by Omar Tyree
Cal cracks the hell up.
I keep talking: “Yeah, Joe, he always be playin’ ’em Uncle-Tom roles any fuckin’ way. Driving Miss Daisy. Fuck Miss Daisy! I’d drive that old, white bitch t’ hell!”
Cal falls out on the floor. Yo, this boy is crying! Now, I mean, that shit I said ain’t that damn funny. But that’s how Cal is. He’ll laugh and have a good time while everybody else too busy trying to be gangster cool. You know what I’m saying? That’s why I love this nigga. I mean, I can really have a good time with him.
After a while, me and Cal go to the movies and watch Tresspass. These two white firemen drive down to East St. Louis to find some lost fucking treasure in some old-ass building. They end up meeting Ice T and Ice Cube and some other thug niggas trying to kill this other motherfucker for shooting their homeboy. Them actors that played in South Central is in it. And it’s this silly-ass bum that ends up with all the gold and shit after everybody goes crazy trying to get the treasure for themselves.
“You know what the irony of that movie was, Nell?” Cal asks me as we head back to the crib.
“Yeah, greed leads to destruction . . . the honest man is the righteous man . . . and the poor will inherit the riches of the earth.”
Cal bear-hugs me with tears in his eyes. “I love you, man! I mean, you know, you understand shit like I do. And yo, don’t it come easy. It’s like you don’t even have ta think about it, it just comes to you.”
I shake him off of me. “Yo, man, cool da fuck out. It’s bitches out here. Dey might think we faggots.”
“Aw, man, nix dem girls. They ain’t about nothin’ but hairdos.”
“Yeah, but dey pussy is good, boy. When ’na last time you had some ass?”
“Aw, man, had some ass last week.”
“Yeah, sure ya right.”
“I did. I did.”
“No da hell you didn’t! Dreams ain’t included, ma’fucka.”
Cal laughs like shit as we jump on the bus. “Yo, but when we get home, Nell, I wanna show you this poem I wrote about art, because we on that same creative wavelength, man, I’m tellin’ you.”
I shake my head, smiling. I’m thinking, This nigga lettin’ ’em comic books go to his head.
We get back to the crib and go up into Cal’s messy-ass comic-book room. He digs through some notebooks with graffiti scribbled all over them.
“Here it is!”
Yo, this nigga’s excited as hell.
He starts to flip the pages. Then he stops to read. “The Artist Question,” he says. He’s sitting up on his bed all proud-looking. He looks like he’s just been asked to give a speech at his high school graduation:
“What is art to the poor man, but his life, his soul and his aspirations? What is art to the rich man, but dollars, prestige and conversation? Some say art is personal, introverted and self-consumed. But what is art when no one sees it, hears it, feels it, or is shocked to life, by its heavy inspiration?”
Cal looks at me hard as shit. Seriously! “Look, man, I’m gon’ be an artist. I already am. All I gotta do is get the right connections. Now you can be a gangsta if you want, but that life don’t never last long. Especially for niggas. But art? Man, that shit lasts forever.”
“Yeah, but even artists need money, muthafucka. You gon’ be out on’na street corna wit’ a damn paintbrush in ya hand, paintin’ muthafuckas’ faces and shit.”
We laugh like shit. But damn! That poem was pretty tough. I think my cousin Cal is serious. What do you know?
CHAPTER 3
Shank
Four hundred and fifty-two people were killed in Washington, D.C., in 1992. Damn! But like 2,000 are killed in New York every year. But you know, New York got like twelve million motherfuckers living there.
It’s Friday, January 8, 1993, and the whole country is talking about this ass-kissing President Bill Clinton. I mean, I never trusted nobody that goes out of their way for shit that don’t seem all that valuable. Now, ain’t no other president ever cared about black people. But this white nigga shows up on Georgia Avenue and visits a couple McDonald’s, fucking up traffic with his jogging and shit, and niggas all of a sudden think he’s Jesus Christ.
I know who da fuck Jesus is! “A Rage In Harlem” sampled by Da Lench Mob.
