Capital City

  “Because I caught these two young white males talking about how they were gonna spend their weekend in Florida while they sabotage my damn overtime hours.”

  She smiles. “That’s the first time I heard you cuss. You must’ve been pissed off, huh?”

  “Well, ‘damn’ isn’t that bad of a curse word. But yeah, I am pissed. And the thing that’s so frustrating about it is that it’s hard to prove when they’re screwing you. They always try to call you incompetent.”

  She giggles. “I know, that’s how it be.”

  “Oh, yeah? So where have you worked before where it’s happened to you?”

  “I used t’ work in’is restaurant in Maryland. And they always gave this white girl the best hours. I mean, they had me working on Friday and Saturday nights. And those nights are good for tips, but wanted to go out my damn self on the weekends. I’d rather work during the weekdays and on weekend mornings.”

  “But the white girl had those hours?”

  “Yup. And I hated that bitch! Fat ass thing. She had the nerve t’ have a black boyfriend, too. But he was a bamma. He wasn’t nobody.”

  Every time she uses that word “bamma” I start to feel guilty. It’s only been since she’s known me that I’ve been dressing “hip.” Last year she would have called me a bamma too.

  “So what’chu gon’ do about a job now?” she asks me, staring at me with her sparkling, almond-shaped eyes. God, she’s gorgeous!

  “Well, I still have money in the bank. And if push comes to shove, I always have my mother.”

  “What, t’ move back in wit’er?!” she responds radically.

  “No, to borrow some money until I can get back on my feet.”

  “Oh, I thought you was gon’ give up this apartment.”

  Okay, is it me or the apartment she’s after? I’m thinking. Hmm, maybe Walt is right, we have only known each other for a month.

  We sit silently and munch as I contemplate how rash she responded to me losing my job, and the possibility of losing my apartment. I can feel pressure in our relationship for the first time since our first night together. I didn’t know if she liked me or not then. But then again, I’m always slightly nervous around NeNe. She adds the sexual excitement that Sybil lacked, but she also adds a rush of insecurity. I really don’t know how long I can expect to be with her with no rep and no money.

  “Who’s that?” she asks me, responding to a car horn.

  “Some neighbors are probably going out or something.” I look at my watch and it says eleven thirty. It’s Thursday night.

  “No, it sounds like somebody’s calling you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I get up and walk to the window.

  “Guess who?” ask her.

  “Who?”

  “It’s your big brother, Butterman.”

  “Stop playin’!” She leaps from her seat and dashes to the window with me. “Oh, shit, is that ya car?” She dashes to the front door. “Come on,” she tells me, running down the exit stairs.

  I walk out behind her. J approaches me, smiling. Then he hands me the keys to a red Acura Integra sitting out in front of us.

  “E’rything cool wit’ it, man.” Then he whispers away from NeNe, “But you gots to get new registration and all.”

  NeNe opens the passenger’s door and hops right in. “Shawdy, dis car is like dat!” She looks to me. “Come on, Wes, let’s drive it.”

  I look to J solemnly as NeNe closes the door and waits for us excitedly.

  I shake my head. “Why you do this to me, J?”

  J starts toward the driver’s side, grinning. “Man, stop girlin’ and come on.”

  He hops in the back as I follow him in. I gear up on the steering wheel and check out the dashboard: hi-tech, cruise control, automatic, tape cassette, air conditioner and pure comfort. I can’t lie, I feel like I’ve just won the lottery!

  Key to ignition. Smooth kitten purr. And we’re off! “We can go everywhere now, Wes! We can go to Virginia Beach when it gets warm. We can go to my cousin’s house in Pittsburgh, ’cause I been dyin’ to ride on a riverboat out there. Oh God, Wes! We can do e’rything.”

  NeNe turns on the radio. That stupid “Dazzey Dukes” song is on. But I’m too dazzled to complain. I drive down South Dakota Avenue, loving it.

  “Yo, tum around and take me back to Georgia Ave, up near Ibex. I got my car parked up there,” J hollers from the back seat.

  I make a quick U-tum and head up South Dakota Avenue to Riggs Road. I stay on Riggs and cross North Capitol Street toward Georgia Avenue. We stop on a street alongside the Ibex nightclub. I let J out.

  “Yo, Wes, let me talk to you for a minute,” he says.

  I leave the key in the ignition while NeNe bobs her head to the radio. I follow J toward the Ibex club at the corner.

  Girls are staring as if we’re both celebrities. I know Butterman is a wanted item, but I’m just a UDC student with a pretty girlfriend. But now I have the keys to an Acura!

