(Downtown Friday night)
Itchy’s real name is Michel Paul, but I don’t know anyone that calls him by his birth name. As a matter of fact, I came upon his name accidentally, but that’s another tale. So it came to pass that the day Lysettes’s father, a.k.a El Diablo, opened the mail to pay the phone bill, he grounded her for life. Let me back track for a moment to that first encounter. It was Friday night, and we were all hanging out downtown when a white Lincoln Town Car sedan stretched lazily along the curb slowing down right in front of us; us being Marcy, Lysette, Woodsy, and I. It idled steadily as though breathing. An ultimate limo it was not, but certainly she was oozing charisma for the shades were drawn and the only visible means of looking in was through the windshield. A tasteful magnetic sign trimmed in gold hung on the driver’s door simply read Duke’s V.I.P.Limo. Were we being checked out or just happen to be standing in the right place at the right time? Whatever the reason it didn’t matter and immediately Lysette hiked her already short enough skirt higher, displaying the thickest part of her thighs.
The driver’s window cracked open expelling a procession of vibrations that can only be described as the piece de resistance of tight bass. An exposition of sound shot up through our abdomens, through the solar plexus, up into our low-cut, and drifted to the temple behind the eyes. The limo maintained its low idle while the dark tinted window slowly edged downward. Immediately, we dared each other to walk up to the driver’s door. Lysette only had to be asked once and she stepped off the curb like she had been doing this for years. The rest of us huddled together and could barely keep our composure because we were laughing so hard. All the while we were keeping rhythm to the low vibrations of the stereo, each watching Lysette saunter up to the driver’s window. I suppose that was the moment in time we can safely call “love at first sight”. That was when she met Itchy, behind the wheel of the limo. They talked for what seemed to be forever, her head and shoulders pitched forward, her arms resting against the lowered window frame while her big ass faced us and swayed with the music. Finally, she turned around and with the look of victory held up her cell phone and clutched it to her chest. As she stepped back up on to the curb only the lit end of a cigarette was visible through the dark glass. And then, once again, we were standing in the quiet of the street; the music had vanished as the white stretch streamed out of sight, leaving us all begging for details from a love-struck Lysette.
Nanette L. Avery’s nickname is a palindrome. She is an excellent dart player, international film enthusiast, and eats ice cream every night before bed. Drawing upon her experiences and the backdrop of life growing up in the Virgin Islands, she is an eclectic author who transcends many genres. Her latest novel is this murder parody that will kill you!