Holding Pattern (12 page)

So, I’m bout to place my bet, when I see buck-wild Shiheed standin to my left, frownin all up inna my face. Shiheed, he one funny-lookin motherfucker. Long square bread-loaf head. Eyes all slanted like bird wings. Low eyes, low, almost sittin on his nose. Nostrils big enough to drive two Mack trucks through, cargo and all. Boogers big as peanuts. And these big white wide bright teeth like bars of soap. One other thing. This nigga is skinny. You can see his bones through his clothes. Skin thin as a kite. Pea, he say, I know you ain’t bout to bet on that bitch-ass nigga.

I seen him play befo.

He won?

Yep.

That musta been his twin. Nigga be out here twenty-fo-seven gettin his ass toe up.

Really?

I kid you not. Look at him.

I look at him, but I can’t see what I’m lookin at cause Shiheed got me all confused. So I think about it for a minute. Well, I guess you should know.

Of course. I’m out here all day.

So I bet on the other guy. We stand and watch the game. Do I need to tell you what happened? That bitch-ass nigga won.

Damn, Shiheed, why you fuck me up like that?

What? Nigga, who you tryin to blame? I’m tryin to look out for you.

Shit. You know how much that fucked me up?

Stop cryin. I lost money too, but you don’t see me whinin like a bitch.

Shit.

You need to squash all that. I’m sorry. Truly. Sorry.

Fuck.

Why don’t you place another bet.

Fuck that.

I understand. I owe you. Let me hook you up.

Man—

What can I get you?

I’m straight.

I got that powerful shit, that Mount Everest shit. Turn you into a superhero. Leap buildins in a single bound.

I’m on the clock.

Make time fly.

Really. I’m straight.

I heard that. My nigga. Make that money.

That’s what I came to see you about.

What?

That thing I asked you to do fo me. A week before, I’d given Shiheed some ends to flip. Would you have a return on my investment?

Shiheed, he turns toward me, he puts his eyes on me. And they fix me like lasers, burn a hole right through my fohead. All these pictures of fucked-up bodies and piles and piles of dead niggas come flyin and screamin through that hole.

Not today. Things is slow.

I’m lookin at him, but I don’t say anything.

But, hey, I’m gon hook you up.

I don’t say anything. Ain’t shit I can say.

You know I’m a man of my word. Catch me tomorrow.

Okay. Whatever you say.

My nigga. Hey, walk me up the block.

I really need to bounce.

I’m just goin up to the corner sto.

I got all this business I need to—

Damn, nigga. Why you trippin? You can’t walk me up the block?

My skin shrink around my body, tight, beef jerky. Crazy motherfucker. Aw aight, I say. No problem, I say. I start to walk with Shiheed. Walk
behind
him.

You hear all that corny shit about the shadow of death followin somebody. Things you hear be true sometimes. Shiheed, he got one foot in prison, the other in the grave. I always walk a little behind him. Make sure I keep my eyes on that shadow. Keep that shadow between me and him.

Damn, Pea, he say. What the fuck is wrong wit you? Can’t you walk like normal people?

I’m tryin to, I say. I got this condition.

Fuck yo condition. Shiheed’s back pockets are packed full, bulgin out like two square titties. That condition wouldn be fear?

Ah, Shiheed. You know me.

Thought I did. So, you got my back?

Of course. But, hey, I ain’t down wit that gangsta shit.

Nigga, there you go again. Trippin.

All I’m sayin—

Did I ask anything from you?

Look, I can’t do no time. They’ll break a lil nigga like me.

What? Nigga, you better wise up. Grow some hair on yo chest.

Just then we arrive at the sto.

You don’t even know what I’m gon ask you.

I know. But thanks for the offer. I’ll holla. I start to walk away.

Pea, you ain’t gon come in the sto wit me?

Like I told you, I got to handle—

Nigga, you on some real fucked-up shit. Come on in the sto. Let me buy you a double ounce of courage.

I try to laugh it off.

Shiheed’s face loosen up and he pop into his weird laugh. Nigga, you know I’m jus fuckin wit you. We cool?

Always.

My nigga. Shiheed stroll on into the sto.

