Chapter Forty #2
“It’s cool. Everybody knows that tonight’s affair is semi-private, but I, um, kinda threw in a special.”
Rashad’s eyes narrowed.
“For the rest of this month, I told the ladies they could get in free between eight-thirty and nine, with a two-drink minimum.”
Rashad groaned. “Who’s going to keep track of that?”
“A cute little shorty you’ll meet later on tonight.” Juke winked, kissed Jamilah’s cheek, and was soon lost in the crowd.
Temperatures continued to swelter. The organizers decided to start the Soul Train line early, before the crowd diminished.
A popular DJ from a local radio station took to the stage and got everyone’s attention.
There was a brief program where the mayor spoke and gave keys to the city to the three original Soul Train dancers who’d graciously accepted invitations to attend.
He also proclaimed it Soul Train Line Day in Kansas City.
Jamilah wasn’t surprised to see Walter on the podium with other officials.
He wore a suit. His fiancée was dressed like the attorney she was.
Party poopers!
A small army worked together to coordinate the dancers, who’d start fifty feet up the block and dance down to the iconic intersection of Eighteenth and Vine.
A popular former DJ from KPRS, the legendary first Black-owned radio station west of the Mississippi, and longest-running on the radio to date, one that had played much of the music highlighted on Soul Train throughout its thirty-five-year run, joined the younger man on the turntable.
Together they compiled and began playing a multidecade soundtrack of the seventies, eighties, nineties, and aughts.
“Rapper’s Delight,” the first national hip-hop hit.
“Walk This Way,” the first crossover. R and B.
Funk. Disco. New Jack Swing. Couples, groups, and troupes bumped, pop-locked, slid, shuffled, and danced their way down fifty feet of concrete, cheered on by an enthusiastic crowd that spanned the ages from five to eighty.
Roughly two hours later, Leon, along with his team of counters and the professional staff that had been sent from Guinness, huddled on a corner of the intersection, comparing iPads and iPhones.
A petite woman sporting a cute gray bob and a pair of bifocals perched on the tip of her nose slowly mounted the stairs and pulled down the mic to address the crowd.
“Good afternoon, everyone. What a fun time we’ve had watching these participants break the record for the largest, longest Soul Train line! The official count for those involved stands at nine hundred and seventy-two. With that being said…”
A murmur went up from those who’d remained, mostly the dancers who’d participated. Clearly, they weren’t happy being so close to but not quite reaching their goal of one thousand.
“One K. One K,” someone began to chant, a mantra quickly picked up by the crowd, and growing in both volume and intensity.
The representative from Guinness was clearly not used to this type of pushback. She turned to those still huddled near the stage. Soon, the legendary DJ from KPRS bounded up the steps. Using his arms, he motioned for quiet.
“To reach our goal of one thousand, we need twenty-eight people,” he said, looking out at the crowd. “We’re sooo close. Is there anyone, anywhere in the crowd who has not gone down the line. Don’t try to cheat,” he admonished. “We’d hate all of this hard work to get disqualified.”
Soon, Juke and his boys were scouring the neighborhood, pulling out shop owners, customers, even the police officers milling around to have a turn down the line.
Comic relief came in the form of Ed’s friend, Russell, at least two if not three sheets to the wind, agreeing to boogie down the line only if they played his favorite artist, James Brown.
He shimmied and shook in a loud lime-green, yellow, and orange plaid suit with lapels wide enough to fly in a tornado. Everyone surrounding him sang and clapped along as he strutted while shouting, “I feel good!”
“Nine ninety-eight,” the DJ said, after Russell reached the area in front of the stage. Y’all, we can’t stop now. We’ve got to reach our goal.”
By now all of the organizers had joined the group near the stage—Jamilah and Rashad, Anna and Charles, Leon and Blair, who’d arrived in time to be participant number eight hundred and ninety-two.
“Look!” a little girl squealed, while pointing toward the other end of the block.
Someone with a megaphone said, “Hang on, guys. I think we have our last two!”
Jamilah squinted. A garishly dressed couple walked toward the middle of the street. The DJ put on “Cool Like That,” a Digable Planet smash.
“No way,” Jamilah murmured, unconsciously moving forward to peer at the couple coolly strutting down the street.
“That’s Monique!” Blair exclaimed, punching Leon in the side.
