They passed an alleyway that led behind the apartment complex. It took them three seconds to pass yet Black still saw a sight he'd never seen before. Time stood still as he beheld a dingy mutt with a brown coat and a black snout cornering a woolly gray cat against a fence and a power line pole. The cat's eyes glowed as he defended his ground. The dog prodded the cat with its nose, exposing surprisingly sharp teeth. The cat rested on three legs holding the front right one up like a tired boxer trying to conserve energy by doing everything with one arm. He let out a savage meow. The dog viciously barked back. Then the cat retracted his paw and violently swung it across the face of the dog. Blood trickled down the dog's face as he staggered backward, flustered and deeply lacerated. The cat ran through an opening in the fence.
I'm glad Dink ain't here. If he would've seen that, trust me he would've been like “Man I wish I had my pistol with me. I'm bout to let y'all walk home by y'all selves.” Or he would probably get real cold and be looking at everybody funny. That's my nigga but he be lunchin' sometimes. I be wit him on that shit sometimes but then he'll come up with some crazy shit that'll make you be like “What the fuck is you smokin'?.”
“Daaaaaaamn,” said Black.
“What?” said Boo.
“Nothin',” said Black after he paused. “I just seen some vicious shit.”
As they approached the corner they noticed a group of five boys huddled in front of a house near the middle of the next block laughing loudly and acting out. They were a rag-tag looking bunch. Black took notice of them. He knew how the boys around his neighborhood treated strangers.
“Oh shit that's Lonté' and them,” said Boo as she turned her head down and to the side. “I thought he was locked up.”
Lonté' was a tall, lanky, dark-skinned juvenile, the color of a coffee bean. His eyes were narrow and his jaw protruded from his face like it was swollen. His posture was arrogantly thuggish. He wore a long white T-shirt with some jean shorts. The shorts were cuffed and came to his kneecaps.
“He got out two weeks ago, He just ain't been comin' around here 'cause he was in a group home,” said Shontay.
“Damn, damn, damn,” said Boo. “He play too much. I don't feel like bein' bothered right now. He probably still think we go together.”
Black remained quiet as they slowly shortened the distance between themselves and the group. He thought about the possibilities that lay ahead. He conjured up an image of the boy saying something to him or about him and how he would react. He developed tunnel vision down a road called “worst possibilities.”
Boo grabbed him by his biceps and said, “Pretend you my boyfriend.” When he didn't immediately respond she followed up with, “Aiight. Aiight.”
Black's uneasiness grew exponentially as they approached the group. Most of the boys were already staring at them with looks meant to freeze them stiff, even as they calmed down their raucous interaction. None of them could've been over twenty years old. Black's heartbeat rose wildly. He tried to check it by holding his breath, but it didn't do any good. He thought Boo could hear it because she was draped on him. He kept his face expressionless. Boo plastered a smile on her face as they encountered the group standing directly in their path.
“Shontay,” said one of the boys.
“What's up, Man?” replied Shontay.
The boy ran up beside her and said, “Hold up.”
She stopped and faced the boy as he talked. It was her old boyfriend, the one who hooked Boo up with Lonté'. Black and Boo stood several feet behind her on the edge of the sidewalk under a tree. Their position was awkward. Standing like Siamese twins between the four boys to their left and Shontay and Man to the right. Boo had the side of her head embedded in Black's shoulder. She made sure her butt wasn't facing the boys. All of them gazed lustily at her but one stare was particularly piercing. Lonté' leaned against the rail of a fence with his arms crossed. He had a maniacal gaze and appeared to be holding something back. Black just wanted Shontay to stop talking so they could move on.
“Ohh, you can't speak, Boo,” said Lonté'.
“Hi Lonté,” said Boo in a shy, sullen tone. “Where you been at?”
“I was locked up. Remember?” Lonté' said gruffly. “Who is that?”
Black knew it was on. He wasn't gonna get out of here without trouble. Even if he bitched out he would have to fight. He knew the jealous ex-boyfriend routine.
“This my friend,” said Boo as she squeezed hard on the inside of Blacks biceps.
