DC

Miles To Go

Truck tires sink into the potholes on their way up the street, plodding along to their destinations under the dim streetlights. Pedestrians travel down the concrete barriers placed in between the lanes, unfazed by the loud clomping further ripping apart the divots. Liquor stores and tobacco shops sit at the corners, their doors open to fight the humid summer air. The heat is evident on the backs of the young men standing in the McDonald’s parking lot, sweat staining their white undershirts. They passed around a phone, listening to a video and breaking into a disarming smile at its content. A few of the boys sank back onto a black sedan, laughing heartedly and slumping onto the hood. An older man reclined in the driver’s seat and shared a gap-toothed cackle with the group. A block west, a group of young white men and women stumble out of an indoor mini golf bar, with one tripping haphazardly into a pair of parked cars.

This isn’t St. Louis.

The air is suffocating and thick in the summer heat. The street was filled with young professionals in full sweat as they walked from their parked cars on Benning Road towards the bars on H Street. Brittanie sat at her living room window and shook her head. They too comfortable.

“Close them blindszzz,” a muffled voice yelled out; Brit turned and saw her mother standing behind the couch, puffing a menthol cigarette. “It’szz…too much light in here.”

“Always out there. Damn traaaaiii…don’t know why they…they even put that out there.” Brit’s mother leaned back onto the couch, nearly dropping the lit cigarette. “Fuckin’ white folk alway wanna be somewhere they ain’t ‘posed to be.”

CiCi, Brit’s sister, walked out of the bedroom and looked down at her mother. Her eyes immediately cut toward the window where Brit still stood closing the blinds. “She out?”

This isn’t St. Louis.

The street was abuzz. A couple walked hand in hand, a corded set of earbuds split between them. Brit squinted from her second-floor window at the phone and saw motion from a video. She couldn’t make out the details, but she could see the young woman move toward the man slightly as her head bobbed. She didn’t glance up at the project building once; he stared straight ahead, also blissfully unaware of the residents’ conditions and circumstances above them.

The City welcomes those with the means to leave. There wasn’t much for those that sauntered back to their apartments, stuck here. Not Benning Road, anyway. Those young men in the McDonald’s parking lot were swatted away before prime bar hours. They left in every direction, slinking back into the various quandaries The City chose to ignore. While H Street indulged in all of the nonsense a tabbed credit card could afford, the rest of Northeast Washington, D.C. strove to live.

The swelling weekend traffic is nonexistent come Monday morning. On the walk up to Union Station, Brit routinely saw pieces of uneaten cookies, used bar napkins, and the returning foot soldiers previously ushered away by bar security. Northeast seemed a newly minted saint apologetic for its previous sins, and its City workers feverishly scrambled to cleanse its misgivings. Two men in black suits and briefcases shoved past her in the station entranceway, absentmindedly sipping from paper cups. Their thoughtlessness was nothing new. Brit continued behind them toward the escalators leading to the Metro train platform beneath the building. Government workers. Consultants, maybe. It was a daily routine. On her morning walk to work, dozens of men and women spilled out from the MARC commuter train and hastily walked down to the Metro Station. It was much the same in the evening, with many of the same faces instead going up the escalator toward the regional train, whisking them back into their waiting Maryland suburbs. Sometimes she would look at the gates full of people – eager to return home and forget D.C. – and long for that feeling again. A transactional relationship. For Washington, D.C. to be a destination, and not a net in which she found herself caught.

It’s not St. Louis.

The potholes become deeper and more pronounced as the street winds eastbound. The streetlights shine with varying levels of luminance, as does what sits beneath them. The dark shadow of RFK Stadium looms menacingly in the distance. There are no suits strolling aimlessly about. There is no promise of advancement. Self-importance does not lie in a title. The sights have not changed here. It is suspended in time, as the future hinges mostly on getting through today.

Brit slung her bag over a chair and walked past the dining room table into the living room. The television was on and obscenely loud; she could hear it echoing off the walls of the apartment building stairway as she walked up. Some commentators were going on about something as the screen showed football players in drenched compression shorts catching passes from a machine zipping balls in their direction. No one else was in the room, and she looked down the narrow hallway toward her mother’s room. Darren was here.

The borders of The City are as invisible as the residents bound by them. Every day, upwards of a million workers cross its boundaries from the neighboring Virginia and Maryland suburbs, focused solely on career advancement. Maybe a drink or five after work. When the sun begins to lower under the cityscape, outbound trains and cars race for those borders, their self-worth again fulfilled. The City’s swollen center is again empty.

Nothing like St. Louis.

