The Streets

by Tom Sheridan

  The Stang shimmied.

  Joey took a final puff of his finished Phillies. “Oh and how the fuck could I forget? Jersey’s got that MTV True Life. The guido episode in Seaside. Cheese balls!”

  Franco’s left hand was on the wheel like he was throwin a left cross. His eyes on the St. Louis skyline ahead. But at that distance, coulda been anywhere. Atlantic City. “No offense, Joey. But you’re better than that.”

  “Don’t be fuckin with guido nation.”

  “I’m not. I’m just sayin. There’s a lot more to you. To Seaside. To fuckin Jersey—”

  “Just cuz you’re too good to go clubbin anymore—”

  “Dafuck! I’m tryina give you a compliment—”

  “By disrespecting guido nation!”

  And back and forth they went. Like Pony Boy and Darry. Going back and forth in the hot-boxed car like they were back in their boxing ring.

  By the time they were passing St. Louis, Nelly got out. Ready to live in the Lou like he was Nelly. Taz said he’d join him. Wanted to see if his hair would fit under the arch. And Brazil? He was ready to catch a bus to Brazil.

  Franco and Joey sat in the car.

  “Ah fuck it. I know you got nothin but love, brotha.” Franco put a fist out.

  “Same.” Joey met the fist bump. “Now. How we gonna get these three back in the car?”

  Franco was already putting in a CD. He turned the volume all the way up.

  Joey got rolling. Like he was Kelly Rowland.

  Franco came around the car. Pointed at Nelly, Taz, and Brazil. Helped Joey sing their way outta the dilemma as they belted out “Dilemma.” Joey Yo threw an arm around his best bro. Franco. They hit the high note together. Down since day one no matter the weather. Two birds of a feather. While the other three flocked. Formed a flying V. To head north. To New Jersey.

  “Come on, Nelly. I’ll get ya up to speed on Nelly.” Franco slapped his coach’s back.

  “Thanks.”

  “Least I could do,” said Franco more to himself as they headed back to their pony.

  The Stang rocketed along the open road. The five teammates feeling as fresh as the Fab Five. Even Nelly sang along to Nelly. “Ride Wit Me.” How it must be for the money. Franco glanced his best friends crowded in the car. All of them singing as they sailed past St. Louis. Nah Nelly. It wasn’t the money. Franco dropped it into overdrive. The pony blazed through the dirty dirty. Musta hit a hunid thirty thirty.

  Now Lama Drama had hit another gear altogether. No bullshittin. The Syrian was serious. The Prince’s dance partner, one Umar Basayev, had put on so much Herculean heft that his Achilles couldn’t handle it. It had torn earlier that day. The Achilles. Damn. Franco actually felt bad for the poor guy. Maybe he’d visit him in the hospital. Bring him some food. Nothing crazy. Just desserts.

  The Show needed a replacement. Fast. Someone in the same weight class. Someone already in the area. Ready to go. Someone who’d be a draw in Jersey. Someone who had a history with The Prince.

  To which Franco replied, “Barbosa don’t have a history wit The Prince.”

  To which Lama replied, “I’m not talking about Barbosa. I’m talking about YOU!”

  The revelation unraveled him. Franco almost fell out of his Mustang in his driveway on Bunns. His heart raced so fast, he was sure the good news would instantly turn to shit on account of a heart attack. Franco was so flustered, he started advocating for Barbosa. “Why not Barbosa? He’s number four.”

  If only Lama could’ve reached through the phone and clamped her manicured mauve nails around her client’s neck. “Barbosa’s a super fight! Not a last-minute sub! They can market a Pay-Per-View for a month. Plus he has his whole career ahead of him. He’s not gonna walk into the longest finishing streak of all time on five days’ notice,” sighed Lama. “You on the other hand. Let’s be honest.”

  Franco was shaking off the shock as he asked if she was fuckin with him. As TJ was trying to talk to him.

  “Look. I floated this thing to the powers that be and they said yes. You don’t think they’re making other calls? Brainstorming other ideas? We’ve got one hour.”