“I thought I said you can't have no friends,” said Lonté.
“Lonté', stop playin' with me. Why don't you carry your ass back around where you came from?” Boo spat out the words with a defiance that surprised Black.
“You don't want me to do that,” said Lonté' and the boys laughed like it was an inside joke.
“Whatever,” said Boo.
“Why? You tryin' to go wif me?” Lonté' asked amid a chorus of laughter.
Shontay and Man had walked down a bit and were involved in a serious conversation about the future of their relationship. For her, getting back together. For him, having sex tonight.
“Ill. Nah. Don't no body wanna go nowhere with you,” Boo said, still squeezing Black's arm.
“So what you sayin, I can't still hit it?” Lonté' asked.
Boo stormed off, pulling Black. When they got to where Shontay was standing Boo interrupted their conversation saying, “Come on Shontay, Lonté' getting' on my nerves. Oooh.”
“Why don't you just go home?” Shontay said, turning to look at her house which was a few yards down the street, “Call me as soon as you get in the house.”
Boo pouted, then she turned and they walked up the street toward the boys. Black felt like a death row inmate waiting for his number to be called. The group parted, letting them pass through.
“Come here, Boo,” Lonté' said hopefully.
“No,” said Boo. “Leave me alone.”
Lonté' pushed off the fence with his butt and followed them. They felt as well as heard his black Nikes scraping the ground. Boo simultaneously rolled her eyes, took a deep breath, and looked at Black. Black looked at her and exhaled while shaking his head. They kept walking. Black was tense but he wasn't scared. His adrenaline pumped, causing him to inadvertently ball his fist. The sounds of Lonté's sneakers scratching the concrete got faster as he shifted into a jog. When he got close enough he reached out, grabbed Boo's arm, and pulled her to a stop. She let out a yelp that sliced through the calm night air. She was holding on to Black so tightly, she pulled him back.
“Don't fake for cuss,” said Lonté.
“Leave my girl alone, young,” said Black, staring stoically into Lonté's lazy eyes.
He couldn't believe these words “my girl” had rolled off his lips. An incident was about to kick off and it was all because he was supposedly Boo's boyfriend. The idea was almost funny.
“What? Oh you fakin' cuz,” exclaimed Lonté' in a high-pitched voice as he pulled up his britches and braced himself. “What's up then. How you wanna carry it?”
“Fakin', you the one tryin' to put your hands on my girl,” said Black.
“That's my girl, cuz,” said Lonté. “But fuck all that, how you wanna carry it. It's whatever,” and he spread his arms like bird wings.
His boys began walking up on the scene. Their postures were aggressive. Boo stood to the side and observed the fracas with an awed expression.
“Whatever, man,” said Black as he turned his head to the side exposing his profile.
“Oh, it's whatever than,” said Lonté' as he stepped closer to Black.
He breathed hot air into Black's face. Black remembered how his friend CJ always told him to have his back in the streets no matter who or what it was. And how he advised him to throw the first punch at all times. He also told him gangstas don't start fight; they end them.
“Man, if you don't get the fuck out of my face, cuz,” Black barked, high off the thought of his brother's words
.
“What? Man I'm 'bout to break this nigga jaw if he don't stop fakin',” said Lonté' as his boys hovered close by.
“Oh, y'all gonna jump me. That's fucked up,” said Black in an attempt to buy some time while he mustered up the fortitude to swing on Lonté'.
“Nah, nigga I'm a bang your bitch ass out myself,” said Lonté'.
Black turned his head quickly to look at Boo. She had a blank look on her face that he'd never seen in the fifteen years they'd known each other. Turning his face back around to meet Lonté's eyes, Black cocked back his arm and threw a wild haymaker, picturing every dude who he let slide with some slick-ass comment or nasty look. By the time it connected with Lonté's lower jaw it was a virtual club. The punch shattered Lonté's jaw bone and caused him to bite down, chipping teeth in the process. He staggered backward, dazed and disoriented. Black was bent over on his left leg like a pitcher falling off the mound just after he releases a pitch.
