Kris Kross: The Lost Years

2004. Mac Daddy necks a Xanax. It's the toughest day of the week. It's laundry day. Any minute, this perfect life-- this charade-- could come crashing down.

"Chris, I just don't understand," his wife chides. "Why do the fronts of your pants wear out before the backs? It's like you've been wearing them b--"

"My pants are fucking fine, Deborah."

She's stunned. Chris has never raised his voice before.

Mac Daddy closes his eyes. Focus. Take control. Suppress the trembling.

She must never know.


~ ~ ~

2006. Six rings. Seven rings. Daddy Mac isn't nervous. Sometimes Jermaine doesn't pick up if he doesn't recognize the number. Plus, he's a busy guy these days. He was always a busy guy, but he used to have a little more time for his friends. Nine rings.

"Hello?"

"Big J! Congrats on the Grammy, dude. You know I popped a Korbel when they read your name out."

"Who is this?"

"It's the D A double D Y to the M A C, man! God, it really has been too long."

Jermaine Dupri stays up pretty late, so a phone call at 11PM isn't beyond the limits of good taste. Jermaine and Daddy Mac were always night owls.

"How did you get this number, Chris? We've talked about this, Chris."

~ ~ ~

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