Sam has been sitting alone with a drink when JEROME enters. There is an awkward pause as JEROME sits.
SCENE
A bar
TIME
The present
JEROME: I knew this Indian chick once. You know, red dot on the forehead and all that shit. Her name was Sipi. Worked at the Foot Locker on Flatbush. She was something. Mad cute in the umpire stripes. Little black Converse on. The girl was fine, man. Fine ass little Sipi. Sold me a pair of Airwalks, the New Jordans when they came out. A pair of Reebok pumps. Remember Reebok pumps? The fly shit. Right? Sold me all kinds of shit. Socks, tees, my Knicks hat. Damn. I would just go in there sometimes, not even wanting to buy shit. Just check her out. She had this shy smile, the way she looked at me, all shy and shit. I think she was sweating me too. You know. So one time I’m like, “Yo check this out, I‘ma roll up in there and ask for her number, and I’ma take her to Coney Island.” You know, go slow because you could tell she was one of those slow girls. Take a whole six months before she’ll let you even see her bra strap you know what I’m saying? Probably got to go to some funky ass holy temple and sacrifice a goat or some shit before she’ll let you fuck her. You know what I mean? But she looked like she was worth it. You know them Indian people be some freaks behind closed doors. Kama Sutra? ’Nuff said. So I rolled up in there, had my pumps on, had my Knicks hat on with matching Reebok suit. Yeah, you know the deal. And I rolled up in there and I said, “A yo Sipi come here girl!” And she was all embarrassed and shit. Talking about, “Can I help you sir?” And I was like, “Yeah, you can help me . . . what’s up with that red dot on your forehead girl somebody poke you or what?” You know, just trying to break the ice and shit. And she looked at me for a second . . . and started to cry. And I’m like, “Naw Sipi baby don’t cry. I was just teasing. Shit I like the red dot!” And that was the truth. I was cool with the red dot. But she just kept crying like I stole her suede Pumas. or something. So the manager, probably her father or some shit, comes out and says to me (Mimicking Indian manager.), “My friend. You must leave. You must leave right now my friend.” And I’m like, “Yo can’t I apologize? Can I say I’m sorry?” “No my friend you must leave. You must leave right now my friend. Or I call the cops.” Shit what’s this friend shit? You ain’t my friend motherfucker! You ain’t my friend! How you gonna call the cops on your friend? So anyway, they kicked me out. Banned me from Foot Locker. Imagine that? Ban a brother from Foot Locker? That shit ain’t right. . . . I heard through the Foot Locker grapevine that Sipi went to med school a couple of years ago. I knew that girl was smart. Heard she got married too. Some Indian doctor. Two doctors in the house? They must be making bank! Wish I could see her again. Let her know I was cool with the red dot. . . .