Flyhobo

Peace, Disturbed.

“I got one hand on this bottle, one foot on the gas/I’m searching for trouble, I’m going too fast/I’m running from shadows, I’m hoping to crash/Just to wake me up from the pain and the past…”

“I’m gonna have to ask both of you to leave.”

Is the last fight supposed to be the most passionate? She kissed me enthusiastically, either completely too intoxicated or too involved to notice the vertical cut that ran up the left side of my bottom lip. A cut caused by my attempted levity, underlying issues we both refused to address, or our addiction to one another. Who fucking knows at this point? She let her lips linger with either lustful anger or a remorseful finality; I, in my drunkenness, had no desire or capacity to explore either.

“I was making Japanese and she’s watching DVDs/In Oakland, in Oakland/Now I’m driving up the 5, and she waits till I arrive/In Oakland, in Oakland…”

“I did right by her, right? Doesn’t seem that way. If I did, she would be here, right? She would respond to my texts, right? She would fuckin’ save me…”

Fuck it; maybe I’m irredeemable. Broken to no real repair. And she knows. I leaned on her for so long, it left a scent she needed to shake off, knowing it was no fault of her own. Her smile is different around people that she doesn’t have to heal, which is something I honestly can’t handle anymore. She used to collect the pieces of sanity that would routinely be tossed aside by my insecurity and anger and store them for when the night gave way to contrition. Now she grimaces as they leak from whatever semblance of normality I pretend to have. But how can I blame her?

“Buuuut…yo, yooo..yo. Hey?? Hey?!? Yo! When we’re good we’re good, though, is wha *hic* I’m trynnn..trynsay…”

I couldn’t even fix my eyes on her disappointed face long enough to convince her that I- yet again- would do better. That I do care. That I know I’ve done a terrible job of showing it up until this point. That there’s a lot on my mind. That there’s a lot going on around me: jobs, getting acclimated to them, family pressure, whatever. Of course, I’m the victim, and of course I’m incensed when that’s no longer enough for her to hold on to the dream that the person she thought she loved will ever be anything more than a manipulative, delusional piece of shit posing as a misunderstood esoteric drowning in his own self-pity.

Shit, I could’ve told her I was just as broken as her. But then why would she ever wrap her arm around my bicep and rub her thumb up and down my tattoos, in full lust over the idea that I can confidently pick up her shattered pieces?

Shit, I could’ve told her that I melt when I see her, too. But what leverage and dominion would I then have over her? How can we both maintain that nervous energy? Who wins then? Fluttering hearts blow away in the slightest breezes, and I’ve always been told it was my job to chase them, not to let my own drift away while my hands remained empty.

Doesn’t she see I’m working with this vision? I know the destination; I just don’t know the exact route, and here she is asking out of our journey. Fuck her. Fuck her so much. Fuck her…right? I understand this isn’t what she signed up for, nor is it what I wanted to expose her to. I needed her to believe in me. And to tolerate me, even if I don’t really understand why this would be something anybody would be willing to tolerate. ‘I’m me’ became the only validation I could muster, and the minute that no longer became acceptable currency in our relationship, I lost the only halfway tangible advantage I had. I promised it would’ve been worth the sacrifice…fuck her. That seemed right.

“I don’t wanna hear what I’ve done wrong/I’ll deal with my problems when I get home/I’m better off when I’m all alone/I know I said I’d stop, but I’m not that strong…”

I drove aimlessly down Route 5. I cruised, rightfully hurt. I sped, wrongfully pained. I swerved, increasingly intoxicated. I yelled, uncontrollably indignant. I swerved again, endlessly pondering. I exited, rapping tearfully out of tune. I lingered at stop signs to ponder over the recent past. I ran red lights in defiance of the immediate present. I stopped breathing at the sight of my actual world crashing down; the idea of the novella of a life I convinced myself would reset in the coming work week immediately halting.

There wasn’t a sobriety test; one wasn’t really needed. It was tragically comedic, really. There were no accusations and refutation thereof; just an immediately regretful and scared and broken and lost and compliant kid affected by his own misplaced anger and delusional machinations.

