by Omar Tyree
I pay for the hardback copy, toss it into my leather book bag and head out for work. By now it’s after three o’clock, which means the loud-mouthed school students are going to flood the buses.
Here they come now, rumbling down the bus’ aisles. “Y-o-o, Joe! What Miss Wallace give you on’nat test?”
“Aw, you’n,’nat bitch ga’me a D an’ shit!”
“Ahh. I got a C, shaw. I passed all her tests.”
More black teens flood onto the bus. A bunch of girls board.
“Get ’cha black, dirty ass off me, boy! You play too fuckin’ much!” shouts a heavy-set, light-skinned girl with one of those hard-curled hairstyles.
A senior black woman looks at me and shakes her head. She’s probably thinking, Lawd have mercy on these here young’ uns. Dey mowfs is da most terrible things on this here green earth.
“Shut da fuck up, you ol’ Miss-Piggy-lookin’ bitch!” the boy responds to the girl.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” the other youths howl.
“What, boy? Oat’s why ya black ass gotta wear fluorescent headbands at night so dat people can see yo’ black behind!”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
“Ay, you’n, she betta shut up before I go home and get my Ginsu knives and make a Thanksgiving dinner out her fat ass!”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
I’m chuckling myself by now.
“Boy, you need to go back to Somalia wit’ ’cha fam’ly, wit’ ’cha skinny-ass self.”
“Oh, you’n, she called’ju a Somalian,” a lighter-skinned, lanky boy instigates.
“What? Yo, Joe, that fat bitch could feed e’rybody ova dere. Dey need’a drop her outta plane ova dere an’ shit.” A slim, brown-skinned girl tries to get up for her stop.
“Scu’me,” she says, meaning excuse me.
The boy beside her wearing a black skull cap doesn’t let her pass.
“I said, excuse me!” she pronounces. But still he ignores her until she forces her way past him.
He then shoves her out into the aisle. “Go ’head, you dirty bitch. Oat’s why you bumin’.”
“Whatever,” she says, walking down the bus’s exit steps.
The boy jumps up and tries to spit on her as she steps off the bus. He just misses her. I look at him sternly as he re-takes his seat, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.
“I hate that bitch!” he says to his giggling friends. “That girl always be tellin’ on somebody.” He recognizes my reprimanding stare. He turns and whispers to his friends, but he’s loud enough for me to overhear him: “Fuck is Joe starin’ at, you’n?”
Hearing him, I turn away. I figure there’s no sense in getting involved with an insane youth who may shoot me. I have better things to do.
The bus gets quieter as I approach my stop. I can hear the same boys snickering about me as I get up to transfer busses:
“Ol’ pointy-shoe-wearin’ bamma.”
“He, he, he,” they giggle as the ring leader continues: “Ol’ biscuit-head, Inspector-Gadget-lookin’ muthafucka.”
I feel like punching my fist through his evil-looking brown face. But of course, I’m not going to. I just shake my head and get off the bus, glad to have made it through another one of these embarrassing encounters. These are the types of encounters that make me want to scream, “Fuck the youth!” But I don’t, because I still have faith in black people. That fool on the bus represents only a small number of our youngsters.
Butterman
It’s Tuesday, a week before Christmas, and I have to pay this nigga Max two thousand dollars for two ounces of cocaine. That’s highway robbery, but he has the best shit in D.C. and I don’t have time to check these other niggas’ product out. I figure I can flip at least thirty-five hundred dollars by this weekend if these workers act right. I’ll get another two ounces and flip that for another thirty-five, and then turn around and do it one more time before New Year’s.
I should have ten grand by January, ’93. Then I’m gonna buy a quarter-kilo from ’em niggas that Bink is down with up in New York. But first I have to cut some of these runners loose, so I call a meeting together at our spot.
I roll up and hop out of my thirty-thousand-dollar car. Buying this damn ride made me take a short. But fuck it! This car is sweet as hell!
All six of these niggas are looking like lost kids waiting for Daddy to come home with the groceries. This shit is pitiful.
“Yo, man, ’ney been askin’ for da new shit, B. What’s up wit’ it, Joe?” Steve asks me, still wearing that cheap-ass black jacket.
