One Week Gig. Rufus Jr. Curry Jr.

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СКАЧАТЬ a Michael Jackson album on a turntable in the early 80s.

      Terri was nothing like that. She was an education major, with a broadcast communications minor. I used to listen to her voice on the campus radio in my apartment just before going to practice every day. You talking ‘bout a sweet voice! Man, I was so in love with her that when she talked it seemed as if honey was flowing from the speakers of my stereo. I used to have to wait a few minutes, to get myself together (if you know what I mean) before running over to the practice field. I’m not going to lie to you, her voice alone would arouse me to the point of light-headedness.

      My boys and I were hanging out with her one and only best girlfriend Kenya Dixon. Kenya was her Siamese twin. When you saw one of them, it meant that the other one was no more than five feet away. They were so tight, I thought that I would have to hit Kenya when I finally got the chance to seal the deal with Terri. You know, just to keep the peace. Kenya was and still is as fine as frog hair, split four ways, on a wet and windy day. She’s as good a girlfriend as a woman should want, and any smart man would want his lady to hang around with. Like any woman, drama was potentially in her DNA─The question was how much, and was the amount small enough for you to be able to stomach it? Now, that’s saying a lot, because you know how women can be. She didn’t keep up a lot of gossip, and I don’t think she ever overreacted when she used to see me talking to other ladies on the yard. Ken is cool people. I’ve told Terri she’d better be glad I shot at her before I got to really know Kenya or she’d be looking for love as we speak (I just threw that last statement in there because you know, no brother in his right mind would say no craziness like that to a real live black woman and get away with it.) Sad but true. That’s that madness you hear those crazy men say to those desperate women on the TV show, Divorce Court. Now you know us sane black men draw the line at madness like that (I hope.). The love I had for Terri intensified at such a rapid pace, I almost couldn’t keep up with it. I mean, I still used to look around and admire other ladies, but I knew that Terri was the one for me. She was a good influence on me.

      Terri and my homeboy Billy “Thumper” Jones, were my dynamic duo. They joined forces and saved the day for me. Together, they applied the positive pressure I needed to help me focus and graduate from good old FAMU on time.

      My sights were set on becoming a recording artist and Terri was going to be a teacher. We were going to have two babies to round out our family. I wanted a boy and a girl. After a year of bouncing around from gig to gig, my mother and Terri started pressuring me to get a real job. Well, all I know is music, and I happened to be very good with children. So, I accepted the job as director of bands at Freedman High School, home of the Marching Bull Dogs. I made a promise to myself that I was only going to be at this gig for two years at the most. Performing was where I belonged, and nothing was going to stop me from making my dreams come true.

      Terri and I got married, and the journey began. Everything was cool between us; we spent time together as much as we could. We took trips and came back to homecoming so we could see old friends, and we both thought it was important not to forget the place where what we have all began. Well, my two-year plan turned into four years…and four years into six years, and here we are at the tenth homecoming football game since our college graduation. To tell you the truth, it kind of embarrasses me to go back and look into the faces of my friends. I guess I talked so much trash to everybody about who I was going to be and what I was going to be doing. Look at me, still teaching ten years later. I lied. …Or did I? My hair is thinning and I’ve put on a few pounds, but I still got it. I can still blow my horns better than anybody with lips. But, something has changed. Time has run away from me, or have I run away from my task by wasting time?

      Conflict Avoidance ─ Meet the Band

      Ding-a-ling-a-ling, rang the bell at the end of another school day. The bell trailed off like the horn of a ship sailing away into the distance. It's time for me to make a move. I’m just going to throw my papers into my briefcase and let’s see; I guess I have everything I need. My mind turns homeward. Go straight home is what I am going to do. Maybe if I get there early and set the mood there might be a chance for a romantic night. Believe me, nobody digs a romantic night more than Chapman Sweet, Jr. I’ll swing by the store and pick up a little somethin’ and see if I can jump-start this car I call “Love.” Well, that’s what I call it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the car marked Terri and Chapman Sweet had completely run out of gas. I mean, I can only speak for myself, but my fire still burns bright for my little “Love Monkey”. The mere sight of her still gets me all charged up inside. She’s still as fine as she was the day I met her. I still smile when I think about her. But to tell you the truth, I know deep down inside, that something has gone terribly wrong.

      On my way I think, “I guess I’ll swing by The Spot and see if anything is in my box.” The Spot is where the Chapman Sweet Band hones product. It’s our rehearsal hall, mental health clinic, hideout, and the incubator for my dream. Shhweww…It sure is hot out here. I’ve been living in South Florida all my life and I haven’t gotten used to the heat. Thank God I have a working air-conditioner in this car of mine. Terri says my car is the most hideous thing she has ever seen on the road. It amazes me how my car bothers her more than it bothers me. She never even rides in it. I believe that if she were dying and my car were the only transportation available to take her to the hospital, she would choose death.

      To The Spot I go. I let myself get so tied up in rambling on I forgot to tell you about the band. The band is my second love. Actually, it’s my first love right now, until things between Terri and me get better. Yes! I love my wife. But, you see, music is the sweetest lady I know. I’ve been kickin’ it with her for a long time now, and she has yet to leave me hangin’. The band is the perfect excuse for me to slip out of the house and lie with her anytime I wanted to.

      The band is a collection of the best musicians in the area. Of course, there is my boy Thumper, who happens to be the best bass player this side of the sun. This brother and I are as tight as pantyhose two sizes, too small. We’ve been friends since elementary school. He’s married to a sweet young thing who he met when we were in Army ROTC. I’ll never forget when he met her. We were in Fort Benning coming to the end of our second week in jump school (Basic Parachuting). It was a Friday night down at the NCO club (yeah, we snuck in). We used to have to sneak into the NCO club because we were future commissioned officers in the United States Army and this was a non-commissioned officer’s club (enlisted men) and we didn’t want to get burned for fraternizing. In reality, we were cadets and not real soldiers. We used to go over to the officers’ club, but it never appealed to us young brothers and sisters because the music was always wack and there were never any single black women for a young brother to dance with. It seemed like all the men wanted to do was drink beer until they were pissy drunk, then they would crush beer cans against their foreheads for amusement. I still don’t understand that. They were always playing some of that off-the-wall rock stuff, along with the greatest hillbilly hits. The folks in the officers club seemed to always dance to the words while the black folks were dancing to the beat. Because of this, I strongly advised the young brothers and sisters to stay far away from the dance floor so as not to permanently injure their deep-rooted sense of African rhythm. So we took our chances at the NCO club, where the music was so funky they gave out nose plugs at the door. I remember the moment we first walked in. The air was heavily laced with P-Funk. George Clinton’s Atomic Dog was so thick in the air you could cut it like the bread pudding Big Mama used to cook back home in Dania, Florida.

      There she was, Precious Milkin, a fellow cadet from Tuskegee. Like Thumper she was trying to earn her wings from jump school. Their eyes met and they danced the night away. I think they fell in love based on the fact that they both had to make their first jump from an airplane that Monday morning. So, in the event that they didn’t make it, at least they had experienced some “hot monkey love” before they died. You know, I’ve often wondered why Precious’ parents named her what they named her. I wonder if they knew that she would turn out to be so beautiful, or so fine. Her Daddy must have been a psychic or something like that. Whatever he was, he hit СКАЧАТЬ