by Tranay Adams
“Wow, I remember this photo,” Melvin smiled and took the picture from his son, staring at the face of his late wife, Kimberly Petty. “I took this one myself. I’d bought the camera offa smoker from around the way. I paid twenty bucks for that camera. It was a good one, too, straight outta the box. Me and your mother went up to the Santa Monica Pier. Boy, did she look beautiful coming outta that water in that bathing suit, glistening wet with the sun kissing off that flawless skin of hers.” He passed the picture back to Tiaz. The young nigga looked down at the picture smiling, visualizing his mother running on the beach. He then saw her posing for his father to snap pictures of her. “’Til this day no one can convince me that your mother isn’t, hands down, the most beautiful woman that I have ever laid eyes on. I just knew I had to have her. I wanted her to bare my children and I wanted to give her my last name. If I wasn’t sure about anything in this life, I was sure that I wanted to put a ring on that woman’s finger. If your godfather were here he could attest to that. Mannnn, me and your mother were in love. I didn’t know happiness until she said yes to my proposal and I found out she was pregnant with you.” He placed his hand on Tiaz’ shoulder and gripped it. A tear dropped from Tiaz’ eye and he quickly wiped it away, thinking of the love his mother and father shared. He wished more than ever that she was there with them. “I thought to myself finally, finally I’m going to have myself a family to call my own again.” Melvin stared ahead smiling, looking like he was under someone’s hypnosis. “You ever miss her, pop?” Tiaz asked. “Miss her? Mannn, my heart hurts each and every day I don’t get to see that woman. Your mother was my soul mate, son. God made her for me and me for her. I don’t have any doubts about that.” “I wish I had gotten a chance to meet her.” “I do, too. One day we’ll all be reunited though. That’s something I can promise you.” He patted him on his back and gave him a half smile. Seeing that his son was feeling down about his mother, Melvin decided to tell him a story about him and his mother. “Hey, I ever tell you the story of how me and your mother met?” “Nah, you never told me that story.” “Well, do you wanna hear it?” “Hell yeah.” “I met your mother at The Bar Fly. This popular lil’ dive over on the lower Eastside. I tried hollering at her, but she shot me down. She told me she was just there sulking over a recent breakup over a bottle of beer, so I left her alone. Later on that night, a knucklehead approached her by the name of Gamble. He tried to get her digits, but she told him the same thang she told me. Only this fucking cave man wasn’t taking no for an answer. Anyway, he and your mother got into it. And I stepped in...so did the niggaz that were with him. I didn’t give a fuck though. You know yo’ old man, I ain’t scared of nobody. I told that cock sucka I’d take ‘em there and anywhere else if he wanted some, so....”
“Step aside,” Gamble pulled off his T-shirt and stepped up, accepting Melvin’s challenge.
Melvin slid his foot forward, getting into a fighting stance. He thumbed his nose and lifted his fists, seeing his scarred knuckles before his eyes. He had the eye of the tiger and he was ready for whatever Gamble and his niggaz brought his way. “Aahhhhh!” Gamble rushed Melvin throwing haymakers, trying to knock his head off. Melvin swiftly dodged his advances and unleashed a flurry of punches on his torso. His fists were thrown so fast that they looked like blurs while en route. “Ugh! Huuu! Uhh!” Gamble’s eyes bulged and he doubled over from the impact of each punch. He tried to counter, but Melvin was on him like stink on shit. When Gamble swung on Melvin, he ducked and fired on his stomach with all of his might. The force behind the blow made Gamble vomit all over his wife beater before falling to the floor. He lay on the floor breathing heavily with food residue surrounding his mouth. Looking up, Melvin clocked DeWitt and Marlon charging at him. Whipping around in a 360 degree turn, Melvin slammed the heel of his sneaker into Marlon’s jaw and broke it. The sound of bone breaking was heard by all of the patrons standing by watching the brawl. Marlon hit the floor hard and fast. He struggled to get upon his feet but the blow had left him weakened and hurt. With Marlon out of the fight, Melvin set his sights on DeWitt. The bald head, muscle bound DeWitt proved to be more skilled with his hands than the others. He was able to land two solid punches to Melvin, busting his lip. “Unh huh, you fucked around and got the right one tonight, mothafucka!” DeWitt hit Melvin with two body shots and followed up with a hook. Melvin was quick on his feet though. He ducked the hook and followed up with three teeth rattling blows. Each punch that landed split DeWitt’s lips more and more. Speckles of his blood clung to Melvin’s shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice. He faked like he was about to jab DeWitt and kicked him in the leg, where the bones connected instead. “Arrrrrrgh!” DeWitt threw his head back and hollered out in