I tried my damnest not to blush and then they all joined in harmously, “Hi, L.” I was cheesing like a brotha posing for toothpaste commercial. Then someone yelled, “look at those cute dimples.” The whole time Trina was checking me out, my jewelry and my clothes. There was something uncanny about her. Like she knew me from somewhere.
“Damn, ain’t you and Marcus still together?” Trina asked, slinging the words in Hope’s face.
“I’m on my way to his house,” Hope retorted, with her lips twisted to the side accompanied by a tilted neck. I could tell there was friction in the air. Women have a strange way of communicating. They use body language like chickens that used to have arms.
“Trina is my Sorority Sister,” Hope said to me. As if on cue the girls in the car made a noise, I guess it had something to do with their sorority. They all erupted in jovial laughter.
“She’s from the Bronx.”
“Wuz up Shouty?” I said, giving her a nod like I hardly noticed she was there. One of the girls said, “Ask him if he has any friends fine like him.” They all laughed, everybody except Hope and Trina. I watched as they talked in generic chatter while the sun beat down on us. I felt a trickle of perspiration cascade down my spine as I looked at all of the beautiful sistas. It was like I was in paradise.
“What room are you staying in?” Trina asked, completely catching me off guard.
“Who, me?” Dumbfounded. I looked at the key in my hand and answered “A-4.”
“We’re going to get something to eat, you want to join us?” Trina asked like it was a challenge. The whole time she just looked at me.
“No, I was dropping L off. I gave him a ride from Sarasota yesterday. We had car trouble and just made it into town.” I listened as Hope made excuses that sounded like lies.
Trina frowned at her, and then asked me, “What brings you to Tallahassee, L?” I thought I detected a trace of an accent.
“I’m here on business.”
“What kind of business?” she asked placing her hands on her round hips. I noticed somehow she had inched up closer, the wind blew her hair. A car passed, some brothas hollered at the girls and the girls hollered back. I smiled like a sly fox, the way men do when they’re lying to a woman and they both know it.
“I’m in the import and export business,” I said turning the gold bracelet on my wrist. Something about Trina pounced on me, perhaps it was her eyes, the way she looked at me, bold, aggressively. She made no secret about it. She was trying to get with me, and when she walked away, she showed me more. I watched for a moment, placing her index finger over her temple like she was contemplating the plot.
“Gee, Hope. You say that you left town yesterday, but your paper tag has today’s date on it.”
“Ummm, that was a mistake they made at the car lot,” Hope stammered.
“Yea, right. You better be careful Marcus doesn’t learn of your mistakes,” Trina said, like a threat, and then winked her eye at me. “I’ll be seeing you around L.” She pointed at me like she had just staked her claim on me. I raised a brow thinking I just witnessed a cat fight. Trina jumped in her car. The girls clamored. The system in her car was turned up loud, thumping so hard I could feel it vibrating. Mary J. Blige’s song “Real Love” filled the air as they drove off.
“Bitch!” Hope cursed giving me the evil eye. “Listen Life, you got to stay away from her. Trina is bad news. Her family, or somebody is heavy into drugs. Her last boyfriend was a baller, now he’s doing life in the feds.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
A car pulled up and two gorgeous women got out. They were holding hands.
“I don’t want you to get into any trouble. That’s all.”
She looked at her watch, a signal to me that she was about to go. She turned and opened the car door. As I placed my hand over hers, she gulped air, and took in a deep breath. So much more innocence exuded from her. In the sunlight, I watched the wisps of baby hair cascade down her delicate forehead. I noticed that she did not remove her hand, nor did she blink for that moment in time. Our eyes locked and I knew if there were a way to check her heartbeat, it would be in the same rhythm as mine.
“Life, you know I’m the kind of girl that believes in speaking her mind. I’m very much attracted to you …” I watched as her tongue moistened and primed her lips, lips that I wanted to kiss, preparing to tell me what I did not want to hear.
“ … and … and last night you made love to me like I had never been … been touched, made love to before.” She then took my hand off hers, and looked away, breaking our physical communication.
