Capital City Page 5

  “Yo, you know that nigga, you’n?” I ask Steve inside the car.

  “Yeah, dat’s Squirrel. He ain’t shit.”

  Squirrel is the perfect name for ’im, I’m thinking. He looks like a damn rodent.

  Steve says, “Yo, man, if you don’t mind me sayin’ it, we gon’ have ta get some new trigga-happy niggas with Red in jail and shit, ’cause Max is startin’na carry you.” He shakes his head and grimaces at me. “That nigga trippin’, you’n.”

  “Yeah, I was just thinkin’ the same thing myself,” I tell him.

  We ride through H Street Northeast. We jet back up North Capitol. I give the first ounce to Steve to cook up and break down into eight-balls (one-eighth of an ounce) and measure off some twenties (twenty-dollar bags). I keep the second ounce and take it with me to the crib. If they sell the first ounce by Thursday, then we in good shape.

  I get home and walk into my bedroom to check my answering machine.

  “Hi, J, this is Latrell. I’m going back home to West Virginia Thursday, so I’m calling you to ask if you want to hang out with me before I leave. It’s about, umm, seven thirty. Call me back when you get in. Okay?”

  Beep!

  Damn, that’s the only message I got all day! Well, fuck it, let me call this girl back. She might be down to give me some pussy later on. That shit would relax my nerves right about now. I could use the comfort of knocking some ass.

  I look through my jackets to see where I had her phone number. I find it in my blue Karl Kani jacket.

  “Yeah, is this Latrell?”

  “Hi, Butterman.” She laughs. “Why they call you that?”

  I hate when people ask stupid-ass questions. I mean, this girl knows what I look like. She’s asking me this shit just for a conversation piece.

  “’Cause I make love like butter, slippin’ in an’ out,” I say, just to bullshit her. I don’t give a fuck! I already got a girl, and I ain’t in the mood for no small talk.

  “Oh, you do, do you? Well, I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Are you goin’ out tonight?” I ask her, cutting through the preliminaries.

  “I’on know. Why?”

  “You want me to come over there?”

  “Well, if you want to.”

  “Yeah, I wanna see you.”

  “Okay, you know how ta get over here?”

  “Yeah, American University, right? I been up there before, many times.”

  “Oh, you have?”

  Now she’s sounding like I’m a whore. And I am, but that’s not why I was up at American.

  “Yeah, dey used to have the summer basketball leagues up there.”

  “Oh. Well, yeah, you can come.”

  She gives me her dorm and room number. I grab a few Trojans and head out the door. WPGC is playing “The Rebirth of Slick” on my car radio. That’s a slammin’-ass jam: I’m cool like dat. I’m phat like dat. And that other shit they talk about. I don’t really understand nothing they say, but the music is cool.

  I get over to American University and park my car in their campus parking lot. And yo, as soon as I get out of my car it’s some fat-ass light-skinned girl eyeing me with big, bubbly eyes.

  “What’chu wanna meet me, girl?” I ask her.

  She stops and smiles. “I know you. Don’t they call you Butterman?”

  “Yeah, but come here.” I meet her halfway in the parking lot. She looks all right, you know, just something to bang when you don’t have nothing better to do. But Latrell looks way better than her. “So what they call you?” I ask her.

  “My name is Shawn,” she tells me.

  “Oh, yeah? I had a boy name DeShawn before he disappeared on us a few years ago.”

  She laughs. “You don’t go here, do you?”

  “Naw, I used to go to Duke, like five years ago, before I quit.”

  “Why?”

  I hunch my shoulders. “College ain’t for e’rybody. Anyway, what’s your phone number?”

  She gives it to me before I break out. I doubt if I call her though. She don’t look good enough. I keeps nothing but star, model-looking girls.

  I get to Latrell’s dorm. She’s waiting for me downstairs in the lobby. She must want this dick bad!

  “What’s up? I ain’t know you was gon’ be down here waiting for me.”

  “Yeah, because sometimes they act funny at the front desk and I ain’t want you to have to go through that.” She smiles. “You know how racism is.”

  I smile back at her. “Yeah, I know.”

  Latrell’s a pretty, caramel-skinned chick with short, curly hair and luscious brown lips. She walks in front of me to the stairway door. Her body looks like it’s gonna be some good ass. For real! I’m gonna enjoy it.

