by Leo Sullivan
I reached into my pocket and put on my two chunky
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bracelets, and the fat iced-out chain I took from the police back
there at the hotel. As I pulled out my bankroll, I could see Hope
watching me through the corner of her eye. So I stunted for her
doing what playas do. Money, hoes and clothes is all a brotha
knows. Then I gave her my best Mack pose, leaning against the car
door, I took of my Kangol and caressed the waves on my head like
I was blessing myself. I just transformed right before her eyes.
“Here.” I passed her two crispy one hundred dollar bills. “Go
get me a hotel room, the biggest room they got with a view of the
pool,” I said just like I intended, a command, showing no respect
for her. Hope sucked her tongue as she turned and glowered at
me. If looks could kill, her fulgurant eyes would have done a drive
by. She opened her mouth to speak and suddenly thought better
of it. She got out and slammed the car door. I watched her as she
walked away angry. I was sure she was unconscious of the sensu-
ous sway of her hips. Her struts forceful like she could take out
fr ustration on the concrete. I’ve always wondered what their
mommas gave them. Moments later she returned. I could not help
admiring her walk.
“Here,” she said passing me the keys along with a slip of paper.
Just then a car drove by, music bumping. It was a sleek, sky blue
Lexus SC430, full of shouting females. The car made a U-turn in
the middle of the street. There was always something about col-
lege females, they’re always hyperactive, like where is the party at.
I watched Hope as she watched the car. “No, this can’t be hap-
pening to me,” she mumbled. The car pulled in right next to us.
Females were five deep. They were loud and excited to see Hope.
I stood outside to get an eyeful of diamonds glistening. I felt like
a pimp on a hoe farm. All eyes on me.
“No it isn’t! Not the good sister Hope. On the smoooove
creeeep,” the driver droned. The rest of the girls cracked up in
giddy laughter. Hope smiled painfully like she was getting a tooth
pulled. The driver was mixed with something. If I had to guess, I
would say Spanish. Her complexion was amber, like she was kissed
by the sun. Her deep green chatoyant eyes were stunning, they
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could hypnotize a man. She had me spellbound. She had long
silky black hair that cascaded down to the middle of her back, like
she had just brushed it and let it flow. She stepped out of the car
wearing a white halter top and tight-fitting blue jeans. Her walk
was provocative, like the purest essence of a woman’s femininity.
The pussy print between her legs was balled up like a fat fist on
both sides. Damn she was wearing them jeans. I bit down on my
knuckle and Hope rolled her eyes at me. The driver never took her
eyes off of me. Not even one second. It felt as if I were being
inspected.
“Trina, this is L.”
“Heeeey L, with your fine self,” cooed a girl in the car.
I tried my damnest not to blush and then they all joined in
harmously, “Hi, L.” I was cheesing like a brotha posing for a
toothpaste commercial. Then someone yelled, “look at those cute
dimples.” The whole time Trina was checking me out, my jewelry
and my clothes. There was something uncanny about her. Like she
knew me from somewhere.
“Damn, ain’t you and Marcus still together?” Trina asked,
slinging the words in Hope’s face.
“I’m on my way to his house,” Hope retorted, with her lips
twisted to the side accompanied by a tilted neck. I could tell there
was friction in the air. Women have a strange way of communi-
cating. They use body language like chickens that used to have
arms.
“Trina is my Sorority Sister,” Hope said to me. As if on cue the
girls in the car made a noise, I guess it had something to do with
their sorority. They all erupted in jovial laughter.
“She’s from the Bronx.”
“Wuz up Shouty?” I said, giving her a nod like I hardly
noticed she was there. One of the girls said, “Ask him if he has any
friends fine like him.” They all laughed, everybody except Hope
and Trina. I watched as they talked in generic chatter while the
sun beat down on us. I felt a trickle of perspiration cascade down
my spine as I looked at all of the beautiful sistas. It was like I was
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in paradise.
“What room are you staying in?” Trina asked, completely
catching me off guard.
“Who, me?” Dumbfounded. I looked at the key in my hand
and answered “A-4.”
“We’re going to get something to eat, you want to join us?”
Trina asked like it was a challenge. The whole time she just looked
at me.
“No, I was dropping L off. I gave him a ride from Sarasota yes-
terday. We had car trouble and just made it into town.” I listened
as Hope made excuses that sounded like lies.
Trina frowned at her, and then asked me, “What brings you to
Tallahassee, L?” I thought I detected a trace of an accent.
“I’m here on business.”
