I Got a Story to Tell
“YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO LOSE YOURSELF ON SKAG AND SKIP OUT FOR BEER DURING
COMMERICIALS BECAUSE THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED,” preaches Gil Scott-Heron on the Black Panther documentary I have streaming. It’s Thursday night and I’m in my Black Power bag. A blunt slowly burns the last of my stash in between bites of the oxtail plate I just got from the new Jamaican spot on 122nd. I’m twenty-four hours away from my weekend and sitting in my apartment that’s just two blocks away from where Gil Scott-Heron originally explained forty-eight years ago that “THERE WILL BE NO PICUTRES OF PIGS SHOOTING DOWN BROTHERS IN THE INSTANT REPLAY.” Somebody’s knocking on the door as Fred Hampton begins breaking down intersecting racial and sociopolitical climates in 1960, hopefully it’s the weed guy from Magic Hour because this blunt isn’t going to last forever.
“Hey, my bad man,” says my roommate Markus at the door, he’s with one of his finance buddies from his new job at Barclays. “I guess I left my keys in my room this morning. This is my friend from work, Greg.”
“Nice to meet you, man,” says Greg, extending his hand out for a handshake. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Mark. Law school, right? No wait, music industry! That’s so cool man I wish I was doing something that exciting everyday.”
Oh great, one of these finance guys. The slightly condescending White guy who relishes at the opportunity to seem cool to his one Black friend that he only met circumstantially. His bitch ass probably voted for Trump or at the very least, defended his parents/uncles/aunties/cousins voting for him.
“What’s good dude,” I respond, offering a pretty half-assed fist bump as I ripped my blunt. “You guys have plans tonight?”
“Nah, I think we’re going to have a few drinks here and grab some plates from Sylvia’s,” explains Markus as he brings out an expensive bottle of scotch from his room with a few glasses.
“What you know about some Sylvia’s, Greg?” I ask.
“Actually, my mother’s housekeeper is from Harlem and was telling me that it’s the best soul food and I have to try it,” says Greg. “I never make it all the way up here, but I think it’s so cool that Markus is living here. It’s pretty neat having guys in the office that live in Harlem. I mean, I would never be here otherwise.”
“You’re a real hero, Markus,” I say sarcastically. Markus shoots me a “come on man give me a fucking break right now” look. Sorry homie, you’re getting all the smoke right now.
“What are we watching right now?” asks Greg.
My documentary is showing clips of Malcolm X parading around Harlem with fellow members of the Nation of Islam. I switch the documentary over to ESPN, I really don’t want to deal with this kid right now so I’m not going to entertain the conversation. I bet it’s so neat that Black guys living in Harlem are watching Malcolm X content, huh?
My Magic Hour dealer finally arrives as Markus distributes glasses of scotch to the room. Yup, Mr. Dealer, a quarter-ounce and an edible is just fine with me because I’m out here trying to get BIG high tonight and I only have $80 cash on me anyway so let’s just go with that. Even though Markus smokes more than me, I know that he’s not going to smoke in front of this
yuppie ass mothafucka so I take it upon myself to blow smoke directly at him as any good, dickhead friend would do.
“Yeah, so like I was saying Markus,” says Greg taking a sip from his scotch. “I’m almost positive that Denise is cheating on me. My buddy who works the door at the Public said he saw her coming in and leaving with some guy who’s not me last Thursday.”
“Denise is the friendliest girl ever man,” Markus replies. “She could’ve been taking someone out for work or catching up with an old friend. I don’t know why you’re jumping to this conclusion.”
“I never see my own girlfriend man,” says Greg. “I shouldn’t have to hope she’s not fucking booked every night of the week just to have dinner. I mean, I’m way busier and doing far more important things than her. No offense, Kam.”
“What do you mean ‘no offense’?” I ask thinking that whenever a mothafucka says no offense, nine times out of ten some offensive shit was said.
“Oh, she works at Columbia Records so I wasn’t trying to trivialize the music industry or anything,” explains Greg. “But I mean come on, how busy can she really be?”
“I think you’re reaching man,” Markus retorts. “Greg, break it all down for Kam. He’s usually good with the relationship talk.”
