I love it when you call me Big Poppa

 

"I love it when you call me Big Poppa," I sang out from the shower to my wife, Mrs. Christopher Wallace.

Yes, that's right, I dreamed I was the late Notorious B.I.G. himself. In the flesh. All 300 soaking wet pounds him.

Things weren't going so well between Mrs. Wallace and myself. She was pissed at me, presumably for doing my gangster shit out of our penthouse apartment. She let me know this by wrecking the joint, making quite a mess of the tile countertop. 

I surveyed the damage and realized that it was me that would have to do the repairs. I'd also have to consider changing my ways if I was ever going to get back into her good graces. I puttered around making mental notes of all the things that were broken and made plans to set things right.

There's a lot more to it, I'm sure, but I had to pack my mental suitcase rather quickly, and this was all I could grab. I can't blame the guineas today. I simply left the notebook on the other side of my brain, and it stayed on the pillow when I awoke.  

---

Manny Salazar, a guy I used to work with, introduced me to that phrase by Biggie. He'd use it on the rare occasion that he was struggling with something difficult on a car. At the moment when he finally prevailed against a stuck bolt or a troublesome ball joint, he'd bellow out at his vanquished foe:

"I love it when you call me Big Poppa!" And we would all know that he had beaten the unruly component into submission.

He was pretty persuasive with humans too. Whether offering encouragement to someone or mocking them for failing to grasp an elementary principal that they'd overlooked while struggling, he'd utter this simple yet effective rejoinder, designed to rattle you into productivity:

"COME ON!!!"

He said it so loud, while in relatively close proximity to you, that it would radiate through your chest cavity. You could literally feel the weight of shame and the powerful infusion of his energy as the sound waves caused you to vibrate with the words. You'd not be forgetting the lesson he'd imparted. 

Feeling inferior was the price of admission, but it was usually worth it. He was, after all the Chiludo, the big cheese, 30 years of experience, and all that. He wasn't gonna just pass along his wisdom for free. If you asked him for help, he'd give it, but with the caveat that you'd be subject to public humiliation for your ignorance.

"COME ON!!!" usually rang out throughout the shop at least once or twice a day. We had a lot of knuckleheads working there.