by Omar Tyree
Steve takes the spotlight. “Yeah, like I was sayin’, you’n, I could be a comedian. I’m funny as shit. I’d do a skit called How Come? And I’d be like, how come niggas wit’ the least amount of money talk the most shit? You ever notice that? That’s why bums don’t ever stop runnin’ ’ney damn mowf.”
We all start laughing. Even Shank sneaks in a chuckle as Steve continues.
“And how come bitches always look better when’ney wit’ da next ma’fucka? You ever notice that? Man, one time I took this girl from this nigga. And you know what? She stopped lookin’ good to me. Maybe it’s me. I mus’ turn out the ugliness in a girl.”
We all laugh some more. Steve is a comedian. But he can do without the hard language.
“Yeah, and how come these radical niggas ain’t never got no money? You ever notice that shit? They be talkin’ all dat revolutionary shit and sellin’ bean pies and Kente hats. And them ma’fuckas expect you t’ be down wit’ dat dumb shit, too, you’n. Them niggas are crazy.”
I’m laughing, but it’s actually true in many cases. Preaching revolution is not a skill that can be marketed within a European-dominated society. Even many white radicals are poor, except for the ones who go through a reactionary parental breakage. That’s when kids go against their parents’ wishes, like with J and his “Butterman” image. All he has to do is straighten up and do what his parents want. J doesn’t have to worry about being poor. But I couldn’t even go to Howard University like I wanted to because tuition cost too much and my mother didn’t have the money. So I ended up working, moving out for space, and going to UDC.
“Yeah, man. And how come girls always be sayin’ somethin’ stink, but yet they can’t smell when’ney shit is stinkin’. You ever notice that shit? Bitches be talkin’ ’bout some, ‘damn, somethin’ stink in here!’ And I’m like, it’s you, bitch. ayou ain’t wash ya shit out this mornin’!”
He’s getting nasty and hilarious now. It’s not right, but I can’t help but laugh at it.
“Yeah, Joe, we gotta get’cha ass a contract, ’cause you be lunchin’ like hell,” Rudy says, wiping out his eyes with the back of his hands.
I look over to a brown-skinned, baby-faced guy, whom I haven’t seen with J before. I extend my hand to him. “What’s your name, man? I’m Wes.”
“Otis,” he says, accepting my shake.
Shank frowns. “His name should be Othelia.”
Rudy and Steve start laughing. Otis looks as if he wants to say something but he doesn’t. I guess he’s scared of Shank. But I’m not. Shank hasn’t shown me anything to be afraid of yet. All I see him doing is looking tough, talking tough, and being very antisocial.
I instigate things. “Don’t let him talk to you like that, O.”
Steve and Rudy look to Shank as if they expect him to do something.
“That nigga know what time it is,” Shank says.
I look to Otis. He drops his head in defeat and kicks a soda around in front of him. So that’s how it works. Once you intimidate someone you can make them accept anything that you care to dish out. I sit silently and observe the block. Things seem so peaceful on this nice, sixty-degree day.
Up coasts a royal-blue 300 ZX with those flashy rims. “Yo, Steve, what’s up, man?” the dark-skinned driver hollers past his passenger.
Steve walks over to the passenger’s side.
“If they got money, we deal,” Rudy says.
“Aw’ight, hit us back in like an hour,” Steve says as they drive off.
“What that nigga talkin’ ’bout, Joe?” Rudy asks Steve. “Oh, they ready to get a package.”
“Do they want a half-ounce? ’Cause I hope you let ’em know that we ain’t sellin’ no fuckin’ quarters t’day. Fuck that shit! Either they got money for a half-ounce, or it ain’t no sense in talkin’.”
We sit quietly for a while until a rusty tan Pontiac drives up.
“Yo, Steve!” the brown-skinned guy in the passenger’s side yells. He’s wearing one of those black bandannas wrapped around his forehead. His bushy hair sticks out on top.
Steve leans up from off of a nearby fence and walks to the car. “Damn, as soon as B gets here, we gon’ have like five customers.”
“Po-man!” Shank calls out.
I look down the street to my left. I don’t know whether to run or stay calm as the white-and-blue cruiser eases up the street. No one else seems to worry, so I remain calm like everyone else.
