By: Jake Hatcher, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Private Eye
Pop Culture Mystery Question: Are Nicki Minaj’s claims of a VMA snub justified?
“You never should have come here.”
Women drivers…
A granite slab doesn’t make for a good pillow, but I was exhausted and it was the only thing around to rest my head on. I leaned back and stretched my legs over the green grass, noticing the tiny flecks of dew forming on the blades.
“I wish you’d of listened to me, kid,” I said as I took a pull from the forty-ounce not so cleverly disguised by a brown paper bag.
Yes, I was one of those people who drank during the day. Morning, afternoon, night. Time doesn’t matter when you don’t age.
“All this town does is put stars in the eyes of young dopes too stupid to know any better,” I said. “‘Shoot for the stars and you’ll land in the clouds,’ the dreamers say. They forget to tell you about the part where you might bypass greatness altogether and crash into the ground harder than a Mack Truck aimed at a brick wall.”
Crash into the ground.
Poor choice of words.
I ran my fingers over the engraving that marked the head stone:
Roscoe J. Hatcher
1925-1952
“You thought I didn’t want you in LA,” I said as I took another swig. “That I didn’t want you cramping my style. I was just trying to keep you away because this place is a haven for weirdoes and I didn’t want you to end up a two-bit bum like yours truly.”
I sat and sulked for awhile, interrupting my kid brother’s dirt nap with a one-sided conversation.
Suddenly, the sound of a finely tuned engine filled my ears. I looked up to see a cherry red 1955 Cadillac winding its way through the lonely cemetery access road.
The sporty little number came to a halt in front of me. Inside? An even sportier little number – the object of my misplaced affection, Ms. Delilah K. Donnelly.
“Are you lost, ma’am?” I asked as I sprang to my feet and pointed to the right. “Rodeo Drive is that-a-way.”
“Apologies for interrupting your lunch, Mr. Hatcher,” Delilah said as her baby blues stared at the brown bag in my hand in a most disapproving manner.
I attempted a save.
“Can you believe degenerate winos use this place to get smackered?” I asked as I threw the bottle into a trash can. “Found this lying on the ground and Ma Hatcher always taught me if I see litter I should pick it up.”
“I’ll pretend not to notice your rampant alcoholism so that we might steer our attention to a most pressing matter,” Delilah said as she popped the door lock.
“The nerd has another question?” I asked as I sprawled out in the passenger seat. It was nice. Comfortably and roomy. Not like the crap boxes they try to squeeze you in nowadays.
“Precisely,” Delilah said as she drove away. “And might I add a further apology for interrupting your mourning time.”
“No need,” I said. “Roscoe wasn’t much of a conversationalist anyway.”
As we hit the open road, Delilah turned on the radio. A nice classic station. Oldies all the time.
Legendary Jazz singer Ella Fitzgerald brought my mind back to the good old days. There was a gal that didn’t need a gimmick. Just a sweet tune about love and a set of superb vocal cords.
There’s a saying old, says that love is blind.
Still we’re often told, ‘Seek and ye shall find.’
So I’m going to go seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind.Looking everywhere,
Haven’t found him yet.
He’s the big affair
I cannot forget.
Only man I ever think of with regret.– Ella Fitzgerald, Somebody to Watch Over Me, Pure Ella (1954)
“You have good taste, Ms. Donnelly.”
“I’m aware, Mr. Hatcher.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Ms. Tsang said you’re known to visit your brother’s grave know and then. Perhaps it isn’t my place to pry…”
Ahh, here we go. Once again, Delilah acts like she doesn’t care, but then cares enough to ask.
“But I’m surprised you’d visit your brother at all…after what he did to you.”
I closed my eyes and enjoyed the breeze as air rushed all around me.
“People say there are some things that can never be forgiven,” I said, “But to them, I say they just haven’t lived long enough.”
“Time heals all wounds?” Delilah asked as she took the highway onramp.
“No,” I said. “Time just gives those wounds more of a chance to fester. But given enough time, you lose your ability to give a shit about them.”
“I’m not so sure I concur.”
Delilah sure had a lead foot. She steered us into the passing lane and floored it. It was like being chauffeured like a female Mario Andretti.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Ma Hatcher taught me never to swear in the presence of a lady.”
“It’s quite all right,” Delilah said. “In fact, your obscenity reminds me of our next case.”
Delilah adjusted the radio dial and the following lyrics invaded my ear drums:
This one is for my bitches with a fat ass in the f*%king club
I said, “Where my fat ass big bitches in the club?”
F%$k them skinny bitches,
Fu&*k them skinny bitches in the club
I wanna see all the big fat ass bitches in the motherf*%king club…– Nicki Minaj, Anaconda, The Pinkprint Album
I lit up a cigarette and shook my head.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “The nerd has me looking into pornography now?”
“Pornography?” Delilah asked. “This is one of the top songs of the past year.”
I choked on my own smoke.
“Get outta’ town.”
Anaconda and Somebody to Watch Over Me are Nicki and Ella’s songs, respectively.
The rest is Copyright (C) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler. All Rights Reserved.
Image courtesy of a shuttestock.com license.
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