by Omar Tyree
“What about you, Junior? You got any young woman for us to meet yet?” Aunt June asks me. She’s my father’s sister, looking a bit like my sister Joyce. She’s sitting on the couch with my younger cousins. They’re all watching some movie on the big-screen TV.
“Naw, not yet,” I lie to her. I’d never bring Toya up against this bullshit! I love her too much for that. Our relationship is just between us anyway.
Wes walks over and starts introducing himself and chatting to my relatives. Everybody is sitting around making a lot of noise.
“And you see that woman Eddie Murphy married? Oh, she’s tall and beautiful! He really lucked up to be able to marry her,” someone says.
I look to Wes to find him shaking his head at me with a smile.
“Well, what do y’all think about this Miss USA from Detroit?” someone asks. By now I have my eyes glued to the TV. These niggas never fail to amaze me with this damn gossiping. And it just seems to increase whenever we all come together like this.
“I don’t know, but I do know all this jungle rap music is prostituting the minds of our young folks in America. Especially these young black children,” Uncle Jim says after watching a McDonald’s commercial. “Now, Jeffrey, please don’t tell me you listen to that kind of music, boy.” He’s not really asking me. He makes statements as questions sometimes, especially when he’s really expressing his mind. I guess the shit is a habit.
I slip my face in between my hands. Wes continues to converse with these lost niggas. I mean, I ain’t saying that I’m all revolutionary or nothing like that, but these niggas are pitiful. That’s why I don’t like being around my family.
“You have to understand that hip-hop culture is coming from a group within America who have never had a voice before. It’s a culture that has to release itself no matter how violent or sexist some of it sounds,” I hear Wes saying.
“If these youth really want to express themselves, then what they need to do is get more education and show this white man that they are clean, educated, and worthy of just treatment,” my uncle argues.
Wes shakes his head with a patient grin. “We’ve been trying that approach for years, and nothing has really—”
“Well, I don’t see what’s gonna come from these young men cursing and yelling and raising all kinds of hell,” my Uncle Jim says, cutting Wes off.
“It’s only through that process of raising hell that America seems to listen to black folks,” Wes responds.
My uncle faces him, shaking with anger. “Young man, you are not old enough nor wise enough to sit here and tell me what I know. I am fifty-two years old, and I’ve gotten everything through hard work and respect . . .”
Wes done got his ass in hot water now. You can’t argue wit’ dese ma’fuckas. It ain’t like they really want to listen to you. You gots t’ say, “Fuck ’em,” like I do.
“Are you a college graduate, young man?” my uncle asks Wes.
“Not yet.”
“Well, when you get a degree, and then a masters, then you can tell me what you think I know . . .”
I look to Wes to get him out of the shit, but this boy is still sitting here trying to debate with my uncle. Wes is not gonna win! He must think he’s Moses!
“Are you gonna cut the cake?” my little cousin asks me with a big, happy-faced smile. Kids always like that cake-cutting shit.
“Yeah, just as soon as they’re ready for me,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she says, running back up the steps.
“Jeffrey?” my mother yells down at me. “Can I speak to you for a minute?” She’s standing at the top of the basement. I walk on up to see what she wants, hearing Wes still debating his political heart out.
My mom grabs my hand and leads me through a packed room of relatives, all needing damn suntans.
“Hey, J, my girlfriend’s sister still wants to meet you,” my sister Jo says. She’s the younger one at twenty-seven. Joyce is thirty.
I shake my head, telling her that I still don’t want to meet this girl as my mom guides me outside and onto the painted wooden patio.
“J, what’s this bullshit you’re up here telling people about some damn P.R. firm? What is wrong with you?”
I give her an honest kid look. “Look, Mom, I just set the company up yesterday. I’ve decided to straighten up and fly right.” I’m hoping she eats this shit up.
She looks at me sternly with hazel eyes and sharp features. “Do I look like one of these young fools in love to you? You can’t lie to me, J. You never could. Now, I wanna know what you’re doing with yourself.”
