeling refreshed, though, and ready for my father’s possible return to politics as Governor of Michigan (Apparently, he had told some CNN reporter that he might be running for Governor in the next elections—It was all part of the Republicans’ plan to overpopulate the Democrats out of power, and my father like every good American was glad to help the fight of good versus evil). We returned to Michigan the next day. I stayed in my Detroit apartment while Grandfather went back to his Rochester retirement mansion to check on my grandmother.
The hangover from that night, though, lasted for two agonizing weeks. But I don’t mean that I had headaches and cramps for two weeks (Both pains actually stopped the next day). I mean that I had the same craziness for over two weeks. First of all, just like before, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. This time, though, he was everywhere-- On TV, in magazines, on the radio, and in my thoughts. I kept obsessively thinking about him, and then the old sickening fluttering feeling in my stomach came back. But then, I would shake my head and say to myself:
“What the hell is going on? Get it together, Tyler. This is pathetic. Why are you obsessing over a guy? Guys obsess over you and not the other way around. And why Eminem? Look at him on T.V. He is ugly! Plus he’s a no-talent, ignorant wigger who is ruining hip-hop. Not only that, he is a racist who has dissed his share of your fellow beautiful African-American sisters. He represents the worse of our society… making hateful songs about women and gays… and he’s a liberal (probably being paid by Hollywood to make that childish little diss song addressed to our president). In addition, a kindergartener can write better rhymes than he can. He’s not on the level of the current greats like Jay-Z and Nas. Much less on Tupac and Big. Yet, he is hyped up to be the best thing that has ever happened to hip-hop (because of course, the white press loves him), but every knowledgeable hip-hop fan knows he is a phony… an overhyped fake.”
Then, right after I would say the word “fake”, I would subconsciously imagine me kissing him.
ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!
“This stops tonight,” I decided one cold late November afternoon.
I was watching a documentary about obsessed fans and how psychologists have managed to cure their “diseases”. Most of them gave up their obsessions after they met their idols. They said that they felt such disappointment over them that they never listened to their songs or watch their movies again. This would be my treatment. If maybe I kissed him, my subconscious body and heart would finally realize how irrational they are behaving, and then finally my mind can take over both my body and heart once again. A few unnamed sources in the publishing industry gave me his address, and wasting no time, I left for Clinton Township, Michigan.
I barely had time to notice the luxus mansion where he lived. There was no time to lose. I had to cure myself right there and then. After wheedling myself through some security measures, I finally had the man himself standing in front of me at his door.
In that echo-gaunt, weekday chancel
I see you
Wrestling to contain your flames
In your pink wool knitted dress
And in your eye pupils — great cut jewels
Jostling their tear-flames, truly like big jewels
Shaken in a dice-cup and held up to me.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m here, Mr. Mathers, for a very logical reason which I cannot explain to you, sir, because I can barely explain it to myself. Now, what I am about to do may be a little shocking for you and painful for me, but it is the only way to cure myself from my ‘disease,’”
“What the fuck are you----“
I kissed him. He pulled back stunned. And I pulled back even more stunned.
The feelings hadn’t gone away. In fact, for some strange reason they had intensified. What the fuck was going on? I couldn’t follow the rules of logical thinking. I didn’t understand it. My mind went utterly silent while my body and heart once again took over.
I kissed him again. He kissed me back.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.