  “Look, man, don’t even sweat da car, ’cause that shit is jus’ ’cause I love you. I mean, I ain’t never bought nobody a car, not even my girl. But that’s ’cause I want’chu to be down wit’ me, Joe. Now, look, you ain’t gotta sell nothin’, jus’ keep accounts on what we spend. And you can type the shit if you want. I’ll keep the joints at my crib if you scared to have ’em in yours.

  “The bottom line is this, I don’t know of that many niggas like you that I can trust wit’ money. And as far as the drug biz’ness? Look, you a upstandin’ young man, right? I mean, wouldn’t you rather have the money so you can start a biz’ness of your own? That’s what them white niggas do. Man, all them ma’fuckas got financiers. But we don’t. So I’m jus’ tryin’ to set things up so we can roll like that and eventually pump the money into a legal business.

  “I mean, I’m not like these other niggas sellin’ drugs, man. I got real plans for this money, Joe. For real! So what’s up, man?” J presses me.

  He extends his hand and looks at me as if he’ll break down if I don’t say yes. But all I have to do is bookkeep. That’s how many unethical Jews have made a killing. But I don’t want to be like them. Nevertheless, I need the money. And who else is giving me this kind of an offer? Who else?

  I extend my hand and take the handshake. “Yeah, man, I’m in.”

  J smiles like a wide-eyed toddler. “Yo, you made the right decision, you’n. It ain’t no sense in you sweatin’ for them white niggas. You gon’ get paid now, man! Watch! You made the right move.”

  Butterman

  “Yo, B, what’s up, man? Is we gon’ take dat ride or what?” Bink asks me from behind.

  “Yeah, hold up. Let me finish talkin’ to my boy.”

  I turn back to Wes, who’s wearing a rayon shirt and some blue slacks. He’s finally pimping some slammin’-ass clothes. “Well, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, man. Go ’head and get back to y’all dinner.”

  Wes looks at me confused. “How you know we were having dinner?”

  Oh, shit, I’m fuckin’ up! I smile and laugh it off. “’Cause y’all look hungry, nigga. Now go ’head an’ check out dat ride, Joe.”

  Wes shakes his head and walks back up the street toward the Acura. She sweet as hell, too. For real! I wouldn’t mind keeping that Integra for myself if he ain’t want it. Fuck it, you know? Butterman could’ve been switching up cars! Then these niggas would really be on my dick. I’m already like dat. Now I’m about to get buckwild!

  I turn and face my main man. “So what’s up, Bink? Let’s take dat ride, nigga.”

  I stroll over toward my car. Bink follows me with a cool-ass grin.

  He says, “Fuck you all excited about? What’chu jus’ got some pussy?”

  I laugh as I open the car doors. “Yeah, man, somethin’ like dat.”

  “Well, gi’me dis bitch number den. ’Cause she mus’ got some good ass. She got’chu actin’ like it’s your first shot.”

  I laugh, making a right tum and then a left. We jet down Thirte
enth Street, heading to Hains Point.

  “So Marc, up in New York, been tellin’ me dat you flippin’ like a ki’ a week now?” Bink says as we roll.

  “Yeah, somethin’ like dat. But I thought you was flippin’ more than dat.”

  Bink nods. “Yeah, but I ain’t the one t’ sell ’n tell. You know.”

  I smile. “Man, I ain’t thinkin’ ’bout competin’ wit’chu.”

  “That ain’t da point. What I’m sayin’ is that you always keep ya name down low. That’s how you make ya shit last. Niggas start gettin’ flashy, and then stupid shit start hap’nin’.”

  I nod. Bink got a point. Maybe I should stop thinking about this high-profile shit.

  “You heard about Smiley gettin’ busted last week, right?” Bink asks me.

  “Naw, da po-man got ’im?”

  “Yeah, Joe. I’m surprised you ain’t heard about dat shit.”

  I shake my head. “Naw.”

  “You hear about that shoot-out, back at The Met?”

  “Yeah, two ma’fuckas died, three injured.”

  Bink nods. “Mm-hmm. On the quiet side, B, that was Smiley’s crew that did it. They got a contract out on dat boah name Cuppy.”

  “Cuppy? Yeah, I know you’n. He used to be back Southwest when me and Red and them used t’ swing back dat way.”

  “Yeah, well, how ’bout dis, ma’fuckas heard that he was gon’ drop a dime in court on Smiley. And the prosecutors use dat bullshit where you snitch on a nigga and get a lesser sentence, or you get that mandatory ten years for drug traffickin’.”

