‘Get off the bus if you don’t have any money,’ said an old white-head church lady sitting in one of the handicapped seats.
Saiquan hated when people didn’t know how to shut their damn mouths and mind their own damn business.
‘Why don’t you shut up and mind your own damn business?’ he said.
‘Who you sayin’ shut up to?’ the old woman said, pointing her cane at him. ‘I’ll shut
yo’
ass up with this cane ‘cross yo’ head, boy.’
Other people on the bus started yelling shit at Saiquan.
‘You gonna get off my bus or you want me to call the cops?’ the driver said, acting even more like that motherfucker Lawrence.
Saiquan wanted to grab the bus driver around his neck and squeeze till the man shut up for good, but instead he said, ‘Fuck you, man,’ and turned and went down the steps.
He went to a bodega up the block and got change for two dollars. Back at the bus stop he had to wait another twenty motherfucking minutes till another bus came. He got on and walked right to the back and sat down with his legs spread far apart, taking up three seats, and stared blankly out the window.
At the One Hundred Third Street stop, he got off and headed toward his building in the Breukelen Houses. Except for the six and a half years he’d been away, he’d lived at Breukelen his whole life. Growing up he lived with his mother, father, and two sisters in a two-bedroom apartment. When he was nine, his old man tried to rob a liquor store for crack money and shot the owner’s wife in the head. He got sent away for life but got killed two years later by some brother at Attica. The same year his father died something went wrong with his mama’s diabetes and she died too. He and his sisters went to live with his grandma in another apartment at Breukelen, and then Saiquan went away to juvie for dealing when he was sixteen and his grandma died. His sister Shanella met a guy and moved to South Carolina, and his sister Latisha moved to Philly. Saiquan came back to Brooklyn and lived in his grandma’s apartment alone for a while, and then his girl, Desiree, moved in with him. They had a kid, then Saiquan got busted for dealing rock and got sent away to Riker’s. He got fucked in the ass a bunch of times and joined up with the Crips for protection. When he got out two years later, he and Desiree had another kid. He was dealing for the Crips, making sick-ass money, but he blew most of it on rock and clothes and other bullshit. Then he got picked up for dealing again, and this time they sent him way the fuck upstate to Southport. When he got out he was twenty-seven and decided he was sick of this going-to-jail-all-the-time bullshit and was gonna go straight. So he quit the Crips and started looking for work. He had a job for a few months working off the books on a construction site, but then he got laid off and he couldn’t find any other work since. Desiree had another kid, and they were packed into a one-bedroom apartment. They were behind on all their bills, and the bitches at Cablevision and Con Ed said they were gonna turn off the cable and electric if they didn’t get paid soon. Desiree got a four-hundred-and-fifty dollar welfare check every month, but the rent was four hundred ninety-five bucks alone. They hadn’t paid rent in three months, and just last week the man came and told them if they didn’t pay it soon they were gonna get evicted.
Saiquan knew he could take care of all his money problems easy if he started dealing again. Before he got busted that last time he was taking in a thousand a week, sometimes double or triple that shit, and the niggas in the Crips were always asking him to get back with them. If he didn’t have to worry about bullshit jail, he would’ve gone back to dealing in no time. But them parole board motherfuckers warned him that the next time he went away it was gonna be for some serious time, and that white judge downtown told him that same shit at his sentencing. And his PO, Tony Italian-something, was always reminding him how strict the judge would be the next time, how he could go away for ten years just for getting caught selling a bag of pot. And now, with three kids and his dawg depending on him to provide and shit, he couldn’t take a chance of going away again, especially for no ten years.
So after Saiquan got fired from the construction job, he’d tried to find a job on another site, but most of them had all that white, union shit going on. Then he heard about people getting jobs in customer service - just sitting by the phone all day, waiting for it to ring - and that shit sounded good to him - beat the fuck outta working his ass off in ninety-degree weather, carrying cinder blocks and pouring cement, working like a damn slave for them damn white, racist, motherfucking foremen from Staten Island anyway. So he went to an interview at an agency in Manhattan. He knew he was in trouble when they handed him some papers to fill out. Saiquan had dropped out of high school in tenth grade, but by that time he’d already been left back four times and he didn’t know how to read or write. He could make out most of the sounds and words, but when he tried to put them into sentences he always got messed up. He could read most of the form they gave him, and he filled in his name and address and that shit, but there was a lot of shit in the middle and the bottom he had to leave blank.
