Tonight: Pop Muzic at the OMNI

Tonight: Pop Muzic at the OMNI

Winter rolled into town with a vengeance like some Banditos, and decided to stick around like a murder rap. It has been six months of gang wars between the snow flurries and the black ice—two dangerous motherfuckas. Mother Nature has a way of letting us know who is the real o.g. (orginal gangsta) in this hood. Just think of Haiti and Katrina, Mother Nature has the money and the power. However, despite the winter’s turf wars there was only one person brave enough to venture out in those hellish winter conditions and his name, T-Bo Poqus Johnson. While everyone one else in Winterville, USA, got to sleep in and woke up to defrosted, paved roads, T-Bo on the other hand didn’t have that luxury as he was up early in the morning every winter gangbangin’,pavin’ away on the roads against those murderous elements. For the past twenty-two years, T-Bo has plowed the streets of Winterville, USA, through the worst winters recorded. For the record, T-Bo has never lost a bout with the winter’s heavyweights. Subsequently, his work ethic was second to none as he also took pride in his superstitious morning rituals. His morning rountine was simple and down right American. He woke up to his timely coffee that was set up at night for four in the morning. And, today because the weather was so bad T-Bo fired up his computer for his news updates and the weather report. Normally, T-Bo read the paper in the morning just like a lot of other Americans but the paper boy these days are not built like our parent’s paperboy. These days the paperboy was lazier and rounder. But I digrest, T-Bo favored his eggs scrabbled and his toast buttered up with grape jam or peach as an audible. And on Sundays’ he liked his Sunday grits buttered and sweet with a dap of honey. The last and final stages of his everyday routine was his militant march to the front door of his humble dwelling to take one last gulp of his black coffee. And with the screen door opened to the outside world he took down that last gulp with a big rub to his belly for super powers, and then finally with a rebel yell he would shout, “THE GREAT OUT DOORS.” In other words, it’s takin’ care of business time. TBC, as we called in Winterville.

T-Bo didn’t see himself as a God or a savior to the folks of Winterville by any means. T-Bo considered himself to be an average man, working man. He worked hard every day and rocked out to Steely Dan while on the job just like many other Americans. He was neither greedy or selfish, as he was a bible man. Some folks and residents of Winterville thought of T-Bo as a hero of sorts. Not like Iron Man or John Mclane from the “Die Hard” fame. But more like a firefighter. Sure, he plowed the streets and divided the ice like Moses, so that the rat racers had a clear path for their morning trek to work. But, where the rat racers really began to their day was what made T-Bo infamous around Winterville—a folk hero. The point I’m talkin’ about between home and work was T-Bo’s real job. T-Bo’s real job consisted of providin’ a gospel offering of the best chicken and waffles known to man or woman of all races—American, African-American, Asian-American, Mexican-American and all the other “cans” out there. His joint was called “The OMNI,” and the shop was a holy temple for all. Every single person in Winterville started their day or ended their day having T-Bo’s chicken and waffles. Some considered the chicken and waffles as water and others felt like the plate was oxygen—their life source.

The slogan at the OMNI was “I’ve been hittin’ it for the past few days.” And because of the mass following to the OMNI on all the days that end in “y,” T-Bo made t-shirts, hot pants, wristbands, headbands, and the infamous stickers which featured a cracked out lookin’ man leaning up against the wall under a street light surrounded by ten or so empty plates of chicken and waffles that read, “I’ve been hittin’ it for the past few days.” Even his merchandise was a hot commodity and flew off the shelves just like the chicken and waffle plates. Some folks like his childhood buddies (now retired) had seven shirts for the seven days of the week—different colors too. The kids on the play ground shootin’ hoops or playin’ four square were all rockin’ one form or another of the OMNI’s merch. So as you can guess, T-Bo was a man about town—a local hero, salt of the Earth.

Today, T-Bo plowed on through the major roads of Winterville with little resistance from the snow flurries and the black ice, and made it to the OMNI with time to spare. He parked in his usual spot and caught the last few minutes of the Howard Stern show. T-Bo had a thing/a crush for Robin Quivers. The show went to commercial, so T-Bo decided it was time to light up the engines for another glorious day of chicken and waffles. The way the Lord intended it to be in T-Bo’s eyes. As he walked up to the front door with keys in hand T-Bo gotta a sharp, alarming tap on the shoulder. It was as if T-Bo had just been touched by a ghost of pussy past.

