MondayMorning Haiku

Winter sun rises,
Morning haikus have returned,
Early meetings too.

Hard as Hell (not quite 5000)

When he landed in Fort Lauderdale International Airport, he realized he hadn't even called anyone to pick him up, and couldn't think of anyone that he could call, so he grabbed one of the taxis waiting outside the baggage claim doors and paid his way to the house. Rushing inside, he searched the fridge for something to eat, but there was hardly any food in there. He grabbed two apples and began ravenously eating them. Then he ran to the bedroom and snatched his box of money from under his bed and counted out another twenty thousand dollars, leaving less than ten thousand in the box. After rolling up the money into the smallest possible size, he shoved it down into the bottom of his front left pants pocket, and then locked up the apartment, jumped into his car, and raced to the hospital.

Parkview Hospital was the last place Mike wanted to visit his grandmother. The place had a reputation for being the "hood" hospital, where the emergency room was often flooded with gunshot victims and stabbings, where Mike had seen small children with bloody faces wait hours in the emergency room, while ambulance after ambulance brought in nearly dead patients, men and women who were casualties of street wars and domestic feuds. Worse than that, it was the place where he had seen both his mother and his father pronounced dead, each of them with bullet wounds in their chests.

When he pulled into the parking lot of he hospital, two ambulances were blocking his way, waiting in line at the rear entrance to the emergency room. He looked for a way around them, but with the two of them in the lane he couldn't even squeeze by. He knew his grandmother was on the third floor, and he craned his neck under the windshield to try to see if he could spot her window. Cursing the ambulances, he was just about to turn around and park the car at the Walgreens across the street when the first ambulance unloaded its patient and pulled around and out, clearing up the lane.
Mike slammed down the gas pedal and sped around the second ambulance, even as it was moving out of the way. The car screeched to a stop in the nearest spot available, right under a street light, and Mike jumped out and dashed across to the main entrance of the hospital, clicking the remote lock on the way.

Once inside, Mike steeled himself for the slow service he usually got at the front desk and security checkpoint, and was glad that at least nobody was the waiting ahead of him. There was only one door leading away from the lobby, and a large desk and a podium like at the bank. A woman in scrubs sat at the desk behind a computer, lazily watching the screen and moving the mouse, while a man in a navy blue security uniform stood behind the podium watching Mike enter without greeting him.

"I need to see Beverly Barnes," Mike said, already pulling out his wallet and identification, "she's in room 318."

Mike looked from the receptionist to the security guard for what seemed to I'm like more than a minute before either one of them answered.

Finally, the receptionist made one more click of the mouse and nodded her head agreeably, and then glanced in Mike's direction. "Sign in with security."

Only then did the guard make any sort of move towards Mike, by pushing a clipboard and pen across the level top of the podium in his direction. "Identification," the man said.

Mike slapped his drivers license down onto the top of the podium next to the clipboard. He tried to lock eyes with the guard, but he seemed to be watching something going on through the glass double doors at the entrance of the lobby. Mike looked over his shoulder in that direction and saw nothing interesting.

After the guard slowly copied his license number down on the clipboard form, and Mike had signed the adjoining box and snatched back his license, the receptionist gave him a sticker to wear and waved him along toward the heavy door leading farther into the hospital. The were offering colored lined along the center of the white tiled floor, orange, blue, and green. Without needing to read the sign with the legend on the wall, Mike knew to follow the orange line to the elevators, remembering the layout from having been here so many times, both as a patient and as a visitor.

By the time he got to the door, he was already cursing himself for not picking up some flowers or a card or something to give his grandmother. Even though he knew his grandmother had never been impressed by flowers, and would only say he was wasting his money on presents for sick people, he hated walking into the room with empty hands. Then just before he opened the door, he pulled the roll of money out of his pocket, peeled away two thousand dollars, rolled it up into a separate, smaller wad, and put them in different pockets. Shoving his hands in his pockets over the money, he used his shoulder to ease the door open and peek inside the room.

There were two beds in the room, but the one closer to the door was empty. Through a thin curtain between the two, Mike could see his grandmother alone in the room, lying in the bed closest to the window. Her eyes were closed, and she was very still, but Mike knew she wasn't sleeping by the way her hands folded so nicely over her stomach. She was only resting when she did that; when she slept, it was always on her side. As a little boy, Mike had sneaked into her bedroom on too many scared nights not to know that.

"Grandma?" Ike called, stepping into the room, his hands still in his pockets, his shoulders pulled together making a sunken curve of his chest.

The old woman in the hospital bed opened here eyes weakly, as if coming out of a daydream, looked his way for a moment, and then turned her head and shoulders towards the window and stared through it at the street outside and the cars passing by.

"Grandma, what happened?" Mike sat in the old green vinyl chair between the hospital bed and the window. There was a rolling tray over the bed, carrying a tray with a half-eaten sandwich and a cup of apple juice. He pushed the tray away and pulled the chair up closer to the bed, between his grandmother and the window.

Beverly rolled over onto her other shoulder and turned only slightly away from Mike, closing her eyes as if she were trying to sleep. "You would know if you had called at all."

Mike watched his grandmother's face, her eyes closed, her mouth pursed, but other than that, emotionless. He had seen this in her before, her heart filled with hurt, but too proud to say it, and without anyone to tell. He searched his ind for an apology, an excuse, a reason for his inattentiveness and neglect that would make it sound better than it was. Not one came to mind.

Mike steeled himself for what he had to say. He waited for the words to come, but they didn't, and he knew they wouldn't come on their own. He was so like his grandmother, he knew, slow to anger, quick to act, but hard to apologize. He gave himself the same ultimatum he gave whenever he had something that needed to be said, whether it was to a woman, a rival, or an authority figure. If you don't make your move in ten seconds, he shouted at himself in his mind like a drill sergeant, then you're a punk, a sissy. And then he started counting backwards. It took I'm all the way to two before he spoke.

"I'm sorry, grandma," he said, slowly and deliberately, but with his eyes on the floor and his hands back in his pockets again. "I wanted to call, but I've been so busy, and ..."

"I know how busy you've been," she said, easing into the bed on her back, glancing at Mike momentarily. "I've seen you on the television."

Mike stood up and moved towards the bed, taking his hands out of his pockets and pushing the rolling tray even farther away from the bed. Leaning over his grandmother until he was looking down into her face, he tried to catch her gaze, but she turned her head away from him again. This time, however, Mike could swear he saw her smile, or at least try not to.

"Grandma," Mike exclaimed, sitting on the bed next to her, "I didn't know you watched 106 and Park."

This time she did smile, but quickly turned it into a derisive look. Even so, Mike caught it and smiled back. "Wait," he said, "when did you get cable?"

"I didn't," she said, looking up at her grandson now with a hurt look on her face, "I don't watch the trash and foolishness. Mr. Jenkins next door let me come over and watch when you were on." She smoothed out the hospital sheet over her abdomen and legs, and looked up at the dark screen of the television. "His children seem to think you're quite good," she said, looking up at Mike on the last word.

Mike reached over to his grandmother's hand resting by her side over the sheet and stroked it. He cocked his head to the side and smiled in that way he had since he was six, the way he knew would get to her. "So what do you think?" he said slyly.

Beverly Barnes looked up into her grandson's face. Her hand was motionless under his. "You used to be different."

Mike moved his hand from hers, his brow twisted up and his eyes narrowed. "You mean you don't like it?" he said. "I've won every time I've been on."

Beverly softly moved her hand over his and squeezed his fingers together. "It's good," she said, "It's not that it's not good, but ..."

Mike waited for her to finish her thought, and then jumped in when she didn't. "I'm not cursing or anything, and I'm keeping it clean." He stood up and walked around to where he had pushed the food tray near the end of the bed.

The old woman tried to sit up in the bed, winced, and then lay back down. Grabbing the controller for the bed frustratedly, she pressed the button to raise the head of the bed, rolling her eyes as she slowly rose into a sitting position. Once the bed stopped moving and she was upright, she sighed noisily before speaking.

"Clean is one thing. I've heard you rap before, and I know I told you to keep it clean." she said. "But what I've heard you saying on the show lately is so ...," she looked away from Mike out through the window, "so dark."

Mike looked at her puzzled.

"I'm not even sure what I mean, Mike," she continued, "but it's different, darker, meaner. And you're different, too."

Mike picked up the apple juice from the rolling tray, smelled it, and then took a sip. He shrugged his shoulders and put it back down. "I don't know what you mean, Grandma," he said, walking around to the other side of her bed.

"Like I said," she muttered, half under her breath but loud enough for him to hear, "I don't either." She pulled on the hospital bed sheet until it covered not only her stomach and chest, but even came up to her neck. "Since that first call I got when you landed in New York, son, I haven't heard from you at all." She fidgeted some more with the end of he sheet. "I had a heart attack, in my own home, and I yelled across to the neighbor for help, and all I could think about was that maybe I wouldn't see you again, and how would you know what happened?" She shook her head back and forth as if fighting off some pest of a flying insect. "I knew you were all right, you always are, but it's been a tough couple of days for me."

Mike looked at his grandmother, and really saw her for the first time. Not the hardened woman of war with words, fists, and bullets all ready for action at the same time, but an old woman, with more failures than successes behind her, one who has lost her son, her daughter-in-law, and her peace of mind in the bargain. He felt rotten. It seemed to him that this woman deserved better than to lie on a carpet in pain and call out to strangers and bystanders for help. She had taken from him, but Mike knew She had given him much more in return. He resolved to be the son she deserved, even if she didn't get him, even if her true son had been a devil. He watched her turn away from him again, not angry, to seemed to him, but hurt. He watched her eyes close slowly, and noticed for the first time since he had entered the room that it was not sadness that closed them that way, but pain and fatigue. When her eyes were fully closed, he drew the smaller roll of bills out of his pocket and dropped it into her purse on the side table next to her.

Things I Learned from Nanowrimo

This year's Nanowrimo challenge was a lot more fun than the last couple of years. I actually like the novel I'm working on, and I feel like I can complete it, unlike the last couple of years. In those instances, I felt like I had committed myself to a story that I didn't really understand or like, and didn't really want to follow through with. This year, however I really look forward to finishing the story. So, to that end, I'm going to keep posting updates to the story until it's over, whenever that is. The continuing saga of Mike Barnes will be updated every Saturday, with at least 5000 words each week. For now, I'd like to share some of the things I've learned from this year's challenge.

