Page 2 of Standing In The Sun
He stood up slowly, pulling off the headphones, and before the producers even registered what was happening, before Pimp could make his way inside the room, all hell had broken loose.
Lunar threw a fist, landing on Trell’s jaw. He wanted to follow it up with another but he wasn’t one to keep hitting someone who wasn’t throwing punches back.
The mic hit the floor. Yani screamed. The sound tech scrambled. Chairs crashed. It all blew up in ten seconds flat.
Lunar could only see red. This was why he hated interviews with people who didn’t really rock with him or what he stood for. He made it his business to tell stories that he felt in his heart. So, of course he saw negativity when he was questioned about his why.
He hated when muthafuckas played on his top. That and no one saw what was really going on inside his beautiful mind. It was like being black only came with struggle. But what about those that wanted to tell the story of their heritage? What about the black boys that could walk into any room anywhere and still hold court…the ones that could advocate for the voices that came before him? Lunar hated the monologue of blackness being ghetto with a passion because he was all the things he rapped about. It was the blood in his veins, the reality that yes - he was blessed but he was also cursed because Big Lunar had been taken away from him before he even took his first breath. Now, they would feel him. Whether with his fists or his words but he was going to be felt.
* * *
His phone vibrated across the table, reminding him that she wasn’t giving up until he answered.
Tiny - his mama.
The one woman who could drag him through the mud and feed him in the same breath.
He hadn’t even said hello before her voice exploded through the speaker.
“Boy what the hell done jumped out of your soul and possessed you this time?”
Tiny was so country. If he wasn’t already in the hot seat, Lunar would’ve laughed but nothing about his situation was laughable. And he knew his mama was tired of hearing about him in the blogs every other week. He didn’t care what others wrote about him. The way he saw it, it came with the fame.
Lunar winced and pulled the phone from his ear, mumbling, “Mama chill?—”
“Chill?! CHILL?! You done knocked that boy clean off the airwaves like this a ‘96 Source Awards fight, and you talking ‘bout some damn chill?”
He stayed silent, dragging slow on the blunt.
“Don’t you sit there breathing all casual like the world ain’t watchin’ you spiral in 4K,” she snapped. “It hit KenBarbie Lunar. And you know how I feel about that hoe…why you keep giving the world something negative to say about you when you the best there is?”
“Mama—”
“I raised you better than this, Lunar. You are NOT some wild-ass kid with no fuckin’ home training.”
“I didn’t swing first,” he lied, a ghost of a smile hanging on his face as the weed swarmed his body. Talking to his mama always made him feel like a kid again - a time when lies rolled off so easily.
“I ain’t talking ‘bout who swung first, with yo’ lying ass. I’m talking ‘bout who knows better,” Tiny fussed, voice breaking just slightly. “And that’s supposed to be you.” Her anger simmered knowing her baby wasn’t a baby anymore and his heart had some dark spots that she couldn’t get to no matter how hard she tried.
“Something’s off with you,” she added, her voice lower now. “You snapping too fast, son… too fuckin’ impulsive. This ain’t about no interview. This ain’t even about that boy and what he did or didn’t say. I know my child. You not okay.”
Lunar stayed quiet, letting her words hang.
“Hello?” she called out. “Little Lunar what are you doing?”
“I’m listening to you,” he muttered.
“And what else?”
“Smoking.”
Tiny sucked her teeth. “I don’t know what I’m gon’ do with you.”
His throat tightened. He took another drag, held it longer than he should’ve.
“Talk to me, baby,” she said. “You get quiet like this when you about to run from yourself.”
“I ain’t running,” he said, even though he was.
