The rich are and stay rich for several reasons, one of the most important being that they are opportunistic. Wildly successful people have a penchant for striking when the iron is hot and rarely missing a chance to maximize on an opportunity. Timing is key when it comes to high achievement. Megastar Beyonce Knowles is a 1-A example of this, her life as we know it know is due to repeated occurrences of doing the right thing at the right time.
Posts Tagged With: Georgia
Okay folks, if you haven’t done so you need to read THIS BLOG and THIS BLOG to get the back story here. Or you can just read this one and miss out on what’s already happened in this thread. Here we go…
The hustleman induced laughter had just about died down both amongst the Subway patrons and the workers and things had returned to normal. I was looking over the menu when I heard something all too familiar; it was the unmistakable sound of an impatient Black female sucking her teeth. Having grown up in the house with my two older sisters I learned early that when you hear that sound the probability is better than 70% that there’s about to be some raised voices in the room in a short matter of time. The woman a couple of spots ahead of me in line was standing arms folded with a huge Michael Kors bag on her shoulder. When I say huge I mean that an airline would have to measure it to make sure that it would fit in an overhead compartment before a commercial airline flight. It was a nice bag but far too big for a neighborhood jaunt to Subway for a sandwich; Aside from her ridiculously large bag the very next thing that I noticed were her eyelashes which were Disney character long – Bambi, Lady from Lady and the Tramp, Ariel the Little Mermaid – they all would have killed to have the eyelashes that this lady had glued to her eyelids. While her lashes were attached to perfection, the eyes they adorned were currently shooting darts into the back of the gentleman in front of her. Continue reading
If there’s one fault in life that I have it is that I am far too accommodating for my own good. I am too much the nice guy to let the chance to do a favor pass by. This is especially true for my parents, considering that whole raising me and putting me through school thing I think that when something needs to be done for them then I need to hop to it and do it. I should really develop a sixth sense for when that niceness can go wrong.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll go”
But really what can go wrong? This task was simple and I really don’t care much for my parents driving after nightfall because they are the kind of drivers that I scream at when I’m on the roads. So not only am I looking out for my parents by running an errand for them, I’m actually doing the local citizens a favor by keeping them in the house.
The Mission: Obtain dinner from KFC for the Parental Units and Grandmother
The Goal: Two piece dinner for Mom, Two piece dinner for Granny, Chicken Strips for Dad
The Location: Decatur, GA (cue dramatic music and lightning flashes)
Okay, I know, it’s Decatur and it’s a calculated risk but again, this is a favor for the parents. At the time it was just before 7pm, I was to meet some friends downtown at 7:30 but there would be plenty of time to grab dinner, deliver it to my family and get downtown to rendezvous with my people. In theory it worked perfectly; but in reality considering my run-ins with other establishments in town and coupled with my bad luck all together with fried chicken it would be a train wreck.
I pulled into the parking lot at about 7:10, right on schedule, and headed to the front door where, surprisingly the line wasn’t that long, only about 4-5 people deep at this point. After stepping inside the joint I see the usual fare, sagging jeans, Atlanta Braves caps in every color, the guy in front of you in line that smells like he’s been smoking something illegal, nothing out of the ordinary except for the inordinate amount of people in the dining area. Some were milling about on their cell phones while others were sitting at tables talking, all without food in their possession and all with an unmistakable scowl on their faces. Just when I was wondering to myself what was happening over there the person ahead of me a few spots orders. Here’s the exchange:
Customer: I need a 3-piece dinner with a breast and two wings with cole slaw and…
Cashier: It’s 16-18 minutes on that breast, wings are about 5 minutes out
Customer: How many minutes you say for a breast?
Cashier: 16-18 minutes.
Customer: Man…this some BULL****!! It don’t take that long for chicken to cook!
Cashier: All those people are waiting for their chicken too; they have to get theirs first.
Turns out that the people scowling and milling about are people that have been waiting for their chicken to finish cooking and based on the frequency of their watch checking the natives were growing quite restless. There wasn’t another KFC for miles so I had to stick this one out. It’s now 7:17, no shot at being on time with my friends downtown; a Chrisette Michelle song hit on the store’s speakers so I sang a little to myself while people lost their minds over chicken.
Customer in Line: I need to speak to a manager.
Cashier: He will only tell you the same thing that I told you, sir.
Customer in Line: Well, something needs to be done.
