“Go back to Africa.” That was the first thing I heard when I landed in Baltimore. I turned around in BWI’s baggage claim, looking for whoever was telling me to go back to a place where I’ve never been. What exactly is over there in Africa? It’s such a big continent, you’d think there’d be an African Wendy’s or McDonald’s, but there are just Wendy’s and McDonald’s. What’s their cuisine? What’s their continental dish? Is there anything else to hope for besides food? I have friends from Ghana and Nigeria, and they go back every now and then to see friends and family. But forever? No, they love America. And they love Donald Trump. They tell me, it’s true. “He’s a strong man,” they say, “No one will do anything under him because he make them afraid. You see?” I see. But I couldn’t see whoever told me to go back to Africa.
I quickly realized it was just some HR bimbo telling off the homeless guy outside. Was my hearing going… bad? I wasn’t losing my hearing, but sounds were coming from all the wrong directions. Was this chick in front of me or behind me? All I knew was that the homeless guy was Mexican, or some kind of Hispanic—well, maybe he was from Africa. Who knows. Who cares? I don’t.
My bags came down the chute last as always and I made my way home. I mean I took a Lyft home. The line for taxis was about 100-people strong and moving at a snail’s pace. My driver didn’t say a word, just listened to Michael Jackson on the radio. So did I. “Human Nature”—what a song. I missed the movie because I was too busy worrying about how my attending the Michael movie would look in Hollywood, now that I was a major player. It didn’t go exactly as I hoped in Los Angeles. No matter: I still have my home.
The drive back to Baltimore was fine, with some typically beautiful sunsets over I-95. As soon as I got home and walked in the door, someone hit me in the face with a tire. I fell back into the door and then the floor, stunned and disoriented. I’ve been burgled before but never robbed. I was angry. I didn’t feel like “being water” and going with the flow. I was going to kill this motherfucker, whoever hit me in the face with a goddamn tire. Really, a tire? Big, too—something you’d see on a monster truck. As I stood up, I spied a patch of white feathers by the corner. I said nothing, walked toward the feathers… and they slipped away. I knew the roosters were home.
As soon as I walked in, Rooster, Monica, and Bennington all welcomed me by throwing these gigantic monster truck tires at my face and body. There were tread marks everywhere, not only on the floors but the walls, and the only reason I wasn’t mortally wounded was because the tires were just inflatable balloons. “As if there are any other types of balloons!” said Monica.
At least I know for sure that I’m home now.
—Follow Nicky Otis Smith on Twitter: @NARCFILM