“Can I have another glass first?” says Greg as Markus tops his glass off. “Well…she keeps saying that she has long nights and that’s why we can’t meet up. I keep seeing a bunch of guys who seem to work in music commenting on her pictures flirting with her. Whenever we meet up, it’s always at one of our apartments and never in public. Plus, a bouncer literally saw her
out with another guy at the club! What ‘friends’ go to the club together? Go get fucking brunch or something.”
“I mean, yeah,” I say. “She’s probably cheating if I had to guess.”
“See, Markus!” says Greg.
“Kam, trust me, she’s just a super outgoing girl,” says Markus. “Plus, she’s super
ambitious so I’m not shocked she’s out here networking and wooing people.”
“Why does she never take me to any events then?” asks Greg. “I mean, I’m happy to
throw on some tennis shoes and go to some concert or whatever. I like Drake! She said she’s going to see some Latin singer named Blanca tomorrow at this showcase. I asked if I can come, and she said it’s an industry only event.”
“I’m going to see Blanca tomorrow,” I tell Greg, sparking my next blunt. “It’s definitely not industry only, but probably will only have industry people there.”
“WOW, see Markus?” says Greg as he downs another glass and signals for a refill. “Do you believe me now? This bitch is fucking cheating on me. Am I not cool enough for her? Is my six-figure contract and Tribeca apartment not enough to impress her?”
“Still doesn’t mean she’s cheating, man,” Markus says as he takes the blunt from my hand. Greg’s ranting is clearly stressing him out to the point that he doesn’t mind smoking in front of his finance buddy. My nigga.
“I’ve got an idea,” says Greg standing up from the couch thinking he’s had a Jimmy Neutron brain blast moment. “Kam, if you’re going to the same showcase, why don’t you patrol her and see if she’s doing anything shady.”
“I’m not ‘patrolling’ any white woman, Greg,” I say.
“Even better,” he says. “Why don’t you try to hit on her at the showcase and see how far it goes? I’ll tell you everything you need to know about her, where you should invite her out after, what to talk about. Then, if she’s about to cheat, you can tell me and I’ll catch that bitch once and for all.”
“I’m not doing that shit,” I reaffirm. “Why don’t you just dump her if you think she’s cheating and you trust her this little?”
“If you tell me she’s not doing anything suspicious, then I’ll drop it forever and I’ll have peace of mind,” says Greg. “Please man, I’ll really owe you one.”
I’m weighing out the pros and cons in my head. On the one hand, this dude Greg is a fucking burger and I don’t give a fuck if his girlfriend is cheating on him. He’s the type of kid I despise, the type of kid that I met in college who needed to find friends through a fraternity. He’s presumptuous, entitled, and clearly a bit sexist and racist. Referring to your girlfriend as a bitch to a guy from work and his roommate you barely know? Trash ass dude.
On the other hand, I’m going to be at this showcase anyway. It could just be this blunt, but I am somewhat interested in whether or not this girl is cheating. I’ve been there before too so I know that irrational thinking and paranoia comes with a girlfriend you can’t trust. Maybe I’m really catching the worst of this guy and should give him the benefit of the doubt. I mean, if my girl was fucking random music industry heads I’d be pretty tight too. Plus, at the very least, this girl seems like a pretty okay person to network with anyway.
“Alright, whatever,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
“DUDE,” starts Greg. “YOU ARE THE FUCKING HOMIE. THIS IS FUCKING PERFECT!” “This is fucking stupid,” Markus injects.
“Markus, let’s go to Sylvia’s, I need some fried chicken in my life,” says Greg. “Kam, I’m going to text you tomorrow morning with everything you need to know. You are absolutely saving my relationship man; I can’t thank you enough!”
The next day, Greg follows through on his promise and texts me everything I need to know about Denise. If I end up conversing with her, be sure to mention how much I loved Coachella this year because she had the most amazing time in the world there and that Bad Bunny definitely had the best set. She likes to drink and dance at Short Stories in the East Village, so if I’m able to convince her to hang out after the showcase that’s definitely where I should take her. Oh, and she’s always trying to get Greg to wear streetwear so I can pretty much just dress how I normally would. Her favorite color is purple, her favorite cocktail is an extra dry martini, and her sign is Sagittarius. If I have any questions, I should just text Greg who will probably be hitting me up for updates anyway.
