Homecoming

So it’s Friday, and the next event for the week is the pool party. I’m thinking about skipping it and taking a walk around the campus; basking in the ambiance. I am leaving my room the same time as my roommate Travis is arriving. He’s a freshman, too. I’m not one for brawling, but it may be in our future. We’ve already beefed a little bit, probably because we’re so alike, but different at the same time. My mother thought he looked liked me.

Nah, Momma; chill. He looks like Shaft on speed; I’m well put together.

But anyway, we both hail from the “rough streets” of the suburbs; both of us think we’re so fly with the ladies, and we both are always trying to protect our image. But he is funny, because he says suburb statements at ghetto times.

“Where you headed, yo?” he says as he puts the key in the door.

“I might run to the pool party,” I lie while checking for my key.

“Oh, trying to cop some babes?”

Stop everything.

Babes? Babes? Repeat the statement.

“Oh, trying to cop some babes?”

You start off the incomprehensible, ill-mannered, and just plain stupid statement with cop, a verb in this sense, meaning to get or snag an object in hoods all across the nation, and finish with babes, suburban jargon meaning girls. What the hell is he talking about? It’s funny but, deep down, it’s not.

            Shaken by his comment, my tongue tries to rectify the situation.

            “Umm, yea, trying to find a shorty; you know… a nice little mami.”

            Walking away, feeling ever so violated by his use of the urban language, I took a moment to gather myself, and then walked towards the exit. Hit the steps, past my tired, lazy, trifling, shiftless Resident Advisor and…the “thugs”, and out the door.

As I walk through the Burleson Hall parking lot to go to the party, a group of ladies walks past me the opposite direction. They glance, but don’t speak.

Damn. I need to speak. I need to speak. I NEED to speak. What am I gonna say? I think to myself.

Now mind you, this type of situation is still somewhat new to me. The entire process: picking the best female of the crew, making eye contact, and then, the most important: spitting “G”.

“G” is the actual macking of the female, as my boy Bobby explains it: “The beginning… of a beautiful thing!” he always says.

What am I gonna say? They’re getting further away…umm…

Suddenly, the powers of God work a miracle within me and words are uttered from my mouth.

            “Wow, am I headed in the wrong direction?”

            Did I just say that? I got to stop watching Chris Brown videos. These girls are going to play me.

Surprisingly, the sentence received two smiles and a giggle. Expecting less friendly responses, I went for more. My eye was on the gorgeous one on the far end, but they all looked good. You’re supposed to make everybody comfortable, so I talk to all of them.

            “How y’all doing? I’m Malcolm. Can I know your names?”

It’s three girls and they all answer like I put a microphone to their mouth. I’m surprised again. What the hell is “Can I know your names”? I don’t know your name but excuse me miss…

            “I’m Keisha,” says the one on my left. Description? She’s a little too tall for me, but radiant. Maple-skinned with a short brown hairdo, she’s got a pretty smile and everything on her is proportionate. Man and those thick, juicy lips? What? She looked ripe for a kiss. Overall, a cute package wrapped in a tight burgundy tee and jeans.

            “Jasmine,” responds the miss in the middle. From the looks of her, she’s very sexual, in an old school type of way. Have you ever seen a Marilyn Monroe movie? No? Dorothy Dandridge? Expand your horizons. Well, Jasmine’s like that. She reaches her hand out to shake mine, and holds it for a second, as if she’s analyzing me. Her look is mesmerizing, with her shoulder length black hair, above average bust, and her long, long legs, extending from her short shorts. She was wearing heels, accentuating every curve on her beautiful sand brown body. She looked like the girls in the rap videos that get extra camera time.

            Her shirt read: Big, round, and ready to be squeezed! Oranges!

“Nice shirt,” I said with a grin. She giggled like a school girl.

I braced myself for the last girl.

“And you?” I ask. A drum roll begins.

“Michelle,” she spoke with confidence.

That one word was all it took. Fireworks shot up, the band started playing, and the drill team started to boogie.

“Michelle. Wow,” was all I could mutter at first.

This chick is… beautiful. The best thing to compare her to is a plate of soul food from Grandma’s. Skin the color of dinner rolls just out the oven, her demeanor is sweeter than Aunt Dorothy’s cinnamon-sprinkled yams. She looks a little bold, like Cousin Tanya’s collard greens, but her thighs are looking like fried chicken: Delicious. De-licious.