Capital City

  “Yeah, but this is Mr. Conscientious Scholar here. He ain’t supposed to be participatin’ in drug sales in no capacity. I mean, this is Mr. Hard-work Stay-honest here,” Marshall responds, mocking me.

  Derricks chuckles. “Whatever, man. Do what you wanna do then, but just be warned that the shit ain’t safe, at all. And I think I’d rather ride in Marshall’s car. I mean, it’s a lemon, but at least it’s not hot.”

  Walt shakes his head and frowns. “Y’all some cheesy-ass niggas, man. I mean, y’all gon’ sit here and talk that shit t’ Wes when we all been cool too long for that dumb stuff, Joe. For real!”

  He stands up and looks over at me. “Well, yo, man, it’s gettin’ late. I’m about t’ head t’ da crib. So take me da fuck home, Wes, ’cause I ain’t afraid t’ ride in dat car.”

  Derrick and Marshall share a silent glare. I get up and head out the door behind Walt. Then Walt steps back in for a moment as I run through the rain to open the car doors.

  “What did you say?” I ask him. We ride east on Florida Avenue.

  “Oh, I jus’ tol’ ’em niggas that they petty, man.”

  I shake my head solemnly. “No, they’re right. I have a whole lot of thinking to do.”

  “Yeah, well, I wish that ma’fucka Butterman asked me t’ be his bookkeeper, ’cause I wouldn’t give a fuck. And you probably can’t even go t’ jail for nothing like that.”

  “Yes, you can. And the feds like to use small, innocent guys like me to rat out on the bigger boys.”

  Walt laughs. “Yeah, you right about that shit. So ya ass betta not get caught.”

  I ask him curiously, “Do you think I would tell if I did, like if I got grabbed by the DEA somehow?”

  Walt grits his teeth for a moment. “I’on know, man. Like, I know you wouldn’t tell if it was any of us. But how close are you with this Butterman nigga?”

  I nod. “That’s a good question, a damn good question.”

  * * *

  I arrive back home by twelve o’clock and check my C&P phone mail service.

  “I guess you busy again, huh? See, man, guys ain’t shit. And I thought that you was different.”

  That’s it? Hell, I guess NeNe’s really pissed off at me.

  I listen halfheartedly to my other messages from UDC classmates. They’re all talking about getting together for study sessions for the upcoming finals. I guess everyone wants to use me. They’ve all been using my brains throughout my years at school—at Banneker High and at UDC—while I wallow in despair and loneliness as an unknown hero. I mean, who really gives a damn about what I want and what I feel? Who really cares about me fulfilling my own personal goals? Everyone seems to have all these expectations of me, but I can’t have any say-so in what the hell I want to do, as if I’m some damn intelligent puppet!

  I call NeNe back. She sounds irritated when she answers, “Yeah, who dis?”

  “It’s Wes.”

  “Oh, hi,” she says blandly.

  We just sit on the phone with neither of us saying anything.

  “Well, did’ju call me to breathe in my ear or what?” NeNe asks.

  “No. I mean, I’m feeling bad, you’re feeling bad, the world is starving, and there’s a war in Somalia.”

  “Hmm. You lunchin’, Joe.”

  She’s smiling. And right now I feel like saying something crazy. What else are you supposed to do when you’re feeling desperate? “You think you can spend the night tonight?” I ask her.

  She pauses. “Why should I?”

  Now I pause. “Because two humans bonding together in the middle of the night is the best cure in the world for unhappiness.”

  I can tell she’s smiling again. And her slight giggle confirms it. “Yeah, and that’s why so many young girls out here wit’ babies now.”

  Damn! I wasn’t expecting for her to say something like that, I’m thinking.

  “So you gon’ drive me ta work t’mar mornin’?” she asks to my surprise.

  I perk up. “Of course I will.”

  Another short silence creeps over the phone. NeNe says, “You know, I shouldn’t even do this with the way you been treatin’ me lately.”

  I don’t say anything. She’s been driving me crazy lately too, but she’s still my girlfriend—even if I have slept with Sherry three times. And what about Candice? Will I be able to hold her off?

  “Well, come and get me, boy,” I hear NeNe telling me as I continue to muse.

  “Okay, I’ll be over in a half hour.”

  “Aw’ight now, don’t keep me waiting.”