1) I can definitely make time for writing. The iPad helps with this, since I can just stop, clear my head, and write whenever I have some downtime and the energy to do so. Everyone seems shocked to hear that I type on the iPad, and I have noticed more grammatical errors due to the autocorrect, but it's still worthwhile if it generates more work.

2) Accountability makes me work harder. By making it public with the posts, I found myself compelled to write, picturing all the people who were following along, not wanting to disappoint them or seem like a slacker.

3) I really want to finish this. The thing that was pushing me forward most of all was the story itself. I did get stuck one time when I didn't know what was supposed to come next. The was a gap in my scene cards that I had to fill in to get the story from one place to another. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have just skipped ahead to another scene that I knew I wanted to write, but I feel the need to go linear with this one, and post the story as it should unfold. But after spending an hour or so writi new scene cards, rearranging scenes, and filling in the gaps, I was back in business.

So, keep looking for updates to the story, starting tomorrow, and thanks to all of my followers for reading along!

Nanowrimo - Day 25

A lot of their time together was spent having lunch while Jasmine was on her break from work. She had a solid hour, and Mike would orally meet her in the lobby so they could walk together and eat somewhere. At times it was the park nearby, where they would pick up sandwiches from the vendors, others it was the food trucks outside her building and all the ethnic food, which they would eat sitting on the steps to the lobby, especially on days when she was so busy that lunch was cut short. On Friday, however, Mike was determined to bring flowers for her and have lunch in a nice restaurant nearby. He told her it was for luck, in preparation for the competition that would follow. In reality, he just wanted an excuse to go all out, concerned that her lack of trust might also be a lack of interest.

On this particular Friday, the fourth since his arrival in New York, and his third defense of his title as champion, the two of them returned to the studio hand in hand, which wasn't exactly new to Mike, but always welcome. At the point in the hall where she would normally leave him to go back to work while he headed onward the green room, she stopped him in the hall, smiled into is eyes, and kissed him full on the lips. The kiss was certainly intentional, with enough pressure to make him know that she meant it, but still holding back. It was brief, but still left Mike dazed by its unexpectedness. She looked at him, smiling slyly, as if waiting for a reaction.

"What was that for?" Mike said, rubbing the top of his head, unsure what to do with his hands. "Not that I'm complaining."

She took his hands in hers, first one, and then the other. "Just for luck," she said.

"Good job," Mike squeezed her hands in his, "I've never felt more lucky."

Even trough her light brown skin, Mike could see Jasmine was blushing, most of it coming through in her eyes. She pulled down on his hands once more and let them drop. "Okay," she said, rather abruptly, "back to work."

Mike nodded and watched her as she turned away from him and walked briskly down the hall toward the other side of the floor and the other set of offices there. He watched her go all the way around, unconsciously touching his fingers to his lips as she went. At the end of the hall, when she reached the edge of the reception desk, she turned slightly to the right to go around the circular desk, and looked back over her shoulder at Mike. Seeing him there, still watching her, she quickly jerked her head back to front and quickened her step, disappearing around the bend.

Mike walked to the green room, no longer needing an escort or a guide. In fact more than a few of the clerical workers and assistant producers already knew who he was and greeted him or wished him luck as he went by them. By the time he got to the green room and closed the door behind him, his spirit was as carefree as he could remember it ever being before. His recent success, the accolades and well-wishes, the feeling of destiny and the confluence of events, and Jasmine's kiss still on his lips, all made him feel unstoppable, unassailable. Today's battle would go as triumphantly as every other battle had gone, he knew, and as smoothly as every future battle would go.

He flopped backwards into the soft leather couch against the wall, tossed his jacket into the seat beside him, and dropped his feet onto the coffee table in front of him. A couple of weeks ago, he had learned that avoiding fights wasn't the only reason that the contestants of Freestyle Friday were put into different green rooms. The room for the champions was better stocked and better appointed than the smaller one for challengers, which was little more than a walk-in closet with a love seat and a dorm fridge with water. The champion's room wasn't as nice as the room for the guests of the show, with its spacious floor plan, sixty inch screen to monitor the show, and catering tables with hot food, but it did have a smaller television and some sandwiches on a table near the door. The first time Mike had been left in the new room, he had felt like it was a step up, a sign that he was making progress. Now, it might as well have been a throne room, he felt so confident.

Only an hour remained until the taping would begin, and normally Alex would have been there by now, making sure that Mike was in place and ready to go. So far, he hadn't shown up, but then Mike had noticed that his success had produced a certain kind of ease in Alex. He didn't seem to feel the need to check up on him of guide him around quite so much, finally getting the hint that Mike probably wanted this as much or more than he did. Mike was just starting to think he was on his own for the day when his cell phone rang.

He pulled out his phone, expecting to see Alex's number there in the screen, but surprised instead to see his grandmother's number and picture there. He bit his lip and dropped his hands, holding the phone, into his lap, still looking into that face and listening to the ringtone.

How many days had he been in New York! How many weeks now? He remembered calling her when he first arrived at the hotel, and again after his first win in the competition, but he hadn't called her at all since then. It seemed as if only a few days had passed since then, but as Mike counted it down, it was over three weeks since he had spoken with his grandmother, three weeks since he had called her. While he sat there feeling like a fool and a jerk for leaving her so alone, the phone stopped ringing, her picture disappeared, and the picture of the South Beach shore that was his background returned.

Mike stood up and looked at the door, seriously thinking about neglecting the call until later. He could think of an appropriate excuse and make his apologies by then, and he knew she would forgive him. She always did. But something in him, either a premonition or pang of guilt, pushed him to hit redial.

"Hey, Grandma," he said as soon as the ringing stopped and the line opened, "sorry I didn't pick up quick enough, and sorry ..."

"Is this Mike?" The voice on the other end of the line was a deep, raspy male voice that shocked Mike into silence for a moment. "Mike? Is this you?"

"Who's this?" Mike asked, nervously, only vaguely recognizing the voice.

"It's Frank Jenkins, from next door," the man said, with frustration bleeding through his gruff voice. "I ain't got but a few seconds, so just listen. Your grandmama ain't well. She been complaining about being tired for the last couple of days, you know, but now she really don't look right. She saying she need to get to the hospital, so I called the 911. They pulling up now."

"Okay, um, thanks, man," Mike stammered, "if she's got a minute, would you let me talk to her?"

"Hold on," Frank said, making no attempt to hide his disdain.

There were a couple of seconds of silence that seemed like hours to Mike. All he could make out was Frank's muffled voice calling his grandmother's name twice.

"Son," Frank said, abruptly getting back on the phone, "you gone have to wait. She done passed out."

Mike drifted down into the couch. The door to the green room opened slowly, and Alex stuck his head inside, smiling, and then walked in, closing the door behind him.

"You ready?" Alex said, moving over to Mike and slapping him on the knees.

Mike waved him off with a violent swipe of his hand and an annoyed look on his face. Alex slid into the couch next to him and furrowed his brow.

"You sure?" Mike said into the phone, turning his head away from Alex.

"She ain't answering," Frank said, "and she look like she sleeping."

"Well, what ...," Mike began.

"Hold up, kid," Frank interrupted, "they coming in now. I'ma have to call you back."

Mike nodded as if Frank could see him.

"Mike," Frank said hesitantly, "if you can get down here, you really ought to. I gotta go, I'm heading to the ER with her."

"Okay, Frank, thanks." Mike said, switching the phone to the other side of his head and turning farther away from Alex. He could hear commotion in the background, what sounded like an ironing board dropping into place and a green stick breaking in half. "Can you keep me posted? Take down the number and give me a call, whatever happens."

"No problem, chief," Frank said, "gotta go." The line closed unceremoniously.

Mike slipped his phone into his lap and looked at the door, right past Alex. After a few moments of silence, he picked up he phone again, and checked the number, as if maybe it had changed.

"Mike?" Alex started.

"I have to go." Mike said, slowly turning towards Alex. "I can't go on today."

"What?" Alex said, scooting to the edge of the couch and facing Mike in one quick movement. "They're already taping. It's thirty minutes in, almost." Alex flipped is wrist over, pulled back the sleeve of his jacket, and looked at his watch. "They'll be calling for you in another ten minutes."

"My grandma's sick, man," Mike said, raising his voice, "I need to get out of here." He stood up and pulled his jacket on, smoothing out his shirt as he pushed his arms through.

Alex stood up after him, stepping between Mike and the door. Locking eyes with him, he nodded and inched closer. "All right," he said, "you're worried, of course."

Mike put his hand on the left side of Alex's chest, pushing him to the side, but Alex moved back in front of him, blocking his way to the door.

"She's in the hospital, man." Mike pleaded.

Alex stood still, looking into Mike's eyes, his eyebrows lowered and squeezed together. Nodding and looking at the ground, Alex stepped out of the way.

"Do you have a flight back home?" Alex said, as Mike passed by him to the door.

Mike stopped, his hand already reaching toward the door knob. He muttered curses under his breath.

Alex pulled out his iPhone and turned it on. "Here's what we do," he said, already scrolling through ages of the Internet and clicking choices with his fingertip, "you go out there and do your thing when they call you. Get your head right and beat this guy. You know you can, and there's no reason to throw the opportunity away. Your grandmother certainly wouldn't want you to."

Mike turned around, a hint of anger and offense in his eyes.

"Do this," Alex continued, "and when you come back to this room, I promise I'll have you booked on the earliest flight back, company expense, and a cab ready to run you to the airport."

Mike glared at Alex, but his face gradually softened.

"Can you get me there before night?" he said.

"Dude," Alex said, "I'll get you there as soon as a plane is ready to go. That's the best I can do, and it's the best you could do anyway."

Mike nodded and walked slowly back to the couch, sinking into it like one who has lost feeling in his legs. "Fine," he said, "but I'm leaving right after."

Alex stopped tapping his phone furiously and looked down at Mike. "I lost a grandmother too once, and a mother." He turned is attention back to the home and scrolled down once more, his finger flapping back and forth like a windsock in a storm. "I'll get you there."

By the time the assistant producer came for him, Mike had calmed down a little, but still felt ambushed and nervous and guilty, three things he hadn't felt for some time now. He got through the competition somehow, the words again coming to him, but couldn't remember a single word of either of his rhymes afterwards. He got a split decision in his favor, the first time the vote had not been unanimous since he had been on the show.

