Hannah and I sat across the aisle from him, in those sideways seats that connect the two halves of a light rail car. He was an average-sized guy with a button-up and a sweatshirt, and with bright-striped socks that looked just a little Seattle-ish. He was rapping into his phone, too quiet, for now, for me to hear.
I don’t think this guy is good, but I’m still impressed he’s actually doing his own art. I’m pretty sure it’s his own stuff he’s rapping.
Sent: 11:52 a.m.
Hannah read my text, and we let our conversation fade. I considered asking the guy about his rap. All original? Performing anywhere? Any other local rappers I should check out? But I stayed silent, not wanting to interrupt. I couldn’t yet make out what he was saying, but was I adapting to the guy’s style of clipped vowels and hard bs, his words punctuated by regular crotch-grabs and head-nods. He sounded a little like Eminem, minus talent.