Midnight (3 page)

“Bop, listen to me, I been around the world three times, done had six bitches, three wives, and half a dozen children. I've shot dope, drank all the firewater I could, overextended my spiritual credit card, felt every emotion a funky chump could feel. I have only one regret.”

“Chester, you have a regret? Hold on a minute, let me put this fuckin' barbell down. Chester Simmons regrets something?”

“That's right. I went to Ghana right after Nkrumah came to power.…”

Chester was always dropping funny names on his head.… Nkrumah, Lumumba, Fanon, Mao, Che Guevara, Nasser, Jung, Hannibal, Nzingha, Langston Hughes, Chano Pozo, Duke Ellington, Nat Turner, Denmark Vesey, L'Ouverture, Jack Johnson, Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Monk, Bird, Lady Day.…

“I had the money from a game that I had just run and I couldn't think of anything better to do than go check my roots. Ghana had an ancestral pull on me, you know what I mean?”

Bop nodded.
What else was there to do?

“I don't want to take you through the political scene; that was weird. What I discovered was our people, or rather I should say, the essence of our people. It would be like going to the moon and finding out that you belonged there. I had always been led to believe that the African at home was a savage motherfucker with a bone in his nose, standing around a big pot with some missionaries in it, waiting for them to boil. Lots of crazy shit like that.”

“Where's the regret part? That's what I wanna hear.”

“I regret that I didn't stay over there; if I had I wouldn't be doin' time right now.”

They often talked about Africa after that, about the politics, about the customs, but it always came back down to the people.

“They're the best human beings, pound for pound, that I've ever known, Bop Daddy, the best. You oughta go check 'em out before you get your ass slaughtered out there in them mean streets.”

Yeahh, Chester, you told me to go and how to get there, but what am I gonna do over there?

Fuck it, I'll decide that when I get there. I got eight grand to blow, I can do anything
.

2

He woke up at daybreak, stared at the gleaming light bulb for a few minutes, and went back to sleep.

9.00
A.M.
, the phone ringing.
Awwww shit! Just when I was about to get into that third dream
. He stumbled out of bed, going to the phone, pulling the cake from his crotch.

“Yeah?”

“Bop?”

“Yeah, what's happenin'?”

“Wake up, man, this is Greg.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, I know who it is; what's going on?”

“Over here, everything.… Watch that, motherfucker!”

Bop could clearly hear sirens in the distance beyond their conversation and a commotion closer up.

“Greg?”

“Yeah, what?”

“Fuck you callin' me for, man?”

“Aw, it's happening, man, it's happenin'; you can get what you want just by walkin' in and pickin' it up. It's happenin'.”

Bop could tell that Greg was drugged
and
drunk. He was always drugged
and
drunk, but he'd do anything for a fellow Brick.

“So, you got all the goodies, huh?”

“Whatever you want, brother, I got it; OK, home?”

“Yeah, Greg, I hear you. Be talking to you, later.”

He hung up the phone and did a stretch-yawn. Uncle and Aunt gone since 6:00
A.M.
; he had the whole day to drink beer and smoke herb.
What do I want to do today?

Maybe I'll call Justine up and have her to come over here 'n play with my jones for a couple hours. Nawww, she'll be in my face for two days if I give her a couple hours
.

He strolled to the fridge for a sandwich and a glass of Pepsi.
Fuck you, Chester.… Man does not like wheat germ alone
. He made a ham sandwich and filled up one of Uncle David's Jolly Giant plastic glasses with Pepsi and ice.

He sat at the kitchen table munching on his sandwich and staring out of the window. The section of Torrance that they lived in was like a dead city. People drove up, popped out of their cars, mowed their lawns on Saturday mornings, and kept extremely low profiles. The whites in the neighborhood were showing some signs of anxiety about the recent trickle of Koreans, but there were no overt jitters.

Wonder what Ghana is gonna be like? Nothing like this, I hope
.

He had two large bags fully packed and an L.A. Gear gym bag set to go. May 4th, 1992, 8:45
P.M.
was git-off time.

