Ghetto Cowboy

by G. Neri

  Bob fans his face with his hat. “Man, the boy clearly don’t know his jazz history.”

  Harp scowls. “Well, you can call me Harper. Then we’ll be even.”

  He stares at the brick street, kicks at a old brick sticking out. “Look, I know you don’t want to be here. And I can’t say that I want you here neither. Heard you was in trouble . . . or maybe you was the trouble. Which is it?”

  I shrug. He don’t know me.

  He shakes his head. “Before last night, I haven’t heard from your moms in forever. Then she just calls me up out of the blue. . . .” He kicks the brick outta its hole in the ground.

  I don’t know what to say.

  He mutters some swear word, picking up that brick and throwing it into a vacant lot. Then without looking at me, he says, “You can spend the night, and after that . . . we’ll see what’s what.” He gazes up at the sky like he can’t believe all of this was dumped in his lap on the same day. “In the meantime, you do what I say, and maybe I’ll make it through the next couple days. Now get your bags and go on inside, Coltrane.”

  He already gettin’ on my nerves. But he the one holding a gun, so I just shut my trap and pick up my bags off the stoop.

  The front door’s open. I walk in and the first thing I smell is . . . horses? I ain’t never smelled a horse before, never even saw one up close before a few minutes ago. But if a horse got a smell, I think this is it, ’cause that’s all that’s in here: horse stuff. A coupla old saddles, blankets, brushes, work boots, horse things like you see on TV. Instead of furniture, there’s even them square things of hay to sit on.

  This ain’t no house — it’s a barn.

  To top it off, there a big ol’ hole from floor to ceiling knocked into the side of the living room, leading into the place next door, like he just wanted to expand his crib and took over the abandoned one next to his.

  I peek inside the hole, but it’s dark ’cause all the windows is boarded up. But man, it really smells like animal in there. Suddenly, something big moves in the dark, and I jump back.

  “That’s Lightning,” says Harper.

  My eyes adjust to a pair of dark eyes staring back at me.

  It’s a horse. He got a horse in the house.

  No wonder Mama left him.

  “Just temporary accommodations until I fix his stall. One of the stable walls kinda fell in last month. Lucky for me, next door’s been boarded up for a while. Won’t nobody mind if I’m using it.”

  Now I seen everything, I think. Harper must see my eyes buggin’ out, ’cause he smirks and says, “Welcome to Philly, boy.”

  That feels like a dare, like he thinks I’m scared of that thing. That horse is big, bigger than any living thing I ever seen, but I ain’t gonna let no horse show me up.

  I drop my bags and take a step closer. The air is thick and musty. My eyes get used to the dark, and I can see there’s hay on the floor and a bucket of water near the wall. Lightning’s staring at me with one big eye, his nostrils sniffing at me. His hoofs clomp on the floorboards.

  I take another step, but the horse suddenly neighs and stomps his foot in front of me. I stumble back into the room and right into Harper.

  Harper shakes his head like I just proved him right. “He don’t like strangers. He’s just used to living with me. You’ll have to earn his trust.”

  I scowl. “Earn his trust? He just a horse!”

  “And you just a boy,” he says.

  He gives me a long look. “Take your stuff upstairs. There’s a space I cleared for you. Get settled, then come find me.”

  Then he walks out the door again, leaving me all alone with that monster.

  “I ain’t no boy,” I say, but I go upstairs anyway, only ’cause I think horses can’t climb steps. But up there ain’t no better. These houses is tall and skinny — only one room wide. But that’s just it, there’s one room — his room, which got a bed, a bathroom, and a closet. I look in the closet and see he pulled stuff outta it and put a blanket on the floor.

  Uh . . . no.

  I ain’t no Harry Potter. And I ain’t living in no closet.

  I got to think.

  I look around for a phone, but there ain’t one that I can see. Don’t matter, I guess, since I can’t call Mama anyways on account of she ain’t home yet. And my friends ain’t got no car, so they can’t help me neither. Maybe they don’t even know that I’m gone, since most of ’em drift in and out depending on if they in juvie or not. One more gone ain’t gonna make a difference.

