A Legendary Life

This story is for all my football fans. All my people who like inspirational stories and my folks who just love to read.

A Legendary Life.



He can't talk. Like when he was a kid. He remembered. He had been unable to talk for years  after  his father died. He couldn't make sound come out.
He can't make sound now. He can't catch his breath.
He doesn't feel bad. Just seems like the fire is extra warm. He feels a slight pain. His smart chair noticed a change  in his vitals and monitored it.
Not much pain. He actually felt high. He had only been a couple of times. He remembered.
His mind was flooded with memories. A lifetime of memories.
 He was the youngest of 5. He had grown up fighting his older siblings. Just because they were older his four brothers took no pity on him.
All of his cousins were older as well. And yeah he fought them every day too.
 On top of being the youngest Jason Damage' Lofton couldn't or wouldn't speak. He was small compared to the size his brothers had been at his age.
 He was tough though. He wore the countless “ass kicking’s” his cousins, brothers and even his “Uncle” gave him. He knew almost all of his real uncles and “Uncle Tommy” wasn't his kin. He was just a nigga that his mother felt she needed. Jason tried not to hate him. He really tried.
He may have only been ten, but he knew that this man had no right to touch him. He remembered his father. He was a powerful man. A man, for real.
Jason knew the difference.  His dad had told him.
 “Damage'” the mountain of a man had said, his voice smooth, yet big and dangerous, like thunderheads in a sunset.
He remembered his daddy always called him Damage.
 “Having hair round ya ass don't make ya no main.” The curious little boy showed no fear of this huge man whose hand covered the then, seven year old’s entire back as he rested it there.
 The boy asked what was on his mind. “What does daddy?” His father's outburst was immediate. “Boy you is smart enough, Anit chew? Good Jesus I like your mind son!”
He stood drawing his runt son with him. He  stepped his 6' 9 inch body off the front porch. He reached back and grabbed his little bronze medal complexion son, and his reddish bronze bottle of Whiskey. “The finest in Tennessee!” He was known to yell drunkenly his deeper then Barry White bass booming in the Tennessee hills.
 He was uncharacteristically quiet that day. Jason remembered. As the electric, numbness spread up his arms He remembered. He remembered his Father's answer. He had  sat on his Father's shoulders and his daddy had turned him in a circle.
 “This land, this here is MINE. I worked hard for it. I Earnt every Fucking inch ya hearing me Damage’?“
The boy answered with a giggle in his voice. “Yes sir daddy and I can feel you talking in my stomach!”
Young Damage’ had found that hilarious. As he grew into a Man to emphasize a point his favorite thing to say was “You better feel me in your stomach when I say…”
 He had taken that page from his Father’s book.
 “Damn right Damage' ya better. Ya better feel me in your stomach son! Now, I tell you that it’s how you live that determine if you a main.”
The elder Lofton, paused and took a long draw of the bottle at his side.
 “Damage’ my son.” He pulled the small boy down from his shoulders. He brought him to eye level and looked into his eyes.
Jason, recalled how joyous his Father's dark brown eyes were. “A main become a main by handling his business, earning a good name. Now whether they love ya or fear ya don't make a fuck! Keep ya name good!” He held the boy steady as well as holding his gaze.
 “Take care of ya family's needs, respect folks, and if'n somebody say something ill of you, let it be a lie. Most important protect your shit!”
 He pronounced that and Damage’ still felt that in his stomach.
“Uncle Tommy “ was not a man. His father had been a man. It had taken  8 men to hold his father. Even though he had been fatally wounded. He had tried to get the man that had emptied his .380 into his abdomen over a debt he owed Leroy for mechanic work, out of the police cruiser.
The 8 men holding him included the paramedics who'd been there to save him. Leroy Lofton died “Protecting his shit.”
 Tommy wasn't disciplining him. Tommy got drunk and wanted to fight. He was a coward so he wouldn't fight his teenage brothers.
 He remembered  wondering why he wasn't “Their Shit?” and if he was, why they weren't protecting him? “Maybe Daddy didn't tell them. I'm his favorite!” He had thought of his father in the current tense for years after he died.
  For three agonizing years Jason fought everybody. Sure a couple of his brothers had left, joining the military to get away.  He could beat them anyway. In fact the amount of family coming to the “Ass Kicking’s” had dwindled.
 At 13 he was still small for his family. He stood 5”8” His heart was king sized. He was fearless, he never flinched. Jason watched his opponent's body language constantly learning to exploit weaknesses.  Soon none of the older boys wanted to come around for “Ass Kicking Time”.  Damage’ was now the kicker and not the kickee.
By the time his DNA proved that he was Leroy Lofton’s progeny he didn't need the added  size to reinforce the fearful respect he'd earned.
He remembered when he spoke again. “Uncle Tommy” had went to far. He had beaten his mothers sorry excuse for a boyfriend into a blubbering pulp. He had made sure that the man knew it was no fluke.
He had let him know that, he could beat him at will. Then he told him, “I don't reckon my momma need you no mo. I protect her now.”
The older man left without looking at Damage' it was while his mother was at work, something that she had never done while Leroy was alive. And wouldn't again once Damage’ became a man. When his mother asked, then 15 year old Damage’, answered in a voice that rivaled his father’s thunderous tone.  “He gone I am going to protect you now mama. I got you.”
Next came Tennessee Volunteer football. He was a juggernaut. He played Defensive tackle as an offensive position. His instincts were predatory. He had taken three starting quarterbacks out of key games and in the process he won two national championships and notoriety.
