For my readers....

For my friends....my library of the beginnings of bestsellers....

I.

It’s hot outside. Not the kind of hot that only needs a fan circulating. It's unseasonably hot, for a day in March. I’m sitting at the window sill with the window open, smoking a cigar – a little secret bad habit I picked up from my days in undergrad. Too many bad relationships will do it to you.
I live on the infamous, 18th Street & Junction. Known for its newly renovated historic homes, busy intersection, corner stores, and Wax Recording Studios. I take a pull from the cigar and exhale as I observe the cluster of people two stories below. As a writer, it is a privilege to have so much richness and history at my window. I’m always inspired to write about this or write about that. Children parade around the corner store, with newly pressed shorts and t-shirts, ready for the temperature rise. A little girl emerges from Kwik Corner Store with a Popsicle in her hand, waving and teasing her peers with it. I’m thinking she brought the cherry-flavored Popsicle unbeknowst to her buddies and they all shout in disbelief. She makes a run for it around the corner and they run after her.
A young girl with form-fitting denim booty shorts walks from the direction of the children and stands at the intersection waiting to crossover. Men stop, stare, gloat, and make pleas and gestures. They think about what type of ass exists underneath the denim. A smirk appears across her face, as she hears the awes and the wave of disrespectful comments. She seems to be pleased with her reactions and I wonder if she knows that she’s being disrespected. I don’t think she really cares.
I’m immediately distracted by the rhythms of Curtis Mayfield’s Move On Up, emerging from a car slowing down to a stop at the red light. I smile as I listen to the smoothness of Curtis Mayfield’s voice and the pulsating music that harmonizes with him. I catch a glimpse of the forty-something driver bopping his head and probably reminiscing to that night when he owned the ladies as he danced to that song. He turns it up and mimics the beating of the bamboo drum, as if he’s on the stage beating away all of his fears and tears. I smile at his one-man show and know that it feels good to him, even if it is make-believe. Those wise enough to understand, feel the music also as they pass by. They smile at the driver’s intensity for the drums and remember with him, that same feeling. Then a horn blares from behind, interrupting the one-man show. The audience speaks words of dissatisfaction towards the party-pooper in the black Camry. The Curtis Mayfield impersonator stops his act abruptly, gives the car behind him the finger through his rear view mirror, and speeds off.
This scene connects to me, because it is a metaphor of my love life, or lack thereof. Excitement, sadness, disappointment, laughter…a sea of endless emotions. I identify with that driver. Wanting so badly to feel that love from others. That driver will forever feel that he should have been on that stage. He would have been everything to that band and to the pleasures of anyone that desired to listen. But the driver behind him assured him that he’s only driving to another destination. Likewise.
A black Lincoln Towncar pulls into a parking space in front of my building. My heart begins to race, not for the man that’s driving, but for the little girl that’s inside.
“Olivia’s home.” I say out loud, only to myself. I immediately put out the cigar. Although I’m sure she’s smelled the odor, she has never seen me smoke one. I spray as much air freshener as my lungs can tolerate. I take a much needed deep breath. Here comes the man that fertilized one of my eggs, I remind myself. I can hear his voice ascending the stairs and her rambling about the time they've spent together. I imagine he's spent...exhausted. Ready to drop her off and run back to his bachelor pad, never looking back. But before he exits quickly, I'll remind him that the day care monthly rate has increased. ...