I'll never forget it. It was the summer of '89. We'd just graduated high school. We being Me, Vince, Greg, and Candy. We called ourselves The Get Fresh Crew because The Show by Doug E Fresh and Slick Rick was everything to us! Those horns! Those drums! Doug E on the beatbox! Slick Rick on the rap! You'd have thought that we thought that a better hip hop song would never be made. You, and we, may have been right. Listen, we wopped so hard to that song that 'til this day I still have issues with my neck and back. Every new chiropractor I get I tell them up front I have an old wop wound from the after school dance floor battles, and linoleum breakdance wars. They salute me and thank me for my service. We were also The Get Fresh Crew because we were always trying to get fresh. We lived on a hunt for new sneakers, Shell Toe Adidas with no laces, two toned Diadora's with fat laces, Le Coq Sportif with the black strap! We wanted whatever fly, obscure, shoe we thought no one else had. The best feeling in the world was to walk up to the playground in your crispy new sneakers, extend your foot like Cinderella trying to come up out of poverty and say, "Oh! Y'all ain't got these!"; or look at someone elses brand new shoes and say, "Those old! I had those three months ago!" That was a great feeling. The Get Fresh Crew rarely if ever had that feelings. We were more A&N, Thom MCCann knockoff bargain bin recipients. I once drew a Nike symbol on the side of plain white canvas sneaker with a marker it was a desperate play for name brand appeal. I figured that if I kept my feet moving people wouldn't be able to tell the difference. The whole day I looked like I had to pee, my feet just dancing constantly like James Brown on the Night Train. The English teacher escorted me to the office half way through class and told the principal that she suspected that I was on the night crack cocaine. I finally had to confess that I was not on crack, I was on Crayola. We were a motley get fresh crew. Vince was a tall guy with an average build and was very darkly complected. I mean you couldn't tell where his hairline stopped and his forehead began. He was so dark that most people when joanin him started with, "You so black that..." and the endless possibilities evolved from there: You so black that if I cut you you'll bleed Nestle Quik; You get in a car and oil light comes on;Last night my mom told me to be home by You Vince'Clock. Vince laughed along good naturedly but if you looked in his eyes you could tell, it hurt him. I think all the jokes and reactions to his complexion made him insecure. So he became a guy always trying to impress people and curry their favor by doing anything he was dared to do. He was once dared to punch the principal in the face. And he did it! Also, his father was the principal of the school at the time. He was suspended from school and I sure his dad hit him in the head like the opening drums to Sucker MC's when they got home. Vince was a good guy, just easily influenced and struggling to be liked. Like a lot of us were back then. But not Greg. Greg was well liked and Greg was crazy, girl crazy that is. And it just so happened that girls were crazy about him too, so that was convenient. Greg looked like Al B Sure but with two eyebrows. He had wavy hair that was generally given the title of good, like it had done a good deed, rescued orphans from a fire, or knocked a crack pipe out of Marrian Berry's hand; good like it had done something other than just grow out of his head. Greg was also the rare dude that knew how to double dutch and roller skate backwards. Girls loved that shit. The one time I tried to roller skate backward I fell awkwardly my legs collapsed beneath me like a folding chair, it felt like the heel of the right skate tried to violate my anus and then Rhonda Kenton rolled over my fingers with her skates. That was not a good day and I have since explored this moment in great detail with the aid of a mental health professional. Back then any girl that I liked, liked Greg, and Greg liked any girl that liked him. So the relationship between Greg and myself was always a little less than ideal. Remember in New Jack City when Wesley Snipes stabbed Christopher Williams in the hand and said, "I never liked you anyway, pretty m#therf#cker!" I remember watching that and thinking, yeah Greg! Then there was Candy. The only girl in the crew. I felt like she and I were meant to be together. I took the songs Candy Girl by New Edition and Candy by Cameo to be clear signs of provenance and destiny. I mean Larry Blackmon and Ralph Trevant wouldn't lie to me! I liked Candy but couldn't let Candy, or Greg know. If I expressed that I liked her, she was sure to tell me she liked Greg, and Greg would have certainly started liking her just because she liked him. So in order to have a chance with her, I had to not like her, and thus secure her affections via my almost complete silence and abject distance. Did I mention I was young? That summer in 1989 I remember Candy was sitting on her front porch as I was walking past one afternoon. She was singing The Show and she said, "Six minutes, six minutes, six minutes and I'm fresh, you're on!" And I'm fresh you're on? I stopped. I thought about letting it go but before I could over think it I looked over, and I said, "... That's ... not how it goes." And she was like, "What! Yeah-huh!" And I was like, "Yeah-Nah." Then she stood her arms akimbo, rolled her neck and said, "Then what it say then!" I took a deep breath and replied, "It says six minutes, six minutes, six minutes, Doug E Fresh, you're on. Uh-Uh-on." She looked up at the sky as if replaying the song in her head with the clearly apocryphal verses I'd added and said, "So! My name ain't Doug E! So I'm