He took a full swallow of the soda, enjoying the carbonated buzz, feeding on the residual high from last night's herb.

Got to get some more of that
.

May 2nd, two more days before I leave.…

Stupid assholes! Why in the fuck would they have to shoot two babies?
He had lost count of the number of older children who had lost their lives in the crossfires of the war between the Bricks and the Keymen, the Bricks' major rivals for a drug turf that overlapped.

He stared at the anorexic white woman who seemed to jog around the neighborhood night and day, dumb bitch.

Yeahh, that's what did it, the babies being killed
. It touched a chord in him that he hadn't know about before. He called a Brick session to get to the bottom of matters.

“Who shot the babies? If it was a Brick, he's gon' get a major-league Brick ass-kickin' and we'll take a vote to push him off a four-story buildin'. Who shot the babies?!”

All of the members denied being guilty; no one wanted to take the blame for killing a one-year-old and an eighteen-month-old, but he realized, from the odd looks that many of the Bricks gave him, that they thought he was showing a sign of weakness to be voicing concern about innocent bystanders being blown away.

Skateboard put a few words in his ear about the situation. “Uhhh lookahere, Bop, everybody feel bad about the two babies gettin' killed 'n shit, but we feel even worse about Lil Looie and Bim Bam gettin' shot up 'n shit. What we gon' do about that?”

Chester was right.… “Go on back out there and get into it if you want to, Bop. Just remember, it's an endless fuckin' cycle. They got tribes in the Amazon who've made peace after centuries of feuding to join forces against the European invasion. What you youngbloods oughta be doin' is making peace and not war, 'cause the police is
your
European invasion.”

An endless fuckin' cycle. A Keyman for a Brick, a Brick for a Keyman. The prize was many city blocks of drug-addict territory.

Bop smiled, thinking about the story he had heard from an elder Brick (thirty-two years old) about how the Bricks got started “The brother who started us up was a dude named Tojo; his father was a contractor—this was way back in the seventies—so he decided that the ‘Bricks' would be a good name for us. Some rogue Keymen got hold of Tojo one night and ran some cars over his head, smashed his head flat as a pancake. That was the thang that took us up against the Keymen, and then, you know, when we started building our drug scene, it got even more intense.”

An endless fuckin' cycle
.

The wall telephone behind him rang once, twice, five times.
Probably them fools running round down there in the 'hood actin' crazy
.

The thought of the riot forced him away from day-dreaming at the kitchen table.

“We're looking at fresh fires being set here every hour. Looting, as you can see, is taking place in the Thrifty store right behind me.”

“Jerry, you think you could talk to one of the people looting that store and ask him a few questions.”

“Sure; uhhh, young man! Young man! How're you going to feel tomorrow …?”

“Feel tomorrow …?

“I don't know how to say it in Spanish.…”

“I speak
Ingles
.”

“Good, my question is, how're you going to feel tomorrow about what you're doing today?”

“Whot's tomorrow got to do wid eet?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Whot's wrong, meester, you on television 'n you don't speak
Ingles
?”

“Thank you for your comments, sir. As you just saw Pam, Bob, that's the prevailing sentiment here. Loot today and devil take tomorrow. Back to you in the studio.”

Bop frowned at the white people making glib racist commentary and remoted a channel change. Dirty-racist-dog-motherfuckers.
Let's see what these other assholes are talking about
.

Channel 7. “The mayor has declared a ten
P.M.
'til six
A.M.
curfew for the following areas; please take note.”

He was surprised to see Beverly Hills listed.
Uhh huh, I see what the game is. Just in case the brothers happen to stumble through, they can jack us up on the curfew
.

“The National Guard has been called in and they are taking up positions in key sectors of the city. The city's police chief, Daryl Gates.…”

Bop flicked to another channel.

“Now let me clearly understand you on this point, Mr. Robinson; you're saying that the chief of police, Daryl Gates, deliberately allowed this situation to get out of hand in order to embarrass the mayor. Seems to me that's making political capital out of a situation that.…”

Flick.