Brit sat at the window looking down on the street. Two kids in white collared shirts and khakis walked below. The late August sun glared offensively into one of the young boy’s eyes and he glared up toward the window as if some bored soul was reflecting aluminum foil in his direction. Brit grinned slightly. She remembered being one of those children walking home with their friends, talking about a place outside of here. A loud shriek from the closed bedroom door brought her back to the present.

*****

The Maryland border sat two miles away, but for many inhabitants of the Benning Terrace apartment complex, it was an entire day’s worth of effort. North Carolina might as well be on the opposite coast. The smiles and shouts from Brit’s neighbors confirmed as much. “My girl goin’ to AT&T!” came a voice from somewhere in the crowded terrace. “Buuuuug!” exclaimed another. Brit held her acceptance letter above her head victoriously. A charcoal grill placed in a parking spot cooked burgers in celebration. An old man they called Blue – though Brit never knew why – sipped a Michelob while he cooked. A sign that read ‘Congratulations Bug’ was sprawled across the low fence surrounding the grassy area in front of her building. What should have been a moment of pride felt hollow, as a noticeable absence loomed over the party. Brit sat in a plastic lawn chair, greeting her well-wishers with an empty smile.

Greensboro is cool, but it ain’t St. Louis.

*****

“THEN GET THE…FUCK OUT THEN!” Brit’s mother swung the door open, and Darren stumbled backwards into the hallway. He fastened his pants, panting heavily and raising his right hand to feel for the doorframe. Brit’s mother wasn’t visible in the hallway, but her voice carried out into the living room and, surely, through the thin walls of the small apartment.

Darren gathered his balance and walked around Brit to collect his things. She turned towards him expressionless as he stooped over, grabbed his shoes, and exited silently. There was a thump after the door closed, presumably from Darren leaning back on the door to slip into his shoes in the safety of the stairway. Brit turned back to the window as her mother entered the room yelling at the closed door.

Empty McDonald’s wrappers and cups are pushed aside when the cars travel down the street. Their drivers pay no mind to the garbage and continue driving along swiftly toward Baltimore-Washington Parkway. The workday is over. The City served its purpose, and the urban sprawl becomes smaller and more distant in the rearview mirrors. They cross the bridges en masse, as if they were escaping the clutches of an imminent threat, its reach only extending to those invisible borders.

Brit continued staring out the window at the bustle of the people on the street below her. She wondered why everyone walked so fast. What urgency was there to continue to do the same thing? She wondered what their lives were like. What motivated them to get up and repeat this mundane existence? She obsessed over these questions, perhaps trying to derive some meaning for her own life as well. She stared at the setting sun for a few moments. It too made its exit to some far-off land. Somewhere beyond D.C. What was it like to be bound to nothing but your own desire? To be unfettered by demand and oblivious to obligation? What was it like to not feel trapped?

*****

The genuine pride emanating from the attendees stuck in Brit’s mind vividly. The smiles were radiant, not at all clouded by jealousy. What these people felt about Brit’s accomplishment was pure. A scholarship to go to school in another state. To be somewhere else for four years. Maybe forever. It was the fulfilment of many dashed hopes and ambitions, and the vicarious shared existence that allowed them to believe in something more than this. That the world was not as far away as it seemed. That those borders were open to traverse freely. That it was possible. That they could move about as unincumbered as those businessmen and women in Union Station.

Missouri Avenue was only about six miles to the west, and with it, Brit’s father. Maybe the bus ride was a bit too far, and waiting at the stop would leave his beard moist with perspiration. Maybe his wife and other daughter were more worthy of his attention. Those imagined motivations, Brit had long been able to justify and compartmentalize. But she knew. He was selfish and disinterested in her life. It was normal and familiar at this point. She used to trek over to Northwest on occasion once she was old enough to traverse The City, but that stopped once she realized the effort was one-sided and – quite frankly – unfair. But even still. This was a huge achievement that no one on either side of her family had come close to realizing. It stung. There were no new tears to cry or burgeoning insecurities to harbor, but it pricked at her pride all the same. A stack of congratulatory greeting cards were piled on a table next to the grill; none were from him. She was certain.

*****

Being back in D.C. played devious games with her ego. A year ago, she sat in that plastic chair, enjoying the fruits of so much labor. A reward then promised to supplant youthful whims now tangible. Standing out in a school full of standouts finally paying a dividend that had seemed uncertain entering her senior year of high school. It was a lifetime of sacrifice lost in the matter of a schoolyear. Finally enjoying a sliver of independence and autonomy, only to lose her scholarship. She now had to place her faith in the Department of Education, a faith that had yet to be reciprocated. It was a feeling of despair that was not afforded her. As her dreams sat in deferral, she couldn’t help but feel the glimmer of hope that was St. Louis vanishing with the setting sun.

