“TARRON,” Steve shouts exiting out the truck.
“BUBBA,” Tron yells embracing Steve in a hug. If this ain’t some country shit right here. Dude’s name is Bubba and he even has the audacity to be wearing some cowboy boots with a cowboy hat, one of those thick belts with a shiny buckle, and even has the nerve to have a toothpick sticking out of his mouth. I will say this though, Steve is cute. About 6’2 with chocolate brown skin and a slim athletic build to him. He looks a lot like Blair Underwood in his Krush Groove days.
“Wow,” Bubba or Steve says turning to me. “Ma’am…uh…wow,” he stutters taking off his hat, displaying a full head of hair in thick, beautiful black boy curls. It must run in the family.
“Hello Steve,” I smile giving him a hug. His body stiffens and his heart is beating so hard, I feel it through his shirt.
“Um…ugh…hellooooo,” Steve says sounding like a retard.
“Man, snap out of it,” Tron laughs popping Steve in the back of his head.
“You really made it, cuz,” Steve says in awe still staring at me.
“Yo, I made her leave her bodyguards at home. Please try not to creep her out,” Tron laughs as he opens the door for me. The door makes this awful creaking sound. I smile and hop in the middle.
“Ma’am, had I known that Tarron was bringing home company, I would have cleaned my truck,” Steve says sitting next to me. The truck smells like dogs and there are traces of mud on the floor.
“It’s okay. Thank you for picking us up and please, call me Aneesah.”
“I…I…I can do that,” Steve stutters. “And you can call me Bubba,” he smiles.
“Is it alright if I stick with Steve?” I ask. Steve smiles and nods as Tron is cracking up next to me. We leave out the airport and drive to the destination as I sight see out the window. I’ve been to Tennessee numerous of times while on tour, but I’ve never been to Tennessee. I come, perform and leave. I’ve never really seen what this place has to offer.
“Aye Bubba, go to Miss Pearl’s shop so we can get Aneesah some duds,” Tron says.
“I have clothes,” I chime in.
“We’re living like normal people, right?”
“I have normal people clothes too, Tarron,” I huff.
“So, you got cowboy boots and flannels in yo’ bags?” He cracks a smile. Fuck. I love when he smiles.
We arrive at Miss Pearl’s boutique. Both Tron and Steve hop out of the truck and gesture their hand towards me to help me down. I roll my eyes at Tron and allow Steve to help me. We walk inside Miss Pearl’s and I am greeted by an elderly woman with cinnamon skin, salt and pepper hair, and silver specks on her face.
“Hey, Aunt Pearl,” Tron greets the lady. My mouth drops because Tron could have told me that I was about to meet his aunt.
“Tarron, baby,” she says hugging him. “I hear you on the radio, son. Lord Jesus. I am going to pray for you, boy. All that cussin’ and explicit language,” she says shaking her head at him. “What about your voice? When you said that you got a record deal, I thought you were going to use that wonderful voice of yours. Sing the Lord’s gospels,” she scolds.
“I still sing. I’m just doing this rap thing for now, so I can buy you pretty things,” he smiles kissing her cheek.
“Your mother would be so proud,” she beams.
“Aunt Pearl, this is Aneesah,” he introduces me.
“Hello,” I smile.
“You’re the girl on television who likes to dress like a Jezebel,” she smiles. No this ol’ bitty didn’t just call me a hoe.
“Aunt Pearl,” Tron laughs.
“I’m just fussin’, but you have a beautiful voice as well. No need to exploit your body to get people’s attention.”
“But I like her body, Aunt Pearl,” Tron winks. “Since you got so much to say about her clothes, why don’t you hook her up with some new threads? I want to take her to the rodeo AND she’s going to help me on the farm.”
“That’s good baby because you know Charlotte is pregnant,” she smiles, pinching his cheeks.
“She is?” Tron says beaming with pride. Who the fuck is Charlotte?
“I can’t wait to see her. I miss her all the time.”
“I’m sure she can’t wait to see you either, son. Every time you visit and leave, she goes through this depression. Poor thing stops eating and everything,” Aunt Pearl says walking to the back of the store.