  The hour was almost up. Franco leaned on his Stang in downtown Newark. Casing The Vault. It was a tough call. The Dealer had just dealt him a 10. Franco’s favorite hand. A double down where no card coming was too big. But. A double down was unwise against an ace. And that’s exactly what The Dealer was showing with The Prince.

  The conventional wisdom would be for Franco to stick with his original fight. What he needed first and foremost was a W. He felt he had a solid 18 against the up-and-coming Barbosa. Franco had been training for him for months. With The Prince and only five days’ notice, there may be things he may not notice. Meanwhile, the well-heeled Prince could gather all of Franco’s weaknesses in the week.

  Franco leaned against the hood of his Stang. The hospital he was born in right behind him as he watched all walks of life walk the streets of Jersey. The pretty little lady in scrubs. The municipal worker scrubbing graffiti. The businessman selling on his cell phone. Never slacking in slacks. One white. One brown. One black. Which was which? Who could keep track? A daycare teacher with ten of all shades in tow. Even a towhead. Franco smiled. Baby T was a bit of a blond bomber, wasn’t he? But his hair had gone dark little by little like the day unfolding before Franco. Now as dark as the shades on the old lady crossing the crosswalk with the help of a cop. Getting passed by school teens in uniform, their focus on ascension uniform. Even faster yet was the runner checking her vitals as she zipped through the downtown once again vital.

  Franco turned to the hospital behind him. He always knew he was born in the gutter. It struck him then that it was the one he was standing in. Last he looked, as a teen about T’s age, the hospital was a sad sack of bricks in the broken heart of Brick City. Now? Renovated. As was the whole downtown. Franco nodded. Feelin it. The Dealer’s Plan suddenly made sense. As the sun set on the city, the prodigal son had returned.

  Franco hopped in the Stang. He blazed down Broad Street like a bully as the Devils warmed up for the Broad Street Bullies. There was no time to waste. The Cinderella Man had to prepare for The Prince. He kept his glass slipper on the gas. Excited about his life’s new arc. Like he was Noah with his new ark. As the Mustang roared. Straight outta Newark.

  TRACK 10. (W)RAPPED UP

  FRANCO MADE IT HOME hours later after an emergency session with Brazil. Flew up his flight of stairs in five strides. “Ay T! Sorry I couldn’t talk before!” He knocked on T’s door, but there was no answer. He opened the featherweight door. It danced on the hinge. No T. His stomach tinged. That fuckin commercial ran through his head. It’s 10 pm. Do you know where your children are? The manic Monday continued as Franco searched from unfinished basement to patio pavement.

  Franco sat at the computer in T’s room. Clicked the mouse. Clicked the white f squared off by a blue background. MyFace or some shit. After a couple inadvertent clicks, the first asking Franco to share his feelings with the world, the second asking him to message Kronic Karl, Franco found what he was looking for. A message about a motel party. The thread ran out on an exchange between Screws and T…

  Screws: Pickin up liq then u

  T: Better be bumpin Naughty!

  Franco stared. Stewed. T’s line a reference to the run of flea bag motels on Route 1. From Woodbridge to Rahway to Linden to Elizabeth. Motels Young Franco would tell you were made famous by Naughty by Nature’s “OPP” video. Now, as he investigated his son, he had fully inched toward infamous. Franco flung the mouse against the wall and stormed out, ready to crush another one. A freshman and already getting fucked up? On a school night? Who the fuck does that? Franco nixed his usual passing glance in the bathroom mirror.

  The Stang stalked through the tough little towns one by one. It mauled past Woodbridge Mall. Peaced past Rahway Prison. Landed in Linden. Screeched to a stop. In the K—— Motel lot. Stinking like pot. A
s music popped. Franco scanned the row of outdoor doors. Stopped on the room with the bass boom. Room 112. Franco shook his head. Shoulda known. The room number made notorious. By a rhyme from The Notorious.

  A hand snatched two Natty Lights. From a bathtub full of ice. The handy man had to get back to the kid rappin nice. He stepped over passed-out Luke. At the toilet full of puke. Unlike Vader, he was not Luke’s father. So, he continued fahther. Turned into the main room, turnt.

