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Checking the Urban Oil
Poppa Ron Becomes Daddy Ron: A Sure Proof of True Causes with Exegesis

This is a story of ethical expansion for the large-minded man.

She was a customer and Big Ron always fulfills the customer’s needs.

She was a nice-looking chick, looked like she was right out of a rap video, like she was right out of the heart of Africa.

You can put her real name in this, her name was Lakisha.

I think that’s how it was spelled. I never looked at her I.D. I don’t think she had one.

She was a regular customer, lived in Dutch Village.

She would order a lot of food. One day she ordered food and I came over with the delivery. She said, “I hate to tell you this, but my mother has the money for the food and she isn’t home yet.”

There was a bunch of kids running around in the back. There wasn’t much in the way of furnishing: three kids a couple lawn chairs and a love seat in the living room and a small TV with an old video game system on it. In the bedroom she had a mattress and a box spring. I think the kids had beds. I wasn’t so eager to check on the kids. Grandma could do that.

It was cheese steaks and chicken wings, came to about 18 dollars.

I told her, I told her, “You’ve been a good customer, here’s the food. When your mother comes with the money pay me back later. You order food all the time.

She said, “Really!”

And she started giving me a big hug.

Damn she was built.

I figure, at this point, let’s see what happens and I tell her, “When I get off work how ‘bout we go out for some drinks?”

She was surprised and said, “Okay,” Of course, she had always been flirting with me, so I knew it was pretty much good to go.

I got off work at about 11 at night and went over there and I was surprised that she had money for the food.

She said, “I told you my mom had money for the food and I said, “I believed you.”

Lakisha and the other black girl were like they were from different planets.

I took her over to the B’Mor longue on Belair Road and good God could she drink!

The B’More lounge is roughly at Hamilton Avenue, a liquor store front, with a wall-through to the back where there are some pool tables. We used to run a lot of food there, because the Hindus that owned it were related tote ones I worked so they would put the menus out, so I was pretty familiar with it.

We drank and joked and talked about life growing up in Baltimore. She was a cool chick. She was a hoodrat. So, your readers might hold it against me that I fucked a hoodrat. But once you got her on her own to speak of life, she was a really good person.

We stayed there and drank until closing time, about two o’clock.

We went back to her place and she had kids running around. They were bouncing around like a bunch of nuts. I said, “High” to the kids. Had a lot of engagement with them in the morning when they were bouncing on me like I was a white trampoline.

Her mother was there.

She took me into the bedroom and there was some drunken passion and the next thing I know I wake up in the morning and her dindus are bouncing up and down on me and I got the hell out of there!

I had a great time with her—we dated. I broke up with her after a couple months. I was seeing her every two or three days. I broke up wither because she was pushing hard for me to raise her kids and I wasn’t really up for that.

The poor kids, they were jumping on my fucking chest like, “Is this white beast my daddy? Our daddy life is so confusing!”

There you go, you can say I checked the oil if you like—and that motor was humming.

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