by Tiana Laveen
“Neither one of you is thinking about your future,” Marcus snapped, annoyed about the whole damn conversation. “What you gonna do when you thirty-five man, or forty … fifty?” He tossed a glance in Go-Go’s direction then faced the road once more. “You can’t be still slangin’. Show me one fifty year old black drug dealer out here that’s doin’ alright, all in one piece.”
“Who gives a shit? I gotta take care of today! Tomorrow sho’ ain’t promised. Tomorrow is like a damn Leprechaun. Some say they exist, but most of us ain’t never seen one and if we did, we’d rob ’im for his gold. And if you ain’t noticed, Marcus, aint no retirement account, financial program or fund out here, no 401-K plan, choir boy!” Go-Go teased as he kicked a bit of dried mud off his shoe onto the floor, then smeared his heel around in an attempt to knock off the rest with a nasty scowl on his face, as if he were smelling shit.
“Stop stompin’ that crap all over my damn car, man!” Marcus protested as they made their way out onto the main drag. Both of his friends burst out laughing again, as if each and everything he stated was call for them to roll around inside of a barrel of chuckles at his expense. Like he was a living joke… amusing, silly… a source of constant entertainment.
“Oh, wait, man… pull up in here,” Corey asked as he waved his joint around in the air and pointed to the corner store up ahead. “Let me get some Don Julio.”
Marcus pulled into the potholed and unpaved parking lot, pocked with time. The little store was bright and appeared full of activity and life. An open door was propped open with a cinder block and an Asian man worked the register while a line of black folk held onto slick bottles of liquor, bags of salty snacks, and what appeared to be lottery cards primed and ready to be scratched.
“You got some Don Julio money, man? I told you before that I ain’t buyin’ shit for you that they keep behind the damn counter! You niggas kill me, man! You be havin’ Don Julio taste but be on that discount box wine budget.”
“…It’s actually not. It’s on the side of the register, man.” Corey corrected with a sly smirk on his face, suddenly sounding sophisticated and in-the-know.
“I don’t give uh shit if it’s up yo’ goddamn stankin’ ass!”
“Awwww, maaaaan!”
“Awww man, nothin’! You treat me like a mothafuckin’ sponsor. I ain’t ya goddamn benefactor; get into it, pimpin’! This ain’t no AA meetin’ and you ain’t the neediest kid of all, you stupid ass mothafucka!” Go-Go snapped, figuring he’d be used as a damn teller machine once again by his ingrate of a childhood friend, no doubt.
“Nah, come on man, spot me a few… I’m tryna get some cut up.” Corey winced, as if suddenly in pain and in need of medication. His obvious desperation was setting in from his apparent lack of a reaction to the way Go-Go had cut him down like piles of coke with baking soda before a sale. “I can’t go in there empty handed, all them hoes expect a little hand out. You know bitches aint loyal, don’t wanna fuck fuh free and besides,” he grinned widely, “I got you, man!” Corey tossed his bud out the window and shoved his hand forward, causing his long, thin dreads to sway forward.
“You ain’t got shit!” Go-Go blurted as he slid his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill.
“It cost fifty-three dollars, man… you a little short.” Corey grimaced as he examined the money sitting in Go-Go’s palm, scrutinizing it in an annoyed sort of fashion as if Ulysses S. Grant was doing him wrong. Marcus burst out laughing and dropped his head back against the split red leather of the seat as he fell apart against it, unable to contain himself. Go-Go looked at their moocher of a friend with a heated death glare that wedded a slice of a tilted smile. Would they consummate the marriage?
“Man, you betta get tha fuck outta my face! The only thing that’s gonna be short is your damn lifespan if you keep askin’ me for shit all goddamn day, you slow Ninja Turtle lookin’ dumb ass ungrateful piece of shit!”
Apparently not. Cancel the invitations…
Corey hissed, snatched the money out the man’s hand as if he were doing him some sort of favor by taking the ends, then slammed the car door behind him and stormed away. Then, he paused, and made his way back over to the car and leaned through the window.
“A Go-Go, I almost forgot, man! Guess who called me askin’ about you?” Corey asked after nosily clearing his throat, which sounded clogged by years of built up phlegm.
“Who?” Go-Go’s brow shot up in obvious curiosity.
