The Writer In Me

My 2 Weeks of Fame

The ‘Pimp Kelly’ story - Not a day went by without all kinds of shit happening. That’s the way it was on all sides of 23rd and Hopkins - all around my hood. It may not have been Cabrini Green, but I wasn’t Chi Town either. I was MilTown, the heart of Kilwaukee, Wisconsin and even as a youth, I knew exactly what that meant. Like right out of a, “Cleopatra Jones,” flick, the height of the excitement was the coolest, biggest afros, the fliest bell bottom pants, and watching the multitude of pimp cars cruise up and down the avenue. Digging the scene in a gangster lean was real back then, not just a cool line to say on a rap track. So there I was, a gangly preteen and the tallest amongst the group of boys and girls I called friends, headed to the store across Hopkins and a little ways up the block when… “It’s Kelly! That’s Pimp Kelly!” rang out from our group. All heads turned as if on swivels, stopping to gawk at that smooth, longy long long, prettiest shade of gray ever, Cadillac, El Dorado - El Dog in the hood - slithering up the street at a speed so slow that even by today’s standards would be illegal. It’s shiney, exterior was offset by chrome around the wheels and trues and vogues, the pimpish style, gangster tires. Mesmerized! Kelly pulled over, parked, and went into the store leaving my stunned ass to feel more like, “Maxwell Whitman,” from the Cleopatra Jones flick than CaSandra Mathis. But, I got a bit better treatment than just watching a cool ass car and enjoying a brief convo in passing. Oh, did I fail to mention that Kelly was fine? A medium height, chocolate brotha with a just right afro, neatly trimmed beard connected to his sideburns and profile to die for? He stepped out of that store excuding hella cool, spotted me out of all my friends and asked if I, (that would be me), wanted to see the inside of his car? I’d said yes before my lips could spread cross my wide grin. He opened his passenger side door, waited until I slid inside, then pimp strolled to the other side and got under the wheel. Of course, the driver’s door had to remain open so the fly ass hell, pimp shoe on his left foot could display casually out the door. All of my friends gathered around, their heads and shoulders competing for position as we ogled the plush, leather interior of the sweetest shade of red. It looked like candy, taffy even, just waiting for us to chomp into and scarf down. Kelly showed us his phone, a full sized receiving end with a cord and everything. We’d never seen a phone in anyone’s car. Don’t know if he thought we questioned it’s operation, but he handed me the receiver so I could listen to the dial tone. He talked only to me and when we exited, he told me to be good and gave me this beautiful, even, white toothed smile which I matched until long after he’d slow mo’d his way up the street. For the next two weeks, that’s all my friends talked about. They told everyone they came in contact with about our adventure. We’d met a real pimp, one of the coolest. Pimp Kelly, to be exact. And no matter what else the hood held, what horrors came our way or opportunities passed us by, that was ours and nobody could take it away.

MY 2 WEEKS OF FAME

© The Writer In Me 2016. All Rights Reserved.
© Lorem ipsum dolor sit Nulla in mollit pariatur in, est ut dolor eu eiusmod lorem
Your Stylist

MY 2 WEEKS OF

FAME

My 2 Weeks of Fame

The ‘Pimp Kelly’ story - Not a day went by without all kinds of shit happening. That’s the way it was on all sides of 23rd and Hopkins - all around my hood. It may not have been Cabrini Green, but I wasn’t Chi Town either. I was MilTown, the heart of Kilwaukee, Wisconsin and even as a youth, I knew exactly what that meant. Like right out of a, “Cleopatra Jones,” flick, the height of the excitement was the coolest, biggest afros, the fliest bell bottom pants, and watching the multitude of pimp cars cruise up and down the avenue. Digging the scene in a gangster lean was real back then, not just a cool line to say on a rap track. So there I was, a gangly preteen and the tallest amongst the group of boys and girls I called friends, headed to the store across Hopkins and a little ways up the block when… “It’s Kelly! That’s Pimp Kelly!” rang out from our group. All heads turned as if on swivels, stopping to gawk at that smooth, longy long long, prettiest shade of gray ever, Cadillac, El Dorado - El Dog in the hood - slithering up the street at a speed so slow that even by today’s standards would be illegal. It’s shiney, exterior was offset by chrome around the wheels and trues and vogues, the pimpish style, gangster tires. Mesmerized! Kelly pulled over, parked, and went into the store leaving my stunned ass to feel more like, “Maxwell Whitman,” from the Cleopatra Jones flick than CaSandra Mathis. But, I got a bit better treatment than just watching a cool ass car and enjoying a brief convo in passing. Oh, did I fail to mention that Kelly was fine? A medium height, chocolate brotha with a just right afro, neatly trimmed beard connected to his sideburns and profile to die for? He stepped out of that store excuding hella cool, spotted me out of all my friends and asked if I, (that would be me), wanted to see the inside of his car? I’d said yes before my lips could spread cross my wide grin. He opened his passenger side door, waited until I slid inside, then pimp strolled to the other side and got under the wheel. Of course, the driver’s door had to remain open so the fly ass hell, pimp shoe on his left foot could display casually out the door. All of my friends gathered around, their heads and shoulders competing for position as we ogled the plush, leather interior of the sweetest shade of red. It looked like candy, taffy even, just waiting for us to chomp into and scarf down. Kelly showed us his phone, a full sized receiving end with a cord and everything. We’d never seen a phone in anyone’s car. Don’t know if he thought we questioned it’s operation, but he handed me the receiver so I could listen to the dial tone. He talked only to me and when we exited, he told me to be good and gave me this beautiful, even, white toothed smile which I matched until long after he’d slow mo’d his way up the street. For the next two weeks, that’s all my friends talked about. They told everyone they came in contact with about our adventure. We’d met a real pimp, one of the coolest. Pimp Kelly, to be exact. And no matter what else the hood held, what horrors came our way or opportunities passed us by, that was ours and nobody could take it away.