Shank eyes the black officer sitting in the passenger’s side, eye-for-eye as they pass.
“Punk-ass ma’fucka,” he says once it’s over.
“You don’t like cops, huh?” I ask him.
He faces me with a smirk. “Do you like them ma’fuckas, man?”
“Well, what about when they’re out protecting somebody?”
“Protecting somebody?” Rudy intervenes. “When you ever see a cop protect somebody?”
I think about it. “Damn, I guess you’re right.”
“They don’t protect nobody but the President and rich white people,” Shank adds.
“How ’bout dat shit, Joe? ’Cause ’member that L.A. riot last year? They said that the cops all went to protect the white neighborhoods in Beverly Hills and Bel Air. That’s why nobody was there when ’em people was burnin’ stuff up and robbin’ stores in South Central,” Steve says.
I nod my head in agreement. I’m actually amazed that they’re even giving opinions on such things. I guess the media’s perception of young black men being brainless and political has rubbed off on me as well.
“So what do you think about the new police brutality trials in L.A. that they’re getting ready for?” I ask Steve.
“Ain’t nothin’ gon’ change. I mean, even if them white cops is found guilty, what’chu think they gon’ do, suspend them ma’fuckas without pay? That’s dumb shit, you’n! They ain’t goin’ ta jail.”
“No bullshit!” Rudy says, agreeing. “Now let three black cops whup some white ma’fucka’s ass. Them niggas would get lynched, you’n. For real!”
I look to Otis, who’s just been giggling on and off and not saying anything since Shank challenged him.
“And what do you think, Otis?”
“Man, I think—”
“Shut da fuck up! And fuck what’chu think!” Shank snaps.
“Ay, Shank, man, why you keep fuckin’ wit’ me, you’n?”
Shank jumps up and punches Otis in his mouth. “Come on and fight back, nigga.”
Otis throws a lazy right hand. Shank slips outside of it and lands with a punishing overhand right. Otis loses his footing and ends up on his back before Rudy grabs Shank off of him.
“Yo, Rudy, let ’im fight for himself,” Steve says.
Shank grins as if he’s loving it. “Yeah, let da ma’fucka get it on wit’ me.”
Rudy lets him go as Otis climbs back to his feet and puts his hands up. He dances around as if he has a ring on the sidewalk.
Shank stalks him, flat-footed. “Stop jumpin’ around, ma’fucka. This shit ain’t no Kriss Kross.”
We start laughing as Shank catches Otis with a quick left jab. He blocks Otis’ left and doubles up with a right then left to the body. Then Otis finally nips Shank with a desperate right jab.
“Yeah, good one, ma’fucka! Come on!” Shank taunts.
Shank scores another overhand right to Otis’ face. Shank hits him with a left. Otis throws his head down and rushes in. Shank grabs his head as they tumble to the ground. They tussle for a few seconds before Shank ends up on top with a gun to Otis’ chest.
“Fuck you gon’ wrestle me for, punk? I should shoot’cha ass.”
Shank gets up using Otis’ chest for leverage. He brushes himself off and walks back over to take his seat at the top of the tenement’s front steps.
“Shit, you couldn’t get but one punch in, Otis?” Rudy says, laughing.
“What’chu tryin’a say, Rudy?” Shank asks.
“Man, I ain’t sayin’ shit, you�
��n,” Rudy responds, still giggling. “I’m just noticin’ that Otis got stole.”
We all giggle while Otis gathers himself together. “That’s aw’ight,” he finally says, spitting blood into the street from his stance at the curb.
“If you thinkin’ ’bout gettin’ revenge, shoot me in my chest like a man. Don’t shoot me in my back. That’s punk shit,” Shank tells him.
Otis doesn’t respond. We go back to watching cars ride by.
“That’s your Acura down there, Joe?” Steve asks me.
“Yeah, you see me ride up in it?”
“Yeah, but like, I wasn’t really thinkin’ ’bout it.”
Shank looks up at me as I stretch out my legs. “How long you had it?”
“Like, two weeks.”
“Oh, so that ride is brand, spankin’ new, huh?” Rudy says.
“I guess you can call it that.”