Afterwards, he wandered back to the green room, where Alex met him with tickets and boarding passes already printed out. Mike felt so grateful to see the paperwork all ready to go that he hugged Alex tightly. He hoped that his grandmother was all right, that it was just some kind of dizzy spell or something. He hoped that she would forgive him for not calling her, for forcing her to got to a near stranger for help in her sickness. More than that, he hoped he would not get there and find that he wouldn't get the chance to make it right with her. Without even looking for Jasmine or calling her to say goodbye, he left the lobby and threw himself into a cab that Alex actually had waiting for him, like he had promised.

Nanowrimo - Day 22

The next week went fast for Mike. His first challenger was easy prey, couldn't even really hold his weight. Mike won his second competition with a unanimous vote again, and Jasmine was there to see him again, but this time she was closer to the front, just behind the cameras, instead of all the way back in the shadows like before. Things were going so well that Alex said he wanted to meet with Mike back as soon as he came out.

Thinking that Alex may have some news about a contract or a show or something, Mike shortened up his conversation with Jasmine after the taping, promising her they would get together that evening, and eagerly waited for Alex to show up outside of the CBS building on the curb. After just a few minutes, a cab pulled up with Alex in the back, and Mike got in.
"So, do you have news for me?" Mike said, after Alex congratulated him on his second win.

Alex looked confused, "News?"

"A contract? A meeting?" Mike said, "Anything?" Mike opened his phone and started checking his calendar.

Alex leaned back, away from Mike, and raised one eyebrow. "That takes more than a couple of weeks to get going, but I am working on it." He gave the driver directions back to the hotel. "Before we even get to that point, you and I have to do some thinking and planning first, some branding."

Mike twisted his face into a puzzled look, "That sounds kind of like selling out." He closed his phone and returned it to his pocket.

Alex just shrugged off his words. "Call it what you want, but you need to decide now what kind of image you want to have, and by extension, what kind of career."

"Can't I just be myself?"

Alex looked out the window at he traffic passing by, headed the other way. "When I started this company, Mike, this label, I had a very specific dream." He pulled out his wallet and took out a business card. It wasn't the one he had given Mike before, but an older one. It was kind of worn out, less colorful, with just a black and white graffiti watermark on the front with Alex's name and number and the company name.

Mike took it from him, turned it over, and examined it. The watermark covered most of the front of the card and pictured a cityscape with clean, powerful skyscrapers growing out of rubble at the bottom of the card.

"I wanted hip-hop to be the thing that inspires people, like it inspired me as a kid. I remember when rap was fun, and if it wasn't fun, it was uplifting. If it wasn't fun or uplifting, at least it was gritty in a way that made you think about how bad things were and want to change them. And more often than not, it offered a way to change them. It was smart and street at the same time. It was wordplay and world change at the same time, poetry and prophesy and positivity."

Mike gave the card back to Alex, who very carefully slid it back into his wallet, making sure that the edges went in first without bending.

"You don't see that much any more these days. I don't want to sound like some eighty year old grandpa complaining about the dang kids, but it wasn't always like this. Something has gotten into hip-hop, appropriated it, and killed it from the inside out. Turned it into a poison. I don't know if it's the commercialization, the culture clash, or something uglier, more intentional and sinister. Most of the rappers that have real lyrical skill are encouraging our people to destroy themselves, and there aren't enough opposing voices."

Alex nodded toward the window, gesturing for Mike to look outside. When he turned that way, he was looking at Harlem.

"Are we taking the long way back to the hotel?" he said, watching at least fifty or so people walking along the sidewalk as they passed.

As they stopped at a light, Mike saw people walking in and out of a liquor store on the corner, the only business on that entire street in both directions with a sign that lit up properly. He wanted to look away from the store front, from the hopeless faces and the dead eyes just like his father's, but the sheer size of the place mad it almost impossible. One man, dressed in ragged jeans and a thin jacket, despite the coldness of the weather in the middle of November, stood outside begging those who passed by, getting a dollar here and there for his trouble. The light eventually changed, and the car moved on, and Mike looked back through the window, but within another block, there was another liquor store on the corner, with the same ebb and flow of despair through its doors.

"Back in our grandfathers' day, Harlem was the spot. Harlem was the center of the cultural universe up in the northeast, for white folks too." Alex pointed through the window down 54th Street as they passed it. "All of the jazz was here, and the clubs were making money like they had printing presses. And it wasn't just music and clubs, there was poetry and writers, some of the best the country had ever seen, either living here or hanging out. There were artists and dancers." Alex shook his head and slapped Mike's arm with the back of his hand. "Imagine when most of the dancers on this block kept their clothes on. This was Harlem like eighty years ago."

They passed a burned out building, what seemed like it might have been a dry cleaner or tailor's shop, judging by the pictures on the brick front wall, half covered with soot and ash. "And then it was all gone. People used to come here from all over. Now they only come when they want drugs or something."

"Okay," Mike said, "I mean that's really terrible, I guess, but that's what happens. It's just like where I come from."

"Exactly, they always turn this bad." Alex and Mike both looked through the rear window at a corner where an argument was going on between two men, one dressed in jeans and a thick black jacket and the other in khakis and a red sweater with a gold chain laying against it, about six inches below its owner's neck. They were pointing in each other's faces and circling each other, obviously headed for a fight. "Because we don't do anything to stop it. The worst elements have the loudest voices and the most ambition, and most people just follow them like sheep."

"And you want to save the hood, right?" Mike turned back around facing front and settled back into the seat.

"Not the hood, Mike, hip-hop." Alex's eyes were intense, so much so that Mike couldn't bear to look at hem, and turned his face away to the window. "I don't want hip-hop to die like this, like a zombie, just shuffling around and rotting, infecting everybody it comes across. And that's the way it's going. It's almost unrecognizable now." Alex shook his head. "It's not just that there's some destructive stuff out there, it's like it's become, I don't know," he looked through the window at another liquor store, this one next to a strip club, "intentional."

Mike watched Alex's face as they passed that corner. It didn't make much sense; he looked as if he knew somebody in there, like he had relatives on that block. There were strip clubs and liquor stores in Miami, adult book stores and bars that sold more than booze, but it had never bothered Mike. It was just the way thing had always been, and it made a lot of money for some people. For Alex, it was like watching the aftermath of a war.

"So what I'm saying," Alex said slowly, "is you have to decide what you're doing. Think about it now while it's all still hypothetical, because when they're flashing money at you, and I know they will be, because you're that good, when they're talking lots of zeroes, it's really hard o make the right decision. I'll stick with you all the way if I can, but you should know that there's some places I won't go. If you want to be the same old, cookie-cutter thug emcee, playing the music that leads people over the cliff, I can't be there with you. It's a decision I've had to make before. It's the reason I'm still hustling in malls and corners, looking for the next act to take to the top instead of riding the cash tsunami."

"Okay, I get it, you ..." Mike began.

"You mentioned selling out?" Alex interrupted, "I've never once sold out in my life, and don't plan on starting now. You say you just want to be yourself? You and I by know that every man has a lot of sides to him, a lot of selves. So you get to choose which one to be."

Mike looked into Alex's eyes, waiting log enough to make sure he was finished. "I hear you," he said, "and I appreciate everything you've done for me already."

Alex nodded, holding out his fist for a pound until Mike reciprocated. They both sat back in the back seat of the cab, each thinking about the conversation in their own way, the way they each had heard it.

"Wow," Mike said, breaking the silence after the taxi had taken them over the bridge towards their hotel, "Riding the cash tsunami, huh? How come you're not in the competition? Double A Lex, riding the cash tsunami. That's the title of your first solo album."

Alex laughed, and Mike was glad to have some of the seriousness and tension sucked out of the conversation. He thought about some of the uglier things he had done in the pursuit of money, and no matter what, this seemed like a turn for the better. He couldn't see ow anything he could do with a mic could possibly be worse than what he could do with a gun, or what his father had done for that matter. And he didn't really want things to be the way they were, but it didn't seem to be up to him. Some songs just made money, and others didn't. He just wanted to make the songs that made money.

Nanowrimo - Day 21

They ran for a few blocks, Jasmine kicking off her heels and running in her stockings, Mike ahead of her, alternately pulling her along and stopping to peer around corners. They only stopped when they couldn't hear shouting or sirens or gunshots. Then Jasmine put on her shoes again, and they walked.

Jasmine was starving, so they stopped by a food truck parked outside on the corner, near a Best Buy. Mike bought two sandwiches and sodas, and the two of them walked through the electronics store to try to catch some news on the televisions there.

Apparently, the protesters had been pushed back into the park, with many arrested and a few injured, presumably shot. The leader, the disheveled white man with the dreads and the burlap shirt, was being carried away on a gurney, the only casualty of the evening.

"Thanks, Mike," Jasmine said after eating her sandwich, "That was amazing back there."

Mike shrugged his shoulders and picked up a digital camera that was cabled down to the counter it rested on, turning it over to look at the screen.

"Really," Jasmine said, grabbing Mike's arm and turning him towards her, "Not just what you did, which, by the way, I could not be more grateful for, but ..." She looked into his eyes, as if searching for something written in them. "How did you do that? I mean, how did that happen? When I saw that man fire that first shot, I thought for sure you were gone, and then so many more shots. And you came through it like you had some charm on you."

Mike raised the camera and playfully took a picture of Jasmine, but his face was serious, even sad.

"You don't think that was a miracle?" Jasmine said, pushing the camera aside just after it flashed. "I wish you would say something. I wish you would react."

Mike looked at the picture, which showed Jasmine's inquisitive face half blocked by her hand and arm reach out to the camera. He turned it around and showed her, trying to muster a half-hearted smile for her.

Jasmine nodded, glancing at the screen and then sharing back into Mike's face. "Things like that don't bother you?" she said, "Or do they bother you too much?"

Mike shrugged again, putting down the digital camera and picking up a camcorder. "It's just not the first time I've had a gun pointed at me, or the first time I've been shot at."
Jasmine took the camcorder out of his hands and pointed it at him. "So, for the record, is that just hip-hop rhetoric, street cred and bravado with just a dash of reality?" She zoomed in until the screen held only Mike's face turning away from her, his eyes growing red. "Then when was the first time you were shot at."

"When I was five."