“It’s comin’, nigga, damn! Now let’s sit over here and game-plan.” I walk to some steps near our meeting spot and take a seat. These niggas huddle around me like I’m Joe Montana.
“Aw’ight, here’s the deal,” I start off. “I’m ’bout to speed up the pace and do some new things, but the money has t’ stay tight, and y’all be fuckin’ up. I can’t have that shit.” I look specifically at Bean, a long, tan-skinned, slinky-looking nigga. He been fucking up constantly.
“I mean, I had an emergency wit’ my fam’ly, man, and—”
“What? Man this my money you dealin’ wit!” I say to that weak-ass game he’s kicking. “I don’t wanna hear shit ’bout no emergencies unless you tell me first.”
You have to be hard with these dumb-ass bammas or they’ll try to play you every time.
“Whatever, man,” he says, trying to shake it off.
I get back to my plan. “I’m gon’ have to cut Bean loose. Him and Kevy. Kevy too young and might mess his whole life up. I don’t want that kind of shit on my conscience. Young’un is pretty cool. Anyway, we gon’ flip—” I stop in midsentence. Hell am I doin’? I’m thinking. I can’t let all these niggas know! “Yo, Bean and Kevy, let’s take a ride.”
I open my car doors and look back to Steve, Rudy, Otis, and Fred. “Yo, I’ll be back in a few.” Bean and Kevy hop in looking puzzled.
I ride down Georgia Avenue not saying anything. Bean is sitting up front with me and Kevy is in the back.
“So, what’s up, man?” Bean finally asks me.
I glance at this fat-ass young’un walking up Georgia past all the store fronts to my left. These young’uns be packing some fat asses.
“I’m gon’ have ta let’chu go, man. Biz’ness is gettin’ too important. It’s a new year comin’ in,” I tell Bean. I continue to watch the road, staring out at the car ahead of me.
Bean sits quiet and Kevy hasn’t said anything yet. I guess he’s waiting for our regular private discussions. I’ve been like a big brother to him, but I can’t afford having him work for me no more. The shit is getting too risky.
“So dat’s how you gon’ do me, man?” Bean asks at a red light. He’s staring at me like he wants to do something, but he know what time it is. I’d get his ass killed in a heartbeat.
I keep staring out the front window. “I ain’t got no choice, you’n.”
Bean nods his head, pissed off. “Oh, yeah? Well, yo, let me da fuck out den!” I pull over to the curb and let him out. He jumps out and slams my door. “Watch’cha back, nigga!”
“Yo, get up here . . . up front,” I say to Kevy. I’m not worried about Bean. He ain’t nothing to be worried about.
Kevy sits up front with his blue jeans hanging off his ass and a black bandanna tied around his tapered bush, like most of these young’uns is playing. He’s brown-skinned with a pretty-boy face, wearing a thick, black coat.
“You gon’ cut me loose too, you’n?”
Shit, Joe looking all depressed, like I’m a girl telling him he can’t have no ass.
“When you need money or somethin’, you just let me know, aw’ight?” I tell him, avoiding his question.
He nods and looks away from me out the window to his right. “What I do wrong, Butterman?”
He’s still looking out the window, not trying to face me.
“Look, Joe, you fifteen years old, and you should be doin’ other-type shit, you’n. I me
an, when I was ya age, me and my boys was goin’ t’ da go-go’s and shit like that, bookin’ girls.”
“I thought we was cool, man.”
“You’n, we is cool.”
“Naw, Joe, you tryin’a cut me short.”
He’s facing me now with anger in his eyes. Damn, I guess I’m selling him out.
“Look here, shaw’, you don’t really know how this shit is, man. It ain’t always about tryin’ to look out for everybody. It’s ’bout gettin’ money. Now if you got caught or shot at or any other dumb stuff, I’d feel responsible for that shit. I’m not like these niggas that be havin’ kids runnin’ round sellin’ caps and shit like that. My plan is about gettin’ as much money as I can so I can move on to some other-type shit. For real!”
“Aw, dat’s game, you’n,” he says in almost a whisper. “Yo, let me out right here so I can get me somethin’ ta eat.”
I pull up in front of Wendy’s. “You need any money?” I ask him.
