I met up with E shortly after the meeting with Natas and his son. We rolled up to Greenwood, SC to pick up K, then I headed to the show in Asheville.

I told E about the meeting, and he came at me the same way that Lori did—using my own logic against me.

“It was just a meeting," I said, keeping my eyes on the road. "I made it plain that I wasn’t interested”.

Well, that wasn’t fully true, but sometimes bending the truth saves a conversation. Sometimes you bend it so much that you start to believe it’s true. This is also known as being delusional, which comes in handy when I’m on the way to achieving the impossible.

“Besides," I continued, "they implied that they only wanted me, and we’ve been doing this too long to not be a package deal”.

That part was 100% true. They sounded like they only wanted to fuck with me, and that is unacceptable. I’ve been doing this with them—especially E—too long to leave them in the dust to chase gold. We’re building something.

Evaready RAW is from Jamaica Queens, New York, but we actually met at Clark Atlanta University back in the mid-90s. He was the studious one; he actually graduated.

I, on the other hand, quituated. That’s my made-up slang for dropping out.

I moved back home to Compton for a year after I left school, but the South had its hooks in me. I came back to Atlanta in 2000, and we ran into each other at a club called Visions. I told him that I’d just got back and started writing. He told me he was writing, too. We linked up right then, and the rest was history.

“How you know they didn’t, family?” E’s Jamaica, Queens accent comes out strong when he gets a little miffed.

I can’t front, some of the lingo has rubbed off on me. I find myself saying ‘son’, ‘family’, and ‘fam’ a lot more these days, though I still keep my Cali accent. Ain’t nobody taking that away from me.

It's funny—E’s NY tone, his “workout warrior” physique, and his resemblance to Tiki and Ronde Barber make people assume he’s the one to be weary of.

That is the furthest from the truth. E is a great guy—a nice guy. If a promoter says he lost money on the night, E would be the one to actually listen.

I, on the other hand, am not that cat. I promptly tell people to skip the story and get to the point. I ask to see the books so I know they can’t pay me what we agreed. Even then, I’m not always convinced. Flip is not the only shady promoter we’ve dealt with.

We both have bald heads and beards. Depending on the time of year, I might shave mine into a goatee, but E is way more groomed. I’m the opposite. At best, I man-prep once a week.

My reasoning is that "I’m Quan," and Quan doesn’t have to groom if he doesn’t want to—using my nineties NBA superstar talking-in-the-third-person voice. When I’m handling business for the first time, I usually use an alter ego: J. Harris. I just like the way it sounds.

I’m often dismayed by how many judgments are based solely on appearance. This is an across-the-board issue; both Black and white promoters practice this with us. It feels like colorism with the former and racism with the latter.

Colorism is basically same-race racism. It’s a condition that dates back to slavery—the "field" vs. the "house"—and it’s still subconsciously applied today in the way promoters initially react to E and myself .

As the miles to Asheville ticked away, I thought about how long this "hobby" had been my life.

My cousin wrote my first rap for me when I was eight years old. I fell in love with it instantly. From that day on, every single day involved me writing something or freestyling around my friends or in the mirror.

But I never really thought of it as a profession. Not until I backed myself into a corner.

When you’re a college dropout with two or three dead-end jobs, living back at home and sleeping on your mom’s couch in Compton, the mirror looks a little different. That was the moment I realized this couldn't just be something I did—it had to be the thing that saved me. The Asheville Ritual

We picked up K and went over the setlist. We always open with Throwaway Lines and close with Yo Soy La Mierda.

Since we haven’t recorded an album together in seventeen years, most of the show is pulled from my fifteen solo albums. We have about seven songs together, alternating between those and solo tracks.

Our show is unique. We prefer the floor to the stage, forming a "cypher circle" around us. And then, I do something you never see at a rap show: I take off my shoes.

I don’t know when I started doing it, but folks expect it now. Most of these clubs are dirty, and I’ve destroyed so many fucking socks.

K was in the back seat listening to music. That cat is a wealth of music history—always pulling out some 1970s funk or bossa nova that nobody has heard of.

Suddenly, K called from the back. “Yo, y'all heard of somebody named Lil Bang?”

“Yeah. He’s wack. Why?” E asked.

“Well, he just drove off the side of I-285”.

K read from his phone that the rapper had left a club with two women after drinking. Lil Bang was married to a chick from Hate and Hip Hop Atlanta.

E turned to me. “No matter what you decide to do, promise us that you won’t be on that stupid nigga shit”.

“I will never, ever, ever be on that stupid nigga shit,” I promised.

The Reality Check

The show at Timo’s House went well. We sold a ton of merch and crashed hard. I forgot to set my alarm, so I was grateful for the early morning call from Lori.

“Good morning, sleepyhead," she said. "The car broke down”.

A-fucking-gain?

It wasn't just one thing. It was the transmission. And a radiator hose. And a tune-up, tires, and a power steering pump.

I was tired of this shit. Something had to give.

“How was the show, by the way?” Lori asked.

“That shit was great. Sold a bunch of CDs, and the promoter actually paid us. Thought I was going to get to take you somewhere finally”.

I hung up the phone and pulled out the obsidian business card. I hesitated before hitting call. This was a "no turning back" situation.

Am I sure? Nope. Not in the slightest. But I couldn't keep going on like this.

I hit call.

“Quan," Natas’ deep voice answered instantly.

“Say I signed to you," I said. "What can you do for me? No BS, just facts”.

“I can get you a deal with a six-figure advance," he said. "A book and movie deal... a tour opening for headliners”.

“When can we meet again?” I asked.

“First thing tomorrow," Natas replied.

“We’ll be there”.

And just like that, I sold my soul.