Capital City

by Omar Tyree

  I smile at his ass. “Well, dem ma’fuckin’ pennies is doin’ me right. And I know Butterman bought’chu dat car, since we gettin’ all friendly an’ shit.”

  The motherfucker smiles. But I ain’t mad or nothing. I’m just letting him know that ain’t stupid.

  “You see that, Shank? Now black people call that being street-smart, you know, the fact that you can know things about the games being played in the street. But they don’t expect you to be worldly nor organized. That’s where I come in. And the game in America is to keep me too afraid to talk to you. But the advantage that I have is that wasn’t reared in America.”

  I look at him and pass the J. “Where’d’ju grow up at?”

  “All over the world, Mexico, Germany, wherever my father had to go on base.”

  “He was in the Army?”

  He shakes his head, slow-like. “The Air Force.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I heard the Air Force has the smarter guys.”

  “Yeah, them and the Navy.”

  “Oh, yeah? Did you ever see that movie Under Siege?” I ask him.

  We finish the first J and Wes lights up the second one.

  If he can take it, I can take it. I can’t let no little schoolboy out smoke me!

  He takes a hit. “No. But what did you like about it?”

  “How you know I liked it?”

  “Why did you bring it up?”

  This nigga playin’ mind games now. “Anyway, man, they had that shit about Navy SEALS in it. Is they supposed to be like Green Berets or something?” I ask him. I take the J from him.

  “Yeah . . . and in simple words, they’re all assassins, just like you, Shank. And you know what America does to its assassins?” I open my mouth to speak, but he doesn’t wait for my answer. “They send them on Rambo missions where you’re not supposed to come back. Or they lock you up after you do some ridiculous crime. And even if they let you live, you live in fear, having nightmares and wondering who the hell is after you or who you’ll have to kill next. Yeah, Shank, I know all about it. My father told me.”

  I take another hit and start coughing. “So what happened to ’im?” I ask Wes with watery eyes.

  “Germany. They killed him. My mother won’t even talk about it.”

  I look in his face for a minute. “That’s fucked up.” And he got me thinking about my own father now. But fuck it. Ain’t no sense in talking about that Vietnam shit. I mean, talking about it ain’t gon’ change nothing, is it?”

  “No, you know what’s really fucked up, Shank?” Wes asks me. “You. I mean, once your war in the streets is over, what are you gonna do? Where are you going? Who will you be? That’s fucked up.”

  I shake my head and smile. “Yo, man, you always talk like this?”

  He takes another hit. “How do you mean?”

  “I’on know, man.” I hunch my shoulders. “Fuck it.”

  Wes grins. “Well, actually, I don’t. Usually, I sound more preachy. Now I’m just making plain sense. And I hate to admit it. But it’s the weed that makes it all fall into place. The weed makes it simpler, until I’ve mastered the method.”

  The method? I’m thinking. “What fuckin’ method?” I ask him.

  “The method of connection. It’s a spiritual high that all of us have inside, but we have learn how to reach it. The Nation of Islam is able to do that with many of our men, especially ‘real-ass niggas’ like yourself.”

  I laugh. “Yo, man, I’m human like you. Why you keep talkin’nis ‘real-ass nigga’ shit?”

  “But isn’t that what you project? Isn’t that what you want to be? I mean, I saw how you punked out Otis that day. Why? Because he wasn’t real enough for you. You feel safer when everybody around you is down, down to killa nigga.”

  Yo, dis weed is makin’ Joe sound like he a medicine man or somethin’, a Voodoo doctor, puttin’ a spell on me.

  I laugh. “Yo, man, you lunchin’ like shit.”

  He nods with a smile. “I heard that you’re into rap music.”

  “Yeah.” Butterman prob’ly told him that. I wonder what else they talked about.

  “Can you write rhymes?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just asking, you know, because it’s amazing that some people can memorize entire rap songs, but nevertheless, they can’t make up their own.”

  “Hmm, I got my own.” I got skills like shit!

  “So have you ever thought about getting put on someone’s label?”

  “It’s a million ma’fuckas tryin’a get on labels! What da fuck makes you think I can jus’ get put on?”

  “What, are you scared?”