  I put on a dry sweatshirt and head out the door with my umbrella. It’s still raining outside, but it’s not as bad as it was earlier. And I don’t feel as bad as I did earlier either. Maybe the key is to live life like a football game, always looking forward to the next play to score another touchdown. Only thing is, when time runs out on you, that’s it. So hell, maybe it’s best that I play this game of life to the fullest. I mean, bench-warmers don’t get any respect anyway—right? Or am I just rationalizing bad decisions and my present situation?

  Shank The Mad Man

  It’s time to get out when a criminal mind can’t sleep at night daytime comes and I still can’t think right.

  These violent thoughts keep exploding like dynamite now I’m asking myself, “Yo, maybe I ain’t wrapped tight?”

  ’Cause only a mad man runs from flashing lights.

  They tying me down like I’m wild from a full moon then locking me up with no bail. I’m in hell and can’t tell as I yell if it’s night or it’s day from the darkness of my prison cell. I need to be free, like a whale so I rebel ’cause I’m a Mad Man.

  Then I’d sample Da Lench Mob’s “Guerillas In Tha Mist”: That’s how it’s done. So ya betta run yo’—run yo’—run yo’ ass out da jungle.

  Then Onyx’s “Bitch Ass Niggas”: Bitch ass niggas I’ma have ta pull ya skirt up.

  Then Gang Starr’s “The Illest Brother”: You got to be the illest brother just ta claim respect.

  I’m walking down the street, my head’s up high, my .45 is packed, waiting for some suckers to attack, and then BAP, BAP, BAP they get capped ’cause I’m strapped , black.

  They must’ve thought that I would duck ’em, but now I bucked ’em.

  I hope their mothers love ’em ’cause the way I’m thinking is, Fuck ’em!

  They shouldn’t have tried to rob a Mad Man with a weak plan, now ’em suckers are chilling six feet under brown land and their mother’s dropping tears in the sand ’cause I’m a Mad Man.

  That’s how it’s done. So ya betta run yo’—run yo’—run yo’ ass out da jungle.

  Bitch-ass niggas I’ma have ta pull ya skirt up.

  You got to be t’ be illest brother just ta claim respect.

  Give me a tranquilizer. I’m too hyper. I need to be calmed down, my gun is pulled at every fucking sound now.

  And on the 4th of July, I had to shoot up a whole town.

  Them niggas wouldn’t quit with that firecracker shit and they thought I was a joke so every motherfucka got smoked.

  Now they wanna make a movie off my ass in Hollywood I signed on the dotted line, “You better make my shit good.”

  Then I shook hands and stepped with a larger rep and for niggas that slept here comes the Mad Man.

  That’s how it’s done. So ya betta run yo’—run yo’—run yo’ ass out da jungle.

  Bitch ass niggas I’ma have ta pull ya skirt up.

  You got to be the illest brother just ta claim respect.

  I’m still on edge. I can’t help it, I’m hyper, thinking like a sniper.

  If I was on G.I. Joe, I’d be a fucking viper jumping out of airplanes with a Mac 10

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Motherfuckas I’m out to win.

  I’m giving all my enemies blood showers . . . and killing so many suckers I can’t even hear the fuckers holler.

  I’m collecting more blood than a blood packer when I’m attacking ya
, and then I howl while I’m after ya, even giggle while I’m hacking ya.

  A silver bullet won’t kill me, silly and fuck the Holy Water, I’ll swallow the shit down and burp right before I slaughter ya.

  And now I got the whole world in my hands ’cause I’m a Mad Man.

  That’s how it’s done. So ya betta run yo’—run yo’—run yo’ ass out da jungle.

  Bitch-ass niggas I’ma have ta pull ya skirt up.

  You got to be the illest brother just ta claim respect.

  They’re dropping bombs on me.

  I guess they’re thinking they can kill me like Godzilla but I’m still a killa and getting illa and fuck Michael Jackson and his band, I’m the real Thrilla.

  Punk motherfuckas can’t play my rhyme on prime time ’cause a nigga like me is too hard and too legit.

  Candyman and Dr. Giggles, the type of niggas I’m running wit’.

  We gave MC Hammer a visit, that’s why the nigga quit.

  And if you battle me you’ll get your fucking tongue ripped.

  So see me at your door with my red eyes, my knife and some blood flies, nigga don’t act surprised.

  You gots to figure a lot of suckers died from my ruthless-ass hands ’cause I’m a Mad Man.

  That’s how it’s done. So ya betta run yo’—run yo’—run yo’ ass out da jungle.

  Bitch-ass niggas I’ma have ta pull ya skirt up.

