You Should’ve Said No – 2012

You shouldn’t smoke this other blunt, and you know it too. But your drunken ass just can’t say no to Sonia, licking the Dutchie with her raspberry mouth, because you don’t see a blunt at all, but imagine something else between her lips, and instead of saying no, you hand her a lighter.

Sonia is a professional at rolling pencil-straight blunts. You imaging she must be professional at other things too, because that’s how your perverse mind thinks. It doesn’t matter that she can’t cook rice and beans like Abuelita does, or that she leaves dirty panties in the tub, or thinks Uruguay is an exotic Malaysian dish.

“Who cares. She can roll the shit out of a blunt,” you convince yourself. That’s all you need to know, as you scheme ways to wifey her. You know you have to catch a flight to Punta Cana in a few hours, but you pass her your Zippo anyway.

You begin to recall the last time you smoked a joint before flying to Miami three years ago, and know you shouldn’t be smoking right now, but Sonia passes you the blunt and you don’t reject it. While she’s blabbing on about the horrendous outfit some chick is wearing across the room, your mind relives that horrible experience three years ago when Amara drove you to JFK and pulled out a joint of some fluffy Purple Kush she got from Julio; and you knew Julio always got that good shit from the Heights, so you just couldn’t say no.

You sucked on the last pull, nearly burning your thumb and flicked the roach out the window as Amara pulled into the terminal. You noticed two white men across the street looking at you and that’s when the paranoia hit hard in your chest. You swore they were undercover DEA agents coming to bust your ass. You couldn’t even fill out the address tag on your luggage; your hands shaking like a rattlesnake’s ass tip. You convinced yourself those two DEA agents and several others followed you onto the plane. You knew they were going to snatch you up when you landed in Miami.

You weren’t shocked to see the two white agents waiting at the end of the walkway as you left the plane. There they waited, next to two uniformed Miami police. Your knees went weak, but you tried to play it cool and walked toward them with your jelly legs. You were relieved when a black guy who was walking in front of you, got pulled to the side for questioning. You continued on toward baggage claim and looked back to see the handcuffs wrapped around the brother’s wrists, and you vowed right then, never to smoke again before boarding a plane.

But Sonia’s lips look so delicious licking the blunt and you just can’t say no. Ivan pulls out a bottle of Mamajuana he snuck into the club. You know you shouldn’t, but you’ll be in Punta Cana in a few hours and decide to take a swig for the old country. Sonia does too. Ivan’s Mamajuana isn’t properly cured and burns at your insides, but all you could think about is how sexy Sonia looks with a little Mamajuana slipping out the side of her mouth, slowly oozing down her cheek and how you just want to lick her face right then and there.

“Puff, puff give muthafucka,” Ivan says in his Ice Cube slang, snapping you back to reality. You think about your impending flight and you really want to just get up and get the hell out of there before its too late, knowing you need to drive yourself to Newark by 5am.

But you don’t get up and get the hell out of there, not because you don’t want to, but because you just can’t. Marcelo just showed up and wastes no time pulling out the yayo he always gets from Jackson Heights. The Colombians always have the best shit and you know that, so you don’t say no to Marcelo’s yayo, you take a bump and shoot straight to the moon, going one hundred miles per hour.

You really just want to leave, but now Vania has just joined your little cipher and this shit is starting to get good. It’s too late for you now. The VIP room at Life always gets good after 4am.

You wonder if Vania is thinking the same thing you’re thinking. Wondering if she remembers that night in the men’s bathroom stall at the Tunnel when she wore those red velvet garters only you were lucky enough to slide down her thigh. She offers you a sip from her glass of Don P, which you know you shouldn’t be drinking, but how can you say no to Vania’s cute Russian accent? You sip and pass her the Dutch and wink with an obvious lust in your face that says, “Damn baby girl you lookin good as hell tonight.”

And Vania’s not the only one to notice, but Sonia doesn’t really give a shit, she’s already checking out the male go-go dancer twirling around the pole, wearing a small towel wrapped around his waist. And even though he’s gay and she knows it, “a girl can dream,” Sonia tells herself, and doesn’t sweat your horny ass cause she knows your reputation with the ladies and thinks she might even give you some of her lotus flower when you get back from your trip, but only on her terms and only when she says so.