  We walk into her room. She has pictures of herself everywhere.

  I grin at her. “You jus’ in love with ya’self, huh?”

  She laughs. “I figure if you’re gonna put pictures up, they might as well be of you and your family.”

  I sit on her neatly-made bed. “What if I don’t feel like goin’ back home tonight?” I ask her. I still don’t give a fuck! So if she tries to front on me, then fuck her. I mean, I love my girl, but if other girls want to give me some ass . . . I’m taking it.

  She smiles at me like she know we gon’ be banging. “I guess I could let you stay over.”

  “Oh, well, I might as well take my boots off and chill.”

  I pull off my Tims and stretch out across her bed.

  She grins at me and walks over to her television sitting on her dresser, and turns it on.

  “You get cable in here?” I ask her.

  “No.”

  “Well, shit, ain’t nothin’ on TV. I mean, you might as well throw on the radio.”

  She smiles and turns off the TV and clicks the radio on. When she gets close enough to me, I lean up and squeeze her hips. She looks me in my eyes and moves closer to me. Now I know I’m about to knock it.

  “You have some pretty eyes,” she tells me.

  “I do?”

  “Yes, you do.” She leans against me on the bed.

  “Well, you got some pretty lips,” I tell her.

  “How pretty?”

  Her lips touch mine, so I’m going for the bomb. “This pretty.” I kiss her real good and she works the tongue action.

  Man, turn out the lights. This shit is ’bout to get X-rated. For real!

  * * *

  I’m sitting here now after putting this girl to sleep. I ripped her ass up! It was good as hell, too. No joke! I had her biting my shoulder and all kinds of kinky shit. And then I got a beep on my pager.

  Fuck it, she ’sleep, so ain’t no sense in me asking her if I can make a phone call.

  “Yo, it’s B,” I answer.

  “It’s Steve. Yo, man, that muthafucka, Bean, went crazy and came up here shootin’ up shit! He ain’t get none of the stuff, you’n, but da cops came and cleared out the area. Now we gotta chill for a while.”

  “Aw’ight, man. I’m ’bout t’ be out in a few.” I hang up, pissed.

  Shit! This game is getting hectic. I need me a motherfucking hitman! These niggas out here won’t let me rest! I can’t even get me some ass in peace! Now that’s fucked up!

  Shank

  I’m on a Greyhound bus heading for Trenton, New Jersey, to stay through the holidays with my cousins. I haven’t seen them in a year. I usually visit, you know, like six, seven times a year, but this year I was fighting back and forth with my Mom to give me some fucking money. She kept talking that job shit all the time. That drugged-out motherfucker she still supporting ain’t got no damn job.

  But she want me to go get one. I mean, I can see myself now, in some bamma-ass McDonald’s uniform, asking a motherfucker, “Can I take your order?” Naw, fuck that shit! That’s dumb shit!

  I always wondered why I never stayed in Jersey once I found out how to catch the bus back to Trenton. I don’t know. It seems like I liked being called Shank and having people
scared of me. Back in Trenton, I’m just cool-ass Nell. My cousins ain’t afraid of me or nothing. You know what I’m saying? But niggas in D.C. that don’t really know me . . . I’m terrorizing them motherfuckers.

  It’s peaceful on this bus. It ain’t even no people talking or nothing. I can chill with this kind of shit, you know, with nothing on your mind but time. Yup, that’s the only thing I’m worried about is when we gon’ pull up in Trenton. But I always have to transfer in Philly for the new New Jersey Transit line. Sometimes I chill in The Gallery in downtown Philadelphia. And yo, some down-ass bitches be up in there!

  I remember this one bitch booked me. In Philly, they call it “cracked on,” like you opening a safe or some shit. Yeah, well, this fat-assed light-skinned girl said, “Unt, unt, unh. I just love myself some pitch-black mens.” It was like two years ago in the summertime.

  I kicked that shit right back to her, “Yeah, I love me some fat-ass women, too.”

  She laughed like shit and said, “Well, what’s your name?”