excruciation with his eyelids squeezed shut. Melvin then threw an overhand right that sent a ripple through his cheek and made his ear look like it was going to fly from off the side of his face. The assault dropped DeWitt to his hands and knees. He looked down at the surface and saw that he was bleeding at his grill, dripping blood all over the floor. “Come on, get cho bitch ass up!” Melvin motioned for him to get up with both his hands. If he didn’t know how to do anything else it was fight. He’d been throwing hands all of his life. Hell, he had to. He was original from Alabama and he went to an all white school. Nearly everyone there was racist as shit. Back then, in the tenth grade, he was dating a white girl, so he’d get jumped often on the way to and from school which was a twenty mile walk. One day, a couple of Caucasian knuckleheads gave him that work. Old Melvin ended up with fractured ribs and a broken eye socket. He did home study for the duration of school. Once he healed he hit the dojo hard for six months straight. He learned Chinese Kick Boxing. The next time he ran into those fools that beat him down, he made short work of them. That’s right! He put all of their asses in the ICU. After that, their racist parents and the town’s police had it out bad for him, so his parents sent him out to Southern California to live with Aunt and Uncle. “Come on, get cho punk ass up!” Melvin egged him on. Seeing DeWitt trying to get back upon his feet, he gave him some space and threw up his bloody fists, looking for more. “You’re dead, you’re dead!” DeWitt pulled himself to his good leg by grabbing hold of the pool table. Finally standing upward, he hobbled on his good leg and touched his mouth. When he looked to his finger tips they were bloody. Seeing this enraged him, so he snatched a pool stick from off the pool table. He did fancy moves with it, spinning it from the front of him to around his back so fast that it looked like a blur. “Yeah, yeah, come get some, bitch!” He tried to jab Melvin hard with the stick, but he dodged it. Before he knew it, the pool stick was being swung at his head multiple times. It made a swoop sound each time it was swung at him, but he was able to avoid contact. When Melvin came back up from the stick being swung at his head, he kicked DeWitt square in the chest. The force behind the blow sent him high into the air. He landed down hard upon the pool table and sent some of the balls clattering into each other, eventually falling into some of the pockets. “Oh my God, he’s gotta gun!” One of the patron’s called out. “Look out!” Another patron shouted. “Melllllviiiin!” Kimberly called out to him. A wide eyed Melvin whipped around with his mouth hanging open. His eyes met Gamble who had just pointed his nickel plated .32. The small weapon gleamed beneath the illumination of the light coming from the ceiling. Before Melvin could react, Gamble was pulling the trigger and his gun was firing. “Ugh!” Melvin’s head whipped around and he went down in what appeared like slow motion to anyone watching. “Nooooooo!” Kimberly called out with tears spilling down her cheeks. She ran over to attend to a wounded Melvin. “Freeze!” a police officer commanded from behind Gamble. He whipped around to take a shot at him, but he cut loose on his ass. The patrons cried out and cringed seeing the cop gun down the hoodlum. Splocka! Splocka! Splocka! Splocka! Splocka! Gamble winced as the bullets went through his body and splattered his blood on everything and everyone near him. He fired his .32 into the ceiling involuntarily before collapsing to the floor dea
d, losing his weapon. “Please, God, don’t let him be dead.” Kimberly spoke to the Almighty. She then pulled Melvin over onto his back. When she laid eyes on him he had a nasty, bleeding gash on his temple where the bullet had nicked him. Melvin stared up at her smiling and wincing at the same time from his wound. “You’re alive, thank goodness.” She kissed Melvin’s affectionately. One kiss turned into two and then into three. Before she knew it they were kissing long, deep, hard and passionately. Turning their heads counter clock wise as they French kissed. “So, I guess this means you’ll go out with me?” Melvin smiled. “No. It means I’m really thankful and I’ll think about it,” She smiled back at him. “Do I gotta get nicked by another bullet to convince you?” They laughed aloud. “...And the rest is history.” Melvin finished telling the story. “Pop, why you lying? You know them niggaz whooped yo’ ass.” Tiaz chuckled. “Boy, you better ask someboy. Hell, I’m the one that taught cho young ass how to throw these hands.” Melvin shadow boxed and showed off his footwork. You could tell by his movements that he knew how to fight well. “Yeah, whatever, old man,” Tiaz waved him off. “What?” He threw some playful punches at his son and they started horsing around. They laughed and giggled as they wrestled around the bedroom. Later, they found themselves on the floor staring up at the ceiling. “We’re gonna be okay, son,” Melvin told Tiaz. “We’ve just gotta hang in there.” “I know, OG. We will. It’s me and you now; us against the world.”