“We’re from two different worlds.” Her voice now sounded harsh and cold. “Your world is where I am running from. Poverty and pain fills us with greed and envy. Money can’t buy love. It can’t buy me.” She shook her head like she was trying to chase away some evil demon. “You’ll end up dead or in them white folks’ prison.”
Her words stung me like a premonition. One of my knees felt like it was going to buckle. A Black woman’s premonition is the closest thing to God, my stepmom taught me that. Somehow, I know that Hope’s words held the truth. The kind of truth that no hustler wanted to take heed to.
“For you, Hope, I’d hang up my scale, no mo dope game, place my pistol, Jesus, in the closet. If you help me, I’d go straight,” I said, dead serious not knowing or caring where that voice was coming from. I knew that it just felt good talking to her. Silence. I looked over her head. There was a Goodyear blimp in the sky. Her rejection of me was written all over her face. It answered my question in a way she could never have. Time was of the essence. What I just said even sounded whack to me that was my weak heart talking. I realized I needed to spit game like flavor in her ear. “Tell you what, give me something to read, something conscious.” I watched her delicate eyebrows furrow like she was trying to read my brain to see if I was lying. I know that all them people with that fake-ass “Black Man” talk were suckers and wanted to try to get people to read like it was going to kick start a revolution. Her eyes softened, maybe she saw potential in me. I damn sure did, enough to want to sell bricks and buy a villa in Manila, smoke trees while getting my dick sucked by one of them exotic-looking bitches under a palm tree.
“Life, there’s a book titled, The Destruction of Black Civilization, written by a man named Chancellor Williams and another book, Mis-education of the Negro.”
I could have won an award for best actor the way I feigned interest. She went on to talk about some cat name Marcus Garvey. Her faced beamed, like she really enjoyed the topic. Boring. I was trying to remember how far the Black section of town was that we passed. I knew it was called Frenchtown. I heard talk about it while I was in the joint. I needed to know what size their dime rocks were. I was making plans, like a general, about to mount an attack, to take over them Tallahassee niggas turf.
“Life! Life! Boy, you ain’t heard a word I’ve said.” She got into the car.
“I heard ya.” I made a face, my best impression of don’t go.
She reached in and placed each one of the bags that I bought for her on the curb. “I’m sorry, but I cannot accept these. Call me at the station tonight, we’ll make arrangements to pay for the car.”
As she pulled out, I shouted, “Bring the books when you come back tomorrow.”
“Come back?” she mouthed the words, looking at me strangely. I thought to myself, you’ll be back as soon as you find Jesus under your front seat.
I went to my room. It was nice and comfortable with a scenic view and a king-sized bed. It even had a kitchen with a stove and fridge. I counted out my cash, a little over eight grand. I cut a hole in the mattress and stashed it there for safe keeping. I placed my jewelry under the pillow and changed clothes, a simple pair of jeans and a large white T-shirt. I was about to make my first foray into the Black section of town. There was a risk involved. I needed to look as inconspicuous as possible. I easily concealed the .380 in my pocket and only took eighteen dollars
and some loose change with me.
I walked a mile or so taking in the sights. This city was alive. The Florida State campus was huge. White broads walking around scantily clad, teaming with other vibrant ethnicities. I blended right in, and even though it was hot as hell, I enjoyed the sights and sounds. To me it was like being in a foreign land. I passed a car lot, across the street was a Popeye’s Chicken, and down the street from that was Netherworld, better known as Frenchtown. I’ve often wondered how the Black section of town was always placed in the middle of white folks’ areas so that they can conveniently drive by with their expensive cars, windows up, doors locked and scorned expression on their faces at the shock of the plight of Black life.
I was definitely approaching the Black section. I could tell because the value of the land looked dilapidated. I strained my eyes to the glare of the sun. I saw it up the street. To the casual eye it would not have been detected. I spotted what looked like a lookout man or woman. Any trap that is making any money has one. The best lookout in the world is a dope fiend. They stay paranoid, on perpetual alert. That is, if they’re not getting high.
