Holding Pattern

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  You can make yo best money down in the financial district at lunchtime, when all the suckas spill outta they offices, hungry and loud. When you see a sucka, stick out yo belly and put on a sad face. Then you be like, Sir (or Madam), could you spare me a quarter for sumpin to eat? You can gank a few. And you can pull a big draw if you can find a whole gang of suckas from the same office all bunched up together.

  Hunger make people feel all guilty and shit. An easy hustle. You can pull some substantial loot if it ain’t too many bums around. I don’t believe in knockin nobody’s hustle, but a bum ain’t nothin but a raggedy-ass scarecrow scarin all the money away.

  Lucky for me, I see jus these two bums. One curled up off by himself inna space between two buildins, his face all red and shiny, set like a diamond in his grimy rags. And this other one, wearin a sign round his neck sayin INSULT ME FOR A DOLLAR. He jus sittin there on the dirty ground with his legs all folded Buddha-style, sittin there like he can’t move, like his sign heavy as a concrete slab. Scarecrow.

  I try not to sweat them bums, and start workin my hustle like I always do, but, for whatever reason, suckas is cheap today. I’m talkin nickels and dimes and pennies cheap.

  I’m like, What the fuck is this, a recession or some shit? Gots to try another strategy.

  So I see this one square, an easy mark, and I tell him that I’m wit the circus, the Man of Steel, and ask him if he wanna punch me inna stomach for a dolla. I pull up my shirt and brace myself. This square, he just look at me and shit. But that ain’t all. Guess what he does next? Punk motherfucker spit on me. You heard me? Word. Yo, I’m all hot inside, hot, real hot. I’m like, Hey, money. Suck my dick. Then I run. Fast.

  I use some of my draw for carfare and catch the train to my girl Juicy’s crib. Juicy meet me inna hall with a kiss, all sexy and fly in this negligee, thin like a spiderweb. She be like, Hey, Pea, you sweet bitch. How you doin?

  I had better days.

  Poor baby. She takes my hand, turns—she got more ass than a donkey; I ain’t gon tell you bout her face—and leads me into her crib. Then she leave me standin in the middle of the room and go over and sit down on the couch in fronta the TV to watch her favorite talk show—You know this my show—all content wit her snack: root beer and potato chips wit hot sauce. She be like, Pea, I was gon give you some. But, damn, I’m sick.

  What’s wrong?

  My throat sore. I been smokin trees all day, but it don’t do nothing.

  Oh, I see. Kids ain’t ready?

  No. Ain’t you hear me? I’m sick.

  Sorry.

  What? she say. Sorry? She frown up her face. What sorry gon do fo me? Can’t you order me a pizza or sumpin? Some Chinese food? Home delivery?

  I got to make them ends first. We got this sweet business arrangement, my after-school hustle. I give her twenty-five dollars a day for the use of her sons, Crust and Hamfat. Fifteen dollars for the older one. He ten. And ten dollars for the younger. He seven. Suckas like kids. On good days, I can turn a nice lil profit. On bad days, I’m lucky to break even.

  Aw ight. Well, you better go get them boys, then.

  I go into the bedroom, where Crust and Hamfat all holed up wit the Nintendo game at the foot of the bed, lookin up at the TV on the stand above them. What up, yall?

  What up, Pea.

  What up.

  Ready to make that money?

  Can we finish our game first?

  Yeah. I’m whoopin his ass.

  You wish.

  Come on, fellas. Time is money.

  Ahhh.

  I take them back out into the other room. Juicy look up at me from the couch. Yall ready? We nod. Hold up. I’ll walk yall to the train. She goes in the bedroom. I take the time alone with the kids for a last-minute review.

  You got the wig?

  Yeah.

  And the dress?

  Yeah.

  And you practiced the rhyme?

  Yeah.

  Let me hear it.

  Do we have to?

  I don’t feel like it.

  Aw ight. Stop whinin. But you better not mess up.

  Juicy come outta the room stylin some stupid gear. This leather top all tight over her titties. These little shorts, real tight too. And some sandals, toes stickin out like a turtle inside his shell, each toenail painted a different color. Aw ight, yall. Let’s go.