“What the power infrastructure of this city has to understand is that this situation was not triggered by the beating of Rodney King alone; that's something that's been taking place over a long time.…”

“Now just a minute, Mr. X, are you saying that the Los Angeles police department has been guilty of this kind of behavior and nothing was ever done about it?”

“Not only has this sort of brutality been practiced by the L.A.P.D., it has been condoned, sometimes overtly but always covertly, since the creation of the L.A.P.D.”

Flick.

“We've got a big one here, Pam. As you can see, the whole structure is burning. So far as we know, no one has been injured in any of these fires, but we can definitely say, at this point, that the Korean businessmen of South Central Los Angeles have suffered heavy losses.”

Bop slumped into his uncle's favorite chair. Another sunny day in Torrance, while South Central “El-A” was burning up.
What a helluva scene. One half of the city is burning, people are raiding grocery stores, bizarre shit is happening, and they got it all on TV
.

After an hour of flicking back and forth he decided to smoke a joint.

May 3rd, tomorrow, I'm outta here; may as well get high
. He strolled to his room with the sound of the newscasters following him. “The National Guard has been called in, and there appears to be a downturn in the number of fires, Pam, is that what we're seeing here?”

“Yes, Tom, I think we can definitely say that there are fewer fires being set, but I don't think we've turned the bend in the road yet. President Bush, in his address to the nation, said.…”

Fuck Bush
.

Bop sat in front of the TV, rolling up joints from the last grams of his stash.

Flick … flick … flick … flick … smoke … smoke … smoke.…

Uncle David and Aunt Lulu pulling into the driveway surprised him.
Damn! Four o'clock already
.

They lumbered in, hauling bags of groceries.

“What they doin' now?”

Aunt Lu stood next to him with her fists on her hips, a characteristic pose, ignoring the sour-sweet incense of the marijuana he had just smoked. They had a hands-off attitude towards his habits, so long as he didn't bring off-beat characters into the house.

“Same-o same-o. Looks like somebody has proven a point; they ain't happy.”

Uncle David paused in front of the TV for a moment, glared at the screen, and shuffled off to change into his house clothes. Aunt Lulu placed the steaks in the freezer, stashed the ground beef, pulled out pork chops and began heating water for a spaghetti dinner. She was banging pots ahead of time.

Bop continued staring at the madness on television, silently arguing with the people on the talk shows, the interviews with the man in the streets (“There's no justification for burning up our fair city”), high.

“Sho' smells good. Aunt Lu.”

“You oughta break down 'n come on in here 'n get yourself a plate.”

Uncle David was occupying his head-of-the-table spot, wolfing down spaghetti with meat balls, ravaging the stack of pork chops on the platter in front of them, swallowing it all with huge gulps of Pepsi.

“Don't try to force him in here; that means it would be less for us.”

They shared a laugh at one of Uncle David's favorite jokes.

“We're asking all of the citizens of our city to cooperate.…”

Flick.

“What people have to recognize is that this pot has been simmering since 1966. The Kerner Report identified the root causes of the first Watts rebellion, that the white media insists on calling a ‘riot,' even today. The Christopher Commission Report pointed the finger again at some of the same basic problems, especially concerning the police, but it seems that the Christopher Commission Report was ignored just as consciously as the Kerner Report was ignored.

“How many studies does it take to show that thousands of people are dissatisfied with the situation here? They're sick, angry and disgusted at the lack of real economic opportunities. They're fed up with the vicious flow of drugs that's being poured into the black and brown communities.”

Bop squirmed. There was a time, pre-Chester Simmons, when he had only been concerned about the profits gained from the crack trade, not the consequences.

“Bop, lawd knows I'd be the last person in the world to pull up moral on you, the way a lot of these funky chump preachers do, but I got to say this.… Any motherfucker who would peddle hard drugs in our communities is psycho-wacked and should be put
under
the jail.”