In These Streets

by Shelly Ellis

  “That motherfucka’ ain’t never on time,” Ricky would say with a laugh.

  “Told him he’d be late to his own funeral,” Derrick would concur.

  And Jamal hadn’t wanted to make them wait for him, especially considering what he had to say to them tonight.

  He stared over the lip of his wineglass at his girlfriend, Bridget, trying his best to make eye contact with her and signal that it was time to go, but she was completely oblivious to him and his growing desperation. He shouldn’t be surprised; Bridget was in her element. She loved parties like these, where power and prestige hung heavy in the air like a cheap perfume and she could hobnob with D.C.’s elite. She loved to gossip about what was happening on Capitol Hill and relished dropping the names of friends and old classmates who were on staff at the White House.

  Bridget always kept her business cards and cell phone handy, ready to make new contacts and set up a lunch date or a business call. Normally, Jamal admired her hustle and grind. He was even awed by it. Who knew a pampered princess from a WASP family in Connecticut could be so driven? But today he just wished she’d give that shit a rest.

  He watched as she tossed her red hair over her shoulder and laughed at something one of her lobbyist colleagues said, some guy whose name Jamal had forgotten already.

  “We’d love to go the Hamptons, Mike,” she said, looping her arm through Jamal’s and drawing close to his side, “but unfortunately we won’t be taking any vacations anytime soon now that Sinclair here has been named the district’s newest deputy mayor!”

  Who the hell is Sinclair? Jamal thought and then realized, Oh, yeah. That’s me.

  He was going by his middle name now. “J. Sinclair Lighty” was on all his new business cards.

  Bridget had said the name change would be a smart move.

  “I love your name, Jamal. Really I do, but it just sounds so . . . so urban . . . even a little Middle Eastern,” she’d said in bed one night a few months ago while scrunching up her nose, like she smelled something stinky. “But if you ever want a bigger future in politics, you should think of changing it.”

  “It doesn’t sound any more Middle Eastern than Barack Hussein Obama,” Jamal had argued. “Barack became president with his name.”

  “And the Republicans repeated it every chance they got! They know how a name like that sounds to ‘mom and pop, small town’ America. It scares the hell out of them! And besides,” she’d said with a shrug before sinking beneath the covers, “Obama isn’t saddled with a juvenile record.”

  “It’s not like I’m a hardened criminal though, Bridge. It was breaking and entering and a vandalism charge when I was twelve years old. I broke open an old lock to an apartment building and tagged an exterior wall. The only reason I got such a stiff penalty is because that racist old judge wanted to teach me a lesson. It was a stupid, childish mistake. I never did it again!”

  “But people won’t know the difference, sweetheart. They won’t care! Trust me. A new name is just the change you need. It’ll make it easier to put that part of your past behind you.”

  “So you’re deputy mayor, huh?” her colleague now asked, turning to Jamal.

  His wrinkled face suddenly brightened with interest where before it had only held polite detachment whenever he glanced at Jamal. It was the same look you gave a waiter who offered you a drink. Jamal wondered if every time the man’s eyes had landed on him—a short, unassuming, light-skinned black man in a dark suit and tie—he had just assumed Jamal was one of the waiters circulating around the room.

  “Deputy mayor of what department, may I ask?” the old man continued.

  “Planning and economic development,” Jamal replied, finishing the last of his white wine.

  “Really? I know a fellow at the mayor’s office who I went to law school with many, many years ago. He’s a good guy. You might know him. He’s—”

  “Probably not. It’s pretty big place over there,” Jamal said, cutting him off. He then turned to Bridget. “Honey, it’s starting to get little late and I’ve got an early start tomorrow morning. Do you mind if we head out?”

  Her freckled cheeks flushed bright red and her brows knitted together. He’d pissed her off. The tell-tale signs were there. But Bridget only allowed her mask of pleasantry to shift out of place for a few seconds. She immediately wiped away her angry expression and replaced it with a bland smile.

  “No! Of course, I don’t mind, sweetie. I’ve got an early start too. We can totally head home.”

