by Omar Tyree
I clean up to get ready for the movies. Then my phone rings.
“Hello.”
“Come get me,” NeNe demands.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m going to the movies with my friends tonight. I mean, we’ve been together this whole past week.”
She sighs. “Look, I don’t feel like arguin’ anymore, okay.” Now she sounds hurt. “I mean, my aunt been gettin’ on my nerves as it is, an’ I jus’ wanted to be with you instead of hearin’ her runnin’ her damn mouth at me.”
“What did you do?”
“I ain’t do shit!” she says like I should know better than to accuse her. “She jus’ been grouchy ’cause dis bamma-ass nigga she wit’ don’t treat her right, an’ den she gon’ get all in my face about what I ain’t doin’ right, man. Sick of her! She gettin’ jus’ like my mother.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“I want you ta come get me, Wes. Come on, man, I’ll go to the movies wit’chall. I need to get out.”
“We went out all last week, NeNe.”
“So! I mean, damn, man, I’m ya girl. Don’t that mean somethin’ to you? Come on, Wes. Come get me.”
I sigh. “All right.”
She gets excited. “Okay, I’m gettin’ ready now. Like, how long it’s gon’ take you?”
“At least an hour and a half.”
“An hour an’ a half? Aw, you gots ta be crazy, you’n! I can’t stay in here that damn long with her. Shit! I can catch the Metro for all that.”
Well, catch it then, dammit! You driving me crazy!
“Look, I have to wait for my friend to pick me up. Okay?”
“What happened to ya car?”
“I was in an accident earlier. I totaled it. So we’ll have to ride with my friends tonight.”
She gives a long sigh. “Oh my God!” She sucks her teeth. “Man, damn. How you do that?”
“This car hit me from the blind side. This guy was speeding while I was making a left turn.”
“Where at?”
“On Florida Avenue.”
She pauses. I figure it’s better to lie to her about it than to tell her that I’m planning to sell it.
“Well, you got insurance, right? So you can get da money and buy another one. You can get a new Honda Civic like my girlfriend got. Them joints is like dat!”
Damn, now she sounds excited again! I wasn’t even thinking about her jumping to conclusions like this. She thinks a lot quicker than I give her credit for.
“So what do you want me to do?” I ask, referring to picking her up again.
“Umm, pick me up from my girlfriend’s house down’na street. You know the one, right?”
“Yeah, I know. The house with the green fence around their lawn.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay then. An hour and a half.”
“And hurry up, too. Okay?”
“All right.”
“Promise me.”
“NeNe? Don’t.”
She sucks her teeth. “Dag, man, you ain’t no fun sometimes, Joe. I mean, I still gotta work on loosenin’ you up a li’l bit.”
“Yeah, whatever.” I hang up and smile to myself. I don’t know why I like NeNe’s ways more than I like Sybil’s. It’s weird, because Sybil is so much more thoughtful than NeNe. I guess NeNe’s childish adventures keep me on an exciting edge no matter how pissed off she makes me sometimes. I mean, you really need some type of spirited energy to keep a relationship going, you know? And I think that’s what NeNe and I have right now.
* * *
I know the guys are not too happy about this. I can tell by the lack of conversation there is inside the car. But they are satisfied with my good news. And I briefed them on the lie I told NeNe about the car. So we’re all planning to psych her out.
“We’re very talkative t’day, aren’t we?” she says sarcastically, sitting in the back seat between Walt and me.
Everyone chuckles.
“Yeah, you done messed up our guy talk,” Walt says from her right. I’m sitting on her left and Derrick is in the passenger’s seat.
NeNe smiles. “If it’s a man thang, it’s a maaan thang!” she says, imitating Martin Lawrence. She receives more chuckles from us.
“Yo, you should save some of that money and get a used car, Wes,” Derrick says, starting it off.
“What?” NeNe responds radically. “No, we don’t ride in used cars.”
“Well, everybody can’t afford a new car,” Derrick argues.
“Wes can,” she retorts, winking an eye at me.
“Why you say dat?” Marshall asks her from the wheel.
“’Cause Wes got it like dat, Joe.”
“You do, Wes?” Walt asks me over her head.
