Primo’s Song

Pick. Strum. Pick. Pick. Pick. Strum. Tap.
"Damnit!"

He was pissed. For two weeks straight, he had been working on a new song. He found it impossible to find the right rhythm. It was always the same transition that gave him trouble.

"D to C. D to C." he murmured to himself as he mimicked the action, too frustrated and timid to try again. D and C are two of the most basic chords; two of the first few a promising guitarist would learn on his or her way to rock stardom. And though he was nowhere close to being a Santana or a Hendrix, Primo was an accomplished guitarist within his small circle of friends and such a basic transition could normally be accomplished in his sleep. Maybe that was his main frustration.

Pick. Strum. Pick. Pick. Pick. Strum. Tap.

"Fuck this!" Primo was conquered. He had to retreat to some kind of sanctuary. Salvation was found through his cell phone and a crumpled piece of paper with the phone number of some girl he ran into at the club the night before. Primo took two deep breaths then used his fingertips to call her up.

He was nervous. Primo was nowhere close to being a Don Juan but definitely did possess some experience with the game. Yet, this was the first phone call he was going to make to some strange girl in over two years. After being dumped and spending a few months in emotional recovery, today was the day to be bold and move on.

Ring. It is scary jumping into the abyss of the dating world especially after being landlocked. The ship he last sailed threw him overboard and Primo didn’t know if he could swim anymore.

Ring. A bead of sweat slowly formed on Primo’s forehead as he imagined his proceeding conversation. There would be laughter, banter, and undoubted flirtation. He would ask her out for a cup of coffee and an intellectual conversation. She would oblige. They would exchange more laughter, banter, and undoubted flirtation. He would say he had to go, and she would ask him to call her later.

Ring. The bead of sweat became a single stream of anxiety and the eagerness which had possessed his body a few seconds earlier was overcome by doubt and a feeling of eminent rejection.

"She must recognize my phone number and is trying to ignore me." He thought, confident in his irrelevance. "Wait, she never asked me for it." Ring.

"Hi, this is Anita’s voicemail. Sorry I couldn’t get your call. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back." This was worse than rejection. This was the fork in the road and he was forced to make a decision. Could Primo free himself from his own mental shackles to become the Frost induced road warrior, or would he jump into the fires of his normalized inferno of self-depreciation? Beep.

Pause. All coherent thoughts plunged through the backdoor of his brain, and he struggled to release, "Uh, hi Anita. This is Primo, we met last night at the club. Uh. I just wanted to call and say wassup. Uh, so, wassup! Okay, you probably wouldn’t want to call me back anyway, so, yeah. Take it easy. Bye." Beep.

"What the hell?" Primo pondered as he walked to the bathroom to gaze at himself and the hazy reflection masked by a hallucinated guitar: He just played himself, better than he had his song all day.

*~*~*~*

Smoke engulfed the room making it difficult to determine any of the details on the ceiling above. It was supposed to be illegal to smoke indoors in California, but somehow the crowded club and nature of the show proved it to be illegal to not partake. So, in this sense, Primo found himself breaking the law and decided to let the second hand smoke take center stage in his lungs.

Beep. Beep. Beep. There was a short lull in the program, and the miniscule moment of silence found the perfect time to allow an electronic message to be passed.

Primo received a text message on his cell phone. There was no Caller ID detected phone number, and the only thing the message said was: "Rhythm."

"Rhythm? What the hell does this mean?" as Primo showed the message to Rolo, his cousin who was currently inebriated and chemically enhanced by the community joint being passed around the dance floor.

"Yo man. That shit is telling you to let loose and just party, yo. Vibe to this shit." Rolo was referring to the Open Mic/ Hip Hop happening on stage. Primo assumed his cousin was talking about the weed.

"I’ll pass, yo. I’d rather not. But for real, check out this message. It’s kinda weird isn’t it?"

"Hey bro, peep it. You heard what that last girl was talking about in her poem, about the harmony of two independent minds, converging on one meditative line, confined sublime, in the secrecy of time? Or some shit like that? There’s an angel trying to bless you man."

"What the fuck you talking about?" Primo laughs.

"You gotta get off them drugs, for real."

"Ever read those mythology books and whatnot, and you find something about muses? Like, those fairy chicks or something that give the gift of art and inspiration?"

"Yeah. I guess. Why?"

