six feet five inches, dressed in a white suit and a tie, thin as a yardstick. Cynthia Robinson, the trumpet player—fair skin and soft Afro highlighting guarded amber eyes—reached her hand out to me. Rose, a familiar face, hugged me, making me feel like her sister, as she popped her gum. KC stood at the counter with everyone's tickets. I walked to him and said hello.
On board, we sat scattered through first class. Sly swayed down the aisle of the airplane and sat on the arm of Larry's seat, leaning over his conked hair. Larry handed Sly a large book; I could see the title:
The World of Dogs.
I pushed the round silver button to recline my seat and breathed deeply. I had made it. A flight attendant leaned over. “Champagne, mimosa, or orange juice?”
“Orange juice, thank you.” I couldn't believe she was offering me alcohol. She didn't know I was only eighteen, but I was not about to get drunk on a plane.
Close to the thrill I felt in getting away without Mom and Dad knowing sat a gnawing worry about how they would react when I did not come home from work. Would Kitsaun be able to appease Mom and Dad, or would they call the police to bring me back? The flight attendant offered me a magazine, and I buried my concerns in
Glamour.
Sly's voice carried loudly through the first-class cabin. When I looked up, his eyes were on me. I thought about what a puzzle he was. He was obviously smart, but acted like a thug rather than intelligent in front of others. Since we had met, I had come to respect his poetry, his view of the world through his songs. Like Bob Dylan, a spokesman for social change for our generation, Sly's lyrics cleverly touted racial harmony, acceptance of those different from the mainstream, and standing up for one's beliefs even when the whole world tried to tell you that you were wrong. He was charismatic and sparkled with energy. When he spoke, his voice hummed, animated with laughter. I loved being near him when he captured melodies on the piano, singing new lyrics.
He sat in the seat beside me with the book in his hands and bent his head close to mine. My skin grew hot. “You're like music,” he breathed, “new melodies I've got to play. We're going to have fun. ‘Hot Fun in the Summertime,’” he said, quoting the title of the single the band had just released. He threw his head back, laughed, and opened the dog book. “What do you think of a bulldog?”
I looked at the photo of a short, stocky dog, swaybackedwith loose jowls. “Hmm. Pretty ugly. We always had German shepherds. Don't bulldogs get lockjaw?”
“Only if they get in a fight—I like that they lock onto the other dog,” Sly said. “Stoner's getting old. I wanna get some new dogs. I'm thinking about a pit bull or a bulldog. Maybe both.” He turned the pages, and I looked at the photos and read the descriptions with him.
We flew over Manhattan before landing, the Empire State Building's silver art deco spire glimmering in the distance. I followed Sly from the plane onto the Jetway. A thin wave of blistering air seeped through the rubber molding and scorched my arms and legs. I was glad I had worn my white knit sleeveless dress. It was perfect for the August heat. Outside the terminal, Sly guided me to a waiting limousine. I had never been in a limousine, and I looked around to see whether the other band members would get in first. The driver opened the door of the long black car, and Sly put his arm on my back, gently pushing me in. I saw Freddy, Rose, Larry, Jerry, Cynthia, and Greg— the rest of the band—climb into a long van.
Sly sets himself apart from his musicians.
I wondered how that made everyone else feel. I felt awkward—ostentatious—sitting in the back of a car that could hold six people. “Should I get my bag?” I asked.
Sly ducked into the limo and yelled to his father, “Dad, don't forget Debbie's suitcase!” The driver closed our door and climbed into the front seat. Sly said, “Let's go to
On board, we sat scattered through first class. Sly swayed down the aisle of the airplane and sat on the arm of Larry's seat, leaning over his conked hair. Larry handed Sly a large book; I could see the title:
The World of Dogs.
I pushed the round silver button to recline my seat and breathed deeply. I had made it. A flight attendant leaned over. “Champagne, mimosa, or orange juice?”
“Orange juice, thank you.” I couldn't believe she was offering me alcohol. She didn't know I was only eighteen, but I was not about to get drunk on a plane.
Close to the thrill I felt in getting away without Mom and Dad knowing sat a gnawing worry about how they would react when I did not come home from work. Would Kitsaun be able to appease Mom and Dad, or would they call the police to bring me back? The flight attendant offered me a magazine, and I buried my concerns in
Glamour.
Sly's voice carried loudly through the first-class cabin. When I looked up, his eyes were on me. I thought about what a puzzle he was. He was obviously smart, but acted like a thug rather than intelligent in front of others. Since we had met, I had come to respect his poetry, his view of the world through his songs. Like Bob Dylan, a spokesman for social change for our generation, Sly's lyrics cleverly touted racial harmony, acceptance of those different from the mainstream, and standing up for one's beliefs even when the whole world tried to tell you that you were wrong. He was charismatic and sparkled with energy. When he spoke, his voice hummed, animated with laughter. I loved being near him when he captured melodies on the piano, singing new lyrics.
He sat in the seat beside me with the book in his hands and bent his head close to mine. My skin grew hot. “You're like music,” he breathed, “new melodies I've got to play. We're going to have fun. ‘Hot Fun in the Summertime,’” he said, quoting the title of the single the band had just released. He threw his head back, laughed, and opened the dog book. “What do you think of a bulldog?”
I looked at the photo of a short, stocky dog, swaybackedwith loose jowls. “Hmm. Pretty ugly. We always had German shepherds. Don't bulldogs get lockjaw?”
“Only if they get in a fight—I like that they lock onto the other dog,” Sly said. “Stoner's getting old. I wanna get some new dogs. I'm thinking about a pit bull or a bulldog. Maybe both.” He turned the pages, and I looked at the photos and read the descriptions with him.
We flew over Manhattan before landing, the Empire State Building's silver art deco spire glimmering in the distance. I followed Sly from the plane onto the Jetway. A thin wave of blistering air seeped through the rubber molding and scorched my arms and legs. I was glad I had worn my white knit sleeveless dress. It was perfect for the August heat. Outside the terminal, Sly guided me to a waiting limousine. I had never been in a limousine, and I looked around to see whether the other band members would get in first. The driver opened the door of the long black car, and Sly put his arm on my back, gently pushing me in. I saw Freddy, Rose, Larry, Jerry, Cynthia, and Greg— the rest of the band—climb into a long van.
Sly sets himself apart from his musicians.
I wondered how that made everyone else feel. I felt awkward—ostentatious—sitting in the back of a car that could hold six people. “Should I get my bag?” I asked.
Sly ducked into the limo and yelled to his father, “Dad, don't forget Debbie's suitcase!” The driver closed our door and climbed into the front seat. Sly said, “Let's go to
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