Well, things were dull and any kind of passion was sapped by the second nature drudgery that swells and festers in the workplace. It was around four-thirty pm when Master Chocolate deigned to join us working folk, those of us not working in the entertainment business that is. As for myself I'm trying to salvage a writing career and most of my work has gone to amateurs playing entrepreneurs. Who should blame them? When I first started I didn't know what I was doing either, but some times we grow sensibility faster than we want.
Bill Bellamy and his reputation occupied Three Little Pigs, a restauarant down from Dbronx in CrownCenter, KC. I didn't hear the whole story but quickly inferred that he had business some where in Kansas City. Whenever somebody remotely famous, a televison personaliy - or in this new age an internet personality - decides to join our world we are quickly preoccupied and the place is all atwitter with, "look who's here," "that's him," "that's her," and, "is that?" That's atwitter - not your trifling Twitter account. I digress. Bellamy is perambulating in Three Little Pigs to get barbecue and the adulation is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Punkin aka Ed, a chocolate brotha, was talking to blithe ol' Bill, asking him, "Hey, man, heeyyyyyy, what's it like," or words to that effect.
Now who's Bill Bellamy? For those of you who don't know and who are graciously pardoned, Bill Bellamy is a comedian and socialite who stars on MTV's URL, played in Brothers, and Criminal Minds. He's tall, dark, and handsome to the ladies and a man's man to the gentleman. The ladies do swoon and coo and the men want to be like him. Still don't know who Bill Bellamy is? It's okay. That is a perfectly innocent position to have knowingly or inadvertently. As for myself, I fondly recalled giving Wee Man from MTV's beholden Jackass a piggy-back ride all over the store, watching Courtney Sickman make him a NewYork style hotdog - damn fine grub - and watching that tip jar brim with green. As for myself? I honesty do not give a damn if a person is famous or not, even if I harbor secretive admiration and self abation that wants to come out of the closet. Fame isn't a means to an end.
At five o'clock pm. Bill Bellamy is starting to gather a following. At this boiling point - in the depths of my claustrophobia - I've gotten a tad stir-crazy and made appeals to leave the confines of the store. Lisa, a suga momma, employed by the CrownCenter custodial staff, is leaning on a trash can with her nose turned up giggling like a damn fool. Well, hell, I think, she's a chocolate sista, so the she must know about the chocolate brotha gathering a following of other chocolate brothas. I have a lot of love for Lisa. She works hard, is sprightly, and, no, she isn't paid enough.
"Hey, Lisa, what the hell's goin' on?" I say smiling my big wonderful smile.
"Sheeit, Chris, there's some one ova yonda every body likes. Ya see him, fool?"
"No, not yet," I was excited but seasoned with apathy.
"You wanna tell 'him," she asks a fellow custodial member standing abreast of her. Those two gossip hounds were skin deep in their fantasies before I chimed in.
"Ahhhh, sheeit, it's Bill Bellamy," uttered the custodial member.
"No waaay, right on right on. Where's he at?"
"He's in Three Little Pigs," Lisa pointed with her sore finger.
Easily given to impetuity preceeded by big feet, I charge ahead and peer in the doorway of Three Little Pigs. Behold! There he was trading gang signs and the argot with Punkin aka Ed. I didn't make conversation; I had a Camel cigarette tucked in my ear that needed the luxury of my famous vacuum-cleaner lungs. I sauntered along akimbo to the docks, willing to put the matter out of my mind entirely. I came back refreshed and ready to rejoin my pathological claustrophobia in that insignificant little kitchen with the odor of pizza and gourmet subs, and that really bad yellow paint that looks like butter on really old bread.
I had my elbows half deep in drudgery when Ronnie Hernandez, a fellow lover, debouched from the office doing payroll and Godknowswhat. I laughed when I saw him. He started to laugh back. "What the hell're you laughin' at, Chris."
"Your face, Ron, and your bubblin' lips."
"Hahahaha! Just tell me, man." I love imploration. It makes my heart break with laughter.
"Hmmm, I dunno know," answering coyly.
"Hahahahaha! C'mon, Brotha, what the hell's goin' on?"
"It's Bill Bellamy!"
"You fuckin' lying."
"No, Ron, I lie to you like smoke and my lies are aplenty, but at this particular juncture, I'm telling the truth, man!"
"Buulllsheeit, where's he at?"
"He's standing over there, damn it!"
"Where?"
"Fuck, nevermind, come with me. Let's go meet him."
We strut out of the place martching toward the blithe blathering Bill. He's engrossed in a trivial conversation, feeding off the admiration, which is due to him, accompanied by some chocolate brothas exuding tacit blandishment and who were prepared to wash his feet if he asked nicely. "Bill Bellamy, Sir" I say," I don't want your damn autograph, but this guy doesn't believe you're you." Ron and Bill shake hands. "Wuz up, brotha," says genteel Bill. I leave them to their bromance and strut back into certain claustrophobia into the lodging of the modern-day trustee.
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