Buck (10 page)
Authors: M.K. Asante
“Lawd have mercy, she suckin the earth, wind, and fire out his dick!”
“She suckin the black off his shit!”
It’s over faster than a Tyson fight. Amir’s girl pulls up and snaps her fingers fast in the air.
“We got a winner,” the host announces. “Diamond!” She holds the condom up like a freshly caught fish.
“Official time: one minute, twenty-one seconds.”
Dear Carole,
Kianna is still in love with Scoop. He lives around the corner with his sister, Alicia. I don’t know what he does but he lives a thug lifestyle. Kianna is the first one besides
me to go to college but it is clear to me that Scoop is everything to her. A first love is difficult, particularly for a girl.
Scoop is part of the crew. Ted, Damien (D-Rock), Daudi, and now Malo. Malo and Scoop have became close since Daudi left. Too close! It is a strange connection, as Scoop is around Daudi’s age, but perhaps Scoop fills a void for Malo. Malo has always been one to hang with the older crowd with the exception of his best friend, Amir. I know that they all smoke weed but I don’t know what else they do. Malo smokes too and that was another thing that I warned him about, but he didn’t listen. I know that they are all sexually active including Malo. He doesn’t have to tell me. The evidence is all over the place. None of them work and their idea of being busy is getting high. Malo doesn’t really talk to me. I wish I knew what was on his mind. The only thing that’s clear to me is his pain.
I know Scoop’s and Ted’s parents through them. I ask about them and they tell me tidbits that give me an idea of their family life. I know Ted’s parents are very socially active. They want to move to a bigger house in Blue Bell. The only thing that I know about Blue Bell is that Patti LaBelle once belonged to a trio called the Blue Bells. When she was asked about the name, she said that she got the name from a very upscale suburb of Philadelphia, someplace that she aspired to live. I know that Scoop’s father is somewhat older than his mom. Ted’s mom and dad went to Lincoln University and were college sweethearts. Scoop’s sister, Alicia, has a young son who is very smart and precocious and apparently his father is a
Jamaican drug dealer. I learn all of this knowledge through Malo but it is usually true.
Malo has the best chance to make it, not because he is exempt from mischief and even mayhem but because he is a listener and observer. Like his brother, though, he is choosing a thug life. My only hope is that he is mortified by the consequences of that life.
God, give me strength.
Amina
*
“I Used to Love H.E.R. (Hearing Every Rhyme),” Common, 1994.
Broke
I go to steal my mom’s car and there’s already someone stealing it. I’ve been doing this since I was fourteen, taking my mom’s wheel in the middle of the night, driving around the city with Amir.
“You about to get fucked up,” I yell at the thief.
Next I’m staring down the barrel of his gun, a chrome tunnel to the other side, as he steals the car.
“He didn’t steal it,” my mom whispers. She winces while she talks, like every word hurts to say. “The bank owns it.”
“He stole it,” I say. “And all my CDs in the backseat too.”
“We’re bankrupt.”
“How?”
“If you don’t understand money, it grows wings and poof—it’s gone.”
“What does that even mean … being bankrupt?”
She’s sitting in the La-Z-Boy she never gets up from. Her sadness bolts her to the chair like the Death Row Records logo. She’s paralyzed like how my grandfather was. She’s faded too, high as a kite, eyes glazed like shiny marbles. White paste in the creases of her mouth like she’s been talking way too long. She doesn’t say much, though. Pill bottles, Diet Coke, empty Häagen-Dazs containers, and bills form rings around her like Saturn. TV on—
Cops
as usual. Every night,
Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you
. That shit creeps me out. Makes me think about Uzi. Maybe it makes her think about Uzi too? Maybe that’s why she watches? I see Uzi in her shattered face.
Her purse is like CVS, a blur of brown plastic bottles with X’s and Z’s. She’s got a fistful of pills, all fruity colors like Wild Berry Skittles.
Yo, this ngh named D-rugs, my moms dates him
Swear to God I hate him, if I could I would break him
*
“It means we’re broke, Daudi.” She pops the orange pill.
“I’m not Daahoud, Mom.” She doesn’t respond, just looks me over all floaty-eyed.
“What about Dad?”
“He’s bankrupt too … and in trouble with the IRS.” Red.
