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In the airport, after having his body radiated in the name of
national security, TSA-sanctioned waves tempting his young
smoothie-fed cells to mutate into young smoothie-fed cancer
—an x-ray image of his cock added to the database of
passenger's cocks and pussies the TSA is hoarding and
snickering at—Sillyboi puts in his filthy ear buds to play
Future's new album Dirty Sprite 2. Sillyboi only listens to
Trap; where masculinity is valued and references to tribal
grievances and lethal quarrels are not always symbolic, he
imagines. The popular music of the American id. Sillyboi
likes to imagine he is Future, beautiful, Black, with long
dreads and feline features, living as pure persona. Too great
for an ordinary name. Future who calls himself Future: all
we hope for, fear, and enumerate soft-voiced in our prayers.
Rock-stars are corny dead white guys, thinks Sillyboi, as the
opening verse to Blow a Bag plays in his earphones. Sillyboi
feels compelled to consider what tragedies may underwrite
his fantasy relationship with Future. What does his music
endorse if not nihilism, addiction, and misogyny? He feels
compelled to think. He doubts his information channels—
Spotify, Rap Genius, Wikipedia—grant him access to the
truth. Is it wrong to seek refuge from my sterile world of
smoothies? Is it wrong to pray at the altar of a popular poet
and feel momentarily relieved of myself? Is there something
inappropriate about my love for Future?
In his imagination, Sillyboi is on a couch in a trap
house sitting next to Future who sips from a Styrofoam cup
as light catches the diamond bezel of his Audemars Piguet
wristwatch. On a table is a brick of white wrapped in
cellophane, white like Sillyboi, who has never felt whiter
than he does from within this fantasy.
"Hey, Future," he says.
Future nods. Sillyboi isn't sure how to fantasize about
this. Is he surrounded by kingpins with weapons, about to
witness weight being moved? Or, are the kingpins actors
outfitted to look like big movers? Are the guns toys filled
with caps? Sillyboi waits for a director to appear, or the
house to be stormed by DEA agents.
Sold over a million dimes, hangin' in the cut
sold over a million dimes
I don't give a fuck
Future sings. Sillyboi enters the plane, finds his seat
and settles down next to a blonde woman in work-out
clothing, texting. The sun coming through the window next
to her is so bright she must use her hand as a visor to shield
her face from the glare. Sillyboi glances at her screen hoping
to catch a glimpse of something too personal for public
consumption but can only read one mundane text:
Don't be. It wasn't like that at all.
Is anything as it presents itself, Sillyboi wonders as he
closes his eyes and leans his head on the stiff airline seat
equal parts bored and enthralled by life's endless stream of
mysteries. Sillyboi gives Future a warm embrace. He wants
to leave the trap house before the DEA arrives or the director
calls action.
"I'm really glad we met. I love Dirty Sprite 2. It's my
favorite album ever," Sillyboi says, weeping tears of joy.
"Thanks," Future says, a little uncomfortable.
"Oh, and I don't mind that maybe you've broken the
law in your life. I'm sure you only broke laws I didn't agree
with. And, in a way, I feel like you did it for me. So I
wouldn't have to."
Future nods, eager for the conversation to be over.
Sillyboi is asleep before the plane takes off.
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