Ghetto Girls Too

The weekend came and went too quickly for some. It couldn’t have been worse for Deedee. It dragged badly and left her slightly irritated. She was now displaced from her own home and was living out of a suitcase in Sophia’s two-bedroom apartment.

Although the place was nice, Deedee missed her own digs and couldn’t help feeling that way. She had spent most of Saturday wishing her uncle would buy a new and better place and she wanted it to happen immediately. While Deedee was watching television, Sophia was mostly busy at her desktop trying to catch up with work.

Most of the time, Deedee would camp out in front of the boob tube. She ventured on the internet and resisted the urge to contact Coco again. Deedee had already called Miss Katie’s several times and left messages for Coco but received no return calls. Sunday found her brooding for most of the day until she escaped to brunch with her uncle and Sophia.

“It’s a nice day,” she remarked as they sat and dabbled at brunch at the Four Seasons. Although Deedee was in a good mood, she could feel the slight chill between Eric and Sophia. There was an uncomfortable silence between ordering and waiting for their meal.

Eric grunted and sipped a beer while Sophia stared at the table as she stirred her club soda with a straw. They both ignored Deedee who forged ahead with the conversation hoping that either would join in.

“This is a huge crowd. I guess a lot of people aren’t planning on cooking today, huh?” Deedee stated casually hoping to evoke a response. No answer.

Sophia finally excused herself from the table as Eric answered another call on his cell phone. He quieted Deedee when she tried to interrupt.

Silence ruled the table. By the time the food arrived, things were so chilly that even the food tasted cold. Small talk was few and far between bites. When the ordeal finally came to an end, Deedee positioned herself next to Sophia.

“Are you angry at Uncle E?” Deedee asked Sophia when they waited outside for the car to be brought around front by valet. Eric was stood apart from them chatting on the cell phone.

“I would say it certainly seems that way...” Deedee began but the ring of Sophia’s cell phone halted her. She waited as Sophia spoke.

“Hi, Michael. Yes, tomorrow’s possible. See you then,” Sophia said then put the cell away. She turned to Deedee. “Well, you are perceptive. Not that either of us was trying to hide it but yeah, we had a little lover’s spat. You know us grown folks, we can’t even decide on the color much less the house. But don’t you worry, we’re gonna work it out.”

“I understand and I’m glad you told me because I was going deaf listening to both of you saying nothing to each other,” Deedee started to joke but caught herself when she realized that the smile on Sophia’s face was not real.

“Yeah sure, Deedee. How’s it going with Coco, anyway?” Sophia asked changing the subject.

“I’m not sure. I called but she hasn’t call back. I don’t know what happened,” Deedee began to explain but was cut off by Sophia.

“I don’t know really. I know we’re, at least I’m still cool. Coco is Coco. I can’t speak for her but I’m alright,” Deedee said just as the Range Rover pulled to a stop in front of them.

“You should try calling her again. Maybe she just needs some time to clear her head or something like that,” Sophia said.

“You’re probably right,” Deedee said as she climbed into the back of the vehicle and slammed the door shut. Silence resumed as the Range took off. “Anyone up for a movie?” Deedee asked. There were no immediate answers forthcoming. “I guess not,” Deedee continued but with no further response, she put on her Gucci shades and stared out the window.

Silence reigned the entire ride back to Sophia’s. When Eric pulled up to Sophia’s apartment and addressed Deedee only, it was a very awkward moment.

“See ya later, sweetheart,” Eric said he turned to address Sophia but she was already out of the vehicle.

The tires screeched loudly, leaving tire treads along the roadway as Eric did a burnout leaving the scene. Heated, Eric gripped the steering with his fist. He dialed Busta’s digits quickly on his cell for the fifth time. No answer. Where the fuck is Busta? Eric thought as dubs hit the asphalt leaving tire marks. The vehemence Eric felt was transferred from his emotional state to the foot on the accelerator. The vehicle hit the street so hard his pipe work rattled.

Eric pumped up the volume on the sound system and his ride floated with a thumping third-lane style traveling southbound on the West Side highway. Eric buried his troubles in the music. He always did but now he had to get to a recording studio. The one in his apartment was no longer at his disposal.

This fact that Busta could not be reached added to his emotional state. He was in turmoil. Where was Busta? Probably with some female, Eric thought as the vehicle sped down the highway.

Around him police sirens wailed. Officers yelled loudly on their horn for Eric to stop. Music thumped and reverberated from the tricked out ride. Other drivers tried to get Eric’s attention to no avail. The music had drowned out all other sounds. All that mattered was the music until he glanced to the side and his attention was caught by a driver in the next lane.

“Yo, dog. I don’t think them officers back there care for your serious tricked out ride,” he shouted. With that, Eric glanced at his rear view and saw the police signal. He slowed and turned the music down. After about five minutes, the officer approached his car and spoke.

“You realize you were doing over seventy five miles an hour? You’re in a rush or something? Driver’s license, registration and insurance, please,” he said and walked back to his car after Ascot gave him the requested items.

“Here are your documents. I’m also giving you a ticket for going 20 miles above the speed limit.”

Eric took the forms and without saying anything, drove off blasting the music on the way to the studio again. His sorrow and pain could only be drowned in the music. The studio was the only place where he was the absolute reigning king. It was his jungle, the field of urban music. He created it and made it happen. It was where he could find solace and peace of mind at any time.

Eric pulled to a stop in the parking lot and pulled the nine-millimeter from under his seat and slipped it in to his waistband. It made walking a little bit difficult but it was worth his life so he would adjust to it. Ascot allowed his thoughts to roam as he walked into the downtown recording studio.

Things had gotten out of hand. He knew that Sophia was right. Lil’ Long had came to his place to kill him, not to rob him or anyone else in the home that evening. He didn’t tell her that it was because he had ordered the dude killed and somehow the hit had all gone wrong. Kamilla was shot and killed at his place. Lil’ Long was probably in the morgue or hospital. It didn’t matter.

What mattered most was that Busta was not answering his calls. Maybe he was on his back getting serviced by his usual two women, Eric thought. Busta was a sex fiend and wouldn’t answer calls for days. Did Busta ever mention going out of town? Eric wondered, not sure of what to make of Busta’s sudden disappearance.

Busta had helped him out and no matter what, they were in it together. Where the hell is Busta? Eric wondered as he entered the sanctuary for his soul. Here, he would let the rhythm take over his soul. No one else could save him. This was the only way out for Eric Ascot.

A recording studio can be a messy place of wires and machines completely out of sync with each other yet working together in harmony to make something worthy of dying for. Studios are like a dreary bunker filled with the latest electronic gadgets to improve sound, a Moog there, an MP3 there. In short, the place was an enclave of amps and speakers.

Besides that, there are the dregs of recording sessions littering the place. Filled ashtrays with roaches that refused to crawl. Loose wires like groupies lay everywhere for everyone to see. There were smudged glass partitions separating artist and engineers. The booth was private but really only a collection of microphones and headphones.

It was one in the morn and Ascot had stripped down to white wife-beater and jeans. His shoes and socks were off as he sat doodling at a Casio keyboard playing along to a mix of Big Pun’s; I’m Not A Player. He seemed to play with a fervor from deep within. It suggested a hunger only he could feel but Ascot still wanted more than this.

It was a cool Sunday evening out. Light wind swept dusk into the night. Eric quickly pulled his shirt on and exited the studio. He walked to the Range and jumped in. Little did he know, there were eyes following his every move. He did not hear the chirps from their radio.