#7 WHEN YOU WANT SOMETHING DON’T PAY FOR IT

By J.J. Colagrande

I got out at last. Ha. In spite of you and Jane. Ha, ha. And I’ve scratched off most of the paper, so you can’t put me back in. Ha, ha, ha. There’s no way I’m going back. No way. I’m Teflon’s ward right now. Like Batman & Robin. What a noob!! Teflon doesn’t know me for shit. He doesn’t have the slightest idea what he got into. It took me all of twenty minutes to have him in the palm of my hand. Like as soon as we got into Lollapalooza, into Grant Park, I insisted we get some food in our bellies. We hit up Chow Town–like I love Graham Elliot–he had taken over the food court, mmmm, yum. I’m so slick–there I was just out of Cook County, talking about lobster corn dogs and how I bet Graham Eliot makes them to-die-for and oh-we-have-to-try-the-vegan-watermelon-gazpacho-cause-it’s-like-the-hottest-week-of-the-year-in-Chi-town-and-even-though-it’s-raining-we-need-us-some-watermelon. Ha!! A real foodie. And Teflon dished out the cheddar. He was like hella whatevs, talking about a scruffy guy, just take me to the scruffy guy. You could tell he didn’t want to play, but I did. People were looking at us a little funny maybe because they recognized him, so to play the down low he grabbed a white towel and placed it underneath his Yankees hat. Combined with his aviator sunglasses he looked like some soldier in the Playboy of the Year Army. Yeah, I was definitely planning on fucking that nigga before the night was through. But first I wanted to have some fun. After all, we were at Lollapalooza. Ya feel me? So I told Teflon let’s walk around to see what we could sniff out. I’m not an idiot. I knew exactly where the person I was looking for would be, in the food court, right where we stood. Of course there isn’t a nitrous zone inside a festival like Lollapalooza. We were in Grant Park, blocked off from the rest of the city. There was no parking Lot party scene. Oracledang was at Soldier’s Field, a place conducive to tailgating. At Lolla, the party would be in the hotels, after the show, at night. I knew that from the get-go. Any head could’ve told you that. Thelonious would’ve known. At inner-city shows, the bad guy hustlers run the falafel stands. Why do you think they’re called the Falafia? Yep, they were in the house. I saw them. And they weren’t going anywhere. So before I was fixing to tell Teflon I figured I might as well squeeze a day out of Lollapalooza. And it was a great day. Even though it was raining and kind of muddy, I danced whenever I could. While walking from one stage to the next, I had my dancing shoes on. And whenever I saw someone breaking it down, it just inspired me more cause after all, what a difference a day made–I had my freedom–and I wanted to celebrate it for a second.

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