Chameleon (12 page)

Flashes of the dream popped in and out of my head as Mama drove me to Auntie’s. Splashes of yellow mixed with each of the girls’ faces while skin-colored body parts paraded through my brain. The harder I tried to remember what happened, the harder it was to remember anything. I gave up by the time Mama dropped me off, but when Lorenzo asked the daily question, Marisol’s hair blew across my brain like a wind-whipped flag.

“I love playing ball, ’Dre, but let’s switch it up today,” I heard myself say. I didn’t even know what I meant; I only knew I wanted to do something different.

“What you mean ‘switch it up’?” Lorenzo asked.

His dark hamlike fists scavenged through his early morning bag of bacon-and-sour-cream chips. Crumbs flew out of his mouth as the question escaped his lips.

My shoulders shrugged as the question entered my ears. “Man, I don’t know. We’ve played ball every day this week,” I said. “It’s Friday. I’m just up for a change.” My lap disappeared as I stood and dusted off my cinnamon-bun crumbs.

There’s always one point in the summer where everything starts speeding up. Somebody goes away to visit family, and before you know it, school’s back in.

“That’s cool. I don’t care what we do. I just don’t wanna hang around here all day trying to figure it out,” Lorenzo said. “Anybody got any money?”

We reached into our pockets. A pair of rabbit ears popped out of Lorenzo’s pants. I was empty too. But Andre and Trent pulled out some wadded-up bills that we counted.

“I got four dollars,” Andre said.

“I got a five-spot,” Trent said.

“Nine bucks. That’s nine more than yesterday,” I said.

“Anybody thinking what I’m thinking?” Trent asked.

“What? That nine dollars divided by four knuckleheads is two dollars and change each?” Lorenzo said.

“No, fool! We got enough money to hit the movies. They got a two-dollar special at the theater down on Slauson,” Trent replied.

“Aw, man, you mean the one that smells like fried fish?” Andre said, scrunching up his nose.

“Oh, yeah . . . they got a whole bunch of movies there, right?” I said.

“Yup. Mostly kung fu flicks. They got some horror movies and other stuff too. It’s early enough that we can pay our two bucks for one and then sneak in to see some others,” Trent added.

“Shoot, I’m always up for some Bruce. Stinky fish smells and all,” I said, then added, “WAAAA-TAAAA!” I bounced on my toes and brushed my thumb across my nose à la Bruce Lee.

“Oh, here we go!” Lorenzo said.

Billy Dee Williams’s eyes followed us from his poster as we peeled away from Pop’s. I don’t think there’s ever been a time when I didn’t see Billy Dee’s face at some liquor store urging me to buy Colt 45 —“crazy juice” as my father calls it.

As always, we took our shots at our trash can before we headed out.

Trent: “Three, two, one . . .” Brick. “Dang!”

Me: “Three, two, one . . .” Swish. “Oh, yeah!”

That’s the first one this week. Maybe this is my lucky day.

Andre: “Three, two, one . . .” Swish — of course.

Lorenzo: “Three, two . . .”

“
Agggghhhhhh!
Time’s up, fat boy . . . you lost the game!” Trent shouted.

Not with the “fat boy” already, Trent? We haven’t even done anything yet and . . .

“Don’t start with me, Trent. Not now. Don’t make me bag on that water head of yours,” Lorenzo said. His heels lifted off the glass-glittered concrete as he arced his trash into the basket.

“Swish! Lorenzo Thomas does it again, hitting the game-winning shot for the Los Angeles Lakers, giving them another championship!” Lorenzo said.

“Dang, Trent. Bricked again, huh? That’s all right. I understand. That head of yours keeps you off-balance,” he added, slapping a thick mitt over Trent’s shoulder.

Lorenzo stretched his arms to the sky, making his belly button play peekaboo, then said, “Hold up. Color check.”

Almost forgot. After yesterday I had made sure I was cool this morning.

Lorenzo: Dark green sweatpants. Matching dark green jacket zippered over a faded yellow T-shirt. White Adidas with black stripes. Cool.

Andre: Dark purple shorts. Plain white T-shirt. Plain white socks drooping low over white Ponys with black stripes. Cool.

Trent: Gray shorts. Pale orange T-shirt with some funky logo on it. White socks and white low-top Stars. Cool.