 They called him “The Punisher” until an over zealous college reporter had discovered that his middle name was Damage’. He was smart enough to know that his middle name was marketable and he crafted and honed the brand.
Damage',  reached out to Marvel comics asking for permission to use the Punisher emblem. He had been turned down. So he created his own symbol.
 He had been drafted late in the 2nd round. He and many sports analysts had been surprised. Everyone expected him to be drafted by the Tennessee Titans, with their 1st round pick. He was the local star and the Titans had been anemic on defense.
Damage' had been stunned when they had gone with the Hawaiian kid from the Buckeyes. The Jaguars and Patriots had passed on him despite having gaps at defense.
He didn't realize that teams were shying away from his marketing.
 Finally the New Orleans Saints called him. The fit was unbelievable. The Saints had recently been labeled as “The Bayou Badboys”, following three scandals and  three winning season's. The superbowl champs,  had traded their problem child running back who had helped with their 3 ring streak.
The running back had been videoed beating up his girlfriend. The Cleveland Browns had been desperate enough to trade for him.
 The experts doubted the rookie the Saints had drafted to replace him; Ladarius Lance, would be equal to the challenge. The mad scientists that set up the New Orleans Saints draft did well. In addition to the acquisition of Damage’ they had picked up Morgan Slaughter a 6' 9” 368 lbs. monster from New Mexico, and the college soccer star turned kicker Alexander Thyme.
Jason fought hard for his position. The competition was fierce. The guys on the practice squad were all trying to get his spot. He admired a lot of them. He would not lose though.
He cost his team some crucial yards by being over eager in game one of preseason. Sure Cam Newton was set to retire but Damage' was determined to put a “Hello World” hit on the division rival QB. He got his chance one down later.
The Offensive line had put double coverage on Slaughter. They had underestimated Damage'.  He made them pay for the underestimate. The sound of Cam’s body being driven into the turf was followed by a roar from the WHO DAT nation.
His teammate Slaughter recovered the fumbled ball. As they were walking off field to allow Collin Kapernick and the offense on the field, Slaughter threw him a military salute and nod that he returned.
 Cam Newton was out for the season. Then retired. He had killed Superman.
 Four preseason games and 5 ½ sacks later he was the toast of the big easy.  He was requested for nearly all the Mardi Gras parades.
A local sports reporter speaking to recently retired Saints legend Drew Brees and rapper entrepreneur Master P. gave the Saints a new nickname. “Well Master P what do you think of these No limit Soldiers? Can they go to the big game again?” 
 Both Brees and P eagerly hopped on board. By the end of the show they were referring to the entire squad with military titles. “Private Thyme”, “Sergeant Slaughter”, Lance Corporal Lance” “Major Damage” Captains Kapernick and Kamara and General Payton. 
The newly minted “No Limit Soldiers” marched on through every team in the league. They were the 2nd team in NFL history to go undefeated all the way to the Lombardi trophy. Despite a much tougher offensive scheme based on the way they had played the year before The “No Limit Soldiers” shocked the world by becoming the only team to go undefeated twice in a row.
 Damage’s two super bowl rings helped him launch his own brand of Tennessee Whiskey. He used his Father’s recipe. Leroy had gotten the time proven formula from his Father.
Damage' called it “Lofton Select”  and the smoke aged ‘PYS' extra fine, was voted best new whiskey 2022.
 The land that he had seen from his Father’s shoulders had been cleared and the heart of “Lofton Select” beat there vigorously.
 Three of his older brothers ran the day to day operations. His Eldest brother had been gifted with P.Y.S. Personal Protection Service. Some of the guys who had played practice squad worked for him. He had a booming business in Atlanta.
With endorsements and a solid 3rd season underway Damage’ had a revelation.
 He'd spent two days holed up with a basketball player from New York. She was amazing. He began thinking about Tennessee and New Orleans not having a WNBA team. Either market seemed viable but his contract wasn't that lucrative. “The best Whiskey in Tennessee” was just getting started. Damage' approached his teammates. The interest was minimal. He spoke to Master P, who was interested, and with a Mississippi writer who had a couple movies made from his books. The author was excited. However he insisted on building the stadium in Mississippi. Master P and Damage' gave in.
With that the “Gulf Coast Golden Wave” was born.
 Despite losing a couple of heartbreaking games including a one point loss in his 3rd super bowl appearance. Damage' went on to get 2 more rings over the next 6 seasons. He retired. He was inducted into the hall of fame.
His WNBA team the “Golden Wave” won two championships, his daughter was at the helm of one of those teams.
 His hometown renamed themselves Lofton Tennessee. He remembered.
 P.Y.S. Personal Protection Service was still a family business. His nephews ran it now.
Two of his brothers had died. He remembered. He remembered  it ALL.
Damage's sons had gone on to have careers of their own. One of them was as record breaking as he had been. They called him the Punisher and Marvel comics had begged him to Don their emblem.   He had taken his three son’s and two daughters  to the factory.
Given them the “Feel what I'm saying in your stomach” speech in his own way. He remembered.  He had married and divorced two WNBA stars. He had five grand babies. He remembered.
 His Samsung smart chair dispatched rescue as his heart began to fail. His heart struggled to pump. His daughter married his division rivals the hated Falcons star Offensive lineman. He remembered. As a sudden pain ripped through his side and electric tingles shot up his arm, a wrenching pain like having a blunt object forced into his flesh, punched him in his lower back.
 A helicopter can be heard attempting to land.
He arches His back in agony.
 His hand falls asleep and he remembers.
 His life had been legendary.