"Cuz check it. We’re just entities in this universe, walking on a thin path called Earth. There’s some sort of harmonious connection between our steps and the rotation of the world and the solar system. We’re like the suns, the emerging stars, within our own galaxies. And things like these hip hop shows, poetry, bookstores, Michael’s, Bob Ross, Jimi Hendrix, they’re like the celestial bodies where independent ecosystems emerge and flourish. Think about it. It was 1969, over thirty years ago, when humans first touched the moon. Ever since then, we’ve developed microchips that control cities, states, nations, worlds. Yet, we haven’t ever touched anything else in space. We’re the leaders of our own expeditions, in search of mental spices and riches. Hendrix: he’s one planet that we talk and read about, but have we even touched the surface of his world? Every second of everyday, we have the potential to discover new planets and galaxies for us to learn from."

"And what does this have to do with my text message?"

"Some being on some planet sent you a telegraph. It’s calling you to discover," Rolo

replied philosophically.

Primo felt compelled to ignore his cousin’s ramblings especially due to his being under the influence. He was caught up in a strange, irrelevant mystery that he was bound to solve on two levels, who sent him the message, and what did it mean. Despite his surroundings, the microphones and clouds of contraband debris did nothing to deter Primo from contemplating why he had received such a peculiar message. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Primo grabbed for his cell phone and checked his message: “Balance”.

*~*~*

I was born McArthur Santa Maria Balancio. Could I have been any more Filipino? My parents told me a few years ago that they struggled at finding a name for me, as they spent most of their energy attempting to create some beautiful hybrid of theirs. My father’s name is Rommel. My mother is Melanie. They concocted bonafide horrors like Rommelo, Roelan, Ronie, and my personal favorite Tumel because you can find two “mels” combined in their names. Then I guess they almost settled on Roman, which I have to admit is not too bad. Yet, somehow they scratched that idea and decided to make me an ode to Philippine history. If you don’t know already, after World War II, the Philippines fell in love with General Douglas McArthur to the point that he became a national hero and even has a statue and memorial erected for him.

I didn’t learn about U.S. Imperialism until my first year of college, but I hated my name even before. Having a strange name in elementary school equaled torture. I dreaded every first day of school because I could never look forward to Roll Call. Even on days when a substitute would come, most kids were ecstatic, but I was in an immediate DefCon 4. Each time I came up, I would get pauses and questioning revolving around the authenticity and meaning behind my name. I hated explaining it to the glares of disbelief and brows of mischievous scheming.

By luck, my cousin Rolo, real name Jason Santa Maria, was a hip hop buff and he introduced me to the culture. One day, he was playing me some of his vinyl and I was exposed to a beautiful construction of a beat. The song was “Come Clean” by Jeru the Damaja. The man who produced the track was DJ Premier. Later on I discovered that the illustrious DJ Premier was known by the underground community as Primo. I guess you wouldn’t be accepted if you didn’t call him Primo. As I listened to his old and new compositions, I realized that making music was in my destiny, and I could not stop until I found perfection. Somehow, my friends began calling me Primo, and it must have caught on because my teachers and even my parents call me Primo now.

My name is McArthur Santa Maria Balancio, aka Primo. I am on a personal, artistic pilgrimage to find the perfect beat. I know I am going to be dumped by my girlfriend within the next two weeks. I think I will forget how to play.

Primo discovered his old journal in a pile of textbooks that he collected in college. He realized that through the marijuana influenced mumblings of his cousin that Rolo was right about his need for discovery. Primo recognized the scarcity of his musical compositions. He had fell into the routine that consisted of sleeping, eating, and shitting. He basically lost the rhythm of his life in the flatlined monotony of adulthood and its disappointments.

But this was not the pro-active way he wanted to deal with his self-inflicted shortcomings. Some egotripping energy inside Primo was trying to force him to take control of his life and not be a pawn in a passive game. When Primo began making music, he was on a quest to create audio divinity. Somewhere along the line, his music became a reactive form of expression that could no longer move him, let alone enlighten him. When Primo was creating, he was at the helm of his destiny, but ever since the real world starting beating its hefty drum, he became a shadow to the rhythm – like the annoying humming in your ear after dancing too close to the speaker at some party.

For almost two years, Primo had been sitting in front of a blank white wall where pictures of an old romance once resided. The pictures came down almost immediately after the heartbreak session; after he and his first love walked away from the loneliest hug either of them had ever partaken in. He made the transition from his first love to his next love rather quickly: the guitar. His ex-girlfriend’s name was Cee Cee, so he named his guitar B Minus, just a grade above his former love. The slight upgrade became a fitting rebound. At least there was no one to hurt but himself.

With every new chord learned and every smooth harmony created, Primo took one tiny step away from Cee Cee towards some kind of emotional emancipation. Yet in the same way, every time he broke a string, picked instead of strummed, or pressed on the wrong fret, he took small, yet significant steps backwards into a world of reminiscing and defeat. He became attached to his guitar. It was his drug of choice, but he still enjoyed himself a night full of scratches, chirps, and random loops on his turntables.