As I continued to scan the streets, I walked gingerly as I passed a drugstore. Little kids were inside buying candy. Then a barbershop. On the corner where I stood was a soul food restaurant. My pace slowed. Across the street was a pool hall, a sleazy tavern and a liquor store all right next to each other. People were gathered out front. It felt like a thousand pair of eyes stared at me as I waited for the light to change. One thing was for sure, whenever you make an excursion into someone else’s hood, they know that you are not from there and that’s where the problem starts. Like walking into a lion’s den. I crossed the street. In the abandoned lot there was a big commotion. A tall goofy-looking white boy was walking backward, palms in the air. His eyes darted back and forth and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He kept wiping the dirty blond hair from his face. His glasses were so thick that I wondered if he could be legally blind without them. About ten teenagers had him surrounded. They had baseball bats, two-by-fours and iron pipes.
“Give me dat money, cracka,” one of them shouted. I watched as all hell broke loose. POW! CRACK! They tore off into his ass like he was responsible for slavery. One thing I can say about that white boy, he never fell to the ground, nor did he give up that money. He made the crucial mistake of coming to buy a rock without the aid of a Black person he knew, a mistake that has caused many a white man his life, trying to buy dope in a Black neighborhood. Someone hit him in the back and the sound exploded like a cannon. That white boy found a small crack of daylight and took off like a racehorse. As he attempted to pass me I stuck my foot out and tripped him. He fell flat on his face and slid across the worn out concrete. His glasses went one way while he went the other. I ain’t never liked a cracka. Never! Ever since my stepmother told me the sad story about how they stole my granddaddy’s land and killed him. That was one of the reasons why my father lost most of his mind.
The crowd of youngsters moved on him again. This was pure recreation for them. Black boys have so much pent up energy, for them this was almost a daily occurrence, and it wasn’t just white boys asses they whipped either. They didn’t discriminate. I know just as sure that if they knew I was from out of town they would have rat packed my ass too.
They continued to kick his ass. This was all done in broad daylight. White people passed in their cars with the look of horror on their pink faces. Talk about the natives being restless, this was turning into some kind of sport. One thing was for sure, it was going to draw a lot of heat. Whoever’s trip this is, they’re not doing a good job of managing it, I thought.
I watched as this woman ran into the melee, arms flailing, screaming and pushing, shoving people off the white boy.
“Ya’ll leave ‘em alone! Leave ‘em alone!” she screamed. For some reason they obeyed her. She helped the white boy up and brushed off his pants. Someone threw a bottle that whistled past his head. Punched, drunk and bleeding, he staggered around like he just went around with Mike Tyson and miraculously survived. The woman found his glasses and gave them to him. They had been stomped on and were badly cracked. Staggering, he placed them on upside down. He went into his mouth and took out a wet and bloody twenty dollar bill. “Here, Nina Brown, all I wanted was a rock,” he whined. Crackheads never cease to amaze me. This white man risked his life just for a rock, and now he acted like it was just another day in the death defying life of a rock star. The lady dug into her bosom, retrieving a matchbox, and gave him a small rock. His tongue moved around his cheek like it was searching for something, then he spit out a tooth, smiled gleefully through swollen lips and took off into a trot, only the trot resembled a hobble like he had just been hit by an eighteen wheeler.
I recognized the woman they called Nina Brown. The other cats were checking me out now, especially them youngsters. I played it off and called Nina Brown’s name like I knew her all my life. “Yo Nina! I got eighteen dollars.” I patted my pockets. “Where can I get a dime bag of weed at?” Actually, I was letting niggas know, I ain’t got no money. As Nina entered the store she shot me a look like she was trying to figure out where she knew me from. The air conditioning in the old run down place felt cool on my face. My shirt was sticking to my back. The tile floor cracked under my feet. I noticed a nice looking pecan woman with breasts so large they made me smile. She was older than me. Something about her hair reminded me of a straightening comb, it shined like the little girls’ hair that I used to see when I was in grade school. I requested a quart of beer, Olde English 800 and a pack of Newport cigarettes.
