“You heard me. Why are you always so mean to your brother? He’s your brother.”
Noodles took the tab from his mouth and dropped it into the empty can. He then grabbed the can and crushed it between his hands.
“You don’t know what you talkin’ about, Ali.”
“Just answer the question, Nood. You smack him around and give him all kind of flack for nothing. You shut him down every time he says something. It’s ridiculous. And all these folks around here don’t wanna say nothing, ’cause they not trying to be bothered with all your mess.” I could feel my voice starting to get a little more intense. “I know you, the real you, and I don’t care about your mess, so now I’m calling you out on it.” I wanted to say that I knew Noodles the comic book nerd.
“Ali, I think you crossing the line,” Noodles said, as if he was trying to say I better chill before he does something.
It’s not really like me to go off, but I couldn’t stop.
“Seems like all you do is give him hell for no reason, and he just takes it!”
“You don’t know nothing, Ali! You don’t know what me and Needles got going on! You don’t know what it’s like to have a brother with a syndrome! Jazz ain’t got no syndrome! So, who are you? Who are you to sit here and tell me how to deal with my brother?”
Noodles was now standing up. And so was I. His chest was all puffed up like he was seconds away from throwing himself at me. Let him.
“Yeah, you right, Noodles. I don’t know what it’s like to have a brother with a syndrome, but you the only person around here who treats Needles different. You ever notice that? You the only one! The rest of the hood treats him like he don’t have a syndrome at all. You the one who keeps treating him like he got some kind of handicap or something! Maybe you got the problem!”
“Oh yeah? Maybe I got a problem? Maybe I do! Maybe I got a problem with you not minding your business! And maybe we should solve this problem right now, Ali! What you think? You wanna solve it?”
Noodles was in my face now. His hands clenched tight. I still wasn’t scared because I could look in his eyes and see he wasn’t trying to fight me. My mother always said the eyes say a lot, and his eyes weren’t saying nothing about fighting. They were saying something totally different. Something sad. He looked like he was about to cry. I could tell I had hit a soft spot, but I couldn’t figure out how to cool the situation without seeming like I was backing down from a fight. I needed Noodles to know that I meant business as much as he did, and that he couldn’t intimidate me with all his yapping. But I did not want to fight him in my mother’s kitchen. I mean, he’s my friend, plus Doris would be pissed. I was hoping Jazz would magically appear from the back with a funny joke, but she was staying at a friend’s house. Then I hoped Mom would come home from her first job early. Anything to get him to back up off me without me having to tell him to.
We stood there chest to chest for a second, Noodles egging me on, telling me to do something and solve the problem. Then the door clicked. It clicked again. Someone was trying to get in. It clicked again, and then it opened. Noodles backed up as a man stumbled awkwardly into the apartment.
I looked closely to see who it was, one hand close enough to the kitchen knives to pull one easily, just in case. Then I recognized him.
“Dad?” I said.
The man, my father, finally got his balance and straightened up.
“Ali, wassup, man,” he said.
I walked over to him and gave him five and a half hug. Then suddenly he jumped back and threw a quick tap to the ribs, as a test to see if I was any quicker with my hands. I was slow on the block, and he tagged me. It stung a little, but I played it off.
“Too slow, son!” He laughed and palmed the top of my head, wiggling it around. I hated when he did that.
My dad, John, is a regular-looking dude. By that, I mean, there really wasn’t anything special about the way he looked. If a cop ever asked me to describe him, it would be hard because there have to be a million men who look just like him. He’s dark skinned, brown eyes, low haircut, full beard, earrings in both ears, no tattoos, average height, average weight, average dude. He was dressed in black jeans, a black button-up shirt, and black boots. Everything clean. Not bad for a booster, but nothing special.
“What you doing here?” I asked, confused. Not that I wasn’t happy to see him. He just usually gave a heads up just because he didn’t really like to stop by without knowing whether or not Doris was home. He usually sent some kind of warning to me. A text message or something.