NeNe looks him in the face. “Shit! All he gotta do is pay wit’ da insurance money. That’s what insurance is for. I know. My sister been in, like, three accidents.”
Walt giggles. “She can’t drive too good, huh?” We all laugh at it. But NeNe doesn’t.
“That shit ain’t funny! That’s my damn sista!”
“He didn’t mean it like that,” I tell her.
“So?”
Walt shakes his head and looks out his window. We all sit quietly again as we head toward the Union Station parking lot. I guess my plan for the guys to help me talk NeNe out of buying a new car has hit rock bottom and drowned.
“So what are we planning to see?” I ask the group. We walk into Union Station and ride the escalators down to the bottom level where the theaters are.
“Indecent Proposal, shawdy!” NeNe answers. “That joint is gon’ be like dat!”
“We saw that already,” Marshall responds to her.
NeNe peers at him. “Well, I didn’t, and y’all can go see what y’all wanna see. But that’s what I wanna see.” She grabs onto my left arm as we walk into the crowded lines past all the high-priced food stands. I haven’t seen Indecent Proposal either. And I must say, it has a very contemporary plot.
Walt suddenly shields me and looks with big eyes. “Yo, go get in that other line,” he says urgently.
I read him without verbal response and move quickly with NeNe’s hand.
“Where we goin’?”
“In the other line,” I tell her. I look in the direction of Walt alarmingly.
Oh God! Please help me out of this one! It’s Candice.
Walt grabs onto both of her arms, trying to talk to her as I try to ease further into the crowd.
“What’chu doin’? We in line already,” NeNe says, resisting my nervous pulls. But I think Candice has spotted me already anyway. She’s heading this way now with Walt still trying to detain her. Marshall and Derrick are both staring helplessly. I guess everything happened a little too quickly for them.
“Ay, Wes, what’s up?” Candice says to me. She’s eyeing NeNe skeptically.
NeNe looks, leaning with her back to my chest and her hands reaching back for mine.
“Hi, Candice,” is all that I can say. I feel like I’m about to hyperventilate.
Candice says demandingly, “Can I speak to you for a second?”
“Who you?” NeNe asks protectively, while not letting me go.
Candice X-rays her. “Look, I wasn’t talkin’ t’ you, okay?” She’s about three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than NeNe.
NeNe shouts, “Well, bitch, I’m talkin’ t’ you!”
Oh, please help me, God! I pull NeNe back as I feel them ready to attack each other. Walt grabs Candice. And now there’s drama inside Union Station with all the nosy instigators gathering.
“Yo, Wes, come on, man!” Marshall shouts, pushing through the crowd.
I halfway pick NeNe up and carry her as I tug her along with me.
“Get off me, Wes! I ain’t afraid’a dat bitch!”
“Let her ass go then!” Candice yells back from Walt’s arms.
“Yeah, let her go, you’n!” I hear somebody shout w
ith giggles. “Let ’em get dat shit on!”
I pull NeNe through the crowd forcefully, while Marshall rushes to the car in front of us.
Once we get outside, NeNe breaks my hold and walks ahead of me in anguish. Then she whirls around.
“So who da fuck was that, Wes?”
“A friend from school.”
“Yeah, right!”
She faces me in her blue jeans and her red-and-white polka-dotted spring sweater. A black leather bag dangles carelessly from her right shoulder. More people are staring as they head to and from Union Station in the cool night breeze. I guess they picture this as a free screenplay.
I rush up to her and lead her back behind Marshall to the car. Derrick and Walt are still inside Union Station, hopefully holding back the fort until we can get out of here.
“Get off of me!” NeNe shouts. She breaks free and walks stubbornly by herself and hops in the front seat. She says to Marshall, “Take me to my girlfriend’s house. And I ain’t got shit t’ say to you, Wes!” she yells while slamming the door.
Marshall looks at her, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Look, you’re overreacting. She just wanted to speak to me,” I plead.
“Overreactin’ shit! I saw how she was lookin’. She ain’t jus’ no fuckin’ friend! And I said I ain’t got shit t’ say to you!”
“Oh my God! I don’t believe you,” I continue pleading over the back seat. Marshall’s already made it across the H Street Bridge on our way to take her to her girlfriend’s house off of Benning Road in Northeast. NeNe’s friend lives about six houses down the street from her and her aunt.
