livin Letters track 1

The transcription is about a friendship between the speaker, Jelani, and his long-time friend Maya. Jelani reminisces about their bond, Maya's disappearance, and Maya's request for Jelani to write his story. The story touches on their diverse backgrounds, occupations, and Maya's desire to have his narrative shared. Despite the challenges posed by COVID-19, Maya's wish for Jelani to tell his tale remains a poignant and important task. Maya's disappearance leaves Jelani reflecting on their friendship and the weight of the responsibility placed on him to become the narrator of Maya's life story. With such an astounding surprise for me, I have this buddy I've been knowing since WWF and Heathcliff cartoons, this dude's favorite riff-raff of the catalytic cats. We all got those friends, those buddies we always run into or stay in as much contact as possible. It is complementary to the new age technology. They go old school, using a pen with stamps to mail holiday cards, family pictures, all that type of stuff. Me and this guy have several birthdays celebrated together. I got photos. See my buddy's birthday is June 4th, mine a couple of weeks following. We found ways to celebrate damn near all of June, in both occasions. There was a time in 2019, right after the December and January holidays, I recalled a post. A Facebook static saying something about an anniversary. Doubtful, I examined over the post, went nosing around in the comments section. Same familiar names, Mary Taylor, Matasha Shaw, Eve and Derek, our homeboy up in Missouri. Yes sir, that was my guy, Maya. Maya Lewis. Settled all the way down, and this surprise, it felt good for some reason, warming. Set up to send one of those clumsy congratulations responses. Here, how many of us start spelling out a word, let's say Wednesday, surprise, or congratulations, and the smartphone has to aid us in correction, yeah, that part. Surprise. You ready for it? Right as I began a luncheon with a client myself, embarrassingly chiming the DMX song, you know, the one where he's asking the location of all his dogs. This caller was indeed my dog, right or wrong. Several weeks back, I got this 308 area code in my log of missed calls. The voice was hoarse, the more raspy, but it was mingling with uncertainty. I was sure of who it was though, wrong me wrong, what it do fool, I held up a hand to inform the participant joining me I'd be taking this call. We spoke, making the usual D-boy introductions. Both decided that we had to catch up soon. Not so happy my guy was to be in Tampa for visiting during the same time that I was going to be there visiting. That will be January the 27th of 2020. I miss my guy, big nose ass. Didn't hear from him again. That was a struggle. I worried as the weeks went by, kept wondering of the what ifs. We never went this long without communication. Never seen Michael Young. Not even when he, along with a few others in our circle, did that federal bid. Still received emails, still received calls. I tried dozens of ways to contact my guy in the last month or so. I was confident in the email I was using. Unfortunately, my guy, well, Maya, would often mimic and act out rap songs back when we were young. Sort of like the hearing impaired people down in the corner motioning with signs and hand language. It was ridiculous but funny. Almost spellbinding how this dude reenacts lyrics with hand movements and gestures. As one or more of our KC homies would say, this nigga was cold, bud. Your buddy's top rapper was, and probably still is, Andre Hicks. The Bay Area rhymer was known as the Richard Pryor of the rap game, Dre the Mack. The hood minister, Mack Dre, passed away a long time ago. This causing my chum to use Dre's ghost as his email handle. No replies to any messenger message, emails, no Snapchat snaps, no text or anything. And though he wasn't deceased, I almost bet my arms up against a wager that he wasn't, well, wasn't purposely ignoring me. Even to the thought of death, I never got that call. You know that call. In my mind, I can relate to the things that have to change in many incidents, but my dude hollered at me more than his real brother from blood. Okay, let me share. Me, I am 44-year-old Jelani Milam Buiss. I don't have a clue to where that last name originated from. It could be way back when we were enslaved by one of those wealthy French slave owners in Louisiana or some well-off parish. Although I do have a vocal family in California, my father's side had some uncles that brought back some Filipinos in the early wars, Filipinos with African-American traits. Oh, I am not gay or bi, none of that. I refer to Maya as my guy, well, because he is simply that, my guy, thick and thin, all that. Me, I stay on the move somehow. I was born in a tiny country town located an estimated 66 miles from Kansas City, Missouri. When I was still young, I drifted up to San Diego with my pops, lived in Florida, Nebraska, KC, even was in Wisconsin for a little bit. I spent a lot of nights in Vegas, loved Denver, even tried Oklahoma City. Check this out. I have been a dishwasher, worked at all seasons detailing vehicles. Also, I have hung drywall, poured concrete, epoxied floors, tiled floors, even buffed along with running a burnisher machine for floors. I draw, have an ear for music. Although I'm not good at reading notes, I know how to make music, let's just say that. Once I've been employed in natural resources, manufacturing, even got my personal trainer certification. I've done digital editing, production, service maintenance, sales, director of sales, as well as a small portion of transportation means. So consider me a jack, you know, the one with all trades, so to speak. Done a wide array of occupations, even ran with that bag back in the early days. One thing I have yet to consider myself as, that is a novelist, a writer, or as a jealous person. I'm not zealous. In fact, jealousy in any form turns my tummy, can't mix with that at all. As far as not being a writer, let me explicate. The reason of my, let's say, pal, my amigo, Maya Lewis, wanted me to tell his story. Write this story in a narrative form, saying some goodbyes. Let some people know how he'd felt, how he'd been so resilient, understanding, accepting, but blessed with these downfalls, troubles, turmoil, betrayal, his anger. Fashion words to express wants and needs, his losses. Don't write it as me, not even as you. Make up some names, you know, peace to the innocents and shit. And I giggled, thinking he meant to protect the innocent. Told me about a journal, a big-ass trapper-keeper thing, his words exactly. Also filled with written letters about how to introduce this book, this novel. He wanted me to give it a few different perspectives. He rattle on about publishing a place online, just raving about it. He had me sold. He had me sold. I wish to know more. All right, Ben, spill it all. That's how we went about it. We often made plans to link up, but no, this COVID-19 had the whole map fucked up. In one instance, I heard my relative, Tony, with other family members, got stuck in the Ozarks when the place was reopened. On the news, on social media, even jacking the net way up with photos of their sessions during the part two of this pandemic. The Lake of the Ozarks was the place to be, but pretty dangerous. And I wasn't afraid of the corona disease exactly, but I rarely went too far without a mandated face covering the globe was assigned to wear. Puller paper was grown to be the most important of needs. Quarantining had become a fad. Also, the jails were held back. Anyhow, what I was expressing was this good friend of many, many years chose me to reiterate this story. It was quite a grateful feeling. I would have rather been a godparent or his best man. His best man. I knew when he asked the question, which was wasn't really a question at all. More of a blatant suggestion. Ending with a question that was already an answer. When asked a second time, I paused and thought. He nor did I need any verbal agreement. My God, I smirked as Maya blew through his golden teeth. My reflection should have been that of Denzel Washington from a scene of training day. My nigga. That was simply my answer. Chapter one.