  “Man, dat’s fucked up! I always thought that mandatory sentencin’ was crazy. I mean, a nigga can get less years for killin’ somebody.”

  Bink says, “Yup, this white man know what da hell he doin’. He let us kill each other, but he don’t want us t’ get wit’ no money.

  “Ain’t that a bitch? So now it’s more niggas stayin’ in jail for drugs than any other crime.”

  I park down at Hains Point while Bink rolls a couple Js to smoke.

  “Yo, yo, it’s da po-man,” I whisper to him.

  Bink holds the weed under the seat. A white-and-blue District of Columbia cruiser drives by with two black cops.

  Bink giggles. “Crooked awww-ficer, crooked awww-ficer. Why you wanna put me in’na cawww-fin, sir?”

  We laugh like shit as Bink hands me one of the joints. “Yeah, you’n, da Getto Boys is my niggas. Dey be kickin’ facts for ya ass,” he says.

  I nod. “Yeah, ya boy Shank be listenin’ t’ all dat rap shit.”

  “Oh, cool-ass Nell can flow. Boy been flowin’ rhymes since high school.”

  “You older than him, right?” I ask Bink.

  “Yeah, I’m a year behind you. ’Cause you turn twenty-four next month, right?”

  “Yeah, how you know dat?”

  Bink looks at me as if I’ve just said something stupid. “’Member you had that big-ass party two years ago?”

  “Oh, oh, oh, my fault. Yeah, dat party was da bomb.”

  Bink nods with a cool-ass smile. “You damn right it was. That’s where I met this girl Angela.”

  “Oh, yeah? I know her.”

  “Did’ju bang ’er?” Bink asks me, grinning.

  I shake my head. “Naw, man, she said I had too many girls. Plus my girl knows her.”

  Bink laughs for no damn reason. “I know you didn’t wax ’er, nigga. I jus’ wanted t’ see if you was gon’ sit here and lie t’ me. ’Cause my long, brown dick was the first to work da walls, work da walls. Come on!”

  Bink laughs. He’s trippin’ off of that Rare Essence song. “Yeah, yeah, nigga. And she was grippin’ me like I was killin’ dat ass.”

  I smile. “You still wit’ ’er?”

  He shakes his head. “Naw, she went away t’ college and got wit’ one of them ma’fuckas. But she calls me whenever she comes back home though.”

  I’m curious now. “Yo, you think you can compete with them college niggas for a girl?”

  Bink frowns at me. “Nigga, is you crazy? I be schoolin’ ’em college ma’fuckas. I done banged so many girls from Howard, UDC, American, and George Washington, that it don’t make no sense. I even had this one girl from Georgetown. Now tell me I ain’t da man!”

  I laugh. “Yeah, ’cause some girls act like dey don’t fuck wit’ street niggas.”

  Bink smiles. “Believe that shit if you want. Matter fact, Nell fuckin’ a girl from Howard now. We met her when we was up at Kilimanjaro’s in October. Me and Nell was on, right. And he jus’ walks up t’ dis bad-ass light-skinned babe and says, ‘Yo, I wanna call you when I leave here. So what’s up wit’ dat?’ And man, this bitch got all excited, talkin’ ’bout some, ‘Oh, well, I don’t know, ’cause I’m just out here to have a good time.’ And Nell said, ‘Well, you gon’ have a good time wit’ me, too.’ And yo, do you know this bad bitch giggled and ended up writin’ down her number! That shit tripped me da hell out!”

  I laugh, then get serious. I’m feeling the weed now and grooving.

  I say, “Yeah, why dat boah Nell. Tat’s his real name, right?”

  Bink nods. “Yeah,” while I continue.

  “Why you’n so crazy, man? He be talkin’ ’bout killin’ ma’fuckas constantly. We don’t need all dat drama.”

  Bink takes another hit, slanting his eyes. He holds it in and blows it out. “Hey, man, some niggas got that roughass edge t’ life. I can’t call it. I mean, some ma’fuckas rub Nell the wrong way, some niggas don’t. But don’t tell ’im I told you his name though, ’cause I’on want that crazy nigga after me.”

  We laugh like shit, higher than two motherfuckers. But Bink is still talking.

  “Naw, really though! That boy Shank is cool, it’s jus’ that street life that got ’im livin’ harder than ten other hard niggas.”

  I nod. “Yeah, it’s messed up how some niggas is mad at the world like that.”

  Bink sits quietly, like he’s in deep thought. “Yo, all of us have that shit a li’l bit. Some ma’fuckas jus’ got more discipline than others.”