“Holy shit, boi. You scared me.”

“Sorry sir, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Don’t do that again, you hear. You see this”. T-Bo opened up his jacket and flashed the stranger the heat he was packin’—baby sittin’ as they say in Ghettoville, USA. “Next time you might have your cap peeled, son.”

T-Bo noticed that the kid’s eyes never left T-Bo’s eyes, the kid was locked in, a sign of respect. T-Bo always told the kids in the hood to, “Always look at dem eyes when you talkin’ to another person, it’s a sign of respect”. Moreover, the mention of the pistol didn’t faze the pup. The kid had no fear, he must have been through a lot T-Bo thought.

“So what brings you out this early in the morning, boi?”

“Well.......”

“Spit it out, son. I don’t have the time to be messin’ around.”

“Well, I was wantin’ a job. You see I’m not from around here, and I can’t find a job any where. No job equals no money, and you and me both know that ain’t right.” The boy paused for a sec, “some cat down the road said you might be hiring—day labor kinda thing.”

T-Bo unlocked the door and looked back at the feral kid. He had a gut feeling that this stranger might just work out for once. T-Bo had a history of being a charitable man, giving jobs to strangers or the desperate. But more often than not he was disappointed time and time again, as the new hires would run off after lunch or after they get their days pay never to be seen again. Once, one stranger tried to rob T-Bo. T-Bo and the stranger were cleaning up at the end of the night but the stranger had know idea that T-Bo ain’t afraid of dyin’. T-Bo was in the special forces during Vietnam. T-Bo had seen enough death that he was numb to death. And so T-Bo turned the gun around on the stranger, pistol whipped the dumbass, and then hog tied him up until the cops showed up twenty minutes later to arrest the chump.

The moment T-Bo locked eyes with the boy he felt instant connection for some odd reason. So with a short pause T-Bo took a chance, “Boi, come on in. I need some help with the morning prep. You know how to work a knife?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about a fryer?”

“Yes, sir. My heart don’t pump no slushee.”

T-Bo stopped in his tracks. “What did you just say?”

“I said, my heart don’t pump no slushee.” The boy recorded back.

Déjà vu hit T-Bo with a right cross. As T-Bo continued to the kitchen he asked, “Boi, where did hear that from? I’ve been sayin’ that for years. A lot longer than you’ve been born. “

The perplexed kid replied, “Shit, I don’t know. I think I got it from my Momma.”

“You got it from your Momma? Who do you think you are, Juvenile?”

The kid laughed, “No sir.”

So the kid followed T-Bo to the back of the kitchen where the sink room was. T-Bo showed the kid where all the knives and pretty much all the kitchen ware was stationed at. And then showed him the walk-in where all the food is stored. While in the walk-in T-Bo mentioned, “Here is where you can smoke weed if you’re in to that. But don’t slack off if you smoke, I’ll fire your ass.”

“Cool…..sometimes I do but not here at work.” The boy replied.

“I don’t mind if you do just don’t slack’ off.”

“Yes sir.”

After the walk through of the kitchen the apple tree and the apple got to bustin’ out the morning prep. T-Bo showed the kid how he wanted everything to be cut and prepped, and later stored for backups. And the kid took up the system like he done it before. T-Bo was quite impressed with the kid’s work ethic and how fast he picked up how the kitchen functions. The whole time T-Bo kept lookin’ over his shoulder to inspect the kid’s work and each time he thought, “This kid is good. Reminds me of myself. And I think he is going to work out.” In just a matter of a couple of hours, T-Bo and the kid knocked out the morning prep in a timely fashion which is unheard of. Normally, the walk-in strangers T-Bo employed were a bunch of “lazy ass mothafuckas,” and the morning prep routine lasted up until the doors were open for business. So with time to spare T-Bo tapped the kid on the shoulder, “Say kid, lets take a break. I gots somethings to show you. Follow me.”

