I bought some bad milk at the deli the other day. Apologetic, the deli guy gave me a "one free Starbucks" coupon and said, "Have a caramel macchiato on me."
So yesterday I went to the Starbucks by my therapist's office and ordered a caramel macchiato, a venti--getting my coupon's worth.
The barista who works there has taken to calling me "Hova" because of the huge sunglasses I often wear. Apparently they remind him of the shades some ho wears in a Jay-Z video.
Since he started calling me "Hova," a year or so ago, I've felt pressured to drop some Jay-Z rhymes every time I order a latte.
"The takeover/ the break's over, nigga/ God MC/ me, J. Hova..."
"When I come back like Jordan/ wearing the 4-5/ it ain't to play games with you/ it's to aim at you/ probably maim you..."
"I'll sell ice in the winter/ I'll sell fire in hell/ I am a hustler, baby/ I'll sell water to a well..."
"Sensitive thugs, ya all need hugs..."
He says it's the shades. But I know he calls me "Hova" because I'm from Evanston, Ill., the hotbed of hip-hop and represent Brooklyn, the home of the black and the beautiful.
Despite the pressure to drop phat rhymes every time I hit the 'Bucks, I enjoy the discomfort in the faces of all the white, middle-age customers when I'm throwing down.
Besides, seeing "Hova" written in black marker on the side of my venti caramel macchiato yesterday was enough to put a little extra G in my lean as I strutted out the door and onto the street.