You’re writing your autobiography. What’s your opening sentence?

Part 1: Sydney Sedditt

I’m jiggling my earbuds, trying to focus, annoyed, ‘cause I’m missing Ghetto News Network, my favorite morning show. When this khaki-hued tiny human Lego steps on the elevator singing, “Down on the floor ‘til my speaker starts…”

‘Cause Miranda, the publisher’s booking agent is on speaker, going on and on about the role I’m on my way to read for later this afternoon. “…So, In the engine, this character has been in a game-induced coma, like in S. A. O., since two thousand fifteen or something. And her B. F. is this Forrest Gump-like asshole, The Dish Dawg.”

I’m supposed to be reading for a character named Simone. She lives in a junkyard. I don’t care nuthin’ ‘bout this backstory shit. 

I just need the work! And…

The khaki-hued tiny human Lego chimes, “Oh! Excuse me. Good morning, Scrumptious!” And doing this thing with her right hand, circling her face and something. “Yeah

Nothing.” She says.

…I am fighting my desire to sing the next line as the tiny human Lego asks, “Not a Skrumshus? An Umm? Really? But she’s the best of the lot. Hmm… Curiouser.  

Suns Orange Spinner? Okeydokey.” Then says, Worth a try…

…Umm, Ah Hey Boo!”

I look up from my screen, wave hello, say “Oh! Hi. Aren’t you cute?” I immediately start tripping because the animated avatar the khaki hued tiny human Lego’s screen is projecting onto the elevator door looks like a Lego version of a minor character in the show I’m missing right now. I think he’s like a dishwasher in this diner, Mahal Kee Tia’s. I wish it were real and not just TV. They serve this three layered Kool-aid and the show’s got the dopest soundtrack. Anyway, I don’t like dude, ‘cause he reminds me of this old man I did one time, back in college. I thought I was in love with his old punk ass. He remembered where he was when he wrote everything. 

While the tiny human Lego and Miranda sing, “I flip shit, quick slip, hip dip and I’m twisted… 

I mumble, “Punk ass couldn’t remember my name. Fuck his punk ass.” 

Miranda says, “Fine Sweetie. Save that energy for your screen test. I’m really looking forward to finally meeting you. See you in a couple of hours. Ask for the Propmaster, he’ll bring you to Casting.”

-Call ended-

When the door opens my phone is yellin’,  

“Triple Glitter Payback on all Head Games. 

Only this Tuesday…”

Without thinkin’, I’m growling, “Fuck him! Fuckin’ Punk ass fucker! What’s his fuckin’ name?”

And because it’s the free app, my phone is yelling this stupid advertising “…And Only at Phở Ghee Geez… 

I’m trying to find the button to make my phone stop.The tiny human Lego dives out ahead of me. Barking like a California Seal, “Shut the fuck up!” 

Somebody snickers, “Sum thin sum thin bubbles.”

I Look up, my apartment lobby is flooded. I’m Paralyzed.

Children everywhere,

I Sigh, “Fuck.”

Swirling, sweet scented, hushing, glowing, glittering, flowing eddies, currents of clean, colorful tiny people.

The khaki hued tiny human Lego in eight bit pixelated camouflage, merges into a crushing wave of teenage girls in sailor uniforms, barely noticing my presence, blocking my religiously strait morning stream to Joe’s Coffee kiosk.

The khaki hued tiny human Lego surfaces at the threshold to the courtyard. Joe’s beautiful Coffee brown and Whipped Cream awning. My destination is far too far away, in their background.

Pausing, yellow mitten sweeps a tassel of mink brown hair from their glasses, glances back asking, “Before Fringe? Tolls, “Hmm…You wouldn’t have noticed.

Oh! Wait! Any Sunday night, Dimitri’s patio, second drink.

Simone in Frenzy? Really? Oh! 

I see it now. Okeydokey.” The giant Lego Minifigure turns and disappears under a tide of women in yellow tee-shirts and utility belts.

Emerging near the center of a vortex of dark hoodies, books and backpacks, blocking the narrow lane between the mailroom and the fitness center… My building manager gives me a discount on my rent, cause I never go in there.  Stands, Layla, my friend from the nineteenth floor. She’s always there on the Habit rail 3000. But not today. 

Today, Layla, looms over this adorable pastel butterball unicorn. Looking like a real Muggle, lost in Hogwarts. 

Fist on hips, Layla fusses, “It’s cute and all, shooting bubbles, sparkles and thangs, but why Yo horn gotta look like somebody smashed a double dip waffle cone of rainbow sherbet on yo head?”

Flashing a yellow screen on their phone as they dance around Layla and the little pastel butterball unicorn who titters, “Pele’ Really? Ooh!” The khaki hued tiny human Lego fires off their Blk Stacey’s Amethyst Rock purple Cloisonné Mermaid Bubble gun and disappears.