I’m getting off the B6 bus in Chinatown. But that’s fucked up, because what happened to Niggatown? D.C. supposed to be 75 percent black, and we ain’t got no Niggatown. I should call up comedian Paul Mooney and say, “Yo, D.C. ain’t got no Niggatown, black. What’s up wit’ dat?” He’d probably say some shit like, “Well, that’s because they got rid of your real, cocaine-sniffin’ field nigga—Marion Barry—and replaced him with a female house nigga that don’t like the word ‘nigga.’ Matter fact, if Sharon Pratt Kelly stays in office too long, you might end up with a High Yellatown.”
I’m laughing to myself. Paul Mooney a funny motherfucker. He supposed to have a tape coming out called Race.
“Transfer, brotherman?” this limping, light-brown nigga asks me.
“Naw, I’m usin’ it.”
“Oh, okay, main man. You take care now.”
Bums are always down here asking for money. Fuck that shit! I’d rob a million motherfuckers before I end up asking people for spare change.
I head to Ninth and F Streets to see what kind of new gear I can buy. I want some black Boss jeans and one of those rust-colored Carhartt coats like them construction niggas wear.
“You got any change on you, brotherman?” a dark, bummy dude asks me. He has gray hair, but he don’t look that old, just fucking dirty.
“Naw, Joe, I need my damn change.”
He giggles with a missing tooth. “Uh-huh, yeah, I know what’chu mean. You have a nice day, young brother.”
You know, it’s amazing how cordial these niggas are when they’re bumming for some money. That’s probably the only time they call somebody “brother.”
I walk into this Asian-owned store and bells go off. I feel like a damn cow.
Here comes this Asian bitch rushing up to me now. “Cin I he’p you?”
“Naw, I’m just lookin’.”
I walk past the bitch and look around. They got all this bright, colorful-looking disco shit. Only bammas buy dumb shit like this. I look at a couple pairs of their jeans, but they’re no Boss jeans.
“Y’all got any Boss jeans?” I ask her.
She frowns. “Wha’ you say?”
“Boss jeans? Do y’all have any Boss jeans?”
She looks back to dude at the front counter. He’s probably her husband. He shakes his head. “No, no. No, Boz jeans.”
I leave. Motherfucker can’t even say “Boss.” Boz jeans and shit. Them Asians are trippin’.
I walk into another shop, two stores down. I don’t know what race these people are: East Indians, Italians, Jews, one of them motherfuckers. They all look the same to me. You know, they got that dark-ass white skin with dark hair and dark eyes.
“We have sales on these jeans here,” this dark-haired, creamy-looking white dude says to me. I wasn’t even looking at these corny-ass jeans. They always put this bamma stuff on sale.
“Naw, I’m lookin’ for Boss jeans.”
“Boss jeans? They back here, brotherman,” this tall black dude hollers from the back of the store. These creamy-looking guys always got some niggas working for them, even in New York, Jersey, and Philly.
I walk to the back with black dude and check out some size thirty-two waists. I flip over the price tag and it says forty dollars. Damn! I forget I bought my last pair of Boss jeans hot, for twenty.
“We got some Calvins and Karl Kanis over here.”
Black dude leads me to the other side of the store. Karl Kanis ain’t no damn cheaper. And I don’t want no Calvins.
“How much are ’em Karl Kani T-shirts?” I ask him.
“These right here?” black dude says, pointing to them.
What da fuck this nigga think I’m talkin’ ’bout? I hate when peo
ple ask stupid-ass questions. I think a lot of people do it out of habit.
“Yeah,” I tell him.
“Oh, they twenty dollars.”
“Can I get two for thirty?”
“Oh, I’on know, brother.” He looks back toward the front of the store to them creamy-looking white niggas. “Hey, Alim, he wants two of these for thirty.”
Alim? These niggas must be Arabs then.
“We can’t give you that price,” Alim says to me.
I shake my head. “I only got thirty dollars, man, and I want the jeans. I mean, this the last of my Christmas money.”
Black dude smiles. “Yeah, I know what you mean. That Christmas money blows in’na wind.”
Alim looks at me like he knows I’m lying, but fuck it.
Either he gives me my price, or I ain’t buying shit. “Okay, gi’me thirty dollars.” He says the shit like he’s mad.
I dig in my jeans, making sure only a twenty and a ten come out. I always set my money up with alternating bills just for occasions like these.
Alim looks at me funny as I give him the money.
“We can’t do this again. Only this time,” he tells me, stuffing my clothes in a plastic bag.
