Holding Pattern (13 page)

My nigga. Pea. Always doin yo thing. You still doin that thing, right?

You know me.

Yeah, I know you. Shiheed sucked his teeth.

Then Juicy says, Damn, Pea. You gon let him diss you like that?

Bitch, was anybody talkin to you?

Who you callin a bitch? Juicy stops in her tracks and stands lookin through the fence, right at Shiheed.

Ain’t but one bitch standin here. Maybe two.

Nigga, where yo mamma? I don’t see that one-tooth bitch.

What, you gon talk bout—

Jus shut the fuck up, Juicy says. Yo breath stank.

Yo, Pea, Shiheed say. He lookin at me, big-ass nostrils aimed and cocked at my face, a sawed-off shotgun. I can’t talk. I can’t move. Yo. You better do sumpin bout yo ugly Hee Haw–lookin bitch.

Ugly? Nigga, how many mirrors ran away from you today?

Yo, Pea, you better put yo bitch on a leash.

Why don’t you do it?

I’ll wreck this bitch. You know I don’t give a fuck. Straight jackin.

Juicy chuckles. Nigga, you can’t even jack yo own dick.

Yo, Pea. I’m tellin you, been a long time since I put the screws to somebody.

Well, here’s yo chance. Step to it. Be a man.

Nawl. Nawl. Bitch, you think I’m gon stomp you with yo kids right here in fronta you, watchin?

Crust and Ham lookin round fo weapons. Crust picks up a pop bottle and breaks it. Ham finds a piece a coat hanger. They assume war poses.

Bitch, you caught a break this time.

Anytime, Juicy says. You know where to find me. Then she turns to the kids, fulla venom. Yall put that down. Go ahead. They do what she tells them to do. Now, let’s go. We wasted enough time wit this shit. He ain’t nobody. They use to punk him in jail. We all start to walk off together.

Yo, Pea, Shiheed shouts. This shit all yo fault. Is you a man or is you a mouse? Nigga, you better learn how to smack the shit outta yo bitch every now and then.

Juicy chastises her kids. What I tell yall bout weapons?

But—

But nothing. I don’t like repeatin myself.

The kids drop their heads, breathin all hard, ready to cry.

Yall better not start all that cryin. We can go on back to the house.

Okay, Mamma. We ain’t gon cry.

We stop at the entrance to the El station. I can’t look Juicy in the face.

Aw ight, she says. Don’t forget my cigarettes.

I won’t. I hurry off wit the kids.

The after-school hustle is set up to catch the rush-hour crowd. Of course, all the heads be out there too, in close proximity to the cash. Like, this Chinese nigga come walkin through the car, pullin along a lil cart behind him and screamin.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, battary battary, one dollahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! … Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, battary battary, one dollahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

You also got them old-school hustlers, like this one game-talkin nigga named Sinbad, who dress the part in this checkered sports shirt and these brown double-knit polyester slacks. Nigga pants is slack, all right—floods, all high above his white socks and black square-toed kicks. He kick that shit bout sumpin he call the Action Factor. He be like, A wise man once said, The gods weave misfortunes for men so that the generations to come will have something to sing about. But
I
say that we don’t have to sing sorrow songs. You see, our boys are in the pit. We hand them the ladder to get out. We put them in school, train them, educate them, teach them that knowledge can give tongue to the winged cries of their souls. I know. I was one of those boys. But I stand before you now a new man. Help us light the torch of wisdom. Help us rekindle the fires of manhood. Help us chart the stars.

Won’t you help us, the Action Factor. Won’t you reach out your hand to us, Action Factor? Please help us, the Action Factor.

He come up to me, rattlin his can.

I jus look at him. Then I be like, I know you.

His eyes go scared. He hurry off.

When he leaves the car, I signal Crust and Ham. They pop up from they seats and move into the aisle.

Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Sorry to interrupt your conversation and readin pleasures. I’m Pork and I’m Chop, and together we the Pork Chop crew. We don’t snatch chains, gangbang, or sling cocaine, or live in the correctional way. We jus tryin to earn a honest dollar. We gon tell you a lil story bout our grandma.

