Capital City

by Omar Tyree

  “Don’t even say it,” she tells me.

  I smile. “But you do.”

  “No. She looks like me.”

  I chuckle. “She like ten years older than ya ass.”

  “Well, at least I don’t have any freckles like her.”

  I just smile at the shit as we get through Delaware and cruise into Philly. I direct Carlette to Market Street. When we get to Eighth and Market in downtown Philadelphia, I get her to pull over so I can get all this stuff out. I got five bags, $19,500 dollars, and five guns to sell once I get to Jersey. But I’ll probably keep this wooden-handled .45. This gun is pretty like shit!

  Once all my stuff is on the sidewalk, I hail a taxi. It only has to take me around the corner about five blocks to the Trailways/Greyhound station. But Carlette don’t know.

  She hugs me out in front of her car after me and this black taxi driver gets all my bags in. I’m wondering if Carlette can feel this .45 in my belt, under my hoodie, since she hugs me so tight. But if she does, she ain’t saying nothing about it. And I changed my mind about giving her this .22 I got. It’s too many guns out here for nothing already.

  “So, you gon’ call me so I can come up to visit you?” She don’t look too excited while she asks me. I guess she feels like I’m leaving her or something and that I won’t ever talk to her again.

  I grab her gently by the neck. “If I hear about you being with another nigga, I’m gon’ go crazy.” I give her the envelope from inside my hoodie with five hundred dollars in it. Like they say, it’s the thought that counts, and she don’t need no money as much as I need it.

  She hugs me again and kisses my lips. She hops inside the car. I walk over to her driver’s side to look down at her. She looks back up at me with stars in her eyes. I guess she really loves me.

  I smile at her. “I do you, too,” I tell her.

  She smiles back. “Why can’t you say the words?”

  I look at her seriously. “I have to learn to. But it’ll probably be you that I say it to.”

  She smiles even wider. “I hope so.”

  I nod my head and walk over to get inside this taxi before dude starts cussing me out or some shit.

  I watch Carlette’s blue Toyota ride past. I’m sitting here on my way back to Jersey after all these years, to stay. But I ain’t staying that long. As soon as Cal graduates from high school next month, we’re going to New York.

  * * *

  I pack up on a New Jersey Transit Line bus to Trenton. I had problems getting all of my bags on here, so I put some of my less valuable-type shit inside them lockers for storage. I can just ride back down and pick it up tomorrow.

  I lean back into the cushioned bus seats and chill. Like Ice Cube would say, “Today was a good day.”

  I’m smiling like a motherfucker. These other passengers probably think I’m crazy. But fuck them! Ain’t none of them niggas just went through the shit I had to go through to get here today. So fuck them niggas. This my goddamn life.

  Damn, though. I wish I had bought a magazine or something to read while I’m on here. Everybody’s talking about Snoop Doggy Dogg. And that boy ain’t even got his own hits out yet. That’s some powerful shit to get all that damn press with no fucking album. I wish I could have my shit like that. But I got a whole lot of work to do before I get that big, if ever.

  One thing’s for sure though. Like Maya Angelou, I know why the caged bird sings too. Because his ass wants to fly. And the man ain’t gon’ get my damn wings. My ass gon’ fly-y-y-y like a motherfucker.

  ’Cause I’m blacker than black, ’cause I’m black, y’all.

  I’m on here trippin’. That’s from that CB4 movie with Allen Payne rappin’.

  But yo, I’m another brother that’s browner than Bobby. I got the cool-ass styles that make the crowds mob me. I’m dressed to impress and never lookin’ sloppy.

  CHAPTER 12

  Wes

  I’m standing proudly in my red-and-gold cap and gown this Saturday afternoon of May 8, 1993, graduating from the University of the District of Columbia with a Bachelor of Arts degree in political science on this sunny but windy day. My mother is among the huge display of families and friends who have gathered inside of Dennard Plaza on the main campus. She arrived with three of her girlfriends and a few of their kids, holding me up as an example of a young black male role model. Now I look forward to taking the next stage and going on to graduate school in the field of education. Professor Cobbs said, “We still have a few good soldiers left.” So then, let me go to war—an educational and image war, that is, and not any physical war. And in the category of a war of integrity, us black men of this oppressed white world have been fighting to maintain our dignity since birth.