“What kind of business?” she asked placing her hands on her
round hips. I noticed somehow she had inched up closer, the wind
blew her hair. A car passed, some brothas hollered at the girls and
the girls hollered back. I smiled like a sly fox, the way men do
when they’re lying to a woman and they both know it.
“I’m in the import and export business,” I said turning the
gold bracelet on my wrist. Something about Trina pounced on
me, perhaps it was her eyes, the way she looked at me, bold,
aggressively. She made no secret about it. She was trying to get
with me, and when she walked away, she showed me more. I
watched for a moment, placing her index finger over her temple
like she was contemplating the plot.
“Gee, Hope. You say that you left town yesterday, but your
paper tag has today’s date on it.”
“Ummm, that was a mistake they made at the car lot,” Hope
stammered.
“Yea, right. You better be careful Marcus doesn’t learn of your
mistakes,” Trina said, like a threat, and then winked her eye at me.
“I’ll be seeing you around L.” She pointed at me like she had just
staked her claim on me. I raised a brow thinking I just witnessed
a cat fight. Trina jumped in her car. The girls clamored. The sys-
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tem in her car was turned up loud, thumping so hard I could feel
it vibrating. Mary J. Blige’s song “Real Love” filled the air as they
drove off.
“Bitch!” Hope cursed giving me the evil eye. “Listen Life, you
got to stay away from her. Trina is bad news. Her family, or some-
body is heavy into drugs. Her last boyfriend was a baller, now he’s
doing life in the feds.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
A car pulled up and
two gorgeous women got out. They were
holding hands.
“I don’t want you to get into any trouble. That’s all.”
She looked at her watch, a signal to me that she was about to
go. She turned and opened the car door. As I placed my hand over
hers, she gulped air, and took in a deep breath. So much more
innocence exuded from her. In the sunlight, I watched the wisps
of baby hair cascade down her delicate forehead. I noticed that she
did not remove her hand, nor did she blink for that moment in
time. Our eyes locked and I knew if there were a way to check her
heartbeat, it would be in the same rhythm as mine.
“Life, you know I’m the kind of girl that believes in speaking
her mind. I’m very much attracted to you …” I watched as her
tongue moistened and primed her lips, lips that I wanted to kiss,
preparing to tell me what I did not want to hear.
“ … and … and last night you made love to me like I had
never been … been touched, made love to before.” She then took
my hand off hers, and looked away, breaking our physical com-
munication.
“We’re from two different worlds.” Her voice now sounded
harsh and cold. “Your world is where I am running from. Poverty
and pain fills us with greed and envy. Money can’t buy love. It
can’t buy me.” She shook her head like she was trying to chase
away some evil demon. “You’ll end up dead or in them white folks’
prison.”
Her words stung me like a premonition. One of my knees felt
like it was going to buckle. A Black woman’s premonition is the
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closest thing to God, my stepmom taught me that. Somehow, I
know that Hope’s words held the truth. The kind of truth that no
hustler wanted to take heed to.
“For you, Hope, I’d hang up my scale, no mo dope game,
place my pistol, Jesus, in the closet. If you help me, I’d go
straight,” I said, dead serious not knowing or caring where that
voice was coming from. I knew that it just felt good talking to her.
Silence. I looked over her head. There was a Goodyear blimp in
the sky. Her rejection of me was written all over her face. It
answered my question in a way she could never have. Time was of
the essence. What I just said even sounded whack to me, that was
my weak heart talking. I realized I needed to spit game like flavor
in her ear. “Tell you what, give me something to read, something
conscious.” I watched her delicate eyebrows furrow like she was
trying to read my brain to see if I was lying. I know that all them
people with that fake-ass “Black Man” talk were suckers and want-
ed to tr y to get people to read like it was going to kick star t a rev-
olution. Her eyes softened, maybe she saw potential in me. I damn
sure did, enough to want to sell bricks and buy a villa in Manila,
smoke trees while getting my dick sucked by one of them exotic-
looking bitches under a palm tree.
“Life, there’s a book titled,
The Destruction of Black
Civilization
, written by a man named Chancellor Williams and
another book,
Miseducation of the Negro
.”
I could have won an award for best actor the way I feigned
interest. She went on to talk about some cat name Marcus Garvey.
Her faced beamed, like she really enjoyed the topic. Boring. I was
trying to remember how far the Black section of town was that we
passed. I knew it was called Frenchtown. I heard talk about it
while I was in the joint. I needed to know what size their dime
rocks were. I was making plans, like a general, about to mount an
attack, to take over them Tallahassee niggas tur f.