CHAPTER SEVEN The next day
Melvin came waltzing out of the corner liquor store. He had a chocolate Zinger in his mouth and a carton of milk in his hand, which a scratch-off was placed against. The carton was propped against his stomach as he stared down at the scratch-off he had pressed against it, scratching off the boxes with a quarter. He was heading to his taxi cab barely paying attention to his surroundings. In fact, he never looked up from his scratch-off as he was walking, but he was still able to make it to his vehicle without incident and open the driver’s door. He hopped in behind the wheel and slammed the door shut, sitting the milk carton aside on the passenger seat. He placed his scratch-off against the car’s horn and leaned forth to finish scratching out the boxes of the yellow rectangle shaped card. The game was Ace’s High and you had to scratch at least one number in the boxes that matched the number in the header above.
Seeing that he didn’t win, Melvin threw the coin into the change tray and ripped the scratch-off into threads, tossing it out of the window.
“I don’t know why I keep buying those goddamn things. I don’t ever win shit anyway,” Melvin cracked open his carton of milk and took a bite of his Zinger. When he was about done munching on his Zinger, he took a drink of milk and finished munching it down. Hearing someone outside of his window, he looked out of it and saw a crackhead with nappy, beaded hair. He was in a trench coat and beat up Rebocs. His sneakers were two sizes too big, so he had them laced up so tight that they curled at their ends. At that moment, he was standing before two niggaz. One was wearing a doo-rag and the other a NY fitted cap. They were looking at something that the crackhead was wearing as he held open his trench coat. As the crackhead held open his trench coat, he kept an eye out for the police. Melvin believed that this was because he had something illegal that he was trying to get the hoodlums to purchase.
“Alright, I give you thirty for it,” the nigga in the fitted cap said.
“Thirty dollas, mannnnn, come on now. That’s a crackhead price, shoot me at least fifty.” the crackhead responded, scratching underneath his chin.
“Nigga, youz a mothafuckin’ crackhead, what chu expect? Talkin’ ‘bout I’m givin’ you crackhead prices. Look, check it out, either take the thirty for the vest or beat the street,” fitted cap told him straight up.
“Awww, man, you can at least...” his words died in his throat as he put his hands up with his palms showing. He didn’t want any problems once homeboy lifted his shirt and showed him his handgun, which was tucked inside the front of his sagging jeans, against his boxers.
“Aye, man, I don’t won’t no problems, chief!” The crackhead’s voice trembled and his hands shook.
“I know you don’t won’t no problems, now get cho fonky ass up outta here ‘fore I rob you!” He shoved the smoker fool and kicked him in his ass, lurching him forward and causing him to stumble. The nigga in the doo-rag busted up laughing with his hand on his stomach. He got a real kick out of the fiend’s humiliation.
Seeing the crackhead take off down the street, Melvin finished off his Zinger and washed it down with some milk. He then closed the carton and sat it down on the passenger side’s floor. He cranked up his vehicle and pulled out, busting a U-turn in the middle of the street. He drove alongside the crackhead as he ran down the block, tying up his trench coat and occasionally glancing over his shoulder. His eyes were full of fright and his mouth was wide open as he took in gulps of air. His face was shiny and beads of sweat had formed on his forehead.