Amazingly, Primo was able to separate his despair and his music. He still wrote the lyrics of pain and yearning: the endless roses, sunsets, and streams of misunderstanding. He still cried out for Cee Cee lyrically. Yet, in his soul, he was being cleansed gradually. He was regaining the confidence he needed to be able to put the guitar down, without relapsing into the depressing routine. Primo thought he finally reached that point, so he called Anita.

*~*~*

“I don’t want to go, girl. You know me and clubs. We just don’t click,” she pleaded. “I don’t feel like drinking tonight and I’m not in the mood to dance with some wannabe player who can’t even keep a beat.”

“Let loose, Anita. C’mon. When was the last time you even went out? You’re always so busy now, we don’t even get to see you anymore,” responded a slightly frustrated Jania. She knew her best friend was in need of a night with the girls.

“Jania! I don’t want to go!” She was irritated.

“Why are you being such a little biatch?! Don’t be all bitter cuz you can’t get none.” She was irritated too.

Silence.

Laughter.

“Damnit you ho. I’ll go.”

Jania just smiles and begins to put on her make-up.

“I’m going to take a shower then.” Anita noticed the scheming look Jania had on her face. She knew what she wanted. “NO! I am not going to wear your hoochie tops.”

“You just do not understand what it means to live, do you?” Jania responded disapprovingly. “You suck.”

Anita knew what it meant to live. She grew up in a strict household where her timid mother was undermined constantly by her overbearing husband. Anita’s father came to the United States via the military. His father was a politician in a small province in the Northern part of Luzon, the big Northern island of the Philippines. Being a politician did not necessitate having an education or any real political know-how at the time. Lolo Enrique was a leader at church and in the billiard halls. On Sundays he helped provide the food for the post-service breakfast. On the rest of the days, he sold tobacco and funded gambling nights at his cousin’s entertainment hall. He always earned enough money from the tobacco to make a large profit while still donating a piece of the pot to keeping the lights on at the hall. What was more important to Lolo Enrique was the favorable name he was developing. He was a gravely clever man and eventually well protected. For some reason, any other man trying to make a profit on tobacco sales either ended up working at the entertainment hall or somehow just disappeared. Either way, all external tobacco selling became extinct before it really ever existed.

Lolo Enrique did not spend much time at home because of his businesses. His youngest son, Ernesto, nicknamed Boy as all the youngest males in the village were called, basically grew up without a father at home. Ernesto and his friends always found themselves behind the entertainment hall trying to convince some of their village uncles to get some smokes or pictures of white American ladies. Once they received one or the other or both, they would run to the river and start a small bonfire and smoke and talk about how when they grow up, they’re going to find tall, big breasted American girls that they would impregnate.

By the time Lolo Enrique died, most of Ernesto’s friends had found their ways either to Manila, Quezon City, or America as laborers. Ernesto, because of his father’s connections was accepted to a local college where he attempted to learn engineering. Within the first semester, Ernesto was already failing his classes and was out getting drunk and sleeping with any women he could find. He was one of the few students and his lineage was well known, so it was no problem for him to find a female on any given night.

One night, he had drank too much and he found himself cornering a younger girl into a bedroom in the back of his uncles entertainment hall. Those bedrooms were established as resting areas for the big winners of the night, but everyone in town knew that they were used for prostitution, especially the kids, so Ernesto knew exactly where he was going. The next morning Ernesto left his uncles entertainment hall never expecting to talk to the girl again. Actually, they never even really talked. They just fucked.

At the end of the semester, Ernesto had completely failed out of his classes. The night he heard the news, he walked to his favorite bar, and was approached by an unfamiliar pregnant girl. Alicia was her name, and she was the co-patron of the backside room with Ernesto that one night. She was carrying his baby, and though the circumstances in which the child was conceived were sleazy and instigated by him, Ernesto took responsibility and accepted the fetus and its mother as his new family.

After losing his chance at gaining an education, Ernesto heard of many of his old street buddies earning all expense paid trips to America through its military planes. With a newborn, Ernesto Jr., and a new wife, he had no other option but to join the US Navy. Eventually, he was able to move to the US permanently and brought his family, then with an added five children being raised mainly by Alicia and Ernesto Jr. Anita was born quickly after and was the only American born sibling in her family.

Being the baby girl of the family, thus being nicknamed Baby, had rather dual effects for Anita. On one end, she had many people to care for her and protect her. On the other, she grew up when her mother had been greatly weakened, her father was too far displaced spiritually from her, while witnessing her older siblings walk in and out of the legal system, schools, and abusive relationships. By the time Anita graduated high school, she was the aunt to three nephews and two nieces, but did not have one single brother or sister in law. She was also the only one of the siblings who completed high school on time and attended a four year college.