I sit paralyzed as NeNe sticks to her words. She even jumps out and slams the door without a look back when we pull up in front of her girlfriend’s house.
I lean my head into Marshall’s back seat as we head back toward Union Station.
“So what now, Wes?” Marshall asks with a slight grin. I guess he can’t help it.
I sigh. “Go home and cry into my pillow.”
Marshall’s cheeks rise for a fuller smile. “So you like her all that much, man? I mean, she pretty as shit—don’t get me wrong—but she acts like a damn kid. You wanna girl like that for real?”
I chuckle. “You know what? To tell you the truth, I don’t think I can help it now. I think I’ve gotten used to her.”
Marshall just shakes his head, maintaining his silly grin.
Butterman
“Look, man, things are getting kind of rough right now, and I’m down to my last four ounces, so it’s simple economics to charge more for my last product. I mean, I could break these last four ounces down myself and sell them as eight-balls, halves, and quarters and make more money than I could selling them to you as full-ass ounces. I mean, I gotta charge you more for my last shit, Ralph. It ain’t nothin’ personal, pal. It’s jus’ straight business.”
I got my right arm wrapped around this white boy’s shoulder out in Montgomery County. We’re standing inside of his garage, where his father’s sky-blue Corvette is parked beside Ralph’s black 300 ZX.
Ralph shakes his blond, crew-cut head. His face is all pink and shit from trying to debate with me. He has two of his boys standing to the side, and I got Shank with me at the garage entrance, chilling with his .45 inside his belt. But I’m packing too now. I got this pretty-ass nickel-plated .32 inside my belt.
Ralph shakes his head. “I just don’t know, man. I mean, I understand your situation and all, Butchy, but hell, man, fifteen hundred is a hell of a lot of money for an ounce.”
I sigh. “Look, man, as soon as things cool down, then I can sell ’em to you for twelve hundred again. I mean, you gon’ make your money back, and I gotta make sure I make mine. So what you do is just tell your people that there’s a drug price war going on because of the summertime rollin’ around and all.”
Ralph looks to his two boys to our right. These white niggas don’t look too convinced. But I’m leaving with at least twenty-eight hundred for these two ounces. Shit! Maybe I should make the pitch now.
“Aw’ight, yo . . . gi’me twenty-eight for the two ounces, and I’ll cut you a break next time. Aw’ight?”
Ralph’s dark-haired boy shakes his head. “Man, ounces are going for a straight grand everywhere where I’ve bought them.”
I look to Ralph and frown. “Ay, Ralph, would you tell this guy my shit is straight from New York, man? I got the raw cut!”
Ralph nods his head, agreeing with me. “Yeah, dude, his stuff is pretty legit.”
His dark-haired boy hunches his shoulders. “All right then, if you say it’s legit.”
“Great! Hey, Charlie,” Ralph says to his short, brown-haired boy.
All three of these white boys are dressed like B-boys: extra large jeans, dancehall shoes, and cool, colorful sweatshirts. I met these white boys through Pervis out at the go-go in Maryland. Rare Essence was playing, and since everybody was calling me B, I just told these white boys that it stood for Butchy. But it irritates me when they keep saying it.
Shank alerts himself while Charlie goes to get the money.
“What’s up, man?” Ralph says to him.
Shank nods his head, standing with no expression like a hitman is supposed to do.
Ralph takes out a cigarette and offers me one.
“Naw, man, I’on fuck around wit’ no Camels or no Marlboros. Them joints is for you white boys.”
Ralph shoves them at me anyway. “Naw, man, what’s this shit about white or black? Go ’head, man, take one.”
I laugh it off. “Naw, we only smoke Kools, Newports, and sometimes Salems.”
Ralph thinks for a minute as he drags and blows. His dark-haired boy lights up one too.
Ralph says, “You know, all them you just named have green labels. You think it’s some kind of connection there?”
We all laugh. Even Shank is giggling. This white boy lunchin’.
Dark-haired boy says, “Ralph, you’re bugged, man. We gotta get you checked out.”
Charlie comes back with a shoebox. Shank straightens up and gets serious. Charlie gives it to me. I open it up and count the cake.