So the kid followed T-Bo to the front of the restaurant, the dining area. And T-Bo began to point out his prize possesions around the dining area—the autographed sports memorabilia. He pointed out the Dominique Wilkin’s autograhped jerseys and cards, the rookie card of Dale Murphy and signed bat, Hank Aaron’s last game program, Deon Sanders Brave’s jersey and Falcon’s jersey, and the list continues from wall to wall. All of the local professional teams were well represented at the OMNI. And the lone wall that didn’t have all the sport collectibles was the hall of fame wall with pictures from all of the celebrities who have bungeed through the OMNI throughout the decades. T-Bo was like, “Here is the photo of Ali and me in ‘79. And over here is Rodney Dangerfield and Richard Pryor in ’83. This one over here is Redd Foxx and me in ’81. Elvis swung by here in ’71.” T-Bo went silent as he drove himself back to memory lane. And then he exhaled, “This is one of my favorite pics.....Jimmy Carter and myself in ’77.”

The kid took a step closer to T-Bo and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Man, you’ve done a lot for yourself. This OMNI place must be real good?”

“Kid, you’ve never eaten here?”

“No….sir.”

T-Bo about faced and was lookin’ at the kid in the eyes, “Kid, you don’t have to call me sir anymore. You can call me T-Bo from now on. Around here folks call me T-Bo.”

“You got it, T-Bo.”

T-Bo spun around to the soda station and grabbed a couple of cokes while the kid admired the walls of the OMNI. T-Bo then sat down at one of the tables in the dining area. “Say kid, come over here. I gots somethings to run by you before I open up the doors.” The kid sat down opposite of T-Bo. “Alright, I’m going to have you run the register today. We always get really slammed in the morning and you ain’t ready to be behind the fryers or the stove top.”

“That’s cool. I catch on pretty quick.”

“I’ve noticed that. So what’s your name, kid?”

The kid took a sip from his coke. “My name is Tre’ but most folks call me Quick.”

“Tre’? That’s a good name. I’ve always liked that name. I always wanted to name my son, Tre’, if I ever had a son.”

Shortly, the two guys got into a brief chat about how to run the register and how to take orders. Soon after the quick lesson the other employess started to roll in—Niesha (the chicken specialist), Jordan (the fryer), Lastings (stove top), and last but not least KJ (dishwasher). Everyone got introduced in a quick manner and then it was TBC time as the doors got unlocked and the sign flashed “open.” Breakfast and lunch ran together as the OMNI yet again got slammed for the next five hours. The once clean kitchen now looked like Katrina slammed right through it. There was batter, flour, butter, eggs, and spices scrambled all through the kitchen. But after the morning and lunch rush, business kinda slowed down for everyone, which allowed everyone to catch up with their cleaning duties before the dinner rush swung through. And as usual after T-Bo did his midday drop into the safe, he then marched around to inspect everyone’s stations and offered praises for a “job well done.” Finally, he made it to Tre’ and tapped him on the back, “You did good, Tre’. I’m surprise how fast you adapted to the situation and overcame all of those hungry ass folks. They can be quite vicious—animals.”

“They don’t call me, Quick, for nothing.” Tre’ swiftly replied.

“Well said, Tre. I mean Quick.” T-Bo uttered.

Moreover, the OMNI got cleaned up in a timely manner as always leaving time to spare for everyone to get their heads on straight inside the walk-in including T-Bo and Tre’. T-Bo normally doesn’t smoke with the staff, but this glorious day wasn’t in ordinary day—“today was a good day”. Not much is known about what goes on in these smoke breaks in the walk-in but the smoke break was a success as everyone walked out diggin’ on Tre’ even more. Niesha said it best, “I gotcha yo back, playa. You crazy funny.” The dinner rush came and went with very little hangups. After the dinner rush everyone knocked out their duties and went home, except for T-Bo and Tre’. They stuck around drinking beers and pullin’ back on a joint.

“So how do you like workin’ here, Tre’?” T-Bo exhaled.

Tre’ exhaled, “This place is dope. I like it a lot. You gots some cool cats up in here.”

“I agree. Most of dem cats have been with me for along time. Lastings has been with me for over ten years and everyone else for about seven. They work hard and I pay them well.”

