THE NEW BOY II

So what was I to do?

The aim has always been to be more Hitchcock than Hitch but there I was being subtly asked to play Cupid. Poor old Jamal who had been single for so long, he had forgotten how long for.

“They’re both single” I told him. His spirits lifted. Jamal understood there was no way of either of us knowing who was more likely to be game – Keisha or Ashley? It was a textbook case of trial and error. What was wiser? To zone in and put all eggs in one basket or to spread his tentacles and hope for the best? That was entirely and clean up to him.

He went to work. And thus, ladies and gentlemen, commenced email festivals and textual (yes, you read ‘textual’) activity all over the place.

Don’t get me wrong though; there was lots of actual work being done as well – you know, dignity of labour, work and happiness, hard work builds a nation and all that crap. KPIs were shooting through the roof.

How was Jamal doing? He was getting a variant mix of vaguely encouraging and encouragingly vague massages from both ladies. As you may well know, my sweet readers, when girls are being pains in the asses and won’t let you know whether you’re going or coming with them. In time, something significant happened: Keisha literally stumbled across hard evidence to suggest that she was not the only recipient of Jamal’s obsequious messages.

[Now, it’s a fine line between being your Favourite Ghetto Storyteller – which I’ll always be – and blog-snitching. To reveal how Keisha read the game like Jose Mourinho will be borderline dry snitching. Please text me privately for the juicy details. Standard charges and network fees may apply.]

Keisha, seeing that, went from responding to emails within 5 seconds to like 5 hours inbetween. Jamal, a sharp man took that as cue to pursue and close in on Ashley.

                                                          

                                                         JAMAL & ASHLEY

One time, Ashley’s best friend Megan*, herself another stunner, was unable to turn up at work for one reason or the other. Suddenly it was D Day, literally. Ashley laid out a red-carpeted VIP invitation for my brother Jamal’s Black ass to occupy Megan’s seat right next to her. Nice.

So on either side of Ashley was your favourite Ghetto Storyteller (me, me, me) and young Jamal. It was an historic moment because that was the first time in about 100 years of this illustrious company’s existence that they’d seen an Oreo-type seating arrangement like we had that day. I smiled across at him like a proud coach seeing his protégé break into the first team.

The stage was set for J and by all rules of fiction and romance; things were shaping up nicely – the blonde princess about to be swept off her feet by the dark knight from the ends, so everything was looking froggy. But this is no fiction though, my sweet readers, so some work was required of Jamal.

He was well aware that Ashley was well aware of the myth that the grass was greener on the Black side, at least as far as the sizes of our camel tails were concerned. I thought that gave him competitive advantage over potential rivals like say a freckle-faced Craig from accounts department.

But by lunch time, Jamal had said nothing really. Conversation was stop and start, not flowing. He was wasting the day! Evidently, Ashley’s patience was about to run its course.

So while shooting pools like pros at lunch, I gave J this gem;

“She didn’t ask you to sit on Megan’s seat because you look like Megan. You’re not there because she wants the record of being the first white girl in the company to be sandwiched (seat-wise I mean) by two ebony brothers either. You are the one who emails her. You are supposed to be chatting her up. That’s why you are there.”

“I don’t want to seem too keen.” he said while sitting deep in thought.

I looked at him thinking “dear oh dear”. (And I don’t usually think “dear oh dear”).

“You are not being keen. She did her bit by asking you to come over. Now that you’ve gone all quiet, the situation is awkward – she might regret it.”

“So what am I to do though?”

Dear oh dear. “Jamal, you know I’m against fornication and other such things. And no one is asking you to go slurp slurping on her lips or consummate the deal or anything. But you started this here, now you’re slacking. Just a simple, gentle kiss on her lips in that I-belong-to-you-and-you-belong-to-me manner will do. That will stop Dimitri from Russia coming through and stealing her heart.” (Because Ashley was hitherto inexplicably drawn to Russians, who to me, speak like they had their jaws wired shut at birth.)

But Jamal only guffawed. I had the feeling that he was about to pull the old bottling trick. 

Was I looking at the confident boy who swaggered into the office like he owned it or the poster boy of the new generation? The prize specimen of the Tinder, Happn and Bumble generation – ready to wax lyrical behind the keyboard only to turn paralytic with fear when it was time to transform words into deeds. Keyboard gangsters, the lot of them.

I refused to believe the latter. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he had assumed that it was a marathon and not a sprint. He’d forgotten that Ashley too was from the instant generation – instant coffee, instant internet, instant Uber, instant camel tails, instant everything…

The next day Megan returned to work and J was relegated back to his old seat in a far corner. And guess who started going hard on the keyboard once again? Yes, your guess is as good (or as bad) as mine. 

But this time Ashley’s responses were slower than slow. Because he had been slow. Ashley preferred confident guys who stepped up and took what could be theirs without waiting around for permission. So she Keisha’ed him with 5 or more hours inbetween replies. Just as quickly as the fire had sparked, the embers died. The interest was gone like a thief in the night overnight.

Just like that? Just like that.

Moral of the story? Your guess is as good (or as bad) as mine.

                                                              

                                                                 THE END

                                                    (Until something happens…)