After a few moments, he relinquishes an answering smile. “Right,” he replies. “And friends don’t let friends listen to crap music.”
“Here we go.” I put my hands on my hips and throw my head back. “Hit me with all your oldies but goodies.”
“You little . . .” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Mumble rap is not music, Lotus.”
“It totally is,” I defend on principle more than because I actually like mumble rap. I just enjoy a good debate. “It’s an emerging subgenre.”
“Did you read that in Vibe magazine?”
“Who in hip-hop do you consider great?”
“I grew up during the renaissance of hip-hop. Take your pick. Biggie and Pac are given, so we won’t even go there. Nas. Jay-Z, Rakim. I’ll even give props to millennial rappers.”
“From my generation, you mean?” I mock.
“You’re having too much fun with this. Sure. From your generation. Kendrick. Lil Wayne, Drake.”
“Do not say Kanye,” I interject. “He’s in the sunk
en place.”
“I did see that on Twitter.”
“Twitter?” I scratch my chin. “Hmmmm. I think I remember Twitter. The little blue bird?”
“So you’re strictly Instagram, I assume? Thousands of people who have no idea who you are, but who follow your perfectly filtered life? Little snapchat birds flying around your head and shit?”
“Oh, you are old,” I say with a pitying shake of my head. “And cynical with it, but Twitter has made a comeback.”
“Don’t get me started on social media.”
“We’ll save that for another day. Finish schooling me, or should I say, old schooling me, on my ratchet music choices and how millennials are ruining the whole world.”
“Not the whole world,” he says, patting my head condescendingly. “Just most of it. Definitely music.”
“We probably like some of the same music,” I counter. “What’s your favorite song to listen to when you want to unwind?”
“It never entered my mind.”
“Well, let it enter your mind. Think about it and then tell me—”
“Lotus, stop,” he says, squeezing his eyes closed. “Say you’re joking.”
“What? I’m asking which song you like to—”
“And I told you.” He laughs and tugs on one of my braids. “’It Never Entered My Mind’ by Miles Davis. It’s my favorite song of all time.”
“Wait.” I run through my mental playlist. “Miles Davis the trumpet player?”
“So you have heard of him.”
“Does that song even have words?”
“None you can hear, no.”
“None that you can hear?” I cock a dubious brow. “Explain, old man.”
“I’ll let you get away with that just this once,” he says with a wide smile. “That man speaks his soul through his trumpet. It’s not words. It’s emotion. Power. Passion. Pain. You don’t have to hear one word to know what he’s saying.”