  “It was a pleasure to meet you,” Jamal said, extending his hand to her colleague.

  He glanced down blankly at Jamal’s hand then gave it a firm shake. “Y-yes, pleasure to . . . uh . . . meet you too, Sinclair.”

  * * *

  “Could you have been any ruder?” Bridget snapped as they stepped out the museum’s revolving doors onto the sidewalk.

  Jamal instantly got a whiff of smog and the Chinese food wafting from the restaurant down the street. Several feet away a man played “In a Sentimental Mood” on a saxophone. A Big Gulp cup sat at his feet where pedestrians tossed in loose change and dollar bills.

  “I wasn’t being rude,” Jamal said as they walked toward the musician. He dug into his pocket, retrieved a dollar, and tossed it into the man’s cup. The man nodded in appreciation. Jamal then returned his attention to his girlfriend, glancing down at her stern face under the lamp light. “That guy had been rambling for a good ten minutes. I had no idea what he was talking about anyway, and he wasn’t even interested in what I had to say until you told him I was the deputy mayor!”

  “Damnit, he’s one of the partners, Sinclair! I was trying to make a good impression. I brought you there to schmooze, to show off my successful boyfriend, and you completely ruined it.”

  “I wasn’t trying to ruin it, honey. I just wanted to leave. That’s all! There will be other cocktail parties. You guys have one at least once a month, don’t you? Next time, I’ll let the guy talk as long as he wants. It’s just this time, I couldn’t.”

  They walked under a stone archway and drew near escalators leading to the metro. They stepped aside for another couple heading in the opposite direction.

  “You are completely missing the point.” He watched as she dug into her purse, pushing aside compacts and lipstick. She pulled out her metro card as they stepped on the escalators and descended to the tunnel below. “You make the best impression at each event, at every moment, Sinclair, because you never know when the opportunity will come around again. Tonight was a missed opportunity.”

  He didn’t respond, deciding to let the argument drop since he had to be on his way anyway. As they stepped off the escalator and reached the metal turnstiles, he kissed her on the cheek.

  “I hear what you’re saying. And like I said, I’m sorry. But I have to get going. I’ll meet you at home.”

  She frowned again. “Going where? I thought you were heading home with me!”

  He glanced up at the digital sign overhead that showed the next blue line train would be arriving in only four minutes. He needed to be on it if he wanted to make it to the bar by eleven o’clock.

  “I told you that I have to meet Derrick and Ricky tonight, honey.”

  Her frown deepened. The flush in her cheeks was back. Even her neck erupted in streaks of red. “Are you really telling me you rushed me out of that cocktail party so you can meet your homeboys at a bar?”

  “Don’t say it like that. Don’t call them ‘homeboys.’ It’s so—”

  “Well, that’s what they are!” she cried. “They’re your homeboys . . . your homies.” She rolled her blue eyes toward the metro station’s water-stained ceiling, whipping her hair over her shoulder. “I can’t believe this! I don’t even know why you keep them around considering you’re supposed to be—”

  “Look, I’m going there to do what you told me I should do, all right?” he said, leaning in close to her and dropping his voice down to a whisper. “You said I needed to move on, and
I’m telling them that tonight. But I’m not going to do it over the phone. They’ve been my friends since we were twelve years old. The least I can do is say something like this to their faces.”

  Bridget’s expression softened. “I see what you mean.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Sorry, I chewed you out, sweetheart. I didn’t know that’s what you were going to do.”

  He shrugged and glanced up at the digital sign again. Another two minutes had passed. “It’s fine,” he mumbled.

  She stood on the balls of her feet, looped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. The kiss reminded him of what lurked under Bridget’s no-nonsense, sometimes ball-busting exterior. It reminded him why he’d hooked up with the little redheaded spitfire in the first place.

  “I know it’ll be hard but I bet they’ll understand.” She smoothed the lapel of his suit jacket and adjusted the knot in his tie. “They know where you’re headed, and they don’t want to hold you back.”

