by Omar Tyree
She looks up at me with tears in her eyes. “Why not? Because you don’t think that you could have me?”
Oh my God! Do you believe dis shit? I mean, as stuck up as most of these Howard girls is, she gon’ sit in here and cry on me jus’ ’cause I’m bein’ truthful.
I ain’t saying nothing to that.
“Yo, what’s up with the lasagna?” I ask her, just to get off of the subject.
She gets up without speaking to me and walks out into the kitchen. I guess she’s trying to make me feel guilty. Fuck that shit though! I’m not sweating her over that petty shit. That’s for punks.
I push all of her stuff off the bed and lay back and chill like I usually do. And if she got anything to say about it, then I’m leaving. I mean, fuck her! You know what I’m saying? Ain’t no girl driving me crazy!
Carlette comes back in the room. I’m waiting for her to say some off-the-wall-type shit. Then I’m breaking out. Hell if she think she got me on a string. I ain’t no damn yo-yo.
I get ready for her to say something about me pushing her books on the floor. But she lies down beside me and doesn’t say shit. She’s staring up at the ceiling.
“What’s wrong wit’chu?”
She still says nothing to me.
“Oh, you gon’ ignore me now, huh?”
She rolls over on me and hugs me, burying her face into my neck. “I’m not no bitch, and I still like you,” she says.
I’m smiling like a motherfucker! And I feel like laughing, but I’m not. I mean, can you believe this? This girl must really like me! And this shit feels kind of good to me.
“Fuck it,” I tell her. “You cool wit’ me an’ shit, too. Aw’ight?”
She mumbles, “Mm-hmm.”
I hug her back real hard. She must really like me. I still can’t believe it.
Butterman
“Yo, you wanna race that shit up on V Street, you’n?”
I look to my left. This grinning, dark-skinned nigga is leaning over his passenger’s seat in a yellow RX-7. He got the ’93 model. I guess he must think that car is pretty fast.
“Naw, man, I’on fuck around like that.”
“Fifty dollars.”
“Naw.”
He shakes his head and smiles. The light turns green and you’n jets out like he’s at the Indy 500.
“See ya!”
Yeah, fuck you. Dumb nigga must don’t have shit else to do. But I do.
I get up Georgia Ave to pick up Steve for this late-night trip to New York. Steve’s out here talking to some tall, skinny, brown-skinned girl on the sidewalk. I double park and blow my horn and wait for him. He runs over to the car and hops in smiling.
“Yo, you’n, I was jus’ ’bout to get me some ass. But I’ll jus’ catch that ho later on.”
I look him over. He’s wearing a gold Champion hoodie and black jeans. And Joe needs a damn haircut.
“You can’t get no better girls than her, man?” I ask him.
He looks at me confused. “Ay, look here, you’n, e’rybody ain’t the man like you. I thought you knew dat shit.”
I don’t respond to him. I’m too busy thinking about my money situation. I mean, the cake is rolling in, but these niggas in New York been having problems. The weather is getting hot, so young’uns are acting crazy everywhere.
“Why you all quiet t’day, B?”
I shake my head as we speed on I-95 North. “Shit is fuckin’ up, man. These niggas down here got us makin’ runs t’ white boys out in Maryland, and my boys up in New York is havin’ damn shootouts.”
“I thought you said it was good bi’ness wit’ ’em white boys out in Maryland.”
“Oh, it is. But sometimes it’s hard to trust ’em white boys. You know, sometimes ’em white niggas get all fucked up and do stupid stuff, like tellin’ people who they dealin’ wit’. That’s why I told ’em my name is Butchy.”
“Butchy?” Steve laughs and shakes his head. “Man, you’n, the way I figure, it’s better to deal wit’ dese white boys, ’cause at least they ain’t out here tryin’a stick you up like niggas do.”
I nod my head and push my 3000 to ninety.
Steve looks over to me. “Ay, man, is you tryin’a get a ticket or what?”
I look to my car clock. It reads 9:31. “Naw, man, I’m jus’ tryin’a get up here and back as fast as possible.”
“Yo, I heard you was up Deno’s last week?” Steve asks me. We all the way in Baltimore already.
“Yeah, I was up in’nere.”
“Was Northeast Groovers up in’nere?”
“Yeah.”