Cashier: We’re cooking the chicken as fast as we can…
All the while I sing along with Chrisette as she sang about seeing a former lover in the street with a new love. By the time the chorus kicked in a man in baggy skinny jeans and a wannabe platinum chain approached the counter and inquired loudly. “What’s up with the chicken…it’s been 15 minutes! What’s going on, man!”
The cashier who was still trying to explain to the customer in line that the manager couldn’t make the chicken cook any faster turned her attention to her new problem and replied, “It will be ready shortly, sir.”
“It’s been 15 minutes!”
“I’m sorry for the wait, sir. Can I offer you a drink while you wait?”
“You can offer me my chicken!”
“Sir, your chicken will be ready in a moment, would you like a drink?”
“I’m hungry, that drink ain’t gonna help me out!”
Meanwhile I’m steadily singing along with Chrisette and noting the emergency exit 15 feet to my immediate right in case this gets out of hand.
At this point the manager made the mistake of coming out of the little manager hatch that he was holed up in wearing his little blue manager button down shirt with KFC embroidered on the right and keyring with hundreds of keys to goodness knows what. The new problem turns his attention to the manager now.
“Hey, I know you’re the manager, man. What’s up on my chicken?
“I apologize for the wait, sir. It’s going to be just another moment.”
“All she offered me was a drink, you can’t do no betta than that?”
“Look, there’s a piece of chicken right there, that drumstick, let me have that.”
“Sir, I can’t do that.”
And he probably COULD have done that but you KNOW if he gave that one guy a complimentary “I apologize for the inconvenience” drumstick everybody in there was going to ask for one. Including me, likely. Chrisette has finished singing now, the notes of her lost love song trailing into silence and what comes on next? OutKast. No Luther Vandross, no watered down jazz from Kenny G, but OutKast. There’s nothing like a little southern rap music to fuel the ire of a hungry man wanting his chicken.
“Man, the drumstick is right there. I’m in here 25 minutes…” – exaggeration – “and I can’t get no drumstick for my trouble? Y’all wrong as hell, man!”
“Would you like the drink, sir?”
“Hell, naw! I don’t want the drink. Keep your drink.”
It’s 7:26. I’ve ordered at this point and sitting with the rest of the gang in the waiting area as we sipped on our free beverages. I would like to say that I was enjoying the next song that was playing over the store speakers but the sounds of frustrated customers both inside the store and coming in from the drive thru window was drowning them out. The line was about 10 deep now, all with arms folded rocking back and forth from heel to toe and back again. Each time the cashier giving the ETA for golden brown fried chicken and having to explain herself…
“No, we didn’t run out of chicken and have to go to the store to get more.”
“No, we’re not just being lazy
“No, it’s not taking so long because we have to pluck the chickens.”
…before, finally, my number was called at 7:37. I’m officially 7 minutes late from meeting at the hangout and easily 2 adult beverages behind but none of that matters right now because I’ve got my chicken. I really didn’t even care if the order was right to be honest. They could have just handed me three warm boxes filled with rocks and I would have run out of there all the same. The young worker extended the bag toward me and said “Sorry for the wait, God bless you” to which I replied, “No, God bless YOU. You need it more than I do with these characters in here.” He grinned a little and headed back to his station.
At 7:52 I unlocked my parents’ door and entered with the chicken to which Mom quips, “We were about to send a search party out for you. Everything alright?”
I could only manage a nod as I dropped the sack filled with what I hoped to be the correct order on the kitchen counter.
My dad entered the kitchen fumbling for his box in the sack and said, “Tough night at the chicken house, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“I’m pretty sure I do. Thanks though.” Then he left the room with the prized box of chicken strips in his possession.
At 8:13 I was at the bar ordering “the strongest rum and coke you can legally pour, please”. Next time, the parents go themselves.
~thanks for reading. 🙂
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Hey all! If you’ve been here to the South then you know a couple of things. You know that our winters are short and our summers are humid. You know that the mosquito is the regional bird of the south. And you also know that there is a Waffle House every 3.5 miles on whatever street you might be traversing at the time. Waffle House is like Coca Cola in the south, it’s a freakin’ institution. Everyone in this area of the world can tell you exactly how they like their hash browns, I prefer scattered, covered, and topped, and even if you don’t like the place everyone has a late night Waffle House story because after hours it’s pretty much the only place open; those bright letters looking like hovering yellow Scrabble tiles bidding you welcome after a late night salsa party or wild night out with friends. Most everyone loves the Waffle House in one way or another, my Dad does, or he did, until they started construction on one less than a mile from my parents’ house. Now he’s not so sure.