Getting The Boots

Getting the Boots

 I really wish that this wasn’t a true story, but unfortunately it is based on real events.

I was greedy.

 I always had been. I supposed that is why I was the kid who had to buy the husky jeans. Even when I had grown out of being the fat kid, I wanted more.

 More things. More clothes, more girls, more recognition, more respect.

 I would take any security job at the time. I did bodyguard work, I bounced, I patrolled apartments, I secured poker games.

 The name of my company was Legendary Security, but it might as well have been A.F.A.B. because I would do anything for a buck. That’s the actual name of a company in Atlanta so don’t try to steal it.

 Anyway, I was working 7 days a week. I would work at any club no matter how ratchet, or dangerous. I really believed in my own immortality back then as well.

 As fate would have it I went to work at a grimy, gangster club in Mississippi.  It should have been a piece of cake. The club was small enough to fit into a single-family home. In fact, it was smaller then my first apartment.

 However, it was the place to hang out in Meridian at the time at least if you were of a certain gang affiliation.

 The schedule called for there to be two security guards there at any given time and the club paid me, as the contract holder accordingly. I was paid $22 per hour for two security officers. Normally I would pay my guys $80 for a 5-hour night, which meant that I would only pocket $20 for them. I know what you are thinking how can I say only? Well I did warn you that I was greedy right?

 I figured that I could hire a novice to work with me, I mean I got 1001 hands for a buster that gets out of line, and I only needed another body. 

I took advantage of the fact that jobs in Mississippi don’t pay well.  I contacted a big guy that I knew, and that I knew could use the money. I told him “I am going to pay you $10 per hour” I didn’t mention that it would only be $50 per night. I didn’t realize that he would be upset about that. I mean its not like jobs in Mississippi grew like the endless patches of Kudzu, and the few available paid $7-$9 hourly and if you were on the $9 side people would say “So and So has a good JOB!” Based on that I figured that my large stand-in would be happy, I would collect the other $12 per hour as well as being the 2^nd security officer.

 I had done it hundreds of times, I had even had to face some real situations with guys that I hired for cheaply. Those two guys had performed acceptably given the fact that the night life was not really their line of business.

Night one went off without a hitch. We got paid and being generous I gave the large stand-in 3 crisp 20-dollar bills. I introduced him to the fact that we got free drinks at the end of the night. I thought he was suitably impressed and I could count on him to be there on night two wearing the tight assed security shirt I had given him. 

No such luck he called me 15 minutes before the time we were both supposed to be there.

 His heavy Mississippi accent was accentuated by the gold that topped at least ½ of his teeth.  “Aye Main, I sho pre-she-ate you. I anit gone come ta nite, that shit dane-jis.” I was angry. I didn’t have time to replace him.

 I figured “Forget it. I’ll collect his money and mine!” I figured it couldn’t be more dangerous than any of the hundred clubs I had worked in New Orleans, Chicago, and New York. It couldn’t be more dangerous than the small clubs I had escorted the “Tag Team” to. 

 Now remember I was in my early 20’s and I was invincible. 

 I began my night angry. Angry was an old friend and had served me well many times.

 I walked the tiny club strong arming the marijuana smokers into paying for the privilege to smoke inside, I enforced the club’s rules, and I told people what to do.

 As usual someone objected to doing what they were told to do, and I grabbed my old friend angry. “Aye bruh, I am not asking you to move your stupid ass. I am telling you. Move. This anit no fucking conversation!”

 If you don’t understand the dynamic of gang culture, then you won’t understand why the man I was speaking too couldn’t just it let go. He aimed a drunken swing at me and my friend angry and we made him pay for it. 

 I gave him a backhanded left to the bridge of his nose, followed by a devastating right jab in nearly the exact same spot. I was in my element.
 A good fight.

 His friend seemed to take issue with the ass whooping he was receiving and decided that it fell to him to rescue his comrade. This one was stronger, less drunk and closer to my size.

 I gave him the unadulterated business.

 Amid a particularly punishing combo, He yelled out “ALL MIGHTY!” 

I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the Vice Lord cry for assistance.
Assistance came.
 Assistance came, from everywhere.

