Just to make sure she was still mentally with us, I turned her way. “Are you okay, Mary?”
“The whole place is just vibrating with rhythm,” Mary whispered.
I nodded. “O-kay.”
“Like an African drum, beating hard like the heart beats of a tribe that has known so much strife. I’m talking death and starvation, maybe even some form of human trafficking and genital mutilation—”
“Hold on, Mary.” I held my hand up to stop her. “Let’s finish this conversation, once we drag Coco inside of here against her will.”
“I’m not going in there.” Coco pointed to the door ahead of us.
I ignored Coco, dug into my pocket book, and gave Mary the small bottle of water I kept for emergencies like this. “Drink, Mary.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Come on. Do it for the tribe.”
Sighing, Mary grabbed it with her free hand. The other one was holding her shoes, that she’d apparently thought was okay to take off before walking into a high-end party. They were clear heels with gems that reminded me of Cinderella’s slippers, all sparkling and exuding hope that the owner would go to the ball and catch her prince.
Too bad, Cinderella is already higher than a kite and won’t be able to see Prince Charming or anyone else at the ball this evening.
She still looked regal that evening. Mary kept her hair pinned up. It was reminiscent of the classic 20’s—flapper girls and Great Gatsby fame.
Mary and I had grown up together in Pork and Bean projects. It was one of the worst ones in Miami. The residents had named the area due to the fact that everyone who lived there was on government food assistance, which meant that you’re kitchen table held a whole lot of meals with pork and beans.
I’d painted my way out of the slums. Mary escaped through spoken words that drew in large numbers of poetry lovers to any venue she showed up at.
“You need to drink water, Mary.” I pointed to her shoes. “And put those back on.”
“Fine. But why do we even wear shoes?” She dropped them to the floor and then unscrewed the water bottle in her hand.
Coco frowned. “We wear shoes so we don’t get cuts and scrapes on our feet, or even better scare other people with those horrific toes.”
“My toes are beautiful,” Mary replied between sips.
Another group walked in and passed us—five men in masks and suits. Their cologne lingered behind, as they marched on to euphoria.
“This is crazy.” I waved my hands in the air. “Let’s go inside. If only for a quick smoke and a look around.”
“I don’t know. The invitation looked wonky.” Coco centered her attention on me. “Who invited you again?”
“I already told you that I have no idea.” I shrugged. “I’m big news now. I get invited to tons of big events all over Miami, every freaking week. My mailbox is packed with envelopes. Sometimes, I go. Sometimes, I don’t.”
“Yes, but how many of those invitations don’t have a sender’s name or address?” Coco asked.
“Well, how many of those invitations are inviting me to a 420 party where we will be illegally smoking? I think it makes sense that the sender wanted to protect him or herself and remain private.” I crossed my arms. “Wouldn’t you have advised me to do the same thing, if I was having it?”
“I would have told you not to have a party at all,” Coco said.
“But if you approved it?”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“But—”
“Do you both hear that?” Mary interrupted and leaned her head.
“No,” Coco and I said in unison.
“You really don’t hear the tribal drumming?” Mary whispered.
I almost told Mary to finish the water, when the pounding hit my ears.
“Oh shit.” I smirked. “There really is drumming coming from the penthouse. Tribal drumming.”
Mary glared at me. “Of course there is. What am I, crazy or something? I’ve been saying that the whole time.”
“Come on. I’m not standing out here another second.” I walked off, unable to contain my excitement anymore. Worst case scenario, Coco would leave and Mary and I would use Uber or some taxi service to get back home.
“Are you really going in there?” Coco called after me.
“Hells yes. There’s drumming and ganja.”
“And I feel like the drummer is telling an important story,” Mary added.
“O-kay.” I glanced over my shoulder at Coco. “Don’t you want to hear the drummer’s story?”
Coco sucked her teeth. “It just sounds like a bunch of thumping over and over.”
“No,” Mary said. “Listen with your third ear.”
“Sorry, sweetie.” Coco followed us. “I only have two ears. I’m not as magical as you apparently.”
“Hey, if we have a third eye, we all must have a third ear,” Mary argued.
Coco got to my side and kept my pace. “I don’t believe we even have a third eye.”
Outrage laced Mary’s voice. “What? We all have third eyes. You’ve never seen people paint an eye on their forehead, sort of like your brain has vision too?”