Anita only had one boyfriend in her life. They were together for four years and they were each others’ first everything: first kiss, first love, first sexual partner, and first true heartache. After two years at different colleges, they grew apart not so much from physical distance, but spiritually and intellectually. Anita ended the relationship when she realized she could no longer teach him anything, and she could no longer learn from him. They cried together, but they agreed. They promised to never talk to each other again, and somehow were able to stick to their oath. Anita never found a single person worth growing old with after, and fell in love with her studies and career. She graduated and had been working ever since, and though she did party in college, she quickly fell out of the habit and became almost completely reclusive.

Jania was just trying to help free the social butterfly within Anita’s soul.

“Are you out yet? We’re going to be late. We can get in for free before 10:30. Hurry up!”

Anita kept on taking her time.

*~*~*

“Gin and Tonic, please.” Primo didn’t want beer tonight, he wanted his sellout drink of choice.

“You gonna spark up with me later, cuz?” Rolo generously asked.

“Not tonight. I feel good. Something good is going to happen. I know it.” Primo was confident for some reason. He was not even sure himself why he felt so good. A big extravagant dance floor, fake boobs, and fake eye colors were not part of his preferred scene, yet that night was immaculate. “The weed’s just gonna fuck it up. I’ll pass.”

“Aiight then. Your loss. More for me. Let’s go check out those open mic poets. They’re frickin hot, yo. Very nice.”

“For some reason, Rolo, I think you’re going to be a topic in one of these girl poets’ pieces. You’re gonna get hated on.”

“That’s just their secret language of love, man. Trust me.” Rolo was confident as ever. Sniff. Sniff. “Smell that Primo? Someone’s lighting up right now. Aiight, I’ll catch you in a bit, I’m gonna get up in that.”

There was always something about hanging out with Rolo that made Primo feel good; it was like he was getting high through his cousin’s lungs. Rolo was his Kuya, his big brother, the one who talked to him about school, girls, hip hop, girls, driving, girls, sex, and girls. Even though they were only a year and a half apart in age, the experiences Rolo went through were learning moments for Primo. They were situations he never imagined for himself ever in his lifetime, but were compelling enough to analyze thoroughly. They were raised in neighboring cities, but that was enough to have been socialized in two completely different worlds. Rolo was the one who got into fights, drank in high school, and had millions of girl problems in every area code. Yet, somehow, he succeeded through high school and college, and was making a name for himself in the insurance business.

Primo always took note of the strength his cousin gained in his vulnerability. He always felt that though he understood and appreciated the fact that he was well-off enough that most problems in the world could be escaped in his house or on a drive in his SUV, he was deprived of life lessons that he heard Rolo speak of all the time or in the lyrics of the music he found inspirational. What the hell could an upper middle class kid have to complain about when his own cousin is on the street because he doesn’t feel safe at home? Eventually, he found some solace in a graduation card message Rolo had written to him:

“You’re a spoiled ass bitch, but I ain’t mad. Thanks for always understanding.” He was probably high at the time Primo always thought, but the feeling was evident. The message was placed eternally in Primo’s logic, because he knew that his cousin was merely stating that despite the potential for a rich, sheltered kid growing up ignorant, or worse negligent, Rolo could see that his cousin was different; that he could see the care in Primo’s heart and the intelligence in his brain, and for him, that was enough.

“Ugh,” with a bob in his head, Primo was feeling the music that night. It was some special flashback night at the club and the DJs were bumping all the early 90s hip hop anyone could remember. He particularly liked this era in hip hop because at the time, it was all about dropping science, talking about politics, spirituality, and a positive lifestyle. It wasn’t just about the ice, the girls, the benzos, or TRL. Living large was still part of it, but there was meaning behind it. Being able to floss in that era’s music was an end result of hard work and righteous living, versus the rags to riches – fast lane mentality running rampant in the more recent commercial hip hop trends. Maybe it was the music that made Primo feel so good.

“Hello good looking, is this seat tooken?” blasted on the speakers, and Primo could feel the vibrations of Rakim’s distinctive voice running through his veins. He laughed to himself, imaging an exchange he would have with some hot chick that night where he would drop a line like one he just heard in the song. “It wouldn’t work,” he thought to himself, “it’s too damn cheesey.”

Sip. The Gin and Tonic was watered down, but Primo hadn’t drank in a while so he was definitely feeling something. “Hey girl, got any Filipino in you?” he asked imaginatively, “No? Want some?” he responded slyly in his head. Now, that line was just too foul to ever utter with serious intent. He knew it could work if he was cute enough, and the girl was drunk enough, but he felt he lacked the aesthetic edge, and drunk girls just weren’t appealing enough for him to talk to anyway.

