Dylon Killian - Where Tomorrow Never Comes

 

Cola is now or never is what I thought. As I sat near the exit door of the model train that had just pulled into Art Center Station, either switch cabs now or continue to listen to this asinine debate all the way to Fort McPherson. 

 

Now, when I first walked into this dispute 10 minutes prior Lindbergh Station, I wasn't surprised. Those of us who frequent the martyr know. After 10:00 PM is when the more extroverted members of the Atlanta community ride the train. [audience laughter] It's when you can hear the latest street news from young drug dealers heading to their traps, loud, indecipherable soliloquies from the mentally disturbed, baby mamas giving relationship advice ass backwards and random one-man rap karaoke performances for marijuana inspired individuals. [audience laughter]

 

So, it wasn't a surprise when I got on the southbound train to run smack dead into a passionate debate. Nor was I shocked when I was immediately called upon by one of the participants to help strengthen his argument. He said, “Yo, dawg, you an 1980s baby?” I said, “Yeah.” He said, “Yo, tell this cat that the late 1980s, the golden age of hip hop, was the greatest era to be alive.” 

 

I had walked into a three-sided debate on the greatest era to exist within. Before I could respond and tell him that it was all relative to the individual, the second debater spoke. He said, “Yo, dawg, don't listen to him man. His whole argument is weak. It's biased because he's stuck in the 1980s.” Now, when the second debater said this, I turned back to Lance to corroborate what was put forth. I knew his name was Lance, because that's what the big 1980s 14 karat gold nameplate [audience laughter] spelled across his chest. 

 

Complimenting the nameplate was a Kangol bucket hat, gazelle glasses, a terra cloth Adidas sweatsuit and a vintage pair of 1986 run-DMC Adidas. 

 

[cheers] 

 

Hence, one of the standard uniforms of somebody stuck in the 1980s. [audience laughter] Then Lance corrected the second debater saying that he wasn't stuck in the 1980s, he just liked paying homage, because that was his era. That's when the third debater spoke. She said, “And as I said before, your era ain't got nothing on the 1970s.” Then Lance being the chronologist that he was asked which era in the 1970s that was three, the black exploitation era, the disco age and the post disco age. She had to be more specific. She said, “Whenever the movie Cleopatra Jones came out, [audience laughter] people said I look just like her.” 

 

Then she stood to her feet, put her hands on her hips and arched up her chin as if she was about to sashay across the stage. I thought, oh, my God, because what I perceived was a red church turban was an authentic Indian turban complimented with some leather wrist bangles and a low-cut chiffon blouse with the balloon sleeves, thus one of the preferred outfits of a hero in a blaxploitation movie. 

 

As I sat there observing her posturing in silence, the second debater, Malik, blurted out what I was thinking. “This chick stuck in the 1970s.” [audience laughter] I knew that Malik name was Malik, because Malik started talking in the third person to help strengthen his argument [audience laughter] while negating the other two. He said, “You see Malik, don't look back, man. Malik always in the present, [audience laughter] because tomorrow never comes, while she's stuck in a damn movie and he's somewhere between 1986 and 1988.” [audience laughter] 

 

Now scrutinizing Malik, I realized that Malik was more of a tragic comedy than the other two, because Malik had to be in his upper 50s. But his clothes were not. Malik had some Kanye West Yeezy’s on his feet, [audience laughter] some tight skinny jeans that hung down below his Gucci boxer cup of rump, a tight muscle shirt that magnified his tatted arms and middle-aged gut and some red dyed dreadlocks with the blonde tips that were topped with an extremely receded hairline. [audience laughter] 

 

While Lance and Cleopatra was stuck in arrows, Malik was trapped in a time capsule that was more brutal, the forever changing merry go round of trendy hip culture. Well, tomorrow never comes. So, there I sat at Art Center Station, 10-minutes removed from my entrance, thinking, Cola, it's now or never. Either switch cabs now or continue to be entertained by three-time relics who were scared to face tomorrow, which to me was dumbfounding. 

 

Coming of age in the ghettos of the gory 1980s amid daily drug wars and crack monsters, all I ever had to look forward to was the concept of tomorrow. But then, I thought facing tomorrow is probably the event that compelled them to lock themselves away in an era of their greatest comfort, because the face of tomorrow was too harsh, or even worse. The tomorrow that they were looking for never came. Weighing that notion as Lance began to explain to the entire cab, while Run-D.M.C. was a more influential music group than The Chi-Lites, [audience laughter] I chose now, not the now as the next cab over, but the now of Lance, Cleopatra, Malik, an eclectic time capsule of the absurd where tomorrow never comes.