“She better be depressed because I be depressed without her. That’s my girl,” Tron says following her to the back of the store. Steve chuckles.
“Charlotte is his horse,” he laughs, gnawing on his toothpick.
“Oh,” I reply feeling like an idiot because I was actually upset for a moment.
Tron and his aunt gift me with cowboy boots, a hat, some Daisy Dukes as well as regular jeans and some flannels.
“See you later, Aunt Pearl,” Tron says kissing her cheek.
“See you Aunty,” Steve waves.
“You could have told me that I was going to go meet your aunt. I would have brought her a gift or something.”
“For what? We country folks. Just showing up is the gift,” Tron smiles. We pull up a private dirt road and drive a few miles before a farm comes into view. There are horses and cows in the field and I spot a pigsty off to the side of the yard.
“I can’t believe I am on a farm,” I giggle.
“I thought Saheed was from the country,” Tron states.
“He was but not this kind of country,” I laugh. We hop out the truck and walk inside the house.
“Alright, Tarron. I’m fixin’ to go home. I’ll catch y’all later,” Steve says.
“Thanks for the ride, Steve,” I tell him as him and Tron hug it out.
“Come on. I’ll introduce you to my Pops.” Tron extends his hand out to me. I follow him out to the fields and walk inside the barn.
“AYE POPS?” Tron yells.
“SON,” an old man in overalls emerges from the back of the barn. The old man has to be at least 6’6, dipped in chocolate with a gray cotton like afro sitting on top of his head. His salt and pepper hair is unkempt on his face. I watch him push up his silver rimmed glasses before diverting his attention to me. I already see where Steve gets his looks from.
“Pop, this is…”
“That young lady from TV. Why hello,” he says bowing slightly and kissing my hand. I laugh.
“Hello to you too sir,” I giggle.
“Grandson, this you?” He chuckles, giving Tron dap. No he didn’t.
“We’re just friends,” I laugh, interrupting this little manly bonding session.
“Oh, he hasn’t sung to you yet,” he chuckles while playfully elbowing Tron.
“She ain’t ready for that,” Tron laughs.
“Whatever. His voice can’t be that great if he isn’t capitalizing off it,” I smirk.
“She must not know,” Pops states sounding like his grandson.
“Anyway, Tarron has made it very clear that we are just friends before we got here,” I remind Tron, looking over at him.
“Well, he has yet to bring a lady here to meet his family.”
“Pops, chill,” Tron laughs.
“Mmmmm…hmmmm…scrumptious,” Pops says while twirling me around. I know this niggah ain’t checking my ass out.
“That’s enough old man before your blood pressure goes up,” Tron burst out in laughter.
“I’m already there, son,” Pops winks at me.
We walk up to the main house and Tron shows me my room.
“Sorry about my Pops,” he apologizes with a laugh.
“Don’t be. I like him. What’s his name or what should I call him?” I ask.
“Pops,” Tron says shutting the door. I unpack my things and change into some tights and a t-shirt before joining them downstairs.
“Something smells amazing,” I say, inhaling the scents of the house.
“I made some buttermilk, oven baked fried chicken, sweet potatoes, som
e fried okra and biscuits. I hope you’re hungry,” Pops replies.
“Do you need help with anything? And…what am I supposed to call you,” I ask with a laugh.
“You can call me Pops, now hand me some of those spices right there,” he says pointing. I look up at the old black and white wedding photo that’s hanging on the wall.
“That’s me and my sweetie, Jesse-Mae.”
“She’s beautiful,” I comment.
“Oh, you don’t have nothing nice to say about me?” Pops laughs. “I was a looker too now,” he winks.
“You were quite handsome,” I laugh.
“I was the most happenin’ thing in these parts. Ladies couldn’t get enough of AB,” he chuckles. “Albert’s my name but AB is the name I answer to,” he smiles politely. “Come on. Let me show you where Tarron gets all his good looks and charm from,” he says, taking my hand and escorting me into the living room.
