Punches

Someone asked me today why I am so angry

So I punched them in the nose.

They screeched in anger, clutching their bruised nostrils

Bewildered, they ask,

“The FUCK was that for?!”

I shrug, and go about my day.

Later, I offer them a donut and a coffee

Which they accept.

“So we’re good, right?” They glare at me

And turn their back to me.

“Why are you so angry?”

“You fucking kidding me?” they ask,

Eyes wide with indignation.

I shrug, and go back to work.

I borrowed their sweatshirt.

I was cold, and theyweren’t using it.

“Is that my sweatshirt?”

I nod, happy that they noticed my appreciation for their thing.

Even though I am much bigger than them,

I make it fit.

I made it my own.

“How,” they ask. “Did you manage to fit into it?”

“I had to rip it in some places,” I tell them, excited about my new creation.

“Like your hoop earrings and your cornrows, I’m just borrowing it.

I watch as their eyes and nostrils widen

“WHAT THE FUCK IS-”

They start, but I hold up a hand.

“Why are you so angry?”

Their anger seems to grow exponentially.

They leave me,

Trying to understand what I did.

Certainly it can’t be because of this morning?

Still baffled by the person’s hostility

I take to the timeline.

I tell them about how nasty the person was to me

I explain the situation, trying to understand;

“I mean, you punched them in the nose,”

Said one user.

“How you gon punch somebody then ask y dey mad,”

Asked another.

Some attempted to explain

The context of being punched in the face,

And how for a long time,

It was seen as an act of violence

One that could escalate.

Not like saying the N-word

Or believing that all black women are ugly

Or angry.

When I insist that I don’t understand,

They try a different approach.
“What if someone punched you in the nose?

Stole you sweatshirt?

Can you see where that may be a problem?”

As a black femme

I have to take punches every day,

In silence.

I’ve learn to take the hits,

But I can’t quite quell the angry.

Because no sooner have I recovered from the last punch to the nose

That I take a hit to the ribs.

And before I can straighten myself out from that,

I get swiped at the ankles.

Every day, I have to see

Other’s praised for things that only earn my mockery.

Things about my style of dress,

My voice,

The things I love,

Only to have someone snatch it

From my hands,

And claim it as their own.

My personality whitewashed

Made more palatable for the mass.

Erasing me from my own creation for their personal gain.

I’m nothing but a mass of emotional

Mental,

Sometimes physical bruises.

And yet, I should be happy.

Happy that I am even acknowledged.

Others just called me names

Bitch, Cunt, Violent Whore

But none of them understood;

They were just being divisive.

I get that they are upset

I really do.

However,

Every day, I deal with punches.

On a regular bases,

I have piece of my culture

Plastered all over the mainstream,

Without a face like mine profiting from it.

You had a day to handle it.

So again,

I ask,

“Why are you so angry?”

Perfomance anxiety like a mother-

I want to be a writer.

No. An author. I want to be an author.

And in order to do that, I have to actually write. And it's not like I don't have the story mapped out. I have outlines, character descriptions, outfit inspirations, everything. I can talk hours upon hours about plots, battles, relationships, settings all of it. But I've spent the last few days stuck on one particular chapter, barred in my own fear with the same questions:

What if this story actually sucks?

What if the premise isn't good enough?

What if you fail? 

What if I fail? The fear of failure has kept me from doing a lot in life. That and the fear of rejection has kept me stagnant in my mindset, leaving me unable to wade through my own wants, needs and desires. The only reason I rediscovered my love for writing was because I didn't have anyone to talk to, so I bought a notebook and wrote a short story, remembering how cathartic it was for me do displace negative emotions onto a fictional person and have them walk through several scenarios to see a resolution of my problems. That is easy because it isn't going to be seen. I don't have to worry about failure there. But the stories that I want to get published are a completely different beast. I want others to see the worlds that I built. I am cutting open my skull and my heart and letting other people in to see it. But what if no one like it? What if other people don't like the color I paint the walls? What if they reject my story and, ultimately, me? Thoughts like that are what get me the label of emotional and keep me from completing an easy lay up of a novel that is outlined to the point that All I have to do is add dialogue and the book is written. But here I am, letting anxiety drag me into her cold, wet abyss. So, hopefully, within the next few days, I will break through the fear fog and write a few more chapters getting me closer to possibly publishing.