As a grade-schooler, Brit talked almost obsessively about going to St. Louis. It was right down the street, she had thought. Right there on Missouri Avenue. She would buy a big house with some pretty purple flowers adorning the walkway. There would be a fenced in swing set with monkey bars attached at the end. Maybe even a little doghouse for BeBe and CeCe, named after characters from her favorite cartoon, The Proud Family. She would be successful and rich and happy and everyone would love her. Mommy would be so proud. And maybe Daddy would be, too. Maybe being this close to him would make him stop by. He could even make her popcorn and hot dogs while they watched the Redskins play on Sundays. Linda, his wife, would bring her leftover cookies from the middle school in Prince George’s County she taught at, just as she did for Bethany. She could even walk to their house after work! There would be pans of spaghetti and garlic bread on the table. She would tell Daddy about her day and its frustrations and tease Bethany for being a timid, quirky little sister. She Googled St. Louis in fifth grade and it looked so comely. There was an arch overlooking a long river. Behind it were buildings she couldn’t recall seeing in D.C.; an unexplored part of The City robust with boundless opportunity. She imagined the streets weren’t worn down and littered with plastic bottles and cigarette butts. No wonder Daddy never came to Benning Road. I wouldn’t either, she had thought.

Her childhood dream of St. Louis was jaded shortly after her eleventh birthday. She learned the Gateway Arch, the structure of which she envisioned so endearingly, was placed in Missouri as part of America’s westward expansion. she was disheartened to learn that this place of promise and contentment sat hundreds of miles away in the state of Missouri. The place her father had found happiness was simply another area of D.C., not terribly unlike her little section of Northeast. Still, she sat almost daily at the window, staring off into the sunset. She wondered what her father was doing, and if he ever had a passing thought about his eldest daughter. It was just six miles away. Some days she stared intently, as if to will Missouri Avenue into her focus through the buildings amongst her.

Brit’s mother, now calm from the brown drink in her hand, turned the television volume to full blast again, stirring Brit from her dusky dalliance with the street below. “Ain’t nothing out there girl, I told you that before. Now close them damn blinds, Bug. I can’t see the TV.” Brit sighed, twisted the tilt wand, and her view slowly became obscured by the white plastic.

rage TO BE BLACK

“The banality of violence can never excuse America, because America makes no claim to the banal.”

-Ta-Nehisi Coates

To navigate Black life in America is to understand hypocrisy. It is also to understand selective dissonance. It is to understand how innocuous action is typically ignored by all, and forceful appeals for humanity become admonished by many. It is to feel bewildered that such a simple request from the disenfranchised is met with a willing obtuseness, and, at most, a shrug and the promise of “needed discourse”. Such a blatant disregard for Blackness- a Blackness that is emulated only slightly less often than it is dehumanized- can only lead to anger. And to understand this anger is to truly understand America.

The embers always burn- too casually, even- in the back of Our minds, the omnipresent sense of hopelessness wrestling Our well-being into submission. We try Our best to ignore its’ persistent appearance into the forefront of Our consciousness like an emergent migraine at each disheartening article, video, or newsclip. The injustice befalls onto hearts cursed to break again and eyes long thought to be desensitized. Some seek solace in the forced insanity that is expecting justice, while others recognize- either innately or through years of witnessing those operating in bad faith- that there will be none. Both are tethered- the former to hope, the latter to grim realism- to an existence that is uniquely tragic and deeply depressing. Only then does that pain begin to arise, not because it was never present, but because We, yet again, are subject to the whims of those tasked with ensuring this pain is recurring.

The construction is taxing; it is the result of an assemblage of ideals built to revel in our collective disdain at their practiced song-and-dance. The construction has long become the device of those maliciously devouring our sense of safety, equality, and self-esteem while malnourishing Us with trite platitudes. The construction publicly acknowledges fault in words that remove any wrongdoing on their behalf- the way things currently stand cannot possibly be of their doing- while privately crossing their collective fingers in hopes that change will not disrupt their well-being. They will stand, not because of an intrinsic belief in all that is just, but because placation is the most direct route back to THEIR normalcy.

The construction is sanctimonious and pompous and misleading. The construction devalues the merits of Our righteous fury and instead champions the meekest and most docile among Us. The construction has long deemed protest to be noble and heroic and liberating and violent and contentious for some, while all other objection is painted in the unflattering undertones of savagery and unruliness. The construction values comfort. Please pardon, for I misspoke: the construction values their comfort, and acquiescence to this comfort is not only preferred, it is enforced. Beyond that, it is deputized. It is taught. It is highlighted and promoted as the most honorable value Our leaders possess, whether cherrypicked conveniently from Martin’s words, or delivered as a plea of compliance from our pulpits.

