“You’re playing too much gangster rap,” Scott said.
The evening’s DJ night at Bohemian Spot was over. At the bar’s register, Scott handed Don his pay.
Scott owned short brown hair and wore a beard.
Don owned chocolate-brown skin and wore a goatee.
“I don’t get it,” Don said. “Weren’t people dancing all night?”
“Yea, but you have to admit,” Scott said. “Things have been slow.”
“All of Downtown Sanford has that problem.”
“Yea, thanks to troublemakers like Al Sharpton.”
“That was months ago when Sharpton came.”
“He hurt Sanford.”
Scott’s words annoyed Don.
“Let me get this right,” Don started. “Some guy kills an unarmed kid. A kid who wasn’t causing any problems.”
“He was casing homes,” Scott said.
“That has never been proven.”
“Yes, it has.”
“No, it hasn’t. George Zimmerman stalked and killed an unarmed kid who wasn’t causing any problems. Then, he didn’t even get arrested. Yet, you expect people not to bitch about it?”
“Nobody gives a shit about a punk kid. Sharpton saw the opportunity to pick on Sanford. He’s a race baiter, man.”
When Don heard the words “punk kid”, he felt like decking Scott.
“Whatever,” he said.
Don walked over to his DJ equipment and started packing.
Then, Scott said, “Just stop with the gangster rap, dude.”
Don remained quiet and continued packing.
As he drove home, Don’s anger boiled inside of him. He still fumed from Scott calling Trayvon Martin a “punk kid”.
Yet, Don still wasn’t backing down from his beliefs. He still believed the controversy over white George Zimmerman killing black Trayvon Martin kept people away from Sanford. Maybe, the rallies scared some white people away. Maybe, they feared attacks by black folks hell-bent on revenge. Maybe, some folks refuse to spend their money in a city they see as racist. Who knew? Yet, the truth was obvious. Ever since the controversy, fewer people were seen in Downtown Sanford businesses. Bohemian Spot was no exception.
Oh, that’s right. Because of his mixed heritage, many news outlets were calling George Zimmerman a white Hispanic.
Another thing, Scott’s accusation of gangster rap was bullshit. Tonight white girls couldn’t get enough of the music Don was playing. Over and over, they kept requesting hip hop songs.
Maybe, the white girls were the problem. Maybe, Scott was pissed because those same white girls were ignoring his ass.
Thinking about Bohemian Spot, Don had second thoughts about going back.
The next afternoon, Don was enjoying a meal at Pizza Buffet.
His cellphone ranged. He saw the number of Bohemian Spot’s owner.
“Hello,” he answered.
“I heard you were playing a lot of gangster rap last night,” the owner said.
All of a sudden, Don lost his appetite.
The owner was Vivian Miller, Scott’s mother.
“All of it wasn’t gangster rap,” Don said. “It was a mixture of rap music.”
“People aren’t digging your music, Don,” Vivian said. “How about we go back to playing whatever?”
“You remember what happened with that, don’t you?”
“When I played whatever people wanted, some folks kept picking music nobody wanted to hear. Don’t tell me you forgot about those guys who kept asking for metal all night.”
Don never forgot it. As the whole crowd was upbeat and happy, some dudes continued requesting angry metal music, music that killed the happy vibe.
Oh yea, typical of young white patrons who requested music all night, those fuckers never tipped.
Because of the constant metal requests, Vivian allowed Don more control of the music.
“Don,” Vivian said. “No more gangster rap. Unless the patrons ask for rap, don’t play it. If they ask for it, you play one song. Next, you go back to playing pop music.”
“All right,” Don said.
Then, he clicked the phone off.
The talk about gangster rap continued pissing him off. Like he said earlier, most of the rap Don played wasn’t gangster. Most of it was dudes saying “nigga” and “bitch”. Gangster rap usually contained graphic violent lyrics, music Don rarely played.
Then, to himself Don said, “These people wouldn’t know gangster rap if it shot a bullet in their ass.”
Later at home, in his bedroom, Don was sitting at his desk. With his laptop, he was scrolling Facebook. A post by his friend Shelly caught his eye.
George Zimmerman is a racist murdering thug. I hope he goes to prison for a long time.
Shelly was a young brunette who sometimes attended Don’s DJ nights at Bohemian Spot.
Don looked at the comments responding to Shelly’s post. He saw Scott’s comment.
Too many black youths embrace hip hop culture. Hip hop culture promotes violence and disrespects women. Trayvon Martin was the perfect example of today’s black youth. He was a black kid who embraced hip hop’s violent culture.
When he DJs Bohemian Spot next week, Don wondered what was going to happen. He feared he just might knock the fuck out of Scott. After accusations of too much gangster rap and Scott’s racist Facebook comment, Don again started having second thoughts about returning to Bohemian Spot.
The next day, Don was on the phone with Vivian again.
“I’m going to have to let you go,” Vivian said. “I’m sorry; people just aren’t digging your music.”
“Whatever,” Don said.
Immediately, he clicked the phone off.
The next week, on the night he was supposed to DJ, Don drove by Bohemian Spot. He was curious on how well the night did without him. Yet, as he peeked inside, he saw something odd. He was expecting to see Scott at the bar counter. Yet, he saw the blonde-haired Vivian.
Also, the bar was almost empty, worse than Don’s DJ nights.
Don parked his car and walked to One Love, another Downtown Sanford bar.
As he drunk draft beer, a light-skinned black dude sat beside him. This was Joey, a regular on Don’s night.
“Did you hear?” Joey said. “Scott got arrested.”
Don’s faced formed a nasty grin.
“What did he do?” he asked.
“Strangled his baby mama.”
“You got to be shitting me. The same guy who badmouthed hip hop and Trayvon Martin strangled his woman?”
“Well, I’ll be damned. They got rid of me because they said I was playing too much gangster rap.”
“That’s bullshit. If you ask me, I think the reason you were booted was because they were trying to be cheap. They didn’t want to pay a DJ.”
“That’s because they were losing money. Customers complained about Vivian’s idiot son. Yet, she kept him there. But oh no, their losing money was all gangster rap and Al Sharpton’s fault.”
Joey started laughing.
Then, Don said, “I feel good tonight. That hypocrite racist piece of shit is in jail. Let me buy you a beer, bro.”