I thought about all the bourgie Blacks I knew: the doctors, lawyers, businessmen, and politicians, who talked a good game to gain Black support and achieve their positions and then promptly turned their backs on us once they achieved their desired status. They would put as much distance as they could between themselves and the people who helped to make them what they were. I thought of all the big-time players and pimps, the hustlers and gangstas who leeched off the black community and exploited their own brothers and sisters worse than any white man ever had. If God was Black then he was just another bourgie nigga who got large and forgot where he came from. Somehow the idea of a sell-out, house-nigga god, was worse than the idea of a racist white one.
“But it ain’t God doing all that. It’s that trickster, that blue-eyed devil that Dr. Yaccub created to torment the original man, the Asiatic black man. He’s the one making our lives hell, that white devil”
There was that reference to the white man as the devil again. It seems all these Muslim cats believed that shit. I just couldn’t buy it though. Just like all the other racial conspiracy theories, it gave white people too much credit. I just couldn’t see how they could be that slick and crafty to keep Black people fucked up for so long. All the dirt Scratch was doing in the hood would have been more than enough to convince most mutherfuckers that his ass was Satan. I could definitely believe that he was evil. I just still couldn’t accept that all of them were. Still, even if that shit was true, God created Dr. Yaccub, who created the white man, so it was all God’s fault anyway. Besides, he damned sure wasn’t doing shit to correct the situation.
I stopped believing in God. I was convinced that the lives of Black folks, and mine in particular, was just some cruel-ass joke. I started drinking again and getting high. I had never stopped fighting but even that got worse. More and more often I skipped school. Mrs. Greenblade kept trying to bring me back around but I had lost all interest in school or anything else. It was all pointless anyway.
“What’s going on with you, Malik? You were doing so well. Is everything all right at home? Do you need someone to talk to? You are just too bright and you’ve got too much potential to just throw it all away like this. I might have to fail you if you keep going like this,” the overweight, middle-aged schoolteacher pleaded with me. She looked like she was on the verge of tears.
“Do what you gotta do. Ain’t no thang to me.”
“Malik, please. Just tell me what’s going on?”
“Remember that last book you gave me by Jean Paul Sartre? Being and Nothingness, I think it was. You gave it to me after I told you my thoughts about God and Black folks.”
“Yes?” she seemed relieved that I was opening up. I guess she thought I was giving her a chance to talk me out of whatever I had gotten into my head.
“I gotta confess. I really didn’t understand much of it. But, it seemed to be saying that if there is no God and life is without meaning than there are no rules, no restrictions. That man is as free as he allows himself to be. I think that’s what he meant by the idea of an absurd freedom. If life is absurd then we are free to create meaning, define our own destinies. Anything is possible.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what he meant. I wanted you to see that your race or your economic situation need not hinder you in becoming anything you wanted to be.”
“Yeah, I got that. But if life is without meaning then there may be no restrictions on our actions, but that also means that there ain’t no motivation either. If everything is meaningless then there’s nothing holding us back, but there’s nothing to drive us either and what type of freedom is that shit? It’s like puttin’ a kid in a candy store, but first removing his taste buds. The fact that life is meaningless makes me want to do nothing, but you can’t live doing nothing and everything you do creates conflict, especially in the ’hood. Conflict creates pain, and that pain demands the question ‘What the hell am I suffering for?’ To which Sartre answers, ‘Nothing.’ That’s truly fucked up, man. As much shit as we go through it should mean something. It should be worth more.”
“Malik, you’re wrong. There’s plenty in this world that’s worth doing. That’s just one man’s perspective.”
“But he’s right. Maybe there’s something worthwhile in your world, but not in mine and despite all that bullshit about freedom my world is all I’ll ever know.”
That was pretty much my last day of school. I’m mostly self-educated. I continued to read about philosophy and only succeeded in depressing myself further. No one had anything that was worth believing in. All the philosophers were just cowards and liars, afraid to see the truth or afraid to speak it for fear of being unpopular. No one knew the truth and no one even seemed to be looking for it anymore. I gave up on everything but my friends.
Huey, Tank, and I began going downtown into Center City, to South Street, almost every night to jack white boys for their cash or even their clothes if they looked expensive enough. It was during this time that I got arrested for the first time.
We were down on South Street on a Saturday night feeling roguish and hostile. It was just three nights before Halloween and about ten minutes before midnight. There were already many people out in costume. Early Halloween parties disgorged onto the street and blended in with the gaggle of freaks and weirdos that packed the dozen blocks that led from the harbor to the Broad Street subway. South Street was Philadelphia’s version of Greenwich Village or Haight Ashbury Street. Every nationality, sexual persuasion, and alternative lifestyle the city offered paraded up and down the street in outlandish regalia. From thugs to transvestites, punk rockers to pimps, there was not a single group lacking representation in some form or another. Even the suburbanites from New Jersey and the main line jammed the sidewalks snapping pictures at the urban cultural oddities.
