Young and Hungry

by Ms. Michel Moore

  “All right, Pop. I got you. But what are we gonna do? If what the news says is true, in a few hours Detroit gonna be worse than back home, people in the family say. The random outages was one thing, but know it’s gonna be nuts.”

  “I know, son. I already talked to your uncles. And it’s true it’s going to be terrible. That’s why I was trying to get this knucklehead brother of yours to hurry up.” He rubbed his ever-present prayer beads once more as they drove. “When people find out there will be absolutely no electricity or running water inside that entire city they call home, they will panic. It’s already the end of the month, and they will come with their hard luck stories. They will beg and not want to take no for an answer.”

  “Yeah, Pops. It’s all on the radio too.” Mikey solemnly peered out his car window at what seemed like hundreds of people rushing into corner grocery stores, gas stations, and CVS, trying to get prepared for what could prove to be the longest day in Detroit’s troublesome history. The fact that they could easily drive across Eight Mile Road or simply step ten yards over into Highland Park was lost to most of the Linwood-Dexter area residents, as they were poverty stricken. Not to mention it’d be crazy of them to vacate their homes temporarily and leave the few valuables they had unattended, knowing what could possibly take place.

  * * *

  Leaving Hassan to do what he did best, which was deal with the multitudes of what were, for the most part, unruly, ungrateful customers, Pops had his other son, Mikey, pull the van around to the rear of the party store and open the sliding door. Once the door was wide open, it was somewhat hidden by the huge metal Dumpster and a few discarded boxes. With the aid of Tommy, their neighborhood do boy, Mikey quickly stacked by the door boxes that were filled to the rim. The boxes contained refrigerated items, and once they’d loaded all the boxes they could in the van, Pops hastily made his third trip to his brother’s grocery store, located in the city of Hamtramck, which was only a few miles from Detroit. If they were going to lose cash revenue in sales for God knows how long during this government-allowed blackout, there was definitely no need to suffer the loss of product as well.

  “Look, y’all. My old man ain’t really trying to open right now. He trying to see what’s going on with that blackout bullshit they say gonna jump,” Hassan told the people who had gathered in front of the store.

  “Well, damn, Hassan, man. Let me at least grab a few beers before y’all close up. And I need a pack of Newports and a Black & Mild. Ain’t nobody feel like walking down to the gas station, trying to get credit,” Dre said, taking advantage of their common bond as others from the neighborhood attempted to do the same. “Alexis told me to tell you she got you as soon as she wake up!”

  “For real, fam, if it was up to me, we’d open this motherfucker and do what we do. Ya feel me? We’d bang out.” Hassan adjusted his shirt so his Gucci belt buckle and gun would show as he tried to talk and act black. “That citywide lights-out mess probably ain’t gonna jump off anyhow. They just trying to scare people, that’s all. Watch us all scramble around like little ants.”

  “Man, damn all that ‘fam’ bullshit you talking about! Your ‘sand-nigga ass from Dearborn or where the fuck ever’ opinion on the way of the world don’t mean jack to us!”

  “What?” Hassan halted his one-on-one conversation with Alexis’s brother to focus on the man talking.

  “You heard me, wannabe black asshole. Now, y’all open for business or fucking not? I need to play my numbers!”

  Hassan was suddenly forced to be on Front Street. Like a tropical fish out of water, he started to feel some sort of way in front of his own family business. As much as he, inspired by rap music, tried to imitate the folk his Iraqi-born father and uncles loved to hate so much, there was always a “power to the people,” Black Panther–type brother wearing dreadlocks who was calling him out. Today was no different. “Whoa. What’s with all the hostility? You must’ve got up on the wrong side of the bed or something. I’m on your side, fam!”

  “My side of the bed? You on my side? Fool, I ain’t like the rest of these sleepwalking folk around here. I know what you and your people really say about us behind our back and to our face in your own damn language, while taking our money and dogging our women. Matter of fact, kick rocks with all that yackity yak ‘You on my side’ bullshit before I have your heart beating real fast!” Deciding to go to another store to get his numbers in before the widely reported power outage, the man rode off on his bike, mumbling something derogatory under his breath.

