by Tiana Laveen
“What are you doing? You were in there stealing? Come on, Shane! Damn!” King peered in the bag and saw the bottles he’d been eyeing when they’d first entered the store. I could use them… but hell!
“King, you needed them, I got ’em. Everybody ain’t out here tryna be righteous. I’m Robin Hood up in this piece.”
“We’re not kids anymore. The slap on the wrist won’t happen. This isn’t some high school play or a movie—this is real. Why would you risk going to jail over two bottles of paint? This is complete bullshit.”
“Just take the shit and be quiet.” The man ran his hand over his face, his eyes clearly showing signs of lack of sleep.
“Don’t steal on my behalf again, please.”
“You’re welcome. Ungrateful fuckface. Hey.” He nonchalantly scratched behind his ear. “I almost forgot. You wanna meet up with Tyson and Jalal tonight? They’re going to The Metric Club. I heard they have the wall again. Maybe you can put a bid in and paint it? Get that cash jar flowin’.”
“That would be like lightning striking twice, but yeah, I’d like a stab at it.” A Toyota Camry rolled past, blasting DUCKWRTH’s, ‘Kiss U Right Now.’ Shane pulled his phone out while they waited at a crosswalk. It glowed with a new text message. King turned away, his thoughts drifting. Yeah, heading out to The Metric sounds good tonight. I haven’t been there in a while.
The Metric was a club that specialized in soul, indie, and Neo Soul music. Best of all, they’d offer a wall covered in a canvas sheet some nights for local artists to paint on while people danced and drank. The artist would get a tip jar, and people would drop some change as they watched them work from start to finish, or simply enjoyed the process as they danced on by. He’d done it once last year, gotten lucky, and brought home almost a grand.
“Jeremy definitely needs to come with us, too. You two can talk about White boy shit,” Shane joked.
White people simply didn’t hang around much in Harlem, but he and Jeremy were the exception. King was born and raised there, while Jeremy’s mother moved in with her Black best friend when he was around seven. Jeremy was a blue-eyed, blond-haired guy who played the saxophone like nobody’s business. They’d attended the same school and now he was Director of Marketing for some IT company after moving away from their old stomping grounds many years ago. He had a penthouse in Tribeca, Manhattan, an ugly divorce under his belt, and a six-year-old daughter who was the love of his life.
“Jeremy is back in town?” King asked, surprised.
“Yeah. He’s been back for a couple of days now.” Shane gave his low-cut faded scalp a good scratch. “It could be like old times. Shit, we may as well hook up the entire weekend. Make a stay-cation out of it. We ain’t been together in a minute. You know, the whole crew.”
“That sounds real good. Yeah, I’ll show up. Definitely call Jeremy.” King couldn’t help but smile. He hadn’t been with all of his old friends in a while. Jeremy had to keep going to Chicago for a work-related project. Tyson and Jalal stayed pretty busy, too. Everyone had grown up, their lives went in different directions, and Shane sometimes worked odd hours, too. The hustle never stopped.
“You got any gigs coming up?” King asked. Every now and again, Shane might catch a gig to be a background dancer for Jennifer Lopez or some other celebrity who needed an extra dancer for a concert, but he mostly worked in customer service, helped his cousin with his carpet cleaning service, and moonlighted as a delivery courier simply to make ends meet.
“Nah, not lately. Don’t nobody want a thirty-four-year-old dancer, man.” He chuckled dismally. King shot him a glance then slipped his EarPods out of his pocket, removing a tangle before inserting one into his ear. A beautiful woman caught his attention, making him do a double take as she walked past, her long, flowy red coat swaying to and fro. He loved the color red.
“If you still move like you’re twenty-five, that’s all that matters.” Shane nodded as if he agreed, as if perhaps those were words to ponder, but King knew better. The guy felt defeated.
“I’m going to text everybody to let them know you’re coming.”
They headed down the concrete steps to jump on the 4 train. Once they got on the platform, it was clear that many people had just gotten off work.
