SHORT STORY: PONCE

a boy takes a walk down Ponce De Leon Ave. and encounters some out-of-this world characters at the corner store.

At the Hotel Clermont lobby bar, I’m having a martini with Ivy, a white girl who wears angel wings even though it’s not Halloween. She’s the most professional drug dealer I’ve ever met. I like Ivy because she shares my passion for storytelling. She had to pull out the strap in the Benihana’s parking lot last week. I told her about the Nazi militia I ran into during a beer run in Poland that one time. All my decisions are motivated by the desire to have the best story at the bar one day. There’s a mischievous narrator in my brain rubbing his palms like, wait till we tell em about this!

Before she leaves, she drops a pack of cigarettes in my hoodie pocket, but instead of cigs, there’s two tabs of acid. Ivy is very clever. When the coast is clear, I place two tabs on my tongue where they dissolve, leaving a metallic taste. Hotel Clermont is an odd and magnificent establishment. It’s 100 years old and features a rooftop bar, a Michelin-starred restaurant, and a basement strip club with decrepit grandma strippers only. An hour later, an electric surge rockets to my brain, where it explodes. Screens are glitchy and three-dimensional now and the roses on the wallpaper are shriveling. I try to write something in my journal, but I have to blink hard or else the letters start to duplicate. I haven’t smoked in years, but maybe I need a real cigarette.

I stroll down Ponce de Leon Avenue, past MJQ, the legendary rave that I never liked, past Murder Kroger, which is actually a very pleasant grocery store, but everyone in Atlanta calls it Murder Kroger. Finally, I arrive at the Shell, which feels like the International Space Station tonight. Refrigerators hum like an old Georgia chain gang. There’s a fly ass couple at the counter straight out of a Shaft movie. The woman wrapped in mink is about to pay for some Black & Mild cigars.

Baby! You know I can’t fuck with no wood tip after the Hennessy, the man with the yellow bell bottoms says.

I emerge from the Shell with a pack of Parliaments, exotic Sprite, and sour Skittles. The couple are leaning against an old school Cadillac, smooth as ice, sharing their cigar. They nod, I nod too. You’re a writer, huh? the woman asks.

This freaks me out because I’m just a random nigga with sweats and a hoodie at the gas station. I’m not even wearing eyeglasses. How do you know?

They say it’s obvious. I tell them I’m going nowhere fast, but the woman says, What’s for you cannot miss you. Their names are Clyde and Angela. It’s not every day that I befriend corner store randoms at 1am, but there’s something about these two. Angela lights my cigarette, but I cough and throw it out. She removes a frozen strawberry shortcake from an alligator purse, and it’s exactly what I need. We discuss films and they agree that Jackie Brown might be better than Pulp Fiction. That motherfucker fly as hell, Clyde says.

Then, a bomb drops. We’re 145 years old, Angela says.

Y’all trippin’, I say. Deep down, I know it’s true. Due to the psychedelics, my bullshit barometer is superb right now. They drank water from the fountain of youth. Clyde’s grandfather discovered a magical stream somewhere in Guatemala a long time ago and Clyde and Angela took a sip in the 1920s or some shit.

I’m in the back of the Caddy now. Bobby Womack floats from the speakers and streetlights zip by like comets. We pull up in front of Clermont. Angela hands me a flask and says, Why don’t you join us?

And live forever? I ask.

Duh motherfucker, Clyde says.

I open the flask and sniff. Smells like mezcal.

All photos by me