Seein that he holdin out on my money—what I’m gon do, gat the motherfucker?—figure I haf to pull me some ends befo my afternoon hustle. So I bounce up to the El platform and wait for the train. I see this other head standin on the platform, a tall skinny nigga wit this green bandanna tied round his noggin, the knotted ends curlin out from his fohead. Nigga standin way high on his toes, head cocked back, like somebody tryin to snatch him into the sky. He see me and nod, all silentlike. I nod back. Then he go, It’s a good day to make some money, if the squares don’t get in yo way. He watchin me hard, real hard. So I walk to the other end of the platform.

When the train come, I hop on nice and quick and whip out my tall-boy malt-liquor can, papered over wit a black label wit red letters sayin uplift career arts academy. I make my way from car to car, holdin up my can and askin for donations. Most people ignore me, keep readin or talkin or starin outta the window. I can say I’m disappointed but can’t say I’m surprised. That is one weak hustle. Always is. So I decide to resort to some real criminal behavior. I’m small and quick, and I can spot an expensive handbag from four car lengths away. Caiman, that is. That’s the only thing I fuck wit. Don’t even go after all that designer and name-brand shit. Everybody got that fake shit nowdays, so it’s hard to tell. And another thing: all that fake-ass jewelry. So it’s either the caiman or the money, the money or the caiman. I walk from car to car, fix people in my head and eyes as I pass, lookin for an easy mark.

I snatch this big fat bitch purse and she snatch back her purse, and me with it. Then she hop up from her seat and pimp slap me. Knock pain in my head. My brain hummin and vibratin like a dunked-on hoop rim. Bitch put me in this headlock and start squeezin my neck so hard that tears pop outta my eyes. Can’t help but smell her underarms, right? People usually be stinkin under they arms, specially fat people. But this fat bitch bout the best thing I ever smelt. Smell like my whole head inna can fulla sweet flowers and fruits and candies. (She must know that department sto downtown.) But she don’t give my nose long to appreciate. She take off her shoe—and she ain’t got on no stockins—and I see the prettiest big toe I ever seen, no corns or nothin. Like a fine little titty. I’m watchin that titty when that fat bitch start hittin me upside the head with her hard-ass heel. Then she haul off and sling me away from her, a Rollerball move, and I feel sumpin twist in my neck, certain that this bitch done snapped my head off, that my head back there under her fine-smellin arm. I touch my head to make sure it’s still there, and that’s when I feel what I think is blood crawlin real slow down from the toppa my head. And I feel this thing inside my head movin up and down like wings, wings flappin heavy and hard.

Fat bitch jus stand there lookin at me. She got all this white makeup on her face. Look like she dead. She be like, I’m tired of you lowlife niggers. Some people should never be born. Then that fat bitch kick me right in the nuts. Wit that fine-ass big toe.

You can make yo best money down in the financial district at lunchtime, when all the suckas spill outta they offices, hungry and loud. When you see a sucka, stick out yo belly and put on a sad face. Then you be like, Sir (or Madam), could you spare me a quarter for sumpin to eat? You can gank a few. And you can pull a big draw if you can find a whole gang of suckas from the same office all bunched up together.

Hunger make people feel all guilty and shit. An easy hustle. You can pull some substantial loot if it ain’t too many bums around. I don’t believe in knockin nobody’s hustle, but a bum ain’t nothin but a raggedy-ass scarecrow scarin all the money away.

Lucky for me, I see jus these two bums. One curled up off by himself inna space between two buildins, his face all red and shiny, set like a diamond in his grimy rags. And this other one, wearin a sign round his neck sayin INSULT ME FOR A DOLLAR. He jus sittin there on the dirty ground with his legs all folded Buddha-style, sittin there like he can’t move, like his sign heavy as a concrete slab. Scarecrow.

I try not to sweat them bums, and start workin my hustle like I always do, but, for whatever reason, suckas is cheap today. I’m talkin nickels and dimes and pennies cheap.

I’m like, What the fuck is this, a recession or some shit? Gots to try another strategy.

So I see this one square, an easy mark, and I tell him that I’m wit the circus, the Man of Steel, and ask him if he wanna punch me inna stomach for a dolla. I pull up my shirt and brace myself. This square, he just look at me and shit. But that ain’t all. Guess what he does next? Punk motherfucker spit on me. You heard me? Word. Yo, I’m all hot inside, hot, real hot. I’m like, Hey, money. Suck my dick. Then I run. Fast.

I use some of my draw for carfare and catch the train to my girl Juicy’s crib. Juicy meet me inna hall with a kiss, all sexy and fly in this negligee, thin like a spiderweb. She be like, Hey, Pea, you sweet bitch. How you doin?