“Deeeeeze nuts!” Corey cackled then quickly high-tailed it, his baggy dark blue jeans barely hanging on to his rail thin frame as he disappeared from view.
“Ol’ childish, playin’ in a sandbox and swingin’ on the monkey bars, mothafucka! Grown man talkin’ bout ‘deeze nuts’… silly ass! He gotta lotta jokes for someone that’s hooked on broke!” Go-Go yelled behind a smile.
“Indeed!” Marcus rolled into another laugh-induced outburst.
“Hooked on Phonics, too… Every book he got in his crib got sketches, pictures ’nd shit. Yo man, turn on some music.” Go-Go snapped his fingers impatiently as if Marcus were some music maestro stalling an important show. “It’s dead in here; need something to get me hype before the party.” He leaned back in the seat and ran his index finger under his wide nostrils as if sniffing a freshly rolled blunt.
Marcus leaned forward and turned on the radio. The sound of Fetty Wap, ‘Trap Queen’ came blaring through the scratchy car speakers, one of them damn near blown from years of the volume being up way too high with no woofers to protect the sensitive sound.
“That’s more like it. A classic!” The man moved his around to the beat while adjusting his passenger’s seat further back and leaned into the headrest as if trying to touch the backseat. He stretched out his legs then positioned his arm behind his head and yawned loud and obnoxiously, all the while tossing an indolent glance out of his window.
“Man, I ain’t been out here in uh minute. I wonder if Dasia still stay out this way, man?” He cracked a sly grin. “’Member Dasia? She could suck the red off uh brick. Ran dat train! Choooo choooo!” He burst out laughing.
“Yeah, I remember Dasia,” Marcus nodded. He wasn’t proud of the memory, but it happened in front of plenty of witnesses, and he’d had his fun.
I was a different person back then. I think I’m a different person than I was even five or six months ago. None of this even feels right… Who’s party we goin’ to? I wish I would have stayed home…
“I don’t know what happened to her; that was a long time ago, waaaay before Gina and I met and got married. I haven’t seen that girl in a while.” He yawned then glanced toward his rear view mirror, suddenly feeling a bit antsy. Anxiety settled rather uncomfortably, making itself at home in the pit of his gut in as he kept on looking in the mirror.
What was taking Corey so long?
“You know what?” Go-Go sat up a bit as if a novel idea suddenly struck him. “Ain’t this where Clarence got fucked up by that Nazi?” He paused and looked behind him towards the store as if expecting someone they knew to be approaching. At that declaration, a strange heat filled Marcus’ chest cavity, the kind that felt heavy with embers freshly lit for roasting the shit out of a well-intended day…
“Yeah… I believe so…”
Shit, it is. No wonder I was feelin’ uncomfortable, didn’t even want to pull in here. Come on, Corey, damn!
He swallowed and gripped the steering wheel as time tick-tocked away. Here the bastard was again, telling him to come over, even from behind bars… Aaron now haunted him once again. This time, he’d ended up at the scene of the crime thanks to Corey, the tribe idiot. He sighed, closed his eyes and leaned further back in his seat, resolving himself to the fact that he may as well settle down, pretend it was over even though it was far from it. Wasn’t no use in getting upset, regardless of how too close to comfort everything was.
“Maaan!” Go-Go began with a smirk smeared across his face. “You shoulda seen the video of C
larence gettin’ got, Marcus! That big ass white boy tore that mothafucka up, ya heard! He must’ve had a back-up body ’cause I don’t know how he even still alive.”
“Yeah, God works in mysterious ways, I suppose,” Marcus offered while running his hand along his chin in a nervous fashion. He envisioned the victim’s blood all over the damn place; the power washing that had to be done on account of Aaron allowing his true, corrupt nature to be unleashed.
“Shhhhiiiid! This ain’t got nothin’ to do with the man upstairs. They was plottin’ on that mothafucka. I know you never really knew Clarence, but I did… That mothafucka crazy, man. He pulled uh gun out on Mr. Crackajack John Deere and jabbed it in his damn chest. The shit ain’t fire and that big muscle bound mothafucka grabbed that gun like that shit wuddn’t nothin’, put Clarence’s gun in his damn pocket and dragged his mangy ass ’round this place like he was drawing pictures in the goddamn dirt! Kicked and choked the shit outta that mothafucka, too! I ain’t nevah seen nuttin’ like it. He did it all while havin’ a smile on his face, too… ol’ sadistic, sick mothafucka! Clarence had that shit commin’, man, but the video was funny as hell though!”