  After the elaborate graduation ceremony has ended, I step down from the crowd of happy graduates—mostly of African heritage, whether they be African American, West Indian or Ethiopian—and join my mother and her friends.

  My mother rushes to me from the crowd and squeezes me with a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you, boy.” She steps back from me, happy-faced and wiping fresh tears. “God, this is one of the proudest days of my life!”

  “Well, stop hoggin’ him up and let’s take some pictures with him,” her tall, slender girlfriend Evelyn says.

  “Oh,” my mother responds. She whisks me around with her to face Evelyn’s camera.

  Evelyn takes several shots of us before I’m shoved and pulled and hugged like a rag doll to take pictures with everyone else.

  “Don’t damage my eyes with all these flashes,” I tell them jokingly. “These contact lenses are pretty fragile.”

  My mother looks at me sternly. “Oh, hush up, boy.” Then she smiles. “You should’ve worn your glasses anyway, out here tryin’a be cute.”

  “Well, he is a wanted man now. I just wish he was old enough for me,” Evelyn says to much laughter.

  My mother playfully grabs me away from her. “You leave my son alone. I’ve already picked out a wife for him anyway, you old bat.”

  I shake my head with a grin. “Mom, Sybil and I are not getting married anytime soon.” And this reminds me that I’ll eventually have to tell my mother about NeNe. But not yet.

  “If I’ve told you a thousand times, boy, I’ll tell you again, that Sybil is a hell of a catch.”

  * * *

  “What da hell took you so long, man? God!” Marshall asks me from behind his steering wheel. The guys and I are headed to the Classics nightclub in Maryland to celebrate. We all have on new outfits and whatnot, and Marshall’s afraid that a huge rush of college graduates will crowd up the club before we get there—since I took so long to get ready. Therefore, he’s driving like Mad Max: The Road Warrior.

  “His mom held his ass hostage, you’n. You know dat,” Walt says laughingly. He’s sitting in the back seat with me, and Derrick is up front with Marshall.

  “Yeah, I had to break away from my peoples, too,” Derrick says, grinning.

  Walt sucks his teeth. “Look here, Joe. When I graduate, I’m gon’ run off the stage and head straight for a hotel room and party for da whole damn weekend.”

  Marshall responds, “Yeah, when you graduate.” We all laugh before Walt can get out a rebuttal.

  “Yeah, well, I’ll be gettin’ me some pussy on my graduation night, you’n.” He looks to Marshall with a grin. “By da way, Marshall, when’na last time you had some ass?”

  We all laugh again, including Marshall. “Ask ya sister,” he retorts.

  “I did ask her. And she said she don’t know you.”

  We laugh again as if we’ve paid for a Martin Lawrence concert.

  We arrive at the crowded Classics parking lot area to find no spaces available.

  “See what I mean?” Marshall says to no one in particular.

  “Fuck it, man. Park on’na side of the road like them other niggas did,” Walt tells him, referring to the many cars we passed that were lined up on the road alongside the club.

  Marshall w
heels the car around to park illegally with the rest of the cars.

  “They gon’ all get tickets,” Derrick says.

  Walt sucks his teeth again. “Nigga, it’s Saturday on graduation night. Ain’t no damn cops givin’ no tickets out here, you’n. Da fuck wrong wit’chu?”

  Derrick shakes his head while Marshall parks anyway. “You can listen to Walt if you want. But remember I told you,” he says.

  “Damn, yo! Look at the mane on’nat lion,” Walt whispers to us. We all look ahead to a big-butt girl to the left of us, dressed in an off-white, form-fitting dress.

  We giggle quietly.

  “A mane is the hair along or around an animal’s neck, not the beef around their ass. And it’s usually found on the male gender,” I comment to Walt with a smile. My academic humor receives a good laugh, too.

  “Well, with humans—especially black women—their mane is their ass, Joe. Now shut da fuck up and keep bein’ quiet.”