“Isn’t this cool, girl?” Jania asked Anita, on their way to the bar. “Let me get you a drink.”

“I don’t want to drink tonight, remember? I’m just not feeling it.” Anita responded.

“That’s cool, more for me. The music’s tight though, right? You can groove to this, right?”

“Yeah girl, it’s cool. I’m cool. Don’t worry about me, I’m alright.” Anita started scoping out the environment, not to look for any guys, but she just wanted to get a feel for the environment she was currently in. She hated this scene. She loved to dance and was really good at it, but the extravagant nightclub, urban disco set was just not her thing.

Jania reached the bar and was ordering a Midori Sour when she ran into a random guy who bought her the drink and a tequila shot. “Anita!” she yelled, “I’m going to be on the dance floor alright?”

Anita just smiled and nodded her head as she watched her best friend start freaking the shit out of her new toy. She was always amused by Jania’s boldness. It was two years since either of them had boyfriends, but they took completely different paths from their defunct relationships. While Anita was at the library on Thursday nights, Jania was at the local pub “drankin and skankin” as she coined it herself. Jania did not really sleep with all the boys she met, but they all thought that they would eventually get some so they stuck around and took her out to the mall, to dinner, to wherever, only quitting once they realized they weren’t going to get any. Jania was really a sincere girl, and Anita knew that she just had been fucked over by too many guys in the past to feel comfortable giving up her heart again. She controlled males with her body, so that they had no chance to control her soul. This was her method of dealing with the dating world. She knew what she was doing, and though Anita would never handle her business that way, she had the utmost respect for her best friend. As Jania always said, “It’s game day, and I’m ready to play. Put me in coach.”

“Can I have a water?” Anita asked the bartender. By that time, Primo had retreated his way back towards the bar, and he heard her request. He contemplated saying something to her, but the feelgood vibes that were running through him earlier were immediately overrun by bashfulness and a dry tongue. It was impressive that someone would stand at a bar and order a bottle of water, when she didn’t look all disposed of from a night full of dancing.

Primo walked towards her, glanced at her, and opened his mouth, “Can I get a Gin and Tonic?” It was a moral victory, at least he walked towards her. No. He felt defeated, and rather stupid. This reminded him of the days he would walk around in the mall with his boys and check out the girls who they walked past. Primo would have the annoying habit of looking and quickly glancing away when the girls would turn their heads. He could not get caught, he would not allow it. He knew that if they looked away he would get rejected. He also realized that if they glanced back and made eye contact, he would have to say something to them, and then they would reject him. It was a lose/lose situation, so he avoided it all the time.

Suddenly, there was a cut in the music and the DJ blasted “Come Clean”. It was Primo’s inspiration, and out of sheer joy, he had to jump and get into the song. Yet, the jerked motion of moving from the bar to focusing to the dance floor caught Anita off guard as she was slightly nudged by Primo’s elbow. His bliss turned into embarrassment.

“Oh shit!” he exclaimed. “My bad. Are you alright?”

Anita just nodded and looked off. She wasn’t trying to brush him off, but she just didn’t care. It’s a club, nudges happen. She didn’t know that inside of Primo’s head there was a civil war engaging in whether or not he should pursue a conversation despite his humiliation. He became slightly paralyzed and she noticed it.

“You like this song, huh?” she asked.

Primo was amazed. He was impressed that even though they did not know a single thing about each other, she was able to feel his enthusiasm for the song. He didn’t realize that jumping for joy made him completely transparent, and it wasn’t necessarily an internal feeling of enthusiasm that she felt, but it was the elbow nudge that almost made her drop her water. Still, it was a victory; at least he was acknowledged.

“Yeah. It’s dope.” Primo was outraged with himself. THAT WAS IT? The door was wide open, and that’s all the response he could muster?

She could sense the disappointment in Primo’s eyes. The nervousness was beginning to show as the sweat on his forehead began to pile up. It was refreshing for her. She always stigmatized every guy she met at a club as some sleazy, brainless player, so she found the conversation amusing. She decided to help him out.

“Jeru’s pretty cool. I think he made a big mistake by breaking away from his Gangstarr connections.” She figured this could engage him.

This time, Primo’s jaw hit the floor and with his mouth so figuratively open, he could not stop from saying something. “Is that right? Yeah. I agree with you. There’s nothing like a DJ Premier beat. But I respect Jeru’s need for artistic freedom.” That was a noble response, he thought to himself. At least it was more than three words long. He was able to conjure up a full sentence. That was another victory.

“True, but I’m much more of a Native Tongue girl, myself. I grew up to Tribe and De La.” Anita knew she had made a connection.

