Authors: Marcus Burke
This little trip was seriously fucking up my flow. Basketball season was coming and I needed to be at Kelly Park grinding
out on the blacktop, getting my hustle on. At Kelly Park I get busy running fools’ pockets, playing one-on-one. Ain’t no need to chase this bum-nigga around is what I wanted to tell her. As I walked up to the car I could already see Ma’s head bopping to the beat. When I opened the door, “God is great! And greatly to be praised!
God is great! And greatly to be praised!
Sing unto the Lord a new song!” jumped out at me. Ma was bouncing her shoulders and clapping her hands, smiling bright. She was having a little praise party but the gospel music was playing too damn loud for me. I sucked my teeth and plopped into my seat.
Ma looked at me, turned the music down, and yelled, “Negro, please! Fix your face and stop hissing your teeth. Praise God for supper tonight. Act like I ain’t had a long day too. I’m praising. A little praise ought to take that sourpuss off your face. Cheer up, son, we’re going to pick up dinner, ya know. Or would you prefer a bowl of sleep for dinner? It’s not like we have to watch him play. Now act right. This won’t take long.” She tossed her head back and let out that hyena cackle of a laugh and started nudging my shoulder with the beat. I brushed her hand off me. She laughed louder and we took off.
The only thing I loved about riding down to Mass Ave. was watching the red CITGO triangles flash over the skyline, throbbing out Boston’s heartbeat for the city. Ever since I was a little kid I’ve always watched that sign: one big red triangle dissolving into three and pulsing away from each other, almost like there’s a giant windmill separating them as they fade. White lines pin-stripe down the whole sign as the triangles flood back in, making them one again. When I was a kid, I’d watch that sign, excited, hoping that maybe it would change or do something different. But now I just watch it. It’s
the only thing to look at other than the bustling bullshit in the hood.
Nothing special today, all different types of sketchy hangin’ on the corners: crusty-mouthed yellow-chip-toothed crack-heads, or a bum swirling a bucket of dumpster water with a squeegee begging to rinse off your windows, or a wacko with a sign on his lap that says nothing close to what his eyes tell you he gon’ do with that money. At least the street performers work for their change. Pop was just another bullshitter like the rest of the broken niggas on Mass Ave. I can’t even remember the last time he came by. The nigga was good to play us out tonight, really. After I got tired of watching them triangles, I deaded off the gospel and clicked on the radio and drifted off to sleep. I woke up as we pulled up in front of a store across the street from Berklee. The sun was fading away, the city beginning to look like a violet. Purplish shadows were beginning to take their places between the buildings and alleyways tinged with daylight. But I figured all wasn’t lost of my evening.
I hopped out quick and paged Pop 3663, our code for food, from the pay phone on the corner in front of Spike’s Junkyard Dogz. Then we waited. And waited. And waited some more. We just sat there as the streetlights began to blink on. The cars zipping past us swayed the Catalina side to side. Wasn’t much else to do but sit and listen to the Catalina’s ancient shell squeal as she rocked. Sitting and waiting in that stuffy-ass death trap of a car made me feel like twice the fool. I wound down my window, letting the dirty Boston city air smack against my face. I kept hearing balls bouncing in my head, feeling the burn of my time lost at the park. The smell coming from Spike’s made my belly start talking to me.
Ma’s head was resting on her clenched fist as her eyes scoured the swells of trendy no-name musicians letting out of their jam sessions. Her nail polish was chipped and her dry-ass Gerber-baby ponytail was crying for a relaxer. Dark wrinkle-puffed half circles draped down under her eyes. She began biting her nails and tapping her foot on the brake pedal. When the rockers signed off on the radio and David Allan Boucher signed on for
Bedtime Magic
, the mellow sleepy music that 106.7 plays at night, I knew.
Bedtime Magic
starts at nine and the streetlights don’t come on until eight.
After the fourth commercial break I sat up. I let my window down the whole way and looked out into the herds of black instrument bags, dreadlocks, weird piercings, and tattoos. My heart heated and cooled every couple of seconds. It felt like a game. Like we traded off tapping the side panel with excitement, saying, “I think I see him,” every time a dark-skinned wiry musician with a Zildjian drum bag strapped to his back passed us by. After a cool twenty minutes I could feel my temples beginning to pulse and I started to tabulate the cost of all this bullshit. Twenty good-old American dollars. A whole night at the park lost over what?