Yeah, whatever. Fuck dude! I mean, that’s what business is about negotiations and shit. These motherfuckers always want you to pay their prices.
I walk around downtown and snatch a bag of corn chips off the side of a food stand. If he catches me, fuck it, I’ll pay for it. But if not....
Well, ain’t nobody stop me, so I guess the shit is free.
This big, mean-looking, tan-skinned dude looks at me at the corner like he wants some drama. This motherfucker better step before I stick my four-inch blade in his ass and rip his intestines out. They’ll have to put his ass back together again like the Re-Animator. And thinking about movies, I have to check out Hoffa and Sniper. It’s a whole bunch of other stupid movies coming out. Aliens 3, I’m most definitely going to check that shit out. Dude from Roc, Charles Dutton, is gonna be in it.
I wonder if I should go check out a couple movies now . . . Fuck it, I might as well. I ain’t doing nothing else today.
I go down into the Metro and jump on the Red Line train to ride all the way up to Bethesda. I like going to the movies up there. I can see as many flicks as I want. All you have to do is pay for one ticket and go from one movie to the next. But you can’t do that shit at Union Station. Them niggas that work there will sweat you for your ticket stubs.
I don’t like them motherfuckers working up there at Union Station. I remember I was about to kill one of them. This punk gon’ try to say that I didn’t pay to get in. “Hey, excuse me, do you have a ticket stub?” this skinny, faggot-sounding nigga asked me.
I looked at him like he was crazy. “Yeah, I got a fuckin’ stub!”
“Can I see it, please?”
“For what?”
“Because I didn’t see you show it to anyone.”
I frowned and went to take a seat, ignoring him. Joe followed me!
“Excuse me, if you’re not going to show me your ticket stub, then I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have to be escorted out.”
Yo, I couldn’t believe that faggot-sounding dude said that dumb shit to me! So I challenged his ass.
I put my arm out for him to try to “escort me out.”
“Go ’head and grab me so I can kill you,” I told him. I gave him a no-bullshit stare. And you know it, that bitch-ass nigga got the fuck out my face! I was gonna stick my knife in his ass.
So I sits down in peace and chills. Then, like, four ushers in them faggot-ass blue-and-maroon uniforms came marching down the aisle like they were the fucking police.
“Is this him?” the oldest-looking dude asked. “Yeah,” the faggot said.
I just took out my stub and showed it to them. Then the older dude looked to that faggot-sounding nigga. “He has a stub,” he said.
“Can I see it?” faggot dude asked me.
I put the stub back in my pocket and said, “Why can’t I watch a movie in peace? Is it because I’m black like you, you’n, and you don’t respect me? I bet if I was a white boy you would’na said nothing to me.”
That shit worked like a charm. The older guy started walking back up the aisle, followed by the rest of them niggas. But that’s why I hate Union Station. They act like they got million-dollar jobs. Peasant-ass motherfuckers!
* * *
I get back to the crib by eight o’clock after seeing Hoffa. That movie was long, but it was like a flashback movie. They could’ve did a better job, but fuck it. I guess they got their point across. Hoffa was running with the Italian Mafia and they might have gotten his ass.
Italians got shit like I got it. Niggas are afraid to snitch on me. But I ain’t never have to kill nobody yet. I mean, niggas don’t ever get me to that point. But these young’uns are getting crazier and crazier. I might have to kill one of these motherfuckers before it’s over with.
I need to hook up with Bink. I know I can find his ass up Georgia Avenue tonight at the Ibex. And if I don’t catch him up there, I’ll catch him at the East Side tomorrow night. Bink always at a party.
I roll out to the Ibex around ten. I get up there around eleven. And bingo, my main man is outside wearing a purple leather coat, blue jeans with brown leather in the front, Tims, and a purple velvet Kangol hat—the puffy kind.
“H-a-a-a-y, my nigga Shank.” We shake hands and grin at each other. “Where you been at, man? You been hidin’ out an’ shit?”
“Naw, man, takin’ care a biz’ness.”
“Hey, well, we all doin’ dat.”
“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you ’bout.” I step to the side of the crowd.
“Yo, Bink, come here for a second, man,” one of Bink’s boys calls.
“Hold on, man. I’m hollerin’ at my boy Shank.” Bink steps off to the side with me.
