“Hey Arron, check out this new track I’m working on.”
Arron Afflalo looked across the aisle of the bus to see Derrick Williams hard at work on his laptop. “That’s cool man, I’m good,” he answered. He had heard rumors around the league about Derrick and his odd fondness for certain types of electronic music. Those same rumors made the music sound not very pleasant.
Derrick didn’t seem prepared to take no for an answer. He pulled his headphones off from around his neck and snapped them over Arron’s ears.
“I don’t hear anything,” Arron said. On the screen was an indecipherable mess of digital sliders and knobs. Derrick responded by hitting the space bar on the laptop’s keyboard; immediately, Arron’s ears were filled with abrasive and intolerable racket. Arron politely endured the so-called “track” for ten seconds before lifting the headphones off his head. “I don’t know, man. Maybe this stuff isn’t for me.”
Derrick frowned. “That’s weird. You’re the first person who’s said that they dislike my dubstep.”
Shrugging, Arron turned his attentions back to his phone.
“You know, I had some pretty tight house parties back in Sacramento,” Derrick said, not realizing that Arron was uninterested in the topic.
“Is that so?” Arron asked, eyebrow raised.
“Yeah, they were a hit. Nobody ever wanted to leave.” Derrick laughed to himself as if the concept were somehow funny to him. “Maybe one day I’ll have another one here in New York. My new place has a huge basement with no windows, and I’ve been meaning to convert into a dungeo-I mean, a sweet performance venue.”
“Don’t be in any rush to invite me,” Arron replied.
“I’m sure I can get you to come around eventually,” Derrick said confidently, replacing the headphones on his head and resuming his work. “You’ll see.”