The finer points of rap

Yesterday, I rolled up to work with Flo Ridas, Elevator, blaring on my radio. Sometimes, I like to get on with my bad self and it should be noted that I know all of the words. If Flo Rida finds himself without the means to rap one night, I’m happy to step in.

Anyhoo, I stopped the car and opened the door, music still playing, as I gathered my things and prepared to pull the key out of the ignition. I noticed someone standing nearby and looked to see a young boy, aged 14 or 15, leaning up against the fence in such a manner that made obvious his efforts to look cool, full of the requisite ennui and irritation that being a teenager requires. He looked at me with some scorn, observing my lunch bag, Kylie swirling around my feet, an aura of middle-age coming off of my 32 year old person.

“Aren’t you a little, like, OLD to be listening to that music? A little white?” he asked, his tone coated with contempt and superiority. “I mean, what are you? Like 25?” This was something of a compliment, given the actual number of my years, though I don’t think saying “HA! I’m THIRTY-TWO, you bonehead!” would have impressed him.

“Dude, I’m no whiter than you are. And why aren’t you at school?” I asked, cementing my image as an annoying adult. He slouched further down the fence and I turned to walk into work, herding Kylie towards the door.

“I’ll bet you don’t even know what that song is ABOUT,” he called after me. I don’t know why I did this, why at 9am on a Tuesday morning after approximately 3 hours of sleep I felt compelled to prove some young punk wrong, but I turned to him and said, “Oh REALLY: ‘She gotta nail kit, she gotta hair kit, She gotta a Gucci bag, her brand new outfit, Stuck on my elevator, she on the second floor, Now I want you to break it down, DJ turn it up some more, Hey, dime piece girl turned to Internet hottie, Little mama got that top model body.’ Now, do you think we really need to sit here and discuss what this song is about?” I said. He shoved his hands into the pants that were already threatening to make a break for it and fall off of his body entirely and stood quietly for a moment while Kylie sniffed nearby and finally relieved herself on a pile of leaves.

“Well?” I said, now impatient as I had exposed my rapping genius and was expecting praise. He shrugged, looking up at the sky. “I have to get to school,” he said. I rolled my eyes, gathered up the dog and went into work.

I watched him through the front window while I waited for my client. He was joined by a friend. They talked, the first boy gesticulating and finally pointing at me. They looked at me through the glass for a moment, as though I was some strange specimen of adulthood, and then walked off, hopefully to school. I can only imagine what that exchange included, but I hope part of it was adulation and praise for my ability to THROW DOWN. Because that shit takes PRACTICE, yo.