*~*~*

“Baby. Baby, wake up.” A soft, familiar voice whispered in Primo’s ear. “The sun is coming up, do you want to go for a walk with me?” Primo smiled.

“Sure.” There was pure joy packed in his one worded answer.

“Baby. Baby, wake up.” The voice repeated itself. “The sun is coming up, do you want to go for a walk with me?”

“Babe. I said sure. Didn’t you hear me?” Primo was alarmed.

“Baby. Baby, wake up.” Again, the same sentences were repeated, and Primo began to get emotional.

“What’s wrong babe? Can’t you hear me? I’ll go for a walk with you. Babe! I’m up. I’m up. I’M UP!”

The bed shook and Primo’s eyes opened as wide as they could. The sun was about to set as he woke up from a short nap. He had only been asleep for fifteen minutes, but the dream of the voice haunted him as if he had just escaped a lifetime of trauma.

“What the hell? That was Cee Cee’s voice.” Primo thought to himself. He was puzzled. “That was her damnit. But, that wasn’t her face. It wasn’t her. It was her voice.”

Fifteen minutes earlier, Primo had just hung up his cell phone after leaving a greatly disparaging voicemail for the first girl he found interesting in the past two years. It was such an overwhelming disappointment that he felt he needed to find solitude in an escape. He was running low on gas, so he just decided to sleep instead of taking his normal drive to the music store. He thought he would find peace, instead he found his past.

Cee Cee randomly visited his dreams, but never played such a ghastly, phantom-like role before. There were dreams where Cee Cee was with other men and even sexual flashbacks that never really occurred, yet none of those apparitions held such mystical weight as this one. Primo wondered if the energies of the world were telling him not to pursue Anita. Maybe, he thought, that the early morning walk was a symbolism of the beginning of a new life for himself and his first love. Maybe, he wondered, if it was time to check in with his ex-girlfriend.

Ring. Primo was startled by his cell phone tone. Ring. He looked at the screen: it was Rolo.

“Yo. Wassup?”

“Hey. What are you up to? You call that chick from last night?” Rolo was excited for his little cousin.

“Umm. Naw. Uh, yeah. I called but I only get her voicemail.”

“You leave a message?”

“Uh, yeah. It was a pretty wack message.”

“What you say?”

“Not much. I just said I called to say wassup, blah blah blah.”

“That ain’t too bad.” There was a pause. “Frickin’ Primo. You played yourself didn’t you?”

“Pretty much. But forget it. Guess what?” Primo didn’t know it, but his cousin was on the other end of the phone call shaking his head in disappointment. “Yo! I just had some weird ass dream.”

“You dream you just married Alicia Keys?”

“WHAT?! NO! That was last week. No, I had this dream where Cee Cee...”

Rolo interrupted, “COUSIN! You and that girl broke up two years ago. I thought you were over her. Why are you bringing her up?”

“I am over her. The dream was just weird okay?” Pause. “You think I should give her a call?”

“For what? There’s nothing for you two to talk about. She’s a chapter that you’ve finished writing. She’s the favorite CD you played over and over, but just got sick of. You can’t listen to that music anymore, man, you’re a different person now.”

“And she’s a different person too. What’s the point? I just wanted to say hi.”

“Can you handle that? Hey, you remember what I was talking about last night at the club?”

“Yeah. Something about planets and something.”

“Cool. Cuz I was high as fuck. I wasn’t sure if I was making sense. Anyway, Cee Cee, though she was a cool girl, is a world you have already explored. You discovered, you learned, and you moved on. Now, you two are galaxies apart, and you have to accept that.”

“You act like I don’t want to move on. I do, yo. I do. I called Anita didn’t I?”

“Yeah you did. But you played yourself. You said something stupid again. You didn’t have to say something stupid, but you did. So you want to move on. Are you ready? You’ve spent the last two years playing your guitar and you haven’t even written one damn song. You play the same chords, you play the same transitions, you play the same damn rhythm, but you have nothing to show for it. With your talent and two years to work with, you should be doing duets with Alicia Keys already. You know what I’m saying?”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Primo was saved from his cousin’s lecture. He received a text message.

“Hey, I just got a text message. Let me call you back later.”

“Alright man. Go call Anita again. Tell her you had a hangover or something. Fill me in later. Peace.” Beep. The phone call ended.

Primo checked his message. He was hoping it would be Anita saving his face once again, as she did the night before. At the same time, he had an inkling of hope it would be Cee Cee hollering at him, just to catch up on things. It was neither. It was another strange, one worded message. Primo had almost completely forgotten about the unusual text messages he received the night before. With the excitement of the prospect of a new connection, unsuspected pages just did not mean a great deal to him.

It read: “Faith.”