If you’ve frequented this blog for a while you know that my Dad worries; in fact, it’s almost like he likes to worry. It’s his own little adrenaline rush of sorts; it gets his blood pumping to fret over something. He can be in the midst of a normal conversation about something normal and then – Boom! – there’s something to worry about! Like the Waffle House.
I had to run Dad across town last week to go get his car from the mechanic. I hadn’t talked to Dad in a couple of days so the 20 minutes in the car would give us boys a chance to chat it up in the car with some light conversation over his favorite jazz station on the radio. Our ride was going great until we passed the brand new still not opened for business Waffle House on the corner of Memorial and Candler Roads in dear ol’ Decatur, GA. I, for one, am excited about the new Waffle House as it is going to be closer than the one that I used to have to frequent on the off chance I had to make a hash brown run so I thought that I could start a little small talk about liking the idea of having a new Waffle House nearby. Bad idea.
Me: The new Waffle House should be open soon, Dad. They’ve already paved the parking lot and finished the inside.
Dad: It’ll be closed in a week.
Me: What? Why do you say that?
Dad: A Waffle House? Here? On this corner? Where do you think knuckleheads will go late at night when they want something to eat? Someone will be shot in a week.
Me: Dad, really? This isn’t a bad neighborhood.
Dad: You’re right, but bad people have cars and hooligans get hungry and Waffle House doesn’t close.
Me: So you think that someone is gonna get shot in a week over a waffle.
Dad: I’m not saying someone is going to get shot over a waffle. I am saying someone will probably get shot while eating one though!
Me: Dad, really?
Dad: They should have opened a mini police precinct in the parking lot.
Me: But Dad, all the other Waffle Houses are open 24 hours too. There haven’t been any shootings there.
Dad: Maybe, but this one is new, you know how people like to mess up new stuff.
Me: So you’re saying that I shouldn’t go there on the off chance I want late night food?
Dad: Nope…I’m just saying you should get it “to-go”.
And it went on and on like this in the car about all the people that would be maimed whilst eating waffles and hash browns and orange juice at the brand new Waffle House up the street. How the kids from the teen club around the way would swarm on the place after they finished staying out long after any teenager should be out in the first place. And, oh, goodness what about Friday nights after the high school football games when people are just hanging out, they don’t want waffles, they’re just in the parking lot with their loud music looking for trouble. And never mind me telling him that I used to do the same thing when I was a teenager after high school football games and it never amounted to anything more than me sitting on the hood of my car with my radio up too loud with my friends because, for goodness sake, all he said in response was that’s because I had parents that raised me right and taught me about consequences so I knew better than to fight with someone over something stupid much less shoot at somebody. And he’s not saying that the streets are full of orphans without parents but that the parents today aren’t as strict with their kids and that’s why they are running the streets putting bullet holes in waffles at 2:30am when they should be at home in the bed and even more than that what about the…
“DADDY! We’re here…”
I made the right turn into the mechanic’s establishment in Hapeville, GA and there sat Dad’s car in the parking lot to the right. He looked over to it and smiled knocked out of his Waffle Induced Violence Diatribe by the thought of a new transmission in his beloved Ford. I put my car in park and asked him if he needed me to stick around for a minute and he waved me away saying that he just needed to pay the mechanic and then he’d be gone. Then he grabbed his walking stick and started his cool stroll across the parking lot around the corner and out of sight. I sat in the car for a minute still dazed and processing all that was prophesied to happen within the first week at the new Waffle House just a mile from my parents’ home and came to the rapid conclusion that I’d better dine there within that first week or end up being a victim in a hail of bullets over hash browns covered in cheese and chili.
~thanks for reading 🙂
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I saw Terrell Owens before Terrell Owens was Terrell Owens. And he was an ass just like the Terrell Owens you know now.
It was 1995 or so. I was an undergrad in my usual seat in the oft-rude student section at Paulson Stadium on the campus of Georgia Southern University (go Eagles) and, as we did just about every year, we were kicking the football tails of the UT-Chattanooga Mocs up and down the field. The student section at Georgia Southern is right behind the visiting teams bench which is a horrible idea for several million reasons; I’ll just say that we devised more than a few ways to tell an opposing player that he [inhaled deeply].
