Here's sample from a story that I'm going to be posting on my Patreon page on a weekly basis for my subscribers. I hope you guys decide to sign up for whatever tier fits your budget and remember, even at the BRONZE tier for $2 per month you get access to all the stories I'll be posting to the page.
And now....
THE
HOTTEST CUP
By Keith Kareem Williams
It was summertime in the
big city and there was an unusual buzz in the scorching streets around a sport
that we, the pessimistic, gritty citizens of New York, usually didn’t
particularly care for. We only sacrificed precious time from our hectic lives
for physical contests that were hard-hitting, brutal, fast-paced and most
importantly, high-scoring. Even baseball, one our beloved national pastime, was dying a slow death. (Any sport where the
television commentators had the time to casually drone on about weekend fishing
trips in-between exciting plays was doomed.) In a crowded sports bar in lower
Manhattan, on a Tuesday afternoon, we beer-drinkers and lovers of liquor were
all there to watch the World Cup, of all things. Thanks to the constant barrage
of relentless coverage and promotions on all of the top sports networks,
soccer, better known as Futbol in
most parts of the world outside the U.S., had become the new novelty that had
temporarily grabbed a hold of our collective short attention spans.
The United States had
already been eliminated from contention by Germany despite a valiant effort,
mostly from out thirty-five year-old goalkeeper, Tim Howard, who at times mad
superhuman save after save with the full weight of America’s pride on his back.
The way he defended against Germany’s skilled strikers’ onslaught made him
appear as if he was thirty feet tall. Our interest could have waned after that
defeat but, we were all there on that day to watch soccer anyway, hopeful that
the host country’s home team heroes of Brazil would stomp the mighty Germans,
the villains that had just bounced our guys from World Cup contention just a
few days before.
Once the match started
and it immediately became obvious that it was going to be a painfully
lop-sided, old-fashioned ass-whooping, (The Germans scored THREE goals in the
first seventy-six seconds of the match which is UNHEARD of), most of us turned
away from the big-screen televisions, get back to discussing the off-season
news stories about our favorite sports and concentrated on getting drunk. After
all, we were in an establishment that’s main function was to serve alcohol…and
lots of it. While we speculated about which of the big named, free agent
basketball stars might end up switching teams and signing huge contracts with
different franchises, I spotted her
sitting at a table all alone.
In the entire bar, she
was the only one whose teary eyes were still glued to the television as she
watched the painful massacre masquerading as a futbol match. Even though she
must have been absolutely filled with shame, she seemed unable to look away as
Brazil put up zero resistance and Germany continued to score goal after goal. I
was surprised that I hadn’t noticed her before because, out of all the patrons
in the place, only her darker skin tone was even close to my own. I made my way
towards her, past guys in European-cut business suits who were busy boasting
about how much money they were going to make this quarter, all of whom were all
too narcissistic to notice a beautiful woman, literally crying her eyes out
right in their midst. Most of them probably spent too much time in front of
mirrors admiring their own awesomeness
to notice beauty in anything else. When I was only a few feet away from her, I
saw how truly gorgeous she was.
The forlorn female in the
yellow T-shirt didn’t notice me as I tried to make eye-contact to gauge how she
felt about my attention being on her. (If a woman frowns, looks puzzled or
rolls her eyes when she catches you looking at her, it is best not to even
approach her to save yourself a heap of grief and embarrassment.) The Brazilian
flag printed boldly on the front of her top was warped and stretched because of
the size of her breasts but I tried my best not to stare. Most women hated
that. Her nose was broad but perfectly fit the shape of her face and she pouted
with thick, full, luscious lips that shined with whatever gloss she had covered
them with. Her kinky, curly, jet black hair was styled in a wild ponytail and
she stared at the TV screen with eyes that were ocean blue which was unusual
for someone with her complexion. I found it extremely sad that she should sit
and mourn her nation’s humiliation alone so I bought two drinks at the bar and
then pulled up a chair right beside her at the round wooden table.
***
“Hello, my name is
Andressa,” she told me in a thick, Portuguese accent after I introduced myself
and offered her one of the two rum and cokes I sat down next to her with.
If she had refused I
would have just guzzled both of them myself. Andressa smiled, and accepted the
tall shot glass of liquor. She eyed it suspiciously at first before she
eventually shrugged her shoulders and gulped it down all at once. She grimaced
as it burned her throat, then turned her attention back to the match. I decided
to watch it as well without hounding her with conversation that she was
probably not in the mood for. It made no sense to hound her when her focus was
somewhere else. As the cameras panned through the stands in the stadium, the
Brazilian fans, draped in flags and varied patriotic regalia looked more like
mourners at a funeral than sports fans. They might as well have been wearing
black instead of their national colors as they wept from disappointment and
shame. I handed Andressa a napkin as the first of many tears rolled down her
chocolate cheek.
