Miguel-Ballers-on-Ballers

My Night With Miguel: Part 1

It’s been a few days since Frank Ocean’s Endless and Blonde fell like manna from the heavens. Frank’s missed deadlines and delays caused more suffering than 40 years of aimless desert-wandering, driving some Reddit users to the verge of legally defined sanity. In the midst of this purgatory of suffering, I got to thinking about a special night that happened a year ago. And it happened with a man who never disappoints.

That’s right, I’m about to tell you about the night I spent with Miguel.

It was a humid New Orleans evening and I was stuck at home lying on the couch, slowly finishing off a bottle of my favorite vodka, Taaka. Miguel was playing at the Joy Theater but I was too broke to go. So I stayed at home, spinning Wildheart until the belt on my record player snapped (too much sexual tension). I was two deep on generous helpings of Taaka-on-the-rocks and visits to the bathtub gravity bong had my eyes looking like Candles in the Sun. Then Hollywood Dream came on and a single tear rolled down my cheek. How could I be missing Miguel’s seductive croon live in person?

Because I was a damn fool.

The Taaka and the green really hit me for a moment and I shut my eyes, drifting into the soft blur of a Kaleidoscope Dream.

Miguel Taaka

It was 12:03 a.m. when my phone buzzed. I was startled and jumped like a cat jumps when you touch its butt while its chomping on a plate of Meow Mix. I grabbed my phone and held it close to my face so I could read it since I didn’t have my glasses on.

“Omw.”

The text came from an unknown number.

“New phone, who dis?” I replied, trying not to be disrespectful.

I stared at my phone for ten whole minutes waiting for a response, but none came. And I would have waited longer, but there was a jarring knock on my front door. I wiped the dandruff flakes and Cheetos dust off my Of Montreal shirt and zipped up the fly of my pants before rising from the couch and walking to the front window. I peered through the blinds, splitting two of the blinds apart with my index and middle fingers, looking like one of those perverted teens from the 80s smash sex comedy Porky’s trying to catch a little unsolicited boob action. But what awaited me on the other side was way better than boobs.

At the front door stood Miguel with his shirt unbuttoned and barely hanging onto his basketball-shaped shoulders.

The nerves caught me when I placed my hand on the door knob. What was Miguel doing at my house? Was he pissed that I didn’t make it to the concert? Or was he here to help me escape the mundane life I’d established for myself suffering through ocular strain for a meager paycheck?

The answer, as it turns out, was none of those.

As soon as I opened the door Miguel greeted me by raising his index finger to his lips. He hissed a slivery “Shhhh. . .” before moving his index finger to my lips. He moved forward and I moved backward until he was all the way inside my house. Then he shut the door behind him with his foot, staring into my eyes the whole time. I felt like Bella Swan must have felt when she saw Edward for the first time; so infuriatingly seduced, yet so desperately vulnerable.

Miguel-seductive-shooshing-ballers-podcast-HBO

He nonchalantly walked through my one-bedroom shotgun apartment with his arms slack at his hips.

“How was the show?” I said, nervous.

“It was good . . . except I performed with a broken heart.”

He turned to me swiftly. His face shifted into a frown.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. Things have just been crazy at work and I didn’t have enough money for a ticket or to take an Uber there . . .” I said.

His finger returned to my lips.

“That’s all in the past,” he said. “Let’s not let that ruin the rest of our night.”

He gave me a kiss on the forehead.

“Now shall we celebrate our reunion with the obligatory glass of Taaka?”

I tore away from his beautiful face and looked despondently at the empty bottle standing on my coffee table. I usually kept an extra bottle on hand for emergencies, such as when a long lost friend unexpectedly comes over. But I had deemed missing the Miguel concert an emergency with only Taaka able to sooth my wounded soul.

I cried.

“I drank the last of it,” I said. I was afraid he’d be repelled by my lush-like behavior.

“No worries,” he said. “I’d have done the same thing. Let me call my Taaka rep and get a few bottles dropped off.”

“Taaka on-demand?” I thought. “I must be living in a dream.”

“You are,” Miguel said. “A Kaleidoscope dream.”

And then we kissed for the first time.

 

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