This Life

by Quntos KunQuest

Rise has been in the gym for the last hour or so with his two friends, Pam and Peggy Sue. Two 60-pound dumbbells, cast iron with that. Solid. Brownish grey and ugly. He likes to rub and kiss on them between sets. Fifteen reps or more. He’s doing the burnout portion of his chest, shoulder, and bicep routine. Sweating it out. Loving the heat and adrenaline high.

  He looks up and sees the crowd pouring into the gymnasium for evening callout. He sits and watches. Waves his fist from time to time when a familiar face looks his way. Pounds his chest to signify lion love when one of the true homies comes through the booth entrance.

  He spots the young brother, Lil Chris, that everyone has been talking about. Lil daddy just got here and he already makin’ noise. Rise knows he could be a soul-jah.

  He turns his attention back to his exercise. Takes a breath and exhales as his left arm curls Pam to his left shoulder. Inhales as he uncurls and brings Pam back to his side. He exhales as his right arm curls Peggy Sue to his right shoulder. Inhales as he brings her back to his side. Repeats the process. Repetition. Make it burn. Work through it. Gotta be able to move on with the pain. Keep going till you can’t go no more. Gotta break through the pain threshold. Breathe to help cope with the pressure. He zones out …

  Gotta breathe, he tells himself. His whole body trembles. All of his muscles are tense. The back of his head, neck, and upper back are tight from straining, stress, and pressure. He tries to remain calm. Sits in this little box. But every so often his pulse increases, his breathing becomes ragged, and he goes into physical and emotional convulsions.

  He throws silent tantrums. Tosses his head back and shakes it side to side, up and down. Flails his arms and legs out. Kicks and punches and clutches his throat and chest. Through all of this, he barely even whimpers. He doesn’t want to alarm anybody on the cellblock. No one need know of these demons he’s wrestling with. But it hurts. It hurts all over. And nowhere at all.

  He’s scared. He pulls himself together. Gotta stay cool. He knows if he loses it, he might never get it back. Gotta keep his composure. He thinks of the people he’s seen that have gone crazy in these cells. He remembers the pity he felt looking at them.

  No! Not him. They can save they sympathy. He knows he’s a fighter. To hell wit’ ’em. His heart is beating so hard and fast that it feels like it could burst his chest open. But how can that be? How can his heart be beating when it’s broken? So broken. It’ll never be whole again. He’s sure of this.

  The tier orderly slides a tray of food in the cell hatch. Gotta eat, he tells himself. Gotta have strength to live. He keeps telling himself to eat, but when he thinks of functioning, he begins to shake so hard the spoon bounces off the tray and onto the filthy floor.

  Then he sees the bird again. A sparrow. How did it get in the cellblock anyway? Maybe his love has been reincarnated. His eyes and forehead burn as tears strain forth. Never drop past his lashes. He blinks them back. Too real to whine.

  Now he knows he’s trippin’. He’ll never see his love on this side again. He understands that. A calm descends on him with this acceptance. He still has a long way to go, but he’s on his way. Gotta live two lives. For the both of them.

  He looks at the spoon on the filthy floor. His mind is starting to clear and rational thoughts are starting to prompt and provoke him. He glances at the bird again. Closes his eyes and begins to thank God for the hurt and the pain and the tribulation. His forehead wrinkles with thought. He looks back at that sparrow, so small sitting up there on that air vent.

  Though he doesn’t recognize or taste the food, he begins to eat as much of it as he can with his hand. His chest shudders and his face squinches up. He mumbles softly and incoherently. He begins to shovel the food, whatever it is, into his mouth. Determined to complete this simplest of tasks.

  Need food for strength, and strength to live. Gotta live two lives. Gotta function. He notices that bird again as he forces down the last mouthful.

  Gotta function. Now, breathe. Breathe. Breathe…Acceptance…

  The cast iron clangs against the metal on the weight bench. He can hardly gain his breath. Can’t muster enough energy to curl either arm anymore. His whole upper body is on fire as he drops the 60-pounders to the floor, shaking the gym.

  His head is light. Almost spinning. He feels good. Breathe.

  Rise is about to fill his water jug and leave, but he sees the cypher over by the water bucket. He decides to walk over and see what the new jacks are working with.

