"before anyone ever knew about us, we were just two roughed up kids you would have found on old any street corner behind the walmart and the seven eleven. still remember those days before it all happened; he was your average white trash with a home haircut that might fall over if the breeze picked up, and i was your washed up half nigger in a white overcoat, with my hand in my back pocket talking foolishly about making it big and shuffling units. that day, it smelt like hand sanitizer and lebanese food; the aroma of uncomfortableness and uneasiness, like the imminent confrontation between the predator and the prey, still lingers fresh in my nostrils. in the back of my mind i was hearing some slow jam soul tune, marvin gaye maybe, still quite not sure to this day. the hallways were empty, elvis had long left the building. down the corridor you could hear the voices; i couldnt lie to you and call them deafening, but they were loud enough, yet you wouldnt have been able to make them out, but you they were calling you. when you have dreamt about this day all your life and you are finally thrown in the moment, you dont know if you are still dreaming anymore, but frankly speaking, you couldnt give a fuck. i looked at him, he had a worried look on his face, the frown i have seen but oh too many times. he handed me the roach and i took the last drag while he blew his out steadily in a swift, uniform breath. i flicked the butt, i already knew it was going to richochet off the junction of the two bricks in the wall and fall into the bin, like i had seen in my dreams at least a million times. when we couldnt drag out the moment any longer, we got off the bench we were sitting on, the pattern and rough texture of the brick wall would still be engraved in our backs for a little while longer. we made our way down the corridor in silence untill you got to the big door. thats how it was described last year, and the year before that as well, and we knew that regardless of the outcome, thats how we would be describing the gateway between reality and imagination, and so would the following generations who just might conisder us heros or never knew we exsisted. the door was dark blue, and had a silver panel. i hate richard nixon, your average republican (i dont like the democrats for that sake) who snoops through your shit, hey if he could do a watergate, he might as well post your medical records on kijiji; i like this one quote he said, in the olympics if you come in second you get a silver medal, but in the real world it's oblivion. i guess mr nixon got me there, my deepest fear is not heights or spiders (although a 14ft 600lb tarantula on a scaffold at the empire state building is quite terrifying), that i am inadequate, or dying; it is that i will be unoticed, drowning in a sea of oblivion. but oblivion, it still scares the fucking shit out of me, but theres only a limit that anyone can experience a certain amount of any feeling, untill they have lost too much time and sanity and decide to do something, often times historic and legendary, even if it dosent appear in the books ya know. we both looked at each other one last time and nodded smiling. we both knew this would be the last time we would ever look at each others as dreamers. we both simultaneously pushed the doors open. the reception was incredible. an ampitheather almost, filled with people you didint know, cheering for you and wishing misfortune upon you; somethere for the sheer thrill. i envy these people, these people would go home and eat dinner and watch tv, than either fuck their wives or girlfriends or masturbate and then go to sleep and forget about this moment in a few days. the lights were blinding, the crowd was deafening. cameras were set up along with microphones. the tables and chairs were there, like they always were. name cards were set. the earlier corridor was cold, but in this room, i dont know if it was nervousness and anxiety, but it was as humid as a fucking monsoon rainforest jungle. the gel in my hair was starting to drip down my forehead into my eyes. my body was coated in a lair of sweat. i looked at him, he was airing himself out my repeatedly shaking his collar. we scanned the room untill we saw what we were looking for, our oponents, our rivals, are sworn nemesis. im sure they thought the same way about us, everything in the eye of the beholder. they probably had their own poetic dramatic moments like we did. we made eye contact with them. who knows, we might have been friends with those two if it werent for the game, but thats the truth about the game, and life; if you arent hustling, you're probably being hustled. in that moment, we probably sympathized with each other, just like crazy old soldiers who dont know when to quit and why they are fighting anymore, but cant drop their guns and axes because theyve been in it too long. we probably had alot in common, spent night after night, day after day trying to prepare the absoloute maximum for the next hour, crushing anyone who tried to steal the spotlight of our dreams. the cheering gradually slowed and the lights dimmed. the man in the suit picked up the microphone. they do say before the storm theres a calm, a few moments of an eerie silence. i dont think its eerie, i think its rather peaceful and magestic, even magical. its indescribable, something thats sancitity is preserved, untouchable, valubale, only obtainable to those who have deserved it. time is lost for now, you just fall down a endless vortex of nothingness. every hustler will feel this moment, from lebron james in his first nba game and sylvester stallone while auditioning for rocky. before they become washed up, rich and arrogant, they were all hustlers who just dreamt about a millionth of their eventual success. during that moment, you connect with everyone who has experienced this moment. its warm and calming, like a young kid in the lap of his grandfather hearing about great stories about the magnificent past. but now that moment was over, and my spirit became one of those souls who you connect with when you will feel this moment, if you already havent. the moment of calm is over. the man in the suit picked up the microphone, and confidentally and calmy spoke, propogating his monotone, loud voice in the teather. "Round One."



Comments

 
Sun, 10/16/2011 - 10:29pm

lucid dream? regardless it's fuckin intense. So much detail you feel like i'm in whatever realm you were in. I'd def read your book.