“Faith?” Primo analyzed. “Faith? Rhythm, Balance, and now Faith. Someone’s messing with me, for real.” For some reason, he was content with the mystery and decided not to pursue it further. Instead, he contemplated calling Cee Cee. Though he heard what Rolo was telling him, and agreed, he still felt connected to her. Plus, with his earlier dream, he truly felt haunted.

*~*~*

The music was still blasting when Primo and Anita finally made their way to the dance floor. Neither of them had danced in a club in quite a long time. Neither of them had danced in a long time, period, and they both welcomed this chance to groove. “Check the Rhime” by Tribe was blasting, and Primo was getting turned on by the way Anita was rapping along to Phife Dawg and Q-tip.

“You on point Tip?” Anita proclaimed.

“All the time Phife.” Primo responded.

They repeated the lines with the song, and they were feeling the vibes of the good music and good company. At times they would make eye contact. They would often look away, but on occasion they would create laser beam connections and just smile or holler at each other with the verses playing in the background. This was the most fun either of them had in a long time.

They danced for the next thirty minutes recycling their flirtatious singing routine. Every song, they would both connect. Primo continually got more turned on, but it wasn’t about trying to get into Anita’s pants. When he looked into her eyes and stared and listened to her singing along with his favorite era of music, he felt elevated. She was sexy with some type of emancipated innocence, because the joy she was exhibiting through her dancing was like that of a child on the last day of school. They were surrounded with females in skimpy outfits who looked good enough to fuck, but weren’t worth a long distance phone call because they probably couldn’t hold a conversation about anything important to him. No. Anita was more than sensual. She was like whoa, and Primo was caught off guard. He couldn’t believe that he met a girl like that at a club.

While they were dancing, a full range of emotions ran through Anita’s veins. She was struggling to maintain her composure. Whenever they would make eye contact and end up gazing, she melted. She tried hard to not show it, and to give her credit, she did well, but Primo was too caught up in the moment to notice any uneasiness within her, anyway. The uneasiness stemmed from the rapid development of this connection. Her past relationship, though it ended well, left her scarred. Her only boyfriend was the epitome of love mainly because she had nothing else to compare it to. Until this point, no other person presented anything even close to the perfection she thought she had experienced with her first love, and Anita was far from a touchy-feely person. She was not a supporter of love at first sight, and she knew this moment with Primo was nothing close to love, but it was something. It was something she had not felt in a long time, and she felt it was something worth delving into a little more.

“You staying for the open mic?” she asked.

“Mos def! Are you?”

“Maybe. It’s up to my friend. She drove.” She was testing him.

“Oh, that’s not cool. I hope she stays. I’d offer you a ride, but that would be awkward wouldn’t it?” He passed.

They were getting closer. Every word they said pulled them in inch by inch. They spoke into each others ears, and their bodies starting feeling the others’ heat. They had no intention of getting freaky, but they knew that a little bit of bodily flirtation couldn’t hurt. As they got closer and the more they played, their eyes became more accustomed to attachment. They were comfortable with each other because they knew that, despite the current state of their dancing style, this was as far as they wanted to go, and that all they wanted was to have a conversation the next day about anything, just as long as they were sharing words and thoughts with each other.

Then, the music stopped. Everyone on the dance floor shuffled their ways to the bar, the exit, and the bathrooms. The poetry reading was going to start in a few minutes. Jania found Anita as she walked back towards the bar with a different guy than she left with less than an hour ago. Rolo also found his way back to the bar, and he was high as a kite.

“Hehehe. Yo dog. Guess who I saw.” Rolo was completely giddy, but suddenly became attentive when he saw Jania. “Hey girl. How you doing?”

“I’m good. I’m about to bounce. C’mon girl, let’s go.” Jania replied a bit disgustedly and just headed towards the exit.

Anita looked at Primo. “I guess that means I’m out too. It was really nice meeting you...” She was embarrassed. She realized that they had not even exchanged names.

“Primo,” he replied amusingly, “my name is Primo. And you are?”

“Anita. Nice to meet you Primo. Thanks for the dance. Give me a call sometime okay? You got a paper and pen?”

Primo checked his pockets. “I have this receipt. Umm, I guess you can write it on here. I don’t have a pen though.” Quickly, he glanced at Rolo and his cousin was already pulling out a pen. Anita glanced at the receipt and wrote her cell phone number on the back.

*~*~*

After digging through his planner, Primo found a business card Cee Cee gave him the last time they ran into each other. When they ran into each other, she was working in a law firm as an intern. Primo didn’t know where she was now, but had a cell phone number written on the back. He picked up his cell phone and made a quick decision. He dialed the phone number and heard less than half a ring and realized that he was being overly dramatic about the dream.

