Staton, The Obvious: Back To the Song Talkers

So, as you know, I like to talk songs. Sometimes, talking a song yields better results than other times. For a good example, you can read my blog entry, Kid, I Wanna Be a Man in Motion , or the sequel at Song Talking II: Electric Boogaloo.

So, as you see, you just talk the lyrics of a song and hope that either the people you're talking to join in or that they become baffled beyond measure and you get a good laugh. This was a case of the latter.

My pal Aldo calls me from across the quad on NCCU's Campus. I wave and alter my course to intercept him. He's a good pal, but we don't share any classes this semester. He's got a young kid with him (Aldo and I are approximately the same age). He introduces himself, but since I don't like people's given names I immediately dub him as HipHop.

Aldo and I exchange pleasantries. Then, he gets this look on his face like he just learned that there's free pizza in the next room. He swats HipHop on the shoulder and says to me, "This cat has some problems with school. You should give him some advice."

I do not have time for this. I have to get across campus for a class within the next 7 minutes and I am NOT a fast walker. I look at my watch. 6 minutes.

HipHop says, "What? It's nothin'."

Aldo says, "Dude, tell him what you were telling me!"

HipHop says, "What's he going to be able to tell me that no one else could?"

I stop looking at my watch. I look at Aldo. He's grinning like the Joker in a poisoned squirt-flower gag factory. HipHop is looking at me as if to say, "this dried up old loser can't help me."

I hear myself say, "What's your problem, Son."

Aldo says, "This cat has some deep knowledge, man. You have got to listen to him."

HipHop sighs. He actually sighs, his doubt is so deep.

"What's his problem?" I ask Aldo.

"He can't handle all his work." He's beaming.

"How many hours are you taking?"

"Twelve," HipHop says. Twelve. The card catalog of my mind is working overtime while I talk.

Damn! Good thing I'm not paying for this...oh wait, I AM paying!

And then, it comes to me...

"That's a lot," I say. I take a deep breath. I squint at him, focus on him. "My friend," I say, "you have to learn to pace yourself. For the pressure. You're just like everybody else." I clench my fist. "Pressure."

He's looking at me, brain empty. I sigh, like I was talking to an obstinate four-year-old.

"You've only had to run so far, so good. But, you will come to a place where the only thing you feel are loaded guns in your face. And you'll have to deal with pressure."

If I had a quarter for every beautiful woman that pointed a gun at me...

I look at him as if to say, "eh? Right?" He reads my look and nods. He agrees. Pressure is a bitch.

I turn to Aldo and say, "They used to call ME paranoid."

Aldo asks, "From pressure?" I nod. He's picked up on it already.

"Yeah," I say. I turn back to HipHop and point at him. "But, even YOU cannot avoid pressure."

"No, I can't," he quickly agrees. He thinks he understands. He wants to show us his wisdom. He adds, "Every professor asks so much. Do this, do that! They act like no other prof is doing the same thing!"

Aldo can barely keep his shit together.

I nod sagely. I'm good at the sagely nod. "Yeah. But you..." I almost add too much. I'm gonna be statin' the obvious here, but there are rules to this. You can add to the song to help it make sense in the context with which you are using it, but you can't add too much. That's cheating.

I hesitate. I jab a finger into HipHop's chest and say, accusingly, "YOU turn the tapdance into your crusade. Now, here you are with your faith and your...Peter Pan advice."

Aldo adds, "damn right"

HipHop looks at him and wonders if he's missing something. He focuses on me again, taking my words more seriously. He asks, "I give Peter Pan advice or...I get Peter Pan advice?"

Aldo smacks him on the shoulder like a big brother and says, "You TAKE Peter Pan advice." Then, he taps his own temples and says in a hiss, "You have got to listen! Listen to the words!"

HipHop feels out of his depth, but he wants to catch on. He wants to understand. He concentrates again, staring at me.

I reach out and grab his jaw. I'm aware this is punching territory. I don't know this kid. But, I'm also twice as big as him. And the effect will be AWESOME. I turn his face a little to one side and say, "You have no scars on your face," as if I was showing exhibit A to the court. "And you cannot handle pressure."

Aldo screams, "PRESSURE." making both the kid and me flinch. Jesus.

Now I'm blaming the kid for being young. I roll my eyes. "All grown up and no place to go. Psych 101. Psych 102. And what do you know?"

"True," HipHop mumbles.

And it's here that I realize a big problem with my choice in song. There is no answer! He just keeps going on about pressure, pressure, pressure. He never gives you any actual advice. So, HipHop's brain is working harder than a freshman at a Stephen Hawking event and I have nothing to give him. He's over there nodding to me, trying to show that he gets it, wanting to ask some clarifying question. ANYTHING to help him understand. I've used my power for evil, not for good.

I lower my voice and say, almost to myself, "All your life is channel 13. Sesame Street. What does it mean?"

Aldo hits the kid again. "I'll tell you what it means. Pressure."

"Pressure," the kid repeats. He nods. "Pressure. I feel that."

All together now: "Pressure!"

I feel like shit. Aldo is damned near pissing himself. I take pity on the kid...for about 3 seconds. But, I also hate to leave something unfinished.

I put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't ask for help."

"Really?"

"You're all alone. You'll have to answer to you own pressure."

He nods again.

"Look," I say, trying to be understanding. "I'm sure you have some cosmic rationale. But here you are in the ninth." I mime holding a baseball bat, standing at the plate. I look off in the distance. "Two men out and three men on. Nowhere to look but inside where we all respond to..." I make it a question.

He nods. "Pressure," he says.

"Yeah," I say. "Pressure."

Aldo has taken a few steps away from us. His back is to me. His shoulders are shaking. I can't look at him right now.

"Does that make sense?" I ask HipHop.

"Kinda," he says. "You...you gotta take care of your own shit?"

Sure, that sounds good to me. I give another sagely nod. "That's right. That's right."

Aldo says, back still to us, "Two men out and..."

And then, we break into laughter. I think I pee a little. Aldo says, "Baseball. I never knew what the fuck he was talking about!"

And I lose it. I laugh all the way to class...

...where I come in 5 minutes late...AGAIN.