Due to the cooler temperatures that day, the air was less humid. He appreciated the break from the oppressive heat. They stood about two feet apart, both of them rocking out to their music. They probably didn’t look like they were together, yet they were able to communicate with a simple head nod that, to many, would go unnoticed. He tried to find a decent song on his phone. Something that got him in the mood to chill or prepare for a night out. ‘Bittersweet’ by Lianne La Havas began to play.
“King?”
“Yeah?”
“So, you wanna split an Uber or just meet up there tonight?” Shane removed one of his earbuds, waiting for his answer.
“We can meet up. I got a few things to do first and don’t want to hold anyone up. We can ride back together.”
Shane nodded, put his earbud back in, and looked down at his phone. Moments later, Shane began yapping about some chick he’d met the week prior, and how her photos didn’t match how she looked in person. King half listened as they continued to wait. A gust of wind hit him, making him acutely aware of his surroundings right then. There were just so many people around, congregating, swarming.
“See, this catfishing shit, man, has got to stop. I mean, she wasn’t ugly, but she didn’t look anything like the pictures she has on Instagram. These hoes be filtering the fuck outta their pics, man. Be careful.”
“I don’t have to be careful. I meet women in person. I need to feel that vibe. Know if it’s real.”
“Feel that vibe? Do you remember who I am?” Shane smirked.
King’s face heated.
“What are you talking about?” King grinned, knowing damn well where this was going.
“Lyin’ ass… Man, your nickname at one time was Sir Fucks-a-lot. Get tha fuck outta here!” They both burst out laughing “Plus, you’re a pussy puller. You got that exotical look, that shit these women be goin’ for.”
“Exotical? You’re making up words now, I see.” He briefly looked down at his phone, thinking of selecting a different song. “You’re crazy.” He chuckled. “I don’t look exotic. You’ve seen my real dad, man. My father is pale as a piece of notebook paper, and my mother, despite being Brazilian—to be specific, Portuguese but from Brazil—isn’t much darker. They look like regular White people to me.”
“You being half Irish and half Brazilian, the White Brazilian kind, definitely still makes you exotical. It’s just a term from the urban dictionary.” Shane stroked his goatee.
“I have to get some money, Shane. For real.” He slipped his phone back in his pocket. “You know, ever since Dayz closed, I don’t get a weekly check. My mind is on my money.” Dayz was a shop that specialized in inventive, one-of-a-kind clothing from local artists. King had worked there for several years, supplementing his art career, but since they’d closed down, money had gotten tighter than a virgin.
“You’ll get something, man. Guys like you always land on your feet.”
“What do you mean, ‘Guys like me?’”
“You know – the exoticals.”
“Ahhh, man! Don’t start with that shit again!” King looked up at the ceiling and laughed. He could feel air brush against his exposed teeth.
“Man, you better listen to Shane, King! Look, if these women can use their looks to get shit, you should, too. You’ve got everything in your favor, there’s no excuse. You’re tall as fuck, you’ve got—”
“You’re like what, six-foot-one or something? You’re tall, too.”
“King, I’m tall, but you’re tall-tall. Your ass is like six-four and two hundred forty pounds. People hear you coming before they see you!” He smirked at that. “Big as shit, got the muscles all over the place. You a nice lookin’ guy. Use that shit. No homo, but I’m se
cure in my masculinity to tell you the truth.” Shane’s eyes gleamed with mischief. He knew these sorts of conversations made him uncomfortable.
“Just shut up.”
Shane laughed and started to pace, blowing off bored energy, no doubt. But King couldn’t help but replay his words. Perhaps he could somehow, in a legal and non-demeaning way, use himself as, well, art. I really do need some cash. Rent is going to be due again soon. Nah, That’s stupid. I’m thirty-four years old, going on thirty-five. I’m too old to try and get into any modeling or shit like that because I was never into it before. Shane has modeled for some urban ads, but he’s been doing that since he was like ten or eleven years old.
“So, you think like your agent or somebody would really maybe get me a print ad or something?” He hated even having to ask, but it was too late now.