“I’m trippin’,” he thought, “I need to call Anita.”

In the middle of dialing her number, a phone call came in. Primo checked the screen and it read, “Private Number.” He thought it was his mom or dad, so he nonchalantly answered the call.

“Hello.”

“Primo? Hey. You know who this is?” It was a soft, familiar voice.

“Cee Cee?”

“Yeah. Surprised?”

“What the heck? How’d you get my number?”

“You just called me didn’t you?”

“Yeah. But, how’d you know it was my number?”

“I ran into Rolo last night, at the club. I was going to say wassup to you, but I saw you talking to some girl and I didn’t want to get up in your game.”

Primo was dumfounded. “WHAT? You were there last night? And uh.. yeah, I just met that girl last night.” Primo really did not know what to think.

“Hey, I have to get going, so I just wanted to say hi since we didn’t get to talk last night. Oh, hey, did you get my pages?”

“What pages?”

“My text messages. The one worded notes? Rhythm, Balance, and Faith. Didn’t you get them?”

“You sent those? Why?”

“Well, Rolo told me you were in some kind of rut lately. He was hella high. I didn’t know if he was telling me the truth, but he was crazy high. I doubt he even remembers talking to me. Don’t tell him, but he was trying to pick up on me at first. He must not have recognized me. He was high.”

“Rut? Yeah, I guess.”

“So, I figured some words of encouragement could have done you well. Do you remember when I was struggling in my LSAT practice scores?”

“Pretty much. We took a walk one morning. You were scared you couldn’t do it. Somehow, I convinced you that you could.” Primo answered as he reminisced.

“Well, yeah. You helped me Primo. It wasn’t much that you told me, but just walking around and listening to me was almost enough. But, you told me that life was like a musical pattern, and it was up to us to either control the rhythm and let it control us. You also told me that failure and success were balanced and we needed both to understand ourselves so that we could become better people. Remember that?”

“Wow. I said that? I remember it slightly, but it’s such a blur. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Cee Cee smiles, “but you know the word that hit closest to me? It was faith. You told me that faith was given to people for the rainy days. You told me how some of the homeless folks you talked to only lived because they had faith that the next day would be better. You said something like, ‘Faith isn’t as much a gift from God, as it is a quality of humanity. With every step we take, we depend on faith that there is ground to catch our feet. We never really know, but we have to take those steps or else we get nowhere.’ And so you helped me find faith overall, but more importantly, a faith in myself. I wouldn’t be where I am without your help. I hope you know that.”

Primo couldn’t help but get choked up. “I’m glad Cee. I’m glad you’re wherever you are now, and I know you’re succeeding and becoming a better person everyday.”

“I know it was quick, but I really do have to get going. I have to prepare for a case tomorrow. It was nice talking to you again. I hope you feel better. Take care.”

“You too. Bye.”

“Bye.” Beep.

*~*~*

Pick. Strum. Pick. Pick. Pick. Strum. Tap.

Pick. Strum. Pick. Pick. Pick. Strum. Tap.

“Okay. I have this. C’mon Primo, you have this.”

Pick. Strum. Pick. Pick. Pick. Strum. Tap. Pick. Strum. Pick. Pick. Tap.

“YES!” he finally got it. The transition that had been giving him such a hard time was finally conquered. He didn’t know if it had to do with the text messages a long lost friend had sent, the ramblings of a pothead cousin, or the cafe he was sitting in, but something clicked with Primo’s energies that allowed him to get past this current roadblock so that he could finally complete a song.

Primo was on cloud nine with life. Though he felt he had failed miserably with Anita, he knew that he was surrounded with positive vibes like he was dancing in a world surrounded by early 90s hip hop. It was still slightly hard to swallow that he stumbled over his own self esteem and tongue and found himself striking out with the most phenomenal woman he had met in a long time, but he was content that there would be some meaning that would eventually spout from it. He began practicing his guitar again.

“You think Premier will ever bust an acoustic guitar remix?” It was a voice unfamiliar within the serenity, but Primo knew who it was, though he was surprised.

“What are you doing here?”

“Getting coffee. You? Playing guitar huh?”

“No. I’m serious, are you from around here?”

“Not too far. But, I decided to take a stroll over here in hopes that I would run into someone I knew. Maybe he could teach me a thing or two about the guitar.” She was feeling good.

“Anita, how did you know I would be here?”

“You still have my number?”

“Yes.”

“Check the receipt.” On the back of the paper where Anita had written her phone number was the address of the cafe where these two free spirits had made another unexpected connection. “So, Primo, may I ask what you are working on and if you can play it for me?”

“Sure.” There was pure bliss in his consent. “I’m writing a song, it’s not done yet.”

THE END