  Lil Chris ain’t even spit yet. He’s basically chillin’. They got some vibrant cats up in here. He’s just vibin’ on their flavor. Once again, PowwWoww got him in that zone. PowwWoww has proved to be a solid dude. Him and Lil Chris done started thuggin’ together on the daily. Both of them are like way too gansta. PowwWoww likes to get Lil Chris loaded and just listen to him flow. He draws a sense of pride from bein’ able to say his rolldog is the dopest lyricist on the river. Anyway, Lil Chris has been peerin’ out the eye of the cypher trippin’ off the cat curling the dumbbells. Dude was over there wiggin’ out.

  All o’ the sudden, they switch the beat. The homie 2 Times beats on the tin bleachers. He brings a live complicated drum track, uses his fist for the bass kick. A bush comb doubles for the snare and the hat. The way that bush comb lick echoes all over the gym puts the C’ster’s semi-sedated mind in a trance. Then somebody starts humming the bass line to that old school 2Pac, “Ambitionz Az a Ridah.”

  About four more people pick up the hum and it goes to soundin’ like a’ incantation or some shit. Spiritual. Soul-stirrin’. The effect has Lil Chris standin’ there wit’ his head tilted back and his eyes closed. The music is inside of him. Vibrates in his stomach. He sways with it. Nods. There’s this mug on his face that has him frownin’ so hard his bottom lip pokes out.

  By this time, everyone in the area is lookin’ at him. The spectacle of it all. Curious grimaces on their faces as if they’re twisting on a Rubik’s cube. By this time Rise has climbed up on the top row of the bleachers. He’s sitting close to the edge. From this vantage point he’s able to see right down into the center of the cypher, where the rappers are standing. There has got to be like 75 inmates or more surroundin’ here. And he can see that all eyes are on Lil Chris.

  PowwWoww grabs Lil Chris by the shoulder and says, “That’s you right there, kid. Go head, bless ’em.”

  The beat and hum done married each other. Not too loud. Just loud enough to sit aroun’ his flow. But Lil Chris ain’t trippin’ off none of that. He feels the clang of the bush comb lick echo in his head. As he steps to the middle of the cypher he pictures himself comin’ in behind the legendary Tupac hisself. Gotta bring it. He bobs his head with the hum, gets his timin’ together.

  Pickin’ up on the one, he lets his voice boom:

  “Shots rang out, the spot’s

  hot, blades and heaters do damage

  Who can manage without they Glocks cocked

  Smoke screens!

  Evidence of the days we blaze. Hazy

  Got me reminiscent of crazy ways

  Was wicked

  On the block where the regulars kick it

  Spot it and hit it

  Profit off the top when we get it

  So if you thinkin’ about steppin’ to get your caps on

  Strap on one o’ dem nice-sized ‘g’ things

  Or be content on gettin’ yo’ nap on …”

  At about this time, Rise hops down to the floor and steps in, leaving Lil Chris staring at him.

  “My God!

  Navigate my steps

  Make ’em pure and precise

  Sure to entice moves, inducin’ profitable life

  Reciprocity’s hard, they ain’t givin’ us nothin’

  Can’t they see my peoples tryna have somethin’

  For real, though

  Exploitation’s the norm

  Playin’ on my niggas’ need for cash

  I can hear ’em laugh when they come

  Capture
me. Slave livin’ fillin’ my days

  Now, I’m stressin’. Got kids to raise

  Oh, you ain’t know

  We breed

  Seeds in the struggle.

  Hustle for what they need

  Lead my freed homies

  Down to scuffle and bleed.

  Apparitions of my lost ones

  Hauntin’ me now

  Beatin’ me down

  Look at me mob

  Mugs and frowns

  Sittin’ heavy wit’ my disposition

  Talk to my ghost wishin’

  They ain’t have to leave, me y’all

  I can recall how we rolled and balled.

  Reppin’ the set, throw it up

  Nothin’ mattered by my g’s and dawgs …”

  Right here, they switch the beat a little bit and one of the dudes starts to hum the bass line to Mystikal’s “Here I Go.” It takes a few bars for everyone else to catch on. The change-up makes Rise fall off. The crowd doesn’t know it, though. It’s pandemonium! Everybody is like, “One more round, one more round!”