Me: Jet-black shorts. Gray T-shirt. White socks with black rings. And of course, white All Stars with the left side chopped lower than the right. Super cool.

“We Kool and the Gang?” Lorenzo looked to each of us. “Then let’s go.”

Trent bounced a beat with the ball, leading the way as we headed west on the DMZ. I dusted off my crotch again and flashes of yellow popped into my head. Man, what happened in that dream last night?

One thing I remember for sure was waking up with wet pajama bottoms. Not soaking wet like just out of the wash. Just wet in the crotch and sticky. Dang. I hope the sheets won’t smell. That’s the last thing I need is for Mama to tell Dad I peed the bed like a little kid.

“Ain’t that right, Shawn?”

Somebody call my name?

Trent said, “Shawn, you even listening? I said, ain’t that right?”

We had stopped. Where were we?

Trent stared at me from the curb with the ball on his hip. Andre stood next to him, shaking his head and saying, “No way!”

“Yes way! Bruce Lee could whup Jim Kelly any day!” Trent said. His tongue punched out Jim Kelly’s name like Bruce Lee smashing a wooden board.

“Hold up. Bruce is good but —” Andre started.

“Bruce is
good
? Bruce is the best! Period. End of discussion,” Trent said.

Are you kidding me? Bruce Lee? Jim Kelly? Who’s the best? Is that what we talking about? That’s easy.

“I gotta agree, ’Dre. Jim is one high-kicking, hard-punching, Afro-puffed brutha, but Bruce is the man. I mean, come on —
Fists of Fury
. . .
Enter the Dragon
. . .
Game of Death.
He kicks mucho behind in all them flicks,” I said.

Trent nodded in excited agreement. The light changed and cars slowed to a stop. A canary-yellow low-riding Impala driven by a slick-haired Mexican hit the hydraulics as we crossed. It bounced into the air as we bounced across the intersection.

Andre picked up his pace to follow Trent and yelled out: “Hold on. I’m telling you . . . Jim Kelly . . .”

On the other side, Lorenzo turned back toward the intersection and bounced his eyes in tune with the lowrider. Up-down. Up-down. Up-down.

“Man, if I had one of them, girls would be begging me for a ride. And I’d give ’em one,” Lorenzo said, before adding, “Man, would I give ’em a ride.”

His teeth were exposed in a devilish grin.

I could see a movie starting up in his eyes, him starring in the role of the bouncer with a carload of Janines fawning over him.

“Janine, huh?” I said.

The movie shut down and his eyes snapped back into reality. A look of shock replaced his grin.

“How’d you know?” he said.

“With you, ’Zo, how could I not know?” I said.

The grin crept back onto his face as he threw his right paw over my shoulder. “Shawnie-Shawn, Shawnie-Shawn, Shawnie-Shawn-Shawn-Shawn . . . my brutha from another mother — to the end. You know me only too well.”

“WE NEED TO MAKE A STOP,” Andre said.

His words bounced my attention from my imaginary painting on the clear blue sky to the reality of my surroundings. I was working on a portrait of Marisol, in profile, with her hair flowing over her shoulders, down her back, touching her butt. My mental paintbrush was shaping that cute little behind of hers in those tight Sergios she likes to wear when Andre spoke up, making me splash pink paint on her pedal pushers.

“We ain’t got time to be stopping. I wanna see at least two flicks, and you about to cut into that, Andre,” Trent said. He snatched the ball from Andre and rat-a-tatted a quick dribble low to the ground.

We stood on Andre’s street. A residential street. A quiet residential street. The only sounds to be heard came from our loud mouths and the rhythmic bounce of the ball.

“So, Andre, why we stopping at your house? You gonna give us something to eat? Maybe a little something-something for the flicks,” Lorenzo asked. His right hand circled his Buddha belly. His tongue circled his lips.

“Naw, man, my brother is supposed to be coming home today on leave, and I wanna see if he’s here yet,” Andre said.

“Man, you got plenty of time to see your brother. You depriving us of serious ‘WAAA-TAAA’ time. We ain’t got time for this,” Trent said. His hands flew onto his hips.