Social Media Anxiety

Whenever I get sad, I like to do things that make me sadder to purge the emotion. Sometimes it's watching a particularly sad scene in a show or movie, but mainly I listen to sad songs. There’s one song in particular that never fails to make the tears fall, the sobs rack, and acts as a siren call to physically purge a negative emotion. Smother, as the title suggest, is about an overbearing individual. Just like James Blake was able to sing depression in the listener during Forward, Elena Tonra embodies the anxiety of someone who maybe a habitual line stepper in the realm of familiarity of any relationship.

What do I mean? Where the hell am I going with this?

Social Media is a wonderful, terrifying place. As a black woman, I don’t have that many avenues to be myself off the web. Between work, home, and the forced social interaction that is everyday, mundane life, I get the privilege of holding a lot of things in. Social media is a place that I can go to vent into a virtual void and more than likely get someone who empathizes with my plight. It’s a place where I can shout out people that I admire, and maybe even interact with them if the stars align just right. Social media is my version of Narnia or Hogwarts, where I get to in and watch funny or inspiring content or engage in conversations on a variety of topics. And in the above statement lies the terrifying part of Social Media; because I refrain from interacting in my real life, I tend to be a little overly familiar on the web. Admittedly, I don’t know when I cross that line, so when I see general posts about people getting overly fresh on the internet, I automatically assume that the tweet is about me. And I hate it because I know what it’s like to have people think that they can say or do anything and you won’t react. I deal with people saying racist shit and then telling me not to worry because I’m “one of the good ones”. I know what it’s like for people to stick their hands in my hair because it’s just “So cool”. People have put hands on me because “You’re so soft”. I have had people offer unsolicited advice on how I could lose weight because “You’d be so much prettier if you were skinny”. These are people that I interact with on a daily basis and every time something like this happens I want to scream because I hate it. I hate not being able to say what’s on my mind for fear of serious repercussions.

So why would I be content to inflict that on someone else?

Answer: I’m not. Not even a little.

So when these post show up, it’s kind of like someone tugging on my hoodie. Now I’m the microagressive asshat. I’m the person grabbing someone’s shoulder and turning them around because I’m just trying to hi, and the conversation was taking so long. I don’t want to be that person. I try my best to not be that person. But then I see a post that says, “Gen Pop: we are not friends. I don’t know you, so gimme fifty feet.” And then my anxiety kicks up. Congrats jackass, you made someone uncomfortable. So then I stop interacting with that person. Then I think, “How many people think this and are afraid to say this to me”? Anxiety intensifies. So then I start to think.

“Maybe I should just stay off of social media forever.”

“Maybe I’m an annoying codswallow who no one wants to hear from.”

“Maybe I don’t have any friends.”

That last one is always the one that makes me want to stay in bed for the next forever. Because, say what you want about online friends not being real, but sometimes in real life friends are trash and a means to an end. The people that I interact with online won’t think I’m weird if I finish a book in two hours and spend the next eight going into an in depth analysis of it. So if the people that I have the most fun interacting with are not only not my friends, but also find my draining to be around? Anxiety at critical mass. I get that the  posts or threads I see do not necessarily mean that the creator is talking to/about me. However the possibility that it could very well be that I am annoying these people is enough. The one community that I feel like I don’t have to pretend to be okay with the dumb shit, I am seen as annoying. I get that not everyone is going to like me, I get that everyone has an off day and says something that they don’t mean. But what if they are in the majority? What if everyone agrees that I’m a suffocator? Crushing, crippling anxiety for the win.

I just don’t want to be annoying, but most of the stuff in my day to day life leaves me starving for genuine interaction with like minded people. Which might lead me to look like a rabid dog on occasion and earn me the label of “annoying”. So what do I do? Stay offline and let real life slowly drive me insane? Continue to interact and hope that the people I interact with know that they can tell me when I’m playing hard for team extra?

I don’t know.

For now, all I can say is I’m sorry if I smothered you.

Break stuff

Hey, guys! Been a while! So let’s hop right in.

You dun fucked up A-Aron.