How can people who’ve been working their whole lives be broke? How can people who’ve been struggling their whole lives still be struggling? Is this what my dad means when he says the struggle continues? But when does it end? Something’s off about this picture. Fuck this broke-ass picture.
“I know, Daudi,” she says, like I’m my brother. She keeps calling me that lately. “When it rains it pours.” Purple. She’s crying without tears. “When you grow up hungry,” she says, “you promise yourself you’ll never be hungry again.”
“I promise to get us out of this,” I say.
“I know, Daudi.”
“It’s me, Ma, Malo,” I try to correct her. But she’s fading out now like the dope fiends who wash cars on Broad and Godfrey. “I’ma get us out of this, Mom.”
“I know, Daudi.”
Dear Carole,
I’ve never seen Malo so angry. He’s slamming things. His cheeks are puffy. I ask his coach if something happened. He says that “they lost” but that “Malo played well.”
I ask Malo, “What happened?” He doesn’t say anything but I can feel him respond.
“I know that you lost the game but I heard you played well.” I feel his body hiccup, as if to say, How could I play well if my team lost? I continued, “Sometimes we lose, but if we try our best, that is all we can do.” That got a rise out of him. He turned over and looked at me and said in a stern voice, “We lost!”
I know what he means: I lost, Mom, and I don’t ever want to lose again! I wasn’t going to get much further with “as long as you give it your best.”
Losing isn’t an option for Malo and it hurt. I understand that for Malo, losing was akin to something that I have never experienced. He was upset at himself because he felt that he could have saved the game and he didn’t. He
was upset that an event that involved him had not gone well. Never mind his teammates; he had lost and right now that was all that mattered.
Losing isn’t the flip side of winning for Malo. It is all or it simply isn’t. From the very beginning of his life, it was win by any means necessary. If I tapped him lightly, he responded more forcibly just to make sure if it were combat, I would know that he was ready. Where does he get that? If he fought with Daudi and he was losing, he would change the rules so that Daudi was punished. I’m the unwitting foil in the Malo book of rules. Win at any cost. He will go for the jugular and not think anything about it. When I finally wise up to his tricks, he is not repentant and is already on to bigger and better things. Malo has always been fearless. I pray that this quality doesn’t get him into trouble later on in his life.
God, give me strength.
Amina
*
“D Rugs,” Cam’ron, 1998.
A Hunnit Knuckles
Ted hollers, “These are the Thug Life codes all UPK members shall live and die by.” We’re huddled in the parking lot behind Cardinal Dougherty High School, under a big gray sky smoky with overcast.
The whole crew—like a hunnit knuckles—rushes me and Amir like a sandstorm.
“One: You got three options: (a) get rich, (b) get sent to jail, or (c) get killed.”
I catch a punch to the back of my head. “UPK!” they keep shouting. I squint up at the silver overcast sky, then trip into Amir—we swing on everything moving.
“Two: Your word is your bond.”
A dozen flying fists landing everywhere like hail.
“Three: One crew’s rat is every crew’s rat. Snitches get stitches. We don’t talk to police. No fish ever got caught with its mouth shut.”
I bust a lip—then get mine bust … head shots like tambourines on Sundays.
Gotta put you on your ass to see what it does to you
When you stand up and see that I’m just showin love to you
*
“Four: Money over bitches. Chasing bitches, you’ll run out of money. But chasing money, you’ll never run out of bitches.”
Stumbling backward … me and Amir, back to back, sucking air before we go buck …
“Five: No slinging in schools … Slinging to little children or having little children slinging is against the Code.”
Hooks and haymakers.
“Six: In unity, there is strength!”
Uppercuts, crosses, and chaos.
“Seven: The boys in blue don’t run nothing—we do! We control the hood and make it safe for squares.”
Blood flies from my nose.
“Eight: No slinging to pregnant sisters. That’s baby killing and therefore genocide!”
I’m falling into different-colored rooms—orange/red/purple/black.
“Nine: Know your target, who’s the real enemy … Civilians are not a target and should be spared in hood warfare.”
A body shot takes me to my knees. “UPK!” Amir’s blood in my eye.
“Ten: Harm to babies and old people will not be forgiven.”
