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Pep Wilson had seen it all, so he knew it all. He was “back smoking legal”, as some young superstar rapper he’d starting quoting lately, apparently said in one of his songs. “That boy is Michael Jackson, but with a better voice,” was his newest hot-take; Pep loved what had become of the media, and always felt like it gave people more of a chance to really do their own homework, and then decide who was the con of the two; that was his method of pragmatics and logic.
Lorraine died, and Pep never uttered a word. He watched his wife of sixty-one years pass, and with seven daughters, probably felt as though they would do all of the crying for him; all of the grieving. Sebi, the first of Pep’s lineage that came in his gender, wasn’t quite the same figure — Lorraine’s son — and constantly at odds, and more than likely it was because of that fact they weren’t the same. A half a century gap in these past 100 years was almost impossible to quantify.
Sebi wasn’t a Wilson — that is, unless you captured him standing next to Pep — or perhaps saw Sebi flash a slight and sly, crooked smile, similar to Pep. Sebi was his own breed; he knew his father, but they’d long been estranged. Sebi was an athlete, and Pep was always gloating about being one in his day; and he’d name-drop wherever he saw appropriate, which was usually all the time. Negro league players? He’d played against them. The first pro golfers of the same…
