by Lena Scott
Yeah, he looked like a W.E. thug fo’ sho now. Niggas liked their jewelry over there too, always blingin’ and shit. Yeah, this nigga is from the W.E. He’s fine though. Sho is, she thought, but quickly regrouped. You can’t be likin’ no boy from the W.E., and I’m not, she lied to herself. I’m just wondering why he was frontin’, that’s all.
“Shit you talking? Deb? He’s gonna fuck up.” Sinclair chuckled for the first time today. Although she went to a good school, one that wasn’t considered high-risk by the state, and lived a daytime life outside of the Palemos, she was still just a naïve round-the-way girl.
The boy laughed. “My name is Finest,” he told her.
“And I’m Sinclair,” she said, smiling back.
Sinclair had never seen him before, but then maybe that was because, until Debonair went to jail three months earlier, she never came outside much, except to get in the car. Debonair had been pushing her harder than usual on the homework scene and, in her opinion, separating her from the folks she’d grown up with on the block. Every morning he would take her to the BART, so she could get to school in San Pablo, which was more of a white school, with not many black faces being there. Debonair didn’t want her attending the school in their neighborhood. He wanted better for her. Mama had wanted better for her. So when Mama died, nearly three years ago now, Debonair worked hard to make sure she got “better.” But since his arrest, nothing better was happening. The summer had been nothing more than hot hell, no money, bill collectors calling, until the phone went off. Tanqueray hadn’t done a very good job of managing things, and now there was a threat from Mr. Gold Mouth.
“Where you work?” the boy asked, getting her attention back to the now.
“I don’t work. I guess, I’ma be looking for a job though.”
“Really. What you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Shit! You sound like a bum.”
They both laughed.
“Well, look here, I’m about to be up in the P for a hot minute, so maybe you and me can discuss your situation. Maybe you can work for me.” He patted and massaged his tight chest, biting his full bottom lip, causing a crease to come up in his cheek.
Sinclair couldn’t read his thoughts, so she held back hers. She slid her hand deep into his. “What kind of business you got?” Then she asked again, “Where you stay?”
“The W.E.!” the driver called out, interrupting their conversation as he pulled over to the curb.
Nobody had pulled the cord, but the drivers always stopped in the W.E. It was the same with the P. The bus would just stop there, as many drivers took their breaks there before making their way down the peninsula toward the Caltrain station. At the main stop in the P, one could always find a bus driver standing around, smoking, or shooting the breeze for a few minutes, maybe even having a little drink or two, with a local. Most of the drivers on this route were black or Latino. Some may have even grown up here before leaving to South Bay to do better for themselves. How ironic that they worked so hard to get ahead of the residents here, only to come back to serve them.
“The P!” the driver called now.
The doors opened, and the first group of those in a rush to go nowhere piled off, Sinclair and Finest among them. The driver seemed to not even notice Sinclair as she got off. Good.
The boy was walking alongside Sinclair in the same direction she was headed. “You didn’t answer my question,” Sinclair repeated.
“I’m a bidnessman. Salesman. I sell stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Yeah, like movies and shit like that there.”
“Oh, I was thinking . . .” Sinclair’s face felt hot.
Finest smiled and looked off. “Nah, it ain’t that serious.” He smiled again, reaching under his shirt and patting his chest as he looked around. “Not every nigga just out there slingin’ and slammin’, you know. Some of us gots goals and shit. Some of us tryin’ to rise.”
“Oh, I understand that. I mean, I’m going to college and shit. I’m planning to make big things happen too.” It was the first time in a while that Sinclair looked at her life’s direction as a purpose, something her mama had counted on her to do.
“Oh baby girl ’bout to make moves, eh?” he asked, looking back at her.
Again, she couldn’t read the expression on his face. Maybe it was because she couldn’t read her own heart. She knew his eyes made her belly tingle, and his smile gave puss a purr, but other than that, she really didn’t know what do with the effect Finest was having on her. She didn’t know where to put her growing feelings about him. She just knew nobody had ever brought these types of feelings up before.