 I was being punched, kicked and otherwise assaulted on all sides. It seemed like the waitresses were attacking me. I won’t lie and say that I was winning at this point or even doing well, but I was still on my feet.

  Until I was struck by a bottle.
 I fell to one knee knowing that should I fall I would be “Stomped Out” or in the Mississippi vernacular I would “Get the boots” I wasn’t trying to let that happen.

  So, at this point I’m crouching and attempting to fight off these human sized hornets. Another blow to the head from a bottle and I woke up outside.

 I don’t really know how long I had been unconscious. I know that the promoter that was supposed to pay me had not and was nowhere to be found. 

My body hurt. It was difficult to breathe.

 I was wet and smelled like beer and urine.

 My eyes couldn’t focus, anger had deserted me. I found him as I realized that someone had literally urinated on me. Somehow, I made my way to my car.

 I felt beneath the seat my .357 wasn’t there! I couldn’t make my thoughts align. 

 I was headed to my house for more artillery. I hadn’t driven a half mile when I realized that I had a shotgun in the trunk. I spun around in the middle of the street. 

I sped back to the club. I hit the door like Arnold Schwarzenegger in commando. Everyone had left except for two women who could have easily been my back-up, an older man, and a little person.

 I don’t remember driving home. I don’t remember anything that happened in the next two weeks. I found out when I woke up that I had made it home. 

My mother had attempted to call me the next day. When I had not answered she came by and when I wouldn’t answer the door, she called an ambulance.

 I remained in a coma for two weeks, I had 27 hairline fractures in my face and skull, my orbital bone on the left side was broken in three places, and 4 of my ribs were fractured.

I haven’t done security alone since. There is nothing fun about “Getting the Boots put to you.”

SHARPED DRESSED MAN

So this is actually a true story. I hope that you can laugh at my expense. Trust me I don't mind.

A Sharp Dressed Man.

The battered and beaten lawnmower had paid off. I had been able to buy some of the slickest double-breasted suits around.

  My older cousin’s wife was a seamstress and was making me several more. I remember going to fabric stores, picking out the exotic colors that I wanted.
It was great.

Because I was only paying approximately $25-$30 per suit. All I really needed to worry about was making sure that I had the proper Stacy Adams or Giorgio Brutini's to be the perfect compliment to each one.

 This particular morning I was in rare form.

The suit that I wore wasn't one of the ones that my cousin Stella had made oh no. This was a Burgundy Falcone it had been taken in and hemmed and fit perfectly. I had sprung for the suspenders, tie, pocket square, and even the matching cufflinks! 

I was cleaner than a fish's vagina and I knew it.

 I had been up since 5 a.m. to assure that not a hair or stitch was out of place. I had appropriated (stolen) some of my Dad's aftershave and my brothers Pierre Cardan cologne. 

My naturally curly locks had been coated with enough blue magic hair grease to imitate the S-curl hairstyle, and my peach fuzz mustache positively reeked of Brute.

 I think that my upper lip had probably gone numb from applying so much. I was gonna kill em that morning.

 I sat right behind the two girls with the biggest butts in my class. I had watched and lusted after them day after day. Watching intently every time they went to the bathroom, went to the board, or sharpened their pencils. 

 Oh the way that fake leather hugged those hips, the way Gloria Vanderbilt’s name jumped off those assets in a sparkling white thread, it was the main reason I  never skipped Algebra.

 I probably still can't solve for X but I knew every crease and crevice of both of those girls gluteus. I didn't learn anything else.

 I used the time and energy to watch them walk, spit my teenage game, and try to close the deal with either of them. I was convinced that I was handsome. I could converse with you intelligently about any number of topics, and I was a two-sport athlete. So why didn't either of the big booty twins like me?
 During this period ZZ Top came out with the song “Sharp-dressed Man” I also had begun to idolize Morris Day and figured that all I had to do was to start dressing well, and I would be irresistible. 

I walked into Algebra I with confidence oozing from every pore. I pretended not to realize how fresh I was.

 I sauntered to my seat ice forming everywhere my wingtip Stacy Adams touched. My Grey socks complimented the Grey faux ostrich eyelets.

 I knew that I had caught their eye. Still, I needed to see if the ‘twins’ were watching. So I hazard a quick glance. Only to see that Wanda, one of the girls that I really liked is leaned over talking to some Jeri Curl. And Kim, (Who came in second because of her acne) was looking at something on her desk! 

Well, this just would not do. I  sat down and plotted. 

The teacher started talking about exponents and integer, stuff I don't understand now. 

I am sitting there wondering why everyone is not tripping off my new look. I stuck my Stacy out into the aisle.  I leaned back in my desk so far that my spine made a satisfying noise as it popped. 

So I have my size 14 grey and burgundy wingtip pointing towards the ceiling. No reaction. So I  stood up and took off my jacket.

 I took my time putting it over the back of my seat. I adjusted my cufflinks and sat down suave as Bond.

 No reaction. So I put both size 14's out, one in either aisle. “ I am not getting the attention that this outfit deserves.” I thought to myself. 

 I fairly squirmed in my desk. Now the desk was barely big enough to hold all 6' 4” and 290 lbs. of me and it was old. 

