house not a home

“kenny dope wanna kick yo ass,” jay told me as soon as i got to the office.

“yeah, he gonna kick yo ass back to china,” mick chimed in, both rows of his yellow, gappy teeth showing.

“shut the fuck up, bo!” i shot back. mick got no props in the office, especially after he corn-rolled his hair.

“where’s al?” i asked jay, ignoring whatever mick mumbled as a comeback. “dunno,” he said, “come back tonight, he’ll be here after 9.”

i don’t know why kenny dope wanted to kick my ass. after a couple of years immersed in the nyc house music scene, i’ve stopped asking why. the mostly puerto rican community often felt like one big dysfunctional family, complete with near cliché personal politics and psycho-drama. at any given time, you can count on being dissed or dissing someone.

i swung by again a bit after 9 and only the lights in al’s office were on. he must have heard me come in and shuffled out, tucking his shirt into his pants, followed in minutes by a couple of barely-dressed ladies.

they pointed at me but al waved them off, “nah, let him get his own pussy.”

“yo, you heard about this motherfucka,” al turned to me, “some crazy niggah downstairs who had the fucking nerve to tell my wife to shut up?”

“motherfucka needed to learn some manners, talking shit to a pregnant woman like that,” he added, clearly still feeling it. “man, you should’ve seen it, there was fucking blood everywhere. i loved it!”

without missing a beat, he grinned, “yo, so i heard kenny wanna kick yo ass.”

“it’s complicated,” his grin widened like he’s reading my mind, “but i’ll take care of it.”

Posted by cellpharmer at November 26, 2007 10:59 AM