El-P Considers Joining A Gym

El-P winced at his own naked reflection. He wasn’t 34 anymore; that much was clear. He scanned the porcine man in the mirror until he could bear no more and attempted to stare down at his toes. He could barely even make out his yellowing, hideously ingrown toenails over the bulge of his ashy stomach. Thank god I let those grow out, or this would be REALLY sad, he mused inwardly. A cigarette dangled in his slack, grayed lips. If only I hadn’t shaved my moustache, he thought, damn, El, you’ve really let yourself go. Something had to be done.

He had flipped through his rolodex for 15 minutes, desperately searching for someone who would give him some advice, or, for that matter, even talk to him. He fingered past Aesop Rock, Evil Nine, DJ Krush, Murs, Cage, Mr. Lif, Prefuse 73, Del tha Funkee Homosapien, Mike Ladd, The High and Mighty, Jedi Mind Tricks, Aceyalone, Atmosphere, Techno Animal, and Das Racist to no avail. Every bridge burned, every friendship collapsed or decaying. Finally, at the very back, he saw it: Killer Mike, what luck! El-P’s face lit up, jowls jiggling into a broad, greasy smile. He had just recently produced Killer Mike’s album, there was no way his good buddy and collaborator would begrudge him some workout pointers! He chubby fingers deftly waddled across the screen of his brand new Lumia 900 as he entered Mike’s number. The ringback tone was “Good Life” by Kanye West. El-P chuckled, Mike, you decadent so and so. The song ended abruptly, “You caught the Killer, what can I do you in for?”

“Mike! Its Jaime, what’s up, ma dood?”

“Oh…hey.”

Although El-P was taken aback by Mike’s shift in tone, he pressed on.

“Hey, yeah, um, I was just calling for some advice.”

“Uh, yeah, what do you need?”

“Well, listen, I’m not as young as I used to and, well, gravity’s getting the best of the ol’ bod, if you catch my fish.”

“Drift. Anyways, I’ll be more specific. What do you need from me?”

“Well, you’re, I mean don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just… It’s like, you’re in… You look good, Mike. You always have.”

Killer Mike rolled his eyes and exhaled towards the ceiling. “I thought this loser would leave me alone if I let him produce my album…” Shit, did I say that out loud? He had.

Tears welled up in El-P’s pudgy sockets and rolled down to his unkempt moustache. It was like the “The Last Huzzah!” video shoot all over again, only this time, he didn’t have Danny Brown to pity high-five him. Even Heems and Despot were cooler than him.

“M-M-Mike?” El-P choked, “Do you, do you really think I’m a loser?” He knew Mike wouldn’t answer honestly, but even contemptuous pity was better than nothing.

“Jaime, listen…” Christ, Mike thought, I really need to censor myself. “Jaime, you’re not…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

El-P slumped into his chair and unwrapped a Ho Ho.