“Life! Life! Boy, you ain’t heard a word I’ve said.” She got into
the car.
“I heard ya.” I made a face, my best impression of don’t go.
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She reached in and placed each one of the bags that I bought
for her on the curb. “I’m sorry, but I cannot accept these. Call me
at the station tonight, we’ll make arrangements to pay for the car.”
As she pulled out, I shouted, “Bring the books when you come
back tomorrow.”
“Come back?” she mouthed the words, looking at me strange-
ly. I thought to myself,
you’ll be back as soon as you find Jesus under
your front seat
.
I went to my room. It was nice and comfortable with a scenic
view and a king-sized bed. It even had a kitchen with a stove and
fridge. I counted out my cash, a little over eight grand. I cut a hole
in the mattress and stashed it there for safe keeping. I placed my
jewelr y under the pillow and changed clothes, a simple pair of
jeans and a large white T-shirt. I was about to make my first foray
into the Black section of town. There was a risk involved. I need-
ed to look as inconspicuous as possible. I easily concealed the .380
in my pocket and only took eighteen dollars and some loose
change with me.
I walked a mile or so taking in the sights. This city was alive.
The Florida State campus was huge. White broads walking
around, scantily clad, teaming with other vibrant ethnicities. I
blended right in, and even though it was hot as hell, I enjoyed the
sights and sounds. To me it was like being in a foreign land. I
passed a car lot, across the street was a Popeye’s Chicken, and
down the street from that was Nether world, better known as
Frenchtown. I’ve often wondered how the Black section of town
was always placed in the middle of white folks’ areas so that they
can conveniently drive by with their expensive cars, windows up,
doors locked and scorned expression on their faces at the shock of
the plight of Black life.
I was definitely approaching the Black section. I could tell
because the value of the land looked dilapidated. I strained my
eyes to the glare of the sun. I saw it up the street. To the casual eye
it would not have been detected. I spotted what looked like a
lookout man or woman. Any trap that is making any money has
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one. The best lookout in the world is a dope fiend. They stay para-
noid, on perpetual alert. That is, if they’re not getting high.
As I continued to scan the streets, I walked gingerly as I passed
a drugstore. Little kids were inside buying candy. Then a barber-
shop. On the corner where I stood was a soul food restaurant. My
pace slowed. Across the street was a pool hall, a sleazy tavern and
a liquor store all right next to each other. People were gathered out
front. It felt like a thousand pair of eyes stared at me as I waited
for the light to change. One thing was for sure, whenever you
make an excursion into someone else’s hood, they know that you
are not from there and that’s where the problem starts. Like walk-
ing into a lion’s den. I crossed the street. In the abandoned lot
there was a big commotion. A tall goofy-looking white boy was
walki
ng backward, palms in the air. His eyes darted back and forth
and he wasn’t wearing a shir t. He kept wiping the dirty blond hair
from his face. His glasses were so thick that I wondered if he could
be legally blind without them. About ten teenagers had him sur-
rounded. They had baseball bats, two-by-fours and iron pipes.
“Give me dat money, cracka,” one of them shouted. I watched
as all hell broke loose.
POW! CRACK!
They tore off into his ass
like he was responsible for slavery. One thing I can say about that
white boy, he never fell to the ground, nor did he give up that
money. He made the crucial mistake of coming to buy a rock
without the aid of a Black person he knew, a mistake that has
caused many a white man his life, trying to buy dope in a Black
neighborhood. Someone hit him in the back and the sound
exploded like a cannon. That white boy found a small crack of
daylight and took off like a racehorse. As he attempted to pass me
I stuck my foot out and tripped him. He fell flat on his face and
slid across the worn out concrete. His glasses went one way while
he went the other. I ain’t never liked a cracka. Never! Ever since
my stepmother told me the sad story about how they stole my
granddaddy’s land and killed him. That was one of the reasons
why my father lost most of his mind.
The crowd of youngsters moved on him again. This was pure
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recreation for them. Black boys have so much pent up energy, for
them this was almost a daily occurrence, and it wasn’t just white
boys asses they whipped either. They didn’t discriminate. I know
just as sure that if they knew I was from out of town they would
have rat packed my ass too.
They continued to kick his ass. This was all done in broad
daylight. White people passed in their cars with the look of hor-
ror on their pink faces. Talk about the natives being restless, this
was turning into some kind of sport. One thing was for sure, it
was going to draw a lot of heat.
Whoever’s trip this is, they’re not
doing a good job of managing it
, I thought.
I watched as this woman ran into the melee, arms flailing,
screaming and pushing, shoving people off the white boy.