The valet grabbed Damon’s keys. “Watch the rims,” he shouted, “they cost more than you make in a year!”

He led me to the front of the line. He whispered in the ear of the front door security and instantly we were allowed inside. He had pull. I’m glad, ’cause I was starving. Justin’s was upscale. Soft lighting, hardwood floors, cozy light-tan booths, and soothing music completed the atmosphere.

“What up, D?”

“Yo, D, what’s up?!”

“D-Nice, what’s good!”

“Double D! I see you, baby!”

Damon nodded, high-fived his way through the crowd. He was obviously the man.

“If folks don’t recognize you, you ain’t doing your thang. Even if you ain’t doing your thang, you got to play like you are,” he said as we glided through the room, making our way to a prime location.

Damon loved working the room. All the ladies were looking. The waitresses smiled, pretentious, fake, and eyed my outfit up and down. That was cool, I knew I was doing my thing and was more than happy for them to look. When you’re confident, you welcome the attention. This time, and this trip to New York, rolling with this young baller, I was very confident.

Finally, we made it to our table, where we sat down, locked eyes, and had our first real conversation free of pumps, bumps, or beats. Just as he was about to speak, his phone rang. Then his two-way went off. Then his other phone rang. Though put off at first, I reminded myself of one of his more popular sayings and primary reason for not having a home phone yet carrying two cell phones: “If folks can reach you at home, you ain’t working. And if you ain’t working, you ain’t making no dollars. And if you ain’t making the dolla holla, then you sho’ in hell ain’t making the green scream.”

“One second, Boo.” With his eyes still locked in on mine, he answered his phone. “Yo, it’s D, you gotta hit me later. I’m busy right now. One.” And then without even blinking, into the other phone, “This D, whatever it is, it can wait. Aiight.” I was impressed. Very impressed. He had chosen me over his business. The waiter approached the table.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure, two glasses of red wine. A port. Between ’79 and ’83,” Damon responded. “Those were the good years.” He winked. Again, I was impressed. He had definitely stepped up his game from the Cisco he usually drank. “So, how you been?” he asked.

“Fine. Working. Living. Trying to be the best me possible.”

“From what I see, you ain’t trying, you doing.” He licked his lips even more. “No doubt, you definitely doing it.”

“How about you?”