  Dre, Hassan’s supposed boy and the brother of the neighborhood girl everyone knew he was fucking with on the regular, just stood there, noticeably mute, not coming to his defense.

  “Damn, Dre, dude. Why you ain’t say nothing?”

  “Me?” Dre shook his head, throwing his hands up. “Hell naw, dawg. That’s between you and that other grown-ass man.” He smiled devilishly, knowing that guy had rightfully pulled Hassan’s ho card for how he always acted. “But, real rap dude, like ole boy was just saying on that mutual respect thang, I bet I can’t give one of your sisters this big black dick like you giving mine, now can I? And when you taking my sister and y’all’s baby to meet your mom?”

  Not really as gangster as he often pretended, Hassan played off his fear of even more confrontation the best he could. Remembering what his father had said earlier, he started to feel like his dad was possibly 100 percent right about some of the things he’d said. Disappearing back inside the store to hook a non-loyal Dre up with the items he was dry begging for, Hassan quickly noticed the glass door coolers were almost completely empty. It was then it kinda hit him; shit was about to get real. There was no more milk, juice, or lunch meat. No more ice cream or freeze pops and no more single sticks of no-name butter waiting to be paid for with Bridge Cards. Besides a dozen or so forty ounces, a few Red Bulls, and several flavors of Faygo soda, the usually well-stocked store looked bare.

  Pops hoped and prayed the outage would last only twenty-four hours, so he had made the decision to leave the thousands of dollars of liquor on the shelves and concentrate on the perishable things only. He had taken into consideration what his other family members were saying, and his first mind had told him to just rent a U-Haul and clear everything out. However, Hassan had been in his head. Hassan had convinced him that the people in and around the West Side store they’d been running since the mid-eighties had nothing but love for them. Against his better judgment, Pops had made his sixth and final trip before noon. After giving Tommy a few dollars for helping them, then sending him on his way, Pops gathered both sons together behind the bulletproof counter for a heart-to-heart conversation.

  “Look,” he said, sternly staring into each son’s eyes. “It’s almost twelve, and I can tell from the way the streets are filling up and the looks on these animals’ faces, things are about to go berserk.”

  “Come on now, Pops!”

  “Naw, Hassan,” Mikey interjected, aiming the remote at the small television and increasing the volume while they still had electricity. “Pops ain’t lying. It’s about to be crazy out there. The mayor just announced he called the president to beg for the National Guard to come in overnight but was denied. He said the damn president said his hands were tied until tomorrow morning.”

  “Damn.” Hassan’s adrenaline started to rise as the trio watched video of other shopkeepers, some of whom they knew, complain about the circumstances and vow to close their doors for good if their businesses were vandalized in any shape, form, or fashion.

  “I told you these slave mentality people are going to turn into desperate animals. Even the news knows,” Pops argued, second-guessing leaving all the liquor in the store. “Maybe we should grab as much of the more expensive bottles as we can and head over to Hamtramck to wait things out. Maybe we can check on the store later, on the way home. I told Amir to do the same thing. We don’t want to risk dying over material things.”

  Hassan knew by the televised reports and the
number of people knocking on the front door that things were indeed getting out of control quickly. However, wanting to stand his ground and protect his family’s legacy, he reached underneath the counter for the two handguns they kept there. After moving a few small boxes of candy and chewing gum out of the way, he slammed both handguns down on the counter, along with the .40-cal he proudly displayed on his hip daily.

  “I’m not leaving, not checking on nothing later. I’m staying!” he vowed as he grabbed the sawed-off shotgun leaning in the far corner. “I know we got that ‘hood love’ around here and it’s gonna be all good, but if it’s not, why just let anybody, black, white, green, or blue, take what’s ours?”

  Mikey, normally tame minded, was starting to take on the same attitude as his brother, raising his shirt and revealing his own pistol, which he, too, was licensed to carry. “You know what, Pops? Hassan is right. I don’t know how shit gonna get, but we just can’t run away from our own store like cowards or some little kids! I talked to Amir, and he said him and Black Tone and their crew was going to post up down at the club as well.”