The repeal of Obamacare (Or the Affordable Care Act for the misinformed amongst us) is in full effect. Persimmon Gaddafi somehow finagled enough votes to undo one of Obama’s crowning achievements. MILLIONS, millions of people will lose healthcare if this becomes the law of the land and The Orange will be one step closer to filling the pockets of the swamp things he promised to eliminate. I am not going to get into how this is fucked up because at this point, after 100+ days of just watching the news, you should know. The GOP doesn’t give a shit about you. Rancid Cheeto would rather you choke and die. Democrats...are another topic that needs its own post. So, again, thank you to those Red State Rebels, who so hated President Barack Obama that they would rather watch the country burn to the soil than let any part of his legacy remain breathing. You cut off your nose to spite your face. And soon, you may not have health insurance. And now you’re mad. Angry that you were mad at. Attacking people online or in real life. Screaming that democrats didn’t do enough to stop the inevitable. Because it was inevitable. The man told you what he was gonna do and you still- Whatever. You’re mad. I get it.

So here’s what you’re gonna do. Congress goes on break soon. Which means that your reps are coming home. If they are on this list provided below, give them the welcome they deserve. In other words, give them absolute hell. Make them afraid. That feeling of hopelessness and loss that seems to have a vice grip on your very being right now? Pass it on. Because sharing is caring. And remember, they thought that the ACA was good enough to keep for themselves, but they thought that us peasants deserved something less. Because I will tell you this; if you don’t put the pressure on the people who deserve it the most, nothing gets done. If the GOP sees you devouring the Liberals for something that the GOP caused, they will know that they can get away with anything. And it’s high time that they are no longer allowed to do that. So, it’s time to show the people who don’t believe All Lives Matter despite that being their rallying cry that they have effectively fucked with the wrong ones.

It’s time to break shit.

Edit: Also,click on this link for another way to make them pay.

Maybe shut up. Because you are not helping.

So I started Cross Fit about a month ago. Which is a pretty big deal for me because while I am completely out of shape, I do like challenging myself. The experience so far has not been bad, apart from the difficulty moving some days and realizing that some muscles exist it's been great. Also, I have been losing weight. While I will admit that weight loss was a motivating factor to start, I really just wanted a stress reliever that would also account for personal growth. Also, kickboxing was expensive. And while the scale and those around me have mentioned that I have lost weight, I don't feel it (more on that later). So when one of my little brothers came to visit a little while ago, and he commented that his arms were able to go around my shoulders, I told him that I started Cross Fit. With pride. Because for the first time in a very long time, I had something that I was continually doing that was better for my self care than eating. And even though it hurt before, during, and after, I loved doing it. More than eating, And that is high praise for anything. And that would be a great story, and there wouldn't really be a need for this blog post if that was the end of the story. But it isn't. A few days later, another little brother came to visit. He had talked to the first one and wanted to know how my exercising was going. He then asked if I knew that I had to eat right as well as exercise. My mom said that she wasn't talking to me about my eating habits anymore because it only ends in fights. So he said that he would be the one to remind me.

Because in order to be healthy, I had to be smaller.

I cried about this a lot, but you know what? I'm off that shit. Because what the fuck do you mean that in order to be healthy you have to be smaller. What is that? Explain it to me. Because for every example someone has, the good ol' Google Machine can produce twenty to thirty counter arguments. I don't have to be skinny to be healthy. I don't have to be a size 4, 6, 8, 10 in order to have good cholesterol. I don't have to be a waif in order to not have diabetes. I don't. I do not not. That notion is false. Because people can be perfectly healthy at any size and live to be a ripe old age. Another idea is that I may never find someone to actually like me unless I shed some serious pounds, which is more likely. And though that may be true, I will find a way to be okay with it. And this is an argument that I have heard since I was a child. Because I am bigger I am unhealthy. That as long as I am bigger, I will never be as healthy as my smaller family members. And to that I ask,

So fuck mental health, right?

