The Mile Highness

By Frank Manner

The poetic and wildly entertaining tale of aspiring rapper Scott Free and his life changing journey through the cold and obscure world of the Denver music scene.
Frank Manner’s debut novel vividly depicts the struggles and the inner thoughts of a hip-hop artist and the decadent world that surrounds him. The Mile Highness is a lyrical adventure that travels through the multiple genres of hip-hop asking the question: Does art imitate life or vice versa?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989962704

Book preview

THE MILE HIGHNESS

By FRANK MANNER

MANNER AVENUE PUBLISHING AND ENTERTAINMENT LLC

The Mile Highness/Manner Avenue Publishing and Entertainment

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any likeness to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2008, 2014 by Crist Whitney

E-Book ISBN 978-0-9899627-0-4

Print ISBN 978-0-9899627-1-1

For Additional Information:

manneravenue.com

facebook.com/frankmanner13

[e-mail]

Soundtrack for the novel The Mile Highness available on manneravenue.com

To Carmen, Camira, and Camari

Overture

I hated performing in front of small crowds. It wasn’t the fact I found it pointless but rather the intimacy of it all that terrified me. It was the lack of energy and the constant eye contact with each individual that made me feel strangely vulnerable. It was only before a performance I would feel this way then the fear would die as the music played. I usually avoided live shows but that night was an audition to open for KRS One and that was an opportunity seldom seen in Denver.

The auditions were held on the first day of spring at The Church—one of the more high energy clubs in Denver and easily one of the most unique. The club was known more for techno but I caught it on a hip-hop night. I stood in the crowd for what felt like an hour waiting for DJ Pharaoh to call my name to the stage. I sipped my Heineken and stared at the stained glass pictures of the Virgin Mary and Saint Peter. Angry hip-hop vibrations didn’t quite blend with the many Catholic images but no one except myself seemed to notice.

The night went on as rapper after rapper hit the stage before the five judges singing about their guns and their cars and their money and their women with an exaggerated arrogance. It was a sickening display and at some points laughable. I believed the other twenty people that showed up didn’t feel as I did but I was a harsh critic of the hip-hop that came out of my city. I recognized Denver was in a unique position to set a new tone in the music game. The city was undiscovered and didn’t really have an identity so I figured the first rapper to emerge from the Mile High would have an enormous amount of influence.

The more I waited to hit the stage the more nervous I became. At the height of my nervousness the judges took an intermission to go to the bathroom, get a drink and to mingle with the small crowd of basically local rappers. Nilo, my closest friend, brought me another Heineken to calm the jitters. I noticed the way his bulging eyes glared around the place. He was annoyed and seemed to be as nervous as I was.

Are you alright? I asked him after nearly guzzling the whole Heineken.

I’m tired of waitin’. I don’t wanna hear these fake gangstas on the mike, cuz. How many more of these clowns I gotta hear before you go on?

I don’t know but there shouldn’t be that many.

I hope ya ready.

After the intermission DJ Pharaoh called my name to the stage. As I walked through the crowd my heart pounded like an 808 drum. I stepped on stage feeling a tight knot in my stomach. When I picked up the mike I felt the stained glass picture of the crucifixion behind me and I can’t honestly say it made me feel protected or inspired. In fact it made me feel uncertain and out of place but there I was almost shaking in front of the five judges. DJ Pharaoh took about a minute to play the music but it felt like I was up there speechless for an eternity staring into a sea of apathetic faces.

When the music played however I was in my element. I performed a song called Innocence from my last album ‘cause I thought the song would be perfect to do live but I could tell by the bored looks on the judges’ faces that I chose the wrong song. Maybe it was just too wordy or maybe it was the anemic beat playing behind the lyrics that led the small crowd to lose interest. I hadn’t planned on giving a lackluster performance but even I wasn’t feeling the song. The song finished and I stepped off stage feeling uncomfortable and dissatisfied with myself.

I was a ghost in the crowd from that moment on. Not one person came up to tell me they liked the song. All of the eye contact stopped after I stepped off stage. It seemed everyone there felt sorry for me. Even Nilo walked up on me shaking his head as if to apologize.

We’re gonna have to work on that live show, cuz?

What do you mean?

C’mon, are you tryin’ to put people to sleep? You look like you’re in pain up there. You gotta learn how to have fun with it.

Nilo had the voice of a short hippie from Southern California. Still after ten years of knowing him his voice still made me laugh. His voice might’ve been funny but his appearance was fearsome. He stood well over six feet and might’ve weighed about 240 pounds solid with muscles bursting through his clothes. He had the build of a super hero with the body language of a villain set to strike. He had active eyes that could casually scan a room and it was strange the way they never seemed to focus on one thing. His nose was flat like a gorilla and his teeth were too large for his mouth which was one of the reasons he hated to smile. He was far from good looking and that—amongst other things—made us an awkward pair.

DJ Pharaoh spun his record backwards and then spoke into the mike when the music stopped.