“Hell yeah. The piercings, olive skin, eyes and all that shit… Straight hair and that big, black grizzly bear beard. Bitches go crazy over beards now, too. That’s a selling point.”
“If you say so.” King reached inside his coat pocket for his pack of gum, handed one to Shane and treated himself to a stick.
“I keep telling you to talk to my agent, get some modeling gigs. You’re not conventional, no, but a lot of these publications are into more mature men now, and not the cookie cutter preppie boy type. I get a nice little check when they book me every now and again.”
“I don’t know, man. I just think I’d find that uncomfortable.”
“Why? You do art modeling? You told me that you’ve posed for art classes plenty of times.”
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s not. You know we just straight up hustle and I’m just trying to put you on, but suit yourself.” He shrugged. “Anyway, when was the last time you were in a relationship, man?” Shane questioned.
“Last year.”
“Nah, I think you’ve got it wrong. It was Mimi, right?”
“Yes.”
“That was almost two years ago.”
“You’re keeping tabs on me now? Got a written timeline?” King was impressed though. Shane didn’t recall what he’d told him the day before most times, but he clearly remembered something like this.
“Not tabs. I just know because we hung out a lot back then. Anyway, maybe I need to be like you. Stop taking these hoes so seriously.”
“That’s your problem. You see them as hoes. If you go into it with a certain idea, you’ll make sure they live up to it.” They glared at one another for a spell.
“I can’t make a ho be a ho, King. She was like that before I met her.”
“You missed my point, but even if all of that is true, I’m not trying to get into anything right now, you know, the whole dating thing. I know most of our friends are married with kids now. It’s just you and me left, really; well, you have Jahan and Kendal.” These were Shane’s twin son and daughter from a woman he’d dated seven years ago. Despite Shane’s flaws and at times childish behavior, the man was a damn good father. “It’s just not what I’m really trying to do; at least, not right now.”
“I think marriage is bullshit honestly, King, but I could dig trying to settle down eventually. Right now, after all the shit Kiara took me through, I’m just going to enjoy my freedom for a little while.” King nodded in agreement. “I see we’re on the same page with that piece of paper bullshit, though.”
“I’m not saying never to getting married, don’t get me wrong, but I’d rather concentrate on my art, the shows I have coming up, and getting some stable income. I have bigger things to address than chasing some ass and trying to settle down right now.”
“I hear you, man.” The train began to approach. “Finally. Shit. I ’bout fell asleep standing up, we’ve been waiting here so long.” They waited side-by-side, ready to board at any second. He wanted to get home, shower, gather his supplies, and try to get to the club and paint. Get that money. Not only that, he wanted to catch up with his friends and hear some good music, have a few drinks, even dance a little if he had time. “Yeah, King, tonight is going to be lit. I wonder if—”
“Let’s go, bitch!” a male voice commanded. The approaching train grew louder as King turned his head in the direction of the voice to see a woman struggling with a guy twice her size. She stumbled and fell down on her knees as he swung his fist, beating her about the chest and face.
“Ahhh! Somebody help me! Please!” she yelled, her voice crawling from an abyss of pain, tinted in tainted tremors of terror. People watched, still like urban statues, eyes glued to the scene. Some pulled out their phones, perhaps to call for help, but no one approached. It was a reverse zoo.
“What the fuck is he doin’?” Shane exclaimed, stepping to the side of him, brows bunched. “Yo, I’m callin’ the police.”
Her wails hit him in the gut, flooding him like ocean waves. Her pain, so tangible. She might be dead before help arrives. I have to do something.
“Shit! Hold this!” King transferred his art supplies bag into Shane’s grasp and broke through a crowd of people like a linebacker. His body felt electric, his need for speed amped as he tried desperately to reach her before she sustained yet another blow.