He looks at me surprised. “How much you gon’ gi’me?”
“I got twenty dollars.”
He frowns, probably thinking, That ain’t shit! That’s all he gon’ get right now. I have to buy them two ounces from Max today. Then I have a phone bill to pay, and I have to pay that tuxedo place when I pick up that suit for my cousin’s wedding for Saturday. That nigga asked me to be in his wedding with his boys: all college-type dudes.
I give Kevy the twenty out of my coat pocket, make a U-turn and head back up Georgia Ave.
Damn! All these stores on the avenue seem like they’re closing down. I mean, it’s still a lot of businesses on Georgia Ave., but it ain’t like it used to be when I was little. I remember me, Red, Tub, John-John, and DeShawn used to ride our bikes all over this ave. And I got my first piece of ass down here by this cute girl that lived on New Hampshire. It was during that first year when I started hanging with them young’uns.
We were riding our bikes past her house when she came down the steps, looking pretty as hell. Tub fucked around and ran into me from staring at her.
“Damn, Tub!” I shouted. I was embarrassed because she saw us looking like bammas.
“Aw, shut up before I take you back t’ da store and exchange you for marg’rin.”
Red said, “Yo, Butterman, she starin’ at you, shawdy!”
“No she’s not,” I said. I was afraid to even look at her.
I wasn’t really cool yet. But I’d learn.
“Yes she is,” Red insisted. “Ain’t she, y’all?”
“Yeah, and she look pretty like shit, man,” John-John said, almost as light as me with regular kinky-type hair.
I took a glance at her. She looked like one of my long, wavy-haired cousins from down South Carolina. But she was darker with that tanned Hawaiian look.
I was shocked! I ain’t know what the hell to do!
Red pushed me off my Huffy. “Go talk to her, young’un.”
I looked up at her waiting on her steps and whispered back to him, “What do I say to her?”
Tub busted out laughing. “Aw, dat boy don’t know what to do wit’ no girl, shaw’. He prob’ly don’t even know where ta put his dick at.”
“Come here,” I heard a mousy voice say.
“Oh, shit, shawdy, she told you to come!” DeShawn said all loud, looking like Buckwheat in need of a haircut. This girl just laughed at us. I was having a nervous fit by then, and my face was turning all pink. I could even feel the blood rushing. “Hi,” I said.
“How old are you?” she asked me immediately.
I was stuck for a minute. I knew she looked older than us. Then Red yelled, “He’s fourteen,” lying like shit.
She sucked her teeth. “You ain’t fourteen. Are you?”
Shit, I ain’t even gon’ lie! I was damn near ready to tell her the truth: that I was twelve. This girl had me hypnotized. But then Red came to the rescue.
“How you gon’ tell me how old my cousin is?”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” she said, backing down.
Red always got respect from people like that. “Now is you gon’ give him your phone number and stuff?” he asked her.
She looked at me and grinned. “If he want it.”
I damn near choked on air. But I got Shaneeka’s phone number and shit. And me and Red snuck back down there like three days later to hook up with her and one of her girlfriends. We didn’t want them other niggas to know because all they would do is cock block.
Red was in the other room, making a bunch of squeaking noises on the bed with Shaneeka’s girlfriend. I was trying out kisses with Shaneeka. We were all over her girlfriend’s house and we were hurrying up before her girlfriend’s mother would get back home from shopping.
“No, not like that,” Shaneeka was telling me. I tried to kiss her again.
“No, forget it,” she said. She was frustrated that I didn’t know what I was doing. Then she started pulling her shorts down. I saw this fuzzy-ass hair pop out from inside of her panties. I ain’t even gon’ lie! If little niggas could have heart attacks, I would have been dead.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, shocked at her.
She grabbed my little dick and started pulling at my shorts button. “Come on, do it to me.”
She took down my shit and put it in herself. Then she started squirming around in circles. I got into it and started squirming back.
After a while she started grabbing my ass into her. “Harder, boy. Harder!”
I did the shit. Then Red came in the room with the other girl and started laughing at us.
“Come on, y’all. Y’all gotta hurry up ’cause my mom is proba’ly on her way,” Red’s girl said.