See, my family is West African. So mental health is a "white people problem". Even though, most if not all of my family suffers from some sort of mental illness. But white people problems. Sure. My main train of thought when they bring this up is that I am an eyesore to them. That I don't fit the status quo. On top of all the other things that's wrong with me, I don't even have the self discipline to keep fit. So, I am a fat, lazy, no good shame. And no, that was not said to me directly. But I feel like it is implied. See, when you don't take the time to consider how someone will take what you say, then you are leaving it up to their interpretation. And if they are left offended by your implications, then you don't get to get offended by what they thought. You made the choice to offer an unsolicited opinion without A) considering the feelings/thoughts/attitudes of the other person and B) offering any sort of clarification on your stance/an opportunity for an open dialogue. So that means you get to stand in your shit. And if that person doesn't trust you enough to open up to you anymore, well, bih. I don't know what to tell you.I also don't know how to tell you fix it.

Because, to be perfectly honest, for me, myself personally? I wouldn't tell anyone this directly. Because it will only end with me screaming and nothing will be accomplished. I know for a fact that I can not have this conversation with anyone in my family because I have had this conversation a million and one times and nothing has been done effectively. And I just can't. So, I can only assume there are many people riding the same yacht as I am on this subject. It is not the job of the injured party to fix your misconceptions. Most of us don't get paid to bear your burden of misunderstanding. Not all of us are Iyanla, we don't get paid to fix your life. A lot of us are trying to fix our own lives while also dealing with fuckshit like this so please take it somewhere else. I'm tired of swallowing it and next time I might just suggest that you go fuck a cactus. Maybe you'd be more thoughtful if you were covered in thorns. 