“Look, Mom, y’all wanted me t’ come me down here for this big party shit—”
“Shit? Jeffrey, don’t you dare talk to me like—”
“Well, how I’m s’posed to talk to you when you trippin’ on me like you is?” I yell at her, cutting her off.
She gives a strong sigh and looks away. Then she looks back to me. “I wish your father didn’t have to make his trip to Chicago, ’cause then we could all—”
“We could all do what?”
“Talk about whatever happened between you two, Jeffrey!”
We stare at each other speechlessly. I figure I can’t win an argument with these people, so why even try?
“Can we join this party, Mom, ’cause I have nothing else t’ say.”
She walks back inside without saying anything. I walk in behind her and cut the cake while they all sing that “Happy Birthday” song to me. I bullshit with my cousins and introduce them to Wes. Then I tell them I want to show Wes around the neighborhood.
“Yo, man, head for ninety-five North,” I tell Wes once we start driving.
He looks at me confused. “You’re not going back?”
“Fuck no, you’n! Let’s get da hell outta here.”
Wes shakes his head. “This is cowardice.”
“I don’t care, man! Let’s roll!”
We ride quietly for the first thirty minutes. We listen to Wes’ Heavy D & The Boyz cassette, Blue Funk.
“Fuck them!” I finally let out.
“Yeah, I see what you mean,” Wes says, keeping his eyes glued to the road. “But we still shouldn’t have left this way.”
I shake my head, still disgusted. I look at Wes behind the wheel “Look, you’n, they already call me the monster of the family. So fuck ’em! I mean, that shit was s’posed to be my party. But them niggas in’ere whisperin’ an’ shit about rumors they heard about me instead of talkin’ t’ me. And my bamma-ass cousins be actin’ like girls, man. I’on really mess wit’ ’em like that no more. All ’em ma’fuckas is pussy whipped.”
Wes smiles. “What about you?”
I smile back. “Shit, I ain’t whipped, nigga. I got her whipped.”
Wes giggles. “Sure you do.”
We ride on and I start to feel lonely again. Usually I talk to my girl or smoke some weed when I get like this. But this is Wes. I can trust this nigga with my feelings.
“You know I went to Georgetown Day School and Georgetown Prep when I was little,” I tell him.
Wes looks surprised. “For real?” he asks, facing me.
“Yup. I had to beg my parents to let me transfer t’ Wilson after the ninth grade.”
Wes chuckles. “You were in the big league?”
I shake my head. “Man, fuck that bamma-ass shit, you’n. You don’t get no respect from being wit’ ’em mixed-up people. I mean, they some fake-ass people. That’s why I hate them white-acting niggas. Red and Tub and them was the first real friends that I had. I didn’t have to create no facade for them. I could find myself and be myself. That’s why I love being wit’ down-ass niggas, man. I mean, they got that . . . that . . . don’t know, jus’ that cool feelin’ of togetherness. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Wes nods. “But it’s not just ‘down-ass niggas’ that have that togetherness. A lot of people have that same love for blackness. My friends have that love for me. And none of them are ‘down-ass niggas,�
� but they’ll do anything for me. Anything.”
I nod back to him and take a deep breath. “We got a million different crews, man, and ain’t nobody listenin’ to the other sides.”
“You got that right,” Wes says, nodding.
“I figa if these rich niggas was all that, they could start to run their own shit instead of kissin’ white peoples’ ass all da damn time. You know what I’m sayin’, Joe?”
“Yeah, now you’re talking.”
I look over to Wes and smirk. “Fuck you think I’m preachin’?”
Wes laughs. “No, but I just want you to know that I agree with you.”
“Hmm, well, anyway . . . all I got is my girl, man. I got my girl and my boys.”
“Well, what am I?” Wes asks me.
I smile at him. “You my nigga.”
I start to laugh, but Wes sits quietly.
“I’m not your nigga, J. I’m your friend. We can start with that.”
I’m thinking, Yeah, fuck what he talkin’ ’bout. Friends come and go in the wind, but ya niggas is really in it with you, you know? Ya niggas is down for shit. Ya niggas feel how you feel and believe in you. A lot of these so-called friends is some fake-ass ma’fuckas.
