Gucci Mane was having a good year. Sure, there had been a few bumps in the road and things with Waka were always on and off, but all in all, he chalked up 2013 as one of his best years in recent history—and it wasn’t even over yet.
Presently he was standing in line at a Miami Publix, waiting to get his favorite Cuban Sub. Usually he would’ve waited in the car, but today felt different. There was a frisson of excitement in the air that he hadn’t felt in a long time, ever since that one fateful evening in Los Angeles, when he had locked eyes with…Gucci shook himself out of his reverie just as his turn was up.
“Would you like to make that a meal, sir?”
Gucci smiled cutely and nodded as the deli worker added potato salad, two chocolate chip cookies, and a pint of Publix Deli tea.
“Hey,” the voice behind him said, in a cool low rumble that sent delicious shivers up Gucci’s spine.
He turned around and gasped. The deli tea hit the floor.
Marilyn Manson stood poised in a long black coat despite the Miami heat. He wore his coat open, with no shirt underneath. His pale chest gleamed brightly under the fluorescent lighting, and Gucci’s eyes traversed the smooth planes of his chest, hypnotically following the line of Marilyn’s torso, down to his hipbones, so snuggly clad in leather.
“I haven’t seen you since…”
“Since the Spring Breakers premiere,” Marilyn finished for him. “Wanna get out of here?”
“I’ve got someone waiting in the car,” Gucci mumbled. “But we can ditch him.”
The two friends paid no heed to the gawping audience that had started to form around them.
“C’mon, I know a shortcut,” Marilyn said, and taking Gucci by the hand, they left through a back entrance.
Gucci’s bodyguard was already there waiting for them.
“Stop, stop! Where are you two going?”
Marilyn and Gucci giggled as they ran away from him.
Gucci felt his heart soar.
They hailed a cab and took it to the nearest arcade. For the next three hours they played arcade games and felt their troubles melt away. Gucci forgot all about his present woes with 1017, and Marilyn forgot about his hair appointment. Marilyn beat Gucci at air hockey, but was no match for Gucci’s prowess at Dance Dance Revolution.
Worn out, they headed over to the prize redemption table. Gucci was a few tickets short for the ring he wanted.
“Here,” Marilyn handed him the tickets he had left. “You can have mine.”
“Thanks,” Gucci said shyly.
They stood in silence, not sure what to do next. The sun was beginning to set not only on the day, but their time together.
“Gotta go,” Marilyn said apologetically. “My bitches are waiting for me.”
“Yes,” Gucci said absentmindedly, as a slow heat spread from the base of his neck to his ears. He did not condone the use of the word “bitch” but wanted to seem cool around Marilyn. “I’ve got to get back to my bitches as well.”
“Goodbye friend,” Marilyn said mournfully.
All good moments, lost like dust in the wind, but not this one. Gucci still kept his ring, and from time to time, would look at it fondly and remember it. This moment, undocumented by journalists and tabloids, would remain a beautiful secret between the two friends.
But as for the rest of us, there’s always this.
Artwork by Laurent Hrybyk.