I’ve met a man. He is a self-produced rapper and his name is Salt. It happened on venice beach, just a normal day. He told me I was funny, and we shared some laughs over a dalmatian that was the size of a horse. He kept calling me Babygirl, and at one point, hypnotised by the magic of it all, I found myself giving him a friendly (but in reality just dykey) punch in the bicep. It was humiliating because I landed the jab too hard, and Salt looked to be in pain. Nonetheless we got on astonishingly well for a wench black hip hop artist from LA, and a privately-educated harpist from Leeds. We saw the good in one another I think. He offered me a listen of his track, and as I put the dre ‘beatz’ over my ears, I boisterously declared, “shit, that’s far too loud”. This tickled Salt, who lovingly reassured me that he’d turn it down for me, his babygirl.
It was going perfectly. But like Bryan Adams muses in the bridge of ‘summer of ’69’, “I guess nothing can last forever (forever)”- it didn’t end as well as it might: he handed me a cd, on the front of which was a picture of him, looking like a killer, and brandishing a statement necklace that combined the images of a dollar and a crucifix into one blasphemous monstrosity. Believing it to be a gift to his special shawty, I graciously accepted the offering and placed it in my bag, in amongst my other bits (a notebook for “thoughts” that mum makes me keep, and that obviously remains empty, a novel for pleasure, a sketchbook for mark-making that mum makes me keep, and that obviously remains empty, a used teabag, etcetera). But all of a sudden, my boy Salt looked hurt, and I may as well say it, unacceptably threatening. Something told me not to move on down the promenade, but to linger, and find out what had affected him. It didn’t take much to figure it out, because he then explicitly spelled it out, asking “Can I have my donation now?”. His impatient tone was verging on rudeness. But he left me with no choice – the rest of the brood were upstream somewhere, having wisely opted to not stop to talk with Salt, except mum, who was being seduced by Salt’s mate, D-mix, and was at that moment oblivious to all things bar her own flirtations. Stunned, I opened my purse and gleefully found I had only worthless English pennies within. What a relief – I shouldn’t like to pay a single cent to hear Salt’s shit on cd. And though I hadn’t the heart to tell Salt as much, I fear the rest of the human populace will feel the same way. I feigned regret at my impecunious circumstances, and handing back the present, said “you’d better have this back then”, not unkindly, but then, not without bitterness.
I left then. From a distance I heard Salt shout out to someone to tell them they had “a beautiful ass”. I took the compliment intended for another woman, and ascribed it to myself. It felt like the right way to close this chapter.
That is the story of me and Salt, a brief affair, and one which, ultimately, was founded on a hope of a monetary transaction, at least on Salt’s part. Ho hum. Maybe I’ll never appreciate what it is to know the love of a rapper. Or maybe Salt is just the first of many..
I never got my picture with Salt. Instead I’ve had to ask Sammy to dress up as him. The truth is, they look nothing alike, but if you can imagine it, Salt and I together looked a bit like the image accompanying this blog, except that Salt was much stronger, and much blacker, and just much more of a man in general. Sammy looks an unstoppable twat; puny, weird and lame. His presence in the photo is only symbolic, since the real deal (that’s Salt by the way, the rapper) was unavailable at this time.
The word salt has lost all meaning.
I can’t stop thinking about Salt.
Now, instead of a body clad all in white, as he was, all I see is a salt shaker, filled with salt. Is this ominous? What does this mean? Help!
Stay out of my dreams, you monster.