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I Hate Holiday Weekends

By: High Art

Especially, Memorial Day and Labor Day weekend. Everywhere is hella crowded and there’s always extra accidents and long lines everywhere. Promoters who are cool every other time of the year can switch it up on holiday weekends, and Labor Day, for some reason, brings out the flakes. Maybe, it’s because it’s the last gasp before fall so everyone is out trying to hold on to the last bit of summer.

Of course, tonight was a white party at a mansion a little outside of the city. That’s my only exception to white parties those that are in mansions. I told Taylor I’d meet her out because someone saw my work and thought it was dope. Taylor can be flaky, but she knows people so if she says someone thinks my work is good, it’s probably someone worth meeting. She said she wanted to get there just after 11 pm, which would be early enough to get some good shots for our socials, but not too crowded and with enough time that we could still enjoy ourselves afterwards. I knew she would definitely be late, so took my time getting ready. I smoked a little bit of yesterday’s blunt, turned up some getting ready music and took my time. I double checked the address and snapped a few pics of me in my white dress and gold sandals. The lighting picked up the depth of my highlight on my cheeks and the gloss on my lips. I checked the time.

It was 10:45. Enough time to call the Lyft and arrive at the spot just after 11:30. Taylor is at least 30 minutes late everywhere, so this seemed like the right timing. I called the car and was told Elmer would be there in 10 minutes. I live in a weird turnoff where ride shares can’t always find the address, so I figured I had about 15 minutes before he arrived. I went live for a little bit to show off my work.

“Aye that’s my bae”.

“I love what you did with the colors”.

“You’re so talented, beautiful queen”.

“Hey, I’m a young rapper getting started check out my Sound cloud”.

Say what you want about social media, but I love engaging with my followers. It’s a beautiful thing. I got so caught up in talking to people that I didn’t realize how much time had passed until I looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was 11:15. I ended the live and checked my messages. I hadn’t received any from Elmer, but I saw that I had gotten messages that he had to cancel and they were still looking for someone to come pick me up. I texted Taylor to let her know what was up, and she said it was cool, that she hadn’t even started getting ready. I rolled my eyes a little. I felt a little hungry, so I made myself a bowl of cereal and checked the Lyft messages. Surge pricing was now in effect, with prices four times higher than usual. Ugh. Holiday weekends.

I tried a few other different services and finally got one to confirm at twice the normal price around 12:30. Not good, but not as bad as it could be. Jake picked me up from my apartment and we had an uneventful ride on quiet mode, the best invention since sliced bread. We arrived at the address about 45 minutes later. It was a large expanse outside the city, with lots of acreage and a beautiful home set back way back from the curb. It was also dark and quite as fuck. Jake gave me a sidelong glance. “Are you sure this is the location?” He asked.

“This is definitely it,” I responded with more confidence than I felt. However, there was no music, no lights and no other cars. My intuition told me to call Taylor again before letting Jake pull away. I dialed twice before getting her. It was so loud in the background I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but a minute later my phone chimed with a text.

“Location changed. The people organizing pulled the contract. We’re at the hotel instead.”

So, there I was, looking like an extra in a corn field horror film. Jake was cool and agreed to drive me back, and I never go anywhere without some cash (thanks Dad, for teaching me that) so I paid him to drive me back to my house.

I got a call from Taylor at about 4 am, but by that time I was smoking up and painting, because like I said, I hate holiday weekends.

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