“Man, I was around here doing some business, so I figured I’d pop in. Your mother ain’t here, is she?” he asked, peeking around.
“Naw, she ain’t here.”
“Jazz?”
“Nope. She ain’t here either.”
“Oh. Okay.” I could tell he was bummed about not catching Jazz home. She was definitely a daddy’s girl, and he was definitely a daughter’s dad. He looked over at Noodles. “Wassup, boy,” he said, slapping Noodles in the chest playfully.
Noodles pretended like it didn’t sting. “Wassup, John.”
It had slipped my mind that Noodles and I were seconds away from ripping each other’s heads off before John came busting in. John had no idea that he was right on time.
“Not much. Ain’t seen you in a minute, Noodles. Getting grown, ain’t ya?”
“Trying to.”
“How’s your brother?”
“Good. Sitting outside on the stoop.”
“I thought that was him. Wasn’t sure.”
Probably because he was knitting.
“Yeah.”
Then there was sort of an awkwardness that started filling up the space between us all, and I could tell that John knew something was up. But before he asked why we were acting weird, something else important dawned on me.
“Dad,” I started while pulling out a chair at the table, “I’m glad you came by, actually. I need a favor. Well, we need a favor.”
The one thing I know about John is that he’s a good guy. And he’ll do anything to prove that to his kids. He always tells me and Jazz to call him if we need anything, but we never call, only because we never really need anything. Mom pretty much takes care of everything, and what she doesn’t, Jazz and I take care of ourselves. But I needed him now.
“Okay, wassup?” he said, smiling. It was like he was excited to even be asked.
“Well, we need clothes. And I know what you do for money, so I figured you might have some.”
I didn’t know how else to say it. I looked at Noodles. I could tell he wasn’t expecting me to say that, but he caught on and fell in line quick.
“Clothes?”
“Yep, clothes,” I said. Noodles nodded his head in agreement, finally taking a seat next to me. Friends again.
“What kind of clothes?” John was now sitting on the arm of the couch, something that Doris would have his head for if she caught him. He looked comfortable. Like he lived here.
“I don’t know, the best kind?” I said.
John laughed. Hard. I mean, keeled over and slapped his knee laughing. I wasn’t sure if I actually said something funny, or if he just found Noodles and me asking for nice clothes so outrageous that laughter was the only possible response.
“The best kind? The best kind? I see,” he said, brushing his beard down with the palm of his hand. “So let’s just air it out, Ali. Where you going?” Parents always know. Even parents who only halfway parent.
“A party.” Figured I might as well just cut to the chase.
“Where?”
“You know MoMo?” I knew he knew MoMo. He probably remembered when MoMo was born.
John smiled. “Your mother know?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Your mother know, Ali?” John asked again. It’s funny. He was just enough of a father for it to matter. He wasn’t really there, but he also wasn’t a deadbeat. Sometimes it got confusing.
“No,” I answe
red honestly. I knew Noodles couldn’t believe I was telling my father the truth, when I could have easily just said that Doris knew. It’s not like John would’ve checked because John and Doris don’t really talk. At least not much. But I don’t lie too well. So I didn’t lie. Plus, John’s a pretty cool guy.
My dad smiled again. “So you sneaking?” I could tell by the way he asked that he was surprised. He knew I wasn’t really the sneaky type. That was more his deal. I couldn’t tell if he was concerned or proud.
I looked at the floor. “Yeah, but it’s kind of a big deal, man. We got invited, and nobody gets invited to these parties.”
“Nobody y’all’s age,” he shot back. He got up from the couch and walked over to where we were sitting. “But I remember what it was like being fifteen. I do. So here’s what we’ll do. We’ll trade.”
Huh? “What for what?”
“Clothes for a couple of text messages.”
“What you mean?”
“I mean, I’ll give you the clothes. But your scrawny ass gotta text me when you get there, and when you make it back home. What time the party start?”
“Eight.”