  So we bounce from her crib and head for the El, Juicy hangin all on my arm, though she taller than me, the kids holdin hands in fronta us. The hood gnats see me and start wavin their wine bottles, glass flags. They swarm over and start in wit the beggin. Look at the happy family. I got a family too. Aw, Pea, you a righteous brother. Can’t you set me straight? Family man, let me hold a ten to run up and see my PO. Can’t you let me hold five till Thursday? I’m good for it. I’ll pay you on Tuesday fo a taste today.

  Hey, Juicy say, step the fuck off. What do we look like, the Red Cross or some shit? Those niggas quiet down and disappear like roaches into dark cracks. Then Juicy turn to me. She be like, Pea, I know you don’t be givin them broke niggas no money. I turn my face away. You better not. A nigga will ride yo jock worse than a bitch.

  We go on a ways. What time you think yall be back?

  Not too late.

  Pick me up a pack of cigarettes. I’ll pay you back.

  I don’t say nothing.

  Be careful wit Ham. He got a slight cold. Now, yall mind Pea.

  Yes, ma’am.

  I don’t wanna hear bout yall actin up.

  We ain’t. We gon be good.

  Some big fat sloppy motherfucker is comin up the block toward us, hoggin the street. I curve around a lamp pole to keep from runnin into him.

  Damn, Pea, Juicy says. What the fuck is wrong wit you? Ain’t I told you bout splittin poles? Bad luck.

  But that dude—

  I can’t have you cursin no bad luck on my sons.

  You believe in all that?

  She looks at me. Is you stupid or what?

  I turn my face away. A cage is a little ways up, and as we pass by, who do I see on the other sidea the fence, watchin the game? Shiheed. Shit. Shiheed and Juicy hate each other, cause Juicy is mouth dangerous and Shiheed’ll slap a bitch inna minute. Shiheed looks over and catches my eye. I turn my head. Too late.

  Yo, Pea. What the deal, son?

  He walks over, stands lookin at me through the diamond spaces of the fence. I keep walkin, but he follows us along the fence, Juicy inches from him.

  Nigga, what you doin up here? Shiheed don’t even look at Juicy.

  You know, doin my—

  I know you ain’t hangin now wit them project niggas.

  I feel quick heat on my skin.

  Got way too much pride for that. You handle that business?

  Yep.

  My nigga. Pea. Always doin yo thing. You still doin that thing, right?

  You know me.

  Yeah, I know you. Shiheed sucked his teeth.

  Then Juicy says, Damn, Pea. You gon let him diss you like that?

  Bitch, was anybody talkin to you?

  Who you callin a bitch? Juicy stops in her tracks and stands lookin through the fence, right at Shiheed.

  Ain’t but one bitch standin here. Maybe two.

  Nigga, where yo mamma? I don’t see that one-tooth bitch.

  What, you gon talk bout—

  Jus shut the fuck up, Juicy says. Yo breath stank.

  Yo, Pea, Shiheed say. He lookin at me, big-ass nostrils aimed and cocked at my face, a sawed-off shotgun. I can’t talk. I can’t move. Yo. You better do sumpin bout yo ugly Hee Haw–lookin bitch.

  Ugly? Nigga, how many mirrors ran away from you today?

  Yo, Pea, you better put yo bitch on a leash.

  Why don’t you do it?

  I’ll wreck this bitch. You know I don’t give a fuck. Straight jackin.

  Juicy chuckles. Nigga, you can’t even jack yo own dick.

  Yo, Pea. I’m tellin you, been a long time since I put the screw
s to somebody.

  Well, here’s yo chance. Step to it. Be a man.

  Nawl. Nawl. Bitch, you think I’m gon stomp you with yo kids right here in fronta you, watchin?

  Crust and Ham lookin round fo weapons. Crust picks up a pop bottle and breaks it. Ham finds a piece a coat hanger. They assume war poses.

  Bitch, you caught a break this time.

  Anytime, Juicy says. You know where to find me. Then she turns to the kids, fulla venom. Yall put that down. Go ahead. They do what she tells them to do. Now, let’s go. We wasted enough time wit this shit. He ain’t nobody. They use to punk him in jail. We all start to walk off together.

  Yo, Pea, Shiheed shouts. This shit all yo fault. Is you a man or is you a mouse? Nigga, you better learn how to smack the shit outta yo bitch every now and then.