After Crust and Ham kick the introduction, I duck down inside that high-sided area right in fronta the doors, where nobody can see me, and I slip this old granny dress over my clothes and fit this old gray granny wig on my head.

A few grumpy-ass squares start complainin and shit. They be like, Hey, I don’t wanna hear all that noise. Tell you what, I’ll give you a quarter if you jus sit down and shut up. But the other riders squash all that drama. Who the fuck is you? If you don’t want no noise, drive yo car to work. I paid my carfare, just like you, and I want some entertainment.

I start granny-walkin down the aisle, all bent over, like I got a cane.

Hamfat and Crust, they be like, Why they do that, Granny?

People start crackin up, bent over in they seats, slob flyin off they tongues. I make it to the end of the aisle, balancin myself against the fast-movin train.

We jus tryin to earn a honest dollar. If you don’t jibe this time, maybe you’ll jibe next time. Crust and Ham start comin down the aisle with their baseball caps stretched out to the people on both sidesa the train. I say, And we accept pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, dollars, checks, transfers, tokens, and food stamps, and Crust and Ham say, And ladies’ phone numbers. Everybody laugh. Good fo me. Laughter loosen up the wallets and purses. Once the kids reach me, we turn and face everybody. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Pork. I’m Chop. And we the Pork Chop crew. Enjoy your evenin. We move on to the next car.

We start in the last car and work our way up to the front. Seven cars in all. Then we get off the train and catch one back in the opposite direction. We work it this way through rush hour. Not much money to make after that. And by then the kids start to bitch and whine bout how they tired and hungry and thirsty. So I let em share a candy bar until we make it down to Mickey D’s so I can buy them a Yummy Deal.

I want my own King Mac.

He slobbered on the bun.

He put mustard on it.

Pickles is nasty.

He stole my fry.

Where the salt?

Ketchup is nasty.

He spit in the shake.

Hey, yall shut up, I say. Can’t you see I’m tryin to think? I’m countin my ends in the dark space under the table, the boys positioned in fronta me, fo cover, on the other side. Shit. For the day, I pulled jus enough to maintain. I count it again. Shit.

I take Crust and Ham to the park to pump the swings for a while. I sit down on the hard splintery bench and watch them go up, down, up, down, their own lil competition. Who can swing the highest? When they get tired of the swings, they starts into feedin the pigeons, pitchin potato chips hard and fast, seein who can clobber the most birds. I’m thinkin the whole time. We leave the park jus as night starts to fall.

A block from the El station, Crust yells out, You ain’t buy Juicy’s cigarettes. Shit. So we swing into a corner sto. I’m hopin the owner won’t card me, but he jus looks me up and down, takes my money, and places the squares on the counter. He even throws in an extra book of matches.

We head fo the station. I’m busy addin and subtractin as we walk. I got to pay full adult fare for me and reduced fare for the kids. By the time we make it to the station, I’ve come up wit this plan. I direct Crust and Ham right past the agent sittin in the glassed-in booth and right over to the large wall map. I’m standin there studyin all the routes and lines like I don’t know where we goin.

I wait until I hear the train comin into the station. I says to the kids, Okay, remember what I told you. The train grinds to a stop, the doors pop open, and people come rushin out. Go on, I tell them. Duck under.

They duck under the turnstile. Then I duck under, but soon as I pop up, I see this transit dick standin in the do of the train, lookin at me. He say, What the deal, son? He reach to grab me, and I take off as fast as I can, hotfoot, the dick shoutin commandments behind me. Far as I can tell, Crust and Ham shoot off runnin in another direction. Either that, or they made it onto the train. I run in lil rushes of speed, curvin round iron beams, tryin to shake off the dick. I look back and see that I’m puttin some good distance between our bodies. That’s when I feel my legs start to shut down, my steps get smaller, my ankles band together, like some cowboy done hooped me in a lasso. I trip and stumble face first toward the ground but break my fall in the nick of time wit my hands.

The dick come up behind me, breathin and coughin all hard. He reach down and jerk me to my feet. He keeps one hand on me, the other on his hip, and stands there swayin from side to side, tryin to catch his breath. Damn, he says, grinnin and shakin his head. They make you all dumber every day. Nobody never told you how to keep yo pants up?