“Well, me too.”
“How much you payin’? I mean, you know, yo’ employees? What would I do?”
“I told you, I’ll check you later, and we’ll talk about my totally legitimate venture. We’ll chop it up a bit . . . later.” He looked around and checked out his surroundings. “I don’t like to talk about my bidness on the street. Besides, like I said, I have something to do right now.”
“You got a girl?” Sinclair asked . . . on an impulse.
He smiled slyly, again biting his bottom lip. “Why you ask?”
Just then Sinclair heard someone calling out to her. Looking around, she saw her sister Unique and her daughter Apple, who lit up immediately when Sinclair looked her way. Turning back to Finest, Sinclair noticed he had wandered off, as if he wanted to disappear into the element.
As Unique got closer, Sinclair suddenly began to feel as dirty as she probably looked, and it was confirmed when Unique cringed.
“Hey there, you,” Unique said, no doubt, trying to hide her true feelings.
Sinclair knew she looked a mess. Normally she prided herself on looking fly all the time, but pride was slipping with the lack of funds, and so were her looks.
“Hey,” Sinclair exploded, followed by a barrage of words, probably because her head was full of thoughts right about now—Finest and the heat he had caused between her legs; Debonair and all the time he was gonna do in prison; the lights being off; and Gold Mouth—in that order.
Unique didn’t come by often now that she lived in the West End. In Sinclair’s opinion, Unique acted as if she’d traded up. She’d gotten her Section 8 and had her own place now. So, yeah, she was all that, in Sinclair’s mind.
Finally getting a word in, Unique asked, “Who was that? And where is Deb? The lights?”
“Locked up.”
“I thought he’d be out by now. Where is Tanqueray? I thought she said she would be with you in the meantime.”
“I hate that bitch.”
Unique looked at Apple, probably hoping she wasn’t taking all this in, but of course, she was. “You don’t hate our sister,” she said, aiming her words in Apple’s direction.
“Yes, I do. She stole the check.” Sinclair didn’t care what her niece might make of what she was saying. She was emotional and believed what she was saying.
“What check?”
“On the first, the money that came to the house. She took the check—I know she did—and cashed it, and I ain’t seen her ass since. And I ain’t seen no check! Tang said she was gonna take care of business. I guess she meant her own business. Now I gotta get a job!”
“I don’t believe that. Where is Tanqueray?”
“How should I know? Thank goodness, I still have food stamps from last month. I hid them before the heiffa got those and sold them, or I’da been SOL (shit, out of luck) fo’ sho. But, hey, without any power on . . . got me all doing MacGyver on the stove to make it work and shit. Anyway, she don’t care about me, so I hope she’s fuckin’ dead somewhere!”
Again Unique glanced down at Apple. “No, no, you don’t, and yes, she does. Now come on to the house and let’s see what’s what,” Unique said, spinning Sinclair around by the shoulder and heading toward their family home.
When their mother had died, she left the house to her four surviving children—Debonair, th
e eldest and only remaining boy after Larry, the first-born son, was killed; Tanqueray, the eldest girl; Unique; and herself. The house was the only home Sinclair knew. She didn’t care about the ins and outs of it, whether they owned it, or what repairs it might have needed. It was her home, and now her comfortable home situation felt threatened by Tanqueray’s mismanagement of finances. Forget what the judge had said about Debonair and his drug dealings. That was a lie anyway. Debonair was caught up with bad people, which was clear by Gold Mouth asking for money. Debonair probably didn’t even owe that fool anything, Sinclair mused, while strolling to the house with her sister and niece. Maybe if Tanqueray had been around more, Sinclair would have trusted her more. But, no, she was too busy being messed over by some dude. Again! At least, that’s what Debonair had said.
Sinclair remembered the last conversation Debonair and Tanqueray had over the phone. Debonair told her, “Tang, you need to come home and take care of Sinclair like Mama wanted you to, instead of always chasing that money. I’m not asking you to be Mama, just act like one . . . Fuck you too, bitch! Don’t worry ’bout my life! Hello? Hello?”