I can’t remember exactly what the score was in the game but the good guys in blue were up by about 3 or 4 touchdowns late in the 4th quarter when a loudmouthed brash wide receiver caught a touchdown pass and carried on like his team was about to hoist a trophy. Obviously when he got back to the sidelines the crew in the student section was ready to remind him that he needed to take a look at the scoreboard, and once again tell him that he and his team still [inhaled deeply]. And we did, over and over. But this wide receiver guy didn’t get upset; he looked up at the scoreboard, gave a dismissive wave and flashed what is now a nationally known smile and said, “I don’t care about that or y’all…I’m going pro!” Of course we didn’t believe him, he played football at Chattanooga and the last thing that you expected to come out of that place was a good football player. We shouted at him, called him a bum (and some other things), chanted the score and basically did things that broke down most other visiting players. This guy though just mouthed the words “I’m going pro” towards us then waved and casually had a seat where he waited for the rest of the time to run down on the blowout in progress. Every time I see that guy while I’m watching football on Sundays I can’t help but think back to that Saturday when he played on that god-awful Chattanooga team brimming with a confidence that comes only when you know you’re damned good at what you do and flat-out put us on notice that regardless of what we thought of him, he was going to be the next big thing. And despite what you think of the guy…he’s been a pretty good professional football player.
I really don’t do resolutions when the calendar turns over to a new year; I consider it twice as bad to break a promise to yourself, especially when the 15 pounds you swore you would lose have turned to the 25 you now have to lose after finding creative ways to put the gym off over and over again. But as I thought about life in 2011 I thought to myself, “It wouldn’t be so bad to be like Terrell Owens”. That thought alone should be enough for me to lose my dinner but in the grand scheme of things what’s there to hate about a guy that did something, did it well, got nationwide recognition for it, got well paid to do it, and will be considered one of the very best at it when he has finally burned his last bridge…I mean, caught his last pass.
We’ve all got something inside us to do. We were all downloaded with talents, skills, attributes and abilities that define us and make us what we are. Against all odds and despite the naysayers and “opposing student sections” in our lives we should all focus so heavily on what we are here to accomplish until we can only see the end goal. Doesn’t matter the current score, the current circumstance, or the bad team around you, just know that despite all that you’re still going to finish on top. So all of you, for 2011, strive to be like Terrell Owens, not the crazy T.O. that alienates everyone who ever liked him and submarines just about every relationship he’s ever had on a football field, be like the good T.O. that knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’re going to be the very best you that you can be this year.
Now, as an exercise find a mirror, look yourself in the eye and say the following words with enough volume that it reverberates around your domicile:
“I LOVE ME SOME ME!!!”
~thanks for reading 🙂
Whenever I’m lucky enough to get a ticket to see the Falcons play I tend to make a day of it, go down to the stadium early, wander around and mooch off people’s tailgate parties, go into the Dome early and watch the teams warm up and, in general, people watch…
*sidebar* The most beautiful women in Atlanta are at the Falcons games on Sundays, my Lord where do they breed these women? Anyway…
I’m sitting in my seats about 25 minutes before kickoff eating a personal pizza that I paid WAY too much money for when the perfect family walked down the aisle and sat in the row behind me. The wife was one of the beautiful women I was talking about a minute ago. About 5’5, hair in spiral curls, jeans hugging her curves perfectly, her red #33 Michael Turner jersey illustrating her allegiance and her smile was, in a word, incredible. Her husband was a regular dude; the kind of guy that gives average Joes like me hope that they can score a woman like her if they talk fast enough and purchase enough dinners and roses. Regular guy, jeans, and like his wife, adorned in a red Falcons jersey.
…and then there was their daughter…
Let me preface this by saying that I adore little girls, I want a son one day that I can sit and watch football games with and teach him to keep his left up when the bully on the block tries to test him. But I would love a little girl too…something about little girls with me, maybe it’s because I’m getting a little older and my daddy urge is starting to kick in, but she was the perfect little piece of the both of them. She looked like her mom but had enough of her daddy to let you know that she was his. Her hair was in spiral curls to match her mother’s; jeans and, just like Mom and Dad, a red Falcons jersey. She was on her father’s shoulders and holding a red and black pom pon in each hand, she had this look of amazement in her eyes as she looked up at the roof of the Dome. The three of them sitting there in anxious anticipation of the start of the game, wife with her arm around her husband telling him something that induces a laugh and the little girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old, with her entire face slammed inside a bucket of popcorn that her father had just bought.
