The Entre-po-negro

I am really all for the guy that has ambition, drive and most importantly--vision.

But sometimes you run into men who have this...but it doesn't quite manifest itself in the way we would like it to. Say for example, you ask him "What do you do"? And he replies, "I'm a rapper." While there are many talented individuals out there who are very successful at the art of rap, the chances that they will become the next Jay-Z are highly unlikely. So after they tell me they are a "rapper," I proceed to inquire more about this career path they've chosen.

You know, where do you rap? who are you signed with? Are you recording now? How many albums do you have out? Are you under management?

If the answers to these questions are not satisfactory, I'm going to assume that you don't have a job. Which is fine. You have to follow your dreams. I just don't think I'm going to be able to ride along.

Don't get me wrong, people grow to be stars but if your plan is not aligned correctly, then we won't work out anyway.

Soooo, I'm chilling in the restaurant with my girl and in comes The Entre-po-negro. You know who I'm talking about. The one who is dressed pretty decently, clean, jewelry nice but not gaudy, teeth clean, nails manicured, you have seen him a hundred times. Your interest piques and then you get into a conversation.

"So what do you do"?

"Oh well, I own a clothing store, I'm managing my homeboys rap career, I sell mix tapes (you want one), and gift cards (we can shop anytime you want), I promote parties--that's why I'm always out, and I got umbrellas in my trunk for sale but they got that Rihanna logo on them and I'm about to open a barber shop and then I'm doing this skin care line, cause my mom nem' own a restaurant that I'm about to take over."

Now, at a younger age you hear some crap like this and you are so excited that he has some sort of a job or at least it sounds like it, that you're running around hopping in his Range as if it's paid for.

Ahh yes, there's the catch. How much of this "stuff" does he actually own.

Moving on.

I won't lie to you. I fell for the blurb. It wasn't quite as extensive but it was enough stuff to throw up the stop sign that I completely ignored.

But I'm saying I don't know what it is about New York guys, but they LOVE to eat. No really. Even if they work out or stay in shape, they still LOVE to eat. It seems as if there is some unwritten code that you must meet a girl determine her "type" and try to impress her with as many restaurants that fall in her category.

For example, you meet a bird, you know Olive Garden will do. You meet a school girl, anywhere will do. You meet a girl that's you know semi-fancy then you might upgrade to Brooklyn Moon, you know a few Sundays at Habana Outpost, you know. But, you meet a socialite or a girl who's been around the block a few times--you already know...Phillipe's, Tao, Kittichai, Blue Ribbon....the list goes on and on a tshirt and jeans day she wants Habana too.

It's like this thing with them. And I'm just sayin...I like to eat.

Okay, so back to the story. Here we go. So he decided that we're going to Tao and then after we're going to stand on some couches. My kind of night.

Everything is going...okay. Besides the off color remarks like, "You'd be so pretty pregnant..nothing but belly....and I make pretty babies too." Oh, really? I totally skipped past the fact that he assumed that I was interested and went straight to the fact he said "Babies" as in plural. I had to ask. Two babies, two different mothers. But I don't judge.

Moving on.

He's funny, he's cool, no harm no foul. We decide that we're going to skip past the couches and going to chill at his house. Trust me. I don't go to random people's house, I had learned my lesson by then, but you know entre-po-negroes...they like to show off. So when he's paying for the bill I notice that he's credit card heavy. Not like two or three, more like six or seven. Now my first mind would have taken me to a credit card scammer, but I said give him a chance, he is a "business person."

So, of course we get to his spot and it's in Battery Park and decked OUT. No like, something out of MTV cribs with a sick view of Jersey. TV's (plural) in the living room, balcony...I'm talking plush carpeting. It's like one of those places you can see yourself walking around looking fab in heels and a long silk robe like you're Tony Montana's wife or something...

So anyway, as I pass the kitchen counter I see bills. Stacks and stacks of bills. How do I know? You haven't figured out by now I'm nosy?? So I'm thinking to myself how is this dude affording all this crap if he can't pay his bills??

Drugs? Credit Cards Scams?

Ahhh, whatevs....So we watch this movie and the whole time I'm thinking like what the heck does this dude do? I mean I've seen his business, but it's not doing that well from what I could tell. Not enough for this sub zero in the kitchen.

I over think everything and I've already decided that he's a notorious drug dealer and leave it at that. I pull the well, I've got a million things to do tomorrow line and ask to be taken home. When we get downstairs, we go over to where he had parked his truck. It's not there. So he's like cursing, like where the heck is my truck. He's like looking around with the shrug face...confused...and then he gets this enlightened face and says..."Oh no it must've gotten towed...I knew I shouldn't have parked there."

*Raised eyebrow*

I look around like I think this is a legal park, but you know I don't drive in NY so I'm not going to assume, I see a sign down there, but I want to support him in this moment and not go reading signs, you know men don't like to be wrong.

So he gets it together and I'm like "Well the West Side impound place or whatever is right there, you wanna cab it over and just go pick it up"?

So he gets all chivalrous like, "Nah, nah, it's already late, I'm sorry I'm just going to put you in a cab and then I'm a take another one to go get it."

We go back towards the corner and he hails a cab. "How much you think it is"? So I tell him about $20-30 and he pulls out this money from his wallet that looks like its been folded in there for months as if he's holding onto it for dear life.I felt so bad, but had to hold my composure from laughing.

He tells me he will call me later, and I pull off.

Before I got to my house I ran back the night in my head. You know where we parked, how there was no other cars towed....all the bills. And like the great detective I am. I cracked the case.

His truck was repossessed not towed maaaaaaan *Martin voice*

I never said anything though...I think I might've asked him how did it go getting his "truck" out of the tow pound and he came up with something....but we went out a couple more times but you know how it goes...things fade when they aren't real.