  The cypher is officially a classic. Rise is one of the most recognizable rappers in the can, a living legend for the showings he’s put down over the years on the river. Lil Chris ain’t no joke, though. The boy is a beast.

  A couple o’ people have mumbled conversations in the background, but that will die down when the lyrics start. Everyone looks at Lil Chris and Rise expectantly.

  Suddenly, Lil Chris steps up with his arms raised out in front of him. Waves and rocks to the Mystikal bass line. Concentrates on the bush comb lick for his timin’. He laces the beat:

  “Now when they caught

  My nigga slippin’ in ’93 it fucked me up

  Nothin’ but BG’s surroundin’ me

  Layin’ deep off in the cut

  Come up

  Money and murder

  We done slipped and hit a gangsta lick

  Ain’t nothin’ but the hustlah in me

  That make my mind tick

  Now, I know of a OG, he taught me how to

  Make my mail

  Nigga don’t ask for no credit

  I ain’t got nothin’ but dope for sell, playa

  Comin’ up, and it’s like that, livin’ phat.

  Carry two 44-calibers in my backpack

  These hustlin’ and strivin’ days

  Kept a playa paid

  In many ways

  I’m a slave for my trade

  Still I stayed

  A young “G” tryna keep his game tight

  Hearing’ voices tellin’ me ‘Lil Chris get ya muthafuckin’

  Money right!

  I was addicted to hustlin’

  Nigga, you know that fast money

  Equals cash money minus strugglin’

  Recollect what the fuck I’m talkin’ bout, nigga

  And burn a pouch, will ya …”

  Rise comes in:

  “Dried tears got my face

  white and ashy

  Sweat tracing da stains

  Suffer pain tryna maintain

  Dream o’ life at its peak!

  I seek out truth

  Speak out o’ youth. Evolution

  From sheltered innocence to disillusioned.

  Meant to be scorn

  But I live in the storm

  My yesterday’s neighbors

  Probably torn, no conceivable future,

  Past detrimental. Mental hopeful

  But still discouraged

  Tryna

  Fathom they purpose

  Please, tell ’em it’s worth it.

  We all was adolescent and lively

  Until the killin’ started

  Scarfaced influence rendered focus distorted

  Turned to powder

  Mitigated responses. The sirens infiltrated

  Conspiracy presence; informants.

  Suffocated essence

  Got us all searching for freedom, but hol’ up!

  How can we fight for manumission

  When we don’t know what

  Disenfranchised is?

  All we know is we ain’t happy here

  My brother’s suicide betrays the dissatisfaction

  With which we live.”

  At this, Rise shoves his way through a stricken and mesmerized crowd. He leaves the building.

  Lil Chris turns to PowwWoww and says, “Damn. That nigga dope.”

  When Lil Chris goes in, he sees Sergeant Havoc standing at the door talkin’ to Captain Henry. Big white dude, late 40s or early 50s, probably played every sport offered at his old, back-country high school. Now, he’s fallen victim to the Dunlap syndrome. His belly done lapped over his belt. Real cheesy shit.

  Every shift got a ring o’ supervisors that pressure they female subordinates into breakin’ it off. It’s just the way it is. Maybe she’s tryna move up in rank, or maybe she wants an easy drop assignment, or maybe she simply wanna keep her job. Whatever her button is—be it price, vice, or fear—this con ring got ways o’ findin’ out how to penetrate her defenses in order to push it. Captain Henry is a ringleader.

  Lil Chris done been peepin’ him workin’ on Sergeant Havoc for some time now. She still ain’t broke. That’s unusual. He’s getting frustrated. She knows how to think.

  “Alright, now, there, Sergeant Havoc,” Captain Henry says. “Don’t hastate to call if you need me.”

  “I told you. I don’t want to be worrying you. Your regular rounds are good enough.”

  “Okay, but remember I offered. Don’t be so quick to turn down a helping hand.”

  “I’m just trying to be self-reliant, sir. No need to trouble you about stuff I can take care of myself.” With this, Sergeant Havoc turns and walks back to her desk. Leaves the captain standing at the door.