“Are you into Digable Planets?” Wes asks me, breaking me away from my thoughts.
“Yeah, they aw’ight. Most of the time I don’t know what the hell they’re talkin’ about though.”
Wes smiles. “On this one cut called ‘La Femme Fetal,’ the brother Butterfly says, ‘Isn’t it my job to lay it on the masses, and get them off their asses, to fight against these fascists.’ And that shit is deep. But first we have to fight against ourselves. We have to stop using this ‘nigga’ reference. Then we have to listen to those who have the knowledge.”
“You mean niggas like you,” I say with a smile, cutting him off.
“Brothers like me,” he responds demandingly.
We sit quiet again as we reach North Carolina. It’s starting to get dark.
“You never seen a picture of my girl, have you?” I ask Wes.
He smiles. “No.”
I dig in my wallet and pull out one of my many photos of my dark and beautiful girl. Wes takes it and glances at it, trying to keep his eyes on the road.
“She’s very pretty,” he says.
I smile. “I know. It was a bunch of nigga”—I stop and grin at him—“I mean, ma’fuckas after her.”
Wes shakes his head and smiles back at me. “Motherfuckers isn’t a better word than nigga. They both come from the same self-degrading mentality.”
Yo, I’m getting pissed the fuck off now! “Aw’ight, man, look, that’s enough of this dumb shit!” I snatch my girl’s picture back. “Now, if you think you gon’ get people to stop sayin’ ‘niggas’ or ‘muthafuckas’ then you crazy out’cha mind! That’s like sayin’ we can stop the world from turnin’.”
“One day the world will stop turning.”
“And that’s when we’ll stop sayin’ the shit!”
Wes looks at me with pity in his eyes. “Look how confused you are. On one hand you criticize your family for being color struck, but then on the other hand you do the same degrading things to black people that your family does to you.”
I grin in agreement. “But the difference is that I’m down with niggas.”
“Are you? Or are you just down for yourself?”
“Whatever, man.”
We finally pull up to Wes’ crib, out in front of my 3000. We hop out and stretch our legs. Wes looks over and shakes his head at me.
“What?” I ask him. I’m tired of him talking that brotherman shit.
He sighs. “Here I am, helping you to calculate and hide your drug money, while I drive around in a drug-bought car, but yet I’m trying to preach to you about what black people need to do to correct themselves.” He shakes his head, looking all guilty and sorrowful.
I walk over to him. I smile and put my arm around his shoulder. “You know what, man? As long as this white man controls da money, it ain’t no nigga livin’ that can say everything he’s doin’ is all right. ’Cause if anything, we need to be fuckin’ his country up and tryin’ to break away from it. But we don’t, right? Naw. Fuck no! ’Cause we love this damn country, Joe!
“Now what me and you need to do is smoke this weed I got in my car and dream about gettin’ some pussy. ’Cause that’s all a nigga got left in this country, you’n, dreams and pussy.”
Wes laughs. “Well, I don’t take drugs.”
I frown at him. “Weed ain’t no drug. Weed is a spiritual herb.”
Wes smiles. “You know, I’ve always wondered how it feels though.”
“Oh, yeah.” I walk over to my car and pull out a dime bag and some Top paper from under my seat. I throw my arm back around Wes and we head to his building’s entrance. “Now you can’t front on the herb. Even the Digable Planets is down wit’ dis. And all them militant niggas from the sixties smoked weed, too. I read up on dat shit.” We walk up the steps.
Wes says, “I’m not experimenting for that reason. I have my own plans in mind.”
“Whatever, man. As long as we get on together, I‘on care what’chu thinkin’. But I love you though, Joe. For real!”
Wes stops and looks at me. “You don’t know what love is. You haven’t had enough pain yet.”
I laugh and wait at his door. “Hell you think this is, The Five Heartbeats? Nigga, please! Now, come on and open this door so I can call my girl up.”
“Long distance?”
“Yeah, it’s long distance, nigga! And don’t worry about it. I’ll fuck around and pay ya whole phone bill. Now come on and open ’is shit up.”
