Committed to You by Kenya Wright Page A

the gloomy little house, Pipe stood up in the back yard, announced to the somber group that he’d be making alcohol drinks in the kitchen. No one responded for two uncomfortable minutes. My whole body had tensed. I didn’t even know I could sweat as much as I did and in such a short amount of time.
    Good thing for us, Cyn’s mom got up with a smile and gestured for Pipe to follow her. Minutes later, he pulled out a blender, stacks of fruit, several bottles of alcohol, and had a decent sized group forming around him just like he loved it.
    “So I tell my niece, she’s my only one for now, my brother is like fifteen years older than me, he’s from my dad’s first marriage, but either way my brother refuses to have anymore cute little girls. The rest of his pack have been smelly little boys that like to stuff Sponge Bob miniature characters into my bongs—”
    “Pipe you’re going off topic.” I spun my hand around in a circle for him to wrap the story up.
    Can we not talk about bongs in front of Cyn’s family?
    “Sorry, HP.”
    Cyn’s mom threw a curious glance my way. “HP? Is this your nick name?”
    “Pipe’s new one for me,” I said. Pipe had shorted Heisman Pimp to HP in an effort to not piss Evie off. “Pipe just started calling me HP.”
    “Naw. I would say the world has coined it.” Pipe laughed.
    “What does it stand for?” She raised her eyebrows.
    “Harry Potter,” I blurted out. “I’m a huge fan. The press somehow got wind of it.”
    That seemed to please her as she turned back to Pipe and his ridiculous story.
    “Maddy is my niece’s name,” Pipe said.
    Actually it was Madeline, but I didn’t think it would be a good idea to interrupt Pipe any further.
    “I’m like Maddy; Michael Jackson is a god. This is the first rule of American music. There are tons of gods throughout history, but Michael Jackson is his own special supernatural being that sits well above the rest. I make her stand up next to me, in full MJ gear, I’m talking the one white glitter glove on the right hand of course and black pants pulled up high enough to show our white socks. She’s rocking my favorite red Thriller jacket that my dad bought me for Christmas when I was ten. I’m in full retro MJ drag—black jacket, gold officer lapels, and gold crotch cup over tight pants. We’re ready to rule the world, if it’ll have us.”
    “How old is your niece?” one of Cyn’s aunts asked.
    “She’s eight and gorgeous.” He started cleaning out the blender, which I had no idea he knew how to do. Of all the activities I’d witness Pipe carry out, cleaning had never been one of them.
    “We go through all of his first videos,” Pipe continued. “Even when he was with Jackson Five. This is the time when he has that rich brown skin and those short afros crowning his head like a halo. We get to the Off the Wall album videos, my niece is sweaty and going crazy with me. Next we finish the Thriller album.” Pipe wiped down the counter. “What happens next is crazy. We get to the Bad album. MJ appears on the screen all pale skinned and long, curly black hair well past his shoulders. I’m dancing and hopping around the room, thrusting my crotch and roaring at the ceiling. My niece stands there with the oddest look I’d ever seen. At first I think it’s me that she thinks is crazy. But of course not. She captures my arm and stops me. ’Uncle Pipe, who’s this guy?’ she asks. I tell her, ‘It’s MJ.’ She refuses to believe that the rich brown-skinned Michael Jackson from Thriller is the same pale-skinned one dancing in front of us and screaming that he’s bad.”
    Cyn’s aunts burst out in laughter.
    “I tell her it’s really MJ. She’s not buying it at all. ’That’s not the same man from early, Uncle Pipe. This guy is lighter and his hair is like a girl’s hair.’ We spend a good hour on this. I’m showing her online articles about his plastic surgery. She’s getting sadder by the minute. ’But