Buried deep in the Pacific Northwest, under flannels and coffee beans, Drawllin was able to uncover a vast number of writings from the Reign Man, Shawn Kemp. These are his words.*
September 23, 1994
The air in St. John was wet. Everything dripped. The wind swirled, playing with the hair and skirts of the women of the town and the night was a tropical circus of music, food, and surprise. The moon glowed huge overhead, white as mid winter Detlef. I knew the hours coming would be ones I would remember. Joyous. Lustful. New.
The night’s breeze found its way to my chest. My shirt ruffled, waving at those that passed by, a flag in the wind. I turned a corner and I saw the club. Its lights called to me. A neon Rain shone above the doorway. My sandaled feet needed rest. I had to go in.
When I arrived at the door I nodded to the burly gentleman clad in all black. He nodded back. I thought, for a brief moment, the man was Popeye Jones, but my wishful eyes were playing with me.
As I stepped into the room, the bass reached its arms out and grabbed me. I found a seat at the end of the bar and ordered my whiskey. Rocks. I looked out on the crowd. They bobbed and the lights danced off their bodies. We were all one. Every inch of every person was alive. Our senses sharpened. We felt it all.
I saw her standing across the crowded room. Sweat and steam and passion filled the space between us. Our eyes locked and she quickly turned away. When she turned back I was still looking at her. Taking her in. Wondering. Hoping. Wishing. She moved her hair behind her right ear and looked down. My eyes stayed with her, then she looked up and found me again. I moved across the wooden floor, the place shaking, the beat of the club pulsing and making the room bounce along with my fluttering heart. Her floral dress clung to her body, gripping it tightly. She glistened, a star amidst the dark night of the club. The smoke from the machines became a glacier of a cloud. It settled low, moving slowly until it covered everything.
When I had finally made my way through the throng of sun soaked bodies, she was leaned against the bar, the flowers of her dress blooming. She was young and strong and sensual. Her eyes were seas. I struggled to stay afloat in them. I asked her name. Aura, she told me. I told her mine. She shook her head. She knew it already.
Fame. It is my curse. Oh how my reputation haunts me. It follows me, a permanent shadow, darkening each doorway I come to, walking into the room and spreading itself before I do.
I touched her hand. Soft and willing it was. She followed me to the dance floor and our bodies met. My hands touched her and R. Kelly filled the air around us, telling those with ears to hear that there was nothing wrong with what we were doing. The curve of her, a winding road I was speeding down. My car had no breaks, and I only knew acceleration. Faster. She was a gift.
The lights in the room changed the color of their glow every so often. She was forever lit. I was a moth. She was my flame.
The song ended and in the midst of the bustling bodies I lost her. The night was Rodman and she was the ball, it grabbed her away from me.
Oh how this night will forever repeat in my head. It’s voice whispering softly and hauntingly. A murderous song.
She will never be yours.
When I returned to my hotel room, Gary spoke, as he does. He called me silly. Said I was being a child.
You didn’t even know her. It was one dance.
He chastised, continuing to watch SportsCenter, his voice harmonizing with Charley Steiner’s, soon becoming but an annoying buzz. I shook my head and looked out to the coast. Sliding the glass door back, I stepped out to the balcony, the tile cold to my bare feet. The waves bounced off the sand and I gripped the handrail. I stared to the west and a star shot across the great blackness overhead, like a jump shot ricocheting off the rim. Oh dearest diary, how I wished for her. Alas, we leave tomorrow and I fear I won’t see her again. She has become an idea. A dream. And tonight, tonight I will dream of her so.
Let it Reign,
*These are not his words. Not at all. They’re all fake. Shawn Kemp is awesome.