A Stevie Wonder Album

A Stevie Wonder Album


I was running faster and faster… The streets were totally empty and, the scariest thing was, I didn’t know where I was and how to get out of there. Voices, people laughing, police sirens and Halloween masks passed by me. I could not see any live soul. Gangsta rap beats were coming from the black Cadillac parked at the corner. It was the only car parked in a huge avenue and I couldn’t see if there was anyone inside. A few seconds more and I started to recognize the place where I was: Harlem, but, maybe not. It could be Queens or even the Bronx...

Where is my fucking gun? Suddenly, the door of Cadillac opened and the music coming from inside it was getting louder and louder. I couldn’t see its interior yet, but just the reflection of silver… Man, I know my stuff because they are always especials! Any vinyl record, any clothe, anything which it’s mine, I can recognize just with a glance. Shit, that mother-fucking Glock 30 was mine! Someone was pointing my own gun at me and glare from the barrel made me blind…

When I woke up, my heart was beating fast and my black t-shirt was soaked with sweat. And it took several seconds to understand I was in my bed. The sheets were a little messy. There was music coming from some place in the apartment. I got up, dressed some clean underwear and walked to living room… Issy was sitting down on the floor in front of my stereo. And I watched the curve of her nude back. The Miles Davis’ track was almost over and there were other records on the floor: Stevie Wonder, Al Green, and Teddy P. While I enjoyed the last chords of Kind of Blue, I wondered how long this girl would stick around. I didn’t like people fucking with my records, especially a chick I picked up in some club for an one-night stand. Anyone who came near them usually incurred my wrath…

But I didn’t do any thing of this sort with Issy. All I managed to get out was, “Are you a jazzy or old school ma?” She turned around toward me a little surprised, probably because she thought she was alone and I had just disturbed a private moment. “Both,” she replied. “My daddy used to be a musician and, you know, I was always listening to some song over here and there…” “Used to be? Once musician, always musician,” I said ironically. She offered a small smile, but did not say a word. At that moment, I realized how incredible beautiful she was: green eyes, long blond hair and shapely legs that supported her petite frame. For a moment, I had the feeling I smelled trouble. We talk a little bit about trivial things. She was a teacher, whose students I thought probably knew me from my CDs or music magazines. Nah, this/she wouldn’t work/do. The reason was simple. Teachers don’t sleep with hip-hop producers because hip-hop producers fuck whores and gold diggers. This was going nowhere.

Finally the sun showed up, bringing sadness and fucking reality with it. I asked her if she wanted to grab some breakfast because I never eat breakfast – hip-hop producers are like vamps sleeping during the day and working at night – but she told me she had promised to visit a friend of hers that morning. I could tell she was a little uneasy thanks to the sun that brought clarity, sadness and maybe shame. A few minutes later, already dressed she yelled from the bathroom if I would like to come with her to a party next weekend. I didn’t have time to respond because, after I got out of bathroom she said if I wanted, I should call her. And then she picked up a pen from the table and wrote her phone number on the cover of Stevie Wonder’s record, kissed my lips and was gone. I was paralyzed. But I didn’t know whether it was this girl or the fact that she just wrote her number on my Stevie Wonder album and I didn’t say anything.