He looked like a kid getting ready to throw a tantrum in the supermarket because his mama wouldn’t buy him his favorite cereal: “But, Mooooooomm, I want Cocoa Puffs, not Choco Puffs. That ain’t Cocoa Puffs. Cocoa Puffs got the little bird on ’em. That got a big blue-and-white stripe on it, and everybody know the blue-and-white stripe means it’s plain wrap. Moooooom, I don’t want no plain-wrap cereal . . . It taste nasty.
I want Cocoa Puffs!”

It looked like he was gonna start kicking and screaming. Instead, his body and hands started shaking, and he lost control of the ball. Lorenzo covered his mouth, hoping to cover his laughter.

“What you laughing at,
fat boy
?” Trent said.

Again with the “fat boy”? Now I know why Passion is always calling him “thickhead.” Does he think before he speaks?

“Oh, no, you did not . . .” Lorenzo started.

I stepped between the two of them, and Lorenzo backed off. He was used to this. Andre stepped in, stole the ball, and bounced toward his house.

“Come on, Trent. You know Andre only sees his brother once in a while,” I said.

“Fine, Shawn. Take his side. I don’t care. I’m outta here,” Trent said.

He started in the direction of the theater but stopped. Lorenzo took off to follow Andre. That left me to talk some sense into Trent’s thick head — as usual. He does this all the time, and I’m always the one waiting for him. Maybe it’s because I’m an only child. Maybe it’s because I’m used to this kind of nonsense with Auntie. Maybe it’s because I know he would do the same for me.

“Trent, come on. The faster we go see his brother, the faster we can go to the movies.”

A busted lamppost loomed over me and Trent and our conversation on the corner. Trent and the block were silent until a heavy door slammed and a dog bark-barked. Lucky’s yellow teeth snapped back into my memory.

“Come on . . . I’ll tell you what I told Mama about my sneakers.”

We stepped inside Andre’s house to find Lorenzo searching for the kitchen.

“Dang, Andre . . . all these rooms and no kitchen?”

Andre didn’t answer because he was searching the house for his brother, calling his name between door slams. All of a sudden it got quiet, then we heard, “Hey, man, close the door!”— followed by a slam.

Lorenzo ran out of the kitchen and joined me and Trent in the living room. Three pairs of eyes looked to the rear of the house, where the sound came from.

“Sorry” echoed through the hallway.

Andre came running out and huffed, “Let’s go, guys. Quick!”

Lorenzo looked at me. I looked at Trent. Trent looked at Lorenzo. The three of us looked at Andre. He looked embarrassed.

“My brother’s here. He’s just a little . . . ahhhh . . . busy at the moment,” Andre said.

“Whatchu mean? Busy doing what?” Trent said.

Lorenzo’s belly bounced with laughter. “Not what . . . who. Right, ’Dre?” he said, poking Andre in the side.

The devilish grin once again crept onto Lorenzo’s face. He took a step in the direction of the door slam, then went up on his toes like Bugs Bunny does when he wants to sneak up on Elmer Fudd. Andre grabbed his arm and whispered: “I said,
let’s go
!”

“Aw, come on, ’Dre. Is your brother in there — you know — doing his thing?” Lorenzo asked. “Don’t you wanna at least listen? I know if it was my brother . . .”

“Shhhhhhhhh!” Andre whispered.

Lorenzo must have planted the seed of curiosity because the ice of embarrassment on Andre’s face melted. He put a finger to his lips, then led the way as we inched down a mahogany wood-paneled hallway toward our destination: a closed door with sound coming from behind. We passed a bathroom on our right and a bedroom on our left. If the door opened, we would hide in one of them. Within seconds we reached our target and pressed our ears close to listen.

We looked like a scene out of the Three Stooges, only there was four of us. Lorenzo is the tallest, so he stood and listened up top. Trent is the shortest, so he knelt low to the ground. Me and Andre fought for position in between. Once everybody stopped “shushing” each other, we heard what was going on. Bass beats bumped the blinds on the windows, muffling the sound behind the door.

“I can’t hear nothing,” Trent said from down low.

“Wait for this car to go by,” Lorenzo said.

“Shhhhhh,” me and Andre whispered.

The bass disappeared and we heard everything the closed door had to offer.

The bed bumping against the wall. Sheets rustling. Fingernails scratching wood. Wheels squeaking across the wooden floor. Moans. Groans. Some “oh God’s” here. Some “yeah baby’s” there. Some “yes-yes-yeses” in between. And then: silence.