going to keep singing it my way!" "Cool," I said and as I began to walk away she interjected, "But thanks for telling me. Everybody else just let me be out here loud, wrong and not knowing. I mean I'm still going to be loud and wrong, but at least I know." She laughed. I didn't. I stood staring at her, trying to figure a way put the tangled ball of yarn that doubled as my feelings into words. Her eyes that always seemed to be dissecting everyone and everything. Always looking for the slightest flaw to turn against you the second you tried to joan. Those eyes softened. I felt like she could see the struggle in me. Sense the part of me drowing in my feelings and kicking to hard trying to break the surface. But no matter how much I olly olly oxen freed the words stayed hidden. Ultimately I just said, "... Cool," again and walked away. Summer ended, fall descended and The Get Fresh Crew, we all went our separate ways. I went to college in the Shenandoah Valley and studied business. That September someone had dared Vince to sell a dime of weed, which turned into a quarter, then an ounce of coke, then a pound, a key. It was the key that he got caught with. I always thought it ironic that they called it a key, it didn't seem to open the right doors. While I was pent up at a state school, he was being schooled in the state pen. Greg got Rhonda Kenton pregnant. I heard they married, had a son, and divorced soon after. Candy went to a school near D.C. We exchanged a few letters but lost touch by sophomore year. We all just drifted apart. I read somewhere that life can be like the mighty Mississippi River flowing ever forward, relentless, unstoppable. Sometimes splitting into tributaries never to return. Sometimes forking off into branches that meander but find their way back to the source eventually. Perhaps we're just the drift wood caught in the flow. Lost in the stream. My twenties came with advanced degrees, a career, a house, a car, a wife, and kids. My thirties came with promotions, a divorce, an apartment, and seeing my kids on the weekends. My forties have thus far come with a mid-life crisis, a therapist, a career change and Tinder. Life has not turned out to be the white picket fence wrapped around the perfect home that I imagined it would be. No, the house burned to the ground and a tornado ran away with my fence. l have vowed to rebuild but haven't managed to pick up a hammer just yet. I am having thess thought when I get a text from Mark, a friend from work, "Yo! You on IG? D-Nice's live is going crazy! He's spinning nothing but everything! And everybody in here! Log in bruh!" I hate being called bruh.

My twenties came with advanced degrees, a career, a house, a car, a wife, and kids. My thirties came with promotions, a divorce, an apartment, and seeing my kids on the weekends. My forties have thus far come with a mid-life crisis, a therapist, a career change and Tinder. Life has not turned out to be the white picket fence wrapped around the perfect home that I imagined it would be. No, the house burned to the ground and a tornado ran away with my fence. l have vowed to rebuild but haven't managed to pick up a hammer just yet. I am having this thought when I get a text from Mark, a friend from work, "Yo! You on IG? D-Nice's live is going crazy! He's spinning nothing but everything! And everybody in here! Log in bruh!" I hate being called bruh. Mark is just north of fifty but desperately wants to be eighteen again. This is apparent by the general snugness of his jeans, his insistence on calling me his slime (whatever that means), and his obsession with posting Tik Tok videos of him doing dances he cannot do. But as annoying as he can be it would actually be good to see him today. I haven't seen Mark, or almost anyone in a week. COVID-19, a respiratory viral infection with no known cure, swept across the world in short order a month ago. And we were all swept swiftly, life driftwood, into our homes, and told to shelter in place in some states, stay at home in others, and sit yo ass down in Atlanta; while the government tried to figure out how to save the economy... oh, and us. They call it social distancing but it feels like complete isolation. Like I'm stuck in a prison that I built myself. I've told myself that when this is over I HAVE to put some better paint on these prison walls. My kids are with my ex-wife. We Skype every night but other than that it's just me, and my thoughts. So, I take Mark's advice, I log into IG and swim into the stream of D-Nice's live. And holy shit! The whole world IS in here! There are 75k people from half of everywhere listening to D-Nice spin records! If they have wifi in hell I'm sure Satan is logged in and requesting that D-Nice to play Hot in Here by Nelly. Tiffany Haddish just told Common to stop virtually touching her butt, Spice Adams just did a dance via split screen in a leisure suit that appeared to be made of some curtains my great grandma threw out, and someone said that Oprah is buying out the imaginary bar. What kind of musical sorcery is this? D-Nice stands with a skyline behind him, turntables in front, a wide brimmed hat, a t-shirt and jeans on, spinning Lady Marmalade to an enrapt, excited, and grateful group of listeners that need something to tamp down the fear that's been knocking at the back of their thoughts all week. "We got Patti Labelle in here y'all ! Patti Labelle!" D-Nice shouts as he changes hats. His excitement is clear. The comment section of his Live fills with flower emojis, and people praising Ms. Labelle. Patti returns the love with praying hands and heart emojis of her own. I'm tapping my foot and singing along before I realize it. I type, "Getchy getchy- yi-yi-yiyi!" with no concern for spelling, because how the hell