Shaneeka shoved me off of her right when it was starting to feel good. “Okay, come on,” she said. She re-buttoned my shorts as if I was her son.
Me and Red ran back outside and pulled our bikes out from some bushes to ride home and brag.
“Ay, Buttennan, guess what?” Red asked me, pedaling back up Georgia.
“What?” I said, trying to keep up with him. “Dem girls was teenagers!”
“They were?”
“Yeah, that girl I had was fifteen and she said Shaneeka is fourteen, going on fifteen.”
“You don’t think they lying?” I asked. We had lied about our ages.
Red smiled. “Yeah, you right. Dey might be lyin’.”
But that was years ago. I ain’t afraid of no pussy now, except for them trick hoes. I don’t fuck with them. I mean, I just figure it’s too many bad-ass girls I can holler at without having to deal with no tricks. That crazy shit is for ugly-ass bammas. Not me.
I get back to our hustling spot and tell my runners the deal on the new ’caine before riding to pick it up from Max. I take Steve with me. Steve is silly, but he has more sense than them other niggas.
We ride down North Capitol Street, heading for Max’s setup in Northeast.
Steve pops a tape in my sound system. “This a Rare Essence P.A. tape, you’n. They was playin’ at the Pavilion when you went to stay wit’ ’cha girl last week.”
“Yeah,” I respond blandly, thinking about some other shit.
“Yeah, Joe, an’na bitches was in’nere. Matter a fact, that girl Tamisha was askin’ ’bout’chu, you’n.”
“Fuck that girl, man! She keep sweatin’ me, and I told her I got a girlfriend already. I hate when girls try ta break you up wit’ your girl just t’ get wit’ ’em.”
“I know, ’cause ’em type bitches ain’t no good no way. They’ll leave you for the next mafucka.”
I smile, making an illegal left tum onto Florida Avenue. “Yeah, well, I ain’t gotta worry about no girls leavin’ me. I knocked Tamisha already anyway.”
Steve laughs. “You did, huh, Joe? I guess you don’t worry then, as pretty as you is. I mean, if I was a girl, you’n, I’d prob’ly give you some pussy too.”
We laugh like shit as we roll up on Max’s runners. “Yo, get Max!” one yells toward the alleyway.
Max strolls out grinning, carrying money in his hands. Them niggas probably back there shooting craps—as cold as it is.
“So, what’s up? You know what the deal is, right?” he asks me, leaning past Steve in the passenger seat. Max leans his heavy body into my window, looking in with his goatee and brown face.
I turn the Rare Essence tape down. “Yeah, we can do that.”
“So you got the cash on you?”
I frown at him. “You got the shit on you?”
“Man, what I look like, a fuckin’ walkin’ drugstore t’ you? Now you know if you got the money, we do biz’ness. But if not, then ride ya yellow ass back around here when you get paid.”
His young’uns are standing outside my car, laughing and shit. I never had to go through no cheesy shit like this when Red was rolling with me. I’m gonna have to get with a new muscle man, you know, somebody that can scare the hell out of a nigga.
“This a nice-ass ride, Joe,” says one of Max’s boys. This short, sneaky-looking brown nigga look like he might try anything, like he don’t respect me. That’s one of the main disadvantages of being light-skinned and pretty: most people think they can play you.
I ignore his ugly ass. “Yo, Max, let’s go ahead and make that transaction in another half when I beep you, unless you got it now.” These niggas are starting to make me jumpy without my crew. When me, Red, Tub, and DeShawn were running things, we were housing shit. But now I’m out here all by myself.
Max nods. “Yo, come on around back.”
I look to Steve, signaling if he has the .25 automatic I gave him. He nods and gets out of the car ahead of me.
“Aw’ight.” I jump out with Steve and walk into the alley. I’m feeling edgy as shit right now, but Steve will shoot, so it’s cool.
“Yo, get this nigga two ounces, man,” Max tells one of his boys.
I have to give it to you’n, he always did have a large crew. It must be about ten of his boys around here. And I bet everybody on this block is scared to say anything to them.
We make the exchange. Me and Steve hustle back to the car and hop in. This sneaky-looking young’un is still eyeing my ride.