When Shadows Move
By: K.L. Miller
12 June 2010
No one expected me to show up at the party; my arrival was almost next to the Feds runnin' in on the neighborhood Trap. Every Female there... Straight SHOOK!!!
Never mind that my Dawg brought me... a Cook with serious Smooth Brotha Skills and Street Cred out the Yangtze; some of the Females there were expecting him to show up just so they could get their Turn at him.
Yet... I don't drown the party; in fact, I seem to occupy those darkest shadows, the ones where Circles are birthed, a blunt-cherry making its patient way from Head to Head. Occasionally I appear within the light, and on several of those, actually dance with Females... and not the ones I'm comfortable with at work. Taken as a whole, the first Hour of my Presence is enough to make a few decide Work is just an Act...
Before long, it's almost accepted as Chip Truth: Silas is different Outside of the Kitchen.
* * * *
I stand like I should be Posted Up at Da Club, not standing on the Line; I don't wear Work-Gear; Clothing for the Night is pure Street Warrior. Even my Work Cold is gone, replaced by something they may recall, for the Paranoid Black Man is Out and About. Don't give a shit who you are at Work; this is Different.
Take the Club banga from Young Jeezy: Loose My Mind...
I have a rum-and-Coke in my right hand when it drops; the dance area explodes into Life, and I saunter my way over, taking Notice of which Males are where... with who... expressions and Body Language. I end up with a chica who doesn't like me, but has kept it pretty much self-contained; she's in Club Mode, shakin' what her mama gave her while I Two-Step, eyeballing the T-Monkey Dazzle between subtle glances around me.
Now there comes a Moment when she turns her Seduction towards me; semi-dancing, blowed and getting' tipsy... she still Pings an Alarm that keeps me from responding with anything more than the tease. She'll bring that into the Kitchen, and I can Work with things from there. Even in a Social Occasion... Biz....
Now... Drake's Find your Love comes on; I dig the Reggae Vibe, and mentally Dive into the Music. Lubricated, my hips move easier, and it isn't long before damn the chica, it's all about the Music. However, when I open eyes I had not realized were closed... I am surrounded by Females I see often, though never Outside... Socially. And they never Thought that Evil could Groove or Dance.
Now... much happens between that Moment than this, but the Time-Jump is actually necessary. I was asked if I had some of MY Music... because they wanted... a Show.
By this... they mean not just Electronica or Rave Music; they wanted Washing Machine Music... the Necropolis Term for Hardcore, Hardstyle and Terrorcore that fills my MP3 player. The DJ hired for the event... LOVES the stuff; and has something to trade in case he doesn't have what I have tucked away on the small tech-device. I suggest my favorite Korsakoff track to slow things down and ease them into it...
* * * *
I forget the Kitchen... Forget here and Now; all that Exists... is the Music and my Frame, eager to be swept away in eternal Beauty. Before two bars I'm bouncing... and somewhat surprised when another cook passes me a pair of glow sticks. Instantly... I am back on Bourbon Street... itching to Rave Out after a Shift... Good, bad or otherwise.
How the DJ selects the next Track I do not know; The glow sticks slide effortlessly into the new beat/rhythm/harmony/melody; sometime during this... I happened to Trance Out High Yellow Princess and several others...
* * * *
So I'm riding a Multi-High... when the GM puts in the appearance. I Notice the multiple blunts go out... so... I pull out the one I've rolled and Spark Up; in Da Club... the best analogy is to say It's On (someone you do not like is in the same building; Violence is almost guaranteed). I don't even realize what I've done as I make my way to approaching them from the rear; the wind blows the blunt-smoke to my left... and behind me.
They turn smoothly as I pull the blunt from my lips; the seem surprised to see me...
Back Home... I'd need a Good Alibi...
A few minutes later, the DJ swings into something that the Crowd grooves to, but can't Understand, even giving a Shout Out to the Artists...
DJ Whiteowl... the Track: No Love... Lil' Wayne and Eminem; pure Street banga with a message; I raise my cup to my GM, a serious Screw-Face in place as I let her see the Big Sleazy Survivor eager to return Home, where the Grind at least came without pretentious Bible Thumpers as Status Quo.
Then he goes back to Jeezy... from my Player... By the Way; Right on Time... I need to Share the High. I hit the Dance Floor, Bouncing in my Two-Step; soon the floor is packed with bodies... and a particular Mood: Hood Fabulous/Thuglicious... or put in semi-Happy Terms... Da Club is Jumpin'!! I re-up my drink, someone in tow as I put a serious, and completely unexpected, Mack-Game on her.
Is it a Front (illusion)? No; some of the Cooks are Hard Thugs... neck deep in The Game and no end in sight chummers; I've heard tales of Who got Shot... got Robbed on a Deal... and to be Honest... Necropolis or New Orleans... Los Angeles or Bum-Fuck Nowhere... the Game don't Change... just the Players. My Role has always been that of the Confidant... the keeper of Secrets; add this to my Code... and you can see where my Services tend to lean towards some Twisted Father-Confessor.
The GM has long since vanished; I remember making eye contact once before I Felt their Absence. They were... eager to see the Social Silas enter the Kitchen... and I cannot help but scoff; they only want the Good Parts from a balanced Soul. I take another puff before passing to a Female.
"Ay yo... got dat?"
"Fo sho..."
Pure Street, but my Dawg understands, bud, booze and breasts aside, it's time to either re-up or Make Moves. He checks his Iphone; time to Bounce. I make my Last Rounds, getting drunk/stoned hugs from Females who, come the next Shift, will wonder where the happy guy went.
But, because they saw me Blaze... they'll think to use that against me; sorry... that's a War you are destined to loose. See... I KNOW my GM wants to use that against me... but remember: Sober, there are No Excuses. And I clearly state that my Normal Mode is that of a Surly bastard. Considering the alternative... let the Pot Head Self-medicate, so long as the End Result is within Corp Standards...
Biz.... NEVER Personal, chummers.
Epilogue:
I should feel like Shit on a Shingle... not just this side of Energized for Another Day; guess pressing up against tits and ass has some advantages. Doesn't really matter; as I go about getting ready for the Day and the coming Shift, I spend a few Thought-Cycles remembering the Moments that made me smile; I fired off an email to the DJ, asking when he was due to throw another Party or spin at a Club.
As Time marches on, those Thoughts and Feelings evaporate; something about Last Night will find its way into the Kitchen at the WRONG Time... and I was gonna be forced to Rip off Heads. Images from the Night before flash, and with them come waves of evil anxiety, Street paranoia bleeding into the master's palm, where they are carefully formed into a ball, mixed and kneaded into a rough meat-wad Crystal Ball.
"Bad thing..." I eye my broke-stash... which hasn't been touched. I don't feel the Need to Toke... and that means there will be no Excuses when my Features reflect that Unholy Thing everyone is terrified will one day be unleashed.
"Eh... not today."
Completely pathetic... but it's the Nature of the Grind; I force the last bits of Humanity within me down, admiring the sad images it uses: those Females who got drunk not on the booze... but on the Happy Guy... the smile that went deep into my eyes.
I exhale, and open my text editor:
...and the Hosts of
That Unholy Place
ceased their torment
... for the Thing did not Cry
It did not shed a tear...
It only took
Another Measured Step
Forward.
fin