Capital City

by Omar Tyree

  “Yeah, it’s aw’ight. But yo, I wanna talk to you ’bout somethin’ else, man.”

  Bink leans back and nods. “Oh, yeah? Well, hold up den, ’cause I wanna ride in’nis new shit’chu got.” He walks over to talk to his crew.

  “Ay, Butterman? Why you ain’t been callin’ me, Joe? I mean, what’s up wit’ dat shit? I thought we had somethin’ goin’.”

  She’s wearing some tight-ass, off-white stretch pants and a short black leather jacket, looking good enough to eat and leaning against my open window. But fuck her!

  “Ay, Tamisha, don’t fuck wit’ me t’night, aw’ight?” Bink hops in on the passenger’s side.

  “Don’t fuck wit’chu t’night? Aw, naw, Joe, why you tryin’a carry me like dat? What my pussy wasn’t good enough for you?”

  Bink says, “Damn, well, if it ain’t good enough for him, I’ll take some.”

  She sees him, but she doesn’t smile at his humor. “Oh, hi, Bink.”

  She looks at me again, like she’s trying to figure out what else to say. Her hair has some fresh curls in it. I guess she just got it done today. And yo, the girl looks good. She’s light-skinned with bright eyes and silky brown hair. But no girl got shit on my baby, Toya. That’s my heart!

  Tamisha looks at me depressed-like. “Butterman, if you get time, come by and see me, okay?”

  “Aw’ight.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Look, I said aw’ight.”

  She sucks her teeth and huffs, like a spoiled high school girl with a tantrum. “Aw’ight now, ’member you tol’ me.” She walks away from the car, switching her tight ass.

  Bink shakes his head with a grin. “Gotdamn, B! Did she have some good pussy?”

  “Yeah, it’s aw’ight. But she loud as shit.”

  “Oh, yeah? I like ’em loud. It makes me feel I’m gettin’ da job done. You know?”

  We laugh like shit as I make a right turn and head down Georgia.

  “Yeah, let’s go down’na Ritz. We might meet some new whores,” Bink says.

  I put on The Pharcyde. Bink takes out a bag of weed and a cigar and starts filling up a blunt.

  “Yo, you just got this tape?” he asks me. “These the ma’fuckas, man. I like my man DJ Quik from out da West Coast, too. Way II Funky is bumpin’.”

  “Yeah, so what boy you gi’ my number to?” I ask him, cutting through the small talk.

  “Oh, my man, Shank, he a cool nigga from back in my high school days at Anacostia.”

  “Is he hard enough to be respected?”

  Bink frowns at me, carefully sealing the blunt. “Nigga, is you crazy? That ma’fucka a top-line killa. He jus’ need some dough on’na regular, so he tryin’ t’ get put down. And he my boy and everything, but I already got enough niggas on my payroll.

  “I ain’t no ATM out here, you know?”

  “Oh, yeah? What he look like?”

  “Li’l shorter than me, dark, slick, and smooth as hell. Boy wear black every day, damn-near.”

  “A lot of niggas know ’im?”

  “Man, shit, I’m surprised you don’t.”

  Bink takes his first hit on the blunt. We roll slow around the Ritz on Ninth and E Streets, downtown Northwest, checking out the scenes.

  Bink squints his eyes as he starts to feel it. “You see all these ma’fuckas peepin’ ’nis ride, B? They prob’ly thinkin’, ‘Hey, look, it’s Speed Racer!’ an’ shit.”

  We laugh as I catch a jones myself. “Yo, pass that weed, shaw’.” I pinch it, take a hit and start choking. “Damn, this shit is strong!”

  “What’chu think it was, nigga?” Bink even giggles cool. “Man, I only get the good shit. But damn, ma’fucka, I’m gon’ have ta roll another one the way you killin’ it.”

  “Yeah, you see I’m in’na car wit’chu. I’on see why you didn’t roll two up in the first place.”

  He smiles and fills up another one. “Cool. ‘Take two and pass. Take two and pass. Take two and pass, so da blunt will last.’”

  We laugh like shit, feeling it while Bink is in here trippin’ off of that Gang Starr song.

  “So when Red gettin’ outta Lorton?” he asks me.

  “He got four years. He’ll prob’ly get paroled after two.”

  Bink frowns. “He got four years for beatin’ one ma’fucka?”