Jasmine watched Mike's face for signs that he was kidding, hoping he was just making a joke at her expense. Mike just looked back at her through the camcorder screen.

"Dammit," she said, dropping the camcorder on the counter, where it slid back into place as the cable retracted. "I did it again," she took Mike's right hand in both of hers and stroked it. "I am such a jerk. I'm so sorry."

Mike smiled at her, genuinely this time. Something about Jasmine's concern and compassion found a depth in him he hadn't explored before. "Don't worry about it." he said, "it's an old wound anyway. Just something about that guy tonight that brought it all back to me."

"Why?" Jasmine squeezed Mike's hand, as if truth would come out of it. "Who shot at you when you were so little? Was it some kind of drive by or something?"

Mike pulled his hand free and walked on a little, turning his back to Jasmine for a moment as he stepped to the shelves of music, tons of CDs arranged in shiny packages, protected in their plastic shells. "It was my father." Mike looked at her furtively, gauging her reaction, and then picked up a De La Soul CD from the rack. He turned it over and read the song list. Jasmine stood next to him, as close as she dared, staring at him with a look of shock and incredulity on her face.

"My dad had gotten drunk that night, punched my mom." Mike put the CD down and walked farther off, down the racks with his back to Jasmine, who followed close behind. "He punched her like she was a man, knocked her out for at least a minute. I tried to wake her up, but even when she opened her eyes, she couldn't get up." Mike stopped and picked up a CD of EPMD's greatest hits. "But she could talk. She sounded funny, because her jaw was fractured, but she told him to get out. She said she wanted him to leave and never come back." Mike put the CD back and looked into Jasmine's wet, soul-stricken eyes. "I told him I wanted him to leave too. That's when he pulled out his gun."

He could feel his eyes growing hot, and he knew if he wiped them or touched them, he would start crying, so instead he just looked up at the ceiling and opened is eyes as wide as he could, until he could collect himself.

"He didn't even say anything," Mike said, "He just shot her. I felt the bullet go by me so close it was like a hot wind coming out of the oven when you're trying to take something out."
"He shot your mother because she was kicking him out?" Jasmine asked, tears filling her eyes.

Mike looked up and down the aisle of music, but no one was near. He stood like a small boy, hands in his pockets, eyes on the floor. Then suddenly he looked up into Jasmine's face. "I think he was shooting at me."

Jasmine stared at Mike for a few seconds, and then suddenly grabbed him and pulled him close, hugging him, her face in the crook of his neck, making the collar of his sweater wet. After she calmed down and stepped back from him, dabbing her eyes with her fingertips. "Did he try again? Did he shoot again?" she asked.

Mike shook his head and looked down at Jasmine's feet. "He didn't get the chance."

Around the corner was a display room for televisions and sound systems, with a black leather couch standing in the center of the wood floor. The walls were the same kind of wood, a dark brown walnut that extended all around and caught the music and speech and explosions that poured out of the speakers at the front of the display and sent them all bouncing back at the couch. The main television at the front, a sixty inch 3D LCD showing scenes from movies, parades, and football games, while a few people tried on the glasses and gawked at the images. Mike just dropped into the couch and watched the blurry image on the screen, trebled figures of football players running down a bright greener even field criss-crossed with white lines.

Jasmine slowly eased down next to him, sitting straight up with her hands in her lap and watching him for a moment before speaking.

"Listen, Mike," she said, stammering just a little, "I think I misjudged you, and I'm sorry. I know I gave you a really hard time, but you have to understand what it's like for me." She moved her head around in front of him, and he turned to look at her. "I got the job I have as a way of starting my own thing. I want to be the one discovering talent, and giving people choices about what to listen to, not just the same tired crap full of violence and vulgarity. I want more of the music that I like, that seems to be hard to find now." She shook her head and put her hand over Mike's. "But you have to pay your dues first, learn the system by working your way up. Fine, I get that, and I'm willing. But in the meantime, every rapper and singer, whether they've made it big or not, comes through those offices and takes a shot at me. Every one of them."

She looked down at her hands and her small black purse. "Okay, so that sounded kind of conceited. But it's still true. And it's not just me. All the girls in the office get hit on, propositioned, more like. Some of them step in line, and some don't. Very few don't. I'm not looking to be on the next BET or VH1 reality show about so-called models and baby mamas. I want to be producing the shows and the music, but unless these people take you seriously, you don't have a chance. And they don't seem to want to take me seriously."

"I took you seriously," Mike said, gently, "Right from the start." He flipped his hand underneath hers and squeezed it, just briefly.

"Okay, I believe you." Jasmine said, smiling, "but just know it wasn't really you."

Mike pinched his eyebrows together and nodded. "I get that." Putting his other hand over hers, he rubbed the back of her hand and cocked his head to one side.

"So tell me something," he said, "is this what a brother has to do to get on your good side?"

Jasmine laughed and shook her head. "Usually it's a lot tougher. I think I'm just in a good mood."

"I think you're just dazzled by my charm."

"No, it's definitely not that." Jasmine said, "You've just got luck, not charm. Or else somebody up there is looking after you."

Mike looked back towards the blurry screen if the television. "Yeah, somebody is, I guess."

They walked out of the store holding hands. Mike felt tired, both physically and emotionally. He couldn't remember ever being that open with somebody, or that worried about somebody either. There was something about her eyes, he thought. There was a power there, a force that pulled on him. It was the opposite of Dagon's blue eyes, which made him feel cornered and trapped, pushed by his own fascination and greed, but magnified times a million, into situations that made him feel less and less in control, less tethered to the earth. No, these brown eyes made him feel grounded, real, honest, and more than anything else, understood. He wasn't sure why he had told her so much, and wasn't sure if he could bring himself to tell her everything, all that he had seen and all that he had done. But he knew that he wanted to. It occurred to him that he now had a better reason than ambition for wanting to win the competition and the contract and stay in New York.

Nanowrimo - Day 19 (Double Post)

As it turned out, the driver was right, and he dropped Mike off at the restaurant less than twenty minutes later. He wasn't as early as he intended to be, but at least he wasn't late, and Jasmine didn't seem to be there yet. He was really glad he got there first, because the place was a lot nicer than any restaurant he had ever been in, and he wouldn't want Jasmine to see his reaction. He first thing that caught his eye as he entered the foyer of the Capitol Grille was what looked like a set of lockers, like one might find in a school gym, but made with fine dark wood and clean, shiny brass. Each door was only about a foot squared, and each one had a bright brass grate on the door, to see inside, and a small brass plate with a name on it. Most of the names Mike didn't recognize, but there were more than a few that were familiar. He saw one locker for Carmelo Anthony, and another for Anthony Carter. There were two lockers side by side for Bruce Willis, and two more below them for Dustin Hoffman. Peering through the grates, all Mike could see was the cork ends of wine bottles, and nothing else. Must be nice, he thought, to keep your favorite wine at the restaurant so they never run out.

The foyer of the restaurant was all done in dark wood, which Mike figured was probably mahogany and probably expensive, with more brass touches around the reservation desk and the small bar nearby. Two or three people were waiting at the bar, but other than that, there were very few people in the restaurant at all. Mike didn't mind this one bit, preferring that the place not be crowded. For a moment, he got apprehensive as he thought maybe Alex might have forgotten to make the reservation for him, especially because he didn't seem to want Mike to be distracted by Jasmine in the first place. He relaxed when the woman behind the reservation desk found his name in the book, but he still leaned over and peeked for himself just to be sure.

She showed him to his table, a nice spot by the window. Mike hated sitting at tables in the middle of any restaurant, because he felt so exposed, as if he were on display. This spot suited him just fine, and the slow business the restaurant was seeing tonight gave the table a more secluded feel anyway.

"Perfect," he told the hostess who seated him.

She smiled back at him without saying much, but only looked is way for a moment. Her eyes flitted from his face to the window, where she looked nervously at the street. Mike wondered if it was almost quitting time for her, or if she was distressed about the lack of people coming to eat tonight.

"Anything else I can get you, sir?" the hostess said, glancing through the window again.

"I'm waiting on someone," he said, "a woman, brown-skinned, kind of tall, beautiful."

The hostess looked at him probably with her full focus for probably the first time, and smiled knowingly and genuinely at him. "I'll look out for her," she said. "Your waitress will be Sheryl. She'll be along in a moment."

Mike nodded and the hostess returned to her post. Mike looked out the window, wondering if he would see Jasmine as she pulled up outside. If he looked across the way and down the street leading away from the restaurant, he could see some of the lights of Broadway. The sounds of the traffic passing by were faint. Mike was surprised at this, since all the movies he had seen of New York always depicted it as loud and boisterous all the time, night and day. As he sat there watching the people walk by and trying to look up at the tops of the nearby buildings, he thought about staying longer in New York, mostly for business, of course.

Just as he was checking his watch, a black and silver Fossil he had bought for the outfit, and looking out the window for Jasmine, he saw her approaching from the foyer, with the hostess in tow. She moved so gracefully between the tables of the nearly empty restaurant, wearing a black dress that showed off her figure without being immodest. There was caution and reserve in that dress, obviously sexy but not immodest or ostentatious in the least, just as there was in her movements. Mike could see her confidence mixed with hesitancy and self-preservation. Even her earring were silver pendants, modest strings of fine silver links that reached almost to her shoulders, all the more visible because her hair was pulled up away from her neck in a kind of loose bun. And she was smiling.

Suddenly, Mike was aware that he was standing on his feet at the table, without remembering when he had stood up.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," she said, smiling beautifully and far less reservedly than at work. Mike wondered if what he had been seeing at the studios had been the result of her work, and not him, like he'd thought. "The traffic by the park was a mess. The police were rousting out some of those protesters, or whatever they are."

Mike nodded. "Yeah, I saw that." There was a moment of awkward silence while the two of them both just looked away from each other and took in the rest of the dining area.

"I hope you don't mind," Mike said, "but I rented the whole restaurant for the evening." He lowered his head sideways to catch Jasmine's eye. "Thought it would be more romantic that way."

Jasmine laughed out loud, just momentarily, but genuinely. "Really?" she said, looking down at her plate and moving her white napkin to her lap. "Must have cost you a fortune."

"If only you knew," Mike said.

"So," Jasmine started, resettling her napkin on her lap before looking back up at Mike. "Never mind," she said, a sheepish grin settling on her face as she looked into Mike's eyes.

