“I’m gonna tell you guys, no blasting the box when we get there,” Jesse began again. “And something else. Montoya, Lopez, Smith, I don’t want you guys even looking at anybody’s stuff. Montoya, you see what happened to your buddy Jimenez when he took that jacket at the skating rink. Two months added to his program.”
“So, man, I been a good boy,” Montoya said, and Lopez laughed.
“That’s why your mother said she didn’t want you home this time, right?” Jesse said. “Last home-pass you took twenty dollars from her purse.”
Now he gon start all this talk about behavior and why do you steal, Buddah thought. But Jesse said, “Smith,” and looked into the mirror again. “You been doin pretty good, but this is your first off-ground, so don’t blow it.” Buddah felt them all look at him, and he turned his face to the window, angry, tasting the inside of his cheeks again. Bunk you, man. Don’t be tellin me shit. A wine-colored Thunderbird pulled past the van. The faces inside were green behind their windows, staring at the name painted on the van door, at the boys. What y’all lookin at? He felt the glass against his lips. You lookin at me, and I had your T-Bird. Woulda been set.
They had moved to the seventh building of the Solano Gardens housing project, an island run by Bounty Hunters in an ocean of Crips, just after his eleventh birthday. At the welter of railroad tracks behind the junior high, he walked rapidly, seeing the blue bandannas, the watching faces.
But he lived in Soul Gardens; the Bounty Hunters owned him. He had to be occasionally valuable to them, because no one could step outside the project alone, without a protective cadre of red rags. He watched them gather in the courtyard and then walked slightly behind. They left him alone until they needed something.
The dent-puller, long and thin, pierced into car locks easily and pulled the entire silver circles out for him. The cars were like houses, each with its own smell and a push of air that he felt against his face for an instant when he bent to pull the stereo, someone else’s smell that he let escape. He learned to start the car if Ellis told him to, and the feel of each steering wheel under his fingers for a moment made his stomach jump. Soft, leather-bound he’d felt once, but cold and ridged usually.
They hadn’t gotten caught when they stripped or stole cars in the neighborhood, but Ellis decided he wanted a T-Bird. At the house he finally chose in Downey, where the 7-11 they passed had only white faces inside, a wine-red Thunderbird was parked. Ellis looked at Buddah with a strange smile on his face. Buddah had been waiting for this, too. “Ain’t doin no house,” Buddah said, and Ellis pushed him. “You know they got a VCR. You better be down,” Ellis said.
Buddah loved the cars, their metallic shine like crystal sugar on the fruit candy that was his mother’s favorite. Some of them even smelled sweet. But the house, even when he stood under the eaves moving the lock, smelled heavy and wrong, and when the door opened and the foreign air rushed at him, he heard the screaming of the alarm and then running.
The ocean glinted like an endless stretch of blue flake on a hood.
Buddah had never seen so much water, so many white people. Jesse said, “What you guys think, huh?”
“None a these women got booty,” T.C. said. “No ass to hold onto.” Jesse drove down a street that curved toward the water. Clean, shining cars lined both sides: Mercedes, BMWs, station wagons, a Porsche. Buddah looked at the cars, at the chalky clean sidewalks and smooth grass. Jesse circled twice before he found a parking space, and then he said, “Damn, we don’t have quarters. We’re gonna have to walk to a store to get some, cause if I pull out we won’t find another space.”
They trailed behind him like fish, swerving and shifting. “Where we goin, man?” Lopez asked. “I don’t see no 7-11 or nothin.”
Up close, the cars looked even better, a gleaming line unbroken by a parking space as far as they walked, the perfect doors and weak round locks. Ellis would tell me to pull the Mercedes, Buddah thought, and just then Gaines said, “Mercedes, the ladies, when I get one they gon be crazy.” Buddah slowed; he’d been thinking about telling Ellis where the cars were, but when he heard Gaines’s voice, the same one that had been whispering to him every day for a week, he thought, shit, I don’t even know where we are. Ain’t tellin Ellis shit when he ax me where I been. Think everything for him.
