The skies of Eastside Tacoma are a pale shade of blue with a little grey mixed in—as if smudged on a canvas. The sun is high in the sky, but it only feels about 3000 feet away. I’m seated on a deck chair six feet apart from a very close friend of mine whose name I respectfully decline to divulge.
His girlfriend took his daughter to her grandmother’s house, so we’re hanging on the patio of his place. We haven’t seen each other in almost two months. He is just now hearing that I’m making a go of it as a full-time writer. I have sunglasses on because of the smile on his face.
My phone links to his AUX cord, his AUX cord links to his stereo. We’re blasting music from a Spotify playlist I made for my now dearly departed Chevrolet El Camino.
Stove God Cooks on Westside Gunn’s “Jose Conseco” joking about other rappers getting jerked out of their record deals. SonnyJim on “Arrivederci” driving to a Western Union outlet in his Mercedes-Benz. Kendrick Lamar on “FEAR.” adopting his mother’s voice, threatening to beat his ass. Quelle Chris on “Wild Minks,” traveling back in Biblical history to expound on John the Baptist’s tastes in furs.
The music is so loud I’m a little surprised the alarm on his Chevy Impala hasn’t started barking to the neighborhood.
Seeing as though I have a decade-plus association with a very reputable hip-hop blog, he always investigates what I’m listening to. Our tastes diverge a little. We also share music selection duties. There is a firm rule which gives the designated DJ full power over what we listen to that day.
We’re both lovers of words. This means we naturally gravitate toward evocative lyricism. Growing up here in Tacoma, he’s more well-versed in what comes out of the smaller pockets of the West Coast.
He’s gushing about how proud he is of me, at long last, reaching the next step in my artistic journey. We’ve logged extensive hours and gas mileage chatting about my writing career. The V8 engine of his car roaring over the streets of Tacoma. Driving around the city aimlessly, grabbing munchies from Go Philly or the fish house on MLK.
If he needs to run an errand and I’m free, sometimes we’ll march up the long stretch of I-5 and hit Seattle. On occasion, I’ll bring a disposable camera and snap photos for a long-running project. Through the changing moon phases of my obsession, my inspiration, and my self-doubt, he has remained steadfast in his belief in my talent. He is always saying writing will take me to places I never even imagined I’d go.
"Through the changing moon phases of my obsession, my inspiration, and my self-doubt, he has remained steadfast in his belief in my talent."
There’s a big part of him that sees his success in mine, steadfastly debating the notion of being a starving artist deep into a man’s thirties. Those car rides support his gut feeling that big things are in store for me by virtue of talent and hard work. It doesn’t happen for everyone. He knows this implicitly. But he believes in his heart it will happen for me.
My friend appreciates the way I surf the folds in my brain. He eagerly asks questions about my headspace and approach to different pieces of writing. It delighted him when I started writing about our friendship in 2016. This is despite the fact that he’s a very private person by nature and because of his career. Part of the appeal is I reveal what I feel is enough, but never too much. That’s also part of the art.
My friend and I met in the mostly quiet space of a supermarket at 2 a.m. Refrigerators hummed beneath the store’s schlocky choice in Top 40 hits skipping generations. I was stocking shelves on a heavy freight night one summer evening. It was sometime in 2010. I was listening to music on an iPod Touch to escape the musical tastes of someone at the Kroger Corporate Office in Cincinnati and the small talk of my coworkers emptying shipping cases on other aisles.
A man—about my age, maybe a year or two younger—sprinted in the door and toward the beer aisle, struggling to make the 2 a.m. cutoff for alcohol sales. Working the graveyard shift at this particular supermarket made this a pretty common scene. He made it to the checkstand with an 18-pack of Budweiser.
But he was too late. I told him so as one earbud dangled down the front of my blue Oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up and dirty from spending much of my night reaching into dusty shelves. This disappointed him. Still, not to the point where he tried to offer me an extra $20 or call me unnecessary names like many men before him. He put his wallet back in its back pocket home and noticed my earbud swinging in front of my black apron.
He asked, “What are you listening to, bro?”