Finally, I gave up I had to do something drastic. I broke my pencil lead covertly.  I raised my hand and after being acknowledged I attempted to be as cool as Captain Kirk, James Bond, and Lando Calrissian, all rolled into one.

 I channeled my inner Morris Day and pushed myself out of the tiny desk. I slowly walked to the pencil sharpener. I sharpened the hell out of my pencil. I gave my audience one more glance. 

“Damn it,” I said under my breath. 

They still were not looking. I dropped my pencil accidentally on purpose.

 Well while I had been squirming in my too small desk, the thread in my pants had snagged. My pants were already torn. I just didn't know it. 

 I reached down to get my pencil and the loud rip echoed off the ragged, asbestos-filled roof. 

I turned the same shade of Burgundy as my suit. I am just happy that my boxers were clean.

 I guess I had everybody's attention.

The Stand up Guy

Whenever people read these stories I face questions about whether or not I experienced the events myself.  For me I observe people so closely and have for so long that I often see the things other people might miss. I personally don't know how I would react. If you read this story drop a comment below. How would you react?

Quentin was a stand up guy. That was his reputation.

 He was the kind of person who you knew you could extend credit to. Not that he would accept it mind you. He had standards that he adhered to. 

He was a union man and counted himself lucky to be. He lived in the Bronx. His house was nice, not ostentatious but a nice solid house for a nice solid guy. 

 His wife had been his girlfriend since high school. He still drew pictures for her everyday. She hadn't mentioned it in years but he knew she noticed. 

Quentin, wasn't an attractive man. He wasn't ugly, he just was bland. He fit in like a regular glazed in a dozen regular glazed. He was a hair over 6ft, maybe 6ft and a quarter. 

The heavy lifting he did at the docks 8 to 12 hours a day were far better than any gym membership. He was in great shape, but not the extreme body builders physique. He looked like what he was a hard working dock hand.

 He had been on the job 11 years. His wife’s Father had gotten him on.

 Life was good, and despite the many distractions he had never strayed.

 He walked the same streets every day. He got off the train at 161 and Yankee stadium. He passed the McDonald's. Lot's of his fellow commuters would get coffee at McDonald's.

 Not Quentin give him Café Bustelo, from the Bodega still just 50 cents.

 He liked his routine. Liked the fact that he could buy his coffee at the Bodega on the corner and by the time he reached the train he was finishing his sole cup of the day.

 He got off the train at his job at 5:45 every day. He went to the same diner ordered a buttered roll, one egg on the side, and two pieces of bacon.  Every morning he stared at the menu on both sides as if he might change his mind, and then order his same meal. 

Nothing altered his schedule.

  Until today. As he passed by a tall muscular bald man selling a laptop to a short Puerto Rican kid. He noticed how different this route looked at this time of day. 

It took exactly 11 minutes 32 seconds to get from the Yankees Stadium to Quentin’s house on Melrose and 156th. 

He was early. A container of illegal immigrants had been discovered on the docks, the dead and dying people had caused a huge cluster fuck that sent Quentin home.

 He noticed the lady selling flowers on the corner and stopped to get some for Lucy. His wife’s name was Luciana, she was the first girl he had ever kissed and he planned for her to be the last.

 He was not the sappy romantic type who sent text messages or surprise flowers. His idea of showing his love was making sure that there was enough money to take care of all of the bills. He bought her nice things but it was always as a result of her wanting it. 

The flowers had just called out to him. He decided to do something different. The deli on the Grand concourse had complete meals and he picked up something to heat up once his wife got off work that evening.

 He got excited about the idea. And by the time he reached his front door he was humming his favorite “baby making” song. Avant’s "Read your Mind."

 Before he could unlock the door, Quenton remembered that he had candles in the basement, and decided to get them.

 He entered their house from the back alleyway.

 He suspected that he had a couple hours before Lucy got home. So he was totally unprepared for the nude man standing at his refrigerator drinking orange juice directly from the bottle.

 The man obviously had no idea that Quentin was there. He drained the bottle, with his head tilted back. He absently scratched his butt and his genitals swayed perilously close to the food. 

“Excuse me bro, err brother.” The naked man began choking and the last remains of the juice came out his nostrils.

Quenton could hear his wife's hurried steps coming down the steps. 

He was still holding the delicatessen bag, candles and the “Crazy Daisy’s” bouquet.

 Her face said it all.

 He had yet to find his tongue.

The Overnight Celebrity

I have been writing a lot of different kinds of stories lately. I base my writing on things that I have seen,  people I have known, my dreams etc. I hope that you enjoy the romps through my mind.  This story is about every comedian I've ever known. The ones who are famous and the ones who's genius is undiscovered.

It seemed like his career had exploded overnight.
He wasn't a comedian. 

He was just a nigga that like to smoke a little weed and talk shit.
Comedy didn't even sound like something Omar would do.
He was a day labor worker, who would get fucked up at the barber shop and talk shit. 

He was a two-time felon with six bullet holes in him.
He liked his 211 Steel Reserve and the stinky-est hydroponically grown marijuana available. 