  “Yeah, I doubt they’ll see it that way, but I don’t have much of a choice.” He glanced at the digital sign yet again as he unwound her arm from around her neck. “Look, I better get going. I’ve got like a minute to make my train.”

  He then turned back toward the turnstile and slapped his card over the reader. He rushed through the turnstile as the train doors opened.

  “It’ll be fine!” she shouted over the roar of the incoming train as he ran down the platform.

  Jamal managed to hop on the train just before the doors closed.

  * * *

  Twenty-five minutes later, Jamal swung open the glass door to Ray’s Bar and Lounge. The name made the establishment sound loftier than it actually was. It was really just a dilapidated bar filled with wood paneling, cracked glass tiles along the walls, pleather couches, and a small parquet dance floor that hadn’t been used since 1992. The lounge’s rickety laminate tables were covered with stains but you could barely tell, thanks to how dim Ray Willard, the owner and head bartender, kept the lighting in there.

  Jamal, Derrick, and Ricky were some of the youngest patrons. The bar usually attracted the forty-and-older set—the players whose player days were behind them, or would be soon.

  Jamal, Derrick, and Ricky had tried over the years to transition to more glamorous spots for their weekly meetups—tapas bars with crystal chandeliers and pretty waitresses, or cigar lounges with glass-enclosed fireplaces and velvet sofas. They had even tried Club Majesty once, though neither Jamal nor Derrick had enjoyed the experience despite the beautiful strippers. It was strange to watch their boy, Ricky, as a hyped-up strip club owner who slapped dancers on their asses, threw back shots like they were tap water, and did lines of coke and Molly in between. Every now and then Ricky would give Jamal and Derrick a knowing look or a wink to let them know he was just playing the role that was expected of him, that he was still the low-key, funny Ricky they knew. Jamal got an eerie feeling like he was watching a theater performance where the actor kept breaking the fourth wall. He hadn’t wanted to go back to Club Majesty and was glad neither Derrick nor Ricky had suggested it.

  After hopping from place to place, they would always end up back at Ray’s. From the selection of nineties hip hop and hometown go-go music that seemed to play on an endless loop on the bar’s sound system, to the cheap drinks and shit-talking bartenders, they couldn’t let go of the old bar and lounge.

  On some level Jamal suspected they felt a kinship to this place because it represented them as a group. They didn’t have to code-switch here, lose their drawls, or watch their cuss words; they could just be themselves. Ray’s represented their humble beginnings, their strong connection to the grimy, “chicken wings and mambo sauce,” Rare Essence, “rep for your area code” part of D.C. that most people who frequented the tourist traps like the Smithsonian and White House never got to see. It was a part of them they could not, would not, let go.

  But not anymore, Jamal thought forlornly as he nodded to Ray who stood behind the bar. The old man paused from wiping down the counter and nodded back in greeting.

  “I’ll bring your drink over in a minute,” Ray called to him, making the cigarette at the corner of his mouth bob up and down as he spoke.

  Though Jamal was reluctant to do it, he knew he had to move on from this place, from his neighborhood and the people in it. If he wanted to ascend the social and political ladder, it meant accepting that some people weren’t going to climb that ladder with him. He couldn’t allow them to drag him down either, and Ricky and Derrick would do just that—even if it wasn’t their intention.

  He spotted his two best friends at the same table they always sat at.

  Derrick’s back was facing him but he was gesticulating, as if he was telling some story, and Jamal watched as Ricky threw back his head and laughed.

  He remembered when he first spotted them together at the Branch Avenue Boys Institute nearly two decades ago. They had been slumped against the brick wall, laughing and watching the other boys play basketball. Though they were all the same age, Derrick and Ricky had stood almost a foot taller than Jamal. He had liked the vibe they had about them, how they carried themselves among the other boys: slightly apart from the rest, but not bothered by the fact that they weren’t connected to the cliques. Jamal had wanted to be friends with them. He had wanted their swagger, their air of “I don’t give a fuck,” since he was a boy who always cared what other people thought. He had been bullied for his slight build and small height, his “faggoty” middle name, and the North Carolina drawl he once had before he learned how to mask it. But Derrick and Ricky hadn’t seemed weak like him. They weren’t easy targets. Derrick had had a rep, even back then. So had Ricky. Meanwhile, no one knew or cared who Jamal was even though he tagged about a dozen buildings between Barry Farms and Hillcrest with his name in the hopes of gaining some notoriety. The only thing it had done was land him at the Institute where he had been at the mercy of bullies until Derrick and Ricky had rescued and protected him.

