Texts from Bennett (23 page)

Leshaun looked back at him, mouth half-open, eyes squinting into space, deeply ruminating, processing the new information he was given.

What anticipation led me to believe would be Leshaun’s witty retort simply came out as: “Aw, shit. It
is
paralegal, huh? My bad. Damn.”

I took a glance around the neighborhood, hoping nobody heard this ridiculous conversation. Nothing is worse than someone who is wrong, being corrected by someone else who is wrong, and just conceding.

“This playa here is Kino,” Leshaun said, pointing to the kid with the spider tattoo. “And this fat mothafucka is Bolo,” he said,
pointing to a chubby black kid, no older than sixteen, who promptly gave me a closefisted pound.

Leshaun leaned against the hood of the station wagon, with his pants sagging off his waist, blowing big clouds of menthol smoke into the sky. There was a tracking device of some sort wrapped around his ankle. I didn’t ask. I’m sure he was breaking the law.

“What are you guys doing tonight?” I asked.

Leshaun whispered into Bennett’s ear. Bennett shook his head in declination and looked at my shoes.

“Nothin’ much,” Bennett said.

“What’s up? Why did you shake your head no?” I said.

“Come on!” Leshaun said, looking at my cousin. “Just ask him, Bino!”

“Ask me what?”

Bennett shrugged his shoulders. Leshaun looked at me, then Bennett, then me, then Bennett. “Man, fine. I’ll ask him. Buncha pussy-ass mothafuckas. Daaayumn!” he finally snapped.

“Ask me what?” I repeated.

Bennett reached into the hatchback of the station wagon and pulled out what appeared to be a silver beer keg shell.

“Is that a keg?” I asked.

“Yup,” Leshaun answered. “We dressed up like cops and confiscated it from a high school party down the street.”

I began laughing uncontrollably. “You what?” I said.

“Yeah, we put on cop costumes and rolled up into a house party. Them white kids was so scared and cryin’ and shit. We said, ‘Give us the keg of beer and we won’t tell yo mothafuckin’ parents.’ And they did.”

“Yeah, but fat fuck over there got the wrong keg. This one is fuckin’ empty!” Bennett said, pointing to the Mexican kid.

I started laughing even harder.

Picking up on this, Leshaun pressed on. “Yeah, nigga. I’m Officer Spicoli. I’m named after that white nigga Sean Penn in
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
.”

I started laughing harder than I had ever laughed in my life.

“Yo, Mac, so will you buy us beer? We tryn’ to kick it tonight for
real. This lil’ buster got fired, so we goin’ in tonight!” Leshaun said. “We gonna celebrate his first morning off in weeks. We just don’t got beer ’cause our heist got all fucked up.”

Ahh, the good ole days of finding adults to buy you beer. It took me back . . .

“Hmmm. Where would you guys drink this at?” I asked.

“We just gonna go up to the park,” said Bennett. “We ain’t gonna cause no trouble.”

“At the park? Yes you are. You’re going to get arrested like a bunch of idiots.”

“Nigga, I’ll beat a cop’s ass,” said Bennett.

“No, you
won’t,
” I said, quietly staring at the boys. I was tempted to just crawl into bed, sober and heartbroken, so I could go to sleep early and numb the current emotional trauma I was afflicted with through deep, depressed slumber. But, I also knew that hanging around friends, especially wild friends, who lack the ability to be polite, rational, or intelligent, even, could inspire an enthusiastically spirited version of me to emerge. And I needed that shit!

“You guys are drinking with me tonight,” I proclaimed. “I should be intelligent and go to sleep, but the fact that you guys dressed up like police just to get beer is fucking amazing. Plus, I hate all the yuppies in this school district.”

“The bitches was hot as fuck, nigga! I tried to holla at some blond cutie but she was all scurred of me and shit,” Leshaun said.

“My only question is . . . did they not notice you were in a station wagon?” I asked.

“Nope,” the boys all answered in unison.

“Okay, well let’s get fucked up,” I said, excitedly.

“Damn, Mac is gonna buy us beer
and
parlay! It’s about time your old ass got fucked up with us!” Leshaun said.

I really wasn’t thinking this out. I was tired and had no desire to party with these guys. But for some reason, in that particular span of four seconds, while my whims were throbbing and I was ignoring my need for sleep and relaxation, it sounded like something fun that could take my mind off things. Plus, you had to commend them. That shit is genius.