I really want one, but I can’t see myself paying a shittonne of Glitter for a bubble gun.

“…But, y’all gettin’ on my damned nerves.” Layla fusses, “In Real Life for real forreal! Y’all be needin’ to take y’allz heads out them books and games, come out and see the real world. And, y’all really need to give up that fantasy about yo real estate in imaginary…

Wait! I. M. from ‘QueanNotQueen Daphne’ Hold on!” 

Layla breaks her yapping to notice me, “Oh. Hi Girl.” 

She half assed waves her phone’s screen at me, exclaiming, “Them FMP Shooz I been wantonly lusting after are for sale. 

They do this FIREWORKS thing 

I WANT THEM SHOOZ! Damn! I still need an orange spinner or another hundred pounds of glitter or a five pound bag of The Good Shit, magical miraculous Mexican fruit bat guano from Pookie and Ray Ray’s Quality Garden Tool…

…Girl I can’t read all that and 

I ain’t never seen no orange spinner IRL.

I want them shooz! Let me check my crypto. I might have to go dance at the Bouncy Castle. Hey Gurl. 

How you doin?”

As I pass, I joyfully listen to the chirp of the little pastel butterball unicorn’s bright yellow Motorola i five eighty, and adore their glowing mane ice cream colors melting down their hoodie. 

Chirp! “Yes! The same Dilla’s Basilica in the stories.” 

Chirp, “Yes. I’m in town with Aunt Judy.” 

Chirp, “Yes. We’re here for a book signing.” 

Chirp, “Yes. Will you go to Noodlee Tuesday with us?” 

Chirp, “Yes, it’s real. I wish people from here would stop asking me that.” Cute little waffle cone horn, shooting puffs of glitter and bubbles into the foyer breezeway.

Chirp, “Yes, here in Detroit. How long have you lived in this city? We’re staying at the Casa Natalia, with Auntie Layla.

If you meet us there, you might get Benita’s autograph. Okeydokey! I love you too. See ya.”

My neighbor Layla fusses through her exaggerated lisp, sounding like one beloved Detroit mayor. “This my city! 

I been here all my life and ain’t nevah heard of no amusement park in the D. Nevah! And the imagINed nation fo’sho ain’t here in Dee Troy Eat! They off on some post Afro-future -Olly-wood shit. Yo! Little gurl, yo money gone.”

The pastel butterball unicorn chirps, “Okeydokey. I gotta go. Auntie Layla wants to give me a reality check.

The unicorn flips down the hood of their I Can’t Without Coffee ‘Elite Fourteen Forty Butterball Jr. Double Dip Rainbow Sherbert Dash But 1st! Juice Box’ jogging suit. From the Anchor Store.

I know it’s from the Anchor Store, because I filed a formal complaint that it doesn’t come in my size.

I.C.W.C. now makes 1up FroYo Cuddle Bunny Hug, hooded sleepers in thirty two flavors and then some.

I have nine of them. The hemp velvet Currently Almost Black Currant is my favorite.

Phone in fist, fist on hip, right toe tappin’ Morse code for blah blah blah, Layla fusses, “You ain’t listenin’ to a word I’m sayin’ are you?”

The pastel unicorn looks up, doe eyed saying, Chirp,  “Reality is plastic… Ooh! She’s scrumptious!” She does the same hand thing as the minifigure, then says, “What?” Chirp, “Yes! Oops!” 

Chirp, “Yes, they serve his favorite dish. Vegan pho with three day roast pork belly.” 

Chirp, “Yes. No. Mom won’t let me say the popular name until I’m twelve.” 

Chirp! “Yes. Really! Okeydokey. Bye!”

The pastel butterball unicorn puts her screen in her pocket, their horn stops ejaculating puffs of glitter and bubbles, their IC shooz brand shoes stop blinking, and the whirlpool of teens circling them dissipates. The child, no more than eight or nine, takes off her massive yellow aviator headphones, her pastel mane stops glowing. Finally she looks up and says, “So, Auntie Layla, I invited Aunt Meg to Phở Cue, Noodlee Tuesday. 

I told her I’d introduce her to Constable Turpin. Oh and my friend Sydney says your getup is fake. Comin’ with?”

When I finally get to the coffee cart, the eightysix board

reads, ‘3B Half Caff, OUT, Kevvy’s kind of woman blend, OUT! Bullwing Froth, OUT!’

Now, I’m frustrated. But after the guy being served, the khaki hued tiny human Lego from the elevator is the only one in front of me, so I wait.

Joe yells as the guy walks away with the tall layered drink, “Tell them to watch out for the orgasm. They can be embarrassingly vocal if you’re not prepared.” 

Then leaning over the zinc counter, Joe says, “I have to say that bit. It’s in the contract. Annnnd, how may I help you giant minifigure in modest Autumn urban camo?”

