Episode 5 (Part 1)
See transcription below:
This project is a collection of thoughts transcribed and dictated by ivana renee and informed by the honest experiences of various homegirls in the city. In this project, “I” is for all of us.
Before we moved here, our parents tried to convince us that we’d need snow boots to traverse the midtown terrain. They tried it, but a bubble coat and gloves ain’t never hurt nobody.
Coat check season is approaching.
Coat check season begins when the temperature drops below 60 degrees and venues around the city start charging guests a mandatory $5 fee to put their coats in a closet.
It’s particularly annoying because not only are we doing the most by even leaving the crib in what feels to be arctic temperatures. But after spending the mandatory $5 for coat check, we are then ushered inside to buy $13 well drinks. If it’s our homegirl’s birthday weekend or any occasion for brunch, we probably just dropped $60 on eggs benedict (the bougie blacks love runny eggs) and J Roget mimosas (think the Limearita of champagne).
When we RSVP’d for said brunch, we already reconciled with ourselves that we wouldn’t eat anything else for the next week. But it’s been two hours since we finished our meal, this bouncer nigga is pressing us for $5, and we’re already getting hungry.
Outside of Fashion Week, coat check season singlehandedly brings out the worst in New York City bouncers. They get really aggressive and start shouting at homegirls to check their leather jackets.
Nigga, this is a look.
And before we know it, we’re arguing with men in loose fitting blazers and wide legged pants to let us in some regular ass venue.
Why so pressed, Patty?
If the bouncer isn’t feeling us, we don’t have much of an option outside of paying the fee.
There might be a competing event somewhere else, but the bouncers are probably equally as irritating there.
Theoretically, there is so much to do in New York. We could go to plays or spend our weekends at the Museum of Modern Art. BUT there aren’t any niggas there.
So we’re forced to take cash out of one of those ATMs in the front of the venue and hope no one steals our identity in the process.
But it’s September now, and coat check season is only approaching.
See, in New York, summer lives in those short three months between Memorial Day and Labor Day weekends. We get a month of fall between Labor Day and Halloween, and winter extends from Halloween to Memorial Day the next year.
I actually don’t know if it’s that New York gets incredibly cold or if it’s that we spend so much time outside during our commutes that makes the weather such a discussion point.
Nevertheless, by around September, we’re pressed to lock down our winter itinerary.
And by itinerary, I mean, niggas.
We go out less during the winter, meaning that we’re less likely to meet niggas out.
Our social lives feel the pressure of the approaching 8 months of winter.
In August, I saw this guy at a First Saturdays at the Brooklyn Museum.
On the first Saturday of every month, the museum opens up to the public for free. It’s a monthly event for the bougie blacks to see and be seen, for the culture of course.
I peeped him first.
He was taking a Boomerang of his homeboy dabbing in front of the Black Feminism exhibit.
His homeboys were always corny.
I used to have this childhood dream where all my homegirls and all my nigga’s homeboys got married. We’d have kids that were the same age, and all their names would rhyme: Iesha, Alisha, Marquisha, etc.
I’ve since given up on that dream. I’ve had trouble making it work because all my nigga’s friends are usually corny, raggedy, and/or short. Oh and also, I don’t got no nigga.
Anyways, I peep him. He’s wearing a navy blue and white striped t-shirt, nice fitting jeans, and Stan Smiths. He’s not a Kanye long tee, Chelsea boots ass nigga, but he looked good.
I didn’t mention this, but we “talked” for a few months earlier this year.
“Talking” was invented in the early 2000s and has been heavily adopted by young black people. “Talking” is almost like dating except it doesn’t lead to anything.
Around March, we were consistently kicking it, and I invited him to my homegirl’s Easter potluck. He curved it, and shortly after that, our conversations started getting dry to the point where he stopped hitting me up.
Casper The Friendly Ghost head ass.
So he’s there, and he still looks good. I position myself to be seen, and we make eye contact.
I step a couple feet away from my homegirls, and he comes towards me.
“Hey, it’s nice to see you. How’ve you been?” he starts.
“It’s nice to see you too. I’ve been good. How’ve you been? What have you been up to?”
“I’ve been good. Just working. You know how that goes…You like nice today,” he responds.
“Thank you. You like nice too”
“Thanks, well uhhh. What are you doing after this?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Okay. Well, let me know if you find something. I’ll hit you up.”
We say our goodbyes, hug, and go our separate ways.
The event is supposed to end at 11p. It’s 10:26p, and my phone vibrates. It’s him. “My homeboy is having a few people over. Come thru.”
On the highest of lowkeys, I want to pull up. But my homegirls and I just agreed that we were ready to head to my crib, so we can smoke and watch Breakfast Club interviews.
But now, I’m wet, and I have to figure out how to pitch my homegirls on a move that isn’t a guaranteed function and arguably unnecessary.
The facts are:
-His homeboy’s crib is a $14 Uber ride away.
-An Uber to my crib is $6.
-We already have tree at the crib, and the wifi is paid for and bustin’.
“One of my friends says his homeboy is having something if we want to stop by”, I mutter.
My sleepy head homegirl immediately responds. “Oh naah, I rather go home.”
She lives uptown, and with every after move, she’s getting further away from the 2 Train.
My other homegirl is fake scrolling through her timeline and responds, “I’m not pressed. I could go home.”
Damn bitch, so you try calling me pressed?
“I mean, I’m not pressed either. I was just saying if y’all wanted to do something. They have liquor, and it’s still early”.
When pitching our homegirls on impromptu wing woman missions, we have to make sure they’re aware of the benefits to them. It’s best to highlight the possibility of other niggas, weed, alcohol, and/or food.
From what I’d seen of his homeboys, I figured that niggas would be a let down. I also couldn’t confirm that they had weed or food (Those are pretty exclusive resources). And he actually didn’t say that they had liquor, but I figured he’d have enough couth not to invite me somewhere and not have alcohol.
Raggedy thought process, but where is the lie?
It’s 11:08. My phone vibrates again. It’s him. He sends the lookin’ eye emojis.
I’m stressed, but what’s new?
This is a collection of stories from homegirls who are honest with themselves, each other, and the world. In this project, “I” is for all of us.