We sat without talking, like we were waiting for something. Most of the dancers were smoking languorously in the back corner, waiting for the club to fill up.
The strippers: the piercings, the overgrown indecipherable tattoos, the wigs in their full spectrum of colors and lengths, the lounging of flesh against vinyl. would make an appearance later; he's known to bring his own backpack full of dollar bills to throw.
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When I asked him if he's living When I asked him where he lives, he would say, "I don't really live anywhere, I guess. The rich black people with their muscular metal cars.
My mama house, my grandmama, my baby mama." But I don't believe Yung Stunt was thinking about any of that right now. The rich white people with their slacks and loafers and frail ankles.
He works in, I guess you could call it, stripper relations, and he keeps up a steady patter with basically every woman who walks into Magic City, employed there or not.
He is also probably one of the few senior-citizen strip-club managers with a preschool-age child.
City Dollars is 38, wears a woolly chin beard, and has eyes that twinkle from deep in his skull. A hustler and a player and a manager of rap artists.
He's also, he said, the proprietor of an auto-detailing business out by Atlanta Hartsfield. This is what I do for my artists, I give them that rock-star life." He drank from his beer. You Tube that shit."A song called "Make Sum Shake" was on.
Atlanta is balkanized—you might not be welcome in Bankhead if you're not from there.
But as the proprietor of Magic City, as a man who has, in his parlance, been running around in the streets for thirty years, it's different for Magic.
Occasionally, City Dollars threw some singles at the naked woman standing in front of us, the way an old man might absentmindedly feed some ducks the crust of his sandwich. One by one the dancers extinguished their blunts and came from their corner, down onto the main floor like crows dropping off a wire to check out some roadkill. The producer Southside, who makes beats for Jay Z and Gucci Mane, and the producer TM88, who makes beats for Young Thug, and Coach Tek, who manages 2 Chainz, and the taciturn guys who travel with the rap group Migos—the eccentric insular little band of rappers out of Gwinnett County, Georgia, who live in a Mc Mansion in exurban Atlanta with their weapons cache and wall-to-wall carpeting. Radio deejays would arrive as well, listening to hear which new songs are And: dope boys who want to be rappers; rappers who pretend to be dope boys; dope boys who just want to be dope boys; the married proprietor of a debt-collection agency, I think his name was Chuck (very nice guy), whose wife gives him a free pass once a month to come and look at naked ladies; a woman in a T-shirt that says "Turning Up Is My Cardio." (FYI: Don't be confused, Rico Richie, an artist trying to make it in the city, was up on the stage now, throwing ,000 while his song played. The unremarkable skyscrapers in their copses at Buckhead, at Midtown. The front porches, the moisture-soaked clapboards, the darkened attic windows.