Steve asks, “Yeah, well, what time is it, Rudy?”
Rudy twists his left arm and looks down at his watch. “It’s two thirty.”
“Two thirty? Shit! Butterman ain’t gon’ be here for another hour then. You know how that ma’fucka always be comin’ late.”
“Yeah, he says it’s his good luck charm to keep the poman off guard,” Otis says for a change.
“Yeah, he act like we givin’ the cops our meeting times or somethin’,” Rudy responds.
Steve laughs. “Butterman know what he doin’.” Then he looks to me. “Yo, you’n, ride me down to my crib for a minute. I live down near Howard University, off of Fourth Street. We can roll right down Fifth Street and get there in, like, ten minutes,” Steve tells me all in a hurry.
I start walking toward the car. “All right, come on.”
Rudy shakes his head. “Don’t trust that nigga, Joe.”
“Aw, man, shut up. Dis Butterman’s boy!” Steve yells back.
I make a U-turn and cross Georgia Avenue toward Fifth Street. I then make a right and ride Fifth Street straight down and into Fourth Street, right past Howard University’s dorms and library.
“See that shit right there,” Steve says, pointing to my left.
I look over to a construction site of a new dorm.
“Yeah.”
“They built that shit fast, you’n. For real! It was like a whole different sight this time last year.”
I nod my head as Steve tells me to make a left. We then coast into a block of three-story housing tenements.
“Park right here,” he tells me in the middle of the block.
He hops out and runs inside one of the buildings. As soon as I get out to wait, three young boys walk up to me immediately.
“Das ya car?” the first light-skinned boy asks me.
“Yeah. You like it?”
He nods his head as a darker boy walks up to touch the door. “Can you take me for a ride?” he asks me with an innocent smile.
“I don’t think your mother would like that. She might think you got yourself kidnapped.”
“Unh-uh,” he says, shaking his head. “No she won’t.”
“I can go for a ride,” says the third one. He and the second one look similar.
“Are you two brothers?” I ask, pointing them out.
“Uh-huh. He older than me,” the second says of his brother, who announced that he could ride.
“Well, how old are you?” I ask the older brother.
“Five.”
“Five? And you’re not in preschool or anything yet?”
“I was, but den my mom took me out.”
“Why?”
“’Cause he was too young,” his younger brother says.
“No, he was bad in school,” their light-skinned friend interjects.
“No, I wasn’t!” the five-year-old retorts loudly.
They start scrambling for my attention. Each one is pulling on my arm for me to listen to his particular story of why the five-year-old is no longer in school. I laugh, trying to give each of them my attention as they hustle for position and eye contact.
“Byron! You and Tommy get’chall asses back in front of this house!” a voice yells from a third-story window. I look up to see a mean-looking black woman, my complexion, wearing a scarf over what appears to be curlers.
The boys run back behind the fence that’s in front of their complex.
“Come over here, man,” the first light-skinned one says. The two brothers look on to see if I’ll actually come.
And what the hell! I smile and start to walk over, climbing over the small fence.
The five-year-old runs and jumps on me.
“Would you leave that man alone,” the voice inside the third-story window yells out again.
Now I feel leery, knowing that she’s watching me. I look up to her and smile while her two sons continue to tug and pull at my arms and clothes, along with the other little guy, all jockeying for my interest in them.
“Get off of him, would’ju!” the mother persists while being ignored by the boys. She then shakes her head at me. “You’ll have to excuse my children. They must think you’re their father or somethin’,” she tells me.
Steve finally comes dashing out of the next building. “Come on,” he says.
I start to walk away. The three boys freeze as if they’ve just been paralyzed. I turn back while walking slowly. “See you,” I tell them with a smile. I guess they see it as another father figure leaving them.
“When you comin’ back?” the five-year-old asks.
Damn! What am I supposed to say to that? “Ah, I don’t know,” I respond hesitantly.
“He ain’t comin’ back here!” their mother shouts out of the window again. She smiles at me as I look up at her once more. “You don’t have to lie to my children. They get enough of that from their father.”
I then look back to the three boys, who eagerly await my response. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I tell them. Then I go to join Steve.
Steve shakes his head with a smile. “You ain’t never been in no ’hood like this, huh?”
