The following story is from the book The Pride of Park Avenue by Toriano Porter
"All you got to do is walk away and pass me by. Don't acknowledge my smile when I try to say hello to you. And all you gotta do is not answer my call when I'm trying to get through. Keep me wondering why, when all I can do is sigh..." - from the single 'Butterflies' by Michael Jackson
Butterflies
For the life of me, I honestly cannot remember this young lady's name - Tabitha or Tamika or something or another - but she gave me the most exhilarating, yet unsettled nervous, feeling I had ever known. At least since grade school, anyway.
I had met her in the early part of 2001. I know it was early 2001 because I was still working at Harold Pener's Man of Fashion store at Northwest Plaza in suburban St. Louis. The young lady had come into the store wearing the coolest Vokal letterwinner's jacket on the market.
Initially, I was just going to do my job, greet her and her company and asked them, her specifically, if my help was needed. Instead, I went into full-fledged 'Mack-Daddy' mode.
"Hello," I suavely said, "welcome to Pener's Menswear. Let me know if you guys need any help today." Before I could finish my sentence, my thoughts went immediately to the next line of questioning.
"Damn, that's a nice letterman's jacket you got thurr, baby girl," I said to my temporary object of desire. "Whurr you find that?"
She was short by a woman's standard, petite and cute as a button. She had banana-colored, reddish skin, jet black her, a wonderful smile and seemed to be the sweetest thing on earth. I couldn't tell what her body looked like because of the letterwinner's jacket and sweatpants, but my boy Nose would later observe she had a body 'like a 12-year-old boy.' To this day, I still don't know what he meant.
"Oh, my friend Yomi made it for me," the honey-baked scarlet said. "Why?" she blissfully continued, "you like it?"
"Hell yeah," I managed, "that mug is hot. I want me one."
"I'm pretty sure you could probably get one made," she replied. "Yomi takes custom orders. He'll make one for you."
"You got a number on dude?" I asked. "I want to put my order in. You think he'll make me one?"
"I'm sure he would," she reasoned. "Give me a pen and a piece of paper. I'll give you his number."
"He ain't gonna be tripping, is he," I countered, knowing full well St. Louis cats act a fool when random people call their line.
"No. Yomi's a business man," she assured. "He's mad cool. Just tell him I gave you his number and you guys can go from there."
After exchange a few more pleasantries, a couple trips around the store and some hobnobbing, the cutie-pie asked me my name again.
"For real?", she affirmed. No way. You and my boyfriend have the same name. No way."
Before she and her comrades left the store, I asked the inevitable, "what's poppin' tonight?"
She told me about a grand-opening party at Downtown St. Louis' newest hot spot on Washington Avenue. The party, she said, was going to be off the radar screen.
"I'm thurr," I said. Excited, I continued. I'ma look for 'ya, aw'ight? Don't tell me no when I ask for a dance either."
She flashed her pearly whites at me before heading out the store.
"I won't," she promised.
That night, I hooked up with my homeboy I played football and baseball with back in high school. Big Tone and I planned to hit the new spot together, but we both passed out around midnight on an over abundance of Belvedere Vodka mixed with crushed ice and cranberry juice and high quality herb we both had scored from our respective sources. By the time I came to, it was 2:30 in the morning. Quite naturally, the shindig was over. Damn, that was some good bud we smoked, I thought.
"Big Tone," I squealed as a gather my things from Big Tone's room at the family's home in East St. Louis home. We had met on Park Avenue in South St. Louis after Big Tone had gotten off work at the sporting goods store his family owned, carpooled across the Popular Street Bridge and stop at my homie's crib so that he could get fresh and clean, boozing and drugging it up all the while. "Man, I had something hot waiting on me at the club. Damn. We missed the whole mutherfucking thang."
Over the next few weeks, I tried everything in my power to get home girl on my team. I mean, I used to see her at all the hip-hop functions--the Spotlight niteclub, Nelly shows, parties and concerts, celebrity-filled basketball games at Mathews-Dickey Boys and Girls Club and Washington University and more. We'd talk briefly on the phone, but never about any substantial. She always had an excuse for us not to hook up and chill. I didn't trip on it though. I wanted her and I wasn't going to be deterred by a little game of 'cat and mouse', you know?
I mean, the few times we did run into each other after meeting, she was always cordial and polite, prompting those nervous little bubbles in the pit of my gut like some young school boy scarred to make a move on a girl he liked. It never failed. Don't know why, but the girl made me feel funny inside. A good funny, though.
Anyhow, to make a long story short, baby girl had this hold on me for at least three months and we never dated. Not once. No dinner, no movie, no trips to the Zoo, Science Center or nothing. Just chance meetings in public. I still dug the shit out of her.
One night I was - to borrow a phrase - out and about town. I had heard on the radio that a rapper with a hit song produced by Dr. Dre was going to be at the Spotlight. At that point, baby girl was the furthest
thing from my mind, but was one of the first people I saw upon entry into the club. Her and a few friends were promoting a future show or what not when I saw her. Those same butterfly feelings took root. I hadn't seen her for awhile, but I was amazed those feelings of admiration were still inside me.
I was super cool in my approach. "What's up, baby girl," I said rather confidently, "you remember me?"
I just knew it was going to be all good between us that night. I just knew. Within seconds after saying hello, her transparent look through me was obvious.
"Oh my God, Oh my God," she screamed, fanning herself with her promotional fliers. "It's...it's...it's Knocturnal! Oh my God!."
Knocturnal?, I thought. That fool has one hit on the radio and this girl is acting like she just seen Jay-Z or Puff Daddy or somebody. Knocturnal, though?
"That's what you get," Nose told me later. "I told you, dude, that broad wasn't for you."
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