He nods his head, smiling. “Dey like dat, ain’t they, you’n?”
“Yeah, they aw’ight.”
He takes a tape out of his hoodie pocket and puts it in my system.
“Yo, don’t play that shit yet. I like this Super Cat song.”
Steve smiles at me. And that ain’t no pretty sight. For real!
“Yo, man, you needs ta stop smokin’,” I tell him.
He leans over and looks at his teeth in my mirror. “Yeah, I know. But that nicotine is somethin’ else, man. It’s hard as hell t’ stop smokin’. And I been doin’ da shit since I was fourteen.”
“Yeah, aw’ight, but shut up for a while. I can’t hear myself think.”
Steve looks at me like he’s shocked. Then he bats his eyes at me like them cartoon women do. “Okay, Butterman. Anything you say, baby.”
I shake my head and smile. “You lunchin’ like shit, man. Now shut da hell up and put that N.E.G. tape in.”
“Yeah, you’n, ’cause dis shit is slammin’!”
We get up in Brooklyn and park the car in front of these brownstone apartment houses around the corner from my connection people.
“I thought you said them niggas is aroun’ da corner,” Steve says.
I never took him to New York with me before. He’s as nervous as I was when Bink first brought me up here.
I grin at him as he feels for the .25 pistol I gave him last year. He has it stuffed under his hoodie and inside the front of his jeans.
“It’s cool, man. These niggas know me,” I tell him. We hop out my 3000 surrounded by these Brooklyn, Brownsville boys flooding the steps and the corners.
That’s how shit gets in the spring and summertime.
Everybody comes out. “Yo, what’s up, G?”
I shake a hand and nod. “Yo, what’s up, man?”
“Ain’t nuttin’. Jus’ maxin’, you know.”
Me and Steve walk by as more Brooklynites nod their heads to me. I don’t know if a lot of these young’uns really like me, but as long as they don’t try to carry me I ain’t really worried about it.
We pull up to my connection spot. This light brown nigga steps up in military fashion. He’s dressed in all brown and even wearing a Cleveland Browns football cap.
“What up?”
I don’t notice him. I’ve never seen him before. And my heart is racing like shit. But I can’t let this nigga know.
“Yo, man, is Ted an’em here?” I ask him, keeping my cool stance.
Steve has his eyes glued to me to see how I’m responding.
You’n asks, “Who you?”
“Butterman.”
He looks me over. “Wait out here.”
“Aw’ight.”
I expect for you’n to run inside the crib and get Ted or somebody I know, but he’s just sitting here in front of us as if he forgot what the fuck I said.
“Umm, yo, G, is he here or what?” I ask him. I’m trying to sound like these New Yorkers to cool this nigga out.
He looks at me real fucking hard like Shank would. Then he pulls out a nickel-plated gun like he’s Clint Eastwood. “I said wait da fuck right here, nigga!”
Oh my God! This shit might be it! I’m thinking.
Steve ain’t budged to try and reach for his .25. And it’s a good thing he’s not, because this nigga could shoot both of us five times before Steve could get his gun out. Then
again, he coulda shot this nigga through his hoodie. But I don’t even know if Steve has his hands on his gun. All I’m seeing is his chest rising for oxygen.
“Yo, Pete, them niggas cool, G,” somebody says. But I’m too stiff to try and see who it is.
Pete keeps his gun out and looks to Steve. “Lift that shit up.” He’s pointing his gun directly at Steve’s stomach, where the .25 is.
Oh my God, oh my God!
I’m taking a longshot to save our lives. Maybe Joe is a bodyguard like Shank is to me. Maybe he won’t shoot us. Maybe he just wants to see if Steve is packing a gun like Shank always does with niggas.
Steve blinks at me like he’s about to faint.
“Yo, man, go ’head and show ’im your gun. I mean, it’s cool like that. Ted knows me like that, you’n.”
When I say “you’n,” Pete looks at me strangely.
Shit! I fucked up! Now this nigga knows we’re not from around here!
Steve lifts up his hoodie and shows dude the gun. Pete steps in closer. “Get’cha fuckin’ hands up!” He takes the .25 out from inside Steve’s pants.
Goddamn! I ain’t been through no shit like this since that night I got robbed out in Southwest D.C., two years ago. That was right before me, Red, Tub, and DeShawn went to war with these Southwest crew niggas. And Tub messed around and got shot and killed that night. Maybe now it’s my turn.