It was the perfect, red jersey draped family. I don’t know what kind of issues they may have at their home, don’t know if they are one paycheck away from being foreclosed on, don’t know if they even have a house, but from what I saw that family of three for 3 hours didn’t have a care in the world, they were perfect. The little girl probably didn’t know what was going on but whenever Mom and Dad jumped up she would shake her pom poms furiously along with them. Along the way all the cheering and the hour of the night had taken its toll; the daughter was fast asleep, I mean, drooling sleep, in Mom’s arms. Wife and husband gave a knowing look to one another and then they decided to take their leave late in the game. We all said our goodbyes and said the usual “See you next week!” and they headed for the exit, Mom…Dad…and daughter.
They were perfect, I can’t explain to you why they were…they just fit, you know? A beauty of a wife and her regular working man husband and this gorgeous little girl all in their red jerseys headed to wherever home was for them and as I watched them leave I couldn’t help but wish to myself that I can be a piece of that perfect example to some dude sitting behind me, my wife, and my child at the Dome on some future Falcon football Sunday.
Love your wives, love your husbands, love your children, love your families, love yourselves.
~thanks for reading 🙂
I’ve always wanted to be rich, preferably wealthy because that speaks to long term money rather than passing fancy money, my reasons for wanting this is many but the main reason is that I hate to wait. People with money don’t have to wait on anything, nothing at all and if they have even one minute of their precious rich time wasted they rant and rave like a sugar deprived child in the candy aisle until someone sees them…and when they are seen what is the first thing that they say? “Do you know who I am and what I have?” (or some derivative) In my work experience the most rude and inhospitable people I ever attempted to help were those that were well to do simply because no one does entitlement like the rich. My introduction into the world of the well to do would be more than for my benefit but also to let the world know that one can be well off without being the backside of a donkey. But I still wouldn’t like to wait…
But then I thought about it, think of all the cool things that you would miss when you’re standing there in the “Official I’m Standing In Line” pose. If you don’t know what that is the official standing in line pose is arms folded, leaning back slightly with your lips tightly pursed together, then shifting weight from one foot to another as the wait gets longer and longer. This pose only changes if you’re at the grocery store and you have the buggy (shopping cart for all my up north friends) to lean on. Think of all the wonderful things that you would see as you’re there standing waiting to pay a bill, or see a teller, or whatever else you’re standing in line for that you would ultimately miss if you had the wherewithal to skip out. Case in point…
Yesterday, in where else – Decatur, I was out and needed to drop my cable bill in the box at the Comcast store but since I didn’t have the bill with me I had to go inside and stand in line. It was my own fault for going so late in the afternoon, it was roughly 5:05pm when I got there and the location closed at 6:00 so I was in with all of the other slackers who decided to wait until the 11th hour to get in and out and on with their cable television lives. It was a small location, it was narrow with a scant amount of space so suffice it to say that there was a bunch of humanity tightly wound within the retractable lines of the waiting queue and beyond since the line at that point was out of the door.
The first thing you notice is the look of extreme displeasure on the faces of the friendly neighborhood cable employees. Less than an hour from getting off work and there’s a line out the door letting all of the precious air conditioning out. Not exactly the welcoming atmosphere befitting a room full of people about to give away a minimum of $85-95 dollars. The thing about Georgia heat is that if a room starts to heat up it’s going to take a while for the A/C to catch back up to get the temperature back to somewhere resembling normal so now that it’s hot inside everyone has the “screwface” to go along with their “Official Standing In Line” pose. Then just as I was about to turn my attention to Facebook via my mobile phone I take a gander at one of the ladies in line ahead of me. My guess is that she didn’t live far from where we were because it wasn’t what she had on; rather it was what she DIDN’T have on as she stood there in her Official Standing in Line pose with her folded arms on top of her breasts. Perhaps she thought it would be a quick trip and no one would notice that she decided to let her seemingly double F’s roam free while she paid bills but it was neither sexy, or attractive, or cute…and this comes from the President of the I Love Boobs committee. Once I took my eyes off that travesty it was the obligatory person that reaches the representative and wants to complain about the bill. Cable prices are high, we all know that and you knew how much the bill was when it came in the mail weeks ago so instead of holding up progress ranting about leaving them for another company why don’t you just scratch the check and get out of the way. As if on cue the required baby starts crying in the room, likely because she was hot and tired of listening to the bill complainer complain about her bill that she was going to pay anyway if she had any aims on seeing Maury Povich (she just had an “I watch Maury Povich” kinda vibe about her). Of course the mother holding the baby didn’t offer the baby anything to stop her from crying as she looked over her bill so then the lady behind started in with the loud baby talk in an effort to appease the child which did two things, it made the baby talker look extremely foolish and secondly made the baby cry louder as if to say, “I don’t want you to talk to me, I want to EAT, dammit!” And just when I didn’t think anything else could add on in walked “too loud cell phone conversation woman”.