I had better days.

Poor baby. She takes my hand, turns—she got more ass than a donkey; I ain’t gon tell you bout her face—and leads me into her crib. Then she leave me standin in the middle of the room and go over and sit down on the couch in fronta the TV to watch her favorite talk show—You know this my show—all content wit her snack: root beer and potato chips wit hot sauce. She be like, Pea, I was gon give you some. But, damn, I’m sick.

What’s wrong?

My throat sore. I been smokin trees all day, but it don’t do nothing.

Oh, I see. Kids ain’t ready?

No. Ain’t you hear me? I’m sick.

Sorry.

What? she say. Sorry? She frown up her face. What
sorry
gon do fo me? Can’t you order me a pizza or sumpin? Some Chinese food? Home delivery?

I got to make them ends first. We got this sweet business arrangement, my after-school hustle. I give her twenty-five dollars a day for the use of her sons, Crust and Hamfat. Fifteen dollars for the older one. He ten. And ten dollars for the younger. He seven. Suckas like kids. On good days, I can turn a nice lil profit. On bad days, I’m lucky to break even.

Aw ight. Well, you better go get them boys, then.

I go into the bedroom, where Crust and Hamfat all holed up wit the Nintendo game at the foot of the bed, lookin up at the TV on the stand above them. What up, yall?

What up, Pea.

What up.

Ready to make that money?

Can we finish our game first?

Yeah. I’m whoopin his ass.

You wish.

Come on, fellas. Time is money.

Ahhh.

I take them back out into the other room. Juicy look up at me from the couch. Yall ready? We nod. Hold up. I’ll walk yall to the train. She goes in the bedroom. I take the time alone with the kids for a last-minute review.

You got the wig?

Yeah.

And the dress?

Yeah.

And you practiced the rhyme?

Yeah.

Let me hear it.

Do we have to?

I don’t feel like it.

Aw ight. Stop whinin. But you better not mess up.

Juicy come outta the room stylin some stupid gear. This leather top all tight over her titties. These little shorts, real tight too. And some sandals, toes stickin out like a turtle inside his shell, each toenail painted a different color. Aw ight, yall. Let’s go.

So we bounce from her crib and head for the El, Juicy hangin all on my arm, though she taller than me, the kids holdin hands in fronta us. The hood gnats see me and start wavin their wine bottles, glass flags. They swarm over and start in wit the beggin. Look at the happy family. I got a family too. Aw, Pea, you a righteous brother. Can’t you set me straight? Family man, let me hold a ten to run up and see my PO. Can’t you let me hold five till Thursday? I’m good for it. I’ll pay you on Tuesday fo a taste today.

Hey, Juicy say, step the fuck off. What do we look like, the Red Cross or some shit? Those niggas quiet down and disappear like roaches into dark cracks. Then Juicy turn to me. She be like, Pea, I know you don’t be givin them broke niggas no money. I turn my face away. You better not. A nigga will ride yo jock worse than a bitch.

We go on a ways. What time you think yall be back?

Not too late.

Pick me up a pack of cigarettes. I’ll pay you back.

I don’t say nothing.

Be careful wit Ham. He got a slight cold. Now, yall mind Pea.

Yes, ma’am.

I don’t wanna hear bout yall actin up.

We ain’t. We gon be good.

Some big fat sloppy motherfucker is comin up the block toward us, hoggin the street. I curve around a lamp pole to keep from runnin into him.

Damn, Pea, Juicy says. What the fuck is wrong wit you? Ain’t I told you bout splittin poles? Bad luck.

But that dude—

I can’t have you cursin no bad luck on my sons.

You believe in all that?

She looks at me. Is you stupid or what?

I turn my face away. A cage is a little ways up, and as we pass by, who do I see on the other sidea the fence, watchin the game? Shiheed. Shit. Shiheed and Juicy hate each other, cause Juicy is mouth dangerous and Shiheed’ll slap a bitch inna minute. Shiheed looks over and catches my eye. I turn my head. Too late.

Yo, Pea. What the deal, son?

He walks over, stands lookin at me through the diamond spaces of the fence. I keep walkin, but he follows us along the fence, Juicy inches from him.

Nigga, what you doin up here? Shiheed don’t even look at Juicy.

You know, doin my—

I know you ain’t hangin now wit them project niggas.

I feel quick heat on my skin.

Got way too much pride for that. You handle that business?

Yep.