  “Naw, man, Red was already on probation. He had a record longer than my dick.”

  We start lunchin’ off of this strong-ass weed.

  Bink says, “Nigga, you ain’t got no long dick. E’rybody know dat dark-skinned ma’fuckas got the real black Johnsons. But I gotta give it to you, B, you the only nigga I know that might get more pussy than I get. Besides that nigga Spoon. Spoon be havin’ car loads.”

  I nod my head, saying, “Man, I gotta get up on’nat New York connection you got. Fuck these girls. They ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Bink nods back. “Yeah, well, why ain’t you tell me in’na first place?”

  “You know, I thought, like, maybe you wanted to keep your hook-ups t’ yourself.”

  Bink smiles slyly. “You know, it’s funny how our true intentions come out under the influence of some weed an’ shit.”

  We laugh again.

  Bink says, “Naw, man, I ain’t tryin’a hog up no connections. I can shoot up New York next week and set’chu straight. They got some good blow up New York, baby. I keeps my ma’fuckin’ customers.”

  I giggle. “Shit, we sittin’ out here talkin’ ’bout addicts and drugs like we got an official biz’ness.”

  “Yeah, we do. I mean, if black people don’t buy shit else, they’ll buy weed, smack, caps, and motherfuckin’ beer.”

  “You ain’t lyin’, Bink.”

  “And den all these activists be talkin’ all dat shit ’bout us. ‘Stop the drug dealers, stop the violence.’ Man! Dey need t’ be stoppin’ ’nis white man from doin’ all the shit he be doin’.”

  “I know.”

  Bink nods. “Yeah, an’na only reason niggas is gettin’ shot up in’nis biz’ness is because we all greedy as shit now, you know. And I can’t really blame a ma’fucka ’cause niggas been poor for so long. It’s like wakin’ up in the mornin’ and sayin’, ‘Damn, am I supposed to be poor all my life?’ You know what I’m sayin’, B? ’Cause that’s the reality of it.”

  I nod my head and finish off the weed. I lean back into my car’s smooth leather interior, still listening to Bink.

  “I mean, my pop tol’ me when I was a li’l ma’fucka. He said, ‘Boy, it’s gon’ be a lot of people who criticize how you choose to make a livin’, but until they can give you a job that pays the bills, fuck ’em!”

  I drive Bink back up to the Ibex at two thirty before his crew rolls out from the party. It was some deep shit he was talking about. I agree with that nigga on some points, but I never been poor. I always had money. In fact, I didn’t have to be in this drug game. I could’ve taken the “honest route,” whatever the hell that is. I mean, you’re always taking advantage of someone to make a bunch of money in America.

  * * *

  I walk in my apartment bedroom and look at all my girl’s pictures. They smother my walls and all my dressers. Damn, I love this girl! I pick up her graduation picture and look into her face. She has perfect deep brown skin, and I love that shit! I mean, it feels so good to roll up next to a dark and beautiful woman. It really feels like I’m black when I’m making love to her. I can’t lie. I’ve always felt a bit confused about how black I am.

  I remember that big turning point in my life before I started hanging out with Red and them. My family was riding down South in my pop’s dark blue Lincoln to visit relatives in South Carolina. It was a Saturday in the summer time and we all had dress clothes on because my father was always into appearances.

  “A man’s appearance means more than words sometimes, Junior,” my father was saying as we rode down I-95 South. We had suits and ties on, and my mom and sisters were wearing dresses. The air conditioner was on a
nd all, but I still didn’t see why we had to wear suits on the damn freeway!

  We made a stop to get some gas. Me and my father went to use the bathroom around the corner of this rusty-ass-looking gas station. When we came out, my father accidentally bumped into this hillbilly-looking white man wearing a dirty white T-shirt. He had a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve. Yo, no lie, this dirty white man looked like something right out of The Dukes of Hazzard.

  He said, “Hey, aren’t you gonna say, ‘excuse me, nigger?’”

  My father glanced at him and said the shit. Then he added, “And I’m not your nigger.”

  “You a nigger if I say you are, boy.”

  Then his dingy white girlfriend came pulling his arm. That only seemed to make him more persistent on dissin’ my pop.

  “No, now girl, these niggers come through here lookin’ all dressy an’ gon’ treat us here like shit.”