“People seem to love this shit here. It’s like crack is in the recipe.” Tre’ exhaled.

T-Bo laughed, “Na…ain’t no crack in my yardbird. Just good ol’ fashion southern recipe with a twist.”

“What is the twist?” Tre’ inquired.

“Boi…I’ll never tell. Well, I gots to do somethings in the office so I’m going to bungee to the office but I’ll be right back. Help yourself to anything.”

T-Bo slipped out of the booth and headed back to the kitchen and into his office. He didn’t bother closing the door or locking the door as he normally does, he felt confident that Tre’ was on God’s side. T-Bo spun around the dial on the safe and got it open. He had to pull some money out to do his morning drop at the bank. As he was counting the bank from the safe there was a knock at the half closed door. But it wasn’t no ordinary knuckle knock, the knock sounded like a cold steel knock. T-Bo started to put the money back in the safe when he blurted, “Tre’ is that you?”

The door slowly swung open and Tre’ had a nickel plated glock 9 in his left hand with the pistol pointed sideways at T-Bo’s head. Right away T-Bo noticed that Tre’ was a lefty like he was. “What’s goin’ down, Tre’?”

With his finger on the curved trigger and his radar locked in on T-Bo’s eyes Tre’ replied. “What’s really goin’ down isn’t the money in your hand or in the safe. We have some unfinished business to discuss, Mr. T-Bo Poqus Johnson.”

With fear in his eyes and sweat tears poppin’ out of his forehead T-Bo asked, “What the hell are you talkin’ about, boi?”

Without any sort of hesistation Tre’ fired a shot. “POP.” Then came T-Bo’s screams of pain. As the bullet pierced through the palm of T-Bo’s right hand some bloodlets splattered against the wall coating the first dollar spent at the OMNI that was pinned up next to T-Bo’s desk. Other bloodlets splashed on T-Bo’s face and a couple of drops landed on Tre’s shirt. Tre’ never flinched.

“What da fuck?” T-Bo cried out as he cradled his wounded right hand into his chest. “You shot me mothefucka. Now you better kill me you little bitch.” This wasn’t the first time T-Bo had been shot, so he took it rather bravely.

Once again without any hesistation Tre’ fired another shot. “POP.” T-Bo yelled out again this time louder hoping someone would hear. This time Tre’ shot T-Bo’s right foot, which went right through the steel toed boot. And yet again bloodlets splattered this time across the floor, also landing on Tre’s kicks. I guess the steel toed boot isn’t bullet proof. Tre didn’t flinched.

“Aaaaawwwwwww. You little bitch. What’s your fuckin’ deal?” T-Bo cried in pain.

Tre’ started pacin’ around the office wavin’ around the glock. Anger and pain was pumpin’ through his whole body. “Alright, T-Bo. Do you remember a woman by the name of Tamika Cole Starghill?”

“Hell na.” T-Bo cried.

Tre’ took a step toward T-Bo, and stepped on his bullet pierced foot. As T-Bo shouted in pain Tre’ asked again, “Do you remember a woman by the name of Tamika Cole Starghill?”

“What part of no do you not get?” T-Bo cried.

Tre’ pointed the pistol at T-Bo’s head and fired a third shot,”POP,” this time the bullet clipped the right ear. “Fuck you,” T-Bo yelled as blood tricked down his neck. More bloodlets splattered the wall.

“Do you remember the name of a woman by the name of Tamika Cole Starghill, NOW?” Tre’ asked again.