I coulda hustled that within my first three games at the park. We weren’t waiting on steaks or even chicken, regardless of what Ma said. Pop’s punk ass only ever came through with a package of cold cuts, cheese, bread, chips, maybe a box of cookies and some Kool-Aid packets. I wanted to put my fist through the windshield when I saw the tears tightroping the rims of her eyelids. And she was talking ’bout praise? For what? Fuck we got to be happy for? We been hungry the whole way down to Mass Ave. and Pop grimed us, again. He never brought anything but bad vibes, as far as I’m concerned anyway. Ma’s eyes were becoming more frantic.
I glanced back out the window. The car hiccupped on, and without a word we were off sailing down Mass Ave. Her sniffles aggravated me. I flipped down my mirror from the overhead and felt like giving myself the finger. I turned and watched the embarrassment pour down her cheeks. She slid her head away from me, gazing at the road sideways. Once a shame, twice a fool, and after that it’s on you. I decided right there and then that this scraping-by shit wasn’t for me no more. I can do this better and I will. Scared money don’t make money and what better time to start getting some money than now? I mashed off the radio. We rode in silence. Played out once again, same old tired-ass song. With the way we set ourselves up for this shit, the pleasure was all ours, right?
Around Egleston Square we pulled up to a red light and there was Mr. Trixy, the street performer, giving the stop sign a red-light special. I smirked. Ma looked at me and put her hand on my shoulder.
“You alright, sugar? I’m real sorry about tonight. Just know I didn’t plan for things to work out like this.”
I nodded and jerked my shoulder away from her. I dropped my head to the side, resting it on the seat-belt buckle and letting the blowing wind drown away her little sermon. She slapped me in the chest and I popped up.
“Show a little respect. Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
“Ma, I know what you mean and I hear you, but all this out here is real tired. Real sorry! I’m tired of this shit.” She didn’t hesitate. She clean broad-hand-palmed me across the back of the head, catching a little more neck than hair.
“You watch your mouth, little boy. You ain’t grown yet and you will show me some respect.”
I wanted to hit her back. Instead I looked her in the eyes.
“What the hell you hitting me for, Ma? Tonight was stupid
and you know it. Twenty bucks, Ma! That’s what my whole night was about, twenty bucks. And now what? We still riding home on empty. I know this ain’t all on you. Never said it was, but it don’t hurt no less. I already got the rap sheet on Pop, and so should you by now. You ain’t gotta tell me nothing. I got eyes.”
She had no response for me. The light turned green and we pulled away. She clicked the radio back on. I could feel the palm print bubbling up out of my neck. How can’t you feel like a sucker when you volunteer to play the fool? What the hell was she acting so damn hurt and surprised about? This wasn’t anything new.
I pressed my neck up against the cold glass window to cool down the palm burn. From the corner of my eye I could see them sad-ass tears dropping off her chin like a melting icicle. She was looking at me and I could feel it. But with a hot-ass handprint bubbling out my neck, if she thought I had words for her, she could go phone a friend. She can stay bright-eyed like a puppy looking to this bum-ass nigga for a handout. And that’s exactly what she can do—keep her hand out and wait for him to spit in it. Pop couldn’t even come home at night, and she thought he was gonna get some grub for the kids. I bet he tossed in some bucks for his corny-ass crew to be up in Berklee, fronting like they were somebodies. He probably don’t even remember which set of his kids he’s neglecting.
“Dre.” I kept my head resting on the side panel, neck snug to the window. She sucked her teeth.
“Andre Battel, don’t be so hard. You’re only fourteen years old. You ain’t even begun to taste what the world has for you. You gonna get to where you’re going in life, I swear it to you.” I really wasn’t listening but she kept on talking anyway. “We might not always have what we want, but we always get what
we need. God’s never let us go, even when it isn’t looking so pretty. Right?” I didn’t say a word. “We always get by. Don’t take this entire burden with you into the world. It’ll break your back. This is just a hurdle. You’ve got bigger battles to fight. Don’t wear yourself down so soon. The Bible promises the few days we have will be filled with trouble. But we’re good, baby boy, we’re alive. We’re good.”