“What do you guys want? I’ll shoot up to the store and get it,” I said.

“Nah, just hop in, holmes,” Kino said, opening the passenger-side door of the station wagon. “I’ll drive.”

I got into Kino’s station wagon and the other four boys piled in the back. Kino turned the keys and backed out of my driveway, scraping his front bumper on the curb. The inside of the station wagon had a colorful stack of approximately fifty assorted air fresheners hanging off the automatic gearshift. There were Zig-Zag rolling papers, condom wrappers, beer cans, empty cigarette packages, and a picture of the Virgin Mary hanging off the rearview mirror.

We drove a few blocks away to Royal Liquor, one of the only places that stays open late on Sunday night. I grabbed us a couple thirty packs of beer and a liter of crappy vodka. The boys sat in the car arguing about which Hostess snack was gayer, Twinkies or CupCakes, and on the way back home, the night took a very big turn.

•

“Ay, Mac!” Leshaun said from the backseat.

“Yo?” I replied.

“Can we have some bitches over to your crib tonight?” Leshaun asked.

“Yeah! Let’s have bitches over!” Bennett said.

“Hell the fuck yeah!” Bolo said, slapping fives with Leshaun in the backseat.

“Come on, folk! Let us have some girls over!” Leshaun said.

“What girls?” I asked.

Bennett leaned his head over the seat. “Ever since Mercedes and me broke up, I got this new bitch,” he said. “Her name is Krystal. But she goes by Pistol Krystal.”

“Pistol Krystal?!?!” I gasped.

“Ay, dude! Tell Krystal to bring her boss. She Mac’s age. That bitch finer than a mothafucka!” Leshaun said.

Now, as a man, when another man, in any capacity, says to you that a girl is good-looking, by default you ultimately think she is too. You start to envision all of these attractive characteristics about her. So when Leshaun said, “That bitch finer than a mothafucka!” with enthusiasm and umph in his voice, I started to imagine an extremely good-looking female—a picture-perfect one who would love me, be loyal to me, and have incredible sex with me. I instantly went from torn and ambivalent about the evening to optimistic and excited.

“So she’s cute, Leshaun?” I said.

“Dude, I think she
bangin
’. She your age too. She their manager,” Leshaun said.

“Yeah, she sexy,” Bennett said, “She used to date one of them Chiefs players. They was together for a while and shit.”

Damn. This girl used to date a Kansas City Chiefs player? Those guys are professional football players. They get the best-looking women in the world. Could it be? Are my ignoramus cousin and his friends about to connect me with my first rebound from Harper?

“Look,” Bennett said, pulling his phone from his front pocket. “Krystal just texted me saying, ‘What are you doin’ tonight?’ ” Bennett declared.

“Ask if she’s with her boss,” I said.

“She is. They all just got off work and wanna kick it,” Bennett said.

Instantly my adrenaline levels spiked through the ceiling. I had a tight knot in my stomach. I couldn’t wait to meet this chick.

“Okay, give them directions. But let me make sure I like her manager before you try to hook me up!” I said. “Just tell her I’m single and wanna mingle.”

“Shut up, you old R-and-B-ass homo. Mothafucka said, ‘I’m single and wanna mingle.’ Fool you sound like a chubby secretary bitch drinkin’ a tiramisu martini at Applebee’s,” Leshaun said.

“Okay, I want to have sex. How’s that?”

“Better. Bennett, get it done,” Leshaun replied.

Bennett called and relayed the plan, and like that three girls were coming over. Two were teenagers, one was my age. This was fun. My spirit was thriving. There was so much mystery and so many good vibes in the air. I felt young again. We were going to have girls over, drink alcohol, and party.

We got to the house and went outside to my back patio to avoid bothering Lillian, who was asleep on the couch. I grabbed everyone a beer and tossed it to them. The night air was humid. Lightning bugs blinked and flew around. Moths smacked into the backyard’s lamp.

“God, you guys get a lot of girls, huh?” I asked.

Leshaun and Bennett both nodded. “Yeah, it’s all we do for real,” Leshaun said.

“I’m single now and can’t even get a date,” I said, half-laughing.