Drag On

I’m going to blame my inability to fill in my beard patches to Sam insistent knocking at the door. Before I could actually step into the shower she came pounding on my door. At first I thought that she was going to apologize for some reason until she told me that I was going to be coming with her to Dragon. She wouldn’t tell me what it was, how I should dress, anything. The only information she gave me was that I had an hour to get ready. Finally giving up on getting a quiet moment unless I let her in, I throw open the door, causing the door to slam against the wall.
“My, my, my, you’re snappy,” Sam clucks, making herself comfortable on my couch as I go back to fixing my face. “How much longer do you have?” I ignore her and continue to fill my beard in. “Did you tell your parents about me?” She asks seductively.
“No,” I state simply. What she doesn’t need to know is that I didn’t even talk to my parents. Dr. Sparrow was pissed that I didn’t wear my gauntlets and now someone knew about what I could do that they couldn’t control the outcome. While Sparrow prepared for a doomsday scenario, Dr. Delaney and Dr. Shalhoub pointed out that the chances of Native American Activist being evil where slim to non-existent and to just let it play out.
“We’re gonna be late if you don’t finish beating-” She stops when I appear out of the bathroom. “Thank Christ, are you ready now? Cause we have ten minutes to make a twenty minute walk, so let’s go!” Sam hops off of the couch as I grab my shoulder pad and head out. Sam stands at the elevator before rushing off, heading to the staircase.
“So, where, exactly are we going?” I ask breathlessly as we clear another flight. “Friendly reminder that I have never been to D.C.” We finally broke through the lobby door to the far left of the elevators. I wave at the new front desk attendant. “Sam?” I ask as we make it out of  the front door.
“Uh, it’s a club.” We run for a while without talking , dodging patrons on our way to the wherever we are going. Sam slows to a stop, causing me to run past her and collide with someone and a poster. I steady myself and the body that I collided with, dusting them off and picking up their sign.
“Repent or perish,” I read, handing the sign back to young child who snatches it away from me and disappears into the crowd. Looking after the kid, as they dodge poster after poster, I finally listen to what they are saying. Sam tugs on my sleeve, trying to coax me to moving away from the group. “God hates facts?”
“You know they’re saying fags,” Sam scoffs. “There’s more than I saw last year. Dragon must be getting popular.” She drags me away from the crowd, whose shouts are growing as people begin to stare and take pictures. In the direction that I’m being drag in is a nightclub. Mirror windows were highlighted with neon rainbow lights. Drag On pulses brightly on the very top of the building, the lights seeming to flicker to the beat. Sam leads me to the pure white French style doors and knocks. A slight, pale, official looking brunette opens the door, clipboard in hand.
“Name?” They ask, clicking the pen rapidly.
“Pageant,”Sam says incredulously.  “It’s me. Sam.” The door attendant just keeps staring, as if they’re frozen in this moment. Sam scoffs reaching into her dress pocket. “I’m Samantha Oxendine. And I’m supposed to have a plus one.” They checked the list and without looking away bangs on the door behind them. It swings open again to reveal a lanky blond. At least 6’2”, she was dressed in what can only be described as ‘pioneer woman in the twenty first century.’ A sheer cerulean gingham drapes over a silver sequin bandage dress. Wildflowers are laced through her braided hair, while finches and sparrows rested in the middle of her head. She leans awkwardly behind Pageant, the door person, hanging onto the prairie door for dear life, and I can’t tell if it’s because her stiletto boots are hard to walk in or if she’s failing to look cool.
“Hello,” her breathy voice is at its deepest an alto, with a slight Texan twang. “My name is-”
“Can we move this inside, please?” Pageant pushes past the statuesque blond into the building, causing her to waver slightly before gaining her composure and footing. She shoots us a brief smile before flipping off the crowd behind us, big smile plastered on her face and walked backwards into the building, still holding up the gesture.
“I’m Yvonne Raquel Hood,” she continues, before turning around and taking a left down the hallway. “We had a table set up for you to talk to Thad during the show.” Yvonne heaves a heavy sigh before continuing. “However, gentrification is still an American tradition.” She leads us to a table close to the stage. “This, is Judith Ingram,” she points to the woman at the table, “The usurper,” she whispers barely loud enough for us to hear. Before we could sit and Yvonne can say anything else, a siren sounds twice and for a moment all activity seems to hang in the air before several people start heading backstage or to their seats. “Okay, I gotta go,” Yvonne says hurriedly, shuffling in the direction of the stage door. “Just sit there and once she gets a chance she will come and talk to you.”
“Okay, so what is this?” I turn to Sam. “What are you-”
“I’m not going to say-”