“Aight, so that means you need to be back by eleven. Got it?” He held out his fist.
I almost did a back flip. And I can’t even do a back flip, but I almost did one. I was trying to contain the excitement and be cool, and I could tell Noodles was trying just as hard.
“Got it,” I said, giving him a pound. “Thanks, man.”
“Yeah, thanks, John,” Noodles added. “Really appreciate it.”
“What you thanking me for?” he asked Noodles.
“Oh,” I started, “the clothes are for Noodles, too.”
“Aha,” he said, startled but still cool with it.
“And Needles.”
“Needles too! You trying to break me,” he barked. “My own son. Hustling a hustler. Whoever taught you that should be shot!”
He held two fingers to his head and pretended to blow himself away.
7
You know in the movies when the slicksters open up their trench coats and they got gold watches and chains hanging inside? Well, my dad’s trench coat was the trunk of his car. It was an old cherry-red Plymouth. It’s the same car he used to take my mother on dates in. I know because she always tells me. She said it was a piece of junk back then too, but it was better than the train. Now he didn’t have no pretty woman in the passenger seat anymore, but he was still driving it around like he was king of the world, with a kingdom’s worth of rags inside.
He popped the trunk. Three suitcases. Each one labeled a different number. One, two, and three. Number one was the biggest.
“Aight, boys. Gotta make this quick before the cops roll up or your mother gets home,” John said. Neither of us had to say that the cops would’ve been ten times better than Doris. “Get close,” he said.
He unzipped number one. It was like having a glimpse into a rich man’s closet. Like a glow was coming from all kinds of silk and suede, and funny names that none of us could pronounce, so we knew it was expensive stuff. Noodles reached in and swiped a pretty nice shirt. Gucci. I dug around and found a sharp button-up that was Polo. I handed it to Needles. Then I found myself another shirt, made by one of the fancy brands. I didn’t know what it was, but John said it was a good look. Then we grabbed a few pairs of crisp jeans. They were like cardboard. Stiff, raw denim. Probably three hundred bucks in the store.
Then he unzipped number two. Shoes.
“Sorry, guys, sold most of these already,” John said. “Give me sizes.”
“I’m a ten,” I said.
John pulled out a smooth pair of Jordans. Perfect.
“I’m nine and a half,” Noodles said.
“What about you, Needles? What size you wear?” John asked.
“Eleven, please,” Needles said politely.
John checked the sizes on all of the shoes. He found an eleven for Needles. A pair of boots. Pretty nice ones too. But he couldn’t find any nine and a halfs for Noodles.
“All I got left is these in a nine.” He held up a pair of Nikes I had never seen before. They looked good to me.
Noodles looked upset.
“They pretty sweet, though,” Needles said encouragingly.
“Yeah, dude, they gonna be just a little small, but they’ll look good with that shirt. Besides, they better than nothing,” I said.
Noodles finally agreed. I mean, it’s not like he had a choice.
Then John opened number three. It was stuffed with sunglasses, watches, chains, belts, and all that. We each grabbed a belt but left the jewelry alone. We wanted to be fly but not draw too much attention. A chain of ice cubes didn’t seem like a good idea. But the belts really pulled the outfits together.
“Y’all good?” John asked, zipping the bags back up and pulling down the trunk.
“Yeah, we good, man, thanks.”
John walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. He moved some things around and threw a blanket into the backseat. When he tossed the blanket, it knocked over a plastic cup that was in the cup holder, which I noticed had a toothbrush in it. A blanket? A toothbrush? What? Wait. Why would he . . . Oh. Ohhh. This could only mean one thing—my dad was living in his car.
My dad was living in his car? Why wouldn’t he just come home? Doris would understand. At least I think she would’ve. Maybe he just didn’t want to ask for help, and I could kinda get that. And I knew I couldn’t really say nothing about it, because it’s just not cool to put people’s embarrassing situations on blast. But I felt sad for him. He wasn’t some stranger, some bum begging for change. He was my dad.
