It’s only taken a year, but I’ve finally found a gal
pal whose company I enjoy. And to anyone who ever told me that smoking was bad for
you, I’d say they probably never had a chance meeting over a cigarette build
into a dope ass friendship. A couple of months ago now, I was having a smoke when my
co-worker asked me for one. She’s relatively quiet, so I had never really heard
her speak before. Come to find out she is from “Elle-A”, and by the way she
said, “L.A.” I immediately asked if she was Mexican. She responded, “of course.”
I smiled, knowing that was probably enough to make her certified good peoples,
and man was I right.
Mexicans and I go back like eight tracks, all the
way back to 2000 when I stayed on the black floor at good ol’ USC. There were
two Latino floors above us in the dorms, and it didn’t take long for me to find
out, that our friends from South of the border know how to look out for a
brotha. I would go up to the floor and be smoked out, get my Spanish homework
proofread, and a group of girls from the Latino floor would routinely go to
Trojan Grounds (the on-campus convenience store), game the cashier into giving
them bags of free candy, and they would bring the bounty back to my homeboys
with smiling faces. To get that kind of love off the bat was cool and always
reminded me of old Tupac records where he would appeal to black and brown
unity. But, as is typical I digress.
Back to my newfound homegirl. In keeping with the
tradition of her commadres, she is cool as fuck. As we got to talking, I
learned she was, “about that hood life,” which made me smile even more. Even
though I’m not from the hood per se, I still feel like I was uprooted from my
urban roots and shuttled out to the burbs, before it was my time at the age of
five (though I still remember my older sister and I being babysat by a hood
caretaker who would smoke weed on the balcony, while “watching” us). People
from the hood, or those who have dealt with adverse circumstances in general
are typically more giving and know how to look out. It’s a different kind of
feeling I get connecting with them; in short I feel the love more than I do
with other people, and as it concerns my homegirl, she is no different. Case in
point, we were having lunch at work, and I asked her if anyone she knew was
selling a car on the cheap. Well as luck would have it, she has a civic that
she doesn’t need that she was willing to give me, even after I asked her what
she wanted for it. Yes, that’s right, I said give. I don’t care what’s wrong
with it, if the engine is gone, if the muffler is dragging, or if the
windshield is busted out, it’s a car, something I haven’t had since parting ways with the Boxster in 2007. Even
if she doesn’t run, I already have a nickname for her: “plan B”, cause that’s
where I’ll be sleeping should anything ever, ever happen to the $500/month, off-the-books apartment
(which still seems to good to be true). To put her more than generous donation
to the poor-negro-on-foot-patrol in perspective here’s how the family responded
to my request for whip assistance:
My father’s cousin had an older Corolla that was
well-maintanined, and was even the same color and roughly the same year as my
first car, also a Corolla. Needless to say, I made countless inquiries to him
about it, but was told more than once that it wasn’t for sale. Recently I found
out that the cocksucker, donated the car to a non-profit, because his mechanic
wouldn’t work on it due to rust issues. That’s right, he gave away his car that
I’m sure still had miles on it, instead of keeping it in the family. Good
lookin’ out, man.
Then there’s my older sister. My mother either went
half on her circa 2000 Corolla, or paid for the whole thing (honestly, I’m not
sure), only thing I know is that it’s a Corolla that she’s had for close to a
decade. When I asked her to hand it down and get herself in something a little
more new, she all but laughed at my request (understandably, as it was a lofty one).
Then there are my mother and my younger sister. I
pulled up to my mother’s house in a ’99 Passat that I was test driving from the
dealership up the street. They were practically giving it away for $999 (and I
negotiated it down to $750 at the first meeting with the salesman). Instead of
offering to throw down some ends to getting me driving again as she did with my
sister’s new car, my mother, who is always swearing she is broke yet blows
money like a hurricane, simply asked, “do you have a thousand dollars?). I
liked that car, and even though at that price point I’m sure it needed
something major done to it, I decided to ask my little sister if she would loan
me three bills to make it happen. Keep in mind she has two jobs, and at one
point very recently worked two weeks in a row with no days off, so I figured
she’d have something to donate to the cause. Nope she told me she was broke
(one of my pet peeves; when people front like they ain’t got it). This was made
even more frustrated knowing that she chipped in not four hundred dollars, but
four thousand, when my mother bought her car (which she still has never, and probably
will never let me drive). Yep, that’s my family for you.
Anyhow, over the course of the past month my
homegirl from work and I have gotten to know each other, mostly over facebook
chats and our shared love of the “caffeine and nicotine” vaccine
(read:coffee/cigarette breaks). It’s been cool since I haven’t had a local,
go-to, gal pal in Boston, well, forever. Throughout my travels, I’ve managed to
make good female friends who have been cool companions in the other three
locales, but never at home. Boston girls. Wow. What can I say. Besides being
voted the worst dressed city in America, I haven’t enjoyed their company since
high school. In addition to being style-adverse, they for a number of reasons (the
hideous Boston accent being one of them) aren’t my cup of tea. Though Boston is
feeling more like home than ever before these days, LA was the first city where
I felt at home, so to have gotten cool with one of her daughters, so to speak,
on the east coast has been a welcomed surprise. And she wasn’t playin’ when she
said she was about that hood life. From turnin' it up in skrip clubs, to playin’ bones in the wee hours of the
morning, to getting the boot from different high schools back home, to hearing
stories of holding her man down, I quickly learned she is officially my kinda girl.
