Ross

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

January 2, 2041

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“Aye! Aye!! Come here, gul! Slim, you! Redtail! Redtail!! I know you hear me, gul! Why you gotta be like that gul?? Come on now, gul! Don’t be cruel, gul!”

My 55th birthday party (which WILL be at The Park at Fourteenth in D.C. – or whatever replaces it) will play out JUST like that. I’m gonna see to that. By then, I figure the kids will be onto something else, so my pants will be alllllllll the way off my ass. Red Berry Ciroc for everybody! I’ll dance in my own world to the hits of my time: everything from “Gangsta’s Paradise” to “Right Thurr” will have the chickenheads…um…chickenheading…? Trust me, DJ Soulja Boy will have my Old School night jammin’! Yeeeaaah…ooooooohhhhhhh! Kill ‘em, Terio! Better yet, just manage your Huddle House. Sorry for the interruption, T. Feed ‘em. Girbaud jeans, Iceberg sweaters, and, of course, the final wardrobe piece of a man who’s lost touch with the times and couldn’t care less about it: the infamous Flying Durag.

Look, old people. 55 ain’t really that old. You can still do plenty of things like…I don’t know…use your Wii Fit twice a month and buy iPhones and use them to actually call people. Okay…those weird “dances” you do when “All Night Long” plays do make me chuckle a bit, I admit. Seriously, though; 55 is only old to a 27 year-old Black male that was fairly certain (and a little disappointed) that he’d be gunned down by SOMEBODY by now. I guess an awkward Rumba to ol’ Lionel is in order for me, too.

55 isn’t old at all. 55 is when you…settle down (maybe…? I don’t know how this life thing works) and read actual newspapers and suddenly forget how to use a computer. But it’s also around that glorious time you just stop caring. You fart in public (although SOME of you younger folk should be ashamed of yourselves; you ain’t earned that yet!), write checks at the grocery store, and enjoy how people’s opinions no longer matter. Let’s be clear: I do some sociopathic things but if I wear black FUBU jean shorts on U. St. on a Friday night, I’ll fall apart. 55 makes you blind to all that. Hence, the infamous Flying Durag.

“THESE FOLK WON’T HOLD ME BACK! THESE FOLK WON’T HOLD ME BACK! *Loses breath* THESE FOLK WON’T HOLD ME BACK!” Listen to that Rick Ross song again; he got tired after repeating it twice and fell off beat! Listen! Anyway…

I can see my birthday party now: all of my friends gathered around and their wives and husbands side-eyeing and judging them for still keeping in contact with me. The DJ spinning Youngbloodz records while I A-Town stomp happily. Me pulling on the elbow of some 22 year-old hardbody named Carlita telling her EXACTLY what I was doing in 2020. Flirting with the female bartender in an accent that inexplicably changed over the years to sound like the South Carolinian and Southern Georgian roots that combined to make me. And that damn infamous Flying Durag. That glorious Flying Durag. It’s almost as good as an A.A.R.P. card: you might not like me but, damnit, you will respect me for living this long! There I will stand: dressed in my leather and my Timbs like it’s 1998, throwing money at the yellow broads (do older men just get older and suddenly like light-skinned joints exclusively? Always wondered that. I’ll do some research…), and banging on the DJ table, yelling for him to play some Ma$e. With my infamous Flying Durag flowing in the breeze the entire time. Now, you tell ME: who hot, who not??

A.J. Armstrong looks forward to putting his arm around a young man wearing an ‘I’m a 2010s baby’ shirt and consoling him. He just doesn’t know, the poor soul. Saying I’m a 2010s baby is like yelling ‘vote or perish because of your lack of participation’ when the cooler kids just scream ‘vote or die’. Just saying. He’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. My born date is also 1.2.86. Just in case you didn’t get the context clues. I want presents. Good presents. Amazing presents for entertaining you all. Hit me up for ideas on my presents. Seriously. You have less than two months. And don’t laugh, y’all; we’re all gonna get old at the same time. Have a nice day and get off my lawn.