I sure was about to see what the world had for me. I wanted to argue back and smash out. Tell her to get a grip and be real, realize we broke as hell and don’t no one give a fuck. That taking the high road shit ain’t doin’ nothing for my empty belly, and as far as I could see God didn’t have anything on my dinner table for me tonight neither. I squeegeed my neck off the window, dropped my seat back down, and let the palm print sizzle as I looked up, watching Blue Hill Avenue blaze on by.
“In due season, son, in due season. Remember, this too shall pass. Nothing lasts forever, especially not living like this. God will never leave you nor forsake you. And His promises will come to pass. Blessings have to come.”
It felt like she was pleading with me to believe in Santa Claus. I had a couple things to say but I didn’t. If she’d hit me again, it woulda been nothing but a scrap-up in that car. I just played it cool. Nothing lasts forever—I knew that.
Bedtime Magic
filled in our silence as we rode. There was nothing left to say, no more old wisdoms and proverbs were true. Only so many times you can do a DNA test before the cold hard facts are in, and life’s proven herself to be a coldhearted bitch time and time again.
We pulled up to our house and Nina was standing on the porch with a bright smile, rubbing her belly up and down. I stepped out of the car empty-handed and she knew. Her eyebrows shocked back and her mouth dropped open. We locked
eyes and her face went limp. I shook my head at her. Before I could get up our walkway and onto the porch she was on it. She looked at me, snapped her neck back, and grabbed my shoulder.
“Word! Niggas ain’t got no dinner, though. Ain’t that some bullshit.”
I said, “Well, praise God,” brushed by her, took down my bowl of sleep, and knocked it the fuck out.
All the little birds flittered through our block, cocoa-buttered up in their poom-poom shorts, ankles strapped tight with sparkling plastic jelly sandals. The suntan ladies of Lothrop Avenue were lying out on the sidewalks in their bikinis, soaking up mineral oil, tanning-mirror dents in their chests. They had the block feeling like a sauna. I was ready. That summer all I did was play ball and hustle. It was time for the V-card to go and when I kicked that note back across the floor to her in math class, I knew: I could have her. See, there’s a code in the corridors, so fuck what you heard and call me shallow if you want to, but listen! In the hallways of our high school, Tunnetta and me didn’t make no sense.
She’s smart and quiet. She be up in the student council and doing smart shit like getting honor roll. No one paid her any mind. The kids in student council were like shadows in the halls. They were around us but mostly behind and under our feet. She didn’t even have a perm in her hair. She couldn’t compete with the wifeable girls in school like Sade Fulton. Sade runs the step squad. They call themselves the Hot Girls.
They liked to parade around in their NBA jersey-dresses and Adidas shell-toes, sweating them BRC—Bed Rock Crew—niggas. The BRC cats were the muscles in the halls while the Hot Girls wrote the law. Together they made sure that everything in the hallways made sense. And if things didn’t make
sense, believe and trust they’d be the first to let you know—only the Hot Girls’ announcement might be sketched across the lockers closest to your homeroom in red and orange permanent marker for everyone to laugh and see.
Or one of them BRC boys might run up and try to beat you to sleep. It would probably be Big Maal, but their whole crew’s a handful of spark plugs. At school now, I’m just an athlete. We know our roles and play our positions. Like, we know better than to go after a girl like Monika Allen. She go out with Tito. He’s the most money-gettin’est nigga out the BRC. A nose candy peddler, he don’t even sell weed no more. Everyone in our high school had a position and most played ’em, but Tunnetta “Chocolate Chip” Johnson plain didn’t give a fuck.
She moved here around the way from some dirt-road town in Alabama. It showed in her whole swag with them fuzzy cheese-puff plaits she kept twisted up in her head. She wore these clunky headphones like them boys that ride the short bus. She didn’t really talk to anyone. Well, at least anyone that ran in my world. On paper, Tunnetta don’t make too much sense, one of them girls with a few cute features and one or two sexy parts but it all don’t sum up to equal sexy.
If you stared at Tunnetta long enough, you’d probably get a headache and be confused. Juicy, plump lips and a flat stomach. Wide hips with a pancake-flat booty. She had that tall mushy frame. Her hips pendulumed slow and seductive like a grandfather clock. She stepped strong like pistons pumping an engine and she was knock-kneed so it looked like she was smuggling newborns that were trying to jump out of her hips. Not quite an hourglass, she was like two sweet potatoes stacked on top of each other sideways. Her appeal was different, more something you’d want to get inside of.