“Sean Price, Jesus Price Superstar,” I replied.
“One of them East Coast cats, huh?”
“More like North Carolina, but I’ve been living here longer than there. My pops is from the Bronx, my grandmother still lives there. My taste in rap is not necessarily a coastal allegiance, though. If I used those standards, I’d probably have to be a J. Cole fan.”
"It was so long ago I don’t even remember when we started hanging out."
He laughed as he reached for a distant second purchase choice, a pack of Orbit gum. I mentioned my father was also a Budweiser guy (which I could drink many of if it was the only thing around), but that I was more of a Newcastle guy. He was at a party in the neighborhood. I mentioned I lived down the street. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be working here. He chuckled again, took his gum and receipt, and told me to stay cool.
It was so long ago I don’t even remember when we started hanging out.
Eventually, we settle into chatting about life in 2020. The organ sample of Navy Blue’s “In Good Hands” whistles through the backyard. A heavy dose of skepticism colors our conversation about the sweeping social activism of the moment. (“White people are just bored from having been at home for two months,” he jokes when we start chatting about the protests all over the nation.) I mention that White people adopting Black Lives Matter into their everyday existence seemed genuine for a hot second.
Our conversations always flow into the territory of politics and human rights at some point. The day after the 2016 presidential election, we talked about Reaganomics over beats. On his patio deck, he mentioned a news story he read about Reagan not even wanting any association with Trump. We shared a hearty laugh. I laughed so hard that day I thought my lung was going to fall out, and started rapping along to Tree’s “Made It.”
We’re not just united through our lifelong love of rap music. A strong thread of commonalities is woven between us. We share near-obsessive specialized interests (Chevrolet manufacturing, organized crime, men’s fashion), a love of TV and cinema (we both have a gift for dissecting characters), and a similar view of how the world works from a social perspective.
Deep down, we’re both moral relativists with healthy existentialist streaks. Our days congeal into nights laughing about the cosmic joke that is human life.
"We were part of a generation raised by rap music and our grandmothers. Staying up past our bedtime to watch Yo! MTV Raps on Sunday nights."
We’re part of a generation raised by rap music and our grandmothers. Staying up past our bedtime to watch Yo! MTV Raps on Sunday nights. Coming home from school to watch BET’s Rap City before we started our homework. Doing math problems and writing book reports while listening to the radio or tapes we dubbed from the radio or the occasional full-length we bought with Christmas money.
We both spent time with birth parents in impoverished neighborhoods, so the dudes who sold drugs were our first signs of glamour. They were like rock stars to us, standing over the roaches and beetles in our unremarkable kitchens. In fact, they were our Beatles.
Understanding deeply what it means to be a Black man in America—the urgency, the vigilance, the toughness required to live in a country that wants to brush their teeth with your blood—the two of us appreciate having spaces that have nothing to do with white people.
For me, a music writer by trade and a punk rocker by religion, being around him is one of the only such spaces I have. We’re both black men of a certain age. As a result, we’re intimately aware that either of us could one day have to call the other and tell him we got arrested.
He sometimes jokes about me being “more palatable to white people.” Still, he bears no false pretense about me being less likely to be ground underneath the boot of white supremacy. To be Black in America is to know your card could get pulled at any minute for any reason.
Our rambling conversation starts to reach a little depth—as it characteristically does—and a cell phone started ringing. It isn’t mine, and it’s not the one sitting on his patio table. So he strides into his place to grab the phone. About 30 seconds later, he tells me with a frown that he has to cut our hangout short: duty calls.
"My engine turns over, and I turn away from the curb of familiar refuge and toward the dangerous outer world, hoping to make it home once again."
The front door opens. As we step out, he mentions he’s still not used to seeing me drive a Nissan, even though it’s been two years since my El Camino broke down. We warmly say our goodbyes to each other. As I hop into my car, I hear the familiar thump of 808s threatening to crack the pavement as he drives off.
My engine turns over. I turn away from the curb of familiar refuge and toward the dangerous outer world, hoping to make it home once again.