Just as Mike was about to speak, the waitress was there by their side. "Good evening, and welcome to the Capitol Grille," she said, placing menus in front of each of them. "I'm Sheryl, your waitress this evening. May I take your drink orders?"

"I'll have a mojito," Jasmine said, picking up her menu without opening it.

The waitress jotted down her order and turned to Mike.

"I'll just have a Coke, with plenty of ice," he said.

"Wait," Jasmine said as the waitress wrote, "you're not going to let me drink by myself, are you?" She cocked her eyebrow and grinned. "Not very gentlemanly."

Mike looked out the window at the cars passing by. "I don't drink," he said.

Jasmine leaned forward in a pretend look of shock and disbelief. "A rapper who doesn't drink?" she said, with exaggerated surprise. "So no forties? No Hennessy? No popping bottles of Krystal?"

Mike continued to look out the window for a moment more, watching a limousine pass by the restaurant before looking back at Jasmine. "My father drank," he said with a kind of pregnant finality, an awkward look on his face that was half grin and half grimace.

The playful smile vanished from Jasmine's face and she sat back in her chair like a child who's been scolded in class. "I'll have a Coke also," she said to the waitress, without looking at her.

Another awkward pause hung in the air around them, as Mike looked at the menu, and Jasmine turned her plate a quarter turn and shifted her cutlery. Mike's eyes immediately went to e prices on the menu, and they widened when he saw them. Alex had warned him that this place was expensive, and when Mike had said he wanted an expensive place, Alex's exact words were 'very expensive.' But now, looking at he menu, over a hundred dollars a plate is more than Mike even expected. Telling himself that this was what he wanted anyway, he steeled his nerve and shrugged it off.

"I'm sorry" she said, "If it helps, you're not the first person I've done that to. It seems to happen a lot to me. If you have any other personal tragedies, maybe you should get the out now, so I can trample all over them and get it over with."

Mike laughed a quick, surprised laugh and looked back at Jasmine. He reached across the table, without thinking about it, and took her hand where it rested against her plate. Squeezing it in his own hand, he said, "You were going to ask me something before?"

Jasmine's eyes went up and to the left, and her forehead wrinkled up. "What?" she said, and then quickly pressed her left hand to her lips. "Oh, no. Never mind. Just another stupid thought."

Mike watched her for a moment, intrigued, but not sure if he would be putting her into an awkward situation by pressing the matter. "Well, if you don't want to say..."

"It's just that," she blurted out, "I mean, when you first told me where we were going, I thought you were kidding," she shifted her weight and leaned closer to him, as if sharing a secret, "or maybe you didn't know what you were doing."

"I knew it," Mike interrupted, leaning in to match her posture, "you just wanted to see me crash and burn. That's the only reason you came."

"No, no," Jasmine said vehemently, but chuckling at the same time. She reached out for his hand, but then pulled back nervously. "No, that's not true. But I did wonder what you were doing."

"No faith." Mike shook his head.

"I came, though."

Mike looked at her and smiled, nodding his head.

"Okay," Jasmine said, hesitantly, "I guess what I'm getting at is, how can you afford this? I wouldn't want to feel like you were breaking the bank with this."

"No way, girl," Mike said, his eyebrows low over his eyes and his brow pushed together. "Let's just say I've got plenty of money saved up."

Jasmine looked at Mike incredulously.

"Seriously," he said, "I don't make a whole lot of money, but I don't use any of it either. My grandmother says I'm a miser, like one of those ninety year old guys who lives like a bum, and then dies with a million dollars stuffed in his mattress. That's the other thing," seeing the waitress coming from the other side of the restaurant, Mike spread out his napkin on his lap, "I live with my grandmother, and she's still in the hood, so expenses are pretty low. I keep most of what I make."

"Your grandmother?" Jasmine said, leaning back in her chair.

"Well, yeah," Mike said, "but it's not like it sounds. She needs my help. She doesn't even leave the apartment any more."

"Really? So this is okay for you?"

"I'm telling you, I've got this," Mike said, "It's just out of character for me, because I don't spend money unless it's for something I really like."

"Oh, really?" Jasmine said, smiling bigger and more beautifully bright than Mike had seen her look yet.

Mike tried to figure out what her look meant. "Oh, no," he said, "I didn't mean it that way, I just ..."

"So this isn't something you like spending on?" Jasmine said, holding back laughter as she teased him.

"I was saying ..."

Just then, the waitress was there, setting their drinks on the table in front of them. "Thanks so much," Mike said, with real gratitude in his voice, as Jasmine sat back and watched him squirm.

Mike ordered a steak that cost more than the most expensive pair of shoes he had ever owned, and tried not to blink as he did it. Jasmine ordered a salad topped with some sort of grilled chicken that the waitress recommended, and then they were alone again.

"So," Jasmine started, "you live with your grandmother?"

"My grandmother was the first woman in our family to go to college," Mike said, his eyes full of pride and confidence, "and she stuck to it and got her masters in psychology, back when people weren't even getting masters degrees, especially women."

"But she still lives in the hood?"

Mike bounced his head back and forth, hissing through his teeth. "Yeah, that's complicated." He drank some of his soda. "I think she had big dreams of coming back to the hood and changing things. She opened a counseling center in our own neighborhood to try to help people on drugs, people with violence issues, keeping families together. She even to a government grant to pay for it all. Top of the line."

Jasmine squeezed a lemon wedge into her cola, and then reached over for Mike's as he offered it. "Is that why you talk the way you do?"

"How do I talk?" Mike said, smiling and trying to draw out a compliment.

"You know, proper,"Jasmine said, stirring the lemon juice and the crushed lemon wedge into her soda. "Not like someone from the hood in Miami."

"That was Grandma too," Mike said, feeling is hunger rise as he watched Sheryl coming toward them with a basket full of bread. "Whenever I said something wrong growing up, first it was correction, and then punishment, usually writing lines, just like I was in school." As soon as the waitress set the bread basket down, Mike took it and held it out to Jasmine, who held up her hand with her palm out, to refuse. He looked among the different types of bread, from plain white rolls to multigrain flatbread to dark pumpernickel slices. He took a dark slice and spread some butter on it before taking a big bite.

"So what happened?" Jasmine asked, looking at the bread with a lingering stare, as if she wanted one. Mike looked up at her, puzzled. "I mean, how come she doesn't go out in the community any more? " Jasmine lowered her voice respectfully. "Is she not well?"

"Oh, no," Mike said, shaking his head firmly, "she's well enough that she thinks she can still tell me what to do." He finished off the bread in his hand. "No, she's as healthy as a horse. She just doesn't want to go out any more. I think she doesn't feel like she's accomplished much."

Jasmine looked genuinely concerned as she put her glass down. "After all of that? Everything that she did to change the community?"

Mike took another piece of bread and put some butter on his knife before looking into Jasmine's eyes. "But the community didn't change, did it?" He looked down at his bread, spreading a thick layer of butter onto it, making sure he hit all the edges. "Besides, I think that ...," he paused, "... dealing with my father took a lot out of her. Kind of broke her spirit. When he died ...."

Jasmine nodded, watching Mike intently. There were a few seconds of silence, and then it seemed as if she might say something, but then the waitress arrived again with their food. Mike looked up at her as if he were still starving, and Jasmine seemed eager for her salad as well, but for some reason, Sheryl just stood there with the tray of food, staring out the window with her eyes squinted, tracking something. At the same time, Mike and Jasmine both turned and looked out the window, to see what she was looking at. As soon as they saw it, the waitress unceremoniously dropped the tray onto the table between them with a loud clatter.

Coming around the corner and through the spaces between the buildings across the street from the restaurant were a handful of ragged looking people with signs and banners. Then the handful turned into a dozen, and two dozen, as more and more protestors swarmed through the alleys and streets, blocking the traffic and converging on the restaurant, stopping just off the sidewalk, about ten yards away from the very window they were looking through.

Just when Mike opened his mouth to speak, one of the men at the forefront of the crowd, a white man with dreadlocks and overalls, drew something out of a dirty tote bag by his side, drew back like a Major League pitcher, and hurled it right at the window.

As soon as the man released it, Mike could make out the shape of a dark red brick, turning over and over in the air.

Without thinking, Mike leaped out of his chair, accidentally pushing the table at Jasmine, pinning her against her chair.

The waitress turned her back to the window and ran as straight as she could to the kitchen, dodging tables and chairs as she went.

In one motion, Mike stepped toward Jasmine and pulled the table away from her. He grabbed her hand and pulled her forward until she practically forward out of her chair and onto the floor under the table.

Before he could move himself out of the way, the brick burst through the window in a shower of glass and dust, covering Mike with shards that hung in his sweater and pieced the skin of his right cheek. If he hadn't instinctively turned sideways at the impact, he was sure he would have had a face full of glass, and probably an eyeful as well.

He reached down towards Jasmine, blood trickling down the right side of his face into his black collar, and pushed her against the wall, under the table, where the straight flat edge of the table and the wall made a protective cell. When he looked back up, he saw three more bricks flying at different windows.

Falling flat on his chest, with broken glass all over him, he crawled under the table with Jasmine. He put his arms around her and his chest over her face, bracing for the impact.

Suddenly, there were eruptions of glass from all sides, as here more windows burst through spraying shards everywhere, and three more bricks landed with heavy thuds on the carpet of the restaurant dining room.

Mike peeked up over the edge of the table and saw the leader with his back turned, facing his people and shouting some words of conquest that Mike couldn't quite make out. Turning to his right, Mike could see the door to the kitchen still open, white light pouring out into the dimly lit dining room.

"Go," he yelled at Jasmine, "They're busy. Head for the kitchen."

Jasmine started to crawl out from under the table, and the stopped. "What about you?" she cried.

Mike put his hands on her side and pushed her in the direction she should go. "I'm right behind you, just go."

Jasmine nodded, fear filling her eyes with water and bringing out the red in them. She raised herself to one knee like an Olympic runner and took off for the open door and the bright light.

As soon as Jasmine got to her feet, Mike put his back against the underside of the table, grabbed the two legs away from the wall, and stood up, slamming the table top against the now empty window frame. The table was a lot heavier than he thought, but the he thought at least it would protect Jasmine from any other attacks from outside and hopefully block the protesters' view of her until she was safely in the kitchen.