Marcus shot him a glance, “How could somethin’ like that be funny, Go-Go? Two guys tried to kill each other; ain’t nothin’ funny about that, man.”
“Like hell it wasn’t! You should’ve seen it; we all saw it!”
“I ain’t seen it yet… Who recorded it?”
“It was on Terrance’s phone. He taped the whole damn thing. Clarence kept fallin’ out unconscious towards the end, then that big A.J. Styles lookin’ mothafucka would slap him awake and start up again. It happened so fast but seemed to last forever! That mayonnaise man wasn’t havin’ it. He was givin’ it though!”
“Damn…”
“I know you saw that guy in the news. Clarence must’ve been high or stupid. You’d need uh gang of mothafuckas to take this big, bleached out Billy Bob out! His cheap ass gun jammed and it was a wrap. The white Mothafucka had on a business suit and later in the news, they said he had on a bulletproof vest under that thang, too, that he own some security and bodyguard company… Ain’t that shit ironic? He was waitin’ at the mothafuckin’ do’e!” Go-Go cackled. “I bet Clarence regretted that shit! Dumbest damn thing he eva did…”
“I’m sure he did after the fact…” Marcus sighed and slowly closed his eyes, wishing he could simply disappear.
I can’t believe this… This wasn’t no mutual combat. Aaron told the truth; he’d been attacked and ain’t nobody vouch for his story… They all said he’d started the shit! Aaron was protecting himself… Jesus Christ… He’s in prison for some shit he didn’t even really do. No man should be in prison for this, even if they are Aaron Pike. This wasn’t attempted murder; this was self-defense!
“Clarence always tryna roll up on somebody,” Go-Go started up again. “Welp, that white boy rolled his ass up like a retired magic carpet and flew his ass right into intensive care! Dis yo’ last ride, mothafucka, gurney style!” Go-Go fell out laughing in his seat as if such details truly tickled his funny bone.
“Are… are you serious?” Marcus winced as he stared at the man. Didn’t Go-Go see the injustice here? Didn’t he recognize what had gone wrong?!
“Yeah, I am serious man!” Go-Go said behind eyes full of mirth-filled tears. “Clarence always tryna stick somebody up, rob a mothafucka… He fucked wit’ the wrong one this time but maybe God did have somethin’ to do with it because that honkey, bacon-bit, Aryan-nation mothafucka in the pen now and if Clarence die, he’ll be in there for a long ass time!”
“But… you just said he was defendin’ himself, that Clarence tried to stick ’im up. How is that okay, man?”
“So what?!” Go-Go grimaced. “What goes around comes around, Marcus! This ain’t no Justin Bieber teen heartthrob mothafucka… This man be havin’ Klan rallies, burnin’ crosses ’nd shit.”
“He’s a Nazi… Nazis don’t do that, that’s the Klu Klux Klan and they are not always in agreement or workin’ together. You have to read up on these people, study it. You’d be surprised what you’d find out.” Marcus sighed.
“Only thing I’m tryna study is some money and some pussy. Fuck him, man! That black education and power to the people professor shit you pullin’ right now don’t change shit. He got what he deserved.”
Just then, Corey burst into the car rattling a large brown paper bag. He opened the thing, a big smile spread wide across his face as if he possessed all the joy in the world, one that could be harnessed and placed inside a glass bottle.
“I got some chips ’nd shit, too.”
“I thought you ain’t have no money, man?” Go-Go inquired as he cocked his head to the side, squinted one eye, and lit a cigarette.
“I ain’t have much,” Corey said without making eye contact, though his right eye twitched as the lie flew out of his mouth like a humming bird.
“Lyin’ mothafucka… Start tha car, man.” Go-Go blew out copious swirls of smoke then flicked the ashes out the rolled down window. Marcus stared at his best friend long and hard. He no longer knew the bastard, or maybe he did, but since his mind had changed a dozen times during his incarceration and subsequent release, he couldn’t understand what he was seeing, hearing, and feeling.