“So when we gonna hang out again?” Vania asks. Sonia looks at you and then at Vania with an “ooh no she didn’t” kind of look, and that’s when you know it’s really time to run the fuck out of there. Not so much because Vania has just blown up your spot in front of your future wifey, but because the words “hang out” remind you that soon you’ll be hanging out on the beach in Punta Cana, sipping on mojitos at the poolside bar, fending off morenita Sanky Pankys trying to marry you for your citizenship.

You take your last pull from the Dutchie, because you just need to have one more for the road. You kiss the ladies good-bye. “I’ll see you soon as I get back,” you whisper to Sonia in her ear. You take your Zippo back from Ivan who is just about to put it in his pocket, thank him for the good bud and the smooth Mamajuana, slip Marcelo a $20 for a gram of his Colombian and slide the baggie in your fifth pocket as you drag your box of records across the dance floor, trying to avoid seeing anyone else you might know, because if they offer you a drink, you won’t be able to say no.

You sneak out the club as fast as you can and then wonder “how the hell did I get to the Turnpike so damn fast?” Because you seem to have blacked-out and a time-lapse has just erased a whole block of memory from the moment you left the club, to this exit at Newark Airport. “What the fuck just happened?” You know you’re drunk and high and you shouldn’t be driving like this, but you are, and now you speed to the long-term parking, because you’re running late.

Dragging your box of records behind you, a small carry-on strapped over your shoulder, you run to the airline window, check in and think, “Damn. Wasn’t I just at the club with Sonia?” Another blackout, but you have no time for frivolous questions since you need to start running. The TSA security guards always seem to know a passenger is running late. That’s when they become extra meticulous about their job and get thorough with their search. The fact that you’re wearing your leather pants, leather boots, a black leather vest over a black t-shirt, and oversized, dark Dolce & Gabana shades, while holding a ticket to Punta Cana, doesn’t help you get past security any faster either.

After a thorough search and twenty-one questions about whom you are and the purpose of your trip, you finally get through security and sprint to your gate, record box in tow and no seconds to spare.

You see a flight attendant enter Gate 21, closing the door behind her. It’s too late. You run to the door and bang. “Let me in. Let me in. I’m on the flight.” The attendant comes back out. Taken back by all your darkness, she thinks to herself, “What’s wrong with mutherfuckin Mad Max?” but instead says, “How can I help you sir?”

You’re out of breath and the thought of having to get your out-of-shape ass back into the gym quickly crosses your mind, but you don’t have time for trivialities, so you hand her your ticket and attempt to board, but she puts her hand on your heaving chest to stop you and hands back your ticket. “Sir. The flight is delayed. We haven’t even boarded yet,” she says sarcastically, while really thinking, “Coñio. Que maldito bajo a marijuana tiene este loco.”

You turn around to see over a hundred Dominicans and a handful of American tourists, casually waiting, staring at you in silence, but probably also thinking, “What the fuck is wrong with Mad Max here?”

“Oh. Ok. Good,” you say as you take your walk of shame and find a seat. You should be embarrassed by this spectacle, but you’re not, because you never give a shit about other people’s opinions of you, and besides, all you really want to think about is Maria picking you up from the airport and how scrumptious she’s going to look as the waves wash over her natural D’s, but you don’t think that at all, because you suddenly realize that you still have Marcelo’s yayo in your fifth pocket and the same paranoia from the Miami flight three years ago suddenly kicks in.

You imagine Dominican DEA agents all around, staring at you, but they’re really just looking because you look crazy as shit all leathered up on a flight to the beach. You try not to panic and think you need to dump the coke in the trash, but you don’t, because you know there’s really only one proper way to get rid of a gram of coke. You head to the bathroom thinking that you should’ve left the club hours ago, but, you didn’t, and now here you are.

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About Wilson Santos

Wilson Santos is a writer, filmmaker, music producer, DJ, spoken word artist, graphic designer, entrepreneur and college professor. And he makes a hell of a Mojito too.

Posted on April 11, 2013, in Fiction and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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