They made him sit around for a long time, like he was at the damn Medicaid clinic. Finally they called his name and he went inside. An uppity-looking white bitch wearing a lot of jewelry and a diamond ring - shit probably cost ten thousand bucks - shook his hand and told him to sit down.
Then, looking at Saiquan’s form, the white bitch said, ‘You didn’t answer all of the questions.’
‘Yeah,’ Saiquan said, looking away.
‘Why didn’t you answer all of the questions?’
‘Didn’t see it there.’ Saiquan wished the lady would just shut the fuck up and give him the damn job.
White Bitch made a face, then started asking Saiquan a bunch of questions like: ‘What was your highest year of completed education?’ ‘Who were your last three employers?’ ‘What is your desired salary?’ ‘How many words a minute do you type?’ Lot of shit like that. Saiquan answered the questions the best he could, but White Bitch didn’t seem to like that the construction job was the only real job he’d ever had, or that he wanted to make fifty dollars an hour, or that he could type one hundred words a minute. The only question Saiquan lied about was the typing one. The truth was, he didn’t know how to use a typewriter, or one of them computer Internet shits neither. He figured one hundred words a minute would be enough, but she must’ve wanted to hear more than that.
Saiquan hoped White Bitch was through asking questions, but she had one more.
‘There seems to be a big gap between the time you finished - I mean stopped going to high school, and the time you had the construction job. What were you doing during that period?’
‘I was away,’ Saiquan said.
‘Away? What do you mean, away?’
White Bitch looked at him for a few more seconds, then said, ‘You mean you were in prison?’
‘Yeah.’
White people were so damn stupid sometimes.
White Bitch shook her head, looking at the form again, then said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Harrington. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.’
‘What?’ Saiquan said. ‘You don’t got no jobs for no ex-cons? That shit’s discrimination.’
‘Your prison record isn’t the issue,’ White Bitch said. ‘Actually, we would never discriminate against you for your time in prison. But without a high school diploma or any prior office experience we just can’t place you with any of our clients.’
‘How’m I supposed to get office experience, you won’t give me no job?’
‘I’m really very sorry,’ White Bitch said, then stood up and gave him a look like she was thinking,
Get the fuck out my office right now, nigger.
Saiquan remained seated and said, ‘Yo, so why’d you axe me all ‘em questions, bustin’ my ass, when you know you ain’t even gonna give me no job?’
‘Excuse me?’ White Bitch said, like he’d just grabbed her ass. ‘Yo, you heard me. Why you gotta do that shit? You know you got no job for me soon as you see my black ass walk in here.’
‘You’re not qualified,’ White Bitch said. ‘Without a GEDI can’t—’
‘You knew I didn’t have no motherfuckin’ GED, man. You seen my damn paper, so don’t gimme no more that damn bullshit.’
Now White Bitch looked scared, like she thought Blacky was gonna rape her or some shit. She told him to leave her office or she was gonna call security.
Saiquan left the office, slamming doors and cursing at all the white people he saw.
Riding the L train home, Saiquan decided,
Fuck it.
He was sick of white people always telling him there ain’t no jobs for brothers who ain’t got no GEDs. Meanwhile, how the fuck was he supposed to get a GED when he didn’t know how to read? And even if he learned how to read better, how was he supposed to start spending his time going to damn GED classes when he had a wife and kids and all them bills? Naw, he couldn’t waste his time forever. He’d look for a job for another couple weeks, but if he didn’t find one he’d just have to get back with his boys in the Crips, that was all.
Saiquan passed the playground and the basketball court, where kids were still playing even though it was dark out, with only lamppost light, and you could hardly see the rim. When the kids saw Saiquan some said, ‘Yo, Saiquan!’ ‘Saiquan!’ ‘What up, Saiquan?’ and others just nodded at him silently, giving props to an ex-gangsta who’d spent time away. Saiquan nodded back at them without smiling or stopping.