We all know “too loud cell phone conversation woman”, she lacks tact, knows very little about the possession of an inside voice, and feels like everyone in a mile radius needs to know about what pissed her off at work today. In listening to one half of the conversation you wonder how anyone on the other end could entertain such foolishness, such episodes of hyperbole. First thing that came flying out of her mouth at top volume as she flung the door to the location open was “If I go to work tomorrow and she talking that bulls**t again I’m gonna just knock her a** out.” In this economy? Unlikely. Then, “I don’t know what her problem is, she kissing the manager’s a** all the time, I don’t play that!” At this point I’ve closed my eyes and have thrown my head back as if to beg God to make this ordeal end. Then the kicker, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she ain’t been on top of two of those supervisors in there, that’s the only way she could try to pull rank on anybody.”
Mercifully, I got called to the next available rep. I’ve never been so happy to give away money in my entire life. But think of how boring the ordeal would have been if I’d just waited until I got home and paid it online, or on the phone, instead of saying “hey I can just go in here since I’m in the neighborhood and pay it.” I wouldn’t have had this wonderful tale to tell about air conditioning that can’t keep up with the Georgia heat, you wouldn’t have the stirring recollection of breasts bigger than my head roaming free near some woman’s belly button, you’d have no idea about the customers doing on-site price comparisons between her bill and what she’d pay if she got the same package on satellite, the amusement of the crying baby trying to avoid the crazy lady behind her jingling her keys in efforts to get her to quiet down…and of course angry cell phone lady that thinks that her meddling coworker likes to sleep with the supervisors.
Now that I think about it, boring is nice, I’m signing up for autopay.
~Thanks for reading 🙂
Welcome back to Stories From Around My Way…my name is Skrap and I’ll be your host for the next 2 to 3 minutes depending on how well you used to score on those reading tests back in the day; remember those joints in elementary school? I was always a good reader so the clock never ran out on me, I finished my paragraphs in enough time to answer the comprehension questions and write a “Do you like me? Yes or No” note to that cute girl that sat three desks over…meanwhile the kid in the back of the class that rode the short bus to school and had to wear a helmet so as not to kill himself between Language Arts and Science class was slamming his pencil down because he only made it 4 sentences in. Anyway, all that to say, if you were the helmet wearing kid back in the day, it might take you a little longer to get through this…don’t bump your head walking to your car after work today, a’ight? Let’s move on.
I was on my way back to Decatur this evening after hanging with some friends of mine down at Centennial Park. There’s something about the park in the summer, the evening air, sounds of music from the nearby bandstand, the beautiful sight of black woman hips swaying in sundresses; yes, the park in summer in Atlnta is a beautiful place…anyway…I was on my way home and pondering what I was going to eat for dinner because I knew that I wasn’t going to be cooking anything; then the little voice in the back of my head said, “Hey Skrap, you haven’t had wings in a while. Why don’t you go and get some chicken wings?” The voice was right; I hadn’t had wings in a while so I pointed my car in the direction of my favorite wing joint smack dab in the middle of grey Decatur at the intersection of Memorial and Covington. When I entered the spot there were two people in front of me in line, one of which ordered up a 50 piece hot wing box which meant that I would be posted up in that spot for at least the next twenty minutes. As usual there were only three people staffing the place…there was Ming Li at the register, and Yung Won and Yung Tu were in the back firing up the grills, they do good work and the wings are always worth the wait so I grabbed a seat by the window so I could watch the world go by while I waited.