As she slid around one of the tables in her way, at top speed, the chair legs tripped her up and she went down hard. She got herself up on all fours quickly, but then stopped to clear her head.

"Go," Mike yelled, his back and legs straining against the table, which slipped down the wall inch by inch.

Jasmine shook off her dizziness when he yelled, leaped up, and finished the race to the kitchen.

Having used up all his strength, Mike let the table drop to the floor. He turned around to check the street before he ran, and cursed when he saw it.

The white dread was pointing a pistol right at him, a snub-nosed thirty-eight.

Mike mindlessly reached to the back of his waistband, and immediately remembered the airport and the plane trip when he found nothing there. He stood there, feeling so stupid, his hands balled into fists so tight that his short fingernails dug into his palms. He locked eyes with the dread, hoping to stare him down.

Then the dread opened fire.

The muzzle of the thirty-eight was pointed right at his chest, but Mike just stood there and closed his eyes. Three quick shots, followed by one more after a second passed. Mike opened his eyes, just in time to catch the crazy protester pull the trigger one more time. Still, Mike had felt nothing.

The dread looked puzzled. He pointed the gun down and looked into the barrel, and then brought it back to shoulder height. He fired his last shot and Mike winced as the report filled the air.

Still, he felt no impact.

He stared at the dread with the gun, not sure what to do next. Just then, another gunshot went off, shocking Mike, who knew he had counted correctly. He leaned closer to the window, disregarding the danger, and looked left and right to try to see the shooter.

Off to the right, almost at the corner of the building, was the same cop Mike had seen at the park, with his gun raised and smoke coming out of the muzzle.

Mike looked back at the white dread. An irregular circle of red was growing out of the center of his burlap shirt. She slouched over and clutched his chest, just for a moment, before falling forward. The rest of the people around him scattered in different directions, and more cops poured out from around the sides of the building to force them back where they came from.

But the cop that had fired on the dread stayed right where he was, his gun now hanging in his hand loosely at his side. Mike watched him turn to face him, smile, and raise the hand holding the gun to his forehead, using it to make a kind of salute. His blue eyes and the silver barrel of his gun against his dark skin were the only things Mike could see about him distinctly.

"Mike, run!"

Mike turned slowly around and saw Jasmine, crouched down in the doorway, her face sticking around the corner, eyes filled with tears and face flushed. He shook off his lethargy and trotted over to her. When he reached the kitchen door, he took her by the hand, pulled her to her feet, and steered her through the kitchen towards the rear exit.

Without saying a word, Mike tried to assess the situation. His head was clearing, and fear was quickly boiling over in him. How could he not be hit? How could the guy miss him? Mike knew that pistols could be inaccurate, had even heard of situations in his own neighborhood where someone had fired at close range, even closer than the dad was, and had missed. But he had never heard of six shots fired at close range and six shots missed. And then there was the cop, the one with Dagon's eyes. Maybe it was Dagon himself. It seemed wild, but Mike was coming to the point where he could believe anything, or at least accept what his eyes told him as real, despite all of the reasons to disbelieve. He looked at Jasmine, leaning against the door jamb of the exit, crying so hard that her breath was hitching. He pulled her to his chest and held her there for a moment, humming in her ear the way his grandmother would do when he was little and the gunshots outside came too close to the windows. Nothing else mattered at the moment but getting her out of there, getting her to safety.

Nanowrimo - Day 18

He finally found her near the reception area, leaning over the desk and signing some papers. Her back was towards him so he crept up behind her slowly and quietly.

"Hey, pretty lady," he said, "did you see me out there?"

Without turning to look at him or even putting down the pen she was using, Jasmine replied. "You saw me in there, didn't you?"

Mike stepped back a bit, but tried to show none of the dismay he felt in his face. "So, then you owe me a date, right?" he said, trying to sound playful, but inwardly feeling tense.

Jasmine looked his way for a moment, studying his face, and then went back to her paperwork. "I guess so," she said, "Remember when I said I don't do fast food?"

Mike nodded and moved around to the other end of the desk, where he would be facing Jasmine. "I was thinking more like the Capitol Grille off Broadway."

Jasmine looked at him and put the pen down, giving him her full attention for the first time since the conversation started. "The Capitol Grille?" she said, "Have you ever been there? Do you even know how to get to it?" Her eyebrow raised in a look of incredulity.

Mike just smiled back at her, knowing he had piqued her interest, and almost wishing she would underestimate him, so he could surprise her. "What?" he said, feigning ignorance, "I heard it was a nice place."

Mike could almost swear he saw Jasmine smile a little, but he wasn't sure if it was her starting to warm up to him or her looking forward to seeing him fail awkwardly. "So what time can I pick you up?"

Jasmine returned to her work again. "You can meet me at the restaurant at seven tonight, on time, assuming you can get there."

"Absolutely," Mike countered, "I'll be there early. You won't be able to miss me. I'll be the one holding the rose in my teeth."

At this last, Jasmine audibly laughed, but stifled herself quickly. "Okay," she said, after composing herself, "I'll be there."

Mike touched her arm as he stepped backwards, and Jasmine looked up at him again, as if he had said something. He just winked at her, turned, and walked through the lobby and out into the hall to wait for Alex.

Once out of view, Mike realized the gravity of what he had done, and excrement crashed over him all at once, like one of the big waves at Hollywood beach. When he was a boy, paying in the water, those waves would see huge to him sometimes, easily twice his height. He would stand in front of them watching them slowly approach, anticipation making his heart race. He would keep his eyes open until the last moment when he would jump into the wave as it hit him, knocking him almost flat and trying to turn him over in the sand. It was frightening, in some ways, but he still loved it, and jumped back up to get ready for the next one. This was what he felt now. He couldn't remember being this excited about a woman. So much of his time was spent hustling, running after money, that he rarely even paid attention to women. He hoped he was getting this right, but couldn't really tell from Jasmine's reaction. Tonight's dinner would be his proving ground. Either he would gain some ground tonight, he told himself, or he would give upon her.

Mike waited in the restaurant. He had gone shopping in the little time he'd had between the taping of the show and the time he was supposed to meet Alex at the hotel. Luckily for him, Alex had some meetings set up in the city, and some old contacts to look up, so Mike was able to get almost three hours to himself. In that time, he bought a new outfit for the date, something more appropriate to the upscale restaurant they would be eating at. Of course, he never told Alex about the crisp black Cole Haan shoes, the black slacks, and the blue designer sweater he had bought, and didn't intend to either.

He took a cab to the restaurant, and passed by Zuccatti Park on the way, with its green spaces filled front, back, and sideways with tents and sleeping bags and people walking around as part of the Occupy Wall Street movement. Through the window, he could see so many unkempt faces that it reminded him of those commercials for organizations that feed starving children around the world, except that below these unwashed faces were American fashions, some of them soiled and tattered, but most of them looking like the kind of clothes you might wear to a camping trip you had been planning for a while.

They were chanting something and shaking fists in the air, while one or two people, obviously some form of leadership, circulated throughout the crowd and got them stirred up. Mike couldn't make out what they were chanting and yelling, but he could see anger and alienation and hysteria in their eyes. Mike had lived through enough riots and uprisings in his lifetime to have seen that type of crowd several times, and all it needed was a spark to explode. Maybe it would be a police officer's bullet, or a baton falling on a woman or child. Maybe it would be an insulting word spoken through a megaphone. Whatever it was, it was always quick, and it was always nearly unstoppable afterwards.

Just as he was noticing the faces in the crowd, three police cars turned the corner, lights on but no sirens. They stopped in the entrance to the park, blocking the street a little, forcing traffic to move around them. Mike's taxi cab came to a stop within full view of the edge of the crowd, and all six officers of the law got out of the squad cars at once.

The police officer closest to Mike was a tall, slim black man, only about fifteen feet away. He wore his street blue uniform and cap, his left hand gripping the baton in its loop on his belt, and his right hand hovering a few inches above his gun holster. He moved more slowly than the others, almost intentionally taking the rear of the group. For some reason he couldn't quite figure out, he recognized the man. While he was still trying to place him, the officer turned and looked his way. In fact, the man looked right at his can, through his window, and into his face, as if he had known Mike was there all along. Then Mike got it. It was the intense blue eyes like flood lights that shone through the dark face, visible even in the evening under the street lights, that tipped him off.

"Hey, buddy," Mike called to he driver, leaning forward, "any way around this? Can we get out of here?"

The driver, an older man who looked to be Jewish or Italian, glanced at Mike in the rear view mirror without turning his head. "Unless you can rig the car to fly, Doc Brown, we're stuck for a few minutes. Don't worry, this has been going on for weeks," he said, "it looks a lot worse than it is." The old man looked in the mirror again after moving a few feet forward and stopping. "Hot date, right?"

Mike looked back at the blue eyed officer, but couldn't find him again. The police had surrounded the crowd and were trying to corral them farther away from the street and the curb. "I hope so."

The green room was close enough to the stage itself that Mike could faintly hear what was going on there, but without being able to make anything out distinctly. It was rather small, only enough space for two or three people to wait comfortably, with a couch and love seat to rest on, and a small, dorm-sized fridge stocked with bottled water. He took one of the bottled and drank just enough to keep his mouth from drying up. Looking in the mirror on the opposite side of the room, he inspected his face and neck before dropping back into the couch.

Alex had told him that the freestyle competition would be near the end of the show, so every song and every lull in the action made Mike believe he was getting closer to performing. He wasn't very nervous, just feeling a bit awkward to be in the green room by himself. He supposed there was another room nearby where the champion was sitting, also contemplating his performance at the same time. Mike wondered if that guy was nervous. Alex would pop his head in from time to time, trying, but failing, to cover up his anxiety and apprehension, giving him updates as the show wore on. Apparently, the first two judges this time around were a local deejay and an up and coming teenaged female R&B singer named Moniqua. This was no problem for Mike, since he hadn't really heard of either. But when Alex popped back in and mentioned that the third judge would be Drake, an established rapper with real clout and power in the industry, Mike nodded his head and remarked about how great it was. Inside, however, he felt just a little queasy. It wasn't that he thought he might lose, in fact, he really believed that he would get even Drake's vote. What quickened his heart beat and made him excited was the idea of someone with al pull and influence watching him rap. This was exactly why he had come to New York, exactly what Alex had promised him would come of being on the show. Even though he hadn't been preparing before, he started to seriously think about what he would do when he got out there.