  Captain Henry turns and walks away. As far as he is concerned, Lil Chris guesses, there is only one thing that could stop her from getting’ involved wit’ a’ upstanding man like hisself: She must be lovin’ one of these inmates.

  Lil Chris passes right by Captain Henry, wearing an old school bucket hat low over his eyes. High as the price o’ gasoline. Full of them trees. She sits at the desk, talkin’ on the phone. He’s the last in a line of five prisoners returnin’ from callouts.

  After Rise left, the cypher broke up, so he had a chance to get a quick workout in before leavin’ the gym. Not to mention PowwWoww burned two more sugar bags wit’ him. He’s feelin’ alright, indeed. Already thinkin’ about what he’s go’n say to her tonight.

  She frisks each returnin’ prisoner and gets their bed number to log them on her count. As Lil Chris walks up, she studies him. She gives him the strong impression she can tell that he’s more than a little disoriented.

  “Take that cap off and turn around,” she says in her most professional voice. Seeing him like this seems to annoy her.

  He turns around and holds his arms out. When she grabs his shoulders his muscles flinch, and she pauses. She keeps her head down and don’t look at him, but she felt him. He knows. When she runs her hands over his chest and belly, aroun’ his waistline, he moans. She can’t so much hear it as much as she can feel the way it makes his body vibrate under her hands. She keeps her head pointed toward the dorm, hiding her face while she finishes. She rubs down his legs and pats his butt when she’s through.

  Lil Chris feels like a heavyweight champ. For that treatment he would go out the door and come back in four more times. For tonight, though, one is cool. He struts through the dorm feelin’ kind of good, for real. Although he ain’t been in the penitentiary more than two months, he spent roughly 19 months in the parish jail before being shipped down south. The slightest contact wit’ a woman like what just happened, especially in his elevated mind state, is thoroughly enjoyable, to say the least.

  When he makes it to his bed area, he slides his footlocker out and pulls his night gear and cosmetics bag out of the sheet metal boxes. He kicks off his boots and slides on his
sandals. Takes his shirt off for good measure. Gotta get his floss on. Looks nice from all that field labor and working out.

  He grabs his shower shoes and heads for the shower. Flexes hard as he passes by her desk. She don’t look up. That’s cold-blooded. He spins the bend and steps behind the shower wall.

  When he finishes, 45 minutes later, she’s still there, probably overhearin’ loud conversations pouring out of the shower area. They talk about some of the stupidest shit. And argue about nonsense! She wouldn’t have heard anyone address him by name, though, in all that time.

  When he swings the corner, he’s in sandals and cut-off shorts. No shirt. Still has a little water on his back. As he passes, she gets up to turn the blue lights on. It’s about ten minutes until lights-out. Before long, the dorm is dark. Movement slows to a minimum. Work call in the morning.

  For now, there are two people in the TV room and one in the game room.

  Lil Chris sits on his bed with a pillow and blanket over his lap writing another verse. That cat Rise really made him feel somethin’ tonight. He’s tryna go deep wit’ this one.

  I used to blow the buda smoke

  Out my nose

  Murder, I heard her poppin’

  Forgot to separate the weed from seeds

  My victim,

  Backwoods covered with maple droppings

  Slow-burner for the thick smoke

  Breeze wit’ ease, when we hit ’em

  Scandalous

  Can’t handle this, I have to dismantle this,

  Roll a fatty for my reefer thoughts

  That backburner got me stressed out,

  A nickel leaf wasn’t big enough

  So I had to roll the whole pouch

  I’m queasy

  Needy for mine, hustlin’ ain’t easy

  No. That’s alright, but not what he’s reachin’ for tonight. Not at all. He leans over the paper, tries to focus past the high. Inside the high.

  Black Fubu boots and black pants step into view. When he looks up, Sergeant Havoc stands over him. Trying to read what he’s writing. Now that he’s aware of her presence, he can smell the faintest scent of her perfume, even wit’ the fan blowin’ from behind him. The fragrance has his head spinnin’.

  “What are you writing?” she asks.

  “Just a couple of thoughts,” he returns.

  “Is that a rap?”