  “Scared? What I got to be scared about?”

  “You know, that you might not succeed at getting your record out.”

  Damn, he got me! Am I scared of goin’ for mine?

  “Naw, man, I wouldn’t say I’m scared. It’s more like, why should I go through all that dumb shit t’ get put on when I know I got skills?”

  “So why go through all that dumb shit in the street when you know you’re tough already? I mean, you looked like Pernell “Sweet Pea” Whitaker when you kicked Otis’ ass.”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, but I’on know if he can get wit’ dat Mexican muthafucka, Julio Chavez. That muthafucka be destroyin’ niggas.”

  “But the point is that Whitaker believes he’s gonna win, right?”

  “Shit, everybody dat steps in’na ring is thinkin’ ’ney gon’ win.”

  “So how come you don’t think so?”

  “What, wit’ rap music?”

  “Yeah, with rap music.”

  I hunch my shoulders. “Man, I’on know.”

  “See that? You’re punking out. It’s the same principle, Shank. I just fail to believe that someone could only desire to be a gangster. There has to be something else that you’re interested in. So if you had the money, would you have the heart to go after what you really want?”

  I ain’t got nothin’ t’ say t’ that, ’cause I’on really know.

  “It’s the same principle, Shank. Young fathers punk out when their girlfriends, or flings, say that they’re pregnant. It’s the same principle. Many unemployed people punk out when it’s time to go in and fill out an application for a job. It’s the same principle. Black employees punk out when they know, in many cases, that their white bosses are discriminating against them for pay raises and promotions. It’s the same principle, Shank, you hear what I’m telling you?

  “These same blacks that have all kinds of money punk out when someone with the economic know-how asks them to invest in a worthwhile project instead of sitting on dollars and wasting it. All these damn athletes and singers and entertainers that we have, but yet we still produce nothing because we don’t put our money into production. We put our damn money into consumption! And that goes for all of us! You hear me, Shank?”

  We meet eye to eye. This motherfucker is dead serious! “Yeah, man, I hear you.”

  We both lay back on the couch. And after smoking two joints, I’m hungry as shit.

  “Yo, man, let’s get some food.”

  Wes smiles. I know he’s hungry. He gots to be!

  “Okay,” he says.

  Now instead of just grabbing some Chinese or McDonald’s-type shit, this guy drives way back over to Northwest to order soul food from the Florida Avenue Grill to support black business. This motherfucker is lunchin’! But yo, this soul food grub is slammin’!

  “So, what do we do now?” Wes asks me. We’re sitting at the intersection of Florida and Georgia Avenues, heading east. We’re waiting for the light to turn green. I look at Wes’ car clock and the shit says ten thirty.

  “Yo, let’s go to the East Side,” I tell him.

  “The East Side? Man, always wanted to go there.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, but my friends didn’t want to go, except for Walt. But Walt always goes with his cousins, you know, because they’re ‘real-ass niggas’ like you.”

 
; I smile and shake my head. He’s still talking that ‘real ass nigga’ shit.

  We get up to the East Side and cruise in line. Cars are lined up pumping go-go music that I’m not really into. Maybe it’s because I’m originally from Jersey. Anyway, they gonna have more of this go-go shit inside. But I ain’t been to the East side in a while, so fuck it!

  We ride around and park. We walk toward the door with all these prostitute-looking D.C. girls. I mean, I ain’t never been in a city where women dress as nasty as these bitches. They wear cut-up jeans, shit hanging off their backs and shoulders, and flowery body suits—just plain nasty shit. I think the only place that can compete with D.C. whores in nastiness is Florida, you know, with that Two Live Crew shit.

  “Wow, I see why my friends never wanted to come here. These are some rough-looking people, wearing a whole bunch of color. You ever notice that? How come black people love to wear so much color?” Wes asks, laughing. He’s doing that Steve ‘How Come?’ shit.

  We walk through the crowds, downstairs in the hiphop section. I watch both of our backs. I can tell Wes ain’t never been in tough territory before. He don’t even realize that people are watching him. But I got his back! So any nigga acting stupid is gonna get hurt. I’m gon’ make it back to his car to get my gun before they do. Matter fact, I should get the keys, just in case.

