Despite the ritual of individualism and machismo that goes into a man's night out on the town, nothing is lonelier then the experience of waking up the next day by your cot damn self, clinging to a lifeless hotel pillow. You spend the whole night feeling empowered by your lack of attachments and the entire next morning resentful towards the lucky bastards waking up next to a person they love.
It's 9:30 am and I awake still in my street clothes, shoes on my feet, watch on my wrist and chain around my neck wondering how the fuck I wound up here alive.
After a few minutes of trying to gather my thoughts I stepped infront of the mirror and stared for a while. I'd always been told that my eyes were green but this was the first time I had ever noticed them.
My self worship was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Room Service", the voice said from beyond the door.
If memory serves correctly the body attached to the voice was named April and she was a sexy paper thin little number, black, but more of a Teresa Graves then a Pam Grier.
One of the many things I appreciate about Hennessy is that the next day as opposed to being hung over with a splitting head ache, you awaken with an uncanny sense of clarity and confidence. All of the positive effects of being drunk but with none of the weaknesses.
With my nerves temporarily comatosed I found myself first thing in the morning picking up where I left off the night before, but instead of hitting on a wanna-be welfare queen in the cab I was flirting with the hotel help. April wasn't really having it and I wasn't trying to agressively push the issue so we just wound up having a few laughs and she was nice enough to point me in the direction of the local "hood" mall. Where she assured me that I would find what I was looking for.
So, I through on my grey, black and green Nike Dunks that had no business matching with the orange and blue New York Knicks hat I was wearing and set out by foot on a journey to find Regency Mall.
Just across the bridge I somehow wound up right back at the same stupid intersection where I left off the night before. There was a bus stop but for some reason in Jacksonville either all of the maps and schedules have been stolen or whoever runs the buses is just to cheap to post them.
When I asked an old man who looked like Al Jolson in blackface but minus any teeth where the schedule was he just laughed and mumbled something.
From out of nowhere this girl popped up from out of nowhere and said, "follow me if you're trying to go to the main station". Chick didn't have to ask me twice. Standing roughly five-foot-three with a flemsy anorexic frame that was anchored by a thick ass and some monster titties, she was a bangin redbone that seemed like some stereotypical gold digging stripper type from the ghetto cut straight out of an episode of the Jerry Springer Show. "Grab my shit, nigga" she demanded before we headed off.
We walked through the city chit-chatting about random subjects, mainly me trying my hardest to convence her into coming back to my hotel room for the afternoon as I carried a bag full of odds and ins, mainly a hair drier that kept slipping out.
"So, where's your girlfriend at?" she asked, "Oh, her, well, she died trying to treat polio patients on a missionary trip to the Amazon a few weeks ago. Terrible tragedy." I replied.
And...That's where things turned south.
"Was she black?", she asked. "Yeah, that's really the only type of chick I can get down with, why you ask?" I responded.
"I can tell, you're to much like a nigger. I don't like niggers. My baby ain't going to be born a black nigger, you're to black and will put a nigger baby inside of me. I want a real white boy that isn't a nigger and will give me an all white baby." She told me.
I scratched my head, paused, staired at her ass and titties again, then back at her eyes before she could catch me peaking. We continued walking. How the fuck was I supposed to respond to that?
"I'm thirty six years old and sexy as hell, I have really big titties." She told me. "Interesting, I didn't notice that until you mentioned it", was the only competent thing I could espouse in response to the bizarreness of the conversation I was currently holding.
"All these young boys keep trying to fuck me and put nigger babies in me, all I want is a real white boy that's not a nigger." Point taken. This was the one day in twenty seven years of my life where wearing an American Eagle outfit would have beneffited me. Not my style but damn would it have been worth it just to sell out one day for this chick.
"I was born cursed with this scar" she told me. I had seen a scar on her forward so I cleverly responded with, "Oh that thing on your forehead?", "No nigga, I mean this skin! Somebody put a voodoo curse on me as a baby and made me black with a mental illness!"
According to her, most people, especially black ones were cursed with blackness and mental illness as babies by those practicing voodoo.
As we approached the bus station things had gotten to weird, even by my standards.
"Well, hey, check it out. I'm going to go over here and check on what time this other bus leaves", I excused myself and boogied away as fast and as far as possible.
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