“So tell me exactly what went on in court today. I can’t believe nobody called me. I would have gone,” Unique said.
Unique was so removed from their problems now, Sinclair thought she was lying.
“Oooh, look at that baby, how big she’s gotten,” Ms. Mathison called to Unique, instantly dispelling the myth Sinclair had created about Unique not being remembered or thought about in the neighborhood.
Sinclair wondered if she would be remembered once she left to go to college. As they approached the gate of the family home that sat in the middle of the block, Sinclair thought, Nobody is gonna remember me, ’cuz I’ma go away and not look back.
Sitting off from the more progressive neighborhoods, the Palemos had many families that still lived in this neighborhood of tract homes since its inception in the ’70s. A mispronunciation of the palomino horse, the Palemos was a small community that was part of an equestrian tract named after horses. Their house was on Appaloosa Way. This was the closest street to the next tract, Sandyville, named after beach-like themes. Apparently, it was a housing tract trend back then.
With no more than three to six city blocks of houses and a narrow strip mall, the houses started out all quaint and of equal size, about 1,500 square feet, with fenced yards and mature, overgrown trees. Some buyers in the late ’80s, attempting to upgrade their homes, caused only strange mismatches however, with two-story glamour palaces next to cracker boxes, creating an aesthetic mess. It was a ghetto that had missed much funding and repairs, although it had not missed the increase in crime. But, all in all, the area lent itself to a homey feel and was indeed home to Sinclair. Moving to the West End had never crossed her mind.
“’Cuz, you know, family is important,” Unique said, her words drifting into a blur of sound, the moment going into a strange sort of vortex, a time warp that felt otherworldly.
Sinclair sensed it. Was it just her own thoughts about her home that had her distracted, or everything else the day had brought? The moment instantly sickened her.
The slow-moving car approached from the opposite direction. Sinclair felt it in her gut before it registered on her brain what was truly happening. She saw gold teeth flashing in her direction as the car picked up speed. Sinclair knew instantly what was going down. Shit was about to jump off.
“Just a li’l reminder! I want my money, bitch!” The ugly man behind the wheel screamed before a small green ball flew from the driver’s open window.
Sinclair’s head moved with the arc of the small ball as it went over the fence and landed on the porch of the house. Everyone froze for a millisecond, as if the world and time stood still, and for a second the ball did nothing.
“Noooooo!” Sinclair screamed.
As if all around suddenly realized that the small green ball was really a grenade, everyone ducked and ran for cover, screaming, cussing, and scurrying for protection.
Unique grabbed Apple and disappeared behind Stewart William’s new car. He had just pulled up, no doubt, to share a lunch break with his wife and, instead of getting out, went over in the seat, disappearing from view.
Noticing Sinclair was standing there dazed with her hands on her ears, Unique ran out and pulled her behind the car, probably thinking Sinclair was just crazy enough to dart into the yard, as if she could stop what was seconds from occurring.
And she was right. Sinclair was crazed. Her brain had emptied of all reasonable thoughts.
There was an ominous silence then an explosion.
Boom!
The explosion was tremendous, a deafening and sickening sound Sinclair would not soon forget. “Noooooo!” Sinclair screamed again, leaving her safe place and rushing into the street, dodging flying debris. She was hysterical, jumping up and down, feeling as if suddenly her heart too had gone up in flames.
Within five seconds another larger gas explosion went off, taking out the windows of Ms. Johnson’s house on the right and that of the Smiths on the left.
Sirens could be heard in the distance, racing their way. Surely it was a commotion heard all over the world.
“Sinclair! Sinclair!” Unique screamed.
Sinclair was in a daze. Her ears were ringing, and all she could see was a blur of faces, as everyone came out from hiding and rushed to the street. Her mind went immediately to her bedroom and all she held precious there. Her treasures were gone.
Fire engines and police cars filled the street, where emotions were high. The damage had destroyed their mother’s home completely. The explosion, meant to intimidate, became a spontaneous combustion that blew the house off its foundation. Sinclair had no idea that fooling with the electronic pilot, using a lighter to turn on the stove because the power was out, had created a gas leak. It was amazing that no one was killed.