Great — this sounds stressful already. I’m going to have to maintain that I was high as shit and that’s why I made the terrible decision to ruin a great night of music on essentially stalking some dude’s girlfriend, but here we are. Alright, what to wear let’s see…let’s do my Ice Cube graphic tee with the ripped, skinny Mike Amiri’s and Union Jordan 1s.
The showcase that I’m going to is co-sponsored by Fun Water and an up-and-coming local clothing line named Thoughtful People. Blanca, the artist that I’m going to see, is a Latina singer/songwriter who’s a native to the Lower East Side and performs bilingually. Admittedly, I first found her music from being thirsty scrolling through Instagram and was pleasantly surprised that her songs were as fire as her looks. I DM’d her and ever since we’ve had a friendly industry relationship — I told her she has a really bright future ahead of her and she said
she’d keep me posted on future gigs and release dates. So, when Blanca told me that she was performing at the Thoughtful People x Fun Water showcase at a private location in Bushwick, I was definitely going to come show love.
As excited as I was for Blanca, there’s nothing exciting about taking the subway from Harlem to Bushwick in the summer. Airpods in, I’m counting on golden-era, mixtape Wayne to get me through this 45-minute trip, two transfer stop to the other borough. Two young Dominican children tussle across my subway seats as their mother scolds them in Spanish. An elderly Japanese man with an exquisite outfit pays no mind to the children as he appears lost by the sounds playing from his own Airpods. Across from him, a group of three pretty Black girls chat amongst themselves as they appear like they’re heading to some downtown nightlife. The Arab woman sitting next to me extends her hand out to her husband who holds it in peaceful silence.
Finally, I get off the Jefferson Ave L train stop and pull out my phone for directions to the location. Greg has texted me: “Hey Kam — she’s wearing a Fendi bra underneath a denim overall skirt and Air Force Ones. Let me know when you see her.” Alright, here goes nothing.
The showcase is exactly as you’d expect. An open bar full of Fun Water and top shelf liquors. Industry figures are huddled together gossiping about the latest happenings and chatting about who’s here and who’s not. People are taking pictures together at the branded photo booth that will DM the pictures directly to your Instagram messages. Random photographers are capturing every moment they can in this pop-up venue.
“Kam!” I hear from the stage. Blanca signals me over as she walks away from her band on-stage. She’s wearing an oversized Off-White hoodie that hides her short denim shorts. Her
curly hair is braided tightly into two French braids. I swear, in another lifetime I would’ve fallen in love with this woman, but our friendship is worth way more than that, especially if I can end up with 10–20% somewhere down the line.
“What’s up, girl? You look great,” I say returning her hug on-stage. “How many songs you got in you today?”
“I’ll probably do like seven or eight,” she says with that thick Boricuan accent. “To be honest, I’m trying to get this bullshit over with as soon as possible. I hate these bougie ass events.”
“I hear you,” I say. “Any event where there’s a photo booth is probably going to be trash.”
“You see it,” says Blanca. “Well, any requests for me, hot shot?”
“I know you have a ‘Si Estuviésemos Juntos’ cover in you,” I say.
“Hmmm, okay I got you Kam,” she says. “If you’re kickin’ it after the show, let’s smoke
one and catch up.”
“I’d love to, but I’m actually here trying to meet up with someone,” I tell her.
“Oh, you hate these events, but you’re out here networking, Kam?” Blanca teases. “Hey
did you see the photo booth over there?”
“Ha ha,” I laugh. “I’ll hit you up if I don’t end up meeting this person. Good luck up
there.”
Blanca and I embrace once more before she returns to her band who’s started warming
up. Everybody in the room begins to gather near the stage as Blanca starts singing her most
well-known song. Right on queue, a couple dozen iPhones leave their owners’ pockets so they can capture the moment.
“So…why are you so important that Blanca speaks to you before her set,” says a redhead girl tapping me on the shoulder. The redhead is wearing a Fendi bra underneath a denim overall skirt with Air Force Ones on. Looks like I wouldn’t have to do too much work to crack Greg’s case.
“I’ve been following her for a little bit and we became pretty friendly along the way,” I tell Denise. “Are you a fan?”