  “Listen, boys. We must be smart.” Pops held on to his prayer beads tightly, having lived through several chaotic, lawless blackouts in his motherland before coming to America. “We must be cautious and expect the unexpected of these people. Our lives depend on it. They are animals. You must beware.”

  “We are, Pops.” Mikey glanced at his cell, saw it was ten minutes before noon. “I know how ignorant they can get. That’s why you need to take this last box filled with cigarettes and all the Scratch-Offs and go back over to Uncle Mohamed’s store and relax. Me and Hassan got this. I’m gonna lock my car behind the fence, and just like everybody else in the city, see what’s gonna happen next.”

  “What are you boys going to do if it gets too rough?” Pops wisely asked. “I’m going to at least send my sister’s sons over to sit with you. They been around and know these black people and how sneaky and ruthless they can be. They know how to handle them.” With that, Pops headed toward the back door, mumbling in his native tongue.

  Hassan focused on the television and wished he were back at home, in the safety of his own bed. Getting worried, he yelled out to his father that sending his twin cousins, who had both spent time in prison for assault, among other crimes, to help stand guard wouldn’t be such a bad idea, after all. It might prove to be the longest night ever in the history of Detroit.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Black Tone was passed out cold. He was sleeping good. In between putting in long hours down at the club and taking care of his granny the best he could, he stayed exhausted. Disturbed by the constant annoying sound of his cell vibrating, he moved his muscular arm from underneath the sheet. Reaching over toward the other side of the mattress, he blindly searched for his phone. Finally, he grabbed it up and brought it to his face. Not wanting to open his eyes fully, Black Tone squinted at the screen. He pushed the button on the side, and the screen lit up.

  Ten missed calls? Seven text messages and voice mails? Damn, what in the entire fuck? By pushing one of the many icons, he brought up the call log. Immediately, Black Tone saw that all the alerts and notifications were from Amir. He dialed him back and said, “Hey, now, my dude. What’s the deal?”

  “Hey, man. It’s not right! It’s crazy! It’s crazy!” Can you believe this bullshit?” Amir blurted out as soon as he heard Black Tone say hello. “It’s not right! It’s crazy! It’s crazy!”

  “Huh? Believe what, man? What’s going on? What’s the deal?” He yawned, wiped the sleep out of the corner of one of his eyes. “You been trying to get at me all damn morning, I see.”

  Amir’s voice trembled with panic and fear. The one thing he had worried about most since the city of Detroit originally announced the random rolling zip code power outages would finally touch not only his business but his immediate family’s as well. “Come on, man. You haven’t seen the news this morning? Wake your ass up. Shit is all fucked up.”

  “Naw. I was sleep until just now. What’s popping?” Black Tone sat all the way up in the bed, still just as confused as he was when he first called. “What’s all fucked up? What’s the deal, Amir? What the fuck I miss? And what damn time is it?”

  “Dude, they got us this time. Shit. Matter of fact, the entire city. We need to post up as soon as possible. Tell your crew I’m paying double pay. We need them as soon as possible.”

  “Double pay? What?”

  “Just turn on the damn news, Tone! Not only are these motherfucking bastards turning off the power in different zip codes soon, but they sweeping the entire city for twenty-four hours. Plus, no police or fire. Water gonna be off too! We gotta get ready. It’s gonna be crazy, pandemonium. We gotta get down to the club to protect it from your people. The alarm system is gonna be off-line.”

  Black Tone couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Not just the fact that his boss, Amir, had just slipped and used the term “your people” with him, and not as a joke, but what he had claimed was about to occur. After locating the remote, he clicked on the television. Searching through the channels, Black Tone stopped on a breaking news report. Cell phone still in the other hand, with Amir on the line, he turned up the volume. Seconds into listening, he, like millions of others, was speechless. What Amir had said was true. Detroit was going dark at noon. And yeah, pandemonium was one of many words that would be used to explain the aftermath.