  That white nigga mugged my father in his face and tried to spit on him. I was looking up to my father like, “Kick his ass, dad! Kick his ass!” But I ain’t say nothing because I thought it would have been a natural response. Man, my punk-ass father grabbed my arm and hustled me back to the car like ain’t nothing happen. We jumped back into the car. My mother could tell that something had happened. My father was acting like a zombie and driving like a damn wild man.

  “What’s wrong, Jeffrey?” she asked him.

  “Damn racist pigs,” he mumbled.

  “Who?”

  “I just don’t want to talk about it, Mariam! I just don’t want to talk about it.”

  After that shit, you could take me to all the rich black events in the world, and I’ll still look at black people as nothing but niggas. I mean, we just get our asses kicked constantly; then we want to complain about how we act toward each other. We don’t even say nothing to the white man, but we’ll talk all the shit in the world to each other. So fuck it! Fuck college! Fuck jobs! Fuck that rich black shit! And fuck everything!

  I look at my girl’s picture again. I’m wishing she was here with me. It’s damn near three o’clock in the morning, but I’m gon’ call her up anyway.

  “Hello,” she answers sleepily.

  “Hey, baby, it’s me.”

  “Uh, why you callin’ so late? I called you, like, twelve o’clock. You wasn’t home.”

  “I know, but I love you, girl. I love you t’ death. I mean, I feel like flyin’ down ’nere to see you t’night.”

  “Hmm, are you okay? Did you bump your head or somethin’?”

  The weed did fuck me up a bit, but I know what I’m saying. “Naw, I’m aw’ight. I just needed to talk to you before I went to sleep. I mean, you know, I wish you wasn’t all into that independent, workin’ shit. You didn’t even come up here to see your family or nothin’ over the holidays. That ain’t right, Toya. Why you doin’ me and your mom like this?”

  She gives me a long sigh. “Do we have to argue about this again, J? I mean, I’m too damn tired for this.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t just go to Maryland—”

  “For the same reason that you dropped out of Duke!” she says, cutting me off.

  I should have never told her about that. But it’s done now. I mean, I tell all girls that I at least went to college. I don’t want them to associate me with all these other dumb niggas that haven’t even set foot on a college campus. Plus, as anti-white as I seem, going to Duke for a year is still like a status symbol to me for all these college girls that I meet.

  “Look, J, I’m tired. Okay? Now, I love you too, but can you call me in the mornin’, please?”

  “Yeah, girl, I just needed to talk to you.”

  “Why, are you feeling that left-out shit again? I told you, Jeffrey, all black people feel alienated in some way. It’s not just light-skinned people and it’s not just you. Now, I can’t keep babyin’ you.”

  “Babyin’ me?”

  “Jeffrey, stop! Now, I’ll talk to you in the mor—”

  I hang up on her. Shit, the weed did it! I call her right back.

  She says, “What is wrong with you, Jeffrey?”

  “Baby, I—”

  “You can’t keep doin’ this to me. I can’t take this shit, man. God!”

  “I know, girl, but—”

  “It’s no buts to it. I love you and I’m gonna always love you, but you have to learn to love yourself and I can’t do that for you.”

  “I know—”

  “Well, you gotta cool out and appreciate all the things that you do have, Jeffrey. I mean, a lot of guys would love to be you. Okay? Please! Now, call me in the morning.”

  “Aw’ight,” I tell her.

  “I love you,” she says.

  “I love you too.” I hang up and fall on my back across my bed. I’m glad Bink let me have the rest of the weed. I’m gon’ smoke this shit up! Nobody knows how I feel but me. No-fucking-body!

  Wes

  “The death toll is already up to twelve, and it’s only been nine days into the new year,” Marshall says. He’s sitting on the floor in front of his nineteen-inch color television set. Walt, Derrick, and I are over to watch the NFL playoffs on a Saturday afternoon.

  All I’m thinking about is love. Love conquers all, but I don’t have a new girlfriend yet. I haven’t talked to Sybil since she broke off with me. I’ve tried, but I think she’s screening my phone calls and won’t return my messages.

  “You seen them advertisements for Khallid Muhammad coming to end the silence from The Nation of Islam on the Malcolm X movie?” Derrick asks me.

  “What?” I ask. I wasn’t paying close attention.