T-Bo started to feel lightheaded, delirious, and sick to his stomach. The andreline was flowin’ and kickin’ in. The third shot jump started his memory bank all the way back 1986. August of that year, T-Bo remembered that he had a one night stand with a Tamika Cole Starghill. A day he now regrets. Tamika had walked into the OMNI for lunch lookin’ good with her short blue jean shorts, tiny white tank-top, red high hills, fuck-me red lipstick, and rockin’ her spanish flowing hair like Queen Isabel. T-Bo thought, “GOD DAMN. I’m takin’ her home tonight.” She flirted out her order and lured T-Bo in right off the bat. And as she ate she kept lookin’ up at T-Bo giving him pretty eyes. Before she left she strolled up to the counter with an alluring smile and left T-Bo with a message written on a napkin. T-Bo leaned over the counter to check out her big round beautiful ass, and as she walked and sped off in her ride T-Bo opened up the napkin. Inside the napkin was the name of the hotel and room number, and the remains of a kiss from her perky red fuck me red lipstick. Sure enough after work T-Bo b-lined straight to the hotel and took well advantage of the sweet offering. A night to remember. Well, a month or so later after the sex rendeavous had faded out of memory, The Ghost of Pussy Past, drifted into T-Bo’s life unexpectedly. Tamika called up the OMNI one September afternoon talkin’ about her period was late and was pregnant. And this is what T-Bo said after hearing about the news, “Naaa….it couldn’t be me. Not me.” And he hung up the phone. Tamika never attempted to contact T-Bo ever again. And T-Bo never cared. T-Bo never said a word to anyone about this skeleton bone in the closet.

“Yes…..I do remember Tamika. She was a mighty fine fuck.”

Tre’ raised the gun up and fired another shot, “POP.” The bullet hit T-Bo’s other foot leaving more blood and bloodlets across the office. Once again, T-Bo yelled out for “help” but not even help was goin’ to help tonight. Tre’ again wiped the blood off of his face with his sleeve. He didn’t even flinch when the blood hit his face. Tre’ then sat down on the office chair across from T-Bo and admired the sight of T-Bo layin’ there with his clothes soaked in his own blood and big rain drop tears streamin’ down his treblin’ cheeks. Tre’ smiled, “You like that, right? It feels good.” Tre’ took a short pause to admire the master piece he created. “Tamika Cole Starghill was my Momma. You little bitch.”

“Fuck you, Tre’.” T-Bo cried.

Without any sort of hesistation Tre’ shot T-Bo again. “POP.” This time he shot T-Bo’s other hand and more blood splattered against the wall. T-Bo cried out louder than before for help. But help is not in his cards today. “How does it feel, T-Bo?” Tre’ asked as he got up from the chair and grabbed his cigarettes, and pulled out a joint half smoked. He put some fire to the ass end of the joint and exhaled, “So how does it feel to be alone and nobody here to help?” Tre’ started to slide and dance around the office with T-Bo’s blood at this feet. “This is quite fun….don’t ya think, Daddy?” He had a smile of happiness stretched across his face. Tre’ had never been happier in his life seein’ the pain on T-Bo’s face. “Tamika, my Momma, talked about how great of a man you are. Well, where.” Tre’ walked back over to the chair and sat down again. “But I don’t see it.” He inhaled and exhaled, “How can a good man be considered a good man if he showed no interest in takin’ care of the woman who was carrin’ his baby. Or how about keepin’ in contact with the child for the the child’s sake. You’re a bad man. And now I’m here to share some quality time with my Pop.”

T-Bo tried to his hardest to get up off the ground not like James Brown but more like a man tryin’ not to die. But Tre’ kicked him back down. “Where do you think you’re going, Daddy?” Tre’ flicked the roach at T-Bo in disgust. “I’m not done with our quality time.”

“Just kill me already you little bitch.” T-Bo cried. “If you’re lookin’ for an apology you can go fuck yourself because you ain’t getting’ one.”

Tre’ dropped down to one knee next to his daddy, T-Bo, and placed his non-gun hand on the floor and absorbed T-Bo’s blood. He then brought his hand up to his face and painted war paint streaks down his face with T-Bo’s blood—two lines runnin’ down his cheeks kinda like tears of a clown and one long streak runnin’ across his forehead. “This is fun daddy.” Tre’ crept closer to T-Bo’s shot right ear and whispered, “I’m not lookin’ for an apology, Daddy. I’m lookin’, well, excuse me I’m wanting to do this.” Tre’ brought the glock up to T-Bo’s face and slowly ran the barrel down T-Bo’s nose. Tre’ played with T-Bo’s tears with the glock before shoved the glock into T-Bo’s mouth. “I love you, Daddy.” Tre’ whispered as he pulled the trigger. “POP.” Muzic.