“Yoooo, my man! My man, over here!” Melvin called out to the fleeing crack fiend. The scared man’s head snapped in his direction and his forehead creased with worry lines. He mouthed Oh, shit and ran faster, thinking the hood nigga down the block had sent someone to get at him. His adrenaline was jacked up and he was afraid, so he never thought it was just a cab driver trying to get his attention. “Fuck, this nigga scared.” Melvin said to no one in particular. He drove after the crackhead as he ran and fished around inside of his pocket. He pulled out his hand spilling loose change and wrinkled bills. Looking back and forth between the crackhead and the windshield, he dumped the contents from his pocket into the passenger seat. Still keeping his eyes on the windshield and the crackhead, he sifted through the wrinkled bills on the passenger seat until he found a fifty dollar bill. Holding it up so that the crackhead could see it, he called after him, saying, “Yo’, my man, I need to holla at chu! Can we talk business? Huh? I wanna buy that vest from off you, homie!”
Hearing Melvin calling after him, the crackhead looked his way and saw the money. What the man said finally registered in his brain and he slowed down to a trot, eventually stopping. He bent over with his hands on his knees, hunched over and breathing hard, staring up at the man with the fifty dollar bill in his hand. By this time Melvin stopped his taxi cab in the middle of the street.
“It’s...it’s fifty dollas,” the smoker fool told him, panting out of breath.
“I got it, fifty bucks, it’s right here, homie.” Melvin said, wagging the fifty dollar bill before his eyes. He then looked through the windshield and back window, seeing that there were cars coming and he was going to end up holding up traffic. “Check it out though; let’s handle business in that alley over there,” he nodded to an alley across the way. “I ain’t tryna be caught up with the police ‘cause I’m holding up traffic, tryna make an illegal sell. You feel me?”
“Oh...okay,” the crackhead nodded and followed the yellow cab as it was driven inside of the alley. As he was approaching, Melvin had stopped the vehicle and hopped out, slamming the door shut behind him. The crackhead noticed he had a carton of milk in his hand.
“What’s up, man? You look like you could use a drink.” Melvin gave him the carton of milk. He watched as the crack fiend turned the carton up, drinking from it. His throat rolled up and down his neck. The white liquid spilled down his chin and neck. Once the crackhead finished drinking, he took the carton down from his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty hand. He tried to pass the carton back to Melvin and he declined it. With that, the crack fiend sat the milk carton on top of the roof of the cab. “Alright, homie, lemme see the merchandise,” Melvin rubbed his hands together in anticipation of seeing the bulletproof vest, hoping that it was authentic.
The smoker fool looked around cautiously as he untied his trench coat. Once he was sure that the coast was clear, he held his trench coat open and showcased his bulletproof vest, which had Police emblazoned across its chest. Melvin stepped closer to the crackhead and knocked o
n the vest. He then removed one of the plates from out of it and tested its weight. He also saw how thick the plate was. After he was done examining it, he placed the plate back inside of the vest.
“Sold,” Melvin held up the fifty dollar bill. The crackhead snatched the wrinkled bill from out of his hand and removed his trench coat. He followed Melvin to the back of the cab, checking his surroundings as he waited for him to pop the trunk. Once he did, he unstrapped the vest and handed it to him. Melvin placed the vest inside of the compartment where the spare tire was hidden. He then slammed the trunk shut. When he turned around he found the smoker fool holding the bill he’d given him up to the sun light. He had one eye shut as he studied the currency for authenticity. Satisfied, he folded the bill up and slid it inside of his pocket.
“Pleasure doing business witchu,” Melvin extended his hand and he shook it firmly.
“Look, G, if you need anything else, just lemme know. Now, I don’t have a cell phone, but there’s an old phone booth by my way that I can give you the number to should you need my services again.”
“You could probably help me out with something now. You think you could get cho hands on a piece of iron for me?”
“Iron? You mean a gun?” He made his hand into the shape of a gun.