“Yup, it’s all here.” I make a move for the garage entrance toward my 3000. Shank covers me while Ralph tastes the blow off his finger.
He nods with a pink smile. “All right then, man. And remember you said you’d cut us a deal on the next one, right?”
I hop in my 3000 with Shank. “Yeah, man, I got’chu.”
“Peace,” Ralph’s dark-haired boy says. He throws up his index and middle finger and spreads them.
“Aw’ight. I’ll hit’chall back.”
Shank frowns and shakes his head. I put the stick in reverse and back down the driveway.
“What’s wrong, Shank? We jus’ made a killin’ off them dumb niggas.”
“Hmm. White boy talkin’ ’bout some peace. We’d have much peace if we kill them ma’fuckas. Much-ass peace.”
“Ay, man, cut dat shit out. A whole lot of white people are cool. I mean, you startin’ ta sound racist. Us niggas ain’t racist, are we?”
I start to laugh at my own joke. But I guess Shank doesn’t get the humor because he ain’t even smiling.
“Fuck dem white boys, you’n! Fuck ’em all.”
I look over to him. “Now, you mean ta tell me dat you ain’t never been around no cool-ass white people?”
Shank looks back at me. “You prob’ly been. But white people don’t treat us poor, jet-black niggas like they’a treat ya rich, light-bright ass.”
I laugh at the shit. But he’s only half right. “Yo, they’ll just rather deal with me than with you, but they don’t like neither one of us. And that’s on’na real tip, Joe.”
Shank smiles. “Yeah, so like I said, fuck ’em all.”
We both chuckle as I jump on the Beltway back to D.C. I’d rather have Shank with me than them other two cheesy-ass niggas I hired. Them niggas talk too much. They would have tried to get all cool with them white
boys. I don’t need to hang out with no white boys. I just want their easy-ass money. White people buy weight like a motherfucker!
I drive Shank down to our new meeting place off of Missouri Avenue and up from Emery Park. Steve, Otis, and these two criminal niggas, Jerry and Boo, are all down here waiting for us, on time.
I pull up with Shank and hop out. “Yo, we got two ounces left to sell, and I’m gon’ cut ’em down into twenty eight-balls for one-sixty a piece.”
“One-sixty? That price is kind of high, ain’t it?” this big-mouthed nigga Jerry asks me.
I wanna tell you’n to stick his monster-looking ass to beating down and killing people and leave the damn business to me!
“That’s only ten dollars more than we been sellin’ ’em for. Niggas out here can stand it. They know our product is good. Our shit keeps customers, Joe!” Steve tells him.
“Yeah, good shit will keep these fiends comin’, you’n. That’s the sho’ nuff!” Boo says with his crooked-ass grin. I mean, these two thug niggas look like they straight out the comic books. They’re dressed all raggedy and shit. I’d hang out with Shank over them any damn day.
I look to see how smooth Shank looks in his blue Polo gear and Nikes. He’s staring down the block as if he’s bored. His black-ass skin is shining like he oiled it. For real! He a straight Big Daddy Kane-looking nigga, but shorter with a smoother face.
“Yo, Shank, you want me ta drop you off at Super Trak before I cut the shit up for these niggas, you’n?”
He nods and walks back to the car. “Let’s roll.”
These niggas are looking on like they’re jealous of him. But they don’t want him to catch them looking. Shank has them sharp-ass, penetrating eyes that can kill you from just looking at them.
“Aw’ight den, gang. I’ll be back in sixty.”
I hop in with Shank and roll to Fifth Street. It’s the quickest way to get to Rhode Island. Then again, I could take North Capitol. So I make a left toward North Capitol instead.
I notice Shank been more quiet than usual lately. I wonder what’s on his mind.
“Yo, what’chu thinkin’ ’bout, man?”
He takes out his Trends of Culture tape from his jacket pocket and puts it inside my system, stopping the radio from playing this new TLC song, “Hat 2 Da Back.” But he still doesn’t answer me. That “Off & On” rap comes on. Shank just leans into my leather seat as if he’s melting into the bass of this hype-ass song. I guess he’s still thinking about this rap shit. But that ain’t nothing new. He always has a slammin’-ass tape on him.