DJ ON&ON UPDATE
While Trees is striving to make an adult of himself by furnishing a nice condo in the Appalachia’s, I find myself still living a life that depicts Larry David on a Vodka binge. Case in point, Halloween weekend, when I was utterly man-handled by a chick.
On Wednesday, I realized that I had a gig in two nights, hosting the most innovative night in Boston hip hop history: Hip Hop Trivia.
I needed someone to watch my son on Friday night as I ventured out to collect my riches in the Hip-Hop capital of the East Coast; Revere Beach, Massachusetts.
The Baby Daddy Gawds smiled upon me as my phone rang to answer my prayers. The caller i.d. indicated it was a female from my past. A certain `brollic hood kingpinstress whose name rhymes with Zova.
We hadn’t spoke in a while, on the count of…Christ, it’s all one big Four Loko blur. We just ain’t talk in a while.
The conversation flowed, like Rah Digga on her period. It was great to have my homey, lover, friend back.
I wanted to discuss Mitt Romney and the G.O.P…She wanted to discuss Meat Raamen and M.O.P…two birds of a feather.
She disclosed that the nature of her call was to see if my son would accompany her son to some Halloween event for kids at Legacy Place theaters. Sounded lovely…a bunch of little pishekas running around in shit-stained costumes. So boom, my son sleeps over, I get to do my show, everyone wins.
For his birthday, my son’s number one request was a Hulk costume.
I delivered. Once he would get home from school, he would put it on and parade around the house in all his glory. With Halloween weeks away, he anticipated the greatest night of his 5 year old life…walking the streets of Hyde Park as a 3 foot Bruce Banner.
Friday night arrived, and I delivered my son, his #Rare Hulk costume, and a PS3 with games to her house. We arrived on Bernie Rosenberg, my trusty new scooter, which I would take on the highway to get to my coveted gig. I gave her $20 for the movies, and profusely thanked her for her service.
Off I went. The evening was a success, and I enjoyed the first kid-less Friday night I’ve had in 2 years. The next morning, Zova gave me a call to tell me they didn’t go to the movie event because the boys stayed up until 5A.M. playing video games, and would probably sleep until noon. She asked to keep my son for yet another night because there was a kids Halloween house party later on, and the boys were having a blast with each other, no homo. God bless her. I now had a free Saturday on my hands.
No poasting to be done on virus-infested JTTS, my laundry was recently taken care of , and my pockets were type low which meant no Dominican whores to be had. Sounds like it’s Miller time. Three hours into liver abuse, my homey invites me over to smoke an L. Bernie Rosenberg and I stumble over to Atlas liquors to cop some E&J then head over to smoke up some drugs. Two hours later, as I’m officially rendered as a dazed and confused useless mound of liquor-soaked brown flesh, Zova hits me on the horn.
“Daaaaavid. Your son needs a change of clothes. We goin to the party in a half hour. Hurry up!”
Shit. I’m chocolate wasted at the moment. I make an executive decision to stop at L&M Bargains on American Legion, which is on the way to her crib, to buy him an outfit, instead of going back to my crib. Picking out an outfit for my son whilst drunk and high is like explaining Lil B’s success to a def Mexican…in Mandarin.
35 minutes and $40 later, I’m off to deliver his extravagant Karl Kani/Sean John knockoff ensemble.
I touch down, and my son’s first words to me are, “I didn’t call you to pick me up yet.”
He’s wearing some type of Dracula get-up, and I ask him why.
“Cuz we can’t find my Hulk costume.”
I ask Zova what’s going on, and she casually tells me it will show up, and that she just put the Dracula shit on him in case they don’t find it in time to leave.
“If they’re wearing costumes to the party, why did I come here with clothes for him to wear to a party?”
“Cuz…shiiiit…I don’t know…he needs clothes some time!”
Goodbye, 35 minutes of my life and 40 bucks.
“Besides, I ain’t had a drink in two days watchin these kids, go to the store and get me a bottle of wine. I’ll find the costume by the time you come back.”