  “Shannnnk! What’s up, boy? Where you been at, man? I heard you moved to Northeast somewhere,” this cool cap-wearing, toothpick-chewing nigga says to me. He all on my dils-nick, and I don’t even remember his damn name. I just remember he used to hang back my way near K Street in Southeast.

  “Yeah, I moved,” I tell him. I ain’t really trying to have no conversation.

  “So what’chu been up to?” He reaches out his hand for a shake. I look over his shoulder to watch after Wes. This motherfucker’s wandering around like he’s dying to be sized up in here.

  I shake dude’s hand and move by him. “I’m makin’ money, you’n, that’s all.”

  Wes is talking to some fly brown-skinned girl who’s wearing gold shoes and a gold belt. Her hair is dyed gold too. I guess the bitch, I mean, girl, is trying to coordinate. You know, you gots ta coordinate. I smile. I ain’t gon’ call this girl a bitch if she knows Wes. She might be cool. Makes me feel like seeing my girl tonight.

  “Hey, Sherry, this is my boy, Shank,” Wes says, introducing her to me.

  Sherry looks at me and then back at Wes, as if I’m working for him. I can tell she’s thinking that, because her eyes are getting all big, like she has new respect for Wes. It’s a trip how girls fall for that bodyguard type shit. They think anybody is important if he got a tough-ass friend with him.

  Wes dances with her. But I can see his eyes following all these other scandalously-dressed girls. I can’t blame him though. These go-go bitches dress freaky and dance even worse. Makes a nigga want to pull the rest of their clothes off and fuck them.

  I look around and spot a bunch of guys looking in Wes’ direction. They’re all looking jealous, like they wanna start some drama with him. But I can’t have that shit! Wes is cool with me. He don’t even have to pay me to watch his back in here.

  I walk over to him, hard and slow, as if I’m ready to kill somebody. I get his attention and whisper to him, “Yo, you should try t’ take this girl t’ ya crib.”

  Wes smiles and nods his head. I turn around and make sure I look in every direction at these punk motherfuckers who are staring at him. And guess what? Now these niggas are turning away. I guess they see that I got my boy’s back.

  I go back to where I can watch some more freak-dancing bitches on stage. Fuck that, they are bitches! That’s why these guys are always in here cheering these nasty-dancing freaks on. I’ll fuck my little sister up if I ever catch her doing this freak-dancing shit in a club. That shit ain’t right! I mean, how can a girl expect for you to treat her right after you see niggas freaking her and telling her to get nasty and take her clothes off in a party?

  “Yo, Shank! What’s up, man?”

  It’s three more young’uns from my old neighborhood. “Yo, you hear what happened to Wiley, man?” one says, looking sad.

  “Naw, what?”

  “He got shot by a sixteen-year-old.”

  “He died?”

  “Yeah, young’un shot ’im in’na head, three times.”

  Damn! That’s fucked up! But I can’t do nothin’ about it. The nigga’s dead now. Fuck it. And I remember I used to hate that muthafucka, until we got to be cool that summer.

  “When’nis happen?” I ask.

  “Man, like three weeks ago, right around the corner where we used to hang out. ’Cause you know, Wiley been hustlin’ around the projects for years. But now some new niggas is tryin’a house shit.”

  “Some new niggas? Who?”

  “People was sayin’ it was BJ and them. But heard that niggas from New York is backin’ ’em up. An’ney paid young’un t’ take Wiley out.”

  I nod. “Niggas from New York, huh?”

  “Yeah, man, you know how that drug shit is. Niggas’ll go anywhere t’ get paid. ’Cause I got cousins from up here housin’ shit down in Virginia now. Then you got brothers from Philly, New Jersey, and New York down in Norfolk.” He shakes his head. “Man, you’n, that’s jus’ how it is.”

  I nod, and we do some more small talk before you’n joins his boys. I catch motherfuckers peeking at me and turning away. I guess they’re trying to find out who the hell I am. It’s funny how it’s always some new niggas trying to step up in the ranks. But if they fuck with me . . . they getting capped!

  “So I’ll drive you home in the morning,” Wes says to this girl Sherry.

  Damn, he must have taken me seriously! She down with him, too, I mean, I said that shit to him just to let them people know that I was with him.