  Screws handed UN a Natty. In exchange for a fatty. While Dragon dragged on his turntable. On the room’s lone table. Bumped a backbeat from behind Ill Co’s backs. Lenore bobbed her head. In a bomber jacket she maybe. Borrowed from a baby. Ray next to her in a vest. Vibing with all the rest. As the kid rapped in jest.

  TJ. The pint-sized king of the court atop the king-sized bed. A tenth of tequila to his head. The other tenth still bottled—a makeshift mic he throttled. His hands and feet darting in concert. Slaying the impromptu concert. Ill Coers smiling, bouncing, clapping. Emcee T rapping. Flippin em out with the flippant riff as they smoked their spliffs—

  “Ding ding ding

  English class is over

  I beheaded Homer

  Cut Shakespeare with a spear

  Hemmed Hemingway’s mouth shut

  Then jumped for joy

  When I jacked James Joyce

  Threw ’bows on John Knowles

  And his fiancée

  Cuz the only Knowles I wanna knowles

  Is Beyoncé!

  And F Scott Fitzgerald?

  Man, EFF Scott Fitzgerald!

  I gatted him AND Gatsby

  Then wheeled in a cannon

  Blew away the whole canon—”

  T had the place jumping as homies howled.

  Between a solo cup sip and a blunt hit, Ray added, “Fuck that nigga Homer!”

  T even got a look from Lenore. One he’d never seen before…

  “I’m goin insaney

  Run me a kite

  And save me, Hosseini

  I wanna read under a Friday night light

  Diaz for días

  Talkin bout tíos n tías

  Then build a glass castle

  Out of Angela’s Ashes

  Next to a wishing well

  Wishin Simmons n Gladwell—”

  Everyone enjoyed it save for the OG at the door. The OG who barged through the crazed coeds and snatched the irreverent reverend. The father grabbed Minister T by the baggy T. Like he was Mr. T.

  Ray was about to raise up.

  Till UN piped up. “That’s his pops, yo!”

  TJ added, despite being wrangled away, “He can kick everyone’s ass in this room!” TJ’s posse couldn’t hardly wait, to crack up over the line from Can’t Hardly Wait.

  But as TJ dipped, so did the mood. Dragon breathed fire into a new beat, tried to cheer up the brood.

  The Mustang groaned down Route 1, as tired as the towns it toured. As tired as the talking to Franco had just given T. About the drinking. In a scumbag motel on a school night. With kids who are gonna end up in the prison they just passed.

  Now it was TJ’s turn. Finally had the chance to tell Dad about his day. About how he aced English class. Put Lane on her ass. Gave a presentation. That was his greatest creation. “It’s like, it was the biggest moment of my life or somethin. Like I was…talented or somethin.”

  Franco was as silent as the streetlit strip ahead.

  “Never mind,” T concluded.

  Franco read the sign as the pony moseyed past: Woodbridge Township Welcomes You. Established 1669. Then ponied up a response. “My first fight. There were only a couple weight classes back then. Had to take on a guy 20 pounds heavier. It was a big roll of the dice. Had no idea which way it was gonna go. Turns out, I steamroll him. Me, your mother, and Joey, we’re poppin bottles in the club. It was only a matter of time until I was world champ.” Franco shook his head. “Ten years later. I’m still on the grind.”

  Franco pulled the reins of the pony as it rolled up to a red light. “One victory ain’t shit. One little story and all the sudden you’re the greatest of all time? Ya know what Shakespeare was doin on weeknights while you’re busy gettin wasted in motels?”

  “Being dead?”

  “Writing. And while you’re busy clowning…writing some more.”

  TJ pressed four fingers to his forehead. Pressed the important information into his inebriated brain.

  “And don’t think it’s all stupid shit, either. I wish I woulda read all that shit in high school. Important life lessons in there.”

  “Like what?”

  Franco flipped his phone open, checked a TEXT: Yo franco wuts good. Got ur doe. Meet u out bak the slawterhouse? Franco thumbed back: Two min. Then turned his attention back to T. “Like I always remember in The Odyssey or Iliad somethin about a boat in the night and mermaids singin and the boat crashin into rocks. That was some deep shit.”