“Shiiit, I…I…did right by hur, right? Don’t sheeem da way. Iffi did, she’d be huh…right? She’d answer, right? Sh…sheeeee…she’d save me, sir.”

“Like a million, million, million people told me not to trust in you…”

Maybe I’m irredeemable. Broken to no real repair, I think. And she’s moved on, I guess. I leaned on her for so long, she got used to smiling demurely whenever someone asked where I was. I liked that. She got used to reflexively handing me her keys, opening the passenger seat door, and plopping down quietly, a small- yet telling- act of submission that empowered my toxicity. She’d grown so used to my glossy-eyed rants, she’d often sit on her patio silent, waiting for me to explain a world she pretended to not understand. One of us needs to be saved, the flickering embers of coherence in my brain thought.

The phone vibrated violently. After an awkward shuffle across a marble tabletop, it rested alongside a bowl of cantaloupe. It rang again, the buzzing becoming louder as it echoed off both the countertop and the bowl. The pulsations were loud enough that anyone in the kitchen would have easily heard them, if someone were actually present. She sat across the living room in a brown loveseat, her legs tucked underneath her sideways. The room itself was silent, save for the soft music that came out of the little pink wireless speaker he had bought her for Valentine’s Day. Jhene, Childish Gambino, K.R.I.T., Tink and others filled the background while she flipped slowly through the pages of a James Patterson novel. Every few minutes, she instinctively blew across the top of her black tea, even though it had long since cooled. This world was simple. It was without conflict or justifications. There were no promises to be made, nor was there available space to entertain them. A room over lay the frenzied summoning of neediness and dependence. A mere 35 feet stood between the stress she so longed to overcome, and a person that was no longer worthy of her effort.

*Zzzzzzz! Zzz-zzz!*

Then peace.

*Zzzzzzz! Zzz-zzz!*

Peace again.

While this flailing attempt at distraction waged one room over, she still sat on that brown loveseat, engrossed by her book and eased by her environment.

*Zzzzzzz! Zzz-zzz!*

As she neared the end of her chapter, she looked toward the kitchen with a sudden realization. “Damn…I left my cantaloupe in there on the counter.”

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

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part V: My Last Post About Women Ever (He’s Talking About Light-Skinned Women Again; You Probably Shouldn’t Read it. You Ought To, Though)

“One of the prevailing topics in your work has been the exploration of intrarace relations and- more specifically- the lampooning of “light-skinned” African American women. It is your red thread of sorts and has been a source of criticism. How do you respond to those that call your writing ‘sophomoric’, ‘undeveloped’, and ‘championing self-hatred’? “Well, White Reporter, there has always been this weird dichotomy between light and dark-skinned Black people. That divide has been there LONG before I started actually talking about it. I mean…look, all I know is America. I ain’t never been out of this country; all I know is how race relations- interracial and intraracial- have gone in this country. It interests me because the entire history of this country is checkered with questionable moments within those relations. It intrigues me. Honestly, I find humor in so much of it and in how people react to the things I say. It’s all so funny to me but I find the most humor in how light-skinned Black people- especially women- view themselves and others. That’s, I think, what I get the most enjoyment from writing, regardless of how other people feel about it. So yeah, I get why they feel that way but I’m way more self-aware than they give me credit for…” -2013 interview with the White Reporter in those Frontline Chappelle’s Show skits I always imagine that White Reporter. I even gave him a name: White Reporter. The funniest thing about everything I say is that I get everything I say. That’s kind of why I say it. It entertains me and antagonizes a group of people. Awesome. Derive from it what you will because that’s why I put it out there. I’m like those authors that write novels that high school English teachers overanalyze: “In this passage, the author makes mention of the red bed sheets in her bedroom. That signals the rage and emotion she was feeling during her struggle with her identity and efsdlkefvvjeoscowmemfpdpvpvjejfeejwqqocwfkf and some other ridiculous shit…” The bed sheets are red because that’s what Target had for the cheap, bitch. My ridiculous assumptions of light-skinned women are just that: ridiculous. Do I really believe all light-skinned women are soulless, self-serving narcissists that were born with 74 unread text messages? I’m lying…of course I do. You’re all terrible people that have been coddled by the white man and overly praised by everybody else. No light-skinned woman has ever helped me in anything I’ve ever done. Nope. Not one has ever shown any type of compassion at all. I made it through college all by myself. I don’t recall any high yellow woman assisting me in any way. There was no teacher taking interest in me and realizing potential I never felt was there. Never once did she help me with my schedule when my advisor wrongly placed me in classes I had no business being in. There were no Giant gift cards mysteriously placed in my Nike backpacks when I seemed a little sluggish. There’s no way in hell she would (rightfully) place her foot in my ass during a time of misguided ambition, blinding lust for the wrong things, and shallow intents for the wrong women. None of that even seems plausible. Not from anybody the color of the McDonald’s logo. Nah. If you’re stupid, you stopped reading a long time ago, dismissing this as more of that typical Fly Hobo nonsense. Good luck at the self-checkout, champ; your produce struggle is going to be SO REAL. Racism effectively hates an entire group of people while designating members of that same group as acceptable. The best example I’ve ever seen was on an old episode of The Jerry Springer Show when Jerry interviewed a Klu Klux Klan member that was an avid fan of Michael Jordan. Sometimes ignorance provides clarity. Sometimes somebody says absurd things in an attempt to hold up a mirror to society to show it how ugly we can be. And sometimes people are racist. Whatever. The White Reporter stopped taping a while ago. A.J. Armstrong dedicates this post to Mrs. Hope Jackson. No person achieves anything alone. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. Pardon the swear words