I am buried in family photos, looking at Tron’s childhood as well as the numerous photos of his beautiful mother, grandmother, and other family members. I learned that Pops was a jazz musician and though he plays seven instruments, the saxophone is his instrument of expertise. I admire the old photos of Pops looking sharp and debonair with his jazz band playing at clubs across the globe. I listen to him chatter on about how he taught all his children and grandchildren how to sing, harmonize, and play instruments. Holding up a photo of Tron and a few of his male cousins decked out in suits, looking like a young, fake-ass imitation of The Dells or something.
“See, Pops was a looker back in the day,” he chuckles, pointing out an old black and white photo of him in a fedora and suit, leaning against a Cadillac.
“You’re still a looker,” I tease, turning the page in the album.
“My bad. I fell asleep…Pops…No,” Tron yells walking into the room. “She don’t want to be bothered wit’ this stuff.”
“No, I do. I’m loving this,” I laugh, holding up a childhood photo of Tron in a tank top, some short ass cut off jean shorts with his socks pulled all the way up to his knees and his two front teeth are missing.
“Yooooo,” he says, dragging a hand down his face while looking at the photo.
“Food’s ready,” Pops states. I walk over into the dining room and take a seat as Pops places the food on the table.
“This is absolutely delicious,” I compliment, spooning some in to my mouth.
“Yes. That’s fresh meat. I killed the chicken this morning,” Pops smiles.
“Pops, she’s a city girl,” Tron chuckles as I slowly chew my food.
“Well, shit. She knows how food is made, don’t she?”
“I do. It’s great,” I tell him, spooning more into my mouth even though I no longer have an appetite.
“You two got dishes. I’m headed down to the juke joint,” Pops says, rising from the table.
“Easy on that corn liquor old man and tell Miss Cecil I said hi.”
“I don’t mess with that woman.” Pops looks insulted.
“Sure, you don’t,” Tron laughs. Pops walks out the room and goes upstairs.
“Miss Cecil?” I question.
“Oh, that’s his little dip. He tries to be all incognito out of respect for my grandma but we all know. He’s embarrassed because that was my grandmother’s best friend.”
“Oh shit. How that happen?” I ask.
“I don’t know. My grandma died, and Miss Cecil pushed up on his old ass,” Tron laughs.
“Don’t be talkin’ about me boy. Respect your elders and manners,” Pops says, walking into the room holding his saxophone case. Pops must be Houdini or some shit because that was the fastest clean up job I’ve ever seen someone do. He is wearing a blue suit and a black fedora with a feather sticking out of it. A toothpick hangs out of his mouth and his face is now freshly shaven and bare. Pops is sharp.
“Okay Pops, I see you,” I laugh.
“And this is how we did it in my day,” he winks, tilting his hat.
“Don’t hurt nobody old man,” Tron says, standing up from the table to give his grandfather a hug.
“Dishes you two,” Pops states before walking out the door. I follow Tron to the kitchen to start cleaning.
“Let’s go down to the juke joint,” I suggest. “I would love to hear your granddad play.”
“You sure? Thursday nights are oldies night. Nothing but the old heads up in there. Saturday night will be poppin’ though. That’s when people our age take over.”
“I’m not your age, Tarron,” I remind him.
“Oh yeah, that’s right. Wit’ yo old ass,” he laughs, handing me a bowl to dry.
“Well?” I ask eagerly.
“Yeah. We can do that. I gotta pick out your clothes though,” he smirks.
“Don’t have me looking all crazy, Tarron,” I scold as we finish the dishes.
I dress in the outfit that Tron picked out. A light pink tank top matched with a blue jean skirt, brown leather cowboy boots and a denim jean jacket. He even chose a black choker and gold hoop earrings to go with my outfit. I wear my hair out, letting it do it’s wild, curly look and apply some light makeup. As I walk out the room, Tron is walking out of his.
“Seriously?” I laugh when I check out his outfit. He has on a white tank—arms and chest beautifully sculpted, black jeans with a leather belt, and black cowboy boots with a matching cowboy hat.
“Howdy ma’am,” he says in a country-bama accent, tilting his hat.