Wes
“I need you t’ ride me to my cousin’s house,” NeNe says.
“But I’m not going that way.”
“So?”
“So why should I drive all the way over to your house in Northeast to take you to your cousin’s house in Southwest, when all you have to do is jump on the Metro like you used to?”
“’Cause you got a car, and your girlfriend shouldn’t have t’ ride no damn Metro!”
“I don’t see why not, because I’m getting tired of being your chauffeur.”
“Wes, you know what? If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even have that car.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“Oh my God, Joe! Why you carryin’ me like dis?”
“I don’t know what that word means.”
She sucks her teeth. “Oh, don’t act smart.”
“Well, look, I’m about to take a nap. Is there anything else you have to say to me?”
Blang! She hangs up violently in my ear. I don’t care. I am sick of her! She’s driving me crazy! Sometimes I find myself wishing I had Sybil back. I have all the free time in the world for Sybil now. I don’t have any job, and I have access to hoards of money. But this also makes me bored because I often find myself with little to do all day. I lay out on my couch and click the television on with my remote control. It’s amazing, all these cable channels and nothing worth watching! We need some drama-based black shows on TV instead of all these silly sitcoms. Roc is about the only black show worth watching. Martin? He’s okay, sometimes, because he deals with some worthwhile issues every now and then. But I can’t believe NBC just dropped A Different World; it was fast becoming one of the best shows we had. All they had to do was get rid of Dwayne and Whitley and let the newcomers shine. Then again, Dwayne and Whitley were the stars of the show. I still haven’t warmed up to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I think the uppityness in that show displays all that’s wrong with the wealthy blacks in this Westernized world now.
Look at me! I’m actually sitting here worrying about TV shows. Man, I have to get out and do something. But I don’t even know what. I feel weird being around Marshall, Derrick, and Walt now. I mean, it’s hard as ever to explain to them how I’ve gotten myself involved with Butterman. Not to mention trying to explain an Acura Integra to my mother
. I’ve even been smoking marijuana. And it’s not because of any peer pressure or anything. I actually wanted to experience the real deal of weed and cut through all the hype I hear from others. I want to experience what goes on in the mind of a brother who just doesn’t “give a fuck.”
I jump up and grab my keys and tan Nautica jacket. The weather is getting warmer now with April nearing. I ride up South Dakota Avenue and make a left on Riggs Road, heading for Georgia Avenue. Maybe I’ll bump into Shank and the rest of Butterman’s workers.
I ride around corner after corner until I finally spot them, all out conversing in front of a housing tenement’s steps.
I park the car as near as I can get to them and hop out. “Hey, remember me?” I walk up to the one named Steve. He smiles, flashing yellowish teeth in need of some serious Topal toothpaste. He could use a better diet as well.
“Yeah, I remember you. You still wit’ NeNe?”
“Yeah, but she’s driving me crazy,” I tell him.
“Shit, a girl like that can drive me crazy all she want,” the one named Rudy says, looking healthier and taller than Steve.
We all laugh, except for Shank, who sits solemnly on the top step. He’s wearing all blue today instead of black. He even has on a pair of blue Nike Airs.
“Hi you doin’, Ninja?” I say, to try and liven him up.
He shakes his head and smiles. “Am I wearin’ all black t’day, ma’fucka?”
“No.”
“So how da hell you figure I look like a Ninja?”
I chuckle carefully. I don’t want to piss him off. He already looks as if he’s bored and dying for some action. “I was just joking, man,” I say to him.
“Well, you betta find somebody else to joke wit’ before I cut’cha tongue da fuck out’cha mouth.”
The rest of them start to giggle, but I read through the tough talk to see if he can back it.
“So you have a knife?”
“Yeah, ma’fucka.”
“Let me see it then.”
Shank smiles and looks toward Rudy. “Yo, man, you betta take this nigga somewhere before I kill ’im.”
Rudy laughs. “Yo, he aw’ight. Shawdy jus’ fuckin’ wit’chu.”
I sit on the steps below Shank and listen to their discussion.