  So I sit on the edge of the bed and bury my head in my hands. What am I gonna do? My head hurts, and my stomach aches. I just roll up on the bed and hope this is just some nasty dream that’s gonna go away.

  But after a hour, nothing changes.

  My eyes wander around the room, stopping at a picture on his dresser. It’s a young guy with a racehorse. It looks like Harper a long time ago. He at a racetrack next to a sign that says Philadelphia Park, standing in front of a horse with one of them fancy riders on top.

  There’s another picture, him riding a horse through the streets next to some pimped-out Caddie.Man, who ever heard of horses in the ’hood?

  Then I notice a small picture in the back. I stand up to take a closer look. It’s one of Mama, looking young and holding a baby. Is that me? I never seen this one. She standing in front of this house, I think. Only it looks a bit better than it do now.

  A drop of water falls on the picture. I know it ain’t no leak. I miss Mama, even though we ain’t seen eye to eye lately . . . well, for a long time. But she was the only one who seemed to care about me when I was growing up. I never thought in a million years she’d turn on me. It’s not like I killed someone or ended up in prison or something. When I think that she just left me here with dumb ol’ black Clint Eastwood, I get mad all over again.

  I take off my Pistons shirt and put on a white T. I’m hungry and he didn’t even give me no food, so I guess I gotta fend for myself. But I’m looking through his fridge and there ain’t nothing in there — just beer, cheese, and a pizza that looks like it’s from last year.

  I hope there’s a McDonald’s around here, ’cause I gots to eat! I’m about to head out when I remember, I ain’t got no money. Dag. Now what?

  That’s when I see a envelope on the table with Harper written on it.

  It’s Mama’s handwriting.

  I open it. There’s a note inside and . . . money. Maybe two hundred dollars.

  The note says: This is all I got on me for now. Use it to feed Cole. I took care of him for twelve years. It’s now up to you to help him find his way.

  I stare at that money for a good twenty minutes. That money could get me back home again. Back to where I belong. But the way she talk about me at the end of that note . . . it just makes me wanna crawl into a hole and die. Why should I go back if she don’t want me? Plus she would just yell at me for stealing this money . . . ’cept it’s not stealing, ’cause she said it was for taking care of me.

  When I get depressed, I eat. So I pocket twenty bucks. I gotta get some food in me. Then I can figure out what I’m gonna do.

  I step outside and look around. I see a buncha girls on the sidewalk jumping rope. They stop and stare at me, so I just stare right back. But just past them is the two guys who was making fun of me before, sittin’ on a stoop and jawin’ away. So I turn around and walk down the block the other way.

  This neighborhood is just like ours in Detroit, only the buildings is older row houses made a brick. Some is closed up and vacant, covered in graffiti. Others got bars on the windows. I put on my mad-dog face so nobody will mess with me. I just gotta follow the rules of the street: Rule one: Keep your head down. Rule two: Always keep moving.

  “Hey!” someone calls out from behind me.

  I ignore ’em like I didn’t hear.

  “Hey!” I hear footsteps coming up fast.

  I think of running, but that’s rule three: Never run. I whip around and see the two guys lo
oking at me. The tall one with cornrows is grinning.

  “What?!” I yell.

  He gives me a look that says, Don’t be giving me attitude or I’ll give you a beatin’. But I hold my ground.

  “You know who I am?” he says.

  I shake my head and look for a way out. His buddy, who’s big and stocky like a linebacker, just stares at me.

  The tall guy takes a pretend swing at me, and I flinch. He laughs. “Tough guy from Motown. I’m your cousin Smush.”

  “Smush? I don’t know no cousin Smush.”

  He rolls his eyes. “On your daddy’s side. You’re Uncle Harp’s boy, right? That mean we related, cuz, which is good for you. Otherwise I’d have to have Snapper here put out a Chester Avenue welcome for ya. And you don’t want that.”

  Snapper looks disappointed. He knocks me in the shoulder, but friendly-like. “Didn’t mean to give you a hard time in front of your moms.”

  Smush giggles. “Oh, yes you did! Don’t lie.”