The khaki hued tiny human Lego rings out with a voice like chocolate covered champagne grapes, “Mister Bubbles says he would like a Red Eye, hot with a shot of simple, please.”

From Joe’s gigantic and most wonderful smile soar the words. ”You must be Sydney.

Hi! I’m Joe! And I am very excited to serve you at last.

The Red Eye has been very popular this morning. 

I’m also your chauffeur to your aunt Judy.

Now. How’s them apples?

And what may I prepare for you?”

The khaki hued tiny human Lego waves a mink brown tassel away from their face and sings, “Yes! Pleased to finally meet you Joe.” Their brilliant yellow mittens, flip Joe the yellow screen on their Rugby SGH-A 8-3-7.

“A yellowcard,” Joe gasps and chuckles, “Edgewater, the Henry Ford, Electric Park and Pelle Pelle, not Pele’. Oh! I see.” Tapping his screen while saying, “Layla in 1921? Really? Hmm. Sure. I gotta pound of Glitter on that.”

The khaki hued tiny human Lego chortles and chimes, “I love your physics poems.

‘…Oddly, the more I expressed myself, the less I was able to say.

Instead of creating art out of nothing,

I was systematically dissembling

something already inherently whole….’

Joe Ferrari

And I’d like the same, extra sweet, with a sprinkle of cinnamon.”

I’m thinking, Cinnamon! Yum! But I don’t get poetry.

The giant minifigure tolls, “And I’m all girl!” Loudly peeling the words, “Gender Defense Squad! Fo’ Sho!”

Every uniformed girl and woman wearing a yellow tee shirt shouts, “That’s a fact Pat!” 

I think I feel offended.

Sydney, the khaki hued tiny human Lego continues, “Oh and a Muad Deep’s Mexican Spice Coco Frappe with Rebecca Sauce for my friend, Molly over there. The one arguing with that woman in the fake Marc Buchanan. Please and thank you.”

“Layla from the nineteenth floor… Hmm” Joe hands the tiny Lego person a cup and shouts, “Ya Mama is a woman.”

Again. every uniformed girl and woman wearing a yellow tee shirt in earshot yells, “Damned Right, Kim!”

Almost blushing, Joe hands her a tall thin pretty fudgy brown and pink layered whipped drink, garnished with oranges and peppers, and asks, “You really read my jargon. Wow! Thank you, Miss Sydney! See Ya after work. Welcome to Detroit. Have fun.

He straightens up, looks me squarely, blankly in the face, “…Annnd just what can I serve you? Hmm…

…Basic Bitch Blend, cold brew half caff, fake sugar coated Bullwing froth. 

All gone.” Joe smirks, “It’s been a good morning.”

I feel offended, and stuck wondering, why after all the fighting, I feel the desire to be addressed as Miss. I wave, “Morning Joe. I’m a Miss too. Oh…” Exasperated

“…I don’t know, I feel…”

I’m looking at the giant Lego minifigure girl sipping coffee with her friends. Joe smirks, “Just ducky. No! You aint’ ready for that yet, Miss…

Hmm? Miss?

 Miss. Hmm?

Ducky. Miss. But if you’re feeling a little adventurous, try Muad Deep’s Mexican spiced cocoa frappe with Rebecca sauce and a shot of espresso. Just one yellow spinner. Only today at a Joe’s Coffee Bar near you.”

Joe sounds just like the dude in the free app’s advertising for Joe’s Coffee Bar. Now I’m really annoyed.

But I trust Joe, so I say, “Okay. Cocoa Frappe. Thank you. And, what’s with all these children this morning? And how’s that one know?”

Joe says, “Oh. Sydney plays Detroit Proper and The Thing I Am Doing Today. We’re on the same team. I’m their Detroiter by proximity. (I know, three trivial hometown violations in one setting is a yellowcard offense. They’re my nieces’ and nephews’ favorite shows) Joe smiles, “They’re all in town for a massive book signing at Sun’s Pavilion in the greenway. Yeah. And how’d she know your girl Layla’s outfit is fake? The snaps on her baggies read Pele’ Pele’. Pele’ was a Futbol player. Sydney called the Yellowcard..”

Another child is Chirping. “Yes. Hastings and Ferry Park are real.”

Chirp, “Yes, Here in Detroit.” 

I don’t get you people.” The child shouts, Chirp, “Yes, Hold On! Wait! I’ll show you!” Throws her book on the lawn, kneels to open an elaborate popup map scene from ‘The Thing I Am Doing Today’, (my niece’s and nephews’ favorite show.) A tsunami of children rush around her with their screens out, dawning glasses and VR headsets.

I take a sip of my own tall thin pretty fudgy brown and pink layered whipped drink, garnished with oranges and peppers, “Yum! This is good. Sweet and spicy. Ooh Yum.”