“Why you ask me that?” I ask as I unlock the car doors. “I can tell. I mean, you lookin’ all confused and shit. Them niggas can live without’chu. Hell, dey gon’ be aw’ight. You act like them li’l ma’fuckas gon’ die if you leave ’em.”
I smile as we head back up Fourth Street. But I’m in deep thought. Steve is right. I’ve never been around real poverty. I always talk about it and the masses, but I’ve never really been a part of the chaos. I always knew that I had a future. I always knew that I would make it. But now as I look at the lives of just those three boys and a mother, I realize that they all are looking for some kind of savior, someone to pull them out of hell. And even if I were to try, how much pushing and pulling would it take for them to trust in their own ability to succeed when no help is available? That is the true essence of survival.
Shank
I only read a couple of chapters of Maya Angelou’s book so far, and I can’t see what the hell my mom has it for. I mean, Maya Angelou grew up in the South. My mom lived in Jersey all her damn life! The only comparison I can make is that they’re both black women. But that ain’t nothing! It’s a lot of books by black women.
Anyway, I’ve been hanging out with these silly niggas that Butterman got working for him. I guess he scared of having me with him now after beat down that boy Bean. Fuck it though! As long as I’m still getting my grand every Monday, I don’t give a fuck!
I’m trying to get Otis ready though, just in case we have to take care of some motherfuckers. But he’s all right. I’m just trying to make sure he don’t punk out on us. And that boy Wes? I don’t know about you’n. mean, he just been hanging around us instigating shit and asking questions like he gon’ write a story or something. He’d probably call the shit Niggas in the East Coast ’Hood.
I know Butterman bought Wes that Acura, too. I ain’t fucking stupid! I mean, how this nigga just gon’ pop up out the blue and roll around us in a brand-new Integra. Something ain’t right
about that shit. If he wasn’t hanging around us I wouldn’t be thinking about it. But since he is, there has to be some connection between him and Butterman. But I know that motherfucker Wes ain’t selling no drugs. He don’t seem like the type.
I get dressed in some springtime clothes because it’s almost April now. It’s getting warmer outside. I throw on my blue Calvins, a white Polo shirt, and my green jacket. It ain’t wintertime no more, so I ain’t trying to wear all black. That shit is hot as a motherfucker when it gets warm. But yo, you still got these bamma-ass young’uns out here wearing that all-black gear.
I jump on an 82 bus and ride down Rhode Island. I get off and walk my regular way under the Metro bridge, past McDonald’s and past the bank to catch a G bus at the corner of Fourth and Rhode Island Northeast.
“Hey, main man, I got some cologne,” this tall, skinny nigga asks me. He pulls out several small bottles from his tan jacket.
“Naw, I’on wear dat shit.”
He smiles at me, wearing some dingy-ass clothes. “You need to, main man, ’cause the women out here love good-smellin’ mens, especially when it gets warm.”
How da hell you know what women like, you homeless-lookin’ muthafucka?
I stand at the bus stop and lean up against the glass walls that surround the bus stop’s bench. It ain’t that many people out here riding the buses yet. I guess it is kind of early for niggas on a Saturday. It’s only like eleven o’clock. But we got customers coming down from Maryland and Virginia to make buys now. So we have to do business early sometimes to avoid all these nosy motherfuckers. And if I ain’t up there, these silly-ass niggas might fuck around and get robbed. That’s why I got my compact .45 with me every damn day.
The bus finally pulls up. I get on and ride it to Georgia Avenue.
“Transfer, brother?” another dingy nigga asks me when I hop off.
“Naw, man, I’m usin’ mine.”
“Oh, okay den, young brother.”
I cross the street and wait for the 70 bus. When the shit comes, this old-ass man is talking crazy on the bus.
“What’chu fightin’ for? Some turf? Niggas ain’t even got no damn turf, but they fightin’ for turf,” he says. He’s moving around in his seat like he has a live stage audience watching. “These young’uns always out here talkin’ dat shit. Well, fuck you! Fuck you, nigga! You ain’t got nothin’! What’chu got? That’s why the white man got’cha ass in jail now, nigga! Fuck you! You ain’t got no damn turf!”