I open my fridge and remove a half pint of Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk along with two pieces of several day old pizza. My phone vibrates.

“What’s up, Sire?” I try not to sound like I just woke up.

“Not much, King.” He says to me in his standard Jamaican drawl, “You ready to go?”

“Ready to go where?” My left eyebrow shoots up and I look to the ceiling for answers instinctively.

“To the block party.” He pauses, “Mad Decent.”

I recall a conversation from the night before that had been clouded by the pounding bass emanating from a club.

“Yeah, absolutely,”

“Mitch will meet us there,” he continues. “I’ll pick you up in a few.”

Outside, I am smoking a cigarette when his white Mercedes SUV pulls up. We greet each other in the regular fashion, and head to the venue downtown. In the midst of a conversation on a flying drone I had seen, we got lost in a an industrial neighborhood on the other side of the highway. When we got to the venue, there was a line curling around the bottom of the hill.

“Nope, fuck that.” Sire tells me. “I’ve never done that in my life, and I never will.” He pulls out one of his two cell phones and dials a number; waiting silently as it rings. No answer. Sire then walks up to one of the security guards at the front gate. “We are VIP, where is the artist entrance?”

The guard points down the street about half a block, “It’s just to the right through that parking garage.”

“Thanks,” he says. We walk to that designated area, but I can’t help but be wary. We aren’t artists, well at least not for this event. Sire has played keys for one of the lead characters of Fresh Prince of Bel Air’s hit hip-hop album, not to name any names.

Sire leads us to the first of the security check points and they wave us through without seeing any identification or really having any idea who we are. Granted, the sight of a hip 50 year old Jamaican man with a twenty something hidden beneath tinted lenses would lead some to believe that we very well could have been playing that day.

Approaching the second checkpoint, we are stopped by a young female security guard. “Who are you guys?”

I keep my mouth shut, trying to look as composed as humanly possible, and let Sire do all of the talking. “We’re with the artist, honey. We are on the list.”

The security guard turns to the man handling the list hiding in the shade to avoid the harsh California sun. “Are they on there?”

The man replies, “I only have the list for staff.” The woman argues that she can’t let us in because we aren’t on that list. To which the man with the staff list responds, “There is a second list inside for the artists, but you aren’t on here.”

Sire chimes in, “Well how do you know that? You don’t even know my name.” He then smiles and points at the man just trying to do his job.

The man looks down at the list realizing that he never asked in the first place, “What is your name sir?”

“Ahh, see.” Sire makes a few more lighthearted jokes when it is revealed that we are not in fact on that list. “We’re on the list inside.”

The female security guard is skeptical at this point and begins getting defensive. “Well, I can’t let you in there without the proper clearance from this guy,” pointing at the man with the list.

He sticks his hands in the air as if he has no idea what to do. Sire pulls out his phone, “I just got a text from Mark. You know Mark? He’s the guy organizing this. He said to meet him inside.” Sire shows the man with the list the text message, and he sends us on our grinning way.

We reach the artist check-in table and explain that Mark is coming to give us clearance while we chit chat with the attractive young ladies working the desk. A few moments later, a stocky man with a baseball cap walks into the room. Sire shakes hands with him and introduces me to Mark. “Can you give these guys passes?” He tells the women working the list.

“Yeah, which ones Mark?”

“Artist.” He turns to Sire, “Man it’s been a shit show. I’ve been running around all day.”

“Sorry for bothering you man,” Sire apologizes.

“I actually just had a few minutes to chill when you texted me. Perfect timing. Anyways, I’ve gotta roll. You guys have fun, it’s an open bar.” Mark leaves and we are handed our artist badges.

Sire turns to me as I am about to put mine on. “Leave it off. That way people are forced to remember you.” I slip it in my back pocket and we head for the stage.

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Chicago Poets is Appoet’s upcoming application.  It is a GPS arts magazine that allows creatives and activists to post hotspots for their cause and engage with an audience in a whole new way [/three_fourth]
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