What? I look down and see my jeans all tangled up around my ankles. I’m standin there in my draws. People is pointin and laughin.

You got enough room in there for an entire family.

Would you pull my pants up?

Maybe I should take your picture.

A second dick comes over with Crust and Ham. He takes one look at me and tells his partner, Pull his pants up. The first dick pulls up my pants. They start to walk away wit us.

Damn, he could run.

Couldn’t he.

Need to put him in the Olympics.

Jesse Owens.

They take us back into this little office. That’s when I get my firs good look at the two dicks. The dick who’d caught me ain’t much older than myself. He got this lil lima-bean head and this peach fuzz on his chin, which he keep stuck way out for the world’s admiration. The second dick older, a big ugly Frankenstein-lookin motherfucker. Round pigeon shoulders and muscular ears. Face all scrunched up and serious, like he bitin down on his words, snappin them in two. He shoves me into the wall. Okay, let’s see some ID.

You lookin at it.

You don’t have any ID?

I lost my wallet.

I’ll go back and see if I can find it, Peach Fuzz says.

Nawl. I lost it a long time ago.

Monster Dick starts goin through my pants pockets, pullin the long insides out like banana peels. Look, I say, mind my civils.

Be quiet, Peach Fuzz says. Civil rights are for citizens. You’re underaged.

What? Hey, I’m not—

Frankenstein shoves me into a chair. Sit there. Shut up. Then he bear-hugs the kids and starts pullin them toward his face like he gon screw them into his eyes. They start bawlin. Juicy! Juicy! Mamma! Mamma!

Hey, Officer, I say, don’t scare the kids.

He lets them go and points to a chair. They squeeze into it. Then he stand there lookin at me. Mr. Hero, he says.

You shouldn scare the kids.

Mr. Hero.

I jus sit there watchin him, quiet.

Mr. Hero, let me ask you something.

I know my rights.

Come on, just one question. Off the record.

I watch him. Off the record?

I would have it no other way.

Aw ight, then.

Where will you be in five years?

Dead.

The dick’s frown burns away.

But see, we criminals never die. I’ll probably come back as a pimp or serial killer in my next lifetime. Maybe even the president.

His face seals over in anger. So, you one of those smart ones.

Look, I messed up. You caught me. Slippin. Can we get on with it? No disrespect. Can you jus gon and write my summons?

Wish we could, the young dick says, but we don’t handle kids. City policy.

I ain’t a kid.

He grins. Okay, if you say so. But what about them? He motions to Crust and Ham.

Can’t we forget about them?

Wish we could. But I’m not getting caught up in a lawsuit.

Lawsuit?

Everybody wants to sue nowdays.

Look, I jus wanna—

I already told you. We don’t handle kids. You don’t like that policy, take it up with the city council. The mayor.

Man, I don’t believe this.

The young dick sits down at his desk and starts fillin out some forms.

What? I got to wait fo you to do yo paperwork?

That’s right. Then you’ll go down to the Hundred-and-seventh Precinct.

I don’t believe this.

Why don’t you try to relax.

Frankenstein leanin against the wall beside the desk, lookin at me. I eye his badge: JASON GEORGE SAMS.

I be like, Hey, yall ain’t even real cops. What kind of cop got three first names?

Frankenstein don’t say a word.

Why don’t you jus gon and call the
real
cops.

The transit dick puts his pen down and starts lookin at me. Hey, you want this to take all night? I didn’t think so. Why don’t you pipe down and relax. He starts back on his form.

Hey, Hero, Frankenstein says to me. You mind if I have one of your cigarettes?

What? You on the job.

Maybe I want to smoke it after I get off the job.

I’m thinkin,
Why this nigga fuckin wit me?
They ain’t mine.

What, you stole them?

How you gon play me like that? Officer, I ain’t no thief. I’m a sneak.

My mistake. So, Hero, let me just take one of your cigarettes, see, and I’ll tell them to let you keep the pack. Otherwise.

Okay.

He removes Juicy’s pack of squares from this plastic bag, opens it, and pulls outta square. He taps the butt, puts the square between his teeth, and fires it up wit his own lighter.

Hey, Jason, the other dick says, pass me one of those.