“How can’t you get girls being related to this bitch-ass nigga?” Leshaun said, pointing to Bennett.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Dude, this nigga is the fuckin’
king
of pullin’ bitches,” Leshaun screamed!

“Girls love this lil’ dude, G. He get all type of girls. Eighteen-year-olds. Eighty-nine-year-old bitches. They all love him!” Kino said.

“He wrote a list of rules, man!” Leshaun said.

Leshaun reached over to Bennett and slapped him on the back of his neck.

“So I heard,” I said. “It’s honestly kinda shocking. A kid half my age has an entire list of rules on how to date women.”

“Ain’t he showed them to you?” Leshaun asked.

“No. Well, he showed me a tiny bit of them. I haven’t had a chance to try them out,” I said.

“Nigga, show your fuckin’ heart-broke-ass cousin the list so he
can stop mopin’ around like a lil’ bitch all the time!” Leshaun said and pounded his beer.

“So who’s Pistol Krystal?” I asked, refocusing the subject away from me.

“She bad as fuck,” Bennett said. “She work over there at Sonic.”

“Wait, what? Sonic? This girl works at Sonic?” I said. Suddenly, I was worried.

“Yeah, man. She a waitress,” Bennett said.

“No. Not Krystal. This other girl! You guys are setting me up with the manager of a Sonic?”

“Fuck is wrong with Sonic, nigga? Sonic got good-ass Coney dogs!” Leshaun said.

“Yeah. You racist against Sonic, mothafucka?” Bennett said.

Kino was so high that all he could come up with was, “Yeah! Sonic is . . . fuck . . . damn.”

I didn’t respond. For the next fifteen to twenty minutes, I sat there watching the boys pass around a grape Swisher Sweets Cigarillo stuffed to the edges with pot, while laughing and discussing highly informative topics like guns, writing to friends in jail, and robbing banks. Every one of the boys was covered finger to toe in homemade ghetto tattoos. None of them opened their eyes very much, and they all possessed a bitter, mean scowl on their faces. They were getting ready to try to impress the girls.

Bennett’s flip phone rang. “Wassup?” he said, answering it. “Aiight, coo. Be right there.”

From the backyard I could hear car doors slam and girls laughing in the front yard as Bennett got up and went into the house. The suspense was eating at me, but I took a few drinks and sat back, relaxing. This was
my
house. That had to count for something, right? Hopefully this girl wasn’t hideous.

The back door opened. Bennett walked out first, holding his beer. Behind him were three ladies.

“Hey, y’all!” said the first one. “I’m Krystal.”

“
Pistol Krystal!
What up, girl!” said Leshaun.

“Hey, boo, how are you!” said Krystal, kissing Leshaun on his cheek.

Krystal was about nineteen, tall, slender, and had dirty-blond hair. She had on a white T-shirt and black sweatpants, with flip-flops on her feet. Post-work attire. She was cute. Her face was innocent even through the dark eye shadow and glittery lipstick. She shook my hand and sat on Bennett’s lap. I had no idea why her nickname was Pistol Krystal.

The next girl walked out and waved. She was holding a forty-ounce of St. Ides beer. She was a short Latina girl in overalls, with black hair pulled back in a bun. “I’m Angel,” she announced to nobody, really.

Leshaun grabbed her hand and pulled her close to him to sit in the empty chair next to him. “What up, love, I’m Leshaun aka Loony.” Leshaun made his hand into a letter C, yup, to signify that he was a Crip. He literally introduced himself to this girl with a gang sign. She smiled and seemed to enjoy it, for whatever reason.

And then there
she
was. Female number three: about five foot five, with curly blond hair, tightened close to her head by a headband. Her body was
stacked
. She was in jeans and a halter top. Her skin was buttery and tan. She smelled like lotion and a subtle spritz of citrusy perfume. “Hey, I’m Sabrina,” she said.

She was way prettier than expected.

At first.

“Have a seat!” I said, pulling a chair out for her. I was so cynical about what I was going to end up thinking of her that my expectations seemed to sink to unnaturally low levels, which she effortlessly exceeded.

“Awww. Thanks, baby!” she said, leaning against me, thigh to thigh under the table. I tuned the rest of the guys out and looked at Sabrina. There was a sexual buzz already pulsing through us.