He would work all day at the labor pool, smoke a blunt on the way back to the office, and as soon as he cashed his one-day paycheck he would buy two black cans of 211.

The barbershop was his stage.
 He would go there and tell funny story after funny story to whoever would listen.

 Just his stories, told his way, to release the pain. 

One day Omar was in rare form.
“Aye man look here. I'm glad to see Y'all niggas man. I was around nothing but white boys all day! Shit nigga I had to listen to Pac on the way back to get a lil bit of my nigganess back.”

 He would laugh and “Kick the Shit!” for a couple of hours and go get some sleep, just to do it all again the next day.

Omar was broke and broken. He was following a GPS and on cruise control.

He had been a husband and father. He had fucked that up.

He had once been a promising athlete headed for the NBA, and yup the big ‘Fuckola'.

He had been on tour with a Miami bass legend running his security and had managed to find a way to fuck things up.

However at “Laser Precision Cuts”, ‘home of the laser, razor, line up’ Omar was the day's entertainment.
 The fellas at the shop were his people.
They had been where he'd been.
They faced the struggle to survive each day, that all black men share. He could let his hair down there if he'd had any left that was.

It was in one of those moments of comfort that he had been “discovered.”
 Two ‘blunts’ and a can of 211 Steel Reserve, in and Omar was giving the few brothers, and a sister that looked like a brother his best show.
A well dressed, Dreadlock sporting, brother who was getting shaved, interrupted him. 

“Excuse me, big brother, I just wanted to say that you should be getting paid to do this.”
He handed Omar a card and had him performing at a lounge the next week. 

That first show Omar had just been Omar.
He smoked until he got comfortable enough that he was just O, from the barbershop. 

He had no idea he was being filmed.
 The tips for the free shows bought lots of weed and 211, that was all He cared about.

 He did three shows a week still doing day labor every day. 

Within a month he had millions of views on “Instagram’ ‘YouTube ‘ hits, Tweets, and retweets, he seemed to own the internet. His “Nery do well “ appeal seemed contagious.
He was the social media King. Even though he hadn't been on social media before, preferring to simply work and indulge his habits. 

The best part about the whole thing was that he just had to be himself.
At every venue, Omar would have his marijuana and his malt liquor.
 His tolerance was high so it was rare for him to ever get so inebriated that he couldn't ‘talk shit’. 

However, under the glaring lights, and knowing the cameras were there filming him for his own special he was scared shitless.

 He knew that the “Personal assistant” that he had been assigned was partially to keep him from getting “Too High.” London, the Dread head from the shop, and an executive with “So Fresh Inc.” had become Omar's manager and treated him with respect, and fairly.
He knew O’s predilections well. 

He had kept O from fucking this up thus far.
He inhaled the vapor from his cannabis vapor pen. He downed another two fingers of Kentucky sipping whiskey. 

He tried not to think about the crowd.
He just needed to do what he did. 

The staff of the production company had done a great job on his beard and bald head. He had dressed comfortably, Levi jeans, Clark dessert boots in oxblood, and a button-down shirt. 

“Two minutes Mr. Seaford.” One of the many stagehands announced.

 Omar ignored the large assistant who was holding out his hand for the vapor pen.
 “Bullshit, I can take this motherfucker with me, or we can fight and I am STILL gonna take it with me.”

 O held the bigger man’s eyes.

 He thought about all those days of showing up at the labor pool, earlier than everyone else.
 He thought about digging ditches, holding signs for tax companies, sweeping construction sites, and all manner of degrading jobs.
 All for about $32 a day after child support.

 He thought about the room that he lived in, the one with a shared bathroom, and kitchen.
 He wanted more, but $90 a week only gets so much.
He dug in deep.
 He grabbed his troubled childhood, the juvenile justice system, the adult just us system, fear of the police, being snubbed by black women, being hit on by older white women, any and everything that had brought him to this space.
 He straightened his jeans and belt.
 Pulled them up past his navel tucked in his shirt then pulled them down.
He stretched from side to side then touched the tip of his shoes.

Omar was ready.
 He stood at the curtain.
 He could hear the MC announce him.
 “Ladies and gentlemen the number one Shit talker in America Mr. Omar ‘Big O' Seaford!”

 Omar took the three steps up on to the stage.
 He winked at the bodyguard, who couldn't help but nod his head. “Get em ‘Big O'” the nod said.

 He pulled deeply on his vapor pen exhaling a huge cloud of ‘smoke’ as he gripped the microphone. His military brat who wound up down south accent rang through the concert hall.
 “What's really good Cali?”
He asked.
Eliciting screams, ‘hell yeahs', and a cat-call or two.

He looked around.
Omar laughed, as he moved the microphone stand to the far side of the stage. 

“Oh fuck, ‘Big O' sexy now?”
He posed like a model.

Before continuing through squeals and “I love you’s” Omar makes the packed theater a big barbershop in his mind.
“Aye man look I'm glad we are filming this special out cheer, cause Y'all got some good ass weed and I am nervous as a  motherfucker. On everything shawty for real.” 

