From the book The Pride of Park Avenue by Toriano PorterI don’t know why everybody close to me - friends, family and
associates - thought I was in love with Keva. She was just mad cool and fun as hell to hang out with.
In my experiences, she was probably the most exciting relationship I’d ever had.
Being with her was an intoxicating, drug-induced euphoric trip through the streets of the metro.
I had met the jolly little freak-a-zoid at the County lock-up’s
unisex holding cell. She was very stunning in her fitted, faded blue
jeans and rust-colored sequenced top with matching three-and-a-half
inch heels.
Along with a younger cousin, I was headed to one of the metro’s
hottest nightspots for a re-election shindig the local hip-hop star
was hosting for the incumbent mayor.
The cousin and I had made a quick, drunken dash to the northern part of the metro’s suburb,
strapped with light green cannibus, blunt cigars, tall cans of Budweiser
and a fifth of Belvedere vodka and cranberry juice.
For all intent and purposes, the detour was to make due on a promise the
cousin had made to me a few weeks prior.
“Man, TP, I got somethin’ hot for us to run,” the cousin had
said.
“Whenever,” was my response. “I’m down.”
The plan for the excursion to the ‘burbs was to pick up the young
lady the cousin had described as ‘hot ass shit and ready to fuck both
of us’ and take her to the local telly for some pre-party hanky-panky.
If the dame was as hot as the cousin said, I even suggested we take
her to the election party with us and pawn her off for some cash to
some of the local dope boys and ballers.
“TP, you got some Mags,” the cousin asked as we pulled into the
hottie’s driveway. “I left mine at the crib.”
“Yes siiirrrrr! Look right there in the glove compartment.”
The hottie turned out to be lukewarm. She talked a good game,
looked nowhere near as hot as I was expecting and continuously
objected to a stop at the local Motel 6.
“I’m saying, though,” the cousin prescribed. “You already knew
what the deal was, babee. We some playas. We ain’t got time for this.
C’mon TP, take her back to the crib.”
“Cuzz, I ain’t taking this broad nowhere. She’s getting the fuck
outta my car. Baby girl. If you ain’t talking about smashing then you
need to raise up. We ain’t got no time to be out here in the County,
bullshittin’. We got a party to go to, huh, cuzz?”
“Damn right, bitch,” the cousin chimed, “so bounce.”
“Hmmmmpppphhh!,” the hot-is-not scuffed. “Ya’ll niggas got
me bumped. I’m calling the police. You niggas gon’ take me back
home.”
I was undeterred by the threat until I saw her dial those emergency
numbers.
“Raise up!” I demanded, pulling to the side of the North County
Interstate I had just entered. “You need to fi nd your own way back
to the crib.”
“Hello? Police. I want to report....”
“Okay, damn,” I relented, shocked she had actually called the
authorities. “I’ll take you back to the crib, hang the phone up.”
“You gon’ take to me back to where ya’ll got me from?”
“Yeah, just hang the phone up. We don’t have to get Johnny Law
in this.”
“Whatever. Police? We on two-seventy and...”
“Bitch, give me this muthafuckin’ phone,” the cousin said, snatching
the phone literally out of the vengeful vixen’s ear. “You ain’t finna
be callin’ no muthafuckin’ police over no shit like this. We gon’ take
you back to the crib and that is that. You trippin’. You already knew
and my people were coming out here to run that and you gon’ call
the muthafuckin’ Jakes. TP she called the muthfuckin’ Jakes on us,
cuzz.”
“That’s yo’ piece, that’s yo’ problem. Just tell me where to go to
get this broad up out my shit.”
“Go left on this exit right herre,” the broad hissed. “Th en make a
right at the second stop sign.”
Before we could say ‘the Jakes’, two of the County’s fi nest
swopped up on us, red and white cherries blaring, outdated sirens
blasting.
“What ya’ll pull me over for?” I screamed after a few minutes of
on-the-scene interrogation from the offi cers. “I ain’t did nothing.”
“Noise ordinance,” one of the brown and biege-color uniformed
officer said. “I heard your muffl er from a mile away.”
“You tripping,” I offered. “I just got my muffl er fi xed and I got
the receipt to prove it.”