He dug around a little bit longer until he finally pulled out a hat. A Yankees cap. As he wiggled it out the bag, the bag shifted and I noticed something else. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. I looked again—it was the butt of a gun. Sticking up between the console and the driver’s seat. It wasn’t too obvious, and if you looked fast, it could’ve passed as the seatbelt thing. I hoped Noodles didn’t see it.
At first I was nervous, just because my father wasn’t the type to deal with guns. Not after everything he went through before. After he got out of prison that last time, he only dealt with clothes, not robbery or nothing like that. He said he practically swore off guns. But then I thought about the fact that he was living in his car, and maybe he needed to make sure he was safe at night. Made sense, I guess. I looked away from the gun, anywhere away from it, as he walked back over to me and sat the cap on top of my head. He pulled the brim down over my eyes and then stepped back to check me out.
“Now you ready,” he said with a fatherly smile. I was caught somewhere between excitement and fear. Part of me wanted to ask him what the gun was for, and another part just wanted to give him a big hug for hooking us up with the clothes. Instead of either of those, I just turned and ducked down a little bit so I could see my reflection in the back window. Fresh.
“When is the party?” John asked.
“Tomorrow night.”
John nodded as if he was proud that I was sneaking out and going to a party I was too young to be at.
“Aight, so remember our deal. Text me when you get there and when you get home. You don’t, and you’ll have me AND Doris to deal with.”
• • •
The next day I got my braids done. I sat on the floor in the living room while Jazz sat behind me on the couch. She ran a fine-tooth comb through my hair, which she had already unbraided and washed.
“Come on, Jazz,” I begged, squinting in pain. “You really don’t have to pull that hard.” It felt like she was pulling my scalp off.
“You know, I could always just cut it all off for you,” she said, tugging on what my mother calls my mane. “Show the world that peanut you got.”
“Yeah, and I could box you up,” I joked, putting my fists in the air.
“Whatever.”
I could feel her grab a handful and separate it into three
parts. Then she started braiding. My eyes watered as she wove the hair together, which means she was doing a good job. Whenever she was doing it tight and right, it hurt enough to make me want to cry. Not that I ever did.
I would never tell Jazz this, but I always loved her braiding my hair. Me acting like a punk, her yanking extra hard just to be funny. Even though I was in pain for most of it, I still loved it.
“Jazz?”
“Huh?” she said. I could tell by her voice she was staring at the TV. I don’t know why she finds those stupid talk shows so interesting. I could smell the grease. She had a big scoop of it sitting on the back of her hand. My mom does the same thing when she does Jazz’s hair. It’s for easy access. Dip the comb in it, and take it straight to the scalp. A hood trick. I don’t know where Doris learned it. Probably her mom.
“You got a boyfriend?”
I asked her this every time she did my hair, which was about every two weeks. I had to always check because when I was her age, I remember trying to look up skirts and cop feels. And you know . . . I just don’t want Jazz to be . . . you know.
“What?” Jazz snapped.
“You heard me.”
“Boy, no,” she said in her most grown-up voice. “These boys around here too young in the mind.”
“Jazz, you eleven.”
“Exactly, and they act nine. I ain’t got time for that.”
“So you telling me, there’s no boy around here you like?”
“Nope.”
“Not Dante Robinson?”
“Bird Lips? Naw.”
“J. J. Mendez?”
“Who?”
“Spanish J. J.”
“Oh, you mean Pancake? Face too flat.”
“What about Prego across the street?”
“Prego? Are you serious? You know why I call him Prego? ’Cause he waddle like a pregnant woman. He good people, but I can’t walk down the block with him looking like he about to lay an egg. Not happening.”
I shook my head. She was a trip. I knew that she at least liked these boys as friends, because she had given them all nicknames. I also knew there was somebody she really liked, because her and her little friends were always giggling about something, and boys are usually the main thing little girls giggle about.
When I Was the Greatest Page 8