This is why We must never ignore those embers. They do not merely reside in Our psyches; they gnaw away at them. To be Us is to be constantly assaulted in ways that are both unique and unrelenting. Because the construction fears that WE are unique and unrelenting. To be Us is to understand the problem is inherently theirs. That the idea of Us and them is simply to explain injustice in a way that exonerates the culprits. To be Us is to understand this notion and to wholly reject it. To be Us is to understand Our exposure and nakedness to a world that expertly illuminates the trivial reconciliations of the past while never acknowledging the remaining darkness surrounding it.

Those flickering embers must never fade, for it is when the anger transforms into resignation that we are truly doomed. A quiet resignation then becomes a submission that accepts the tiniest pacifications. This is when the journey is recounted and the appreciation lies in the destination that is now amongst Us, and not beyond. This is when false equivalencies are made and hidden self-prejudices are revealed. This is when We somehow become responsible for a construct We neither created, nor willingly participated in. This is when the belief that transcending this construct is not only possible, but attainable by all with the gumption to do so. This anger must always continue to be present, unbridled in spirit while measured in pragmatism and action.

My plea is not for them in the same way my patience for their stagnation is no longer present. They are deserving of neither. There is no use appealing to some general decency that has been proven many times over to merely reside in theory. The construction is cold and overbearing, an efficiently operating system that is unaffected by nuance, sound reason, or civility. But as more ears become sympathetic to opposition of this construction, it is imperative that the sounds they hear are of loud defiance and resolute demands that will not be swayed by immoral negotiation, inducement, or hollow promises. My plea is for Us to continue to apply pressure to a construction that, for the first time in a long while, has been taken aback and appears staggered in their amoral resolutions.

I say all of this to not deride whatever earned celebrations, pleasures, and exuberance this country begrudgingly affords Us; I simply imply that joy is of Our own construction, and that the embers of Our rage should remain ablaze and directed towards those that seek to extinguish our collective desire for a land We dare challenge to be better. Anger- very much like trouble- can be good for Us. It is necessary for Us. We are not docile, nor are We scared to strip leadership to remove every inkling of Our silent acquiescence. This is America, right? And to be American SHOULD BE to vehemently deny injustice; for too long this notion has not been accepted as an all-encompassing right. To be in America is to also understand that the story of this country is rooted in violence and civil disobedience, which is to say…

Kindly fuck yourself if you don’t know, don’t show, or don’t care what the hell is going on.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Harbour

You no longer the man, that’s a bitter pill to swallow/All I know is I’m wallowing, self-loathing and hollow…

It all seems so festive from here. I’ll bet the air is filled with competing music bleeding into the promenade from the various bars and restaurants. I imagine new couples still in a whirlwind of new emotions basking in the welcoming glow of the neon lights. I envision the embers of older romance being sparked by the electricity in the air. I imagine the escape this area provides; the veil of serenity lightly shielding all that awaits after the parties and the sweet smells and the pleasant breezes. I look on from my world of worry onto a whimsical harbor where everything is new, the Wheel rotates seductively on the pier, and the setting sun bounces rays off the river, making everything seem more vibrant. And as I make my commute from one deflation to the next disappointment, I see it all so painfully vividly.

The pearly white beams and twinkling golden hue of the MGM stands amongst its surroundings as the centerpiece of a reclamation project. Its perch, slightly above the other buildings situated in the valley of the National Harbor, dominate the eye from all that surrounds it. It’s exorbitant. It’s opulent. It’s immaculate. And I fucking hate it.

That damn building is omnipresent. I see it when I leave for work. I see it when I come home. I see it FROM my home. I see its glow, continuous and confident, refusing to be dimmed by short days and long shadows. I see the Wheel meandering about lightheartedly, while its patrons look onto the frigid and congested urban sprawl, memories no longer focused on having to navigate it daily. The moment is fleeting, but in them I can’t help but to long for living temporarily, and not the Sisyphean task of simply surviving.

As the traffic crawls along on I-495, I routinely glance over to see something jubilantly defiant in its existence and juxtaposition to all that occurs around it. I see a happiness that I can’t seem to find and an assuredness that I grasp at futilely. I loathe what I see because I loathe the unforeseen obstacles placed between us, and because of this, I envy something that I don’t even have a full view of.

I’m enamored with a dream, a promise that is often unfulfilled and underwhelming. What I believed to be solace and protection only exists to exacerbate what I feel. What was supposed to be an oasis from a distance is really more of the norm up close. There is no momentarily escaping life, because life’s only escape is permanent.