  “Cool-ass Nell,” I told her, throwing a toothpick in my mouth. I used to keep toothpicks. I don’t know why and shit. I guess it just gave me something to do to look cool. Anyway, this girl gave me her number. I got with her one time in North Philly and laid my pipe to her ass. But I didn’t fuck with her too much after that. I never had no long-term bitches. You know what I’m saying? Fuck that falling in love shit! But the thing that trips me out is that light-skinned bitches stayed on my dick more than any other girls. I got this redbone girl that go to Howard University now. “Redbone,” that’s what my cousins call light-skinned girls. And yo, no bullshit, this Howard girl I got looks just like Sade without the freckles. She has a long-ass, shiny forehead and everything. I booked her ass at Kilimanjaro’s when I was chilling with that nigga Bink. You can holler at any bitch when you rolling with Bink. That motherfucker be having some bitches!

  Damn, I’m starting to get bored now. It seems like this Christmas-Eve ride is taking longer than it usually takes. This little girl sitting across from me on the right has a Walkman on, bobbing her head. It’s probably TLC or Mary J. Blige. Them bitches are popular as shit right now.

  I could use a Walkman. I got all them tapes back at my crib and no Walkman. But I got the shit in my head:

  Yo, tell me how Finesse was back in the days as a little kid, you know.

  “Hey, Look at Shorty” by Lord Finesse. That’s a funny motherfucker! Boy can rhyme his ass off, though. I can’t even front. That boy got skills, Return of the Funky Man. His first album, Funky Technician, was rocking too. Nigga had a bunch of old, black gangster beats from the ’70s with DJ Premiere producing.

  I say, people, people. Come on and check it now. You see the mic in my hand, now watch me wreck it now.

  Guru and DJ Premiere. Gang Starr: “I’m The Man.” That’s my shit! I got all their tapes. Them niggas are slammin’.

  Boom! Bam! Here comes The Shank, the man, grippin’ steel in his right hand; I got a plan to smash suckas like the Hulk. And I ain’t gotta be Jack the Ripper for muthafuckas to get stalked. Go out and buy your own body chalk. ’Cause ya dealin’ wit’ a killa that won’t balk, nigga. And when I got a mic I’m suspect to pull the fuckin’ trigga.

  So for you punk MCs that can’t understand, translation: It’s best you be a running man. or transform into an Autobot. ‘’Cause The Shank is scopin’ suckas and killin’ ’em on the fuckin’ spot. You betta die now instead of later. ‘’Cause when ya jet out, I’ll hunt ’cha ass down like a Terminator. Don’t even fiend or dream of wreckin’ my scene. ‘’Cause like a late-night bitch, you’ll get stripped clean.

  I leave challengers butt-naked when I wreck it. So if you bought ’cha wack-ass tape, don’t even sweat it. ’Cause suckas battle me and run out of their luck. You’ll get ’cha ass kicked, then I’ll tell Scotty ta beam ya up. I’m seekin’ battles and out for pay. But fuck the fame; you weak-ass niggas know my damn name. Say MC Shan, then add a motherfuckin’ K.

  Yeah, that’s my rhyme! All I need is a record deal. I got skills like Positive K, to pay the bills while giving niggas thrills and chills down their spines as my rhymes blow their motherfucking minds.

  * * *

  I’m finally pulling up into Trenton after transferring buses in Philly. It’s about six thirty and dark already. I yell at a cab and get him to ride up Broad Street to my old ’hood in North Trenton.

  Ain’t nothing changed. It’s still the same crazy-ass-looking poverty, rat-maze public housing and skyhigh project buildings. But when you’re used to something, it’s your home. You know what I’m saying?

  I grab my bags, hop out of the cab and walk the familiar path to my Aunt Pam’s crib.

  “Nel-l-l-l. What’s up, nigga? My mom said you was gon’ be here. I thought she was fakin’ the game an’ shit, man.”

  My older cousin Oz is shaking me around and all, you know, that rough, macho shit. He lost a lot of weight since I saw him last. I wonder if he fucking with the pipe.

  It would be fucked up if he is.

  “Come on, man, damn. Let me get in’na house,” I tell him, smiling and shaking him off me.

  He throws his big hands up in my face. “What’chu got? You ain’t got nuttin’ for these guns.”

  He’s jabbing at me with lefts and rights, but I don’t feel like fucking around with him. I put my bags down and walk toward that good-smelling food coming from inside the kitchen.

  “Hey, Darnell!” My favorite aunt hugs me and steps back. “Well, ain’t you the most handsome young black man.”

