Never Trust A White Man In A Hawaiian Shirt

“Never trust a white man

in a Hawaiian shirt,” I said

to the nineteen year old Rapper

I happened to come across

during a Saturday night

adventure.

“Huh,” he said to me.

I had wandered past

a bar with beats and

deep bass emanating from

inside. There was a crowd

outside, talking and laughing.

I stopped to light a smoke

and started a conversation with

a guy who happened to be the promoter of the event.

“This young rapper inside, he’s my new client,”

said the promoter,  “He’s good.”

The promoter told me to check it out.

I went into the bar, sticking out, in

a bright ocean blue Hawaiian shirt,

and an Irish face highlighted red with

drink.  I settled in by the pool table to

listen to the young rapper and his

throaty back-up.

I bobbed my head in time,

listened as best I could through the

thundering rhythm. I couldn’t quite

make out the words, but the young rapper

had talent, it seemed. The song ended.

I clapped with all the other patrons.

I thought I should get a drink at the bar,

so I could, you know, blend in. I couldn’t

make it though because right at that moment,

a young woman with her head buried in a smart

phone crossed my path, she was followed by

Lil Wayne, and then a huge body guard.

“Was that Lil Wayne,” I asked the

guy behind me. He nodded that it was.

Since the bartender was unreachable I decided

I’d go back outside, see that promoter,

and see if that was indeed Lil Wayne.

Because, hey, Lil Wayne.

I went outside and the promoter and

Lil Wayne were talking briefly and before

you could say “Cellphone Camera”, Lil Wayne

was in a luxury car and they vanished into the

night.  I looked at the promoter and I nodded.

He nodded back.

“I should have got a picture,” I said.

I’m not sure what the promoter thought

I said but he goes, “Hang on,” and went into

the bar and came outside with the young rapper.

“This guy wanted to meet you,” said the promoter

to the young rapper.

“Who are you,” said the young rapper.

“Me? I’m just a white guy in a Hawaiian shirt,” I said.

The promoter seemed to laugh.

“But I really enjoyed what you got going on in there

and I wish you nothing but success,” I said.

He looked at my curiously, eyebrows furrowed.

I laughed, explained how he should

never trust a white man in a Hawaiian shirt,

shook their hands and continued on my

Saturday night journey, feeling nostalgic

for the adventures, misadventures,

of my younger days.