Since Saiquan got out of lockup, he was used to getting respect from the kids in the projects. He knew he was their role model and shit and they wanted to grow up to be just like him, just like when he was a kid he used to want to grow up to be like the dealers and the gang kids, especially the ones who had done a lot of time. When Saiquan was a kid, dreaming of playing in the NBA, his real hero wasn’t Shaq or M.J. - it was Tyrone, the head of a local gang called the Breukelen Boyz. Tyrone had been away five times, the first time for murder when he was eleven years old, and he wore the finest leather coat, a big Run-DMC-style gold necklace, diamond earrings. He had motherfucking guns too -Kel-Tecs, Tec-os, Hi-Points, everything. He even had an Uzi he sometimes brought out and let kids hold. Tyrone liked Saiquan, talking to him all the time, making the other kids jealous. One time Tyrone took Saiquan up on the roof of the building - taught him how to smoke crack, then let Saiquan play with his Hi-Point, taking shots into the air with real bullets. Saiquan knew right then that all that fucking school, getting educated, being like Mike bullshit wasn’t for him; he wanted to be like his man Tyrone.
Saiquan entered his building and waited for the elevator. It wasn’t coming, so he headed up the stairs, stepping around crack vials and mouse shit. As he got higher, near the third floor, he heard a woman screaming for help, trapped in the elevator. He went up to the doors, recognizing the voice. It was Nadera Wallace.
Nadera was old now, like thirty, and had two kids, but ten years ago, damn, she was the flyest honey in the whole Breukelen Houses. She used to wear them real tight jeans, like the ones the Spanish girls wore, and them little shirts with her big titties all pushed up, and she did her makeup good too, putting on lots of shiny pink ho lipstick and straightening her hair Brandy style. Saiquan never boned Nadera, never even got close, but he always wanted to.
Nadera was pushing the alarm button, screaming, ‘Get me outta here! Get me the fuck outta here! Help! Help!’
‘Chill, y’all, chill. It’s me - Saiquan. I got ya, baby. I got ya.’
‘Saiquan, you gotta get me the fuck outta here right now! I been trapped in here an hour already and I got my kids home alone waitin’!’
‘Why don’t you call up the Chinks? Order some fried dumplings in there.’
‘Stop playin’ ‘round and help me. My kids is alone - big one can’t watch the little one all night!’
‘A’ight, just chill. I’m goin’ home right now. I’ll call the company and they get you out.’
‘Don’t call the damn company. They won’t do nothin’ till mornin’, and I ain’t waitin’ here all motherfiickin’ night. Call nine-one-one.’
‘All right. Just stay cool.’
‘You get yo’ ass locked in some damn elevator, see how fuckin’ cool you stay. You better call nine-one-one right now, Saiquan. I got my kids home alone, waitin’ for dinner. Please, Saiquan, check on my kids. Tell ‘em what’s goin’ on.’
‘A’ight. I’ll call right now and they’ll get you out. Don’t worry ‘bout nothin’.’
‘Thank you, Saiquan. Thank you so much, baby.’
Saiquan continued up the stairs, taking them two at a time, hoping Nadera was making herself nice and comfy in there. The firemen would come to the projects quicker than the elevator company, but they’d still take their sweet time.
On the seventh floor Saiquan, breathing hard and sweating in his winter coat, opened the door to his apartment. The TV was blasting, Trey was chasing Felicia around with a cap gun near the bunk beds where they slept, and the whole place was hot and smelled like burned fish. Desiree was trying to feed Tanya in the high chair, trying to force the spoon into the baby’s mouth.
With the TV noise and the kids screaming, Desiree didn’t hear Saiquan when he came in, but she turned around when the door slammed and said, ‘Where the fuck you been?’
‘I told you I was goin’ to the hospital, visit D.’
‘You didn’t tell me nothin’. You said you was out job huntin’ and be home at five.’
The baby wasn’t opening her mouth, and the apple sauce, or whatever, was going all over her face.
‘I told you I had to visit D. You just don’t listen, that’s all.’
Saiquan took off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair, wondering how shit with Desiree had gotten so fucked-up.
‘Walk in the door, can’t even hang up your coat. And where the hell’s the milk and diapers at?’
Saiquan remembered Desiree telling him to stop at the store on his way home.
‘Ah, shit.’
‘I told you you gonna forget. Now the kids ain’t got no milk to drink and we only got one diaper left. Why you always gotta be so stupid?’
Trey and Felicia ran past the high chair. Desiree slapped Trey on top of her head as he ran past, chasing his little sister, and screamed, ‘I told you to sit yo’ asses down and watch the damn TV!’