First Semester by Cecil Cross Page A

marinated in the couch because every dude who sat on that couch came out with the itch. Gotta watch them girls in Turner, cuz. If they don’t turn on you, they just might burn on you! I ain’t Usher. Ain’t no way I’m figna let it burn, cuz. I don’t know about y’all, but Fats just ain’t going out like that.”
    By the time we made it back to the Student Center it was almost time for our mandatory meeting with our resident assistants in Marshall Hall. We had about ten minutes to spare. Fats wrapped up his tour with a few closing comments.
    â€œI got the hookup on a little bit of everything, cuz. If I ain’t got it, I can get it. If I can’t, I know somebody who can. Get at me if you need anything. I got pull like tug-of-war around here.”
    Just as I was about to merge back across the street toward Marshall Hall, I felt a tug on the sleeve of my white Lacoste polo. It was Fats. He was standing next to some cat who’d come on the tour of the campus with us. It was hard not to notice him. Dude was wearing a black Dobb hat with a burgundy feather on the side of it. Even with his hat on, you could see he had more waves than a tsunami. He was rocking a burgundy short-sleeved dress shirt, black linen pants and a fly pair of black-and-gray Steve Maddens. A toothpick rolled back and forth across his bottom lip as he talked on his cell phone. I was just waiting for him to pull a pimp cup from his back pocket.
    â€œSay, pimp skillet,” Fats said. “Ain’t too many player-type individuals on campus. Most of these clowns are about as square as a box of Apple Jacks, ya dig?”
    â€œGame recognize game,” I said.
    â€œWell, it would be very valuable for you to link up with pimperoni to my left,” he said, motioning toward the pimp-in-training. “I met him earlier today, cuz. He’s cool people. We linked up like a booger and a nose and we’ve been kickin’ it all day, so I know y’all can do it big in Marshall Hall like I used to.”
    â€œFa sheezy,” I said. “What’s your name, family?”
    â€œI’m gonna call you back, baby,” he said, holding up a finger as if to ask me to give him a second. “I’m serious, boo. As soon as I get done handling this business, I promise I’m gonna call you back…for real…I love you too, Chantel.”
    â€œDamn, cuz,” Fats said. “You be dripping like a faucet on that phone. I just knew you were going to be blowing kisses through the phone any second.”
    â€œThat was wifey, folk,” the guy said. “You know how that be.”
    â€œNah, cuz,” Fats said. “I know how daytime minutes be. Anybody calling me before nine p.m. better have a real emergency to talk to me about.”
    â€œShe’s paying my cell phone bill, so I ain’t really tripping on that.”
    â€œSay that, then, pimpin’,” Fats said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. That’s why y’all two need to link up. You’re cut from the same cloth, cuz.”
    â€œWhat’s your name, blood?” I asked.
    â€œMy government name is Lamont, but my pimp friends call me Fresh,” he said, removing his hat just long enough to pull a brush from his back pocket and quickly touch up his Caesar.
    â€œWhy they call you that?”
    â€œI got my first pair of gators when I was in sixth grade and I wore them on the first day of school. I got to school late, so when I came into class everybody saw my shoes. The teacher said, ‘You must think you’re fresh with those fancy shoes on.’ I told her, ‘I’m fresh without them.’ Ever since, everybody in that class started calling me Fresh, and it just stuck.”
    â€œI can dig it with a shovel, family.”
    â€œBut come to think of it, I didn’t start going by Fresh until my uncle, Bishop Don Magic Juan, told me that I should use it as