  Snapper smiles a little and shrugs. “Your moms really just dumped you off and left you? That’s cold.”

  Smush puts his arm around me. He tall, so my head’s just under his arm. “Listen, if you staying here, you gotta know the lay of the land. Where you off to? The stables?”

  I give him a look. “Stables? I ain’t no ghetto cowboy.”

  That cracks them up. “Oh, dang!” says Smush. “Did you hear that? Better not let your daddy hear you talking that way.”

  “I don’t care. He ain’t my daddy. I never seen him before, and he don’t want me here, which is fine by me.”

  I turn and start walking.

  “Yo, cuz, wait up. You don’t wanna be going that way. You might get yourself shot.”

  I stop. “I ain’t afraid.”

  “Cuz, you don’t get it. Here on Chester Avenue, we in the safe zone, on account of the horses. The gangbangers leave this block alone, outta respect, ya know? Plus your daddy don’t put up with none of them! Believe me, I know.” He rubs his butt like it’s been kicked one too many times.

  Snapper shakes his head. “Shorty, you go out there, a few blocks either way, it’s a war zone. You got to watch your back, know what I’m sayin’?”

  Smush nods. “Yeah, you fresh meat around here, cuz, so you better go see your daddy. He at the stable over there.”

  I look down the street and see a bunch of run-down garages across from a vacant lot with some homemade buildings and fences and stuff. There’s a few kids washing horses on the sidewalk.

  “What kinda place is this?”

  Smush and Snapper laugh. “You’ll get used to it. Horses always been here.”

  “Whatever.” I don’t feel like going into a war zone, so I start walking to the stable.

  I walk slowly past the kids washing the horses. They younger than me, maybe seven or eight. They all frontin’ and boastin’ about racing and stuff.

  “I’ma be next to fly down the Speedway!” says the smallest one.

  The oldest one laughs. “You gotta learn to ride first! You can’t even stay on Daisy!”

  The middle one drops his hose in a bucket. “Harp say he gonna get me a Thoroughbred over at New Holland. Then I’m gonna leave you fools in the dirt!” They all laugh.

  I try and joke with ’em. “Where I come from, kids wash cars.” They stop laughing and look at me.

  The oldest one says, “You wanna help? Harp’ll let you ride if you help out with the horses.”

  I wave ’em off. “Nah. I ain’t stayin’. And I ain’t ridin’ no dang horse. What you thinkin’ ridin’ a horse in the city? I already seen one get hit by a car, and I just got here.”

  They look at each other like I don’t know what I’m talking about and just start yappin’ about racing horses again. I look up and see a whole row of sneakers hanging from the telephone wire overhead. That’s exactly how I feel: hung out to dry.

  The stables is nothing more than a few garages and some vacant lots with old buildings that look like they made outta scrap. I peek inside one. It’s dark and smells all dank like horse. There’s banged-up plywood and hay on the floor, and the ceiling is covered in cobwebs so thick, it looks like nobody ever cleaned up there before. The stalls is small, with no windows, and the wood is old and warped, like it’s been there forever. There’s maybe ten horses inside, all poking their heads outta their cubbyholes, looking at me like I’m the one who shouldn’t be in the city. Why they need horses out here, anyhow? I don’t get it.

  I hear some whistling outside and go around back to check it out. I spot a black horse running around all crazy inside a circular fence. A few guys and a bunch of kids hang off the fence whooping it up and making noise. They ain’t dressed like cowboys, just regular street clothes. One of the guys even dresses like them Muslim dudes, in a black robe and skullcap.

  The horse is kicking and stomping at something. He looks wild, all black and rough, ready to do some damage. When I walk up to the fence, I see it’s Harper inside there, all alone with that crazy thing!

  His white T is covered with dirt, his hair too. He just standing there in the ring watching that horse almost run him over every time it circles him. Man, I knew he was crazy. He gonna get himself killed for real. Then what’ll happen to me?

  But Harper acts all calm, like it ain’t no big thing, following the horse with his eyes as he steps right into the horse’s path. The horse skids to a stop and suddenly, they face-to-face. I think for sure the horse is going to charge him, but Harper just raises his hands, nice and easy. Everyone watching gets all quiet.