  We approach the front door, get searched down, and pay our six dollars to enter the crowded dancehall and bar.

  Marshall turns and faces us as soon as we squeeze inside. The DJ is playing Lords of the Underground’s “Chief Rocka.” Stylishly dressed black women and men are dancing everywhere.

  “See, I told y’all this shit was gon’ be the hypest!” Marshall yells at us above the music.

  Walt side-steps a dark brown sister dressed in a peach-colored, two-piece skirt-and-jacket suit and takes a long stare at her behind.

  “Yo, you’n, I’m ’bout ta buy her a drink,” he tells us.

  We chuckle at him as we slip our way in through the crowd. We’re more like pushing and squeezing our way through. The small dance area in the middle of the room is already filled to capacity, as well as the elevated stage against the back wall, so many couples are dancing around the chairs and tables that surround the dance floor. I mean, I hope a fire doesn’t break out in here, because this place is fully stocked. We might as well be sardines.

  “Damn, you’n! If you squeeze a bitch’s ass in here, she won’t know who did it,” Walt says to Derrick.

  “But why they gotta be bitches though?” Derrick questions him with a grin.

  Walt frowns down at him from his taller frame and shakes his head. “See, I gotta stop hangin’ wit’chall niggas, Joe. You know what da fuck I mean. Even bitches call each other bitches.”

  “But that don’t make it right.”

  “Yeah, whatever, man.”

  After a while, we all get separated. Derrick and I end up together, just like always. We luck up and grab some seats alongside the bar, to the left of the dance floor.

  “You guys want anything?” a bald-headed brother working the bar asks us. He looks about forty, so I doubt if he has this bald-head fever that the New York hip-hop crowd has started.

  “Yeah, let me get a Sex on the Beach,” Derrick says. We look at each other and smile.

  “Sex on the Beach?” I ask him, grinning.

  Derrick is still smiling to himself. “You know, I figure that people talk about it so much that I thought I’d try one.”

  “Yeah, well, I know Walt’s gonna be drunk. And if Marshall drinks too, then I might end up as the designated driver tonight.”

  “Aw, man, I won’t get drunk off of one drink. I heard it’s just sweet anyway.”

  I smirk at him. “We’ll see.”

  The older, bald brother brings the drink as I turn to face the crowd.

  “So what’s up with you and NeNe?” Derrick asks me.

  I bob my head to Da Youngstas’ “Crewz Pop” as I answer. “We’re talking again, but I haven’t seen her yet. She acts like she’s playing hard to get with me now.”

  Derrick grins while sipping his drink through a straw. “Yo, Marshall told me that Sybil been talking about you again.”

  I turn and look Derrick in his eyes. “Yeah, that’s my mother’s doing.”

  Derrick smiles so hard that he’s forced to put his drink down. “Oh, yeah? Well, what about you and Candice now? What’s up with that?”

  I smile, feeling like some kind of newfound mack daddy. “Man, I mean, I’ve just had a wild and dangerous last couple of months.”

  Derrick takes another sip of his drink through his uncontrollable smile. “Yeah, I’d say.”

  The DJ mixes in Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dogg’s “Nothin’ But a G Thang.” The crowd goes off, dancing up a storm! I even move out of my bar chair and find myself dancing.

  The DJ mixes a fusion of hip-hop, reggae, and D.C. go-go before later slowing it down with some new music from Big Bub from Today, Silk, and the local boys from Howard University, Shai.

  Before the night is over, I end up with two phone numbers. I mean, I haven’t danced as much as I did tonight in my life! And I guess the women were a bit more generous tonight since many of them have recently graduated and have come back home to the D.C.-Maryland-Virginia area for the summer.

  * * *

  Marshall suddenly stops his car in front of my building. I lean back into the back seat, not anxious to get out yet.

  “Come on, lover boy. It’s time t’ roll,” Marshall implores.

  Walt grins at me and tosses his big right hand on my shoulder from my left. “Yeah, this boy here had a stable of bitches t’night.”

  I glance up at Derrick to catch him shaking his head at Walt’s insistence upon using the word “bitch.”