“OMG, I’m a HUGE fan,” says Denise. “I’ve been pitching her at our A&R meetings for months and finally convinced some peeps to check her out today. I’m Denise, by the way.”
“Kameron, nice to meet you,” I say offering my hand for a shake.
Blanca is dancing on stage as her drummer drifts off on a solo. The audience cheers her on as she manages to dance seductively on stage with those snakeskin stilettos on. Denise is still standing next to me, but our conversation has died off as Blanca’s set continues.
“Hey,” I say, breaking the silence. “Do you want grab a drink with me at the bar? I feel guilty not running an open bar dry on a Friday night.”
“Sure,” Denise says. “After you.”
I lead the way as Denise and I cut through a group of 20-somethings who work at labels, streaming services, agencies, and blogs. The bartenders behind the bar, decked in all Thoughtful People gear, are standing in front of fifths of Casamigos, Tito’s, Hennessey, Tanqueray, Maker’s Mark, and an assortment of local IPAs. I’m not going to lie — a little bit of liquid courage is going to make this way easier.
“What’s good, G? I’ll have a shot a Casamigos and a Stella please,” I tell the handsome bartender who’s probably the brand’s go-to model.
“And for the lady?” he asks.
“I’ll also have a shot of Casamigos,” Denise says. “Also, a Casamigos and soda water with lime please.”
“Oh, we DRINKING drinking,” I ask.
“I had the most shit day at work,” she says. “I really need this.”
“You know, you strike me as more of the martini type,” I tell her as the model bartender
readies our drinks on the bar.
“Ew, no,” says Denise. “My douchebag boyfriend likes martinis so he’s always ordering
them for me, but I fucking hate them.”
Denise and I clink our shot glasses, down the tequila, and chase it with a lime. I take a
sip from my Stella bottle. Denise takes a sip from her cocktail.
“So what label do you work at?” I ask.
“I’m an A&R at Dynamic Records,” she says.
“That’s amazing. You guys have a great roster,” I say.
“It’s cool…but honestly I really want to quit the music industry and work in advertising,”
Denise says. “If I hate being an A&R, I’m not sure there’s anything in the music industry I’d be happy doing.”
“Well, you’re still engaged enough to be at events like this right?” I ask. “Have you thought about moving companies or anything?”
“I’m interviewing with Live Nation and AEG right now to see if I prefer the live side of things right now, so we’ll see,” she says. “What is it that you do?”
“I’m an assistant at an agency,” I tell her. “But I hate it too actually. I’m working on a novel right now, trying to see where that takes me.”
“Oh yeah?” she says. “What’s it about?”
“Just a collection of short stories about being a 20-something in New York City,” I tell her, somewhat shocked I’m spilling this information that I’ve barely told my closest friends about to someone I’ve barely know. “It’s also been motivating me to just go out and experience as much as I can because I can turn around and write stories about it. It’s pretty therapeutic in a way.”
“So basically you’re going to go back home and write about all of this?” Denise asks. “Something like that,” I said, taking a sip from my Stella.
“Well if you write about me, make sure you don’t do that stupid male chauvinist bullshit
where you describe me as ‘being beautiful but she didn’t even know it’,” she says. “Oh, so you know it?” I ask her.
“Know what?”
“That you’re beautiful.”
“Come on,” she says. “You’re supposed to be a writer you can come up with a better line than that.”
“Alright guys,” says Blanca from the stage. “This last song is a request from my homie Kam. Any Bad Bunny fans in here?”
Blanca starts singing Si Estuviésemos Juntos with her unique spin and it sounds better than the original. Most people in the room, including myself, can’t understand most of the Spanish lyrics, but the emotion is clearly conveyed with her beautiful voice. Denise and I take another shot of Casamigos at the bar. I can tell that Blanca’s shoutout reinforced Denise’s hunch that I’m an interesting fly young nigga.
“Thank you guys so much,” says Blanca as she finishes the cover. “This was so much fun. Be sure to follow me on Spotify and Instagram at @blancamusicnyc. Los quiero a todos.”
The crowd gives Blanca and her band a thunderous applause as many make a beeline straight to the bar for last call. It’s 10:30 on a Saturday night in Bushwick, so by all means the night is extremely young, and to many it hasn’t even started yet. The house DJ starts blasting Home (KOD) by Playboi Carti, a great choice to appeal to the crowd in the room.
