2: Finding Anthony Ray

I spent the entire night tossing and turning. Covers were bunched between my thighs and sweat crusted my forehead with miniature leper beads. My face was the inside of that Matterhorn ride. In and out of sleep I bounced, rolled, reached for my IPhone. Three calls to my agent and a pricey overtime commission bought what I’d needed.

Sir Mix-A-Lot: Hello?

Manny Ramirez: Hey, Anthony. This is Manny Ramirez.

S: Who?

M: From The Red Sox. Baseball player.

S: Hello? It’s the middle of the night. Why are you calling? How’d you get this number?

M: My dad just died. I know I’m supposed to be the hero, but you mean so much to me right now. I can barely breathe.

S: Call me back in the morning.

Anthony hung up and I stared at the wall and shook with the reggaeton rumble that was somehow still going on underneath me. I tried passing out, but a garden hose rainbow streak poured across my corneas. I imagined what it was like to be poor and sat at the window smoking KOOLs and stubbing them into a beeswax candle that a stripper left at my apartment.

S: Good morning, Manny. That shit was weird last night, nigga. Why you call a nigga in the middle of my slumber situation?

M: I know it’s weird, man. My pops, you know. He passed away a few days ago – didn’t really hit me until the funeral last night because we were on the road and shit. Not like I was playing too hard – sat one out as a matter of fact – but I mean you have the boys around and it sort of keeps your mind off that shit.

S: Word.

M: When I was young, man – my Pops and I would watch your booty video. Those big beautiful asses, man. I don’t even know what to say. In a world of baseball and clocking our economic game that shit kept us grounded. You got that shit going, man. It’s like Jesus with the fish and bread. Sometimes you gotta just do that shit up.

S: So you bonded with the old man over my jam, nigga? That’s dope.

M: I’m so sorry to bother and rain my shit down on you, man. But I gotta ask for something that might quell the shakes for a bit. The video. Your video. It came on the screen last night at the funeral parlor and you know I lost it. It gave me something to latch onto.

S: Shoot, nigga. As long as I’m not sleeping you can holla whenever.

M: The butt mountain… in the video. That giant butt mountain that you rapped on top of. Do you still have it?

S: That ass mountain? Of course, I have one, nigga, but I can’t sell that shit. It’s my life blood… You know what I mean?

M: I gotcha, but you gotta understand I’m willing to offer you a disgusting sum of money. I’ll keep you going for a few years, man. You know we make that big money in the majors.

S: Ha. That’s righteous, nigga, but this is sentimental value we’re talking. I do have a tip for you, though. Call my nigga up – what’s his name – Avery – production assistant – Tucson, Arizona. Get his number. I don’t have it no more. He has the prototype. It’s a little bigger and you blow it up with one of those giant industrial shits.

M:  Come on, man. You sure?

Deathly silence.

M: Aight. I’m with you. Sorry again for waking.

S: Aint no thang. Like I said – holla anytime unless I have a sleep situation going.

M: Aight.