Man and Shontay ran up on the scene as Boo grabbed his wrist.
“All that fakin' and got slam knocked out,” said Man. “Aye, cuz,' you better roll out young.”
Boo started up the street pulling him. Black was hype so he resisted her.
“Come on, Black. Let's just leave. Come on,” said Boo.
Lonté' had begun to get some wits about him and mumble in a low tone, “I'ma kill you motherfucka.”
Then he mumbled, “Go get my gun young . . . it's in the bushes.”
Black relented and began to briskly walk down the street. Then they started jogging. Boo leading him like he didn't know the way, both of them looking back every couple of steps. They saw a boy run into the yard while the rest of them tried to pick Lonté' up. They heard loud threats and taunts. As they got closer to the bright lights of the avenue Black felt like a slave coming up on the Mason Dixon line.
When they entered Boo's building Black slammed the door and leaned against the wall to catch his breath. The lighting was dim because one of the lightbulbs had blown out. Names were written with markers, spray paint, lighters, anything you could across the walls.
Before he could reflect on what had just taken place Boo fell into him and leaned back. Her soft butt fit into his crotch like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. His chest heaved out when hers dipped in, creating a grinding sensation. The smooth glazed bricks felt frigid against his sweaty back. After a moment of contemplation, he put his arms around Boo's waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. Her heartbeat immediately began to return to normal. She delicately caressed his forearms with her sweaty palms. His penis grew as she pressed against it.
What he felt was more than a crush. It was like a warm sensation in the core of his body. The only catch was that it was Boo who was causing it. Not that he wanted to change anything. He just was in disbelief at how quickly it got to this point. An hour ago she was getting on his nerves. Now they stood there silently in each other's arms like they'd been together forever.
“I'm scared,” whispered Boo. “What if he comes around here? He knows where I live.”
Black's heart skipped a beat and he was sure Boo felt it. Nevertheless he kept his cool veneer.
“If he wanna get his niggas. I got niggas. My niggas is right in there,” said Black as he nodded his head toward the apartment. “Sheed, you know how Dink go, he down for whatever. And my brother, come on now, and Sergio psst.”
“I know. That's what I'm talking about. I don't want you to get involved in none that bullshit. That's not you, Black,” said Boo.
Her comment brought Black down to Earth. He wondered how it would be to shoot someone. He wondered if he could go through with squeezing the trigger and actually kill someone. He hadn't thought he had it in him to punch Lonté' and look what happened.
“So what you tryin' to say?” said Black as he raised his chin from her shoulder.
“Don't be like that, Black,” said Boo. “I'm just worried about you. I can't believe I'm here in your arms. I mean this is like a dream come true. You don't know how much I like you and how long I liked you. Like even when we was little I liked you.”
“For real?”
“Oh come on, Black. Don't play dumb with me. I know you.”
“Nah, I guess I knew you liked . . .”
“I love you, Black. You don't know how many times I wanted to tell you, but I never did.”
Boo turned around to face him. Black stood up, put his arms around her waist and gripped her butt. She played with the wrinkles in his shirt and rubbed his chest with her palms. Her face was so angelic now. Although cute she had always appeared upset or annoyed. In this moment she took had a brand new loveliness. He was afraid to make eye contact with her because he felt his feelings would grow even more. They could hear the voices coming from her apartment, mainly Sergio's.
“I don't like him,” said Boo as Sergio's voice echoed against the walls.
“Go 'head, young,” said Black as he cocked his head back and rolled his eyes.
“I'm serious,” said Boo as she slapped him lightly on his chest. “I don't like the way you act around him. You ain't . . . real. It's like you don't want him to think you,” said Boo.
“Look, just let it go man. You blowin' me,” said Black.
Boo apologized, sort of, and gave him a warm hug. She rested the side of her head on his chest and gazed at the door. A door upstairs opened, then slammed. They both held their breaths and their grips on each other instinctively loosened, taking on the personas of guilty children about to be discovered by their parents in the midst of mischief. Loud footsteps thumped each stair with the force of a plummeting bowling ball. They tensed up and their grips relaxed even more. But it was just Artise, a preadolescent who lived in next door. He went by in a blur.