The closer it got to Halloween the weirder South Street became. Between Seventh Street and Front Street cops occupied every corner looking nervous and tense, clearly aware that they were outnumbered and probably outgunned as well. Riots on South Street were almost a Philadelphia tradition. They were so common they hardly even made the news anymore unless someone got killed or something. From Eighth Street to Broad Street however, a short mile that took you within a few blocks of the Martin Luther King projects, there was not a police officer in sight. There the streets were dark with shattered street lights and abandoned tenements. Each alleyway you passed was a potential death trap. And if you were dumb enough to leave South Street anywhere along it’s length, even as far down as Front Street, you were just asking for pain.
The three of us stood outside the pharmacy at Fifth and South watching the hoes, hookers, and naïve young suburban bitches stroll by. The suburban girls were even easier to pick up than the hoodrat hoes. You could almost hear the rap lyrics playing in their heads when they looked at us, wide-eyed and expectant. There was a six-foot red-headed girl grinning at me from inside the store and I couldn’t stop staring at her. She was fucking gorgeous! I knew Huey would have some shit to say about me fucking with some gray bitch, but all I was thinking about was getting my dick wet. Fuck all the politics. It’s all pink on the inside.
My eyes traveled up and down her body and I shook with want. Her breasts were tremendous. I would have put her bra-size somewhere in the middle of the alphabet. Her ass was thick and full, but with as much muscle as fat and her hips were wide as well. Her waist however was small and narrow with just the slightest hint of a tummy.
“Yo, Tank.”
“Wa’sup, dog?”
“See that red-headed snowflake in the store? I bet you I can pull that before the end of the night.”
“Aw, bro, she’s fine. You think you could pull that?”
“Shit, all a Black man needs to pull a white bitch is a big dick and an attitude.”
“Yeah, and a little self hate.” Huey interrupted, scowling in disgust.
“Dog, don’t even start trippin’. Pussy is Pussy. Some just got flatter asses and straighter hair than others,
but when you up in it, it all feels the same.”
“How the fuck would you know? You ain’t never been up in nothin’ except Yolanda’s fat ass!”
“Fuck you, man. I gets plenty pussy. Just watch me pull this snowflake bitch.”
Huey was right though. I’d never been with a White girl before and White people still scared me a little. That’s why I liked kickin’ their asses so much. It helped me get over my fear of windin’ up in their freezer like one of Jeffrey Dahmer’s butt buddies. But this bitch was too fine to let a little thing like getting hacked up and stored away as leftovers scare me off.
I strolled into the pharmacy and cut off any reply Huey may have wanted to make. The snowflake looked up as I walked in and smiled. She was definitely about to get fucked.
“You look like you need a thug in your life.” I said, lowering my already husky voice to a deep rumble as I stepped behind her; purposely leaning close enough to her ear so that my hot breath could be felt on her neck.
I knew that what white girls liked most about black men was our overt sexuality and straightforwardness. At least, that’s what I thought it was they liked about us. It might have just been that datin’ niggas was in fashion.
“Oh yeah? And just what makes you think that?”
“Cause here it is midnight on a Saturday night and instead of being made love to by someone who would kill or die for the treasures between your thighs, you here buying Snapple and shit.”
She laughed.
“Yeah, and what could a thug do for me that any man couldn’t?”
She was laying it on the line and since I had been so bold with her so far and it had been working I decided to play it like a pimp the whole way.
“Well, a player like myself would treat you like you need to be treated. Like a queen or a goddess,” and now for the trump card, “…and a whore.”
She stared at me disbelieving for a second like she was trying to decide if I was for real or not; waiting for me to laugh and say I was only kidding, but I stared back into her eyes like I was perfectly serious and then to further emphasize my point, I slowly looked her over from head to toe like I wanted to tear her apart right there in the store. Finally, she smiled and seemed to make up her mind.
“What’s your name, baby”
“Christina.”
“Where do you live?”
“Me and my mom live right across the street above the bookstore.”
Then, as an after-thought she added:
“My mom won’t be home all weekend.”
She was about seventeen years-old and I knew she thought I was the same age. At fourteen years-old I was already six-feet-two inches tall and had a voice like Barry White. I didn’t have much experience with girls though. The closest thing to real sex I’d ever had at that point was with Yolanda. And every time I looked at a White person I still saw Scratch’s face. Even though I didn’t really believe all that Muslim shit about white people being devils they still sort of creeped me out a little. Still, I wanted to fuck this white bitch bad.
“Give me your address. I’m coming over tonight.”
“Damn, you’re fast! How do I know you ain’t some kind of psycho or something?”
“Well, you don’t. But I give my word that you’ll enjoy anything I do to you.”
“You’re a sick mutherfucker. I like you.”
I couldn’t believe it. How dumb could a woman be? A sister would have cussed me out by now and probably pulled a box cutter on me and tried to slash my face. White girls lived in a whole different world. Violence is so foreign to them that they couldn’t even imagine being beaten up or raped by some niggas they met on South Street. Life to them was all fun and games and as much as I wanted to prove her wrong and turn her world upside down, hurting women wasn’t my thing and I wanted some pussy far more than I wanted to prove a point. I had gotten blowjobs and handjobs from Yolanda, but other than that I was still a virgin and was anxious to change that.
“My friends are waitin’ for me. We got some business to take care of. Let me get that number ’fore I leave and we’ll hook up.”