is that actually spelled, into the fast moving comment section. The message flows up, away and disappears into the stream in seconds. Like a midday fountain wish. Like a midnight tearful prayer. Lady Marmalade is followed by Aretha Franklin's Rock Steady. The comments fill with halos, hearts, and R.I.P.'s. "Everybody post a goat right now! Post a goat for Aretha Franklin one of the greatest of all time may she rest in peace!" D-Nice shouts. And like a game of Simon says where he is clearly Simon, goat emojis begin to dominate the screen. I'm looking at the names that accompany the fast moving, disappearing comments. There are people I work with, went to college with, people that owe me money, people that I've borrowed things from and never returned all listening, commenting and I imagine dancing to these same songs, at the same time. It's like were, together, really together. I mean we're not but... it's like we are. It's hard to explain, in the way that magic is hard to explain. Because that's how this feels, absolutely magical. Then I see it, briefly in the comment stream. It goes by so fast I almost miss it but then it reappears again, @TastesLikeCandyGirlRVA89. No, it couldn't be. "We got 80 thousand people! 80 thousand rocking with us right now! And we got Slick Rick in here y'all! MC Ricky D in the place to be! I got to play something for the ruler!" D-Nice says this with great reverence, like a believer staring at the face of his God in a cloud, in a tent, in the desert, and then, the horn fanfare blares out. Then the drums. I look at the comment section and @TastesLikeCandyGirlRVA89 types, "Six minutes, six minutes, six minutes and I'm fresh, you're on!" My heart starts beating fast. Not Elizabeth I'm coming to join ya fast, but fast enough to be noticable. I'm looking at the screen and walking in a circle, my hand over my mouth. Which I'm not supposed to be doing. They say don't touch your face. But I need to do something, so I stop circling and grab my tablet from my briefcase. I log into IG on the tablet and type @TastesLikeCandyGirlRVA89 into the search. The screen refreshes. The profile picture comes up and, yeah. It's her. The proverbial one that got away. Candy. I think back to those simpler times, back when we had more of life ahead of us than behind us. Before bills and pills and mortgages and car notes. Before we were shackled in debt. Back when we were free but just didn't know it. When I felt like I could do anything, except talk to her. Tears begin to well in my eyes as I continue thinking about who we all were back then. I work hard to fight them back. I click on message and I'm typing through blurry tear filled eyes before I know entirely what I want to say, "Candy! It's me! It's Edwin! Edwin from The Get Fresh Crew!" I hit send, stand and pace in a circle, again. D-Nice has switched to Soul Makossa by Manu Dibango, one of my favorite songs and my toe is tapping again but not with the beat. It's tapping with anticipation. My screen shows three undulating dots beneath my message. She got it! She's typing! "Edwin!! OMG!" I can't hold back the tears anymore. I cry and reply, "Yes! Yes! I can't believe this!" "Right!" "I lost track of you after college," I type. "I lost track of you during college!" she replies, "True true true!" "Wow Edwin! This is crazy. Wow!" "I saw your post in the quarantine party! I saw the name and was like, nah! So I looked up your profile." "Awww! That's the most precious story of stalking I've ever heard!" "Ahhh I see you still got jokes! AND I looked at your profile picture. You look the same!" "I see your eye sight has really taken a beating over the years Ed. But thank you!" "HAHAHA no really." "Well your distinguishing greys have come in very nicely sir." "Ahh! Some co-stalking! That's what took you so long to reply?" "Well you know what EPMD said, stalk me and I'll stalk you back." "That not how that goes! And my greys have come in light but the pizzas have come in heavy over the years hahaha!" "Listen chile I understand! We do not have the metabolism of teenagers anymore. I watched a Pizza Hut commercial yesterday and felt the cellulite grow in my left thigh. My right thigh is still fine. The other day just to get out of the house I took a walk around the block and almost died!" "Facts! How are doing with this quarantine?" I ask her. "I'm doing. That's all anyone can do, just be still, be prayerful, be careful, and hope you see the people you love on the other side of this madness." "Yeah. Yeah, I feel that." "Listen Edwin, lets cut the bull! Let's address the elephant in the chat room." My heart catches in my throat. What? The elephant in the room? I'm a speechless kid again, looking for his hide and seeks words. But like that kid I can only muster a, "Cool," in response. She continues, "When you read it, did you correct my six minutes post to read 'Doug E Fresh' instead of 'And I'm fresh,' like you did that day I was sitting on my porch?" A sigh of relief, that no one can hear, escapes my lips. It's amazing that she can still steal my breath, and that she remembers that day. "Of course I did!" I type. I pause and then begin to add what I should have told her all those years ago, I type "But what I've never done is tell you how I felt. Tell you how my 18 year old heart beat a little louder when you were around. How I stood a little taller when you entered the room and listened more closely whenever you spoke. Yes, I corrected your six minutes post but what I really want to do is correct the record." I type all of that, read it twice, and then reach for the backspace bar to erase everything. But a weird thing happens on my way to the backspace. I accidentally hit send. I think it was an accident. I don't know. But I hit send and I wait.