  I smile, thinking about asking him something else. “Yo, I heard your pop had shit goin’ on for years.”

  Bink looks at me confusingly. “You ain’t know?”

  I shake my head. “Naw.”

  “Yeah, man, nigga like me ain’t never been poor. And see, ma’fuckas expect you t’ be poor because you live in a black neighborhood now, like I was tellin’ you before. But things don’t have t’ be that way. And this drug game is open ’cause the white man is allowin’ it to be open.”

  I nod.

  “I been sayin’ dat. That’s jus’ how ruthless he is.” Bink says, “Yeah, now how ’bout dis, right if all these jobs is s’posed to be evaporatin’ in America, then how come these big-ass companies still advertising all this bullshit to us? Them ma’fuckas know we gon’ get money from somewhere. I mean, ’cause if you think about, niggas ain’t got no money—so they say—but yet we buyin’ more shit than any other race livin’.”

  “Yeah, you got that shit right.”

  Bink nods, still running his mouth. “Now, I’ma tell you somethin’ else, right, ’member when ’re was a shortage of weed in the late eighties and early nineties?”

  I smile. “Yeah, I remember that. It was hard as hell t’ get some weed.”

  “Well, yo, the white man was trying t’ get niggas hooked on blow. Now he got ’em, and he fuckin’ many households up. And after all the hustlers go t’ jail, it’s gon’ be younger and younger niggas sellin’ drugs.”

  I tell him, “Yeah, and I read somewhere that all these new prisons gon’ have all kinds of cheap-ass nigga labor.”

  Bink nods, smiling at me. “Exactly. That’s why I keep my shit down low. They tryin’a put us back in slavery. Sister Souljah know what she talkin’ ’bout! And that’s why I buy from different sources, so that they can’t track me. So my boys in New York is cool and all, man, but don’t let’cha connections get limited, ’cause that’s
when brothers go under.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I hear you. That shit makes sense.”

  Bink grins at me like a kid. “Yo, you keep gettin’ lessons from me like dis and I’ma have t’ start chargin’ ya ass up.”

  I laugh. “You lunchin’, man.”

  Bink shakes it off. “Naw, I ain’t lunchin’. I’ma tell one more thing, weed is in now. Ma’fuckas wearin’ blunt shirts, hats, drawers, all kinds of shit. And I’m about to start sellin’ pounds of that shit. I’ll fuck around and start growin’ weed in my backyard. For real!”

  I start laughing, but Bink looks serious as shit.

  “I ain’t jokin’. I mean, you gots t’ stay hip to the signs of the times, and weed is da shit now.”

  I’m still giggling as I try to respond. “Yeah, well, maybe I need to invest in some.”

  Bink nods, smiling. “You motherfuckin’ right.”

  * * *

  It’s Thursday, March 4, 1993, a week from my twenty-fourth birthday. Today I’m going to visit my boy Red at Lorton after getting this fresh haircut up on Georgia Ave. Georgie’s telling another one of those funny-ass, old-timer jokes.

  “So da young man went inside the store and told the lady, ‘Ma’am, I done forgot what my Ma tol’ me t’ buy from this here sto’, but since you look about her age, I figa I could ask you what a woman would want if she sent me with two dollars.’ And the older woman looked down at the young man and said, ‘Well, wit’ two dollars, I’d send my boy t’ da store t’ by me some new stockings.’ So he comes marchin’ back in’na house and says, ‘Ma, I gotcha ya stockings!’ And his big-ol’ mother comes wobbling out from the kitchen and shakes her head. She looks down at him and says, ‘Boy, I done tol’ja a million times dat’cha daddy’s gone and I surely ain’t plannin’ on goin’ out here and gettin’ pregnant by none of dese sorry-ol’ niggas. Now go on back t’ da sto’ and buy me some fatback, hog maws, blackeye peas, and cornbread like I told’ja.’

  “So the young man starts walking back to the store. But then he stops and runs back to his house and says, ‘Ma, I got an idea!’ His mother comes back out from the kitchen and says, ‘Junior, what’chu got t’ tale me, boy?’ And Junior says,’Well, I was jus’ thinkin’ ’bout how you can get me a new Pa by wearing these stockings t’ church this Sunday. ’Cause I heard Reverend Smith tell Deacon Jackson one day.’ And his mother said, ‘And what did Reverend Smith say t’ Deacon Jackson, boy?’ And Junior said, ‘Well, Ma, I heard him say, Jackson, I can’t help it! Lawd strike me down, ’cause I jus’ loves me a fat-assed woman!’”