“Excuse me.” Sam and I face the voice that interrupted. Blond hair, blue eyes, pale: a cookie cutter attractive white woman. “I was told that I would have a table to myself.” I couldn’t see the face Sam made but I could only imagine that it matched mine. She turns back to me just as the lights went down. It was dark and quiet for a few moments before the lights started flashing and a song blares through the speakers. A spotlight is shown on the stage, as Freakum Dress blares over the sound system. Two by two, the stage fills with people dressed in modernized Old Western outfits and professional suits. The crowd’s cheers reaches a deafening pitch as the crowd on the stage parts and a familiar looking woman sashays her way down the stage. Her braided crown quivers as her body moves in synchronized steps, the rest of her compatriots following suit. The only thing that can be heard over the cheers are the scuffing of sneakers, the clicking of heels and the occasional stomp as the performers do what they are born to do. Suddenly, the performers stop and the gold dusted woman in the front lifts up her skirt in a seductively off-handed manner, retrieving a microphone from her thigh-holster. She taps on it twice, satisfied with the volume of it before she speaks.
“How are y’all doing tonight?” She asks in a nasally tone. The crowd roars once more, much to the delight of the emcee. “Welcome to Drag On, the greatest nightclub this side of the Mississippi.” Again, the crowd erupts in cheers. “I’m Thandie Nukem, and this is the Senators’ Show!” As she entertains the crowd, the stage transforms behind her to resemble Jenny’s office. “When we last left the Senators, they were dealing with the disappearance of one of their own, an extensive ban on Middle Eastern countries that are…Self-Serving,” she uses air quotes around self-serving. Then she looks left and right and leans right into the microphone. “They don’t like country leaders that can see through their B.S.” Cheers erupt from around the club again, much to Thandie’s delight. “That’s why we can’t play with Mexico anymore. Or Britain.” She pretends to examine her nails as the whooping and cheering continues. “So anyway, I guess we can check in on these spineless bozos.” She flips her hair before handing the microphone the the closest performer and sashaying right off the stage and into our direction.
“I’m surprised you were let out after curfew, little one.” She drops her head voice for what I can only assume is her regular speaking voice outside of the costume. “And I can’t believe they let you bring your friend.” Thandie, who is a least six feet five inches, muscular, skin the color of Mediterranean sands, slides a chair across the table from us and flops into it, her skirt puffing around her dramatically.
“I am very convincing when I need to be,” Sam offers. “So anyway-”
“Have you thought anymore about what I asked, Thad?” The blond at our table makes her presence known in the most annoyingly authoritative voice I’ve heard in a while. “I’m kind of-”
“I already told you no, Judith,” Thandie waves her off. “Three times, if I remember correctly. I’m not interested in being someone’s token.” Thandie turns back to Sam. “ If that’s what you are looking for-”
“No,” Sam shakes her head so vigorously, I know she’ll have a migraine later. “That’s not what I want at all.”
“Thad, these kids-” Judith starts again.
“I am not interested in what you have to offer, Judith Ingram.” Her voice is low and slightly intimidating, especially since she refuses to even look at Judith. “Enjoy the rest of the show.” Focusing back on us, she rolls her eyes dramatically and smiles wide. “You were saying, sweetie?”
“Yeah,” Sam, who had been glaring at Judith since the interruption, turns back to Thandie. “So, I wanted to do what you are doing right now, exactly as you are doing it. But I wanted it broadcast.”
“How will compensation work?” Thandie asks, while absently patting herself down. “Because my girls and guys don’t work for fr-Does anyone have a cigarette?” She asks the table. Judith scoffs and looks towards the stage, where to men were in a very heated debate over something or another. Thandie and Sam are now talking about the logistics of what she is proposing and I take off the gauntlets and imagine a cigarette pack and lighter. Putting my hands together, and praying that somehow, this work.
“Here you go.” I hand over the brand new pack of cigarettes and the lighter whose wrapping matched the wax print pattern of her dress. Thandie looks at me suspiciously before plucking the pack from my hand to examine it.
“How’d you do that?” Judith is now leaning over me slightly, turning my left hand over in her own, I guess looking for a trick sleeve. I pull my hand away so that I can face Thandie again, who is now examining the lighter with curiosity. She pulls a cigarette out of the pack, takes a whiff, her eyes widen and she leans across the table to me.
“I-Is this MJ?” Her voice is a few octaves higher as her eyebrows disappear into her hair. I nod my head and her slight smile widens, almost splitting her smile in two.
“So do you think you can do it?” Sam asks as Thandie takes a drag of her lit cigarette. She holds in the smoke for a moment before examining the object in her hand like she had just discovered magic. She looks up at me again, a satisfied smile plastered sloppily on her face. She leans back further into her seat, slinging her arm over her chair.
“Bring me a mock up of what you have in mind tomorrow and we’ll talk,” she concludes. “And bring them,” Thandie points to me. “By the way, parts of your beard are missing.”
I had no idea that I was scratching it again.