  T nodded. “Probably gangster as hell back in 800 BC.”

  “Exact,” said Franco as he turned the Stang toward the town’s outskirts. “Ya know, I even read the first few chapters of Catcher in the Rye?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thought it was gonna be about baseball,” shrugged Franco.

  TJ laughed.

  “Then your mother told me the title meant somethin about a guy catchin kids from fallin off a cliff—” Franco’s words fell off a cliff. He tilted his head as he got a weird feeling. The book suddenly sounded appealing. “Anyway. Your mother knows all that shit. Around when we split up, I overheard her say to herself, ’Tis better to have loved and lost then to have never loved at all.’ And I was like, damn, why didn’t I read more Shakespeare?”

  “Uh pretty sure that’s not Shakespeare,” chimed T.

  “See? This is my problem,” Franco said as he steered the Stang into a gravel lot. “All that school stuff. Keeps ya from gettin street stupid.” He continued off T’s look. “When ya think you’re so fuckin street smart, you start gettin stupid.”

  T nodded. “Word.”

  “Sit right here. I’ll be back in five minutes. Don’t move.”

  Franco stepped into the darkness. On the edge of town. Made for the rusted-out slaughterhouse with the pitched tin roof that allowed for aeration. Got entrenched in the carnal stench. One he was used to. He’d done this pickup a million times before. Midnight Monday night. A little later if the final football game of the week was still in the balance. Eddo would toss him the dough at the back door. Say no more. But with the beef on Bunns Lane, Franco was a little more on edge than usual. He picked up to a trot through the gravel lot. Scuttled through a puddle. And carried right on along. With the most street stupid move of his entire life.

  Franco reached the back door. Sniffed. The Q-Tip fan found the smell more vivrant than usual. He heard squeals. Sniffed again. Franco would’ve taken the usual rotten smell. Of pig carcasses resting in peace. Over squealing pigs not long for one piece. The slaughterhouse was mid-kill. An operation in overdrive. As was Franco. It had been a long day. A full day as a father, a fighter, and, now, a foot soldier. Worse. The manic Monday didn’t have shit on the Tuesday he was two minutes into.

  “Yo Franco! What’s good? Money’s on the break table!” yelled Eddo as he held extra-large electrified forceps. “Gotta keep these uppity fuckers in line.” Eddo applied the forceps to a pig’s neck. Nuked it into a seizure.

  Franco hung a turn, beelined for the break table. Past inverted pigs with slit throats. Their blood conveying as they hung from a conveyor belt. Others on deck. Impatiently waiting their turn.

  Franco grabbed the envelope. Turned and bumped into the boss. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome himself. El Jefe. Arturo. Looking like a don as he donned white slacks. Not a drop of blood on them despite his place being bathed in it. He crossed his arms. The sleeves of his blue button-down with the white cuffs were already rolled up. Franco was just the latest busi
ness matter El Jefe had to tend to. Last but certainly not least. El Jefe stood there looking like Gordon Gekko. Franco like a punk in Ecko.

  El Jefe motioned to Franco’s envelope. “Go ahead. It’s yours.”

  Franco’s hazels hitched up to meet the 100 percent pure Colombian café eyes of his enemy. “All good.” Franco back-pocketed the envelope. Bulled around Arturo.

  But Arturo’s long legs slinked back two steps. Nixed the Texas two-step. “Of course. There’s another matter we need to discuss,” informed Arturo with his hands behind his back. “The one of you trying to fucking kill me.”

  Franco clocked the place. Eddo standing there with the Frankenstein forceps. His coworker slitting throats with a look of indifference as to which type of mammal. The cholo strutting in with the piece in his waist and ready to waste Franco. Franco recognized this challenger. He drove an orange Challenger.

  Arturo turned to his vato with the teardrop tattoo. “¿Dondé esta…” El Jefe’s voice trailed off to a whisper. After a brief back and forth, El Jefe sent the banger hustling along. Like a coach sending a player in for his big shot. El Entrenador then trained his attention on his otro jugador. “Eduardo. Take a break. Join us.”