Because we’re in grey Decatur there’s no telling who is going to walk into the spot at any point. There were older people, families, and regular folk like me that came in while I was there but I’ll get straight to the principle characters in this story. About 5 minutes into my wait I notice two dudes by the entrance to the wing place. Dude One is about 17, wearing a pair of red Dickies shorts about 7 sizes too big and a white tee (of course) that was about knee length, white socks and some fuzzy house shoes. Dude Two is about 18-19, in jeans, a black shirt with a picture of a Wheaties box on the front…wait a minute…that doesn’t say “Wheaties”. After further review I see that the box printed on the front of the shirt says “WEEDIES” with a picture of Bob Marley blazing a fat one on the cover. Anyway, Dudes 1 and 2 are posted up out front, they have ordered earlier and are killing time outside smoking a cigarette.
About 2 minutes after noticing these two I see a group of people coming in, 3 females and a male. The ringleader of this set is a female that we will refer to as “Candy” because that is what she had tattooed on her left arm. “Candy” is about 18 and is about 65 pounds past “thick”; she had on a pair of black pants with the drawstrings at the cuff and a black t-shirt that she must have borrowed from her little brother because it wasn’t quite long enough to cover what was an impressive gut by NFL Offensive Lineman standards. She had a Batman backpack purse slung over both shoulders, piercings in her eyebrow, 3-4 in each ear, and one in her tongue which I only know because she was playing with it every so often while standing in line waiting to order. Being the nosy person that I am, I noticed Dude One and Dude Two watching the crew of 4 walk into the spot. The Dudes shared a few words and went back to smoking their cigarettes until they heard their number called to pick up their order. This is about 15 minutes into my wait…and also where Skrap gets his education in new millennium Ghetto Thugonomics Pimpology 101.
Dude One in the Dickies and the houseshoes walks to the counter to pick up his wings; he gives Ming Li his ticket and she, in turn, hands him the bag of chicken wings. He turned to “Candy”, she of massive girth and piercings galore, and the following exchange takes place at regular conversation volume in the middle of a small chicken wing/chinese food restaurant populated by roughly 13 people not including the three staff members. Please excuse the profanity
Dude One: “Ay, Shawty…you dyking?”
Candy: (full of Decatur attitude) “What you say?!?!”
Dude One: “Are you gay, shawty?”
Candy: (louder and with more Decatur attitude) “Awwwww hell naw, n*gga! I don’t lick no p**sy, I like d*ck! You must got me f**ked up!
Dude One then says “A’ight then, well here…” He pulls out his cell phone and says, “I was just checkin’; you in here with these two otha hoes and this gay lookin’ n*gga so I wanted to know. Here’s my cell phone, put yo number in it, I’mma call you in about 5 minutes so I can holla at you…and make sure the number real, shawty!” Candy shoots him a smile and says “okay” (she said OKAY?!?!)and puts both her home AND cell number in the phone before handing it back to him. He looks at the numbers and says, “A’ight shawty, I’mma holla at you tonight” and he and Dude Two head out the door.
At this point my mouth, boys and girls, is wide open…I replayed the exchange over and over again in my head and tried to make sense of it all: Did this cat really roll up on Alice the Goon, ask her if she was gay and upon her denial, hand her a cell phone and say “here, put yo number in here”? Every time I asked myself the question, though, I’d get a syntax error, then a bunch of clanging noises in my head and I’d have to reboot my brain. What’s that you ask? How do I know the number was real? I’m glad you asked, boys and girls…
I’ve been waiting on wings at this point for over 20 minutes, I’ve missed a good portion of the baseball game I was listening to on the radio and my butt hurts from sitting in this hard wooden chair. Candy and her posse are sitting at a table waiting for their order and I hear a cell phone ring, Candy looks at her phone and then looks at her girls, guess who…
Candy: “Hello?…Yeah, I know you said you was gonna call…..Naw, n*gga, I told you the number wasn’t fake when you left here…..I’ll be home in about 20 minutes, call me back in 20 minutes…A’ight den…”
Mercifully, Ming Li, called out “NUMBER FIVE” and I sprung out of my seat to get my wings and get out of dodge; I’d had just about enough of this place for one night. The last thing I heard before leaving the wing shop was “Can you believe dat n*gga asked if I was a dyke? As much as I like dick???” I got in my car with my mouth still hanging open, turned the game back on the radio, and headed for the house thinking to myself, “I couldn’t have dated if I were a teenager now…”
But that’s my little slice of Decatur, and there’s no place like home…