“Hey, shut your fat mouth,” the other County Brown said, getting
reports back from dispatch on my wanted and driver’s status.
“You got warrants out the asshole, dick wad, your ass is going in
tonight.”
“Man, I got some punk ass traffic tickets and ya’ll gon’ act like
this?”
“Yep. And your boy here got somebody that wants him, too.”
“That ain’t my boy, that’s my motherfucking cousin.”
“TP,” the cousin reasoned. “Chill, man.”
“Man, fuck that. We ain’t even did nothing, cuzz.”
The call from the not so hot chick to 911 wasn’t traceable. The
officers that pulled us over, pulled us over for just that: a loud muffler.
Seems the old double-barrel Holley carburetor and glass pack dual
exhaust system was too much noise for the boys to handle.
“Look, baby girl,” I said to the dame as the officers placed me
and the cousin into cuffs. “Take my whip and park it in your driveway.
I’ll come get it when I get out.”
I had no idea when I was getting out of the clink. I had some
dollars save up for bail money, but didn’t know if it would be enough
to handle failure to appear on traffic ticket warrants in three different
municipalities, including one on the other side of the state.
Still, I entrusted the not so hot chick with my ‘81 Chevy. Better with her
than at the impound, I thought. If she was still angry that I had
threatened to put her out of my car, she wasn’t letting on.
“Nell, knows my number,” she said with assurance. “Just call me
when ya’ll get out.”
The sly smile she gave had given me second thoughts on the
makeshift safekeeping plan for the Chevy, but I proceeded anyway.
“Man, look,” I barked as I headed for the patrolman’s car, “park
my shit.”
Stunningly, she obliged. When I got out of the County lock-up
some fifty hours later, she had indeed parked my car with nary a
scratch on the custom candy apple red-coated paint job. Nor was
there a CD missing from my collection of gangster rap, classic hiphop,
80’ and 90’s rock, new age R&B and soul.
I had introduced myself to Keva shortly after booking and processing.
Nearly eight hours went by as Keva and I yacked it up about
all the conceivable things one could laugh about inside the County
clink. What’s crazy about the whole thing is we never exchanged
numbers that night. Only names and jokes about how clean we all
were in preparation for the high-powered throwdown for the mayor.
It wasn’t until a week-and-a-half later that, by chance, our paths
would cross again.
As I usually did after getting off work, I had stopped by the
cousin’s digs on the Southside, close to the southbound Interstate.
The cousin shared the place with his sister and her boyfriend. Without
the blunt cigars and beer to celebrate another day on God’s good
earth, I made a mad dash to a convenience mart nearby before my
anticipated stop.
After putting in a request for two tall cans of Budweiser and a
five-pack box of Swisher Sweets, I noticed a young lady who looked
vaguely familiar. I tried to recall a name or face, but blanked out until
she said “where I know you from?”
“Man,” I replied, “I’m trying to think where I know you from.”
“I’on know,” she said as I paid with cash for my items. “But, I
know you from somewhere, what’s your name?”
“My name? What’s your name?”
“Keva,” she said, looking less glamorous than the night I’d met
here, but still radiant and mad cool. She had on sweat pants, old
sneakers and an oversized t-shirt with a ball cap to hide her un-kept
hair. She still had a certain sex appeal about her, though. Maybe it
was the east coast accent she purposely threw out every other word.
I don’t know, but whatever it was, we hit it off .
“Aw’ight,” I said, “Aw’ight. I got it. When were in the County
lock-up together.”
“When?”
“What’chu mean when? How many times you been locked up,
damn? About a week or a week-and-a-half ago. We both was headed
to the Freeman Bosley party at The Spot.”
“Oh, okay,” she blushed. “I remember you. Whatta you doing
over here?”
“What’chu mean? I told you I’ma Southside dude and I was going
to catch you in these streets. What’s good? What’chu got popping
tonight?”
“Nothing. I’m staying at home with my two kids tonight,” she
said, placing in her order of Newport Kings and a tall can of Bud
Light.
“Where your kids at now?”
“At home with their daddy.”
“Ya’ll live together?”
“Long story.”
“Oh yeah? Long enough to tell over a blunt? You smoke bud?”
“Yeah, but I gotta get back home to my kids.”