“Yo-o-o, it’s cool, Pete!” I hear a familiar voice saying. This dude named Bones comes down from the crib and shakes my hand. He’s a thick-built brown dude wearing all black Levi’s denim and some brown shoes. He looks back to Pete, who still has Steve’s gun in his hand. “Yo, gi’dat nigga gun back, man. He cool.”
Pete gives the gun back hesitantly. “Yeah, a’ight, hopps. I’on know who da fuck these niggas is.”
Bones nods to him. “I got it.” He leads us inside. “Yo, shit is beefed up right now, G, ’cause these wild-ass kids rolled around here sprayin’ shit up yesterday.” He smiles to me. “You know how people act when it gets hot.”
I smile back, feeling relieved. These New Yorkers call anybody a “kid” if they’re not from their crew.
Ted walks out in blue jeans and a T-shirt looking dead serious. He shakes his head to me. “Yo, man, this the wrong-ass day t’ come up dis ma’fucka, G. My man Mark got shot up yesterday, and we ’bout to go huntin’ after these niggas like Schwarzenegger.”
“Damn, so you ain’t got no ki’s for sell?”
“Hell, naw. Not right now. We tryin’a move our shit out before the police and the DEA start crackin’ down on a nigga. They hit these kids from Fort Greene for like four ki’s last week.” He shakes his head. “Yo, I ain’t gotta tell you shit, hopps. That’s a hun’nit fuckin’ Gs, and some! You know?”
I nod. “Yeah, niggas is actin’ up in D.C., too.”
Ted nods back. “Yup. It’s that jealousy and greed, man. Word. I mean, it don’t matter how cool you is in’nis ma’fuckin’ biz’ness, G, niggas is always out t’ take you under.”
Steve nods his head. “That’s just what I was tellin’ B earlier.”
Everybody looks at Steve as if he wasn’t supposed to say nothing. And I think he gets the message: Shut the fuck up while we’re talking business.
“Anyway, man, when you think we be able t’ get this shit back on?” I ask Ted.
He sighs and runs his hands through his New York style Afro. “Man, I can’t call it. The way things been goin’, I might fuck around and be dead or in jail next time you come up here. You know what I’m sayin’, G?” He laughs as if it’s a joke. But I’m not laughing at that shit. That shit sound serious.
He says, “Yo, hook back up wit’ Bink. Bink got some connections down in Virginia now.”
“Yeah, he tol’ me.”
“Oh, word?” Ted hunches his shoulders. “Well, that’s all I can tell you right now, man.”
He shakes my hand. And ain’t no sense in me hanging around if these niggas are in war mode. I mean, you should see this damn crib! It’s like eight dudes sitting around loading up guns and shit in the dining room and in the kitchen. Me, Ted, and Steve are out here in the living room. And it looks like they moved most of the furniture out already.
I look in Ted’s eyes. “Aw’ight then, man, I’ll see you when I see you.”
“A’ight den, G.”
Me and Steve head back outside, past this nigga Pete and around the corner to the car. Steve hops in and sits quiet until we cross the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan.
“Yo, you’n?” He shakes his head. “I ain’t never goin’ back to that muthafucka, you’n. Fuck them New York niggas. Them niggas is crazy. Dude wit’ da gun reminded me of Shank, Joe! So you can take Shank back up there. Fuck that! My New York trips is retired!”
“You crazy as hell, Joe!” I shout back at him. “I’m only usin’ Shank for strickly killin’ niggas. ’Cause if that would’ve been Shank up there wit’ me . . . man, we prob’ly would’ve been dead. For real! ’Cause Shank prob’ly wouldn’t have went for that give-up-ya-gun shit.”
“So what’chu think you would’a did in dat situation, Shank?”
* * *
It’s two days later. Me and Shank are sitting inside my 3000 waiting for Bink out on Martin Luther King Avenue and Portland Street in Southeast D.C.
Shank laughs. “Yo, man, niggas can tell if you scared. Steve was prob’ly ’bout t’ shit on himself. But it ain’t nothin’ you can do if a nigga got his gun out before you, but die. Especially if this guy was as serious as y’all say he was.”
