The Party (part 1)

I was reading SistaGirls' post about her mother and felt inspired to write about my father. My love of music comes directly from my father. I remember one time when I was 4, he let me help him DJ a party at the rec center. Here’s the first part of that story.

It was a Friday night in 1979. I remember that because I was laying on the floor watching Bill Bixby morph into Lou Ferrigno on “The Incredible Hulk.” I was already in my Superman footy pajamas, the left insole worn thin by my constant pigeon toed stance. My mother and sister were in my parent’s bedroom doing whatever it is that females do when the fellas get together. My father (Pretty Ricky what they called him) was sitting on the gold hued sofa, rolling a cigarette with his homeboy, Polo. I sat there entranced by the coolness of my father (or maybe I just caught a contact, I found out later those weren’t really cigarettes.) as he and Polo shot the breeze about the party they were about to attend. My father was the DJ, and Polo was the hype man, a sort of late 70’s Flavor Flav. Come to think of it, he kinda looked like Flav. But I digress. I wanted nothing more than to hang out with my father so in my 4 year old glory, I asked “Daddy, can I go to the party with you?”

Ricky chuckled as he exhaled cannabis smoke and replied, “Sorry, Little Man, your mama won’t let that happen. You’re still too young to be on the scene.”

“But I can help you rock the house”, I retorted precociously.

“Is that right? Come show me what you got.”

Ricky got off the couch and extended his hand towards me, which I graciously accepted. He pulled me onto his back and we made our way to the dining room where he kept his records and turntables. Ricky pulled out a crate of albums and asked me “Which record should I play first?”

I paused for a second then with a sheepish grin, replied “Play that song about the guy who don’t swim.” I was referring to “Aqua Boogie” by Parliament. My 4 year old mind didn’t really grasp the whole concept of what George Clinton was talking about, but Sir Nose D’Void of Funk was my jam. I saw Ricky’s face light up as he realized his love of music had passed to his first born son. He took the record out of the sleeve and we jammed to P-Funk’s tale of dancing under water and not getting wet.

“What’s next, Little Man?” Ricky asked still in a music high.

“Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough”, I said, although I used to think it was “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Catch The Bus”. He was obviously impressed and we went back and forth as I compiled a play list that featured such future classics as “I Wanna Be Your Lover”, “She Used To Be My Girl” and my personal favorite at the time “Ring My Bell.” After a while, Ricky was convinced that I knew my tunes. It would take more than that though to convince my mother to let me go to the party.

Ricky went in the back to throw on his party gear, which if my memory serves me correctly, consisted of some tight ass pants and a paisley shirt with a huge butterfly collar. He also took out the curlers he had in his hair. He had what people called “good hair” which precluded him from naturally growing an afro, so he did what he had to do. I could hear him and my mother arguing in the bedroom as Polo poured out some white powder on the coffee table and started cutting it with a playing card. I couldn’t make out what Ricky was saying, but I heard my mother’s barrages of “no, absolutely not and no chance in hell.” Ricky emerged from the room defiantly and whispered in my ear “go get some clothes from your room, but don’t let your mama see you.” He took a hit of the Polo’s “grown folk’s candy” and started loading his turntable and crates of records into our burgundy ’77 Monte Carlo.

I went in my room and tried to find some clothes that matched my father’s style. I settled on a pair of blue jeans and a brown, orange, and red button up shirt, with a collar that matched Ricky’s. I got dressed and ran out to the living room careful to avoid my mother’s attention. Ricky told me to wait in the car as he announced that he and Polo were leaving. I didn’t realize until later that my mother forbade me from going to the party with Ricky. I was just ecstatic that I was able to hang out with my father as he prepared to rock a party at the rec center.

To Be Continued…

It was written…