She’s right. I’ve had two days of freedom thanks to her. Least I can do is get her the finest Sutter Home has to offer.
I return 30 minutes later. Settling on a bottle of wine proved to be as daunting as finding a toddlers house party outfit. I’m faded.
The boys are peacefully playing video games in her sons room.
“You find the costume?”
“Naw! Look, I’m gonna find it later, I need to clean my house!”
I’m starting to work myself up. It was his prized birthday gift. He wears it to bed for Godsakes.
“OK, well I’ll look for it…think it was thrown out by mistake?”
I run downstairs and go through her trash bins outside. I rummage through her trash in the kitchen.
“Nope, not in the trash..you check your room good?”
Now she’s getting annoyed.
“I told you I would look for it, you need to calm the fuck down right now while I finish cleaning!”
Sidebar: I’m drunk as hale rummaging through her trash and demanding she find the costume.
In hindsight, I see where she has every right to be annoyed. At the same time, I don’t appreciate her cavalier attitude towards losing my son’s Halloween costume in a 15 hour period. Now, she’s basically telling me to shut the fuck up regarding my concern for retrieving my sons favorite thing in the world.
“Are you serious right now? You lose my son’s costume and you want to clean right now? Find his shit! You lost it! Find it!”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP, I’LL FIND IT! GET THE FUCK OUT MY HOUSE!”
“I ain’t goin nowhere till you find that shit, or give me $35 for the costume!”
She pushes me against the wall and sticks her finger on my forehead.
“Fuck you and your costume! Get the fuck out!”
I push her off me.
“Gimme $35 to replace the child’s costume you fuckin lost! I drop my kid off for you to watch, and while he’s in your care, you lose his fuckin Halloween costume?!? Who does that!”
My mistake was pushing her off me. In a stunning display of super-human strength, she takes one step towards me and shoves me. I felt like a defenseless weatherman broadcasting in Atlantic City during Hurricane Sandy. My girth was hurled through the air into her sons room door, which swung open. Turns out The Hulk was never missing…just cleaning the house the whole time.
Again, with the finger on my head.
“Nigga, you act like you never seen $35!!!”
I remove her hand from my dome.
“Where is it! Where’s the fuckin costume! Gimme the costume, or my money! You lost his fuckin birthday present, and you’re screaming at me???
The boys are now enjoying the show.
She once again, doesn’t appreciate me defending myself.
She grabs me by my shirt and starts shoving me downstairs.
“Get the fuck out! Get out!
I’m confused, because as she’s yelling for me to get out, she pushes me past the front door and into the living room.
I begin moving her out of my way to get to the door. She’s not havin it.
“Get the fuck out my house!”
She shoves me on to the couch.
I get up. She shoves me back down.
I get up. She smacks the glasses off my face. Then shoves me back on the couch.
I coach myself:
“O.K. nigga, you’re drunk, which is why she’s making you fumble and shit. This shit aint funny. She just knocked the glasses off your face, fool. Show this bitch whose in charge.”
She’s hovering over me, ready for me to stand up again. I yell,
“Get out my way! Pack my sons shit up and I’m out!”
She leans in and attempts to push me. I grab her hands and begin to push back. I’m coaching myself:
“Don’t fuck her up…just use your superior strength to let her know what’s good. Push! Puuuuuuush, nigga, push!”
Can’t….get…off….couch…bitch…is….strong…as…shit…..Hulk…. Hulk…if you can hear me….need…you…to…fuck up….this…..
Just then, her screaming sister runs in the room and breaks us up. I’m escorted to her stoop where I patiently wait for my son.
The next morning, we go to Iparty to replace his loss. He doesn’t want to be Hulk any more…he wants to be this guy:
Lesson learned: No more fuckin with chicks stronger than me. I’m praying I never see the day when my son and I are reminiscing, and he says:
“Hey dad, remember Halloween ’12 when that broad kicked your ass and threw us both out her house?
Why haven’t you killed yourself yet, dad?”
I’m going for less of this:
…And more of this.
By the way, Zova texted me a week after the debacle. She found the Hulk costume on the side of her son’s bed. While cleaning.