I nod my head. “Yeah, he was serious, aw’ight.”
Bink heads back over to the car after talking to his crew.
“Yo, is that Mighty?” Shank asks him.
“Yeah.”
Shank nods. “Yo, let me get out and fuck wit’ dat nigga.”
Him and Bink trade seats in the passenger’s side of my car.
“B, ride aroun’nis corna so I can see if this girl is out here,” Bink says.
“Aw’ight, let me tell Shank.”
I holler over to Shank. He’s out here slap-boxing with Bink’s boy, Mighty.
“Yo, Shank!” I wait for him to look over to me. “We be right back, man!”
“Aw’ight, nigga, I ain’t’cha bitch! Do what you gotta do!”
I smile and get back in the car. “Yo, that boy Shank be lunchin’, man. But I feel safe as hell wit’ dat nigga. An’ dat boy still a teenager.”
“Boy got heart,” Bink says point-blank.
We ride back down MLK Ave and make a left into these light-brown-colored apartment buildings. Southeast has, like, a million apartment buildings. So I guess Bink is right. This shit is like New York.
This young, tan-skinned girl runs over to the car after noticing Bink in his blue velvet hat and gold-framed, lenseless glasses. He just wears them joints for sport.
“Is your sista in’na house?” he asks her.
“Yeah, she in’nere,” the young girl tells him.
“Well, tell her Bink out here t’ see her.”
“So what’s been up, man?” I ask him, watching the girl run to her building.
Bink looks me over. “You, shawdy. You da man. You been gettin’ popular as shit the last couple of months. Niggas been talkin’ ’bout you all the way out in Howard County.”
I smile. “Stop playin’, you’n.”
“Psych, naw. But for real though, you gettin’ too big too fast, man. And as friend to a friend, brother, once a nigga gets too big, it ain’t nowhere he can go but back down. ’Cause you know why. This still the white man’s land. Now go ask Rayful Edmonds.”
“Damn, I ain’t heard nobody mention his name in a while.”
“Yeah, Rayful Edmonds was the man in D.C. And soon as that nigga went down and got locked up in like eighty-nine, a million, zillion ma’fuckas wanted to take over. It ain’t been no peace in D.C. since.”
“Yeah, but my game ain’t nowhere near his! Nobody’s shit is!”
> Bink smiles at me. “It’s ninety-three, baby. It don’t matter no more. If you doin’ anything, people wanna know about it. And most of these young’uns act like they done lost their damn minds.”
“So what’chu tryin’a tell me? You ain’t gon’ hook me up wit’ dat Virginia deal?”
He smiles again, teasing me and shit. “Me and my boy Dave was back Georgetown wit’ some weed last weekend—right? We had like three ounces. Sold it all to them white boys up there and came back with, like, eight hundred dollars. Now, of course, wit’ blow, you can flip more money faster. But right now, weed is the hip thing to do.”
“So you tellin’ me t’ hook up with some weed?”
“Naw, I ain’t tellin’ you shit. I’m jus’ suggestin’. ’Cause see, with all the crazy shit goin’ on with the blow and all these young’uns runnin’ ’round shootin’ up each other, and then them damn jump-out boys arrestin’ ma’fuckas, shit is a lot safer right now if you sell weed, you know?”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
This older, tan-skinned girl comes out of the house wearing an all-orange body suit, big earrings, high curls, and gold shoes.
“Damn, man! That girl looks like she can glow in’na dark.”
Bink laughs. “She does.”
“Hey, shaw’, you still takin’ me to the movies one of these days?” She’s leaning into the open window on the passenger’s side.
I’m watching the nice-sized titties and the big ass on this girl. I guess now Bink gon’ mess around and make me want some pussy tonight. Maybe I can give Latrell a call. She been calling me up complaining about me being too busy to fuck with her anymore.
“Ay? Ay? Ay, boy?”
“Who you talkin’ to?” I respond. I was daydreaming about some ass out the opposite window while this girl was calling me, trying to get my attention.
“Ain’t’cha name Butterman, shaw’?” She has gum in her mouth. She’s chewing it like she really wants something else to munch on. And if Bink don’t get this girl in check, she might end up being with me tonight.
“Yeah, that’s what they call me.”
She looks me over and smiles. “Well, damn, shawdy, you sure look as good as they say you do.”