They walked through an art show that lined the sidewalk, and had to go single file to get past. Buddah watched T. C. rock his shoulders in step to the beat inside his head, passing closely by people to brush them with air, making them move and look at him. Jesse pulled them inside a restaurant lobby and went to get change. “I ain’t seen no brothers, man,” Gaines said to T.C.
“I’m tellin you,” T. C. said. “We gon be specks like on a sheet.”
At the start of the steep asphalt trail down to the crescent-shaped beach, a large sign read:
Glenn E. Vedder Ecological Reserve
PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
Shells, Rocks, Plants, Marine Life, or Game Fish so that others may see and enjoy them
TAKE OUT ONLY THAT WHICH YOU BROUGHT IN
Jesse stopped and read the sign silently for a moment; T. C. said, “Man, it ain’t school time,” when he read it out loud. After Jesse finished, T.C. said, “Thank you, Mr. Man. How people supposed to know you went to the beach if you don’t got no souvenir?”
“You suppose to come back with a suntan, man,” Lopez said. “Big problem for you, huh?”
“Man, I’ll kick your ass,” T. C. said, and Jesse pushed him away.
Buddah stared at the shifting colors, felt the sand against his palm when he sat down. Green plants cascaded from the cliffs behind them, and the bathing suits and water were in motion. He saw a sea gull overhead, hovering. It was clean, thick white, like his T-shirts after his mother bleached them. The gull glided, circled, dipping slightly to turn; it never moved its hard, sharp wings, just bore down on the crowd of people and suddenly pulled up to place its feet on a rock ten feet away. He look just like T. C, Buddah thought. Think he bad, showin off.
T. C. had been watching, too. “That’s how we is in the set, man, be swoopin, just like that bird, ain’t never move false,” he said. “We see what we want and we on it, cool.” Buddah looked at Gaines. His shoulders were hunched uncomfortably, like loaves of bread against his neck, and he stared out at the water. “What we suppose to do?” he said to Jesse. “Just sit here?”
“I didn’t say you guys couldn’t move, I just said you can’t disappear,” Jesse answered. “Do whatever you want. Look at the scenery. Don’t drown.” No one moved. “Can any of you swim?”
Carroll said, “I used to know. I went to a lake one time.” They looked at him. “A goddamn lake ain’t no ocean,” Gaines said. He looked back at the water.
“Just go touch it,” Jesse said. “It won’t kill you.” He took off his shoes, and his long feet were ashy gray and rough. Walking toward the water, he said, “Come on, I’ll save you if you trip and get your hair wet.”
Somebody else gotta move first, Buddah thought. Not me. We specks for sure, like them rocks. T.C. turned up his radio; he and Gaines watched girls walk by and stare. Carroll, Montoya and Lopez had gone to the water’s edge, where they stood near Jesse. Buddah saw Jesse gesturing to boats far out on the ocean.
“Forget this shit, man, I ain’t sittin with no slob red-ragger,” T. C. said. “Ain’t shit to do here.” He stood over Buddah. Gaines was watching the waves; he seemed to have forgotten Buddah.
You ain’t bad now, Too Cool. Nobody payin good attention to you like you want. You just a speck. T. C. picked up the radio and pushed Gaines’s foot. “Dude down there sellin sodas, homes. Come on, man, fore I have to fuck this red boy up.” Buddah waited. Gaines looked at him and said, “When you givin me my money, punk? I ain’t playin.” He stood up. It ain’t your money. Buddah got up and walked forward slightly, waiting until he heard the music leave.
He looked at the tangle of wet black rocks on the left end of the beach, about twenty
yards away, the spray flying from behind them. He felt eyes on him, from the blankets and towels. Now I’m botherin you, cause I ain’t movin, I ain’t swimmin or nothin. How you know I ain’t come to this beach all the time and it’s boring?
Three kids made a sand castle, looking up at him now and then. It was plain and round, and the walls sagged because the sand was too wet, too close to the waves. See, I woulda had that castle sharp. Have me some shells line up on the outside, have a whole fence made outta shells. Jesse and the others walked back to the blankets. “Where’s Gaines and T. C?” Jesse said. Buddah lifted his chin toward the soda seller. “Don’t get too happy about bein here, man,” Jesse said impatiently. “You could be sweatin back at the Jude’s.”
“I’m goin over here,” Buddah said.