His adrenaline soared while his brain buzzed and drew dark scenarios, taking him asunder. Thunderous screams erupted and people began to scatter. He swallowed a wave of burgeoning regret, wondering about the sudden pandemonium. The glint of metal flashed as his limbs burned to restrain the man who held the firearm in one hand and the woman’s long, dark brown hair in the other, refusing to let go. No one had warned him of the weapon, and no one stepped forward to help the lady. Even in that moment of despair and panic, his brain registered a lack of surprise by the actions of many.
Denim and cotton clothing felt like fire on his body as he wrestled the man to the ground, in desperate need to get the gun out of his fucking hand. He took frantic gulps of air, his eyes straining. Keeping the bastard down on the ground, he managed to remove his grip on the woman’s tresses. She screamed when she was finally freed, her voice echoing. Rolling away, she left a mess of blood behind her. The vibration of another approaching train blended in with the deafening echo of bullets blasting from the chamber. People scattered and screams rent the space. The shots went off wildly in the air before he forced the bastard’s arm back and away from people. King rested his entire body on the guy’s chest and legs, forcing him to drop the gun. The man gargled something about being unable to breathe.
With a heavy thud, the gun slipped from his fingertips and landed on the concrete. King could feel the man attempting to break free, his bony, long limbs unable to gain leverage. The son of a bitch spit, gnashed his teeth, and cursed. Blood was smeared along his knuckles and his face was reddened and splotchy.
Out of the corner of King’s eye, he recognized Shane’s sneakers close by. Using the plastic art bag, his friend scooped the gun up like some evidence collecting pro, quickly wrapped it and tucked it against his chest. Most people had moved away from him, including the woman who’d been attacked. Shane stepped on the man’s hand, applying pressure. King heard a crack and crunch. Bones. The guy roared in pain. Shane’s mouth twisted with a satisfied smirk.
There was no way this son of a bitch was getting away with the two of them there. Everything happened in slow motion at that moment. A burst of hot and cold air mingled and covered him from head to toe. A crowd vacated the train while another entered and a new audience of people gathered, curious eyes trained on them. It didn’t take long for most to whip out their phones and begin the sickening process of recording him and the whole sordid scene, their devices mere feet from his face. Some were smiling and laughing.
He finally made eye contact with the man beneath him. The assailant’s dancing blue eyes, wispy wild blond hair, and unkempt reddish-brown mustache and beard made him appear all the more feral. It felt like an eternity, but was probably no more than a handful of minutes before the police and subway security arrived with the woman who’d been a
ttacked in tow. King let the guy go when they were close enough, and in a matter of seconds, the police had him off the ground and put him in handcuffs. After one of the officers walked away with the man, King turned towards the woman. Her mascara was smeared, her shirt torn. Blood all over the place.
“Thank you,” she said with a shaky voice, then sniffed and wiped some snot off her nose with the back of her hand.
“You’re welcome.”
“I have his gun,” Shane announced.
In that instant, he sensed fear in his friend. Shane spoke as if he were afraid the police may harm him and overreact about the fact that he had the weapon. That he could be injured, or worse yet, killed for simply trying to help.
“Where?” one of the officers questioned, his tone terse.
“Right here. I’m going to give it to you real slow.” Shane unwrapped the gun from the bag, and the police confiscated it. The officers began to ask him and Shane a number of questions, and more witnesses came forward, corroborating their story.
“Did you know he had a gun before you knocked him to the ground, Mr. Chrysalis?”
“No, I didn’t… not until he and I were already fighting,” King explained.
The young lady began to speak, giving some additional information. Apparently, the guy was her ex-boyfriend. She’d left him when he started abusing heroin a year or so prior. She’d had to get a restraining order, but he’d ignored it. Now, here were the consequences. The police handed them both some wet wipes. He quickly wiped his face and hands, removing traces of blood, sweat, and saliva, most of which wasn’t his own. After a while, he and Shane were turned loose. They didn’t say much for quite some time. The heaviness in the air compounding with his racing heartbeat made him ill. His stomach clamped and cramped, his skull pulsed. Took him a while to gather his wits enough to speak again.
“I’ll meet you at the club tonight, Shane. I want to take care of something before I head back home.”