But that’s how it works, this pesky, nagging depression and self-doubt. It can make things seem whole and pristine and exorbitant and opulent and immaculate. It can fill you with resentment for all the happy people, happy things, and happy places, jealous such pleasure doesn’t exist in your own psyche. It’s neither healthy nor rational. It’s absurd to torture myself by envisioning this place as if it were simply a laminated postcard hanging askew in a drafty dungeon. Furthermore, it’s embarrassing to long for a place that I never found to be anything but a source of great annoyance…

The air is filled with a mishmash of sterilized pop songs and asinine teenage gossip. New couples aimlessly walk hand-in-hand, oblivious to others that have to swerve into fresh manure to get around them. Their love is fresh and broadcast for the world to view and like and comment on with each filter and pointless caption. Older couples sit at restaurants sipping Pinot quietly as they both make fruitless attempts to recapture what has long been dead. They retell the same stories and traffic in the lives of their friends, as if attempting to flee their own shared misery. I imagine this place as the Phoenix of hipster racism and undeserved vanity flying across the water from the charred remains of a city that once proudly flaunted its diversity. As I walk among it all, I’m oddly comforted. What I deemed to be whole is comprised of a bunch of pieces as broken as the rest of us.

I’ll be back 2018 to give you the summary. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

TAOTFH: Heaven’s Boogie

“Jesus, this guy is good.”

“I know, my son,” a booming voice acknowledged from somewhere behind those tall, glittering gates…

Well shit…how the hell am I getting into Heaven if I can’t even beat the first person? A slight breeze whipped by my neck and caused my shoulders to tremble a little.

Three days ago

It had only been about 30 minutes since waking up in this place, on a cot in a cabin made of finished oak. There were rows of beds stretched endlessly in either direction. On my left, a man gyrated to whatever was playing in his earbuds. He didn’t seem old at all- I would have guessed 24 at the most- and sweat flew from his long, brown hair as he moved. Another young man on my right swatted at the air wildly. A bright red pair of Beats By Dre slid about which each gesture. After looking around, I realized everybody had some sort of headphone on. Most moved frantically, some danced, and others lay on their beds quietly. Confused, I searched around for some sort of clue as to why I was here with these people. Finally I found a small box sealed shut with masking tape. I ripped it open and found my own pair of Beats By Dre connected to a black iPod Touch. As I placed the headphones over my head, the iPod magically turned on and a deep, soothing voice began to explain everything I desperately wanted to know.

“On the evening of January 12, 2015, you were shot 3 times; twice in your chest and once in your head. You were unresponsive and left your Earthly life almost immediately. Although you were young in age- 29- you have left quite a polarizing impression on Heaven’s Acceptance Committee. This committee, comprised of the 12 Apostles of Nazareth, was not able to come to a unanimous decision regarding your acceptance or denial into The Kingdom of The Lord. Because of their conflict, you were sent here, to the Purgatory Appeals Program. As such, you and everyone you see here will be forced to win your way into Heaven via a dance-off competition against Heaven’s elite. You will face three opponents that will be chosen at random and will dance to the song of your choice. Defeating all three will result in your acceptance into God’s Kingdom. However, should you lose to the first, you will be sentenced to an eternity in Hellfire. Should you lose to the second, you will be sent back to Purgatory where you will have the opportunity to win your way into Heaven again in five years. Should you defeat both but lose to your final opponent, you will be sent back to Earth to resume your life. This iPod will allow you to play any song of your choosing. Your dance-off will be held in three days in The Golden Gates-Courtyard Marriott Center in East Cloud, Outer Heaven. Good luck, my son…”

Well shit…

Round 1: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Silas of Macedonia

“D.J. Taz! That’s riiiiiiiiiiight! That’s riiiiiiiiiiie-i-e-iiiiiiight!!!”

Silas’ shoulders bobbed up and down as he worked his pelvis into the most unimaginable positions. He was nearly through his three-minute set and didn’t seem to tire at all. There was a one-legged Butterfly, then a Sprinkler. His transitions were seamless and his brown robe flapped around his bare feet for added effect. At this point, getting into Heaven wasn’t even my goal; I wanted those five years of practice to work on serving this fool something fierce. I didn’t think my routine was going to cut it. My only hope was to surprise the judges with my song selection…

“And we began to Rock…Steady! Steeeady rockin’ all night long! Rock…Steady! Rockin’ to the break of dawn!!!”

It was over after those first horns played over the Cloud’s iCloud storage and speaker system. The committee ate it up. John’s eyebrows arched all the way to the top of his forehead. Philip jumped up from his seat and yelled “YOOOOOOO” at the top of his lungs. Even Simon, the most reserved of the 12, ran from the table, covering his mouth the whole time. I had them.