  Everybody crowds outside after the party. Me, Wes, and Sherry head back to Wes’ car. I’m still watching for niggas. So the first thing I do is grab my gun from under the front seat and slip it inside my jacket. Sherry sees me, but she doesn’t say nothing. I guess she know what time it is. We ride back to Rhode Island Avenue, Northeast. I get Wes to drop me off at the 7-Eleven around the corner from my building. I ask him to hop out with me as I squeeze out the back on Sherry’s side.

  “Yo, man, this shit is between me and you. So don’t tell no ma’fuckas you dropped me off up here,” I tell him seriously.

  He looks me in my eyes like real men do. “Don’t even worry about it. You have my word. And I understand exactly where you’re coming from.”

  I nod. Then I smile, thinking about this girl Sherry that he has in the car. “So you gon’ get busy, huh, shawdy?” Wes smiles. “You know what? This girl didn’t even notice me before I starting wearing hip gear. She used to work with me at this telemarketing company for, like, seven months.” He shakes his head. “It’s amazing how people change when you get some money.”

  I smile at him. I guess she is a bitch, I’m thinking. “Aw’ight den, man.”

  I walk off. Wes backs up and heads up Rhode Island toward South Dakota. I walk into my crib, kick off my Nike Airs and scramble to my bed. I fall out, tired as shit. I’m not even trying to take my clothes off.

  * * *

  The telephone rings loud as hell Sunday morning. I answer it after it rings five motherfucking times. “Hello.”

  “Yo, it’s Butterman. We gotta get together about gettin’ them niggas that tried t’ take y’all yesterday.”

  “Aw’ight, man, but let me get da hell up first,” I tell him.

  “I got somethin’ else t’ tell you too, you’n.”

  “What?” I’m hoping that this shit ain’t long so I can go the fuck back to sleep.

  “’Member dat boy Bean dat’chu busted up?”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “Yo, that ma’fucka shot somebody last night up on Fourteenth Street Northwest. He shot you’n seven times.”

  “So?”

  This mothe
rfucker laughs. “I just thought I’d tell you that shit, you know, ’cause you wanted to kill ’im. But they got his ass in D.C. jail now. He goin’ up, man.”

  I sigh heavily. “Is that it?”

  “Yeah, jus’ beep me when you get up.”

  “Aw’ight,” I grumble.

  I hang up and stretch out on my bed. That nigga Bean had heart enough to shoot somebody seven-ass times. So? Fuck him! I beat you’n’s ass so bad that he would run from my damn shadow. But just in case, maybe I shouldn’t let the next motherfucker live. You know what I’m saying? My life might depend on killing a nigga so they can’t get me back.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wes

  “I don’t think that D.C. being a state is gon’ change anything. I mean, it ain’t like we gon’ have more jobs just because we a state,” Candice says, dressed in a silk turquoise outfit while I’m sitting here in class, staring at her.

  Professor Cobbs’s brown face looks pained. “So you mean to tell me, Miss Moreland, that you don’t think the District of Columbia could create more jobs if we had control over our own tax dollars?”

  Candice frowns. “How? I mean, jobs come from skills and stuff. More government money would just go to these greedy officials. Like Sharon Pratt Kelly. I heard that she got a penthouse built off of D.C. tax dollars.”

  My small class of senior political science majors laughs. I chuckle myself, but it’s true. Mayor Sharon Pratt Kelly did have a luxury penthouse apartment remodeled with the use of D.C. tax dollars.

  “That’s why it’s important that we hold our public officials accountable,” Professor Cobbs argues. He straightens out his gold-and-blue striped tie. His carmel-colored sports jacket swings loosely as he paces the front of the class, wearing casual blue jeans with a white shirt and brown dockside shoes.

  “All we seem to do is talk about our officials. And I mean, you guys are political science majors, Candice, so you should know better.”

  Candice sucks her teeth and smiles. “Whatever, ’cause even if we write letters and stuff, all they gon’ do is ignore us.”

  Professor Cobbs shakes his head as the class period ends. “Candice, why did you major in political science?” he asks, as everyone gathers their things to leave. A few of us lag behind to hear her response.