Here I am, with a new start, and still hangin’ out with the same motherfuckas that will cause my ass to be RIGHT BACK in there! Why am I even here?! Fuck this shit. He needs to know what’s up.
“Hold up, man.” Marcus sat back in his seat and rested his palms on his jeans. “I was in the pen wit’ that man, Go-Go.”
“Who? The bleach boy?” He cackled. “And?”
“What you mean, and? That ain’t right, man… If he ain’t do what they said he did, that’s just not how shit should go down.”
“What tha fuck you talkin’ about, Marcus Poindexter?”
“Don’t call me that, Go-Go. I’m bein’ for real, here.”
“Don’t call you that, huh?” He rolled his eyes. “You was self-righteous before you went to prison, and you still self-righteous. When you gone come down from yo’ high horse and take off those rose colored glasses, man?! These white mothafuckas out here only see us as one thing, and one thing only—a buncha niggas! Corey, you need to hear this shit, too!” Go-Go sat a bit straighter in his seat, as if class was in session. “Yo’ little simple, Sambo sell-out, Uncle Ruckus ass sittin’ here defendin’ a man that uses black backs for target practice! Ain’t that some shit? Fuck dat nigga, man! Let’s roll out.” He angrily flicked more ashes out the side of the window.
“Who y’all talkin’ about?” Corey asked before busting open a bag of barbecue potato chips and dipping his hand into the thing.
Marcus sucked his teeth and started the car. Pulling away from the place, he bit his tongue, marking his unspoken words. Go-Go and he went way back, but he knew getting on Go-Go’s bad side wasn’t a very good idea. Go-Go was solid gold crazy, and there were consequences, serious consequences, to getting him all worked up and bothered.
Marcus merged with traffic, falling into a waking nightmare as he pictured Aaron behind those bars, knowing damn well Clarence’s chances of surviving were slim to none. The bastard was dying according to lyrics on the lane, and Aaron’s ass would surely be up shit’s creek should that bottom-feeder expire.
But, he had a family to support and protect, and though he was grateful for the strings Aaron had pulled, what was a man to do? He couldn’t snitch; he’d be marked for life. That was simply the code of the streets…
Chapter Two
“AARON, WHAT ARE you doing here?” Dr. Owens had barely gotten his key inside the door.
Aaron jerked away from the guard, feeling light headed and brewing with anger.
“I need to talk to you.” He tossed a glance over his shoulder, a warning… one he meant to go through with if the guard didn’t stop breathing down his damn back. The two men locked eyes, the guard finally getting the hint and leaving a bi
t of elbowroom.
“Come on in.” Dr. Owens sighed. “Wait out here, please,” he told the guard, who appeared miffed by the announcement.
“He’s been standing out here for a few minutes,” the guard informed. “He’s in big trouble. Tore his cell up… acted crazy. We gave him a drug test; he’s clean. He demanded to see you. Huckleberry let him but after that, he’s goin’ into solitary.”
“That’s fine,” Dr. Owens stated calmly as his office door swung open, revealing a bookshelf full of thickly bound volumes and a window with the blinds half way up, exposing rays of yellow sunlight filtering floating particles of dust. “We had some missed appointments due to my vacation…looks like Aaron needed them,” he mumbled as he placed his briefcase down on a nearby chaise and moved aside to allow room for him to enter.
Aaron paused, looked the guard in the eye, and dared himself to not kick the door closed in his face. After he’d been dragged out of his cell by three men, accused of foaming at the mouth and all sorts of nonsensical allegations from the hyped up ginger who’d appointed himself as ringleader, he was poked and prodded and subsequently placed in isolation. He kept screaming for Dr. Owens…and now he’d finally get to have his say.
“Well, don’t just stand there.” Dr. Owens slowly closed his office door with a click. He did it right in the guard’s face without a simple ‘goodbye’, giving Aaron complete satisfaction—though he wished it had been the ginger, instead. “Have a seat and tell me what’s going on.”
The doctor issued a long drawn out breath, one built on the back of obvious exhaustion. Aaron looked at the chair, then glanced at the painting of the boy in the woods. On a swallow, he made his way over and took a seat. He looked about his office as if he’d forgotten something, then dug into his desk drawer and retrieved a pencil and light blue pad of paper.
“I know what you did to me.”
“What are you talking about? Did what to you?” the man inquired as he looked Aaron in the eye.