This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
*****
GRIME DIARY: THE AMERICAN INTERPRETATION
Why are the most interesting books always on the highest shelf? Does anyone even take the time to reach for them?
As a music student, I studied to become a DJ. I was probably the preppiest kid in any of my classes. My parents had raised me off of Ralph Lauren, classic music and country clubs. My parents loved how into music I was. I didn’t have to prove anything to them. Only to my peers who believe I couldn’t make it.
I came to the library and crawled over music students in the hip hop section trying to learn everything they could from the legends. I had always read the same books as everyone else, but unlike everyone else I was always searching for the next big thing.
When it came to landing my first steady gig it was simple. I played a classic DJ set of mixed up mainstream music and I was hired. I had set up all of my equipment, but now that I think about it, I could have come in with a Mac Book with a premixed playlist.
Over the next three years my love for mainstream hip hop was dying and my definition of hip hop was clearly cloudy. I became DJ Charlie Boy with sets everywhere in D.C. I unhappily played the same songs mixed differently. Never anything new unless it was on the top 40 list. If the kids love it, we play it was my boss’ motto, but it’s only the crap we were shoving down their throats. We had the chance to influence what they listened to on a local level and yet we continued to play what the big giants paid for. What did they know about music? They only knew money.
10 clubs on the same street were all playing the same thing and all the bosses knew was money. You could go into any club, it didn’t matter what night it was, you’d hear the same tracks. Maybe the DJ would chop them differently, but it would be the same tracks. All the music in the world, but each club on the same street is playing the same tunes.
No one ever left my set asking me what music I had mixed. I might have been one of the best mixers, but the music was crap. The beats were crazy, but the messages were the same. Was I the only one feeling that something was missing?
The last set I played, I started off my set like always, but then as the night progressed I started to sneak in some old school and then I stuck to it. I only played old music that few people knew, but most people still grooved to. When I closed up I didn’t even say anything to my boss.
He called me the next morning to tell me that there wouldn’t be any more of that tonight, but I told him that I was taking the day off for personal reasons. He couldn’t risk losing me forever, so he let me take time off. He couldn’t even see what I had tried to do. I had tried to go back to the roots. I had tried to show the crowd how far we had come from and how much we had lost touch.
Then I started to think they didn’t need to be reminded completely of the past. They needed to be reminded only of the principles of the past.
So, there I stood in the library looking up at the hip hop section. The only place I haven’t touched was the top two shelves. I walked until I found the rolling ladder. I rolled over and breathed deep as if I was about to unveil a surprise at the top.
The second row to the top had nothing I hadn’t seen before. As I scanned the top row it appeared to be the same normal books with large amounts of dust. My eyes stopped as I saw a book without a label. I pulled it off the shelf. It wasn’t a book. It was a composition notebook with drawings on the outside. I climbed down a few steps on the ladder and opened it.
When I opened it, I saw that it was a diary by the dates in the corner. I looked to read the date and suddenly I heard someone running down the aisle. The guy had his eyes set on me before I had a chance to move he rammed smack into me. He tackled me to the ground with a loud thud. I knew for sure that someone would come kick us out. He got up before me and grabbed the book. Then, I slowly got up waiting for someone to come, but no one did.
He stood their putting his black hoodie over his head again. His skin was dark and his eyes were darker. We shared the same short buzz cut. He wore bagging sweatpants and a dirty pair of Adidas on his feet. With his hoodie on I could only see the outline of his nose and mouth.
“What the hell was that for?” I asked.
“Don’t touch my things.” He said stepping closer to me.
“How is anyone supposed to know that’s yours? It’s on the shelf with all the other books.”
“Does it look like any of the other books?”
“No and I’m surprised no one has messed with it yet. You might want to put your more important things somewhere less public.”
“Don’t tell me what to do with my things. What are you even doing in this section?”
“I’m a DJ.”
“White boy like yous a DJ?” He asked. “You tryna pull one on me?”
“No, I’m DJ Charlie Boy. I’m one of the best DJs in the city. I’m surprised someone so judgy about music doesn’t know about me.”
“I don’t hang around these parts much, but if you’re such a star why you lookin’ in the library?”
“I was looking for a new twist to hip hop.”
“Hmmm,” He said thinking it over. He reached into his pocket pulled out a lighter and grabbed a cigarette from behind his ear. Without hesitation he lit it. There was no doubt now that we’d be kicked out. “I know something you might like, but it’s nothing like kids pop. I don’t want you getting your feelings hurt when the music starts to bite you in the face.”
“Nah, I’m down. Let’s do it.” I was intimidated by him, but I didn’t want him to see. “What’s your name?”
“Thomas, but everyone calls me T.” he said as he walked towards the back of the library. A puff of smoke lingered as he left, but no one cared.
We walked down behind the library. I quickly followed after him as he slipped down crossing alleys. When we finally came out we were heading towards an underpass I had never seen before. The air had gotten cooler, the sky darker. A street lamp flickered like a nervous tick. I could hear voices in the distant laughing and I no longer wanted to be here. The bushes along the cracked sidewalk could have been housing any number of creatures.
I speed up to walk closer to T. “What part of town are we in?”
“My part.” He answered simply.
As we walked towards the underpass I saw two police men coming from the right. T kept walking forward as if he hadn’t seen them. He didn’t slow down as we passed them either.
“Ay,” One of them yelled. “Turn out your pockets.”
T turned and pulled out empty pockets. The one cop kicked his foot and turned him around again. The other cop stood in front of him arms crossed as if to keep him from running. The cop that stood behind him patted him down. After he was finished he pushed T forward into the other cop who grabbed him by his hoodie. It was clear these cops were a bunch of dicks.
“Don’t try to be sneaky,” He said looking down. “Shoes off.”
He pulled off his shoes and his wallet was tucked in his sock. The two police officers checked his shoes and threw them back on the ground. They searched the wallet with exaggerated effort looking for anything to incriminate him.
They gave back the wallet and walked away. T put his wallet back in his sock and his shoes back on his feet. He pulled his hood back over his fac
e and continued to walk on.
“What the hell man! Aren’t you gonna tell someone about that? They can’t just come on you like that!” I hissed. I knew I wouldn’t let some cops harass me like that.
“Nah, they’re allowed to do it. Besides I go up there and what’s that gonna do?”
“I’m sure they’ve had complaints. They’ll start a campaign against it.”
He stopped walking. “I go into the police station the same place that those pigs work and tell them that some of their pigs are searching me for no reason…They would laugh in my face. The best thing is to suck it up. That’s life.”
I looked back at him and frowned. He started to walk again. “Why didn’t they search me?”
“Have you seen the way you dress and I dress?”
I looked over what I was wearing. I had on a pair of skinny jeans and black cardigan over a white shirt.
“I’m surprised they didn’t think I was kidnapping you. You look too fresh to be in these parts. Too happy.”
“Are people not happy where you live?”
He thought it over for a second. “They try to be.”
There were a group of kids spray painting in the underpass and they stopped when we first entered, but started again when they figured out we weren’t cops. This part of town seemed to have a gray cloud hanging over it. Not many lights on buildings, street lamps were knocked out and figures dressed in black