Nina Brown counted her money and watched me. She had a Bulls cap on her head cocked to the side. Her skin was dark. I guessed her age to be anywhere between twenty-nine and forty-nine. As hot as it was, she had on a black jacket with what looked like a hundred zippers on it. She walked right up to me, smelling like a small mountain goat. From the look of her weary, blood cracked eyes, she had been up for days, possibly weeks. She craned her neck at me, popped her lips, a prologue to speak. For some strange reason almost all rock stars do this.
“Whoisyou?” she asked, frowning at me. I took a step back and tried not to smile. Rock stars have this thing they do with their necks. It’s sort of like a curious rooster.
“They call me L,” I said as I smirked at her.
“How did you know my name?” she asked, placing some crumbled bills in her worn out jeans.
“Hi, Nina Brown,” the cashier said, passing me my change.
“Hi, Ms. Atkins,” Nina Brown responded politely.
The bell above the door chimed, as a runt of a woman walked in. She looked to be about 22 years old or so. She wore a hair weave that looked like she had cut it off of some poor poodle dog and red lipstick that would have shamed a clown. The woman looked like a misfit, which is something very hard to do in the ghetto.
She walked right up to Nina and started whispering in conspiratorial tones. I eavesdropped.
The girl’s name was Shannon. She was known in the hood as what is called a Regulator. They are hustlers that can skillfully break down a cocaine rock to its lowest form if need be, to make a profit. They hang around junkies religiously, like a vulture that waits on its dying prey. No matter how much dope you give them they’ll find a way to go bad. Get them in the back of a police car, and somebody is going to jail, and it won’t be them.
“Ain’t nobody got none,” Shannon was saying, panic stricken, like she was going to cry. Nina thought for a minute at whatever the riddle was.
“Tell them to go around the block, I think I know where we can find some at.” That’s why Regulators like to hang around rock stars. In theory, a rock star was a genius, at least at plotting to get money and finding a cot in jail. Nina Brown still commanded authority. You have some rock stars like that. Always a reflection of their former selves, the last thing an unsuspecting victim should do is listen to them talk. A real junkie can talk a starved cat off a fish truck if that’s what
he has to do to get high.
She turned to me. Looked me in the eye with a “man don’t lie to me” expression.
“You got some dope?” she asked.
“I don’t sell dope.” I lied.
Her experienced eyes were looking at my two hundred dollar pair of Jordan’s. She sized me up.
“Look, boy, you either got some dope or you’re the Po-Po.” Nina Brown was a true street veteran. My shoes gave me away. Plus, the expression I wore on my face did not help none. Some junkies are just a ball of fun. I kind of liked Nina Brown from the start.
I walked out with her on my heels. She was onto my scent like a camel to water. As soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk, it was pure pandemonium. The police had people like they called in the riot control. Vans, cars, dogs. I had the .380 in my pocket. The one that I took from the police at the motel. Dumb.
“You!”
A policeman pointed at me. “Get your ass over here!” He was talking to me. I had no place to run. I was trapped. For some reason, Hope’s face flashed before my eyes and I heard her voice, you’ll end up dead or in prison. Nina Brown grabbed the back of my pants and snatched me back in the store.
“Hurry! Give me everything you got, I’ll keep it for you.”
That was the oldest junkie ploy in the world, but very effective. If I would have deposited all my dope and money to her in order to be saved from the police, her and her rock star friends would have had the great smoke out, smoking all my dope and spending money like it grew on trees.
I passed her the gun. She took one look at it like that was the last thing in the world she wanted to trick me out of. She tossed it into the trashcan like it was a hot potato. The police came in the store, snatched my ass out of line, and lined me up with the other fellows. I gave him a phony name and address and prayed like hell that the computer didn’t find anything wrong. Once before I had done that and the name I gave them came back with a warrant on it and they took me to jail.
One by one, they locked some up, let some go. When they got to me, they let me go. The cop poured out my beer, faked like he was going to kick me in the ass. I walked off into the ardent sun feeling like someone somewhere was praying for me.
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