All The Wrong Places © 2017 by Oscar Wimby
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Contents
Boon
“I’d rather be with you, yeaaaa…said, yeah…girl, I’d rather be with you…” Bootsy Collins sang from the speaker of Boon’s cellphone. It was Mela’s ringtone, his girlfriend of six months. Daniel “Boon” Watson was 5’11 - average height for a man. He was not very muscular, but had a nice build on him, nonetheless. The feature that attracted ladies to him most, was his hazel eyes, which he inherited from his Panamanian mother. His tanned, brown complexion came from his African American father, a native of South Shore in East Chicago.
“Sexy, how is work?” Boon asked, as he answered his Samsung Galaxy Note 5.
“Boring, as usual.” Mela’s response was dry.
“Well, how ‘bout we grab some White Zinfandel or a little Merlot, a karate flick, and some takeout? Let me bring you some fun, girl.” Boon turned on his inner Casanova.
“I think I’ll pass on the karate and takeout, but the Merlot don’t sound half bad.” Mela sounded less than interested, but Boon didn’t make much of a fuss.
“Seen,” he replied; a word his mom used as a statement to mean understand. “Do I pick you up or are you coming over?”
“I’ll drive there. Look, my boss is coming. I’ll be there later,” Mela told Boon and they hung up the phone. Boon felt uneasy when the call ended. His thoughts raced back to the day he first saw Mela.
Mela and Boon had met at The Taste of Chicago, a yearly event that took place around the Fourth of July in Grant Park, Illinois. Jamela Howard, he soon discovered, was a graduate of DePaul University - just as he was. Upon seeing her, Boon was instantly attracted to Mela. She was about 5’8, with flawless, chocolate skin and a Coke bottle figure. She sat in the park with a few other women in lawn chairs, with a plate in her hand, glowing in the sunlight. Boon was with some of his teammates from the basketball team of Simeon High School, class of 1998. When discussing how they’d met, Mela always mentioned that she liked the confidence he showed by approaching her in front of her friends. As Boon gazed off into space, his doorbell rang.
“Who is it?” Boon yelled, as he got up to walk towards the door. He waited, but there was no answer. “Who is it?” He yelled, again, as he got to the door. Boon lived in a loft in the South Loop, located Downtown. With no kids, being the youngest of four children had its spoils. Not to mention, he worked as a law clerk at a prestigious law firm. He was currently in law school, studying to be a criminal defense attorney. Upon graduation, he hoped for a position as a litigator at the firm that currently employed him.
“Open the door, nigga, it’s Yo. Got a nigga outside while you in there beatin’ ya meat and shit.”
“Hold up!” Boon retorted, snatching open the door.
“What’s up, potna?” Yo reached to dap Boon up.
Johan Benoit, also known as Yo, was Boon’s ace. They had known each other for the better part of the last two years. They met when Boon moved to South Loop after graduating from DePaul. Yo was 6’2, athletically built, and mixed with Puerto Rican and Haitian. He had long, curly hair that he wore, more often than not, in a ponytail. His skin was a golden-brown hue and he had chronic-induced, bloodshot eyes from smoking weed all day.
“Ain’t shit. Come on in. Lemme go on and beat that ass again.” Boon stepped aside to let Yo in the house, looking forward to the match. They both smoked weed and loved playing Madden and NBA 2K14 on Xbox One.
“Shiiiit! I bet me and Carmelo finna torch you,” Yo bragged, taking a beer from the fridge, before sitting on the couch positioned directly in front of the 72-inch, flat screen TV mounted on the wall.
“Whatever, nigga. Roll up, I’ma be right back.”
Boon went to use the restroom. Yo’s phone rang just as Boon came out and went to the fridge to grab himself a beer.
“Shoot,” he said, answering the phone. “Wit’ my boy, playin’ the game and smokin’. What up, tho’?” Yo spoke, while Boon set the game up. Boon could not hear the other party on the phone. “Oh, yeah? Hell yeah, we can do that.” Yo listened for a second. “I’m in for the day. Bring some Trojan Magnums wit’ you. Okay, cool,” Yo said and ended the call.
“You know you supposed to buy ya own rubbers, right?” Boon quipped.
“Fuck these hoes. I ain’t payin’ fa shit. I take that back; I pay the hoes no attention.” Both guys laughed.
They played six games. Boon won four of the six, during which, Boon had to warn Yo about his mouth. Yo was a sore loser and always resorted to name-calling and bragging about having more money and bitches than Boon.
“You pussy-whooped! That’s the real reason