Last night I had an epiphany. I was reclining on my couch, eyes closed, Lil’ Boosie playing softly in the background, just reflecting on my recently-aborted, hilariously-unsuccessful, year-and-a-half attempt to find a job in the New York publishing industry, when it hit me. In a moment of unprecedented clarity I knowledged the real reason for the death of book publishing. I felt like Jim Jones sniffing his first line of speed on the back of the bus leaving Ukiah, y’all.

From the jump I could tell something was wrong. In every interview, an unusual awkwardness hung heavy in the air, like a Delonte West finger. Reminiscing as I was, I caught sight of the one unifying detail in what had seemed, until that moment, a series of unconnected, singular events, each possessing their own unique absurdity. It was so simple, so obvious. It was staring at me from the very beginning. What a fool I had been! How could I have missed it? The whole story came together at once, and my anxiety approached Dave-Kujan-at-the-end-of-The-Usual-Suspects-proportions as I beheld this jewel:

THE BOW TIE IS THE AUSTRIAN LIP OF PUBLISHING.

Let me explain. I have never in my life encountered as many bow ties in the wild as I did on these interviews. I have nothing personal against bow ties (ok, I do, but I’ll let it slide), but I’m convinced that their prevalence in the publishing industry here in New York is a signifier of just how cloistered that world is. Don’t let them fool you, the increasing impotence of the industry has very little to do with a shift in technology and everything to do with the fact that it is just as incestuous as the House of Hapsburg was. End of the line.

This morning I was listening to the Eek-A-Mouse song “What Me Ago Do,” and it inspired this little story (it’s fiction, son).

I’m not going to turn this into a writing blog, but I can’t promise I won’t occasionally offer similar regurgitations. Bear with me.


It was the Summer of 1993 and I had just turned 14. All year me and my little crew of friends were making money selling sneakers and jerseys to the kids at our school. We had a connect, Pearlie, downtown in the Pearnel Charles Arcade, which is a maze of higgler booths where most uptown kids (as we most definitely were) would be robbed before they even made it to the entrance (as we most definitely had been). The story as we got it was that she was the wifey of a local Don, who set her up with her own stall, which, as a cash business, provided him with a perfect outlet for rinsing drug money. At any rate, she had the best, most consistent selection of legit Nikes—not only in the Arcade, but on the island. And we had the connect. Major! I’m not sure if Pearlie ever had an account with Nike, but she did have the catalogs. You might have to wait a few months, and you better order the right sizes, but trust they would get there.

Inside the Arcade the legitimate businesses acted as a convenient cover for illegal activity, and just beneath surface of the daily hustle and bustle lurked a complex ecosystem of crime. Each day spent inside was punctuated with fights and arguments ranging from the petty to the deadly. For protection, Pearlie had a group of guys to look out for her and her stall. With Pearlie often traveling, these guys became our friends and our point of access to the rest of the Arcade, introducing us to the jersey guy at first, and later to other, more lucrative hustles (a story of a different nature, for a different day). So, what started, innocently enough, as a day of skipping school on a mission to buy sneakers for ourselves, eventually developed into a steady hustle as buying agents working on commission for the kids at our school.

Anyway, I say all of that to say this. I had a little money in my pocket, fresh kicks, and a closet full of jerseys. My team, the Bulls, had recently clinched the 3-peat with a game winner from my hero John Paxson (don’t laugh). Shit was good. And, of all the adventures that year, it was one unremarkable event on a random weekday that Summer that stands out to me more than anything else because that day I came to understand implicitly what my place in Jamaican society was. Less seriously, but probably just as useful, I also learned never to show up at someone’s house unannounced and 10 deep, and never to confuse a customer for a friend.

You still with me? Ok, here’s a quick rundown of the day. I dedicate this one to all the gatekeepers out there keeping polite society polite. Fuck you.

Kingston, Jamaica. Summer of ‘93 

Wake up with the heat.

Hit the fan, unplug the Vape.

Call next door.

“Pool party up a Jacks Hill.”

Shower. Shorts. Playoff 8s. Chain. Paxson jersey. Hat. Money, Rizzla and ratchet off the dresser.

———

Jump the wall. Bills bag, few hot Guinness. Icy mint with the silver. 

Crush the herb. Guinness between fingers.

Driva!

“‘Im stop! ‘Im stop!”

Climb in. Build the spliff. Up in the ear.

Guinness from between the feet.

———

Hop out. Bite the twist.

Fiya?

———

I put the empty bottle on the asphalt against the curb. Both hands free, I pull up my shorts, and, with the spliff hanging from the corner of my mouth, I survey the scene. I don’t see anyone I know, but I remember that a friend from school lives in the area. I forget the actual address but recognize the neighborhood, and so we set out to look for his house.

Along the way everyone, instinctively and individually, accumulates a handful of stones in dreaded-anticipation of an encounter with one of the many dogs barking at us from behind the gates and hedges of every house we pass. So it is that we arrive at the home of my friend from school. Over the intercom his sister remembers me, and, filing through the first opening provided by the now-activated electric gate, we gradually discard stones and spliff tails alike as we approach the house.

My friend comes out the door nervous, looking like Smokin’ Joe Frazier in the Sunshine Showdown (he’s bobbing and weaving, yo). As he’s trying to size up my little crew standing behind me in his driveway I can see straight through to the backyard. I realize that — Bloodclaat! — his house butts up against the pool party in the back. What a piece of luck! Of course, the first thought is jump the wall and crash the party. I put it to him.

“Sorry yow, mi cyaan let in all a dem people de.”

How yu mean? A just me and some a mi friend dem. Wha’appen?

“Dog, mi nuh know dem yute de.”

So wha’appen, yu nuh trust dem?

“A nuh dat, a nuh dat, a nuh dat…”

———

I said it standing at his door that day, and I say it again today, Is wha’ den? - Well, what is it?

Fake friends turned unofficial gatekeepers. It’s the same song.