The crowd roared. His truth. Their comedy.

 “Y'all think I'm bullshiting. But I couldn't have done this show anywhere else.”
He inhaled the vapor again. 

“So look I know I'm gonna get paid and all that shit but, you know what's the best part about doing this show?” 

He looked at the crowd and the camera as if he expected an answer. 

 Just as the silence was about to become awkward, he answered his own query
“Shit now that people know who I am 12 less likely to kick my ass. Y'all think I'm bullshiting! 

 He began to stroll back and forth slowly on the stage.
“So a few weeks ago…”
 He honestly didn't think of most of what he was saying as jokes. He just told his point of view of the world at large.

 As he recounted experience after experience and expressed his point of view the audience cried. 

Tears of mirth and raucous laughter reigned.

Omar talked about living in his car, he talked about hearing the supervisor at labor jobs calling him and the other day laborers “boys”.

 He talked about how it was easier to see a Dr in jail then while being free.

 He talked about child support, and his personal brushes with the law.
Or as he called them, 12.

He puts the entire audience inside his personal struggle, and makes them laugh about it.
Omar was a sensation. 

Omar was a celebrity. Overnight.

The Grey Ghost

His wife hated his car. She truly despised it. As much as his wife deplored the antique Monte Carlo, Douglas loved it.
 From the smoke grey carpet, he had installed with friends. To the motor that he and his late fishing buddy Larry had rebuilt. He hadn't seen those guys who had helped with the carpet in nine years but he had ‘Gracie’s' plush floor to remind him.
His brother Denny, God rest the dead, had reupholstered the custom European racing seats. He had ordered the seats from ‘Euro Speed’  magazine with his first paycheck from Kroger.
 They didn't even publish that mag anymore.
 It had taken another three years to get the faux elephant hide and talk Denny into doing the actual work. He had done it though, and they were flawless.
 Douglas’s brother Denny had been a disabled veteran who had taught himself how to do upholstery. It was a calming experience for him. Doug wished that Denny had been able to continue to find solace in the detailed work. He had taken enough pills to have committed suicide twice, the Dr had said.
That car had memories. There were a lot of stocked grocery shelves, butcher's apprentice  abuse, and finally store management duties that had gone into creating “Gracie the Grey Ghost.”
Douglas couldn't understand his wife's position on his car. It seemed irrational. He wouldn't press the issue.  
He was an easygoing, almost meek man. The customer is always right attitude he exhibited at work carried into his home life.
He loved his wife. Her smile melted him. Her ire could spoil his day easily.  His few friends called him “Pussy whipped” or “Hen pecked” and maybe he was.  However he was happy. Not the every day is bliss, happily ever after, of a fairytale, but solidly happy.
Alyssa was a good woman and he was normally eager to please her. This was a line in the sand that he was not willing to give on. Gracie was family.
What Alyssa was asking him to do was like a murder, a kidnapping  or at least a forceful adoption.  No way! He was going to talk to her as soon as he got home.  He was not selling Gracie. 
Kroger had been busy. A storm was expected and as always the weather report caused a run on bottled water and can goods.
 As he got into his SUV Douglas sighed. He was weary.  People could be so petty when dealing with service workers.
For 12 hours Doug had kissed ass after ass. He just wanted to have some solace.
 If Alyssa was in a good mood when he got home maybe they could hit up the Marietta Diner. This time he'd know better than to drive Gracie.
“Oh I wish I was a drinker!” Douglas thought to himself as he turned into his subdivision. At least his day was over.
He had worked hard to have the space and tranquility his home provided.
“Maybe, if I play my cards right, I might get some tonight.” He thought as he sang  along with the radio loud and horribly off-key.
 "Seems like you're dancing kinda close!" He screamed off key.
As he neared his driveway he noticed Gracie was gone!
Instinctively he sped up the pristine flower lined concrete slab.
 He hoped that for some reason his wife had chosen to drive Gracie somewhere.  He did his best not to slam his door as he hopped out of his Escalade.
 “Alyssa!” He yelled still hoping that she wouldn't answer.  Hoping that she was out driving the finally finished classic. “Hey babe.” She answered shattering the illusion. “I have REALLY great news!” Douglas stood deathly still.
“I hope the good news is that someone is detailing Gracie.” He said softly.
 “No silly.” Alyssa laughed.
 Normally Douglas felt that her laughter was the most beautiful sound in the world. Today it filled him with Dread. “What did you do?” He choked out.
 Alyssa’s smile faded fast and her forehead creased. “I did what your ass should have done a long time ago!” Douglas started shaking his head no as she talked. “And I got $2000 whole dollars for that old eyesore.” 
Rage welled up in Douglas’s chest, he wanted to scream and break things.
 He had devoted nearly half his life to that car! He had memories of his late parents tied up in the framework and paint. He had sanded and bonded, scrubbed and painted,  ordered parts as he could afford them. His blood sweat and tears had gone into creating Gracie literally.
As something deep inside of him died his wife waved the check in his face. “Now let’s use some of this money to go to our favorite Mexican place.”
 Douglas pulled out his phone. “I need the number of the person you sold her too?” His wife matched his anger. “Her? See that's the problem. You treat that car better than you treat me.” She was to classy a woman to roll her neck or point, but she was in full swing. “I'm your wife, and I refuse to be second to anyone or anything else.”
Douglas couldn't understand. “Alyssa.” He began,using the placating voice he used for difficult customers. “I need the number. I bought that car from my Father. Who's dead now. I fixed it with my best friend who's dead now. My late brother did the seats. My late mother picked  out the color.”
 As he recounted all of the emotional attachments his voice rose in volume and pitch.
“NOW Goddamn it woman I NEED that phone number!”
Alyssa was ready to still argue her case. She knew she had been wrong, but her pride didn't want to admit that.
 Douglas was coming unraveled. “The FUCKING NUMBER!” He screamed.
 Breaking her revire. The realization of how much the car meant finally dawned on his wife.
So much so that her next statement was a whisper.
 “I didn't get their number.”