“I know how you feel,” I
leaned close to her and whispered in her ear.
“How could you?” she
asked. “America lost but, at least they put up a fight. This is disgraceful so
how could you possibly know how I feel?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.
I’m a New York Knicks fan and THEY haven’t won a championship since three years
before I was born,” I joked in an attempt to brighten her mood.
She finally turned from
the television to look at the exaggerated, sad, disgusted, frustrated
expression on my face and smiled. She had a grin that was mischievous and
mysterious enough to inspire a burning desire to know what she was thinking. Her
eyes reminded me of a tropical ocean deep and clear enough that you could see
right down the depths to the sandy bottom.
“Are you from here?” she
asked.
“Yes, I was born right
here in New York, more specifically Brooklyn. Lived there all of my life,” I
answered.
“I was born in Brazil,
obviously,” she said, stretching out the front of her shirt to show me the
flag. “But, I love it here in this city.”
“Have you ever been to
Brooklyn?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t had a
chance to. I’ve only been living here for a few months. My apartment is just a
few blocks from here. I’ve been to Times Square though. It’s so nice,” she told
me.
“Times Square is pretty
but, it’s not really New York,” I said.
“Why isn’t it?” she
asked, somewhat puzzled. “It’s one of the most famous places here. I used to
daydream of seeing it one day for myself when I was back home.”
“Times Square is pretty
but, it’s like a glammed up model with way too much make-up on. That part of
Manhattan is what big corporations think tourists want to see…the wonder, the
fabricated fantasy and all of the hype but it’s not real. It’s not authentic New
York,” I explained so passionately that I seemed to spark a burning curiosity
that I could see burning behind her big, bright, inquisitive eyes.
“So, what is real Mr.
Brooklyn?” Andressa asked and leaned closer to me as she waited for my answer.
That’s when I looked
directly into her beautiful chocolate face, swam in the deep blue of her
unusual eyes and boldly said, “Let me show you.”
Five minutes and two
drinks later we were out the door, on our way to my part of the town that never
closed its eyes.
***
By the time either one of
us realized how fast the time had flown by, the sun was long gone. When we
finally did look up, only the pale moon swam in the black-as-ink skies above my
beloved Brooklyn. We had stood in the shadow of the beautiful basketball arena
where I made her close her eyes while I described all that used to be there
before the Nets brought the team over from New Jersey. We went window shopping
in a few of the unique boutiques and when she got hungry, I took her to dinner
at one of my favorite spots to eat authentic, West Indian food, just like my
Granny used to cook. Everywhere we went, I had a story to share, either from my
city’s history or from my own rich memories. I shared with her the soul of my
home, past and present. The twinkle in her eye let me know that she was falling
in love with it all, just as I had always loved it from the day I was born. At
the end of our adventures and tour, we found ourselves sitting outside at the promenade
at the end of Brooklyn Heights, (Or the beginning, depending on how you looked
at it.)
“It looks so different
from here,” she said to me.
“It IS different from
here,” I answered, putting one arm around her and pulling her close. “All of
THAT is the glitzy, tourist attraction,” I said as I pointed. “It’s just a
mask, a front, a dolled-up pretty face but make no mistake, places like Harlem,
Southside Queens, and Brooklyn are the soul of this metropolis.”
“You love your home,” she
said.
“I really do. I get
homesick every time I’m gone for too long.”
“It’s a beautiful thing,
to love something so much, with such passion,” she sighed.
“Well, I’m a passionate
man,” I said with a smile.
After that, there was
silence between us for a few minutes. I wasn’t quite sure why she had suddenly
gone quiet but, things still felt right, even without us exchanging a single word
for that time and I wasn’t about to ruin the moment or alter the vibe. I didn’t
interrupt her thoughts with clumsy questions and I let her feel what she was
feeling until she was ready to share.
“Take me to where you
live,” she told me and although I had not anticipated that request, I didn’t
hesitate to oblige her.
***
We didn’t make it inside
my place before we started kissing and peeling off each other’s clothes right
in front of my door. I fumbled clumsily with the keys, desperate to get inside
before my neighbors heard the commotion, stuck their heads out into the hallway
and caught us both in heat and
half-naked. With a smooth click, the lock finally opened and we stumbled
inside after I turned the knob. Andressa had already undid my belt and opened
my jeans by the time I closed the door behind us. At the pace we were going, we
would never make it to the bedroom.
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