Hotel Antics

Jenny, Matt, Sam, and I walk down the stairs towards the two parked cars waiting for them. Well, Sam has a fistful of Matt’s jacket, trying to steady him. In the setting sun, I can see that I’m barely supporting most of Jenny’s weight. Luckily for me, she took her heels off her heels so that it was easy for me to keep her upright without us both meeting the floor.
“What the hell was in that whiskey?” Sam grunted, steadying Reeds enough so that she could open his car door and coax him into it. I lead Jenny to the next car and slide her in the best I could, encouraging her to scoot herself into the car further. Sam runs over to our car as I slide in after Jenny. “Actually,” she says, tugging on my arm. “I ordered us an Uber to our hotel.”
“But, she’s barely-”
“She actually has someone staying with her,” She waves me off. “Todd and Manda can help get her inside, honestly.” Sam slaps the trunk of the car once she explains to Todd, Jenny’s driver. “How did you make that whiskey?”
“It’s honestly one of the first things I learned to do,” I laugh, remembering the first time I changed water into Sprite. “My poor abuela almost died when I refilled her favorite Gin bottle. She called me a demon for weeks.”
“What made her stop?”
“I cured her best friend’s glaucoma.” We sat in silence, contemplating this. I notice that Sam wants to say something, but keeps thinking better of it. “Just spit it out, Sam.”
“What’s it like?” Sam blurted out. “How do you even go to school? So, like, can you not touch anyone? What if someone brushes up-”
“Well, I was home schooled,” I cut in. “And I have these gloves, so I’m pretty much good.”
“How do they work?” Before I can give her the play by play, a car pulls up that I assume is our Uber. I take off my gloves and drop them into her lap. Sam looks at me curiously as we stand up. “Put ‘em on.” We walk over to the car as she slips the gloves on. Clambering into the car, Sam gives the address to the hotel while she still attempted to wiggle her fingers into my gloves.
“Your finger are small.”
“Not really.” I reach over and help her fit the gloves on. “First, you gotta unbutton the bottom.” The gloves hiss a little bit and slide them both over her hands with ease. “What do you feel?” I ask after I button the gloves.
“Are they vibrating?” Sam turns her hands around in awe. “It’s almost constricting. What do the do, exactly?”
“It kind of contains the power.” I figured she didn’t want to hear the gritty details of how Dr. Sparrow and Mr. Sparrow figured out the logistics of a counter-active pair of gauntlets. She hands them back to me. “It’s kinda like a diaphragm binder. The power tries to expand in the gloves, and it’s kinda pushed back in,” I explain, putting the gloves on again. “It isn’t an exact science, and sometimes they don’t work, but, for the most part, they are effective.” Sam nods in understanding. We arrive at our hotel, or at least I assume we do. The front is almost entirely white brick, with a window every few feet. The door covering was tattered and broken over a tinted glass door. “Is this place safe?” I ask Sam, who laughs as she walks past. Cautiously, I follow her, my jaw hitting the floor once we get inside.
The lobby is a mostly off-white with cherry wood accents and accessories, two chandeliers mutely lighting the lobby. Cream chairs face the center of the lobby where a table held lady slipper orchids. I follow Sam to the front desk, through the doubles stairs, under the balcony, through the glass doors and right up to the front desk. A brunette with a wide nose and big blue eyes scowls at us as Sam beams up to her.
“Griphook,” Sam said dramatically. “I would like to enter my vault.” The woman looks at her impassively. I gape, looking between Sam and the desk clerk as Sam holds her pose for a little while longer before she just sighs. “My friend here-”
“You need your room key?” the woman asked me.
“Yes, please.” She walks into the office behind her and came back with a solid black card. I catch a glimpse at her name tag when she hands the card to me. Sam walks away as I examine the solid black card that has my whole government name as well as on microchip on it.
“Your luggage was taken up to your room earlier,” She tells me, her eyes not leaving the computer screen at all. I take the opportunity to lean over the desk so that only she could hear me.
“I’m really sorry about-”
“You friend is a teenager and stupid,” she quips. “Plus, she thinks I haven’t read Harry Potter.”
“Well, sorry anyway.” She cracks a small smile, continuing to type. I head over to where Sam is now twirling absently in front of what appears to be the elevator. We step into the empty compartment and Sam pushes the button to the 10th floor.
“So tonight-”
“The hell is your problem?” I turn to her. “Griphook? Why would you call another  person a goblin?”
“Oh, it’s not like she knows-” She brushes me off.
“She knows who Griphook is,” I grip her shoulder so and even if she didn’t, why is that still okay?”
“It’s not that big-”
“What if someone called you Kreacher?” Sam’s eyes tighten. “Even in a jovial manner?”  I know that if looks could kill, Sam would have liquefied me at my innocent tone. “So, I can gather you won’t do that again.” Before she could respond the doors open and we are on our floor. I take off, intent on finding my room without-
“Our rooms are this way.” I turn around slowly, holding my head high, intent on forgetting my own embarrassment and not talking to Sam. Not until I knew she actually understood what I told her. Without another word, I follow Sam around the corner of the elevator and down the hall.
“This is your room,” Sam points out quietly. I look over at her to see her shoulders doubled over, her chin resting on her chest looking uncomfortable. She shoved the key card into the door and disappears into her room. I shrug, entering my own room.
The slate colored carpet was completely unblemished, which makes me think that maybe this hotel isn’t known for partying. Come to think of it, I doubt that anyone but D.C. residents even knew this place exist: it’s a literal hole in the wall! I flop down onto the couch, plug in my computer and power it on. Giving it a few minutes to come to life, I moved my suitcase from the designated living area near the bed, where I notice that there’s a dresser holding up the T.V. I walk back to the computer and open up the Skype app. While it loads, I unpack my clothes quickly and send a quick text to everyone letting them know that I made it and went to take a shower.