  She always calls me handsome. She ain’t never had no problem with that color struck shit. And I appreciate that, because a lot of niggas in D.C. are color struck like a motherfucker. Niggas hate jet black in that Washington-Maryland-Virginia area. But you know, you still have people who love shiny black young’uns. But not my mom. I think she’s always had a problem with being black. That’s why she left Trenton to be with that crazy light-skinned nigga, Julius.

  Now I have a twelve-year-old, light-skinned sister. She looks like me and my mom in the eyes though. We all get it from my sharp, hawk-eyed grandmother.

  Young’uns are sweating my little sister already, just waiting for her to start fucking. Shit! I figure I’m gon’ have to break a lot of necks.

  “You know your cousin Emil got sent to New Castle for car theft in Philadelphia,” Aunt Pam says. I don’t know if she’s telling me or asking me, but I didn’t know about it.

  “He did?”

  “Uh-huh. The boy was hard-headed, just had to hang out with the wrong crowd.”

  She gets back to fixing that good-smelling Christmas Eve dinner. Oz comes in and leans over with a spoon and sneaks a taste of the chicken stew.

  “Dammit, Ozzie! What I tell you about that? Now, move!”

  Oz laughs and heads back to the living room.

  “William gets out of the Youth Detention Center for this coming weekend,” my aunt tells me, still preoccupied with cooking. She still has a nice shape, youthful appearance and a good attitude. I figure Aunt Pam has to be at least forty-five.

  “Where Cal at?” I ask as I walk out from the kitchen. “Oh, dat boy upstairs prob’ly readin’ them ol’ comic books of his. But it’s a good thing that you and him ain’t never been in no trouble. Hell, maybe you two will go on and do something good with y’all selves. And oh, yeah, Darnell?” She calls before I make it to the steps leading upstairs.

  I walk back to the kitchen while Aunt Pam waits for me. She whispers, “Look, I got two hundred dollars for you when you go back. You hear me? But don’t let Ozzie know, ’cause he done messed around and let himself get hooked on them damn drugs.”

  I nod my head and head upstairs to check out Cal, my big, brown, Baby-Huey-looking cousin. This boy’s into comic books, art, Kung Fu movies, and all kinds of other stuff.

  “Neeeell. Bet, we can go to the movies t’night t’ see Tresspass. Ice T and Ice Cube in it.” He stands up from drawing a com
ic hero sketch and shakes my hand.

  I grin at him. “You still in ta drawin’ shit, huh?”

  “Yup, ’cause it’s this new black line of comics coming out called Milestone. DC Comics been advertisin’ it. And yo, I’m gon’ get mine next.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I sit on his bed, filled with comic books and hip-hop magazines. I pick up a copy of The Source.

  “That’s the issue that sums up the events of ’92,” Cal says. “Ice T messed it up for a lot of hardcore raps because of that “Cop Killer” song.”

  “Man, dat “Cop Killer” shit wasn’t rap! That was like some rock and roll-type shit”

  “Yeah, you right. They always blamin’ controversy on rap.” He smiles at me all of a sudden. Cal always smiles when he starts asking me about cultural shit. We always had a lot of things in common. Now he’s always trying to say that I’m more like him than what I try to be.

  “You still buy comic books, man?”

  “Naw,” I lie to him. He’s trying to cut me a short, and I ain’t going for it. I don’t care if I do read comic books. So the fuck what? That don’t make me more like him.

  Cal’s still smiling at me, but I’m as hard as Superman, and that shit he stressing ain’t no Kryptonite.

  “Did you see Malcolm X?” he asks me.

  “Yeah.”

  “South Central?”

  “Yup.”

  “Candyman?”

  “Yeah, that was da shit!” I make my voice deep and hoarse like in the movie, “Cannn-dy-mannnn. Cannn-dy- mannnn. Dat ma’fucka wasn’t no joke, you’n! But dey could’ve made that movie better than that. I mean, that ol’ legend shit was better than the movie was.”

  “I know,” Cal says, smiling again. This nigga always gets me talking more than what I usually do. But fuck it, ain’t nobody know. I mean, this motherfucker’s my cousin!

  “Did you see Unforgiven?” he asks me.

  “Yeah, but I don’t see what the big deal is wit’ dis one. I mean, Clint Eastwood shoots the ma’fuckas up, collects the money and leaves, jus’ like in all the rest of his movies. But Morgan Freeman went out like a bitch. He gon’ talk all that shit and then get scared to shoot and gets his ass kicked.”