While he was still deep in thought about it, one of the stage hands with a headset squawking in his ear came back and told him it was time. The young man led him out into the hallway and made him stop there. In a moment, the champion was brought out of his room, which turned out to be right across the hall from Mike's. The guy offered his hand silently, and Mike reluctantly shook it.

Within minutes, the assistants were walking them towards the stage, and Mike could feel his destiny enveloping him, folding him in as if it were something palpable. He entered the stage area with his head up scanning the judges panel first and giving them a nod, followed by the hosts. Mike noticed a lot of people in the large, brightly lit room. He noticed Drake and the other two judges, and even had a moment of being starstruck. He noticed the stands full of teenagers and people in their early twenties, mostly cheering for the champion. He noticed the cameramen and the producers behind them as well. But above all of these, his focus was drawn by one particular person. Off in the corner, by herself, holding a couple of file folders and a clipboard full of papers, was Jasmine.

She was watching him, but every time he looked her way, she looked down at the paperwork in her hands. He made eye contact with her only once, and as soon as he did, he winked at her and mouthed, "Wish me luck." But she only smirked slightly and buried herself deeper in her files. Mike hoped that he was getting through somehow, and wondered what her presence here might mean, but before he could come to a conclusion, Terence J was already announcing the beginning of the competition.

"Before we close the show, we've called back some of our guests to judge this week's Freestyle Friday competition." Drake, Moniqua, and the deejay all waved and smiled at the audience. Moniqua blew a kiss at the camera.

Rocsi was wearing a pair of skinny jeans and an emerald green silk blouse with a scoop neck, leaning against a short wall dividing the main stage from a set of audience chairs, with several girls behind her waving at the camera, and several guys behind her checking her out. "Gentlemen," she said, "remember the rules. Each of you has thirty seconds each round. No cursing, no sexual language, and no physical contact. Cross that line and you get disqualified. There will be two rounds, with a different beat for each round. The judges' decision is final, so no whining. As always, we will begin with our champion, K-Hill."

At the sound of the champion's name, the crowd shouted as if prompted. It seemed as if everyone was a K-Hill fan. When the house deejay started the music, it still took a few moments for the champion to start, after the audience calmed down. Once he did start though, even Mike was impressed.

When Rocsi announced that the thirty seconds were up, K-Hill was still going, and only stopped when Terence J tapped him on the arm a few seconds later. Afterwards, Rocsi and Terence J were clapping, and all three of the judges were nodding their heads as they wrote some notes on the pads in front of them. The audience was cheering even louder than before, so much so that Terence J had to move out in front of them and throw up his hands to signal them to get quiet. "Tight work, K-Hill," he said, "and now for our challenger, Mike Barnes."

The music started up again, with the same beat as before, but without all of he applause and excitement from the crowd, there were even a couple of jeers from the back, somewhere Mike couldn't see. Just like before, Mike waited for the beat to come around one time, and then suddenly and fluidly, the words just came to him.

To all my old friends, I'm throwing up deuces,
I can get some new friends when I get some new ends.
I'ma grab this world, squeeze it hard 'til it juices.
Tell me I'm arrogant, well, I say, who says?
Keep talking and you'll see how short my fuse is.
People always hate a brother, 'cause he never loses.
You're not my enemy, you're just a nuisance.
So hold still while I check how tight the noose is.
And the news is, I'm about to do this,
When I pull the stick, hater, that's the end of you, kid.

Just after the last line, Rocsi announced the end of his time. It seemed to Mike that there was a long pause, a break in time when the scene around him seemed to be suspended. The judges were all three staring at him, most of the audience was nodding and rocking in their seats, but what Mike noticed more than anything else was Jasmine, still standing tall behind all of the cameras and producers and other people working the show. She was still holding her file and folders and paperwork, but her attention was fully on him, and this time she didn't look away when he caught her eye. For a few seconds she held his gaze, and then smiled, this time, a genuine smile.

Then it seemed as if the bubble broke, and suddenly the audience was clapping and cheering and slapping each other, the hosts were smiling at him, the judges, especially Drake, were furiously taking notes. K-Hill glared at him with a look that Mike had seen on the streets several times, a look that mingled hostility with fear.

The second round went pretty much the same, except that most of the momentum had already shifted Mike's way. The crowd still cheered for the champion before round two, but by the end, everyone was cheering for Mike.

When it was time for voting, Rocsi called on Moniqua first, and it seemed as if she couldn't grab her "challenger" card quick enough. "I didn't see that coming K-Hill," she said, "I been following you, and you really good, but Mike knocked you out this time." Mike glanced over Jasmine's way as soon as the singer cast her vote, anxious to see her reaction. She was certainly watching, her eyes fixed on the judges' table, but Mike couldn't tell if it was hopefulness or dread in that beautiful face.

Next was DJ Laz'ro, who had only slightly nodded his head throughout Mike's performance, never made eye contact with him, and seemed to support the champion the whole time. "Man, this is a close one," he said, "I think both of these guys are real good, and both probably have bright careers ahead of them." He paused and looked from K-Hill to Mike, and then back to the champion. "I gotta choose, right?" he asked, looking towards Rocsi, and the entire audience erupted with laughter. Shaking his head, he slowly picked up one of his cards, waiting until the last moment to reveal the word "challenger" written in graffiti letters across the front. This time Mike had his eye on Jasmine the whole time, knowing that he would get the vote, and just wanting to see her face when he got it. She was smiling even bigger now, the look of someone who believes she may have gotten herself into a little trouble, but isn't sure she wants out of it yet. Mike took it for a good sign.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," Rocsi began, "that's really all we need to crown a new champion." She took the fake gold chain attached to the fake gold plate that read "champion" from K-Hill's neck and passed it over Mike's head. "I guess you're off the hook, Drake." Drake grinned and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, in a mock show of relief.

"No, wait," Mike blurted out, "I want to know what his vote is."

K-Hill waved his hand at Mike, as if swatting a fly, and walked off the set. The hosts looked at Mike and laughed, followed by a roar of laughter from he studio audience.

Mike looked almost sheepish as he turned and surveyed the crowd. "No, I don't mean it like that," he said, "It's just that," a mike looked over at Jasmine, who was shaking her head emphatically and drawing her fingers across her throat. "It's just, a lady told me she'd go out with me if I got a unanimous vote."

Immediately, Rocsi's hands went to her chest and she sighed in an exaggerated display of lovesickness. All through the crowd came more sighs and gasps from the women, mixed with jeers and hoots from the men.

Drake looked at Mike, grinning and shaking his head. "You got it, man," he said. He reached out in front of him and picked up the challenger card.

All three judges, even if he did have to fight for them. Mike couldn't help laughing out loud. He balled his fingers into fists and shook them over his head. Everything was going perfectly, and for the first time in a week, he didn't care much about the money or the fame or even the deal. He was so proud of himself for making a move on Jasmine. Bt his heart sank a bit when he looked over to where she had been standing and found that she wasn't there. As the cameras blinked off for the break, and the interns walked him off the set, he kept looking over his shoulder, searching the spot where she had been, but to no avail. He wondered when she had left, and why? The intern walked him to the green room he had come from, and then left, but as soon as he was out of sight, alike sneaked out of the room and struck off down the hallway to the offices, and to wherever he expected Jasmine to be.

Nanowrimo - Day 15

Tomorrow was the competition, the Freestyle Friday. But in many ways, Mike felt more nervous about seeing Jasmine again. The battle was a lock, as far as he was concerned. But how to get this woman's attention, how to get through the professionalism and what looked a lot like disdain, or at least apathy, he couldn't figure that out at all. But he definitely wanted to learn, and tomorrow was his chance. Not only to show the judges how great he was, but to show Jasmine something as well.

The next morning Alex was up before seven, making some notes and arranging some things in his iPad. Mike wished he hadn't agreed to sharing the hotel room with him, but didn't want to tell Alex how much money he had with him. Besides, to Mike, it was like having a personal assistant to keep track of all your appointments. For that reason, he didn't even mind waking early to the sound of Alex moving around and making phone calls.

After breakfast downstairs in the hotel, they headed back into the city to the BET studios. Even with morning traffic and waiting almost thirty minutes for a taxi, they got to the studio just before ten. Mike felt nervous all the way over, but not over the Freestyle Friday competition. He knew that when the time came and the music started, the words would be there for him, just like they had been before. He knew that they would just flow from someplace inside him but also somehow foreign. What made him nervous was seeing and talking to Jasmine. For that event, he wasn't so certain that the words would come very easily, if at all.

As soon as they entered the lobby of the BET studios in the CBS building, Alex told Mike to settle in and relax while he made some contacts and sorted things out. Mike was glad just to have the vantage point where he could watch people go by, especially the assistants.

After a few minutes, Jasmine came hurriedly around the corner from one set of offices to the left and passed in front of the reception area, dropping off a stack of outgoing mail in the tray and nodding to the slim woman seated behind the center of a long curved desk, doing a little catwalk turn as she did, so she wouldn't have to stop walking. Mike leaned forward, hoping she would look his way so he could get her to stop, but she kept moving straight on to the right side of the desk, towards the other set of offices there.

Before she could get out of sight, Mike jumped up out of the chair he was sitting in and pursued her. Just as she was about to cross through the threshold from the lobby into the offices, Mike caught her arm and held her back.

Surprised, Jasmine whirled around and faced him, squaring off in a way that only a couple hundred kickboxing classes at the gym could account for.

"Whoa, sorry, lady," Mike said, laughing, "I just wanted to say hello and get some luck for today's battle."

"I'm working," Jasmine snapped, "and I'm in a hurry." with that, she pulled her arm away gently, turned, and continued on in the direction she was headed before.

Mike followed her a few steps. "So no good luck for me?" he asked.

Jasmine turned around and gave him a look of disbelief. She looked at the offices left and right, as well as over her shoulder behind her. "Mike," she said, "this is not a public area."

"So you remember my name." Mike said, smiling and standing his ground.

This time, Jasmine took Mike's arm firmly and started pulling him back towards the lobby. Once they were both back in the lobby, she let him go and just stood there, looking at him, her brow knit up in curiosity and her deep, light brown eyes searching his face.

"Okay, fine," she said after a moment or two, "Good luck. You're going to need it, by the way."

"Really?" Mike smiled with confidence that filled his face and spilled out through his eyes. "This guy's that good?"