Just as Layla, my neighbor from the nineteenth floor starts hollering, “My shooz. Aww snap! I got a Yellowcard discount! Gimmie Gimmie! BUY BUY!”

Watching this seven foot purple and orange feathered velociraptor carnival parade queen climb out an Anchor Store shuttle. About to go in for a deep swallow, 

when Joe shouts, “Hey Miss…

Hmm. Yeah Ducky. That’s Chef Mo Deep’s recipe.

Please be careful with the orgasm.

They’re notorious for being embarrassingly vocal if you’re not prepared.”

I’m laughing, “Orgasm…”

“Yeah! Right.

I ain’t had a real one in years.”

Saluting me, Joe says, “Your cocoa Ma’am. Enjoy.”

Walking toward the car park, I start thinking about that barista dude from back in the day. Always scribbling notes for his stupid Sapio-sexual Mommy Porn. Always talkin’ about painting a church in an amusement park, making popup maps of his favorite places, and…

I sip my coffee again, the pretty purple and orange horned feathered party velociraptor bobs across the lane peeking over their mirrored aviators, “Hey Scrumptious.” I wave back, “Hey! Sexy.” as we pass, Thinking, I never believed being attracted to differently and extremely intelligent people was a kink. I always thought it pretentious, elitist and classist. I always just felt like it was this age thing I got.

You know, like a type. Bam!

I whisper, “This shit is real.” 

Bam! Like walking through razor thin walls of electrified superfluid simple syrup coated glitter. Waves of recall hit me like thousands of after pee chills pleasure rushing through. Images, sounds, 

Detroit places I’d only been with him. 

Bam! Right there in the courtyard, I slammed him against the wall and said, “I like yo shirt.

 What’s it say? 

Lego 

No!

Bam! You know we fuckin’! Right?”

Bam! The morning after 

Monday.was the worst day. 

I remember walking out into the mist, “I’m keeping this shirt old man. I love how you make me feel loved. 

You got skills, But you need more practice. 

I’ll see you after class?” 

I remember the tears welling up in his eyes. 

I saw that sad smile cross his face as he uttered, “Um?” 

Bam! I remember standing right here, one broken heeled shoe in my hand, barking at the top of my lungs, “But, we made love all weekend and…” I told all our business as I beat him with the brand new Fuck Me Pumps I bought for our date.

Him, bloody forearms shielding his face, saying, “Yeah! But you said…”

Me, yelling, ”Fuck that! Fuck what I said!

Bam! Niggah! I cooked for you. And I…

I did things that I never…

And yo punk ass can’t remember my name. 

Niggah, Shut the Fuck Up!”

Him pushing away from me, growling, “Okeydokey.” And fading away in the morning mist.

All the teenage girls around me in their sailor and stewardess uniforms, giggling in chorus, “sum thin sum thin bubbles.”

Making me realize I’ve been thinking aloud and I was wearing that shirt right there. 

Sydney, that khaki hued minifigure girl crosses behind the feathery purple and orange velociraptor, flashing the shirt I stole from him. Stops, offering me an orange 45 record adapter, “Mister Bubbles says, I owe you this. 

Yes! It’s real, 1 pound of Glow in the Dark Danger Glitter, and yes, the Dishwasher avatar and the character are based on the same asshole you remember. 

You stole his Moodymann Lego…

…No! Tee shirt. 

And this is it! 

I’m having it framed and made an NFT.

Layla’s phone’s blinking yellow and shouting, “Payment accepted. Seller, Queen Daphne, is two point five meters to your left.”

So, I’m your trigger. You pull his, I pull yours.

See ya. Umm.”

And she was off with her friends.

Layla, prances like a circus pony, looking for her shoes. “Where they at? Where my Fuck Me Pumps? Where they at? Where they at? At. At!”

“Layla’s phone says, “No! Your other left. Dumb bunny.” The party velociraptor dances behind her, Shooz brand shoes flashing like fireworks in their backpack..

The little girl closes her book, stands up, shouting as the children scatter, “I told you. The park is real, the village is real, your shoes are real, our imaginary friends are real.

See! Daphne, meet my aunt Layla. I told you she’s real.” Layla turns to greet the giant purple and orange feathered 

drag queen carnival velociraptor saying. “You know, Molly, Shantell’s mama es La Monstrua de las Cuevas, but you have my pity sweet pea. Here! Your shooz, Honey.” Turns to see her reflection in Daphne’s face backs up to get a full view, says, “Oh shit niece, I owe you a fuckin’ apology and faints.

Poof! 

I’m so glad that trip is over.

I pause, turn, raise my cup, “Thank you” at Joe. I think he was checkin’ out my butt. Feeling grateful. I stick the spinner in my bra, put on my earbuds and walk away slowly singing, “Your hands on my hips pull me right back to you.”