  Black Tone reassured Amir that he’d call a few of his crew who didn’t live in Detroit to see if they wanted to earn that double-time pay. He knew for sure it would be a waste of time to call his main homeboys, because if what the news reports claimed was about to pop off was indeed true, they have to post up at their own homes to make sure they went untouched. Before ending their conversation, Black Tone also reminded his boss that he lived in the heart of the city, in the infamous 48238, to top it off, and he would have to make sure his granny and his own household were secure.

  “I’ma get off this phone and see what’s what. I’ll get back with you in about twenty minutes or so,” he told Amir.

  Amir didn’t want to hear that. Selfish minded, all the greedy club owner wanted to hear his head of security say was that he would fuck any and everything he might have had on the table, including his old sickly granny, and that he was on the way. “Look Tone, swing by my people’s spot before you head this way. I know it’s gonna be super wild up there on Linwood,” he warned angrily. “Pops and them moving as much stuff out as possible, just in case motherfuckers try it. He gonna go chill at my uncle’s store, but Mikey and Hassan gonna post up all night, until this thing is over, make a stand. Hold shit down for the family and whatnot.”

  “Oh yeah, they gonna post up, huh?” Black Tone replied sarcastically as both size fourteen feet touched the floor.

  Having lived in the hood forever, Black Tone had known Amir’s brothers for a few years now, ever since they’d opened the party store. So the statement about them supposedly being on some old protection squad bullshit brought an instant smile to his face. Mikey, the middle son, was as soft as toilet paper. He tried to act as if he was about that life when need be, but Black Tone and most of the world could easily see through his fronting. Mikey let his wife run over him not some of the time, but all the time. That was no major secret to his family or even to the hood niggas she was rumored to mess around with from time to time. And in any culture that was unheard of. If you couldn’t at least run your own household, how could you want respect from the next man?

  As for Hassan, the youngest brother, he was the most like Amir, in the sense that they both thought they were African American. The way he dressed. The way he spoke. And the way he tried to carry himself in general. Hassan, however, had taken the black experience a few steps further than his older brother. Not seeming to care what his pops, brothers, or the neighborhood they did business in thought, he had been claiming Alexis as his woman for some time. The baby Dre’s little sister had had was Hassan’s son. The
re had not been any blood test taken, but the small infant came out of the womb as the spitting image of his alleged pappy, damn near crying in Arabic. Amir was known around the club to have hit off a few of the waitresses and some of the more “eager to get free” VIP treatment females who would breeze through the doors of Detroit Live, but his Iraqi-born arrogance would not allow him to go public with his dark pleasures.

  After ending their conversation, Black Tone went to go check on his granny. It was time he made her something to eat and give her her much-needed medications. He had to figure out his next move if he planned on helping Amir down at the club. After ensuring his granny was good, he then tried to contact one of the evening nurses that stayed there while he went to work. After a good thirty minutes or so, the agency finally answered its phone. Considering the majority of their staff resided in Detroit, Black Tone was told they had absolutely no one available to work. That information came as no great shock to him, because he knew that if anyone lived in the city and wasn’t smart enough to stay home, that was on them. That he was even considering leaving his own home now had everything to do with the fact that he’d laid down the law to Dre and his boys a long time ago that even dreaming about violating his and Granny’s space would end with them suffering a fate worse than the cops being called.

  Moments later, Amir called back. Black Tone sent him straight to voice mail, still at a loss about what he was going to do. He then ignored the several 911 texts. Pacing the floor, he wisely came to the conclusion that his granny should go out to his auntie’s house in Oak Park, at least until the power came back on. Placing a call to his cousin Wild Child, he killed two birds with one stone. His aunt agreed to stop by and pick up his granny, so he was good. She’d be safe and secure during this mandatory twenty-four-hour power outage. That was his first priority. Black Tone knew that even in his absence, lights out or not, any would-be thief from his way dared not to cross him and disrespect the crib. As far as Detroit Live went, Wild Child said he was good to go on posting up and making that double time.