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June 3, 2003
| FICTION |
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| You wanna know the — THE — most out shit? How the fuck out I been? On this mission, for real. I am on the mission to find a baby. A baby momma, for real. One night I rented a room at the Marriott — hyped out my head — coming back from the strip club — thinking: Sexy dancer, you're my sexy dancer, I want your body, want your body. Do that sexy dance. Crazy HIGH dreams of melting a stripper's hooker heart of gold and giving her a baby. So, I comes back from the Crazy Horse and walks — HYPED — I'm not bullshittin' — back down Market Street to the Marriott. I had a homeboy there. Gave that muthafucka a c-note or some weak ass shit like that. That muthafucka skated me into one of they big ass rooms on the down low. You know, they plush shit — not like Penthouse Hefner shit — but some pretty wild shit. Shit was at the end of the hall. Know wha' I mean? Thas how they do in these big bitches like the Marriott. They put the plush cats at the end of the hall. Some private residence shit. Some reversal discriminatory type shit. So, this muthafucka take my ass up in the service elevator — you know them big ass elevators. I'm ridin' the fuck up with hella little Asian fools. I mean some little MAID ass muthafuckas — hella South East Asians ladies — most they asses
was too old to fuck wit — BUT there was ONE in the middle of this whole pack of them.
And my partner's all, "Blood, here it is." They — the maid ladies — let Dude pick his floor first. I guess some hotel hierarchy stuff. Bellman be running the hotels behind the scenes. And me and Dude stepped, just bounced, from the elevator. I don't even remember letting go of her hand. But all of a sudden I'm halfway down the hall, walking with this dude, but she's gone now. The elevator's like three, four, five doors away now, and I can't even remember letting her go. I didn't even say a word to her — not "Hello." And no "Goodbye" now. I'm drifting from my dream now, trooping through the hotel hallway without the girl. Smelling my hand, like tripping. Smelling — not like smelling fingers for pussy — but some froze-in-time-type-shit. I'm walking with Dude, but in my head, I'm off on some out-in-the-fields-daisies and running to each others' hugging arms and shit. Smelling — I don't know — jasmine or something from her. I don't know. It wasn't — I don't even know what jasmine smells like — but, you know, the sound of that sounds like what it smelled like. Her in my hand. Jasmine. Dude pulls out this super pimp card and — 'Click, Click' — the door is open. Like a stoplight. It go red, yellow, green — you in. Now that some pimp shit! Walk into a room off of a card? What!? No keys jangling all up in yo' pockets and shit? Just a smooth card — some Visa-type shit. And you in. And I was in. And then I floated Dude — just on the strength of that card pimp shit — another TWO c-notes. But, for real, I was geeked tho' in my head still — off Baby from the elevator, and in my head-world, I'm all about to be: "Dude, can you please tell me Baby's name. I need to talk to her. I need to get her pregnant! Lay with her, stay with her, buy her ice cream and pickles and all that ol' shit. Watch her, watch her as her water breaks, and take her hand, take her rushing to the hospital for something beautiful, for once." Not even near some, "I'll mack this bitch." I mean, trippin — like junior high type — "Will you pass this note to her — " shit.
And I think my dumb ass mouth musta been open. 'Cause Dude tells me, "Blood, you burnt. You want some shit to bring yo' ass back down?"
©2003 Sean San Jose, Erin Cressida Wilson and Nerve.com
Romancing the Stoner by Ondine Galsworth Clean by James Frey |
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: | |
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Sean San Jose is a native of San Francisco. He conceived the theatre project "Pieces of the Quilt" as an homage to his parents, who died of AIDS. The production involves over twenty-five writers, including Edward Albee, Lanford Wilson, David Henry Hwang, Tony Kushner and Migdalia Cruz. He is a co-founder of the theatre company Campo Santo, which has produced the world premiere of I Feel Love, along with works by Denis Johnson, Naomi Iizuka, Philip Kan Gotanda and Dave Eggers. |
Commentarium (11 Comments)
hola
wow. passionate. libido filled emotion. and it moved me to seek the nearest hotel room.
very cool. where do i get more?
very powerful - i cried. thank you.
please. there's bad; then there is REALLY bad
that is the wildest I have ever read - here or elsewhere
wow- is there more of this speech?
it left wanting more.
ooo wow
anybody want to go to the marriot?
ok !!
now this one did it
of all the ones in the drug/sex issue
this really DOES IT - both
ouch
I wonder how many other people agree that this is complete drivel? I'm sure theres room in the local community college for a remedial writing class. Nerve really sucks even more than I thought, I can't believe you haven't driven yourself completely out of business
drivel? fu
are you scared and impotent or white and uptight
why so intellectual dude
It was OK. I don't usually go for this type of 'honest, gritty' fiction, but it was emotionally evocative- at least in the "I am a guilty white liberal (referring to myself, here) and I'd like to think I'm peeking into the thoughts and feelings of someone outside of my ethnic/social group" sense. Was rather disappointed to learn that it was a collaborative effort.
Now you say something