A couple aggressive two-steps and stop-and-go heartbeat pantomimes sent that bum Silas to the sidelines with his rosary beads clenched firmly in his fist. I doubled over in laughter when David ran up to him screaming ‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH’ while extending a finger at Silas’ neck. If they’re all going to be this easy, then maybe I’ll get to see what these Golden Strippers working with, after all…

Round 2: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Rachel of Paddan Aram

“Drop it down on it! Made me get a couple bands drop it down on it! Make you get a couple friends drop it down on it! Turn around drop it down, drop it down on it! Do it for a real nigga, do it for a boss! Do somethin’ for a boss, do somethin’ for a real nigga! Go and do somethin’ for a boss! Do somethin’ for a boss, do somethin’!”

This shit was so unfair for so many reasons. First, Rachel wasn’t even dancing; she sat there and twerked for three minutes! The committee was all male, what could I possibly do to top this? Jacob ran over and started throwing gold coins at her as she took it low. Even I had a hard time not throwing these Earth dollars at her; this broad was going OFF! At that moment, I knew my Dougie wasn’t going to do ANYTHING. I had to change things up on the fly…

“MITCH CAUGHT A BODY BOUT A WEEK AGO!!!!”

I grabbed Jacob’s halo and threw that shit seven rows deep into the crowd of angels. My only hope was to do something so shocking that everyone would forget about Rachel throwing that thang around the arena floor. Until that point, I stayed pretty calm, doing some Bankhead Bounces and soft finger snaps. I hoped that made the halo toss seem even more disrespectful. I think it worked, too. Jacob stood by Rachel furious, but didn’t move because any disqualification would result in an automatic win for me. The committee was full of wide eyes and disbelief, so I jumped on their table and did my most violent Elmo Shmoney Dance; scrolls and cloaks flew everywhere. They had no choice but to advance me. I pointed two fingers at James and told him I’d get to tweakin’ on him if he didn’t…

Final Round: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Jesus of Nazareth

Jesus walked slowly to the dance area in a black robe and red and black Converses. Mickey Mantle and Wish Bone’s Uncle Charles flanked him as Steve Jobs held a Beats Pill over his head. “No Problem” by Lil’ Scrappy filled the air and Jobs twirled around like one of those girls at boxing matches with the big ass cards waving about. I knew I didn’t want it with this guy, but I had come too far to not get in to see these strippers. Jesus threw his robe into the overzealous audience and Jobs dropped the beat…

*The results of this battle are undisclosed. However, it can be assumed The Fly Hobo lost, as he was resuscitated at 1:37AM in Grady Memorial Hospital*

I can remember everything but that last battle. I will go to my (next) death convinced I was robbed, though. Oh yeah, Jesus is 4’11” with a thick Cajun drawl. Just so, you know, you’re not surprised when you meet him…

Silas and Rachel ain’t want this work. The Fly Hobo: The 2015 New TestaMOVE runner-up. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of the Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Ratchet (Pinky Finger Up)

“You can have my heart or we can share it like the last slice…”

“Sweatpants, hair tied, chillin’ with no makeup on/That’s when you’re the prettiest, I hope that you don’t take it wrong…”

That’s cool and all, but forget all that right now. You see slim over there? The one with the streaks in her hair (my homeboy calls it that ‘Ghetto Blue Hue’) and the leggings? That’s my focus right now. It’s crowded and my Concords are sticking to the floor, but my eyes are glued to this girl across the room.

“I be eating nacho, cheese…GUAPO!”

Yeah, yeah…awesome song or whatever, but who is THAT over there? The one that ordered the House Cured Salmon Gravlax? That’s my focus right now. It’s crowded and I can see couples strolling the harbor in the large windows behind her. Trust me, I’m still focused on the girl inside of these glass windows.

“Africa must wake up, the sleeping sons of Jacob/For what tomorrow may bring, may a better day come…”

Cut that shit off, man. I only have one chance to book this broad and Nas and K’Naan are probably the LAST people I need to hear right now. I stopped in front of a car window and made sure my snapback and hand towel sat perfectly over my face and walked towards her. Her homegirls were busy talking to another group of people, so I grabbed her elbow gently and pulled her aside. Thank God I stayed for the let out…

“She gon’ bust it down for some damn Lime-A-Ritas…”

Come on, man; I’m about to walk over there. Her parents (I presume, anyway) excused themselves and left her sitting there alone. Let me pull my cardigan down a bit before I walk towards her table. I blew into my hand and made sure my breath didn’t retain the heat from the peppers in my Jambalaya Fettuccini. She’s smiling in my direction, but sweat is still dancing about my temples because I have no clue what the hell that means…

“One thing about music when it hits you feel no pain/White folks say it controls your brain; I know better than that…”

She looks at my console and I turn the radio to something else; what do I look like forfeiting my night plan over Dead Prez? We pull up at Outback and she checks herself in my visor mirror to make sure her eyebrows aren’t crooked. This is where the date gets interesting, though. She orders chicken wings and Moscato and starts rolling a blunt at the table. Dessert wines over an entrée would (and should) probably be an indicator of a lack of sophistication, but who cares? Look at what she’s holding in those leggings. I wanted to throw my cufflinks up and lean back in total judgment, but…those…leggings…though…