“You’re so stoopid,” I laugh.
“You ready to go, Annabelle?”
“Don’t be changing my name, punk,” I giggle.
We jump inside of an old ass Buick and drive along the dirt roads.
“It’s soooo dark out here,” I say, staring out at all the cornfields, looking for the Jeepers Creepers guy or some Children of the Corn type shit.
“City girl,” Tron chuckles, shaking his head.
“Oh my god; a cotton field,” I point. “Okay, confession time. When I use to visit with Saheed’s family and we would pass cotton fields, I always wanted to get out and pick the cotton, just to see what it feels like.”
“Confession time. I will legit slap the shit out of you if you try some shit like that,” he laughs.
“You don’t have to be mean about it,” I pout. Is my curiosity that weird?
We pull up to this barn that is buried deep in the woods.
“I ain’t gotta worry about the Klan or some shit coming through here, do I?”
“You might,” Tron shrugs, jumping out the car. What type of shit?
We enter the barn and are surrounded by old people in their Sunday’s best, crowded around the stage, yelling and acting a fool. I spot Pops on the stage, playing his saxophone as another guy is rocking on the piano, someone on base, another on the drums and a sweet sultry sound coming out of this little old lady on stage. I smile, loving the atmosphere already.
“Tarron, baby,” an older woman squeals, wrapping her arms around Tron.
“Hey Miss Leslie,” Tron smiles, hugging her back.
“Are you going to get up there on stage with your Granddad and bless us with your voice tonight?”
“No. Not tonight.”
“I know you’re a big celebrity and all but come on. We are your folks. You got to bless us with your voice.”
Tron chuckles.
“Miss Leslie, this is…”
“Sweet baby Jesus. Aneesah,” she beams, shaking my hand.
“Hello,” I greet her.
“Forget about him. Are you going to bless the stage this evening?”
“Not tonight,” I smile.
“See you later, Miss Leslie,” Tron says grabbing my hand. We maneuver ourselves up front as more and more people flock to Tron, asking him to sing as he shoots them down each and every time. It’s funny because amongst his people, Tron is the bigger celebrity as I sit back, and watch people greet and hug him before diverting their attention to me.
I glance over at a
photo on the Wall of Fame and spot Pops as well as Tron’s pictures hanging proudly on the wall. One of the photos seems recent, maybe last year because Tron is wearing his chain, a white tee and black jeans. Pops arm is lovingly wrapped around him.
“That’s the night that KJ signed me,” Tron smiles, pointing at the photo.
Fifteen minutes has passed before we finally reach our table after greeting everyone that is inside this establishment tonight.
“Two Obama’s please,” Tron orders.
“You got it sweet pea. It’s on the house too,” the waitress winks.
“Thanks Miss Trudy,” Tron smiles.
“How’s it feel to be normal?” I mock.
“This is normal for me. I’ve always been the small-town hype,” he smiles.
“So, when am I going to hear this magnificent voice of yours?” I question.
“You ain’t ready for that,” he winks at me. The waitress sits our drinks down, served in mason jars.
“This is so cool,” I smile picking up my glass.
“You are so silly,” he says as we clink our glasses together.
“Alright lovers. I got my grandson and his lady friend out in the crowd,” Pops says, stepping to the mic. “Y’all know my grandson. Stand up boy,” he laughs. Tron stands from his seat, waving at the cheering audience.
“SING…SING…SING,” the audience chants.
“Don’t be putting my grandson on the spot,” Pops chuckles. “I got something special for ya,” he says, stepping off the stage and stepping up to me.
“Hey darlin’,” he smiles. “This is for you,” he winks, sticking his saxophone in his mouth. He starts to play Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together” with his band backing him up. I am completely enjoying myself as Tron’s granddad serenades me while Tron looks on laughing embarrassingly.
“You better play that, baby,” a woman screams from the back.
“Get it, AB,” another man hoots.
“Always going for the young ones,” someone shouts with a laugh. When he’s done, I give him a standing ovation and kiss him on his cheek.
Unveiled Page 19