Timb boots stomping me like a welcome mat.
“Eleven: No rape.”
I ball up, knees to forehead … and then I don’t feel any pain anymore.
“Twelve: Respect brothers and sisters if they respect themselves.”
I tackle a body, land on my feet, and swing for the hills.
“Thirteen: No shooting at parties.”
Nothing but air … everyone moves away … I cough up gravel and blood. A great big bear hug.
“Fourteen: Know the Code. Be a real ngh. Be down with the Code of Thug Life.”
I fight out of the hug … keep swinging … punching, kicking, grabbing, tackling … they’re trying to get me to stop but I won’t, fuck that, I’m out for blood … I swing … swing … keep fighting and fuckin fighting until they’re all piled on top of me and I can’t move.
“It’s all love,” they say. “It’s over, young buck! You did it.”
I keep going … keep swinging like my life depends on it.
Later, Scoop tells me my heart is bigger than my chest.
“One more Code. Fifteen: Protect yourself at all times.”
Scoop puts a .22-caliber Beretta in my palm.
It’s heavy in my hands. I marvel at it. I feel like Pac in
Juice
or maybe Pacino in
Scarface
. Nino in
New Jack
. Everybody else but me. I wonder if I can use this in my nightmares, use it to blow back evil. I think about the cops, the robber, the repo man. Fear melts in the palm of my hand.
I’m a lyrical destructor, don’t make me buck ya
Because I’m a wild muhfucka
†
“Is it loaded?”
“No use otherwise.”
Some Type of Way
My stomach feels like a dishrag. Tongue like a balloon in my mouth. Eyes unbuttoned. Jaw weeping. Even the sky bleeds as the sun sets over Nia’s crib. She lives on Stenton Ave. across the street from MLK High School.
“But why?” she asks me, patting my face with an ice pack. I’m in her room. It’s baby blue and has stuffed animals all over her bed like
Jumanji
.
“ ’Cause,” I say slow.
“ ’Cause what?” She wipes my face.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know why. Maybe I did it because Uzi’s gone and UPK are like my big brothers now. Or because Amir wanted to do it too. Or for protection. Or to piss Pops off. Or because I just don’t give a fuck anymore. Or maybe there is no why.
“ ’cause, whatever.”
She just shakes her head. “They beat you up. What type of—”
“Nah, we got jumped in, plus we fucked them up too.”
“I guess,” she says, rolling her eyes, “I don’t see the point if they’re supposed to be your friends.”
Nia is like fresh water. She has me feeling some type of way.
“You love that bitch?” Ryan asked me the other day.
I almost ripped his head off. “She ain’t no bitch. Chill with that … and yeah, I’m feelin her, so fall back.”
I just stare at her, stare at her like she’s the most precious piece of artwork in the Philly Museum of Art. Her skin is silky and shiny like the outside of a bubble. Each one of her eyelashes shows and curls into forever.
“Look at your little peach fuzz,” she says, laughing, touching my bruised chin. She has a smile that stops at nothing.
Her mom’s at work—she’s all mine.
She kisses me, her lips softer than a whisper. I can feel my heart beating in my dick, stone stiff. My hands take over like they’re possessed. I play her collarbone like a harmonica.
We fuck like our lives depend on it, like we’re all we have, and I think it’s true.
We’re lying on her bed, watching the ceiling fan make circles in the dark. Her neck, smooth and warm, resting on my bicep in perfect tilt.
“What’s the craziest thing you ever did?” I ask her.
Her eyes roll back in thought.
“I know.”
“What?”
“Fall in love with you.”
“But you don’t even know me like that to be falling in love.”
“I know,” she says, getting back on top of me. “That’s why it’s so crazy … Did you know that love causes the same chemical reaction in the brain as insanity?”
I think about that for a minute—love and insanity, beauty and the beast.
“Crazy.”
MALO
Scoop hands me a frosty forty of OE. I hit it, then put it on my swollen face like an ice pack. It’s all big and awkward, like a traffic cone.
I look down 5th Street: little girls with braids and colorful Venus Williams barrettes jumping rope fast. Little boys juking in the middle of the street, playing roughhouse, shooting at a bottomless black crate tied to a phone pole. Sirens whine in the distance.
