stocked with Hennessey,â he says, taking two glasses out of the cupboard.
âNow you know I donât drink. But, I will take some water.â Looking around, I notice it still looks like a party house. There are no family pictures around at all. Just fancy Black art on the walls, big tropical plants in every corner, and plenty of liquor. Nigel puts a bottled water on the counter and I walk over to retrieve it.
âAlright yâall. Letâs get this session started,â Raheem says, coming in from the hallway and leading us through kitchen toward the garage. I step out of the living room, following them both.
âSo, howâs life treating you, Lyttle?â Raheem says, calling me by my former nickname. Nigel hands Raheem a glass of Hennessey and follows right behind me.
âJust fine. And, no one calls me that anymore,â I say, passing him as he opens the back door leading to the converted garage. When I step inside, Iâm stunned by how much work heâs done in here. It no longer looks like a garage turned into a makeshift studio. It looks like a professional studio where the garage used to be.
âDamn, Rah. Youâve been hustling hard, huh?â I say.
âMe too, Jayd. Weâve been working hard up in here,â Nigel says, taking a seat on the green, L-shaped couch along one wall. On the other side of the room is the producerâs area, which has a turntable and a mixer damn near the length of the entire wall, several studio monitors, a subwoofer, and two sets of headphones and a microphone. Thereâs also a desk with a leather executive chair, and two computers for his Pro Tools. On the wall behind the desk is a large shelf lined with CDs, tapes, and vinyl.
âYou guys ainât playing at all about your shit,â I say, impressed. Most brothas talk about making music but never invest in their art. These two spend every dime on their music, and it shows.
âNot at all. As a matter of fact, weâre only two tracks away from our demo being finished and I plan on taking it to Atlanta with me next month. I want to see if some of Def Jamâs people are interested. I was there over the summer and I ran a track by this DJ up there who says heâs feeling our shit and got the hookup with some of Def Jamâs people. So, weâll see what happens,â Raheem says, setting his Hennessey down on his desk before taking a seat. âAlright, Nigel, get your punk ass in the booth and make our heads bop,â he says, sounding like the Raheem I know and used to love.
âDamn, nigga, canât we chill for a minute? I ainât seen LyttleâI mean, Jaydâin a couple of years. And, I know you want to catch up with her, donât you,â he says, taking a blunt and some weed out of his pocket, ready to bless the session in their usual way.
âSo, howâs the White school, Jayd?â Raheem asks, taking a sip of his drink and fiddling with controls on his mixer. Some smooth tunes start to play through the sub woofers, mellowing the vibe in the room.
âItâs real good, huh, Jayd?â Nigel says, ready to let all my business out. âSheâs holding it down, from what I hear.â
âShut up, Nigel,â I say, pinching him in the arm before taking a seat next to him on the couch.
âI wouldnât expect anything less from you, girl,â Raheem says, smiling in between sips. He looks at me as if heâs undressing me with his eyes and reading my thoughts at the same time. His spirit is so strong. I swear heâs been here a thousand times before.
âHowâs Westingle?â I say, changing the subject. I donât like being on the spot around Raheem. He can see straight through me, just like Mama. And, I donât want to tell him too much about my new relationship, knowing heâll dissect it and twist everything around, like he always does.
âItâs cool. Better than that
Legs McNeil, Jennifer Osborne, Peter Pavia