I wanna thank everyone for comin’ out tonight and showin’ me love on my 30th birthday. Also on behalf of KS107.5 I am proud to announce Denver’s first Mile Highness Competition. All emcees if you have what it takes to rule the Denver rap scene please submit a mastered album no less than ten tracks, a bio and two photos to 5280 Studios on Broadway and 11th. Two finalists will be announced on December 19th. The finalists will perform live at the Fillmore the day after Christmas. The winner will receive a guaranteed contract to the new Def Jam West and the solid gold crown of the Mile High. A star will be born in nine months. Get ready!

I was smiling wide when I heard the news. I’ve been rapping in this city for almost ten years and I knew that was the break I needed. I could detail in great length all of the blood, sweat, and tears I‘ve shed chasing a dream many thought was impossible. I lost the audition to a group of Chicano rappers but it didn’t matter to me. I knew this was my chance to prove my doubters wrong. A weak rapper might be able to beat me with a live show where they could bring their nutty friends out to act a fool on stage but they couldn’t make a better song then I could. And they most certainly couldn’t make a better album.

I think that calls for a drink, Nilo said.

Yeah I could drink to that. He bought two more drinks and we raised them high. Nilo shared my enthusiasm because he’s been there since the beginning.

Here’s to Scott Free, King of the City.

I remember waking up the next morning repeating fuck over and over again. It was 6:45 AM and I was already making plans in my head to call in to work. I rolled over in bed and felt the sun beaming on my face. It was a lovely day outside—the perfect day to cruise through the city. I heard Gracey in the shower singing along to Yolanda Adams and I knew I had to call work before she got out of the shower to avoid hearing her mouth. I called into work and Janelle, the sexy secretary at the front desk picked up the phone.

You’re callin’ in again, Scott? she asked. Butch is gonna fire you for real this time.

Just tell that cat my daughter’s comin’ down with the chicken pox or somethin’. C’mon now, look me out baby.

She sighed into the phone.

Alright, fine but you owe me.

Don’t worry, I know how to return a favor.

Yeah, we’ll see about that. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Gracey opened the bathroom door and entered wearing a pink robe and flip flops. She was always in a cheery mood but today she seemed extra cheery. Gracey always smiled unless she was angry with me and she was gonna be angry if I told her I wasn’t going in to work again—I didn’t really care though. I wasn’t supposed to be up for another thirty minutes so I pretended to sleep. I pretended to sleep so Gracey wouldn’t begin some long conversation about nothing. Gracey loved to talk—sometimes it was worth hearing but a lot of the times it wasn’t. Sometimes I thought I loved her and other times I knew I didn’t.

People always told me that we had a strange relationship. Even my own friends questioned how a woman as fine as Gracey could’ve stayed with me after ten years of disappointment and distress. I liked to think it was my sex appeal but others thought it was our nine year old daughter Jahzara. Despite all of my so-called foul deeds and heartless words she never left me. Even when I left, the door was still opened for my return.

I felt Gracey staring at me. I didn’t want to open my eyes because I knew she wanted to say something. She called my name once and then twice. When I didn’t respond she sat next to me on the bed and kissed my cheek over and over again.

C’mon, it’s not even seven, girl.

I know. I just wanted to talk to you.

Are you serious? Why? Why now?

You were out late again last night and we didn’t get to talk.

Could this wait until I wake up?

When are you gonna wake up?

When I’m finished sleepin’, now leave me alone girl…damn.

She was fresh out of law school and was working at one of Denver’s oldest law firms. She often dressed in plain color pant suits but that morning she wore a floral dress with a white belt and white pearls to match her white heels. She looked more like she was going to a church in the south instead of a law firm. She applied very light make up then brushed her long, straight black hair in the mirror. Despite her striking good looks her personality was humble. She found peace in her job and would expect me to find peace in any job I had but I wasn’t as happy or as friendly as she was so I never did.

When I got up to pretend to work Gracey was already gone. I went back to sleep and awoke at 1 PM. I showered quickly then dressed in my Alex English Nuggets throwback jersey, blue jeans, and white Uptown Nikes. I left home, hopped into my black Caddy and cruised west down Colfax Avenue with the music on blast. It was the first time in a while I remember feeling so free. The more I cruised the more I let go. Even though I let go I felt in control. I felt happy. I loved having nowhere to go and nothing to do because that meant anything could happen at any given moment. I had the time to notice my surroundings and that afternoon Denver didn’t feel so much like a tomb.

Time was on my side that day as I continued west down Colfax, nearing Colorado’s capitol building and Denver’s downtown district. The snowcapped Rocky Mountains were before me as clear as day towering over everything in the city and even though they were two hours away it seemed like it was a ten minute drive down the road. The afternoon air was crisp and the sun beamed triumphantly. Everyone on the street was in their own world going about their business just as I was in mine but without any real business to attend to.