"But what I've never done is tell you how I felt. Tell you how my 18 year old heart beat a little louder when you were around. How I stood a little taller when you entered the room and listened more closely whenever you spoke. Yes, I corrected your six minutes post but what I really want to do is correct the record." I type all of that, read it twice, and then reach for the backspace bar to erase everything. But a weird thing happens on my way to the backspace. I accidentally hit send. I think it was an accident. I don't know. But I hit send and I wait. It is an eternity before those three dots began to blink again. "... Why are you saying this now? Tonight?" "Who knows if there will be another tonight Candy. I've not said things for too long. I've missed out on promotions because I didn't speak up. My ex-wife and I were both miserable roommates just passing each other on the stairs for about five years before we could give it voice. The time for saying things is now... and so tonight it is. Tonight it's 1989 and I'm finally speaking my mind." I hit send and wait a full five minutes. Nothing. I stand and begin to circle again, again. Just as I am about to clarify myself, let her know that I have no expectations, that I just wanted to say the things I've wanted to say since I was fourteen, she replies, "I married Greg. After he divorced Rhonda Kenton. We got married." The color drains from of my face. I feel light headed. Pretty M#therf#cker! Fuck him and the Shemar Moore he rode in on! Where is Nino Brown when you need him! Probably somewhere looking for the pimples on the booty. I never even told her I liked her and still, there he was. I might as well have told her how I felt. Showed her how I felt. I spent all that time being bullied into silence by, myself! I was my own Gooch. I should have ... "We're divorced now," her next message reads. "We were married for five and have been divorced for almost eight years." I take a deep breath and only then realize that I'd been holding it. Typing f#ck Greg, texturizers, Rick Fox and Boris Kodjoe seems, inappropriate, so instead I go with, "I'm sorry to hear that." "You're sorry to hear that we were married for five or have been divorced for eight? "Both," I reply. "Yeah... well." "Yeah well enough with the sad present. D-Nice has built us a time machine and it may only exist for one night. I've got a Cabbage Patch and a Roger Rabbit that I've been saving for 30 years. May I have this dance?" Another long pause. "Under one condition. The Strawberry Hill Boone's Farm is on you!?" "Bet!" I laugh and crank up the music in my apartment. D-Nice is playing Everything She Wants by Wham. I receive a video in my IG inbox. It's Candy doing the Prep. I laugh and send her one with me doing the Smurf. We exchange videos and emojis for the next fews hours. Laughing, reminiscing. Time traveling. Around 1 a.m. my knees call it quits and Candy says she's calling it a night too. I get my last message of the evening from her, "I needed this," it begins. "I needed this and didn't know it. Here's what I haven't said, I liked you all those years ago too Ed, but thought that because you didn't talk to me and seemed to be actively ignoring me that you not only didn't like me but disliked me. Neither of us knew how to use our words back them but we're grown now. So when this quarantine is over, and if your mama will let you come out and play, let's get a cup of coffee. Okay? See you in the Club Quarantine tomorrow night? I hear ?uestlove is spinning the late set." I stare at her message, admiring the fact that she spelled Questlove with the question mark. Earlier I remarked on how life can be like the mighty Mississippi flowing forward with great strength and certainty. It may split into tributaries or fork off like branches but, always, always forward. Well, as it would so happen, in 1812 The Mississippi River, due to an earthquake, for several hours ran backward. The Mississippi, ran backward. Sometimes something can come along that shakes everything up. Something that allows time, and the driftwood caught in its current, to flow back so that we might find things we lost along the way.