  Juicy chastises her kids. What I tell yall bout weapons?

  But—

  But nothing. I don’t like repeatin myself.

  The kids drop their heads, breathin all hard, ready to cry.

  Yall better not start all that cryin. We can go on back to the house.

  Okay, Mamma. We ain’t gon cry.

  We stop at the entrance to the El station. I can’t look Juicy in the face.

  Aw ight, she says. Don’t forget my cigarettes.

  I won’t. I hurry off wit the kids.

  The after-school hustle is set up to catch the rush-hour crowd. Of course, all the heads be out there too, in close proximity to the cash. Like, this Chinese nigga come walkin through the car, pullin along a lil cart behind him and screamin.

  Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, battary battary, one dollahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! … Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, battary battary, one dollahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

  You also got them old-school hustlers, like this one game-talkin nigga named Sinbad, who dress the part in this checkered sports shirt and these brown double-knit polyester slacks. Nigga pants is slack, all right—floods, all high above his white socks and black square-toed kicks. He kick that shit bout sumpin he call the Action Factor. He be like, A wise man once said, The gods weave misfortunes for men so that the generations to come will have something to sing about. But I say that we don’t have to sing sorrow songs. You see, our boys are in the pit. We hand them the ladder to get out. We put them in school, train them, educate them, teach them that knowledge can give tongue to the winged cries of their souls. I know. I was one of those boys. But I stand before you now a new man. Help us light the torch of wisdom. Help us rekindle the fires of manhood. Help us chart the stars.

  Won’t you help us, the Action Factor. Won’t you reach out your hand to us, Action Factor? Please help us, the Action Factor.

  He come up to me, rattlin his can.

  I jus look at him. Then I be like, I know you.

  His eyes go scared. He hurry off.

  When he leaves the car, I signal Crust and Ham. They pop up from they seats and move into the aisle.

  Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Sorry to interrupt your conversation and readin pleasures. I’m Pork and I’m Chop, and together we the Pork Chop crew. We don’t snatch chains, gangbang, or sling cocaine, or live in the correctional way. We jus tryin to earn a honest dollar. We gon tell you a lil story bout our grandma.

  After Crust and Ham kick the introduction, I duck down inside that high-sided area right in fronta the doors, where nobody can see me, and I slip this old granny dress over my clothes and fit this old gray granny wig on my head.

  A few grumpy-ass squares start complainin and shit. They be like, Hey, I don’t wanna hear all that noise. Tell you what, I’ll give you a quarter if you jus sit down and shut up. But the other riders squash all that drama. Who the fuck is you? If you don’t want no noise, drive yo car to work. I paid my carfare, just like you, and I want some entertainment.

  I start granny-walkin down the aisle, all bent over, like I got a cane.

  Got no food to eat and

  My feet got no beats

  My welfare check didn’t come

  Not even a little sum

  They stole my radio

  Hamfat and Crust, they be like, Why they do that, Granny?

  Guess they don’t love they granny no mo.

  People start crackin up, bent over in they seats, slob flyin off they tongues. I make it to the end of the aisle, balancin myself against the fast-movin train.

  It would be a big appreciation

  If you gave us a small donation.

  We jus tryin to earn a honest dollar. If you don’t jibe this time, maybe you’ll jibe next time. Crust and Ham start comin down the aisle with their baseball caps stretched out to the people on both sidesa the train. I say, And we accept pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, dollars, checks, transfers, tokens, and food stamps, and Crust and Ham say, And ladies’ phone numbers. Everybody laugh. Good fo me. Laughter loosen up the wallets and purses. Once the kids reach me, we turn and face everybody. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Pork. I’m Chop. And we the Pork Chop crew. Enjoy your evenin. We move on to the next car.

  We start in the last car and work our way up to the front. Seven cars in all. Then we get off the train and catch one back in the opposite direction. We work it this way through rush hour. Not much money to make after that. And by then the kids start to bitch and whine bout how they tired and hungry and thirsty. So I let em share a candy bar until we make it down to Mickey D’s so I can buy them a Yummy Deal.

  I want my own King Mac.

  He slobbered on the bun.

  He put mustard on it.

  Pickles is nasty.

  He stole my fry.

  Where the salt?