Surviving the 1st Night

So this is my first post EVER! And I must admit that I'm a little nervous. I understand that we are ALL family here and I shouldn't be but I am. I wrote this semi-fictionalized story after one of my  old friends reminded me of one example being young and  dumb!! I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Surviving The 1st Night

Wind howled through the cracks in the wall. The tin sheets that made up the roof had peeled at the edges. Those edges now rose and fell like applause.
 The wind was so strong that the entire small wooden shack swayed on it's moorings.
Three teenagers were burning newspapers, and little scraps of wood. The minute twigs, leaves, and branches they had gathered, weren't up to the task of warming the space.
 Drunk off corn whiskey and high off homegrown reefer the three boys  debated who was going to gather some real wood. “Main Anit no point in getting no logs they got frost on em and won't burn no matter what.” Jay was the pessimistic one. He didn't see potential. He was the kind of person who would complain if they had a job as a taster at the Ice cream factory.
 His brother was quieter and more willing to listen.“Fuck that shit!” said the oldest and largest of the three. He also had the most to prove. This old house was his after all, and going there had been his idea. He had really needed some company.
“I'm gonna get some wood. It's fucking cold.” The brothers looked at their friend. They were wondering why they had allowed him to talk them into not going home. They had a warm, dry, house to go to. Their mother might have been upset that they had stayed out late, but they would be warm. Kevin the large boy, pulled his collar around his ears and undid the piece of wood that was rigged to lock the door.
 Outside, the wind did it's best to slip inside the flannel lined, denim jacket Kevin wore. He was determined, he would NOT move back home. He was grown. His teeth chattered, his hands began to ache, but he would not be deterred. He struck his Zippo lighter remembering to flick it open. He swore that the fake habit made him look cooler.
 He looked around the overgrown yard in the meager light.  He thought he saw something. Yes, salvation. He spied three brittle gray logs on the ground. Briers and vines had grown over them. He struggled until he pulled them loose. They were coated with mud, leaves, ice and slime, but he would make them burn. He cradled the grimy treasure close to his chest.
 The three wood steps, creaked as he sauntered back into the house. "I found some logs.” He announced.  Trying to sound like he had never been in doubt. He was redeemed.
 The trio worked together seamlessly. Probably as a result of playing countless made up games as children. They doused the wood with the corn liquor they'd been chugging and some rubbing alcohol with a label that had died of old age. They piled all the paper, twigs, and assorted rubbish under the logs. Finally they lit it using a rolled up paper bag. The flames ignited in a whoosh burning off the initial fuels before setting onto the wood itself.
 The life saving fire sizzled through the icy grime in seconds, and roasted the fungi that had clung to the quartered segments. As the fire burned in earnest, the chill fled.
 The ancient two bedroom house still held the furniture from the previous tenets. Kevin’s great grandparents had lived there. They had left it to him but it had been previously unoccupied.
 Kevin looked around he was gonna make this work. He had enough friends in vo-tech classes to help him  re-wire the old place, brick up the foundation, and repair the porch.
 As if they'd read his thoughts the ragged edges of the tin roof sought his attention. Screaming "Hey hey don't forget about us!" He lit up a Doral menthol, it tasted different, better. He walked out the front door and peed off of the side of his porch. “This is my house!” He thought to himself as he shook off and zipped up.
 He'd been taken advantage of with his trailer. He had gotten swindled out of the mobile home that he had spent countless hours hauling ‘pulpwood' to buy. When the sheriff had brought him the order to vacate, he hadn't understood.
 His father was following a strict "Hands off" policy of neutrality. So with no representative the 17 year old boy wound up having to move out.
The old wooden house had been built on this spot by his great grandpa. It had seen the advent of automobiles and he determined, as his friends snores drifted to him, it was gonna see a lot more.
 He tossed his cigarette butt into the fire. He squared his shoulders.
“Yeah" He thought "I am going to get my toolbox out of the trunk." He took one last pull of the corn whiskey before finishing his thoughts "And I am going to get that roof fixed in the morning.”
He cleared himself a spot. "This is going to work."  He scratched his balls and yawned. He laid down on the floor across from his friends. He fell asleep in his house.