Jasmine shifted her weight from her left to her right foot, and looked over her shoulder again, giving Mike a second to notice how her hips moved when she did. "He's been on for five straight weeks already, and no one has even come close to beating him."

"Maybe you guys have just had a run of weak challengers?" Mike said, "I guarantee that run is over today." He stood up as straight as he could and cocked his head to the left, still grinning.

"You guarantee?" Jasmine smiled, just a little, barely noticeably, but enough for Mike to catch and be encouraged by it. "I think that's up to the judges, isn't it? Unless you know something that I don't. You didn't pay them off, did you?"

"I don't even know who they are yet," Mike said, widening his eyes and looking around the room in an exaggeratedly shifty manner, "but if you could slip a couple of them an envelope for me ...."

This time Jasmine chuckled a little before purposefully straightening up her face and suppressing her laughter. "I couldn't possibly. The Freestyle Friday competition is a time-honored tradition that must be protected from corruption."

Mike nodded his head, wrinkled his brow, and pursed his lips. "Yes, you're absolutely right. I don't know what I was thinking. I totally apologize." Then he raised his eyes to hers, "Besides, I've got this thing under control. I'm not only walking out of here a winner today, I'm going all seven rounds."

"I'll be shocked if you do."

Mike put on his best hurt face. "That's rough," he said, "but it just makes me want to prove it to you even more." He stepped in closer, still an appropriate distance, just noticeably closer than before, but Jasmine stood her ground. "How about this," he continued, "if I win today, and I mean a unanimous vote from all judges, you let me take you to dinner tonight."

Jasmine wrinkled up her nose in a way that Mike found both worrisome and cute. He felt like whole minutes passed before she answered.

"Okay," she said slowly, grudgingly, but with a slight smirk sneaking to her lips, "harmless enough, since you won't win."

Mike extended his hand. "So we have a deal, then."

Reluctantly, but still grinning a bit, Jasmine took his hand and shook it. She had a firm, business-like handshake, Mike noticed, but her hands were soft and smooth, her fingers long and elegantly slender, with clear manicured nails. Jasmine took one more puzzled look at Mike, even keeping her eye on him as she turned to go. Once she had walked back into the office space for a few feet, she turned suddenly.

"Do you even know any places to eat here?" she said, playfully, "I don't eat fast food, you know."

Mike smiled, "Got you interested, right?" he said, "Don't worry. I know the perfect place."

Jasmine turned again slowly and went around the corner out of Mike's view, even though he tried leaning to the side to keep watching her.

"Mike," said Alex anxiously, coming up behind him and placing his hand squarely on Mike's shoulder. "We're set. You can come back to the green room now." He paused and looked at Mike impatiently. "Shouldn't you be practicing, or writing, or thinking, or something to get ready? We have a lot riding on this."

"Yeah, no problem," Mike said, "Listen, you come to New York a lot, right? Where's a good place to take a girl for dinner?"

Alex shook his head and led Mike to the green room, where he deposited him with strict instructions to both relax and think of a great rap for the first round. Mike thought about his rap, all right, but he was thinking about his rap with Jasmine, instead of anything pertaining to his upcoming bout. He replayed the talk over and over in his mind, trying to analyze her words, her looks, her movements and body language. Was she humoring him, or worse, patronizing him? Or was she perhaps interested? If she was into him, then why was she being so cold? Even though he hadn't been with many women, the few times he had, it was never this difficult or confusing. After going over it in his head for a while, he decided to chalk it up to New York, and focus on getting his head ready for the battle.

Nanowrimo - Day 14

When he got to New York, Mike was glad that he was a day early for Freestyle Friday on 106 & Park. Of course, he had heard all about the city, its size, its culture, its fast pace. Still, he was unprepared for the reality of it, and it threw him off his game a little. Just the ride with Alex from the airport to the hotel they were staying in was an eye opener, with the taxi driver taking routes that didn't seem to make any geographic sense, one way streets at every turn, and traffic worse than even the worst he had complained and cursed about in Miami. The thing that was the most different however, was not the crowds of people or the moving around all the time, or even the traffic. What struck Mike as most different was the city itself, going up and up towards the sky, with no way to see around the buildings. Downtown Miami was sort of like that, with some tall buildings that Mike probably would have called skyscrapers before coming to New York, but they were shorter and farther apart. They didn't block your view of the open sky, and most of Miami, even downtown Miami didn't even have those. Most of the time, Mike thought, you could see at least for a mile, over buildings and between them, and it was rare to find a building over three stories. The buildings here were so tall that the rest of the city disappeared behind them, and every time the cab turned a corner, Mike felt as if he were in a whole new place.

The hotel wasn't much, just a Holiday Inn outside the city, which meant that they would have to drive in every Friday for the Freestyle Friday at the BET studios downtown. Alex had told him on the way over that the hotel was being paid for by his company, but he was on his own for meals and everything else. Alex even offered to line him up with some work while he was in New York, to help him get by in the meantime. If things went according to plan, Mike would make seven weekly appearances, starting off as a challenger, and then defending his title as champion six weeks in a row. This would keep him in town for almost two months. According to Alex, this would draw the attention of important producers, label executives, and investors that they could use to get studio time and get an album together. He even apologized for not being able to pay for more of his expenses. Mike never told him that he had brought almost twenty thousand dollars with him, rolled up in the corner of his suitcase.

After dropping their things off at the hotel and having some dinner, Alex took Mike to the studio where 106 & Park was recorded. They had already finished taping for the day, but even so, there were producers and assistants buzzing around preparing for Friday's show. One assistant producer, Jasmine, met them in the lobby to give them a tour of the studio, and some guidelines about the battle the next day.

"So, you know Paul, right?" she asked Alex, "That sure helps get things moving around here. He asked me specifically to give you the insider backstage tour and some pointers to help you out tomorrow."

Mike thought that Jasmine was pretty, in that professional, executive kind of way. She was tall, too tall for him really. In her black heels, she was about two inches taller than his five feet, ten inches. Still, she had a nice shape, athletic and slim, in her white blouse and black skirt that covered her from her neck to below her knees, including her arms all the way to her wrists, but still showed her figure. Mike noticed that she dressed better than any of the other assistants on her floor, men or women. He figured she must be one of those ambitious types, into business and promotion, always wanting to get ahead, but always wanting to do it on her talents and brains, and not any way else.

"How long have you been working here?" he asked.

Jasmine turned towards him, and her deep, light brown eyes with their almond, doe-eyed shape struck him and held his gaze for a moment. "Just a year," she said, "a little over a year, actually, but I've only been in his position for three months. I started off as an intern, running files and what not."

Mike nodded, avoiding having to answer, because he was trying to focus on what she was saying and not her face.

He looked over at Alex, to shake it off, and found that his partner was watching him, smiling that knowing grin that says you've caught someone slipping.

"So, Jasmine," Alex said, "what are we seeing today?"

She took them around to the back offices, not just where the talent had their dressing rooms, including the hosts of the shows Rocsi and Terence J, but even where the executives and producers worked. They walked the hallway leading to the set of the show, the same hallway Mike would have to walk the next day when the show was taped. Mike was glad to see the place empty of people. He had been nervous about performing live and improvised in front of a crowd, let alone cameras, but somehow being in this place with so many empty seats, being able to sit on the couches and look at the dead eyes of the cameras, gave him a confidence he hadn't expected. It felt like his place, his domain, and even though he was the challenger, he reminded himself that he had lived a charmed life, and that however good the opponent would be the next day, Mike would be even better. Actually, he felt more nervous being around Jasmine that being in the studio with such a crucial trial heading his way so soon.

Sitting on the couch and surveying the room, Mike's eyes fell on Jasmine again, even Hugh he had been avoiding looking at her. She was watching him, a cute smile on her face, but he couldn't tell if it was professionalism or interest that made her smile so.

"Thanks for showing us around," Mike said, "looks like you run things down here. You must be the big boss." He tried to look cool and aloof, leaning back on the couch as if he belonged there.

"Not quite," Jasmine said, "Not by a long shot." She turned away from him and addressed Alex. "So, basically, tomorrow's show tapes at one. You'll need to make sure Mike is here no later than 11:30."

Mike stood up and walked over to the two of them, a bit sheepishly, not sure why he was getting the cold shoulder, not sure how to impress this woman, but trying to insert himself into the conversation. "Anything else I should now about?" he asked.

Jasmine turned to him with that same cryptic smile. "During the competition, no cursing or any form of profanity, and no ...," she searched Mike's face, groping for words, "no sexual content. At all. Failure to stick by these rules will get you disqualified."

Mike nodded his head and tried to look serious. "Fine. No problem," he said, "I don't do those things anyway." He cocked his heed to the side a bit and smiled at her. "I'm a clean rapper," he said, with emphasis so contrived and pseudo-innocent that he could swear he saw her real smile through the fake one, just for a second. She turned away quickly and started walking down the hallway away from them and the studio.

"That's good," she said, without even looking back over her shoulder at him, "just make sure you're also a punctual rapper." She opened the large door at the end of the hall, with the red "taping" sign over it. "And that, gentlemen, concludes the tour of the facilities. Hope you enjoyed it. Good luck tomorrow, but now I have my work to do."

After leading them past the reception area, and a firm handshake for both of them. Mike found himself watching her go back into the office area until she was out of sight, or, more precisely, until Alex literally pulled him away.

On the way down in the elevator to the lobby, Mike was already thinking of things to say to Jasmine the next day, how to try to break through. He hadn't really been with a lot of women, hadn't had more than three girlfriends in is lifetime, and none of them even serious. The hustle had always consumed more of his time, and making and saving money had always held more of his interest. Still, there was something about this particular woman. Maybe it was because he felt so generally confident about life, so unstoppable. Or maybe it was the gloss and excitement of being in a new city. She was, after all, so very different from the girls he had grown up with, the ones he had known all his life, and even liked. In his mind she was associated with this powerful, beautiful city and everything he knew it held in store for him.

Tomorrow was the competition, the Freestyle Friday. But in many ways, Mike felt more nervous about seeing Jasmine again. The battle was a lock, as far as he was concerned. But how to get this woman's attention, how to get through the professionalism and what looked a lot like disdain, or at least apathy, he couldn't figure that out at all. But he definitely wanted to learn, and tomorrow was his chance. Show the judges how great he was, and show Jasmine something as well.