“Joke, if you will. But you are not the Mother Mary and Jesus will not be your son.”
Confused, I said, “Okay.”
“In other words, you will need a man to give me a grandson.”
“Awww. I see.” I nodded my head. “However, Mom, maybe we shouldn’t rule out immaculate conception just yet.”
My sisters kept their phone calls short. One complained about her husband. The other whined about her kids. Both thought I was living this fabulous life, attending movie premieres and industry events. Neither believed me, no matter how much I told them their lives were more exciting than mine.
The last call came from my best friend, Yvonne. My battery was low. I had to sit on the floor while my phone was plugged into the socket.
Yvonne was my road dog, sister from another mother, and all-time bestie in the universe. We’d grown up together, next-door neighbors as kids. Now, she was in California at Stanford Medical School, working hard at becoming a doctor.
At least with my bff, she didn’t ask the usual questions. She went right into making me laugh.
“Girl, I had a brother over last night,” Yvonne said. “His muscles were so big. He was tall, well over six feet. Girl, I’m talking Chocolate-Mandingo-Warrior-Lion-King-Simba-brother. Like take me back to Africa brother. Like mama say, mama sa, mama kusa, brother.”
“Oh shit.” I giggled. “Tell me more. This year, you know I’m living vicariously through you.”
“Girl! This Coming-to-America-brother had a wallet that would make Bill Gates blush.”
“Stop it.” I munched on some popcorn which served as my breakfast. “You know that brother didn’t have money like that.”
“I’m for real.”
“Stop it.” I laughed.
“Well, it doesn’t matter because I took his behind to my house thinking I was going to get turned out. I just knew that with his dick, I would not only experience the Motherland, but Rafiki himself would appear in my bedroom, crack his coconut, and declare that this brother was the truth.”
I quirked my eyebrows. “Who the hell is Rafiki?”
“How do you not remember Rafiki? He was the baboon from The Lion King.”
“Girl, if you’re going to talk about the continent of Africa, let’s at least check out some more movies.”
She chuckled. “None of that don’t matter because Rafiki did not appear.”
“Why not?”
“This brother had the smallest penis in the world. All that muscle and no monster.”
Laughing, I shook my head. “Not the smallest penis in the world.”
“In…the…world.”
“Come on, Yvonne. If I’m going to live vicariously through you, I’m going to need you to hook up with bigger penises.”
“I’m working on it, girl. And how’s your new client?”
I held in all my excitement. I’d signed a nondisclosure agreement and couldn’t talk about Gio. “It’s going...really good.”
“Girl, I’m so proud of you. You’ve got this. Just keep at it. You’ll make it.”
“Thanks. I think you’re right.”
Afternoon arrived, and I worked on catching up from the time I’d lost on the phone with loved ones. I had a structured songwriting process; I listened to the music first, searching for ideas. Soon, the melody would flow to me and then the hook. The main lyrics came last. Most started with the lyrics first because they knew what they wanted to say. I always liked the music to inspire the message.
I can do it no matter what.
To be a writer was to be a shapeshifter. Two people inhabited the body. Every writer dealt with this problem—from songwriters to poets, novelists to bloggers. All people who relished in the flavor of words existed with two beings living inside of them. One being controlled the body and regular life. While the creative beast—fueled by insane passion—clawed and roared inside of the chest.
Okay. Let’s write Gio a new song. You’ve got this.
Gio had delivered a different tune that had my mind at a blank. Before, he’d sent lush, sexy music, dripping in hunger and need. This tune had a syncopated rhythm. Unexpected, there were many off-beat patterns and disturbances in the flow. Dance music tended to use syncopation and had all these uneven movements from bar to bar that somehow tied the whole song together.
Damn. Is this a test or something?
This just seemed so strategic, like he was either testing me for some purpose or at least trying to make me challenge myself.
Okay. I can do this. You want to see if I can write to this? Bring it.
I grabbed a box of Girl Scout cookies and poured a good bit of milk into my coffee, dumping in some sugar and twirling it around.
I pressed play and listened to more of the track.
Okay. What are we going to do with you?
This tune was nothing like his usual songs from his past albums. He sang love ballads to the brokenhearted and made women’s panties wet with his sexy soulful grooves. This track was for the nightclubs.
After the third cookie, I replayed the song again and realized that I would be eating the whole box of cookies that afternoon, and no one would freaking stop me.