“So what’s up, man?”
I look into his face. Nigga got smooth-ass skin like mine. He just a little lighter than me. Under his hat you can see that he has a fresh haircut. This boy stays geared.
“Man, I need some dough on the regular. You know what I’m sayin’?” I tell him.
Bink pulls out a knot from inside of his purple leather coat and peels out a hundred-dollar bill. “Here, nigga. Now don’t ever say that I don’t love you.” He gives me one of those arm-to-chest hugs that all the cool niggas are doing now after watching that Pete Rock and CL Smooth video, “Straighten It Out.”
I slide the hundred-dollar bill in my pocket. “Yeah, this on time, man. But I’m sayin’ I need to be in wit’ somebody, you know?”
Bink nods his head and squints his eyes, like he’s on. “I’ma tell you what I’m gon’ do for you, right.” He tosses his arm around my shoulder and walks me around the corner.
“Yo, Bink, where you goin’, man?” one of his boys shouts at us.
“I be da fuck back, man! Damn! This my boy right here, Joe.” Bink shakes his head and smiles. “It fucks wit’ a nigga when he too popular sometimes, you know? Anyway, like I was tryin’a tell you, man, you ever heard of Butterman?”
I nod. “Yeah, he used to swing wit’ Red and Tub before their shit went under.”
Bink nods back to me. “Yeah, that’s him. That lightskin ma’fucka so pretty, if he was a bitch, he’d be my top whore.”
We laugh like shit. This nigga Bink be lunchin’. “Anyway, Shank, Butterman is havin’ problems because Red was his real respect. Now wit’ Red up in Lorton . . .”
Bink shakes his head and smiles.
“You see what I’m gettin’ at, right?”
“Yeah, da muthafucka need a trigga-man.”
“Exactly.”
“Yo, Bink!”
“Yo, hold da hell up, now, shit!” Bink looks at me and shakes his head again. “Man, you see what I gotta go through, Shank? These niggas act like bitches wit’ hot pussies sometimes, man, I’m tellin’ you.”
Bink give
s me Butterman’s beeper number and I step off. It ain’t no sense in me paying to go inside Ibex. He the only reason I was up here in the first place. Just seeing this nigga with a trail of women makes me want some pussy. And where Bink goes, the bitches ain’t far behind. You know? Some niggas are just cool like that. I ride the 70 bus down Georgia Avenue and get off at that Wonder Bread Plaza shit. I walk up to a telephone at the Howard Towers Plaza-East and call my redbone honey. Her answering service comes on.
“Hi, this is Carlette. I’m sorry I’m not in right now, but please leave a message and I’ll return your call promptly.”
I hang the phone up and step.
Damn, man! Nights like this make me wanna go down on Fourteenth Street and buy a hooker. I mean, I need some ass. I’m thinking about going back up to the Ibex to get with Bink again. That motherfucker can get the ugliest niggas some pussy. And I’m not saying that I’m ugly. I ain’t never been ugly. I just don’t talk to too many bitches, you know? They don’t love you no damn way. But fuck that! That’s a long-ass hike back up Georgia Ave.
I head back to the crib and chill. Damn, I missed the Def Comedy Jam show again! But that’s cool. I’m gon’ beep this motherfucker Butterman tomorrow and get on his payroll. This one-man-show shit ain’t paying bills like I want it to. I’m gon’ have to get in good with you’n. You know what I’m saying? Butterman!
These girls don’t know me from Jack, but yet I feel like the mack.
Yeah, that’s my boy Phife from A Tribe Called Quest. Like Butter.
I wonder when them niggas gon’ drop their new album. Their shit is always slammin’.
I left my wallet in El Segundo. I left my wallet in El Segundo. I left my wallet in El Segundo . . . Come on, let’s go.
Butterman
Yeah, there goes Bink now, wearing a purple coat! Get the hell out of here! Only a nigga like Bink can get away with wearing some shit like that. That’s a cool-ass nigga. I knew I would catch him up at the Ibex tonight.
I roll my 3000 up to the curb and blow my horn. I roll down the passenger’s side window so he can see me.
Bink leans inside my 3000. “H-a-a-a-y, baby, I just gave my man your number, ’bout an hour ago.” He checks out my car. “Yo, dis a smooth ride, B.”