  “What we gon’ do with him, Wes?” he asks me.

  “Y’all gon’ leave me da fuck alone about that shit, that’s what,” Walt says, beating me to a response.

  I answer Derrick with a smile. “I don’t know, man. It’s a whole lot of things in the black community that need to be worked on.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, I ain’t one of’em,” Walt interjects, crossing his arms across his chest defiantly.

  I struggle out of Marshall’s car and wobble my tired head toward my six-story building’s entrance.

  “You comin’ over to watch the NBA playoffs t’mar?” Marshall asks me.

  “I don’t know why y’all sweatin’ the Knicks. I mean, y’all know it’s gonna be Jordan all the way,” Walt says with much confidence.

  “We’ll see,” Derrick chokes in.

  I look back inside the car to Marshall, from my building’s sidewalk area. “Yeah, I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

  I get inside my tiny apartment, make it to the bed, and fall out on my face. I grab the phone from off of my night stand and check my C&P answer mail to see if NeNe has called me while I was out all day and night.

  I have a few messages of congratulations, but nothing from NeNe. Well, I did tell her that I’d be out all day, so it’s cool. I guess.

  I wish I could have invited her to the graduation. Then again, Sybil and her family were there and my mother forced me to take pictures with her and everything before we left the campus. And then with the feud between NeNe and Candice and . . . Well, you get the picture. It would have been just a big mess to invite NeNe. It’s a good thing she told me that graduations are too long and boring for her anyway.

  I called NeNe this Sunday morning and she wasn’t in. I’m beginning to wonder now where she’s been. Compared to most hip guys like J, I guess you could say that I’m pressed. But he’s pressed about his girl. He’s not all that debonair when it comes to LaToya. So I guess even the players can be tamed by the right woman.

  It’s almost twelve o’clock. The first NBA final will probably start before I reach Marshall’s house in Northwest. He’s already told all of us that he’s not going to pick us up today after having to drive late last night. And tonight we’re planning on going to the Ritz for college night. The Ritz’s all four floors are expected to be filled to capacity.

  I catch the 80 bus, transfer at the Fort Totten Metro station, and catch the 64 bus to Northwest. It’s always pretty quiet on the buses on Sunday mornings. Usually there are a few church folk on the bus. Me? I’ve never been too much into religion. I guess you could call me a world
ly guy. But I do believe in God. Or at least some force of order and creation that connects the universe to this thing called life.

  Many of the bus stops are advertising Mario Van Peebles’ movie, Posse, about black cowboys. Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story is being advertised as well.

  The 64 bus lets me off on Eleventh Street, right down from Marshall’s house on Thirteenth. And he lives too close to Candice’s place for comfort, right down the street and around the corner to be exact.

  Before I reach my destination, the older brother sitting in a side seat to my right shakes his head at me while holding a paper in his hands.

  “They still out here killin’ one another,” he says. “Babies against babies.”

  I hop off the bus and ponder his rhetorical comment. What the hell can we do about it?

  I shake the thoughts of D.C.’s homicide rate from my mind. Last time I heard it was nearly two hundred. But again, what the hell can we do about it? Kids today will shoot you even when they know they’re wrong.

  I knock on the door and walk into Marshall’s basement apartment after he opens it. Walt is laid out in his usual space on the two-person couch inside of the living room. He’s stretched out and still asleep in some sweatpants and a T-shirt.

  I look to Marshall for an explanation. “What, he spent the night?”

  Marshall stretches out on the long couch where Derrick and I usually sit. “What does it look like?” he throws back at me with a grin.

  I just smile and take a seat in the one-person chair to the left.

  “So what’chu gon’ do about a car now?” Marshall asks me.

  I sold the Acura Integra for nine thousand dollars and put the money in my bank account along with the other four thousand I had saved from working for Butterman. But once I get to grad school, in a year that money is going to vanish. I’ll need a good job, scholarship grants, loans, and my mother’s help for grad school.

  Where there is a will, there is a way, I’m thinking.

  “If I can’t stand to be without one, I’ll buy a used car,” I tell Marshall.

  “Do ya mom know you ain’t had no job for three months?”