Jesse raised his eyebrows. “He says. Don’t go past the rocks.”
When he made it to the first rock, it was dry and grayish; he ran his hand over the hard warmth. Tiny broken shells were jammed inside the rock’s holes. Buddah walked toward the wet, glistening black closer to the ocean. He stood on the edge of the wet sand, feeling his feet sink, and saw the smallest waves, the tiny push of water just at the edge, after the wave had washed up on the beach and before the water pulled back. The dying waves lined the sand with circlets of bright white. He walked forward and smeared the lines with his shoe.
The tall square rock in front of him had a smooth side, from which a fat pale boy climbed down. Buddah stopped, turning away from the boy’s staring face. When he had passed, Buddah walked to the wet part and sat on one of the low, flat rocks. From far away, it had looked deep black, but he saw that it was only slightly wet. Green feathery plants hung near the bottom, and he was surprised at the shells and animals clinging to the top. The shells clamped down tightly when he touched them. Lockin up, like you a house. But I could get you if you didn’t stay inside.
I could get some a these shells, like them big pretty ones. I go out on them rocks and people only see black, not me. The rocks led to a long formation—a pier, almost, out into the water. Buddah pulled himself up the face of the first rock; at the top, white foam spilled over the end. Small pools of water, still as plastic, were everywhere around him as he walked, picking his way past clumps of seaweed, until he found a dry spot to sit on.
I’m gone. Can’t nobody see nothin. He felt his skin warm to the rock. Snails and long insects that looked like roaches dotted the rock. Buddah saw a small snail near his hand; its shell was dull and dry, ashy like Jesse’s feet. He touched it with his finger and it didn’t move or tighten down like the round shells. He must be dyin, too dry. Must of got left here when the water dried up from one a his holes. A pool of water nearby was empty. He pulled at the snail lightly, wincing at the sucking resistance. Let go. You know you can’t be out here all dry. It’s some water for you right here. He turned the shell up to look at it; the rim was pink, and a blank, hard eye covered the snail inside. You can open up, let me check you out. But you probably ugly like any other snail.
He dropped the shell into the shallow pool and it was suddenly vivid under the water—the pale dull purple darkened to green, and brighter markings showed in a spiral pattern. The snail came out after a second and rocked its shell. Buddah pulled it from the water. You done lived dry that long. I’ma take you back, get some salt from the kitchen, make you some good water like you need. He waited for the snail to right itself in his palm, but it stayed inside. Cool, stay locked till we get back. Gently, he pushed the shell into his jeans pocket.
The darkness of the rocks made him secure. He turned around slowly, squinting until he could see Jesse and the others. They were drinking sodas. Carroll stood with his feet in the water, arms folded, watching the boats.
Buddah walked farther down the rocks. He sat again near the largest pool of water; whole and broken shells and round, smooth stones waited on the bottom, their colors clear and glossy like red beans soaking in a bowl.
“Slob, man, you been out there playin with yourself?” Gaines said when Buddah approached.
“Shut up, Gaines. That’s why we gotta go, cause you guys get bored and talk too much shit,” Jesse said. He turned to Buddah. “I was hoping you would see us packin up, Smith.”
Jesse started up the beach, talking to Carroll. T.C. and Gaines waited to walk behind Buddah. He felt the shells in his pockets, hard weight against his thighs like money. “You lettin us get behind you, slob, so watch out,” Gaines whispered. “You all alone.”
Buddah let his head fall back a little so that he looked up the sandy trail. I got something from here. Y’all could be lyin bout bein here, but not me. He felt himself out on the rock, in the spray, listening to the power of the waves, and Gaines’s and T. C.’s voices were like bird cries, far away. “Why you look at the water? You can’t hide in no water. I’m tired of waitin for my money, pussy.”
Buddah fingered the sharpest of the shells and smiled with his head turned toward the cliff.
It was almost ten o’clock, lights out. The noises circled around the courtyard and flew up to his room; through the window screen, Buddah could hear the older boys in the next building shouting something to their counselor and Gaines and T. C. talking out on the balcony, the radio still playing from their doorway. Jesse would come by in a few minutes and make sure they all went into their rooms. Buddah listened in the dark.