  His friends had seemed to be impenetrable back then—but they weren’t anymore. He could see the cracks in their armor now.

  “We was wondering if your ass was gonna show up,” Ricky said with a grin as Jamal grabbed one of the wooden chairs from an empty table and slid it across the floor to their booth.

  “What’s up, fellas?” Jamal said, tugging off his suit jacket and tossing it on the back of the chair. He leaned forward and gave them both a fist pound before sitting down.

  “Look at him . . . trying to act all casual,” Derrick said. “No, what’s up with you? You the nigga with the busy schedule, Mr. Deputy Mayor.”

  Derrick was chiding him but Jamal heard nothing but pride in his friend’s voice. One of the Branch Avenue boys had made good, and a man like Derrick would hold no ill will against him.

  Jamal squinted at Derrick, leaning forward so he could see him better in the dim lighting. “No, what’s up with you? You look like you owed someone some money and they took it out on your face!”

  Ricky burst into laughter again, clapping his hands.

  Derrick had always been ready to rumble in the old days. He had gotten Jamal out of more than one scrape at the Institute, but Jamal had assumed those fighting days were behind them.

  Derrick loudly blew air out of his nose and raised his glass to his busted lip. He took a drink. “I had to break up a fight between a couple of boys today and got some collateral damage. That’s all.”

  Jamal furrowed his brows, taking in all of Derrick’s bruises and his swollen nose. “It looks like a lot more than ‘collateral damage,’ Dee. You look like—”

  “Stop,” Derrick said. “Stop, all right? You sound like Melissa. She was bitching me out about it. It turned into another argument about me working at the Institute.” He shook his head and took another drink. “I’m so done with that shit. She keeps bringing it up!”

  “Maybe she has a point though,” Jamal said softly with a shrug. He watched as Ray sat a glass of whiskey on ice in fron
t of him. He nodded in thanks to Ray as the old man walked off.

  “What do you mean maybe she has a point?” Derrick asked. “You think I should quit?”

  “I’m just sayin’ maybe you should hear her out. You’ve got a bachelor’s in elementary education and a master’s in psychology. You’re telling me you spent all that time in college just to get your ass whupped by delinquent thirteen-year-old boys? Maybe it’s . . .” He shrugged again. “I don’t know . . . Maybe it’s time to move on, Dee.”

  Derrick wasn’t pale like Bridget and, therefore, didn’t flush a shade of red at that moment, but Jamal knew a pissed-off face when he saw one.

  “Where is this shit coming from?” Derrick snapped.

  Ricky lowered his bottle to the table top and held up his hands. “Hey! Hey, Dee, he didn’t mean anything by it. Just chill, man!”

  “No, he meant what he said. He said it’s time to move on from a job that I love, from a place that made us who we are today. How can you be cavalier about that shit, Jay?”

  “It made us who we are, but it isn’t who we are,” Jamal corrected, taking a drink. “I’m a grown ass man, and I’m not gonna feel bad that I want to put that part of my past behind me.”

  Now even Ricky was eying him slyly. “Grown ass man, huh? But is this grown ass man speaking and thinking for himself—or letting his girl do it for him?”

  Jamal clenched his jaw. “Man, fuck you, Ricky.”

  Ricky leaned back in the booth and tilted his head. “I’m just sayin’, don’t let yourself get brainwashed, bruh! No pussy is worth half the shit she makes you do. She’s got you changing the clothes you wear and . . .”

  “I wear suits now. So what? That’s part of my job. I’m deputy mayor. You expect me to roll up to City Hall in baggy jeans and a doo-rag?”

  “She got you to change your name too,” Ricky continued, taking a swig from his bottle.