“That’s my mom,” he agreed. “Who’s the guy, though?”
“I’m not sure…” Blair squinted, then reared back as recognition dawned. “Jamilah! Girl, no! Isn’t that—”
“My daddy,” Jamilah responded, incredulously. “Wearing faux leather and a braid wig with beads like Rick James on his worst day? I can’t believe that’s him.”
Rashad sidled up beside her. “Um, I’m pretty sure that’s your father. Or, as Dave Chappelle would say in tribute to ‘Super Freak,’ ‘That’s Rick James, bitch!’”
Several hours had passed since the official count had been tallied for the biggest Soul Train line—one thousand and one—the final person arriving at the last minute, popping wheelies with his wheelchair as he rolled down the street to a seventies beat.
Rashad passed the dining room on his way to the Behind Bars stage.
Jamilah was talking and laughing with David, a nineteen-year-old KC native recently released from doing eighteen months in lockup.
He smiled at how comfortable she was around the young man, knowing that a year ago, given his background, she probably wouldn’t have given him the time of day.
She caught him looking and waved him over.
He cocked his head toward the other side and pointed, letting her know he had work to do.
He thought the rap he’d planned to perform was finished.
But a few bars kept swirling in his head, begging to be added. He had to put them down.
On the way to the stage where tonight’s participants were signing up and milling around, he passed James and Monique sitting at the bar.
James had removed the beaded braids and traded the faux-leather jumpsuit for a pair of jeans.
A casual, black shirt brought him more into alignment with the reserved figure Rashad had met on most occasions.
Didn’t matter. Rashad wasn’t going to let that Soul Train image of James go any time soon.
“What’s up, Rick?”
James eyed Rashad over a sip of scotch. “Rick retired.”
“Maybe. That doesn’t change the fact that the cat is out of the bag. Beneath all of that conservative machismo is a super freak. Right, Monique?”
“Watch it, son.”
Rashad raised his hands. “You’re right. My bad.” He held out his fist.
James remained motionless, his look somber. Rashad lowered his arm.
“Come on, James,” Monique gently chided. “You know how kids play around.”
James’s expression was stern as he slowly offered up a fist bump. “Okay, but don’t make it a habit.”
Backstage, it was like old times, his homies standing around laughing, likely talking shit, or as his granny would say, telling lies and swatting flies.
For a brief moment, a second even, the scene felt like déjà vu.
He stopped, took in the tableau of his boys—Juke, Sky Walka, Eight Track, and PhD, standing in his establishment, happy, doing what they loved.
If he wasn’t such a hard-ass, he would have shed a tear or two.
But he had a bad-boy reputation to uphold.
Tears didn’t fit in with that. Instead of joining them, he walked to the area behind the DJ and picked up the notebook he’d left there.
Except for the last page, it was all filled up.
Fitting, he thought, as he found his song “Whipped” and, after repeating the verses a few times in his head, wrote down the addition.
He read it back, then went outside and with only the trees, stars, and a stray dog for an audience, did the whole song.
The last bars he’d added felt like it had always been there.
He turned around and headed back into the building. He was psyched. He was ready.
Showtime.
Jamilah saw him as soon as he entered and made a beeline in his direction. “Hey, baby, I was looking for you. What were you doing out there?”
Rashad hadn’t told Jamilah he was going to perform. “Getting some air,” he lied.
Her eyes narrowed. She took a step toward him and tried a surreptitious sniff.
“Back up off me, woman, I was not out there smoking.” Laughing, he pulled her into an embrace. “Why would I need marijuana when I can get high on you?”
Jamilah looked up, kissed him. “Baby, if you can make a lie sound that good, don’t ever tell me the truth.”
“It’s all true.”
“I love you, Rashad.”
Her words flowed over Rashad’s skin like water, then seeped into him like hot, fragrant oil.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t been told those words before.
But here, now, in this place, with this woman, the phrase hit different.
It sounded real, heartfelt, like how it did when his granny said it.
Like she’d cross hot coals barefoot, fight a bear, take on any and everybody if they came against him. Just like he would for her.
“Thank you, baby. I love you, too.”
Rashad saw Eight Track motioning him over toward the stage. “Be right back,” he told her.
Jamilah saw Blair and joined her on the dance floor.