“Inside, guys. If you didn’t run your mouths so much today, I was thinking of takin you to the Stallone flick next weekend.”
“What flick?” T.C. said.
“First Blood,” Jesse answered.
“Shit, man, why you gotta say that word in my presence and shit,” T. C. said. Buddah imagined his head jerking violently. “First Cuzz, I told you. You disrespectin me.”
“You see, T. C? I’m so tired of that shit. It ain’t the real world. You got table clean-up all week.”
“Man, Jesse, you the one don’t know. You could die for that shit.”
“Inside, punks.”
Jesse stopped at Montoya’s door, and then Buddah heard the feet slide to his. Jesse was wearing house shoes; he’d be going to bed now, and the night man would watch St. Jude’s.
Light flashed in the doorway. Buddah sat motionless, but Jesse didn’t leave. He walked to the trunk suddenly, where the white paper was brightly lit. He see the pipe, Buddah thought, and pushed hard with his feet on the floor. “Bounty Hunters, shit,” Jesse said. “What bounty did you get? Nothin valuable to you, just shit to sell and all this red-rag crap. Soon as you start talkin, you’ll probably bore me with all that shit, too.” He waited, and then closed the door.
Uh uh, cause I ain’t workin no job for the blue, like T. C. and them. But now Jesse got them mad, and they probably come. Buddah got the shells out, arranging them in lines, in fences. He leaned forward and touched the cool pipe on the floor. I could wait and wait, and then what? He went to the sink, where the snail was in the soap dish, and pushed at the tightly-closed shell. You waitin, too, for me to leave you alone. But you could wait forever.
The night man’s hard shoes cracked the grit on the balcony when he opened the doors every hour in the beginning. Buddah knew he would quit checking after he heard no noise; he would sit in the room downstairs and watch TV. Buddah waited until the moonlight shifted in the window. He sat, still listening, until the brightest part had gone over the roof. He took off his shirt and opened his door.
His bare feet pressed into the sharp sand. He imagined himself on the black rocks, invisible as he pressed close to the stucco wall. T. C. and Gaines were breathing hard and long, he could hear through their screen. The doorknob turned easily, since it was turned so many times every day and night. Buddah stood in the close air by the wall and listened to them breathe. He had stood by his mother every time, hearing her throat vibrate, before he went out to meet Ellis and the rest of them. Buddah moved away from the wall. The cassettes were on top of T. C.’s trunk, in neat stacks. Buddah lifted off the top four from the closest stac
k and held them tightly together so they wouldn’t click. He pulled the door slowly, straight toward him, and turned the knob. On the balcony, he stood for a moment, looking down the dark tunnel of the overhanging roof to the edge of the stairway and then the flat land past the fence that was exposed, lit silver as flashbulbs by the moonlight coming from behind the buildings, from behind his back.
the box
THE BENCH AT THE bus stop was covered with black spray paint. PB’S, it said, the squared letters making spidery, jointed patterns on all the buildings and walls in the neighborhood, even on the elephant-skinned trunk of the palm tree Shawan leaned against while she waited for the bus. When she had gone out into the yard this morning, she thought, her sisters had been scared. Nygia and Tanya held her shoulders, but she shook herself sharply and frowned. “Quit, y’all, I’m goin outside and tell them sorry-ass punks get out my yard. Mmm-hmm, in my robe and all.” She walked out onto the step quietly, letting the wrought-iron screen door click into the lock.
Five of the Playboys stood on the sidewalk, leaning against the chainlink fence that surrounded the Johnsons’ square of yellow grass. Shawan knew that they were watching the apartment house across the empty lot, waiting for the old man in the downstairs apartment to leave. He had a new TV, delivered in a box that anyone could have seen. Shawan stared at the boys, their arms draped over the fence casually, but the backs of their necks tight and wary. She had seen the short one run his palm, fingers spread, over the slight bulge made by a gun in his jacket. “Shawan, they packin, you know it,” Nygia said through the screen.
“So. What y’all doin in front of my house?” she said loudly from the step. They all turned, heads swiveling like those submarines in the cartoons, she thought, and the short one said, “None a your damn business, bitch.” He was maybe sixteen, three years younger than Shawan.
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