Les Challenge 1000.28

Les had been in a Burmese holding cell.  He'd been in a helicopter crash.  He'd been in a child slavery ring's torture box.  He'd been in the target zone of a motorcycle gang's assault.  He'd been on the back of a mutant cat that was bigger than a tiger and bear combined.  But even this was a first for him.

Cruising through the graffiti-covered neighborhood, and hoping and praying the flex-fuel sport utility wagon wouldn't get carjacked, Les searched for the church and its inner city mission.  He was glad he actually went old school and written the directions on pen and pad and wasn't checking his smart phone, because showing off his personal electronics was NOT something he wanted to do just then.

Finally, he recognized it:  Atlantic Garden Community Church and Mission.  Stepping on the gas a little, he zipped into the parking lot, and headed to the office.

In the hallway, a neatly dressed dark skinned man with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard saw him.  It was Charlie Simpson, the assistant pastor and youth director.  

“Aha!” he exclaimed.  “Mr. Les Safer, my brother from another mother!  Glad to see you, and praise the Lord indeed!”

Les grinned back and gave a bro hug.  “Great to see you, too, Charlie.  Got the duds for you.”

“Well, thank you very, very kindly, and do me a favor and sneeze so I can bless you properly.”

“Happy to do it.  So, where do you want me to drop off everything?”

And he went back out to the car and wheeled it around so he could open the hatchback and bring out the suits.  Turned out that a number of men in the mission had cleaned up their lives, and were currently searching for proper full time employment.  Of course, they had job interviews, but to do that properly, they each needed a suit, button-down shirt, and tie.  And Les, happy to see a person improve their lot with the Lord's help, decided to provide the goods with their experimental clothing.  And he was dropping off the suits for the applicants, and cartons of T-shirts for the church.  

And Tyrone, another fellow Les' age, was happy to help Les unload.   Especially since he had an interview with a chemical company in a few days.  But if he was nervous about that, he sure didn't show it.  Instead, he did a beatbox to a song he'd heard.  And he did the chorus and a few lyrics.  And as they moved the boxes of Greenwear, Les inadvertently hummed along the rhythm and beat.  About two thirds through the job, Tyrone stopped and turned his head a little back to Les.

“To quote the Dee Arr Ee,” Tyrone said, “I know you're bobbin' your head.  'Cuz I can see ya.”

Les rubbed the back of his own skull like he had dandruff.  “Uhh... yeah.”

“Whyn't ya take the next verse, man?”

“Uh... 'cuz I can't sing.”

Tyrone wrinkled his nose.  “Git outta here.”

“No, really.  Back in my mission days, my pastor made me do a chorale, and my visiting cousin said my singing made him become an atheist.”

Tyrone squinted.  “You're frontin'.”

“No, sadly, it's true.”

“Well, is your cousin here, now?”

“No,” Les said tightly.  “He died in a car wreck not long ago.”  

A big pause.  “Aw, man, I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Well, come on, you can sing a hymn, can't you?”

With that, Les cleared his throat.  And he went, “Amaaaaazing graaaaace...”

Tyrone clutched his ears.  “A'ight, a'ight, a'ight.  You weren't hamming it up, were you?”

“No, this is how I sound normally.  It's an atrocity.”

Tyrone tapped his foot, then thought of something.  “Well, you can recite poetry, can't you?”  

“Well, sure...”

“Can you do it to a rhythm?”  

Les folded his arms.  “You mean like with iambic pentameter, dactyls, syllabic weight and all that?  No.  Clue me in on how.”

Tyrone folded his arms and gave Les the good-natured stink-eye. “A'ight, no need to get smart.”

“I suppose I could.  Hey, Weird Al pulled it off.  But you ever hear that song, 'Pretty Fly for a White Guy'?”

“By the Offspring? Released in late '98?  Number three on Billboard's alternative chart, five on mainstream rock? Went platinum in the UK, quad platinum in Australia?  Naw, man.  How's it go?”

Les snorted.  “Yeah, yeah, but you got the message, I hope.”  He threw up the closest thing to gang signs he could mimic and put on the biggest try-hard cool face ever.  “Yo, yo, yo, I try to represent with my tighty-whitey cracker foolio self, and I am just askin' please, please, pleeeeeze gimme a curb stompin'.  I just NEED you to break a foot off up in here.  Peace out dog foo gangsta yo.”

And he braced for impact for the back of Tyrone's ring hand.  But that slap never came.  “You ever listen to 3rd Bass?”

“Uhhh... never heard of 'em.”

“Pete Nice and MC Serch.  White as you are.  So's Eminem, Lordz of Brooklyn, Beastie Boys and House of Pain.  And I haven't even gotten into the nerdcore scene yet.”

“As in Devo Spice, and the Great Luke Ski?”

“Yeah, and even Weird Al's got flow.  C'mon, let's finish this job and I'll see if I can hook ya up with some tunes.”

They picked 'em up and put 'em down.  And once Tyrone finally goaded Les into doing Pretty Fly for a White Guy, he told him he sounded a lot like Mike D or Ad-Rock.  Whichever Beastie Boy was the high nasal whiny sounding one.

But once Les got to driving home, he'd gotten a new load to carry back to the lab:  a thumb drive from Tyrone full of mp3s from A Tribe Called Quest, 3rd Bass, and some Whodini, Run DMC, and even “Tha Crossroads” by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony to round it all out.

And yes, Les' head was bobbin', whether Tyrone could see it or not.

Les snickered.  He really didn't expect Greenwear to be alongside FUBU or Phat Farm, but he'd seen way crazier things happen.  Heck, he'd DONE way crazier things.