  When he steps closer, the horse backs up, almost into the fence. Harp reaches forward to touch him, and the horse suddenly jumps up on his back legs, like he gonna stomp him. But Harper don’t back off. He stands there, as calm as can be, like he reeling the monster in with his mind. He starts whispering something over and over until that horse finally settles back down to earth. The kids shake their heads like they can’t believe what they seein’.

  Harper moves in closer and closer, the horse rising up a coupla times. But suddenly Harper’s standing right next to him, his hand on the horse’s shoulder, then his neck, and finally, his head. Harper shushes him like a little baby till the horse is all relaxed, and then it’s just the two of them together. Harper’s all smiles, patting the horse on his neck. Then he sees me. He walks the horse over my way, where it comes right up shaking its head at me. I jump off the fence.

  “You ever seen a real-live horse before you got here?”

  I step back a few feet. “Nah. I live in the city.”

  He laughs. “This is the city.”

  I roll my eyes. “This ain’t no city. This is like . . . I don’t know what. It’s crazy, all I know.”

  The Muslim dude grins. “That your son?”

  Harper shakes his head. “Nah, just found him on my doorstep.” He turns back to me. “Wanna ride?”

  “You crazy? I ain’t getting on one a them things!”

  He points to the kids sitting on the fence. “See them kids? They smaller than you, but they all ride.”

  I look at them. They look just like any kids you might find flippin’ on a mattress in any ol’ empty lot. They don’t look afraid, pattin’ that horse from the fence. But I still ain’t getting up on something that’s ten times bigger than me. “Nah. I’m too hungry now. I ain’t eaten since yesterday.”

  Then someone behind me says, “Is that so?”

  I turn around and see a old head, looking at me all close-up through thick beat-up glasses, his big ol’ cowboy hat almost hittin’ me in the head. He must be a hundred years old.

  He squints at me. “Harper, you didn’t feed this boy?”

  Harper shrugs. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Boy can fend for himself.”

  The old man shakes his head, whispers to me. “Dang fool. Don’t care about nobody unless they got four legs and a tail. Come on, I got some eats in the clubhouse. Follow me.”

  I follow the old man. He got real da
rk skin, which make his white hair look like snow. His legs seem all crooked, like he been knocked off a horse one too many times. On the way over, he starts giving me a tour of the place. “We got us three stables on this property, ’bout thirty stalls total. We’re full up at the moment, since some of the other stables ’round here closed in the last couple years.”

  He stops and waves at another old-timer who’s playing chess by himself. “Must be forty or so of us riders who call this home, though some guys is too old to ride much,” he says. “This fella here got knocked off his horse about three months ago, ain’t that right, Doc? We found him lying on his back, his shoes still stuck in the stirrups of his horse!” They laugh and shake hands. “Thought he was dead, but he was up and about and just fine after a few days. Tough dude, this one.”

  We pass a few other kids stacking them hay squares. They look kinda scraggly, like they was playin’ in the dirt, but happy. Like them other kids, they talking about who’s the fastest racer. The old man jokes with them, “Y’all owe me sodas from falling off your horse, so you shouldn’t be talking about who’s the fastest just yet. ’Sides, we all know who the fastest really is.” He points at himself, and they all laugh and give him high fives.

  “Them your kids?” I ask as we move on.

  He smiles. “My kids? Well, I practically raised ’em since they was pups, but nah, they ain’t mine. My kids is too busy working for their corporate masters to be concerned with horses.” He sees I got no idea what he talking about. “These kids here come off the streets. They got nowhere else to go, ’cept gangs.”

  A stray cat comes wandering up to him, and he picks it up. I notice there’s a lot of strays running around here. “Kids and cats. They seem to find their way here, and they keep coming back. What’re you gonna do?”

  He hobbles around a corner, where I see a homemade shack. “Well, here we are.” The “clubhouse” is a old one-room shed with a dirt floor. We go inside, where the old man has a coupla plug-in cookers going . . . but it actually smells pretty good.

  “Got some Texas chili with cowboy potatoes over rice and homemade corn bread. You like corn bread?”