“54.11s, size 7 in girl’s…”

I laugh and love that she has no idea what those are. We sip mimosas over a Sunday brunch and share Bay Scallop Ceviche. We express our shared amazement at the city of Detroit being 18 billion dollars in debt. Detroit sucks. This is where this date gets interesting, though. She mentions her upcoming business trips and how she HATES men that wear snapbacks. I know I’m going to have to listen to Comin’ Out Hard until the stench of American bourgeoise is no longer permeating my cargo shorts, but right now, who cares? Listen to these six years of higher education stirring an intrinsic thirst for meaningful conversation. I wanted to throw my hand towel up and lick my fingers clean of Old Bay seasoning, but…this…conversation…though…

“Where is he? The man who is just like me? I heard he was hiding somewhere I can’t see…”

A simple hug and kiss on the cheek outside of her apartment. I don’t want to come in because I want her to recognize a gentleman. I’m just as happy to leave her feeling as if the night was “incomplete” as I am to cap it off with what she has been expecting all along. I sense all of this as I walk down the steps and out the building, feeling her glance from three stories up as I do so. I can’t help but smile as I start my car and reach for the Maxwell album stored in my overhead CD holder.

“I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING TO CIROC AND SOME PANCAKES!”

The night is far from finished, and I can tell that’s rare with her. There’s no kiss on the cheek because I don’t ever want her to label me as a gentleman. I’m more than happy to be what she is typically scared of, and I sense it as she walks me down the hallway into her bedroom. I feel the apprehension and can’t help but smile, all the while reassuring her that I’m not “them”, whatever that means. I wake up in the morning, grinning from ear to ear having penetrated Corporate America…

A.J. Armstrong struggles with discerning between what he wants and what he needs. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

TAoTFH Part II: The Return Home

“You see…to live is to suffer. To survive…well, that’s to find meaning in the suffering.”

“WELCOME TO CLEVELAND, BITCH!”

DMX had to be talking about the people that live in this city. As nice as they are, there’s no reason they should be living like this. Downtown Cleveland had me fooled; it wasn’t the most skyscraper-laden city I’ve ever seen but it fed me optimism about what I would see when I ventured past these few large buildings. Downtown Cleveland is a horrible liar.

There’s a North Coast here…that leads to a lake. A lake, homey. A lake. Regular ass people with no edges can make lakes. There’s not even a beach there; there’s a body of water that’s cut off by rocks or a beaver dam or a pile of sticks or something-I don’t know, really-that doesn’t let boats venture out away from this terrible place. It’s like they acknowledge it took a miracle to get people to live here and they can’t risk losing a single taxpayer. Now I get the “Crossroads” video; that wasn’t the angel of death that kept taking Clevelanders’ lives; it was a recruiter from Happyland taking selected folks from the nothingness to anywhere else, USA.

I almost bought a Johnny Football jersey, though. Party Boy Manziel is the post-LeBron hope these people seem to tie their laurels to. The audacity of hope is what makes good dreams great and great dreams billion dollar corporations; Cleveland hope is an 8-8 football season. I’m not poking fun; I’m just stating facts that you’re free to refute. The old Cleveland Browns moved to Baltimore, drafted Ray Lewis and Ed Reed, won two Super Bowls, and made us all forget that Baltimore is still the worst place I-95 could ever take us. But you all have Johnny. Poor Johnny. That money dance is going to offend a lot of people here, I’ll bet.

I didn’t want to leave DC but I felt I had to. Every shift from the black, white, and gray Sobiato sweatsuits to the red H&M skinny jeans nudged me to this point. Each gentrified neighborhood and random condominium construction ate at my love for a place I never planned to defend so fiercely. When did D.C. become a destination city for young people? I get it now; everyone wants to move here because there are places like Cleveland, Ohio. The people are really nice and helpful-don’t misconstrue what I’m saying-the city itself has just given up. Clevelanders deserve better. I thought the fire on Lake Erie was a hilarious accident. Naw, son…naw. That oil was running away from the city and I kind of don’t blame it at all.

“Welcome to Baltimore-Washington International Airport.”

I tried to run to an obscure place but couldn’t. Going back to Atlanta would reunite me with so many of you college douchebags, I sometimes regret lamenting to people I was born there. I’ll resign to living in Uptown D.C. and smirk at the hoards of people clamoring to live in this expensive, arrogant, bougie (that’s how I spell it. To hell with your comments) city. I will learn to deal with seeing white folk walking their dogs down H Street at 9:00 PM without a care in the world. I guess I’ll get used to seeing the Cordas being torn down, leaving its residents to relocate to Southern P.G. County. Whatever. I’m here and I’m the prince of this city; I tried to leave but…I went to Cleveland. You’d love your city, too.

