Von

It’s hard to sneak food in a movie theater in the summer.

It’s much easier—in the winter—to smuggle fast food in your coat without the employees noticing.  But unless you’re gonna wear a big-ass coat in 80-degree weather, it ain’t gon’ work in June.

Such was my predicament last week.
I didn’t feel like stayin’ in after coming home from work Wednesday night. On a whim I decided to head out and catch a movie—The Strangers—at the cheap theater ($3 for second-run movies) on the North side. I needed something to eat beforehand though—and I’ll be damned if I eat movie-theater popcorn for dinner (medium bucket without butter: 951 calories, 58 g of fat, 93 g of carbs). 

Left with no other options, I had to attempt the impossible: Sneak food into the theater.

I ran into the neighborhood McDonald’s, got a double Quarter Pounder (not really healthy—but better than popcorn), and threw away the bag so I was left with the burger and its box (seriously, who actually thought putting burgeres in a big-ass box—instead of the paper foil that every other restaurant uses—was a good idea anyway? Does that make any sense at all?).

Next I had to hide it under my track jacket before crossing the street to walk to the theater.

I tried everything before finally loosening my belt and sticking it into my jeans. On my hip. That way I could just cover the huge bulge with my arm.

As I was crossing the street a car—seemingly out of nowhere—did a wild u-turn down the street.
That same car now sped in my direction—slamming the brakes and reaching me as I made it to the other side.

I knew exactly what was goin’ down once the sirens sounded.

 

It was an unmarked police car with three undercovers inside.

 

It all happened so fast—I didn’t initially understand why they’d stopped me. I thought about it: I’m black, I’m wearing a jacket on a 70-degree day, and I’m covering up a big-ass bulge on my hip. Of course they’re gonna stop me.

The driver jumped out and told me to put my hands up while the others got out.
I looked around. Other people on the street were staring at me like I was a criminal.
Like this was an episode of Cops.

After the driver asked me to put my hands on the hood of the car, my first instinct was to reach into my jacket and pull out the Quarter Pounder to show ‘em they were making a mistake. But countless innocent brothas (like Amadou Diallo and Shaun Bell) have probably been gunned down trying the same thing. So even though they didn’t have their guns drawn, I decided to tell him instead of showing him.

“I know what you’re thinking. It’s a Quarter Pounder.”

“What?”

“A burger. From McDonald’s.”

He looked confused. Cops are trained to watch out for any sudden movements, so I kept eye contact with him while slowly pulling out my boxed burger.

It was all good after that, as the cops were relieved I didn’t have something more dangerous tucked in my pants. They told me I was in the street looking suspicious and wanted to be sure I wasn’t up to anything. The officer in the backseat still couldn’t understand what I was doing.

“Why the hell do you have McDonald’s stashed in your jacket?”

I explained. They laughed. We all laughed.

They pulled off into the night.

I repositioned my burger box into the back of my pants—right above my ass, along my spine. My jacket covered it perfectly.

The movie people were none the wiser.

Epilogue: The real criminals of that night?
The folks who made that dumb-ass movie.

I could’ve stayed at home had I known the movie was gon’ be that bad?

My friend invited me to an open mic last week.

 

She helps run a monthly event (they call it Tanoom) where folks get together and showcase their various talents (singing, poetry, comedy, etc) in an intimate, laid-back setting. Candles. Dark lighting. A jazz band. Kinda like a scene out of Love Jones. I went the month before and enjoyed myself.

I told her that I’d come through later that evening—after my date.

 

I showed up a little after 10:30.

But little did I know that I was walking into a trap—as all eyes were on me (the entrance is in full view of EVERYONE), including the comedian who was in the middle of his act. Dude seized his opportunity to incorporate me into his act immediately.

“That brotha look like he JUST came from the gym.”

The room erupted in laughter.

Son of a bytch.

He got in a couple more good lines (“Brotha got his medium shirt on…”) as my friend led us to a table in the back. Soon the focus was off of me and the comedian went back to his routine. I holla-ed at my friend for a while (never one to mince words, ol’ girl told me my choker looks gay and to never wear it again. Gotta love boldness…). She also told me she wouldn’t be performing (she does poetry), because she left her book of rhymes at home.

“Always be prepared,” I told her.

I went back to watching the show while she started scribbling on a notepad—constructing a poem on the spot.

I made out something on the pad—somethin’ about her nipples being hard.
“Girl, what the hell you doin’?”
She just covered the pad with her hand and kept writing.
The suspense was killing me—I was anxious to see what this was about.

Soon the emcee called her to the stage to perform.

The first four words of her poem: “Hazel eyes. Big body…”

Awww damn. If I ain’t know no better, I’d have thought she was describing—
Her girl interrupted the poem loud enough for EVERYONE to hear: “Sound like she talkin’ ‘bout Von.”
I felt blood immediately rush to my face. This was gon’ be uncomfortable.

See…back in the day, before me and ol’ girl were just friends, we were more than just friends.

We were co-workers back in 2000.
I was drawn to her: a militant, cool-ass sista who ain’t hold her tongue for nobody.
I fell for her pretty hard—something that I usually don’t allow myself to do.
We started going out but it ain’t last too long—I can’t exactly remember why.
I just remember bein’ pretty upset ‘cause I lost out to another dude.
We settled on being friends.
Friends who lost contact over the years—but were reunited by the magic of Myspace.

 
So imagine my surprise when she chose this particular night to recite a poem about the night we went to second base in my truck overlooking the lakefront while listening to Erykah Badu’s then-new Mama’s Gun CD.

It played out like an erotic novel as she described how aroused she was.
How hot she got (remember the hard nipples thing?).
And how she wasn’t a slut, but she was ready to get in the back seat that night (ladies, in these situations—how hard is it to make it clear what you want?).

By the time she finished and returned to our table, I was completely embarrassed.

“Don’t nobody know you,” she said.

It’s funny: she ended the poem with a line about how she sometimes wonders what could have been. It’s funny how shyt works out sometimes. I wonder how things would be different if more had happened that night.

It didn’t, though.
But we’ll always have that night.

Just don’t know how I feel about it being played out in front of all those people.