“We just gonna go right around the corner to my people’s crib
for a few minutes and smoke a blunt. You remember my cousin? The
lil’ short dude I was locked up with?”
“For real? I remember him.”
“How’d you get up here? You riding?”
“Naw, I walked. We live in Soulard.”
“You walked? Whatever you got to do to stay sexy, I guess. I got
you. I’ll take you home after we smoke this blunt. Nell gonna be
fucked up when he see your ass.”
“Can you just bring me back here?”
“Damn right, c’mon.”
How crazy was this, I thought, as we both got into the Chevy.
Not in a million years did I ever think I meet something as hot as
Keva in jail. Running into her at the store, though? I knew we were
destined to kick it something fierce.
“Give me a light,” Keva partially demanded, scoping the nondescript
inside of the Chevy.
“Here you go,” I said as I offered the in-dash cigarette lighter.
“You smoke?” she casually asked, rumbling through the CD
booklet that was perched on the passenger’s side seat before her arrival.
“No squares. No Black and Milds. Nothing but the ‘scomma’.”
“The who? You making up words?”
“Th e scomma, ma. Hydro? Good ass weed.”
“Boy, you crazy,” she said through a giggle. “Where dat shit at?”
“My peoples got that shit on deck,” I said arrogantly. “He just
waiting on me with the blunts.”
“Boy, you crazy.”
Keva described in detail her situation at home with her kids’
father, Jerome. They had a girl, 5 and a boy, 2 and shared a spacious
two-bedroom town home in the Soulard neighborhood of The City.
They were in and out of love, she said.
“Look ma,” I reasoned, about to be blowed to the hilt from brew
and marijuana-filled cigars. “It’s good. I know my role in society.
I’m just here to get you to have fun and blow trees with me and my
peoples. This what we do. Daily. I mean I got a job and all, but you
are more than welcome, anytime.”
“Dude, you crazy,” she said, again with a giggle.
Going against one of my basic principles of life--don’t fool
around with a guy’s girlfriend, ex-girlfriend or baby’s mother--I
made my move on the five-foot, seven-inch something like a cutie.
Her ass was a bit flat, but she had a nice set of perky tits that I remembered
thinking in the clink how I would like to put my face in
them. Man, she was brown-skinned and sexy and looked half-way
decent in sweats. Only halfway, though.
“Look, me and my peoples are going out on the town Friday
night and we want you to hang with us. Get all G’d up, smoke a lil’
herb, drank some drank and get down how we get down. You down
with that? I want to see you all dolled up again.”
“That might work. I’ma see what’s up and I’ma let you know.
Write your number down, I’ma call you Friday and tell you what’s
up.”
“Damn right, that’s what I’m talking about. Cuzzo! What’s good?
Baby girl riding with us Friday night?”
“It’s all good with me, ma, you can even get the front seat.”
“Nell, the front seat? Damn, ma, you get the front seat. You gotta
roll with us now, my peoples just gave up his front-seat-at-all-times
privileges for you.”
“I’ma see what I can make happen, for real. Take me back to the
Citgo.”
The day was balmy, if not a bit blistery. The evening? A crisp
early March chill overtook the air. Keva was smiling as we headed to
the Chevy, laughing at the cousin’s flirtatious overtures. She looked
stunned when she actually noticed the candy coated paint job.
“Damn, your car wet,” she mused. “It’s been raining?”
“Naw, baby,” I replied with a bit of swag. “That’s that candy paint
dripping like that. My shit just looks wet.”
“Damn,” she laughed, “I thought your car was wet for real. It got
gold flakes on it, too? Boy, I told you, you was crazy.”
Keva had just laid on me the best compliment the Chevy’s paint
job had ever gotten. Right then, I knew again we were going to hang
out and be friends for more than a minute.
“You ain’t even heard the beats, yet.”
“TP, you silly. Take me to the Citgo, I’on wanna hear no loud
speakers banging all in my ear.”
“Man, I like the way you say ‘TP’,” I teased. “Say it again.”
“TP. Why?”
“It just rolls off your tongue. Say TP again.”
“TP, you crazy,” she repeated, just as I dropped her off at the
Citgo. “I’ma call you and let you know about Friday for real.”
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