A.J. Armstrong is the motherf*cking Prince of Washington, DC. He’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. He now prays daily for Clevelanders; you shouldn’t have to live like that at all

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part IV: THOT-ful: A Jump-Off Story

Now, I’m sure most of you have a general idea of what a jump-off is; for those not as educated, Urbandictionary.com defines them as ‘a woman of dubious sexual practices’. They go by many names (rollers, crankers, tip drills, shones, etc.), as do their…”talents”. I refrain from using more derogatory words because they have different meanings for me; if that’s how you choose to identify them, I can’t really do much about that, now can I?

Where was the avenue for these types of women birthed from? Nobody knows the true origin story of jump-offs, nor do we know the primary characters. We just know some dude found some woman to do what he “needed” her to do one day. While I don’t know the exact date, the creation of the modern jump most likely happened something like this:

OCTOBER 1991

Two dudes- we’ll call them Los and William- were lounging in a Washington, D.C.-area strip club in October 1991. Los, dressed in a black Champion hoodie, Karl Kani jeans, and Nike Air Max 180s, was in stark contrast to the well-groomed William who was clad in a grey three-piece suit and blue tie. These were very different men of two different generations, castes, and classes. However, what they did have in common built the foundation of what I speak on today.

“Lemme get a quarter to call my girl,” Los asks over his shoulder, eyes still fixated on the voluptuous Carmel-colored woman on his lap. Two songs and $10 later, he grabs the quarter and saunters to the pay phone. Placing the quarter in, the only thought he could muster in his hazy mind is broad better be woke. After misdialing twice, a ringtone finally becomes audible in the receiver.

“Aye…you woke?”

“…Mmm…”

“Get up, young.”

“For what, nigga?”

“I’m trynna see you.”

“…Bye.”

As he hangs up the phone, he subconsciously scans the dimly lit building for an answer to his sexual tension. Three hours in a strip club tends to do that to people. Unable to find anything of value that wasn’t on the stage or the pole, Los, in an act of desperation and excitement, pulls aside a waitress. “I got a hundred if you trynna do something.”

The indignant look on the high school senior’s face probably would have been an indicator to a more sober and rational Los to stop, but the Crown Royal only urges him on.

“One-fifty, slim…no wait…two hundred. Only cuz I ain’t seen ‘em,” he adds with a sly grin as he points to the frilly lace bra she wore.

Something about money- the prospect of receiving it in particular- really piques a true jumps interest. The waitress, who had been disgusted and offended at Los’ crude courting, was not seriously considering his offer…at first. All of a sudden, she senses an opportunity to bargain with the young man; he doesn’t even look that bad, she rationalizes.

“$300.”

She knew Los was not going to accept; she just wanted a place to begin negotiations. Los’ arched eyebrows of disbelief were a bonus.

“Hell na…$250. That’s all I got. If you would have hit me up sooner, I might’ve thought about three. Your bad, slim.”

“$250?”

“$250.”

“…Mmm…I’m with it. Lemme finish giving these drinks out and I’ll come get you.”

William, noticing the whole exchange take place, shared Los’ dilemma. Not only was his wife sleep, she was in Arkansas. His problem was further compounded by the fact that he was a high-profile public official. Hell, even being at this club at two in the morning was questionable. Being high and tipsy made this situation downright scandalous. There was too much risk for him despite his urges to do exactly what Los had so fearlessly done minutes prior.

FEBRUARY 1996

While on a conference call, William motioned to a young intern to enter his office. As this was the fourth or fifth time, the slightly overweight 22 year-old was well aware of what he desired. Taking her position under his desk and away from view, she began her spectacular and sudden ascent into pop culture infamy. The scene in the club had stuck with him all these years and he reveled in finally being able to wildly live out those whimsical fantasies. The intern’s careful positioning under the desk proved heady, because shortly afterward, the office door slowly creaked open to reveal an aged man with a stack of papers in his arms. “These are urgent and pressing documents you need to address immediately, Mr. President.”

Now you know how jump-offs became popular knowledge, by a man in a strip club and the 42nd President of the United States (sure, some of those facts are debatable but that’s how I remember it). That totally true scene also…er…okay, this is absurd. This was also probably not the best story to share with my little cousin’s third grade class. I’m going to go re-evaluate my life; I’ll see you guys next Thursday for the My Last Post…finale. In the meantime, you can read Part I, Part II, and Part III to occupy your time.

A.J. Armstrong will be finishing his five-part exploration next Thursday. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities…? Right?