“Hey, do you want to go meet Blanca?” I ask Denise who’s grabbing herself a water and another tequila cocktail.
“I mean…well, I’d love to but I’m a little drunk,” she says.
“Honestly, that’s probably better. She’ll appreciate that you’re an industry person that can cut loose,” I tell her. “Come on.”
Blanca is still on-stage as her band breaks down their equipment. She’s hitting her vape pen and scrolling her phone in a way that must mean she’s on Instagram. Goddamn she’s so fine.
“Yo B,” I tell her walking over with Denise. “You killed that shit girl.” “Thanks baby,” Blanca says passing me her vape pen.
“I wanted you to meet my friend Denise,” I say. “She’s an A&R at Dynamic Records and has been pitching you to a couple folks there. I just wanted to make the introduction and align a couple of young women killing it in the industry.”
“Blanca, it’s so nice to meet you,” Denise says full of energy. She passes me her two drinks so she can give Blanca a hug. “You were so amazing today and I’m sure all of my colleagues felt the same way.”
“Thanks girl, I appreciate that,” Blanca says. “How do you know Kam?”
“We just met actually,” Denise replies.
“Well, he’s an absolute sweetheart and makes me think that all industry people aren’t
all fucking dicks after all,” says Blanca.
“You must’ve never hung out with me when I’m off the Henny, B,” I joke.
“Well we never fucking hang out anyway!” says Blanca. “Me and some of the guys in the
band are going to go dancing at Bossa Nova now. You have to come! Otherwise, I’m inclined to believe you actually are a fucking dick.”
“Denise, what do you think?” I ask my new friend whom I’m technically spying on. “I’m in!” Denise says.
Denise, Blanca, Blanca’s pianist, Blanca’s drummer, and myself have some last drinks
before the easy fifteen-minute walk to Bossa Nova club. Denise and Blanca start becoming friendly on the walk over. Blanca plays Denise a few unreleased songs off her phone and Denise asks Blanca if she’d be interested in coming in the office and performing for a few people. The pianist and drummer are showing me their new tattoos as we pass around the vape pen until
the battery dies. Once we’re right around the corner from the club, I decide to respond back to Greg who’s been blowing my shit up all night.
How’s it going man?
By the way, I forgot to mention that she hates tequila so stay away from tequila What’s going on homie??? Did she end up showing up?
She’s not texting me back so I’m sure that she’s out. Are you with her?
Goddamn, this mothafucka is annoying.
Yo Greg — I’m with her now and we’re going to some club in Bushwick with a few music heads. Seems like she’s just a very friendly girl, I haven’t noticed anything suspect yet.
Will keep you posted.
That should probably hold him off from blowing my shit up for a bit.
By the way, she said she hates martinis lol.
I couldn’t resist that one. The rest of the group waves me over as they’re getting their IDs checked at the door. It’s Latin night and a techno remix of an old Aventura song has the entire place groovin’. Naturally, Blanca knows the DJ who’s spinning so we’re sat at a table right
next to the booth. Blanca and her band leave Denise and I at the table so they can grab all of us drinks.
“Hey,” Denise says, moving over to the seat in the booth next to me. “I just wanted to thank you for introducing me to Blanca. That was really cool of you, a lot of people in this business are competitive fucks and wouldn’t do something like that and I barely even know you.”
“It’s no problem,” I tell her. “I think it’ll be good for her too, she needs to make more industry connections anyway.”
“Well, I really appreciate it,” she says. “I almost didn’t come out tonight because my boyfriend has been bitching at me for never hanging out with him, but I’m glad I did.”
“Oh yeah…” I say, trying my best to sound disappointed by the word “boyfriend.” Truthfully, most times I hear that word coming from a woman’s mouth I am disappointed. “Forgot about that boyfriend of yours.”
“Well, he won’t be my boyfriend much longer,” she says. “Honestly, I fucking hate him.” “How long have you guys been together?” I ask her.
“It’s been like nine months now. I won’t lie, at first I was impressed by how financially
successful he was — he has the big salary, nice Tribeca apartment, and even has his Benz in the city. But eventually, I started to realize how much of a fucking piece of shit he was once all of the material stuff stopped impressing me. He literally doesn’t know a single thing about me, I’m just his little trophy that he brags to douchebag friends about.”