  “I said Muhammad s’posed to be coming back to D.C. to talk about Malcolm X, the movie and his split from The Nation of Islam next month.”

  “Oh, yeah, I heard about that.”

  Walt stretches his long, basketball-playing legs and gets up to grab a soda out of Marshall’s refrigerator.

  “Ay, Walt, man, don’t drink up all my sodas like you did last time!” Marshall shouts into his kitchen.

  “Aw, man, that was after we had just finished runnin’ ball.”

  “I’on care. I’m just lettin’ you know ahead of time.”

  “So what do you think about Clinton sending troops to Somalia?” Derrick asks me.

  “It’s about time,” Walt answers. “Them people been starvin’ for the longest over dere.”

  I look at Walt with a grimace. “Stick to playing basketball, would you?”

  “Oh, what’chu tryin’a say? I don’t know much about politics?”

  “Yo, if y’all gon’ argue t’day, y’all can go outside in the cold,” Marshall tells us.

  “I think most of the issues we end up arguing about are always too complicated for us to understand,” I tell Derrick, who lounges beside me on Marshall’s couch.

  “Like how?” he asks me.

  “Like, the United States gave the so-called rebels in Somalia the weapons to begin with, but a lot of us don’t know that.”

  “Yeah, just like they gave Saddam Hussein weapons and money,” Walt tacks on. He smiles as if he’s proven me wrong about him not knowing anything about politics. “See, I keeps up on the news, boy.” He sits back down onto the smaller couch to our right.

  “Yo, they still talking about what that white lady said about them black baseball players,” Marshall says, still paying attention to the television.

  “Oh, that’s Marge Schott. She called them ‘million-dollar niggers,’” Derrick responds.

  Marshall laughs. “That shit sounds funny to me. I wouldn’t care, as long as I had a million-dollar paycheck.”

  “I wouldn’t either,” Walt says with a smile.

  “Ay, Wes, you seem too quiet today, man. That’s why I keep messin’ with you,” Derrick says with concern on his face.

  “I’m just not too talkative today. That’s all.”

  “Boy havin’ girl problems,” Marshall instigates.

  “Now, why you gonna bring that
up?” I ask him, feeling agitated. We always feel hurt when we’re lonely.

  “Aw, man, everybody has girl problems at some time or another,” Marshall retorts. “Wes, you need to stop girlin’.”

  “I wouldn’t say anything to you if you were having girl problems.”

  “So, that’s you.”

  “Well, that’s my point. I’m a better person than you are.”

  “He’s a better person than I am. You hear that, Derrick? Now, just before Sybil broke up with him, he was tellin’ me that she wasn’t all that.” Marshall reveals.

  “You said that?” Derrick asks me, grinning.

  “I mean, she aw’ight, but I can see where he’s comin’ from,” says Walt. “’Cause she don’t have no body.”

  Everyone laughs but me.

  “Now, Walt, all the girls that you talk to are overweight and loud-acting,” I respond.

  We all laugh, including Walt.

  “So, I ain’t complainin’. I’m workin’ on’nis girl now. And yo, she phat t’ death!”

  “Who you talkin’ ’bout? Judy?” Marshall asks him.

  “Yeah, now tell ’im. Ain’t Judy dope?” Marshall smirks.

  “No, she ain’t all that.”

  Derrick and I laugh.

  “What?” Walt retorts.

  “Aw, man, you crazy! She like dat.”

  “Whatever, man,” Marshall says, chuckling.

  “Yo, we should go to Kilimanjaro’s tonight,” Derrick suggests.

  “Naw, the Roxy,” Marshall retorts.

  “What’chu think, Wes?” Derrick asks me.

  “Aw, that nigga don’t care where we go. He just want a new girlfriend,” Walt says, being rewarded by more laughter.

  “Funny, Walt. Real funny,” I tell him.

  * * *

  By ten o’clock we’re all ready to go to Roxy’s. Marshall drives me home so I can change my shirt and pants and put in my contact lenses.

  We all walk into my Northeast apartment.

  “Man, this place is small. I’d go crazy livin’ in’nis li’l shit,” Walt says.

  “Yeah, as soon as you move out of your mom’s house,” I retort.

  “Ut-oh, he’s callin’ you a mommy’s boy, Walt. You gon’ let him get away with that?” Marshall says, instigating again.