“We should go in,” said Black.
“Nohhhh,” whined Boo. “I want to be alone with you.”
“Psst,” said Black.
“You know what? I'm a fuck you up, Black,” said Boo.
“I'm just sayin' we could be alone up there,” said Black.
“Ill, I don't want all them niggas in my business,” said Boo frowning.
“What you think—I want them in my business so they can playa hate? Come on, now,” said Black. “I'ma chill wit them for a minute, until they leave then I'm a come in there with you.”
“Nohhh, that's too long for us to be apart,” whined Boo. “The way I feel right now, it's like I can't explain it. I just don't want you to leave my . . . presence.”
She looked up into his eyes with an expression that could've corrupted a monk. He clutched her close to him and plotted on kissing her. She felt so soft and tender, but he just felt weird. It was like he knew things would never be the same if he kissed her. He knew it was going to happen that night. He was just stalling it out.
Rossonian Days
BY WILLIAM HENRY LEWIS
—FOR ERNEST HOLLIMAN, EARL MCADAMS,
AND EVERY OTHER MUSICIAN NOBODY HEARD.
Anyone who's ever blown knows you gotta feel it to say it; only a few really ever know the Truth and then play it.
—JOHN HENDRICKS
The memory of things gone is important to the jazz musician. Things like the old folks singing in the moonlight in the backyard on a hot night . . .
—DUKE ELLINGTON
Listen. This happens for just a moment. The car is headed north, to Denver. That's where the gig is. The band is from Kansas City. West by south, through Pueblo, and every dirty-snow mile of Route 87 stretching north by west. This kind of traveling never takes the short way. More road than anybody wants. Not much else to see. The fields will be gray for months. Land slips from the road, rolls in swells of rye and hay across the plain to the Front Range.
The car is long and the wheels are wide. Front grille stout, like America itself. The car is a Lincoln, rides like horsehair across bass-strings.
Nothing is small time here. No two-tone paint job. All black. Six coats of pure gloss. Shine for days. Tinted glass. Chrome not
hing more than nuance. More power switches than anybody will ever use: E-Z drive power steering. Power windows. Power locks. Power antenna. Power seats. What don't got power, the car don't need. The whole deal, chrome trim sidewalls to suicide doors, holds more class than most will get from getting in. You don't drive it. You ride it. The Lincoln Continental four-door convertible: chariot for the rebirth of the cool.
Inside, everybody's got room without anybody's last nerve being worked over. The bass is strapped to the roof; horns and drums packed like china; clothes for tonight rest on instrument cases. The worries ride up front, steaming the windows.
Call back to memories less rich but more grand, like Milt Hinton snapshots that didn't make print: Ellington, asleep in a cashmere topcoat, fedora brim angled across his the bridge of his nose, head at rest on Strayhorn's shoulder. Missouri is outside. They glide through the dusk of the Midwest, “Lush Life” drifting on A.M., night coming on.
In another image—maybe Ohio this time—Duke at work, writing in the small spot of a car lamp. Harry Carney sawing logs, shoulder to Duke's shoulder. Too many road gigs were cats filling a car like the last boxcar headed North: Sweet Pea, Monster, Snooky, all the rest, blessings on the stand, but all the same, smelly-sock brothers filling space where, if the Duke is on, a “Black and Tan Fantasy” is always birthing. Not all of his rides smooth, but you know the elders always wander the hard way first.
Call back to days of try. Edward Kennedy Ellington: Duke before there was Wayne, regent of a tight backseat, sounds making themselves on pages under dim light, no hambone room. Outside, it was always night, dark in the heartland, where brothers wasn't safe after dark. You ain't been blue 'til you had that “Mood Indigo.” Ride a million miles through Columbus, Des Moines, Perioa, Tulsa, Vidor, Lincoln, just to enter the Cotton Club through the front door . . . Hambone, hambone, where you been?
Gumbo Page 84