Denver’s a big city’s little sister. She’s beautiful and inviting but she has much more maturing to do. There’s only four major skyscrapers in Denver and none of them except for the Qwest Tower and the Wells Fargo Tower—or the cash register building—had any real presence. The buildings downtown were modern and glossy and reminded me of little Lego blocks. Denver might not have large skyscrapers like New York or Chicago but we did have the Rocky Mountains which made our skyline look more majestic than other cities.

I was driving around aimlessly for an entire hour when I got a call from Nilo telling me to meet him at the barbershop. His barbershop/salon was on 27th and Welton Ave in the 5 Points District which is one of Denver’s well known black communities. The Five Points District in Denver, written about by Jack Kerouac and other writers, was famous for its music and its black culture but that was a time passed. A lot of the clubs on Welton Ave were now abandoned or otherwise lifeless. Police sirens, booming car systems and the sounds of the passing light rail train could be heard while old drunks and dope fiends and of course the thug element could be seen. In five years I could picture the area being a victim of gentrification but until then it was a haven for crime in the city.

When I walked pass the junkies and dealers and through the doors of the barbershop/salon it was packed with mostly women and all eyes were on me. The smell of all the hair products and the burning of curling irons was especially sharp that day. I caught Nilo’s wife Precious out of the corner of my eye struggling not to burst out laughing when she saw me. I saw a lot of fine women in the place but they weren’t looking at me the way I like to be looked at. Even the guys in the place were looking at me strange. I spotted Nilo sitting behind the desk in a wife beater counting a stack of cash. He liked to wear the wife beater to show off the gang tattoos that covered his dark flesh like graffiti on the wall. I sat next to him at the desk and gave him a pound.

What the deal, cuz?

I’m chillin’, enjoyin’ my day off.

I hear that. Peep this, I found this hot studio over the internet.

He turned his laptop around to show me a virtual tour of this state of the art music studio advertising on line.

That looks sick. How much is it?

It’s 100 dollars an hour.

I ain’t got that kinda bread.

I already know that. If you find all your beats I’ll put up the money to record that album.

Straight up?

C’mon, cuz, you know money ain’t shit when it comes to the homies. This could be your big break.

I still noticed everyone in the place eyeballing me.

Why’s everybody lookin’ at me crazy?

Don’t even trip.

Nilo’s wife Precious came over from the salon side and he handed her the stack of money he was counting.

Why you ain’t at work, negro? Precious asked me with her hands on her hips.

Why you all up in my business?

Precious was anything but precious—she was more vicious than precious. From day one we never got along. We were a lot like Martin and Pam but worse because our clowning each other would get confrontational real quick. To be honest it was hard to clown her because she was sexy as hell. She had a nice looking face and a body like Ki Toy Johnson. She was an ice cold bitch though and everybody knew it except Nilo. She had him so sprung it was sickening.

You should be at work. That’s why you always broke.

Those around that heard her comment started laughing.

Ain’t nothin’ broke but that old ass weave.

Oh my god, baby, did you play him my song? she asked Nilo.

Nah, I ain’t playin’ that song.

What song? I asked.

It’s some bullshit Mecca made about you.

Play the song baby he gotta hear it.

Lemme hear it.

Nilo pulled up the song on the internet and the next thing I heard was a banging west coast style beat thumping loud on the barbershop speakers. I heard Mecca’s voice and my stomach dropped. He was back with a new song and as I listened further I heard the song was about me. The scathing words came from a ruthless voice. Each line was a knife to the ribs. The song was powerful enough to embarrass me and I never thought I had a reason to be embarrassed. Mecca and I go back about ten years to when I had stolen Gracey, who was then his girlfriend and we’ve been enemies ever since. Now he was back and was murdering my persona on a banging Blood Hound beat. If I didn’t know him and the song wasn’t about me I would’ve been knocking it all day.

When the hook came in I recognized Keisha May’s voice singing Broke Ass Nigga repeatedly as Mecca was screaming my name in the back. In the song he not only called me broke but he went into detail about some of the things that Gracey used to do to him before we met. A lot of vile and sadistic rhetoric that people might mistake for being truth. He also said I quit rapping to be a stay at home mom and also went on to say that I wasn’t even from the hood, I was from Cherry Creek. He ended the song explaining his name M.E.C.C.A meant Murder Every Crooked Crip Alive.

When the song was over Nilo turned down the volume and everyone stared at me. They waited for my reaction but I was still stunned and shell-shocked. When I first heard that song I thought it was hard and I was honestly hurt by it. Instead of saying something I just laughed and tried to brush it off but I was the only one laughing.

I don’t like Mecca, Precious said. I never liked him at all but that nigga’s nice. That might be one of the realest songs I ever heard.

Precious and the women behind her started to laugh. I didn’t even want to defend myself to make them laugh even harder.

Don’t listen to them, cuz. You and I both know that Mecca’s a fuckin’ snitch and that little ass nigga ain’t hurtin’ nobody.

"He’s hurtin’