“Yo, Reds what are you doing? CHILLLL” As I am screaming at my boyfriend. My best friend is laughing (she’s probably high). The Jamaican’s little brother is trying to talk me off the psycho-girlfriend ledge. It’s too late. I have jumped two feet first into the “Motherfucker, I will fuck you up in this club tonight” territory and I am nice and tipsy to the plunge is quick and painless, for me.
I am in the club (the now defunct 3C’s on Blue Hill Ave in Boston). It’s hot AF. I’ve got on a camouflage jacket matching 3 inch shoe paired with jeans and a tank top, my party uniform. Sarah and I are regulars at 3C’s, having been partying since we were underage. Tonight we’re attending a sound clash (DJ competition that is popular in the Caribbean, particularly Jamaica). In a sound clash DJs are expected to bring their best disses in addition to dub plates.
My man is on stage (if you could call that six inch rise that) giving it his all. He’s getting plenty forwards and calls to pull up. I’m smiling proudly with Sarah. One of us on the 🌴🌴, the both of us on the 🍾. I’m drunk but not too drunk to notice all the sound system groupies smiling at him like a pack of hyenas who’ve found they’re dying prey. They can smile all they want because the winner is going home with me. Cue Shayne Bailey….
More soundboy killing. Sweat dripping into my eye because the club is that hot. The smell of weed is heavy. My heart is beating extremely hard. I can’t differentiate between it and the bass of the music.
His sound wins. He’s smiling more than I’ve ever seen him. Pride being from every inch of him. Smug bastard. But he’s mine.
The lights in the club flicker indicating the end of the night. A crowd gathers near the exit. I don’t rush out because I want to hug up the victor. Plus, there’s no sense looking cute if people can only see you in the dark.
Sarah and I head over to the corner for the obligatory club Polaroid (hand on hips, booty poking out). The Jamaican tells me he wants to take a photo with us to commemorate his big win. As we pose in front of a spray painted backsplash ready to cement this moment in time, four thirsty ass women rush the scene, standing at our side and in front of us. The same pack of hyenas from earlier in the night. Enters the Ragin’ Bajan, furious at the blatant disrespect. Before I could react, before I could take a deep breath, before I could kick up one furious storm, he asks me to get out of the picture so he can take a photo with them. “Baby, they’re my fans”
Mother fucker. One successful sound clash in at the lower end of mediocrity and now YOU have fans?! “You piece of shit. How dare you!!! Don’t call me at 2:30 in the morning looking for fuck all from me” Sarah is cackling because she’s high and she is so very accustomed to my over the top reactions, habitual cussing of the Jamaican. Jamaican’s brother is pleading, begging for me to stop screaming and embarrassing myself and shaming his brother. “Reds, it’s cool. You know how he is. It’s not that big of a deal”
I leave the club blue vex. As I drive home down Blue Hill Ave, I recall he gave me a $100 bill to hold while he was on stage. I pull it out of my pocket and rip it up while Sarah is screaming about what we could do with that money. It brings me great satisfaction to know that I have turned his hard working money into confetti while simultaneously driving. He is probably fucking one of these groupies right now but I can go to sleep knowing that tomorrow when he wakes up, he’ll $100 down and a girlfriend short. Everlasting bastard. (I’ll probably get back with him next week though)
My friend asked me to write a narrative piece. This was the result and is a first in the short story series, The Jamaican. This series was inspired by the almost fictional quality of my life.
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