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part II: Questlove

I love making fun of women. I love them but I’ll be damned if I don’t get these jokes off. Y’all are so funny to me. Every duck-lipped selfie and inspirational Instagram post tickles me something fierce (that’s my new thing…saying something tickles me fierce. It sounds like something an old Black woman from Atlanta in 1968 would say. I love it) Light-skinned women make the jokes almost too easy. Self-important broads get that good HARSH sarcasm. All that’s cool but less than 24 hours away from my favorite holiday, I gotta send some love to my beautiful bitter broads.

“Quest…play the damn thing!”

Women, Valentine’s Day is YOUR holiday and when it doesn’t go exactly how you wish, emotions run high and it tickles me something fierce. The crazy thing is I have no idea if bitterness, anger, loneliness, regret, or pure, absolute, radiant craziness is the cause. It doesn’t even matter, truthfully. It’s funny as hell and tickles me something fierce. So I encourage all of you to remember that tomorrow is your day to publicly share all of those emotions with us. C’mon. Share. Shaaaaare! *Sigh*…okay, Lou. Open fire. Quest!

I laugh at your frustration. Good wholesome laughs that emanate from my gut and settle in my throat. Deep-throated laughs that make me clap my hands and collapse on the floor. Thank you, ladies. But when I finish, when I finish- if I ever finish- you can be my valentine. All of you disgruntled, fed-up women can be the objects of my affection tomorrow. I love you all and it sucks you don’t like your own holiday that one of your own people made up so that she can feel even more special than we already have to treat her because she was raised with some weird idea of a man completely pacifying her ideas of romance and she’s crazy as hell and none of you should even pay attention to this crazy broad because you deserve somebody that acts like they like you every day of the year and you should probably boycott this wack broad but I don’t blame you if you don’t because Valentine’s Day has been around so long, you have no idea how to adjust your life and that’s fine because a lot of us men just accept that this is your day and the fact that some of you don’t have that man to acknowledge that and suffer for your happiness makes me sad and I want to buy teddy bears that say ‘Bitch, You Fine’ on the stomach to make you happy and do cute stuff with you and act like nothing was the same and tickle you something fierce. *Takes breath*…Happy Valentine’s Day. Quest, please keep playing something nice for these bitter broads. And bitter broads, keep being bitter; I love you all for it.

A.J. Armstrong paid a lot of money to have ?uestlove play something nice for you bitter broads. He hopes you appreciate it. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities