Capital City

by Omar Tyree

  Candice smiles. “Oh, I’m tryin’a go to law school. I just took political science ’cause it ain’t that hard or nothin’.”

  Someone behind me laughs and says, “Yo, Joe, you should’na said that.”

  Professor Cobbs nods and responds to Candice with a smirk, “Oh, really?”

  “Man, I ain’t even gon’ lie about it.”

  He shakes his head as Candice walks off. Then he looks to me. “Hey, Ray, how come you’ve been so quiet these last few weeks? I could usually count on you to help me out in here.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve just been thinking a lot about going to grad school and all,” I lie to him. Actually I’ve been more caught up in life outside of class.

  Professor Cobbs gets excited by my response. “Oh, yeah? That would be a great move, Ray, and I could write you a recommendation. You have good grades, so grad school shouldn’t be a big problem for you. You’ve been one of the most enthusiastic students I’ve had in years.”

  I feel sick to my stomach as I beef up my lie. “Yeah, well, you know, I just think it’s kind of grim that there’s not that many black male teachers in this country and all. Especially with the great need of positive role models that we have.”

  “Aw, man, don’t I know it,” he says with his face lit up in understanding. He’s making me feel even worse. But I could still go to grad school though. It’s not as if I’ve totally ruled it out.

  “Do you know Mark Thompson?” he asks me.

  “Heard of him, seen him, been around him, but no, I don’t really know him.”

  Professor Cobbs chuckles. “Well, I’ll give you his number. He’s a good guy to know.” He takes out one of his business cards and writes on the back. “Now, you call him up and tell him that I referred you,” he says, grinning.

  I take the card. “Okay, will do.” I head out into the hallway, make a right and walk down the exit steps.

  Candice is reading the Afro-American newspaper right in front of the first floor escalators that lead down to Connecticut Avenue. “Hey, Wes?” she calls to me glowingly.

  I smile as she snuggles up close to me. She’s tempting me with her warm body and her sweet-smelling perfume. And I know she wants something. “Yes, Candice? What can I do for you?”

  She smirks and bumps me with her hips as I feel my pants tighten.

  “I need a favor from you,” she says softly.

  “Homework?”

  “No.”

  “A ride home?”

  “Almost, but not quite. I need you ta ride me up to my old job so I can get my last paycheck.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Bethesda.”

  “How far in Bethesda?”

  “Right around the corner from the Metro station, off of Wisconsin Avenue.”

  “So how come you can’t take the Metro then?”

  She sucks her teeth and squeezes my left arm. “Come on, Wes. Please.”

  I smile. “Okay. I don’t have anything else to do.”

  We ride the escalators down to Connecticut Avenue. I walk over to buy some corn chips from the Ethiopian woman stationed inside at a food cart.

  Candice chuckles. “E’rybody be eatin’em corn chips.”

  “So?” I respond playfully.

  “Don’t get smart,” she snaps.

  “Hey, Wes! What’s goin’ on, man?” I turn around to find J extending a right hand to me. He’s wearing a bright red Polo jacket and tan jeans. I shake his hand and notice the ostentatious gold nugget bracelet immediately.

  “When did you buy this?” I ask him.

  “Aw, Joe, it’s jus’ a li’l somethin’, man. Stop sweatin’ it.” He faces Candice and makes her blush. “Hey, sexy.”

  “Hi.”

  He looks her over, grinning. “So you sweet on my boy, Wes?” he asks her.

  Now I feel like blushing. Damn, this is embarrassing! I’m thinking.

  Candice smiles. “I’on know.”

  “You don’t know?” J looks to me. “Hey, man, you betta ask her.” Then he laughs and gets serious. “But for real though, man, I gotta talk to you.”

  He pulls me over to the side. “I heard you been hangin’ out wit’ my niggas again.”

  “Yeah, a little bit,” I tell him. He shakes his head, seemingly in disgust. “Fuck is wrong wit’chu, man?” he whispers. “I mean, I didn’t hire you to hang out wit’ ’em niggas, Joe. I hire you t’ be yourself and take care of the damn money. Now, if they would’a got you locked da hell up wit’ ’em, then what? Ya ass would’a been lookin’ stupid.”

  He shakes his head again as he looks around at the sunny, April weather sights—mostly at how the UDC women are dressed. And I guess he’s pretty much right. I was taking a needless risk by hanging out with his “runners.” But I still learned a lot.

  “Look, man, I got a dumb-man’s joke for you, you’n,” he says lightheartedly.

  “A dumb-man’s joke?” I smile and shake my head. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have somewhere to go.”

  J looks toward Candice, who is still standing to the left of us, waiting patiently.

  “Aw, man, she ain’t goin’ nowhere. That girl look like she in love.”

  “She’s hardly in love,” I tell him through my grin. “Yeah, ’cause ya game is weak. Anyway.” He gets serious again. “Yo, here it go right, a poor, homeless black man was offered ten million dollars by a rich, white millionaire—”

  I cut him off. “If he’s a millionaire, I would think that he was rich.”

  J quickly frowns. “Listen, man! Damn!”

  I listen impatiently.

  “So the rich, white man says, ‘Would you take my ten million dollars as a token of my inner most compassion for your terrible situation?’—right. And the poor, homeless black man says, ‘No, suh.’ ‘Well, would you take my red Jaguar valued at sixty thousand dollars?’ ‘Nope.’ ‘How about a thirty-thousand-dollar entry level position at my company?’ ‘Unh-uh.’

  “So then the rich white man laughs and says, ‘What about my wife? She has fifty-eight years on her, and she’s no longer the good-looking dame that she used to be.’

  “The poor nigga shakes his head. ‘Oh no, suh. I’d neva take a man’s woman. That’a come back t’ haunt ya.’

  “So the white man says, ‘Jesus Christ, man! Here I am, a good samaritan, feeling guilty for you helpless Negro people, and you won’t even allow me to help you. Now, look, man, is there anything else that I can get you? Anything?’

  “Then the poor black man smiles with one front tooth and says, ‘Gi’me three dollas fo’ some wine.’”

  J laughs and shakes his head as I start to chuckle. “Dumb muthafucka! Now that’s the type’a niggas you was hangin’ out wit’, man. Stay ya ass away from them. Them niggas don’t know their face from their ass.” He shakes my hand again as he heads off to his car. I’m still smiling as I walk back to Candice.

  “What was all that about?” she asks me.

  “Nothing. He was just telling me a joke.”

  Candice and I are heading up Connecticut Avenue toward Bethesda, Maryland, as she fiddles with my car radio.

  “Oh, shit, it’s Tupac!” she yells. His new single, “I Get Around,” pumps through my four car speakers.

  I grin at her while she turns it up and rocks rhythmically in the passenger’s seat. “How come so many girls like him?” I ask her—not because I don’t like him, but because I’m curious.

  “’Cause, Joe, he rough like that, man,” she answers, still rocking. “And he’s sexy.”

  “What about my friend, J?”

  She pauses to think. “Oh, I’on know about him. I mean, he act like he stuck on himself.”

  I smile as we make a left turn and head toward Wisconsin.

  Candice points to the building. I let her out at the curb. “I’ll be right back out,” she tells me, leaving her pocketbook inside the car. I guess she trusts me more than NeNe does. NeNe always takes her pocketbook with her—even to the bathroom. Or ma
ybe it’s not really trust, but something else her mother told her never to do, leave her pocketbook unattended.

  Candice jumps back in after a seven-minute wait with my blinkers on.

  She shouts, “Damn! I hate that shit, man!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Naw, Joe, they always be takin’ money out ya check.”

  “Well, do you know what it’s for?”

  “Yeah, man, but still.”

  I smile and shake my head.

  Candice turns down the radio and gives me her undivided attention. “So, Wes, who you messin’ wit’ like dat?”

  Uh-oh, I’m thinking. Here comes the big question.

  “I have . . .” I think better of telling her the truth and lie. “. . . like, a few associates, but no steady girl or anything.”

  Man! This lying is really becoming a habit.

  “Well, how come, like, you never asked me out?”

  I feel like my heart just increased its temperature by thirty degrees. My chest burns with anxiety. “Because I know that you still go with Antwan,” I lie once more. Truthfully, I’m afraid that I may not be able to handle Candice.

  “Me an’ him don’t really talk like dat no more.”

  I sit quietly with no response.

  “So what’s up, man? Is we gon’ go to the movies this weekend or what?”

  Maybe it’s my new high temple-tape haircut. Or maybe it’s my new gear. Or maybe it’s the car and a new surge of coolness. But this all feels great!

  “Friday, Saturday or Sunday?” I ask her.

  “Oh, it don’t matter t’ me. Shit, we can go all three days.” She laughs as we cruise down Fourteenth Street Northwest.

  I let Candice out at the corner of Fourteenth and Harvard Streets, right out in front of her apartment building. “Oh, I’m moving out to Silver Springs next month, ’cause this neighborhood is crazy. I’m tired of all these damn bums, beggin’ an’ shit. You know?”

  She smiles at me and dips her head back inside the car window. “You wanna kiss?”

  I smile, trying my hardest to say anything. But nothing comes out of my mouth but air.

  “Psych. I’m just playin’ wit’chu, you’n. Chill out an’ shit, man. Damn!”

  She winks at me as I watch her awesome body strut off toward her building. And I guess I don’t even have to say it: I have another hard-on.

  * * *

  I use my old key and walk into my mother’s house on Bunker Hill Road Northeast. I’ve parked my car around the corner. I still don’t have the heart or the stupidity to tell her about it.

  “Raymond, is that you?” she hollers from the kitchen, hearing the door close.

  “Yeah, it’s me, Mom!”

  “What took you so long?” she asks me, still from the kitchen. My mother never stops what she’s doing, so she ends up talking at you and around you most of the time. I walk into the kitchen and watch my mother’s slightly rounded form working hard at fixing appetizers for a small get-together she’s having tonight.

  “Everybody’s going to be so proud of you next month when you graduate, boy. I am just so pleased with you.” My mother turns around and faces me momentarily.

  Her red hair and freckles don’t exactly complement the green suit and yellow blouse she’s wearing. But you never tell your mother anything like that, or it’s off with your head.

  “Get on up out of that chair and give your mother a hug, boy!” she says to me.

  I do as she says, embarrassed. I mean, why must she continue to hug me so much? I’m about to graduate from college, and I’m turning twenty-two years old this year for God’s sake!

  “This a nice jean shirt you have on,” she says, looking me over. “How much it cost you?”

  “It ah, was forty dollars, but I got it on sale for twenty-two.”

  “From where?”

  “Marshall’s, up at City Place Mall.”

  “Uh-huh. This is a colorful tie you have on, too. I see a lot of young guys wearing the jean shirts with colorful ties now.” She laughs. “I guess everybody wants the Boyz II Men look.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “So are you gonna participate in the rally for statehood this year?” she asks me, finally letting me go. “You know Jesse Jackson will be there, probably to soak up all the press.” She smiles and gets back to work.

  “Hey, Mom, do I have to stay here long?” I ask her. All she wants to do is show me off to her friends while pinching my cheeks and whatnot.

  She faces me again. “Well, Raymond, honey, a lot of my friends haven’t laid eyes on you in years. Especially since you just had to move away from me and all.”

  I’m not even trying to go there, I’m thinking. We’ve had that discussion a million times before. And I still feel the same—a man has to move out and move on. But you know, I still love my mother. It’s not as if I’m neglecting her or anything.

  When her friends finally get here I go through the regular routine, answering everyone’s questions as I sit innocently as a white dove, dying to be excused.

  By nine o’clock I’m finally allowed to go. I run around the corner through the April rain like a kid on a sunny Saturday morning and hop into my car. I’m heading straight for Marshall’s house. I know all the guys are there. I called them earlier to make sure.

  “Well, look what the rain blew in,” Walt announces when he opens the door for me. He’s dressed in a blue and white Adidas warm-up suit. As I run in out of the rain with no damn umbrella, Marshall and Derrick are playing John Madden’s football game by Nintendo.

  Marshall looks up at me while I stand dripping on his door mat. He smiles at me. “Yo, man, don’t sit down until you finish dryin’ up.”

  Walt laughs, but Derrick remains concentrated.

  I look onto the television screen. “Who’s Dallas?” I ask.

  “Derrick,” Walt answers.

  The Philadelphia team has Dallas thirty-four to ten.

  “No wonder Derrick looks so serious,” I comment.

  Now Marshall laughs. “Yeah, man, this nigga must’ve thought it was a flashback of the Super Bowl, but I ain’t havin’ it.”

  “If it was the Super Bowl, you’d have Buffalo,” Derrick says.

  “Yeah, whatever, man.”

  “Anyway, like I was sayin’, Chris Webber still gon’ be number one draft choice. I mean, that time-out shit was the coach’s fault,” Walt interjects from his usual stretchedout spot on Marshall’s smaller couch. He’s referring to Michigan’s loss to North Carolina for the NCAA Basketball Championship.

  “We’ll see,” Derrick says.

  Marshall shouts, “Yes!” as he runs his quarterback into the end-zone for another score. “You can’t stop Cunningham, boy!”

  Derrick looks increasingly frustrated.

  “Ay, yo, you hear about Randall Cunningham’s wedding to some tall, light-skinned girl? You’n, dat nigga spent like eight hundred thousand dollars,” Walt informs us.

  “Yeah, that don’t even make no sense,” Marshall responds.

  Derrick is still speechless.

  “I mean, wit’ all the homeless people all around the world, and he gon’ spend a million dollars for a damn wedding day!” Marshall adds distastefully.

  “Look, fuck that! If you got the money, you can do what’chu you wanna do. Fuck them homeless people! They can’t play ball!”

  Still looking on from the doorway, I shake my head and smile at Walt’s frankness.

  “That’s typical of Walt to say,” Derrick finally says. “Aw, man, you just mad ’cause you gettin’ dat ass whipped.”

  We all giggle except for Derrick. “Aw’ight, man, shit! You won,” he says, tossing the controller to the floor.

  “Yo, man, what’chu tryin’a break my shit?” Marshall responds angrily.

  Walt cracks up. “That nigga a sore loser.”

  “Whatever,” Derrick says. He stretches out on the longer couch, where we usually sit.

  Walt peers at m
e. “Ay, man, sit ya ass down, you’n. Don’t let that nigga have you standin’ around like a bamma. Fuck Marshall!”

  I smile and take a seat next to Derrick.

  “So where you been at, Wes?” Derrick asks me.

  “Yeah, I heard you got a slammin’-ass Acura Integra now. What’s up wit’ dat, Wes? You holdin’ out on ya boys or what?” Walt says.

  Everybody quiets down and stares at me, waiting for my response.

  I let out a weak sigh. “It’s a long story.”

  “We ain’t goin’ nowhere. We got all damn night,” Walt says with a smile. He stretches his legs further out from the couch and clutches his big hands behind his head.

  “I’m a bookkeeper,” I admit. But nobody says anything, so I continue, “Butterman wants me to make entries on all the money coming in and going out. Plus I helped him set up a bank account under a fictitious company name.”

  I sit uneasily as the room turns into a morgue.

  Walt clears his throat. “So I guess you gettin’ paid now, huh?”

  “I mean, it wasn’t like I really planned it.”

  “Hey, fuck it, Joe. Money is money.” Walt seems to be the only one speaking to me now.

  Derrick stares. “Is this what you wanna do with your life, man?”

  Walt sucks his teeth. “Aw, Derrick, man, he gettin’ it on, Joe, gettin’ paid. What da hell is you talkin’ about?”

  “Well, let him answer the question himself then,” Derrick says.

  “Look, it’s just a meantime thing. I mean, it’s not permanent or nothing. I mean, a lot of big business people started off illegal and then went straight,” I respond. “It’s not that big a deal, to me. Well, at first it was, but not anymore.”

  “When you get shot-up in the crossfire, then it’s gon’ be a big deal,” Marshall says from his usual spot on his blue floor rug. I feel like going back home now. I knew that this would happen. But I couldn’t expect to dodge them forever.

  “Aw, y’all sound like a bunch’a girls. Wes ain’t out there sellin’ drugs. He’s just a bookkeeper, like he said,” Walt defends.

  And I know I’m wrong if Walt is defending me.