“Damn, he’s got the Mercedes in Manhattan?! He’s really got money if he can afford that parking. Well if you break up with him, can I have him?”
“We got shots for everybody,” says Blanca with five shots of tequila in her hands. “Let’s take these and dance!”
It’s funny how much smoother tequila is when you’re already four or five drinks deep. Our table clinked glasses and downed the cheap liquor before dancing together in front of the DJ. I feel like I haven’t heard a song that’s in English all night, but it’s not stopping me from going crazy on the dance floor. Denise and I are dancing like an interracial Michelle Pfeiffer and Al Pacino from Scarface. She lets me grab her hand and twirl her around, I let her dance against me as more Romeo Santos plays. Even though Denise has a young Isla Fisher vibe, and don’t get me wrong I LOVE Isla Fisher, she’s probably not the type of girl that I would’ve spent my night pursuing. Truthfully, I’m not sure I’m her type either if she was ever attracted to Greg at some point. But tonight, tonight there’s an undeniable energy between the two of us and we’re enjoying each other’s company. I definitely feel guilty that it’s not as serendipitous of an encounter as she probably believes it is.
Blanca and the band tell us that they’re heading out, but that she and I should definitely smoke soon and that she and Denise should keep in contact. Denise and I stay for one last song, still dancing together as if Greg doesn’t exist. Finally, we leave the club and go to the bodega around the corner. I grab a Gatorade, some gum, and a Quest protein bar. She grabs a Voss water and peanut M&Ms.
“I’m like a ten-minute walk from her,” she says once we pay. “Do you want to smoke and eat these snacks?”
Not to be crude, but if the girl you’ve been dancing with all night invites you over to her place to “smoke” at 2:00AM, she’s really inviting you over to get some dick. She introduces me
to her roommate who’s still awake with her boyfriend watching a movie. We hit the rest of the weed that’s left in her bowl. She leads me to her bedroom. We start making out. She asks me if I have a condom. She says fine, but to make sure that I pull out. We start having sex. I pull out. We pass out.
The next morning, I wake up and Denise is already awake scrolling through her phone. I’m not really the type to sleep with someone else’s girlfriend, so I’m going to have to chalk this transgression on the tequila. I mean, clearly there’s trouble at home that surpasses me creeping on someone else’s girlfriend, right?
Greg doesn’t know a single thing about Denise, he just thinks she’s something he can buy like a Mercedes or Tribeca apartment. In some ways, I don’t blame him, because there are definitely a ton of women in New York City that that’ll work on, but his girlfriend doesn’t seem like one of them. But still, I do understand the feeling of being cheated on, or maybe even worse, thinking you’ve been cheated on and not able to prove it. Nobody in this situation comes out clean — Greg is the dickhead boyfriend, Denise is the lying cheater, and I’m the asshole who didn’t give a fuck about the situation and got some pussy anyway.
“Hey,” says Denise cuddling next to me. “Please look at this bullshit.”
Denise scrolls through a dozen lengthy text messages from the boyfriend that she doesn’t know I know. He’s calling her a bitch and ungrateful, then he’s apologizing and saying he’ll pick her up from wherever she’s at, and finally he’s calling her a bitch again. I pull out my phone to call an Uber and realize I’ve been flooded with texts from Greg as well.
“Do you want to get breakfast or something?” Denise asks. “There’s this really great place around the corner or I can whip up something from the kitchen.”
“I’ve got a car coming actually,” I tell Denise. “Last night was really fun, I’m glad we met. You should definitely stay in touch with Blanca, I think you guys can do some cool things together.”
We kiss, both of our breathes still smell like last night’s tequila, and I’m out the door. My car is in front of her brownstone and I hop in once my AirPods are fully synched and back to playing Mixtape Wayne. I text Greg back: “Yo man, you’ve got nothing to worry about as far as I see it. I ended up going back with some girl, but Denise seemed to just be having fun from what I could gather. Maybe you guys need to have a conversation about your relationship.” Once I send my lies off, I go to Spotify and copy the link to I Got a Story to Tell by Biggie. I send the link off to Markus and tell him I’ve got a crazy one for him when I’m back home and to PLEASE have something burning for when I get there.