“Mama!” Unique’s oldest son screamed, seeing her through the crowd.
Sinclair’s mind barely registered the question of why her nephew Marquis was in the P instead of the W.E., where Unique and her family lived. But then maybe he’d heard the explosion and seen the billowing smoke all the way from the West End. Surely, it was a noise that had rocked the world.
There was usually lots more incidents like this one in the West End, where there were a lot of apartment dwellers and so more people to make stuff happen. More people always led to something cracking, and more drama. Today, though, the normally quiet streets of the Palemos had topped the ghetto charts in excitement, with dogs howling, babies crying, and old folks coughing themselves into asthma attacks. It was horrible.
Sinclair just stared at what was once her home and tried to sort her thoughts. What was to become of her life now? She saw her best friend, Malcolm, through the crowd. She hadn’t seen him in a minute and wondered where he’d been. Or where had she been? Her mind was such a jumbled mess.
Malcolm’s expression was shock-filled. “Daaaa-yum !” He pulled off his baseball cap and looked up in the sky, as if some of the house might still be falling. “Did you do this?”
“Why in the hell would I blow my own house up?”
“No comment.” Malcolm snickered, halfway to fading. “Who did, then?”
“I dunno, but a nigga with a buncha gold in his mouf told me this morning at the courthouse when I went to see Deb that I’d have to get some money for him.” Sinclair shrugged, realizing now she was fighting emotion. She glanced again toward what was left of the house and the mound of rubble.
“Oh, maan! He had lots of gold jewry in his mouf? Damn! That’s not a good sign. Deb done really messed up this time if he was fuckin’ with them Oak Park cats. What Deb doin’ fuckin’ around all the way in Sac Town?”
Sinclair wanted to cry but didn’t dare. Unique was doing enough of that for everybody.
“Maaaammmaa!” Unique sobbed while the paramedics checked on her and Apple.
There ain’t nothing wrong with her that a good slap i
n the face wouldn’t cure, Sinclair thought.
“Tell me what he said to you. Is he gonna be back?” Malcolm asked, growing a little bit more sober.
Sinclair turned her attention back to him. “He just said Deb owed money and that now I had to pay.” Sinclair explained. The reality that maybe, old Gold Mouf, had really meant business had her scared witless, but she wasn’t going to show it. She didn’t know much about being cool, but she knew showing how scared she was definitely wasn’t.
“Well, this ain’t the way to get it, blowing up the damn house! Shit, the gouda was probably in the housssse!” Malcolm reasoned, using his comedic edge. He pointed at the rubble. “Now it’s all burnt up!”
Sinclair wanted to laugh. Malcolm was crazy as hell when he wanted to be. Comedy was his gift, but what he wanted more than anything was to be a thug. Even now he was wearing his pants sagging on his thick hips with his wife-beater showing under his unbuttoned crisply ironed white shirt. She’d not seen him in over a month, since Debonair got locked up. Finals had kinda taken up her time before that. So, yeah, she’d been out of touch for a while now. Malcolm lost a little weight, but still she could see his round face. Brown-skinned with soft features like his mother, he was a little too sensitive to run with the dudes from the local clique and way too funny to be taken seriously.
After they watched the professionals at work for a moment or two longer, Sinclair said, “What a crazy summer this has been.”
“True dat. I’m almost glad it’s over. Where you gonna stay?”
“Unique’s, no doubt.”
Malcolm looked her over from head to toe. She was dirty and raggedy-looking and could see the sadness in his eyes. It was as if he knew she was unhappy being down like this. She usually looked her best when he saw her, but times were changing, and it’d been a while since they’d played together. Yes, it had been a summer worth forgetting, and now, with all her life up in the air, literally, she had no choice but to forget.
“She still stay in the same place?”
“Yeah.” Sinclair looked over her shoulder again at the firemen’s hoses spraying the houses and the police officers asking questions. One cop was heading over in their direction now.