She wrote her number down along with her address and slipped it to me. When I reached for it she held on.
“Are you really gonna call? Don’t take my number if you ain’t gonna call.”
I reached over and grabbed her by the back of the head pulling her closer until our lips met. I slipped my tongue between her lips and found hers coaxing it out of her mouth where I sucked it like an erect nipple then nibbled her bottom lip. Every hair on my body was standing on end. Despite my macho show of confidence this bitch scared the hell out of me. I was almost afraid she was going to try to suck my brains out of my mouth. I was breathing hard and my heart was thundering in my chest when I slipped her number out or her hand and left.
“Hold up! What’s your name?”
I stuck my head back through the door.
“My name’s Malik. My friends call me Snap.”
“Call me. Okay, Snap?”
I didn’t like the way it sounded in her plain, flat, unaccented voice.
“Uh, just call me Malik.”
I slipped out the door and rejoined Tank and Huey on the sidewalk.
“I don’t believe you kissed that devil,” Huey hissed.
“Fool, I’m gettin’ fucked tonight. I don’t give a fuck what your ass got to say about that shit.” I started strolling off toward Sixth Street.
“Fuck is you goin’, Snap? We goin’ to get some pizza.”
“With what money?”
All the money we’d gotten from that incident in the lot had long been spent.
“Fuck buyin’ some pizza. We just gonna jack some white boys for their shit.”
Huey’s greatest joy in life was victimizing the dominant racial group and I knew that it was no coincidence that his craving for pizza happened to coincide with a young white couple leaving LA Pizza and heading down Fifth Street with an extra-large.
“Come on. Let’s swoop on these mutherfuckers,” Tank whispered excitedly before charging across the street.
The couple had just passed Record Exchange on Fifth and I knew there was an alley in the middle of the next block where we could jump them. My heart wasn’t really into it though. I was too busy thinking about getting my first piece of ass.
The guy was as tall as me but heavier. At six-two I was still only a hundred and sixty pounds whereas the white boy was nearly two-hundred pounds. Tank was much heavier than the white boy though, which made me feel more confident. And Huey, who was still just over five feet, was completely dwarfed by the guy. The girl he was with was a tiny frail looking little thing. No ass, no breasts, five feet tall and barely a hundred pounds. She was blonde with spiked hair, tattoos and earrings up and down both ears, wearing saggy old fashioned clothes that didn’t match and obviously came from a thrift store. On her feet she wore combat boots. I never understood why some girls seemed to go out of their way to make themselves look ridiculous.
By the time they reached the corner we were behind them and they knew it, the way a herd of antelope senses when they are being ringed in by hyenas. They started whispering to each other and peeking back at us. We didn’t care if they knew what was going down. There was nothing they could do to stop it.
Tank left our side and started walking in the street just in case they tried to run. The alley was now just a few yards away. As the couple drew closer to the dark gaping maw between the two buildings they grew more and more tense. They knew that this was where it would happen.
From their left, Tank began to close in on them circling around in front of them and Huey took over his former position in the street. I stayed behind them and just as we reached the alley I grabbed the white boy in a bear hug and started dragging him into an alley.
“Hey! Let me go. Da fuck are you doin’ man? Help! Help!”
“Shut the fuck up.” Tank growled and then leveled him with a right hook. The pizza fell to the floor and was trample
d as we scuffled.
The white boy was dazed and thankfully silent as we dragged his limp body into the alley. I thought the girl had run off because I hadn’t heard her scream, but then, when I turned to look for her, I caught a face full of pepper-spray.
“Aaaaah! My eyes! The bitch maced me!”
I heard shuffling and cursing and what sounded like blows being thrown. The girl never screamed once as Huey and Tank beat the shit out of her and her boyfriend.
I still couldn’t see as we ran down the street. Huey and Tank were holding my arms and guiding me along as we ran. I could hear doors opening in the houses as we passed. Whenever I tried to open my eyes pain washed over me. My own tears burned my skin as they dripped down my cheeks. My lungs were clogged with the stuff and I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was about to pass out. There was no way I could keep running. I coughed and sneezed and finally I stopped running.
“Come on, man. We got to go!” Tank yelled.
“I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” My mounting panic was making things worse. It felt like I was trying to inhale flames. My nostrils, throat, and even my lungs burned.
“Shit! We can’t leave you here.”
“Damn straight you can’t!”
“Shit. Shit. Shit. Tank! Can you carry him?”
“For about a block. Maybe two.”
“Well, fuck it. Carry him as far as you can.”
Tank slung me over his shoulder and we ran again. I thought I was going to throw up. After another minute or so my eyesight came back blurry and unfocused and still burning like I was looking into a blast furnace. What I saw wasn’t good.
Three cop cars were speeding up the street toward us. Tank stopped and looked at Huey questioningly. Huey snatched our guns out of our wastebands and ran toward an alley across the street. Huey came back out of the alley just as Tank and I were being thrown across the hood of a police cruiser and cracked across the hamstrings and back of the knees with Billy clubs. If he had just kept walking he probably could have gotten away. Huey didn’t look at all like a thug.
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