  Ketchup is nasty.

  He spit in the shake.

  Hey, yall shut up, I say. Can’t you see I’m tryin to think? I’m countin my ends in the dark space under the table, the boys positioned in fronta me, fo cover, on the other side. Shit. For the day, I pulled jus enough to maintain. I count it again. Shit.

  I take Crust and Ham to the park to pump the swings for a while. I sit down on the hard splintery bench and watch them go up, down, up, down, their own lil competition. Who can swing the highest? When they get tired of the swings, they starts into feedin the pigeons, pitchin potato chips hard and fast, seein who can clobber the most birds. I’m thinkin the whole time. We leave the park jus as night starts to fall.

  A block from the El station, Crust yells out, You ain’t buy Juicy’s cigarettes. Shit. So we swing into a corner sto. I’m hopin the owner won’t card me, but he jus looks me up and down, takes my money, and places the squares on the counter. He even throws in an extra book of matches.

  We head fo the station. I’m busy addin and subtractin as we walk. I got to pay full adult fare for me and reduced fare for the kids. By the time we make it to the station, I’ve come up wit this plan. I direct Crust and Ham right past the agent sittin in the glassed-in booth and right over to the large wall map. I’m standin there studyin all the routes and lines like I don’t know where we goin.

  I wait until I hear the train comin into the station. I says to the kids, Okay, remember what I told you. The train grinds to a stop, the doors pop open, and people come rushin out. Go on, I tell them. Duck under.

  They duck under the turnstile. Then I duck under, but soon as I pop up, I see this transit dick standin in the do of the train, lookin at me. He say, What the deal, son? He reach to grab me, and I take off as fast as I can, hotfoot, the dick shoutin commandments behind me. Far as I can tell, Crust and Ham shoot off runnin in another direction. Either that, or they made it onto the train. I run in lil rushes of speed, curvin round iron beams, tryin to shake off the dick. I look back and see that I’m puttin some good distance between our bodies. That’s when I feel my legs start to shut down, my steps get smaller, my ankles band together, like some cowboy done hooped me in a lasso. I trip and stumble face first toward the ground but break my fall in the nick of time wit my hands.

  The dick come up behind me, breathin and coughin all hard. He reach down and jerk me to my feet. He kee
ps one hand on me, the other on his hip, and stands there swayin from side to side, tryin to catch his breath. Damn, he says, grinnin and shakin his head. They make you all dumber every day. Nobody never told you how to keep yo pants up?

  What? I look down and see my jeans all tangled up around my ankles. I’m standin there in my draws. People is pointin and laughin.

  You got enough room in there for an entire family.

  Would you pull my pants up?

  Maybe I should take your picture.

  A second dick comes over with Crust and Ham. He takes one look at me and tells his partner, Pull his pants up. The first dick pulls up my pants. They start to walk away wit us.

  Damn, he could run.

  Couldn’t he.

  Need to put him in the Olympics.

  Jesse Owens.

  They take us back into this little office. That’s when I get my firs good look at the two dicks. The dick who’d caught me ain’t much older than myself. He got this lil lima-bean head and this peach fuzz on his chin, which he keep stuck way out for the world’s admiration. The second dick older, a big ugly Frankenstein-lookin motherfucker. Round pigeon shoulders and muscular ears. Face all scrunched up and serious, like he bitin down on his words, snappin them in two. He shoves me into the wall. Okay, let’s see some ID.

  You lookin at it.

  You don’t have any ID?

  I lost my wallet.

  I’ll go back and see if I can find it, Peach Fuzz says.

  Nawl. I lost it a long time ago.

  Monster Dick starts goin through my pants pockets, pullin the long insides out like banana peels. Look, I say, mind my civils.

  Be quiet, Peach Fuzz says. Civil rights are for citizens. You’re underaged.

  What? Hey, I’m not—

  Frankenstein shoves me into a chair. Sit there. Shut up. Then he bear-hugs the kids and starts pullin them toward his face like he gon screw them into his eyes. They start bawlin. Juicy! Juicy! Mamma! Mamma!

  Hey, Officer, I say, don’t scare the kids.

  He lets them go and points to a chair. They squeeze into it. Then he stand there lookin at me. Mr. Hero, he says.

  You shouldn scare the kids.