It was a night of several bad decisions. Kanye’s album just dropped and we were going hard well into the night at some nightclub downtown. I don’t remember where it was. I don’t remember what it was called. I don’t remember what time it was, but by then it was probably early Sunday. Diddy had the Ciroc flowing all night, so everyone in the club was turned up to a solid ten; I was no exception. And those that know me know that vodka makes me a little too friendly. And sometimes, a little hands-y.
I saw Kanye drunkenly stumble his way through the crowd before falling into a group of women. Glass shattered on the dance floor as he knocked the cups from their hands. The only woman whose cup survived the impact ended up tossing her appletini in his face before storming off. I walked over to him and helped him up. That was my first mistake.
“Hey, Hov, you see that?!” he yelled into my face. “Those ladies loved my album so much they giving me free drinks!”
As he stood up, he wrapped his arms around and whispered to me.
“Best friends for life motherfucker!!!”
Well, he tried to whisper it. Then he licked my ear like it was a god damn aural popsicle. Right there should have been the red flag that this dude is certified psycho. How easy it would have been to simply walk away. But lo, the vodka pulsing through my system had given my mind a different thought.
“Yo Kanye. Would you like to accompany me to Paris?”
Those were some famous last words.
FOUR YEARS LATER
Ever since the trip to France, Kanye thought me and him were tight, that we were buddies, that we were BEST buddies. “We recorded an album together,” he was always saying. “That makes us album buddies. Albuddies.” Puns were never his thing. The truth was… I couldn’t stand the motherfucker.
As I recall, it was a Tuesday. Like usual, I was stuck chauffeuring that idiot around. I barely even remember what for. We were probably coming back from some promotion for our record, but that’s beside the point. What happened that night, I’ll never forget.
“Hey Hov. Can we stop at McDonald’s? Just at my last fish filet” he said as he crumpled up another one of those stupid sandwiches wrappers and tossed it to the floor of my off-white Lexus.
“That’s the third one you’ve eaten today,” I replied, curt.
“But they’re only on sale for another week!”
“It’s not even noon yet.”
Boy, did that set him off. He opened his gullet and emitted a screech so deafening, so piercing it activated the car alarm. I felt something wet slide down from my earlobe. I wiped my ear and examined my finger. Yep. Blood.
At first I was going to ignore it. Pretend like it didn’t happen, that I thought the noise was coming from outside or something. Maybe I could turn the situation into a verse or something. But the crimson nectar streaming down neck had a different idea. I had to shut him up before my blood dripped onto my freshly upholstered, HOV-insignia-embossed all-leather heated seats.
“Alright. Just be quiet. We’ll get some drive-thru.”
I pulled into the nearest McDonald’s I saw. Oh, how it made me reminisce for my stash spot at 560 State St. As my car came to a stop behind the other patrons, my iPhone 5 vibed in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out to discover a Tweet from none other than the buffoon seated next to me. I turned to see the cheeky bastard giggling to himself like a tickled hyena as he tapped away on his phone.
“You get my tweet?” he asked me. I just wanted to smack that little shit-eating grin right off his chipmunk-looking face. I glanced down at my phone.
Waitin in line 4 McDs @THE_REAL_HOV treatin me 2 some fish flay! #TrueFriends
“You should retweet that!” he yelled as I pocketed my phone and ignored him. But he didn’t mind; his pitiful attention span directed him back to his phone, completely forgetting he ever even asked me anything.
I rolled up to the speaker. “Don’t cause a scene,” I commanded. Big mistake.
“Welcome to McDonald’s,” a young woman on the other end said. But before I could order the fish, Kanye opened his mouth.
“Jay-Z is in this car!” he screamed towards the speaker. I shot him a glance like I was going to shank that motherfucker right there. If I wasn’t in the aforementioned freshly upholstered car, I probably would have done it.
“Oh my god, are you for real?! I love your work Mr. Z! Can you rap for me? I just love the new album! What can I get for you? Are you working on a follow-up album? I can’t believe this!”
“Two fish filets,” I told her.
“Can I get three?” he asked. I ignored him.
“Oh, haha, that’s so funny I didn’t think you would order those! That’s crazy. Hey Jessie! Jay-Z is here ordering Filet-O-Fish! I’m gonna tweet this!”
“How much?” I asked her.
“Oh, sorry. 1.98, pull up to the first window.”
As I drove up to the window, I saw a whole clowder of teenage girls, all hunched behind another girl standing front and center, holding a bag of presumably fish sandwiches. She was smiling so hard her dimples made it look like someone half-assedly tried jamming an ice pick into her cheeks only to pull out last minute… Metaphors in prose really aren’t my thing.
“Mr. Z, can I call you Mr. Z?” she asked. I was surprised she didn’t pass out right there.
“Jay’s cool,” I grunted.
She pulled a George Michael and carelessly whispered that to her adolescent entourage: “He’s going to let me call him Jay! Oh my god, what if he invites us into his car?” I would have loved to trade them for Kanye, but unfortunately, I was the court-mandated legal guardian for Kanye that night. I handed her my petty cash and took the bag. Before they could let out another squeal, I took off. They let out a shrill that would impress even Kanye as we drove away.
“Fish filet, the official food for the true voice of a generation,” Kanye said as he smeared four packets worth of tartar sauce to a deflated bun. I hated when he said shit like that. No matter how many times you try to tell him to stop it though, he never does. He keeps on saying stuff so pretentious that even Bono wouldn’t dare tweet.
Damnit. I got lost in thinking about how much of a tool my passenger was that I straight up blew through a red light. In my rear-view mirror was the all-too-familiar red and blue flash of the motherfucking law.
I pulled over to the side of the road. As I did, Kanye rolled down his window and shouted to the approaching officer.
“Jay-Z is in this car!”
What the hell is this guy’s obsession with yelling that? In this case, the repercussions were more severe, because now the odds this cop says “son do you know what I’m stopping you for?” increased tenfold.
The officer reached my window. With my hands firm on ten and two, I patiently waited for him to recite the line from my popular diddy. But that’s not what he said.
“Hey there, Hov,” said an all-too-familiar voice. I turned to look at the officer, but what I saw surprised me. I wasn’t looking at the black and blue uniform of an officer of the law, but rather, a freshly pressed, perfect fitting suit and tie. I wasn’t staring at a cop. I was staring at none other than Justin Timberlake.