  You got to be the illest brother just ta claim respect.

  Hold it right there, motherfuckas!

  I ain’t done yet, sucker.

  Matter fact, I’m just starting to sweat, yo, so give me some more bass drum . . . yum, yum, here I come, and cutting off heads is fun like chewing bubble gum.

  Give me some wild-ass cherry or better yet, some strawberry funk, and if I’m dead drunk, you best believe I had a Bloody Mary.

  When my movie comes, yo, Joe, I’ll have a lot of fans.

  Niggas’ll leave aisles at the show with bloody hands. Make a hundred mil’ in demand.

  ’Cause I’m the motherfucking Mad Man.

  That’s how it’s done. So ya betta run yo’—run yo’—run yo’ ass out da jungle.

  Bitch-ass niggas I’ma have ta pull ya skirt up.

  You got to be the illest brother just ta claim respect.

  Yo, this rhyme is hype as shit! That motherfucker Wes got me cysed! And I mean, Butterman all laying low and all, so I ain’t been out in the street that much for, like, two weeks. That’s still punk shit to me. I’d kill them niggas as soon as they step. But fuck it, I’m still getting paid. You know what I’m saying? I can’t complain.

  I saw that movie, Who’s The Man? That flick was cool. It had a bunch of rappers in it, but they all did good. Especially Salt, from Salt N Pepa. Yo, you wouldn’t even think she was a rapper she did so good.

  Now I’m waiting for Posse to come out in a couple of weeks. That joint gon’ have my man Big Daddy Kane in it. Black cowboys! Ain’t that some shit? But it was probably black cowboys out in the West, you know? I mean, us niggas did every fucking thing else. Why couldn’t we have been cowboys too?

  I finished reading that Maya Angelou book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. And man, she been through a whole bunch of shit! Like, her mother’s boyfriend molested her in St. Louis when she was like six or seven or eight. Her father’s girlfriend stabbed her when she was a teenager and shit. Then, she fucked around and lived inside of cars with a bunch of other homeless kids out in California some-damn-where. That’s all some crazy shit! You know what I’m saying? But she loved the hell out of her brother Bailey though. I guess the only person I’ve ever been that close to in my life is my cousin Cal. I mean . . . yo, like . . . love that nigga. And ain’t no damn bitch for saying that either! That’s my fucking cousin!

  Damn! I ain’t got a thing to do today. I’m sitting here in my living room watching videos, bored like shit. They showing this cheesy-ass PM Dawn video on BET. I mean, this video is some stupid, punk-sounding song. How this nigga get a record deal? That’s that new Big Daddy Kane single. But it’s true though. It’s a lot of no-skills-having motherfuckers with record deals.

  Fuck it! It ain’t no sense in me sitting around doing nothing. I might as well head over to my girl’s crib, up at Howard. I mean, she still ain’t really my girl, but I call her my girl anyway, you know? We been together for six damn months now.

  I throw my blue Polo jacket on and head out the door. That H-Town video, “Knockin’ Da Boots,” is coming on, but I don’t feel like watching that shit. They play it too much already. Even on The Box they order that video all day long.

  I turn off my TV, lock my door, and head for Rhode Island Avenue to catch one of these slow-ass 80 buses. Ain’t nothing coming yet, so I run across the street to 7-Eleven and buy a Pepsi. I check out the magazines before I get in line. Halle Berry married David Justice from the Atlanta Braves. They on the front cover of this month’s Ebony.

  Now I’m checking out these rap-type magazines. Most of this shit is a bunch of photos. I mean, fuck them pullout pictures! If I buy a magazine, I want some real-ass interviews on the rap artists, not their pictures. I got Big Daddy Kane and Rakim and them on my wall, but I’m not trying to throw no Jodeci or Boyz II Men shit up. Especially not all of these other New Jack niggas. These magazines must be for bitches. And they don’t have The Source up in this joint. I guess they must have sold out of them. They don’t have that Rap Pages joint that Wes had over his crib in here either.

  Damn, I need something else to read while Butterman finishes bitching from these punk-ass Northeast niggas. Or wherever the hell they from. I run back across the street and jump on an 82 bus that’s just arriving. Now it looks like two more busses are right behind us. Ain’t that some shit? That always happens!

  I get over to the Howard Towers Plaza-East and look to see if my punk-ass boy is at the sign-in tables. Yes! That motherfucker is here. I walk past and look at him. He nods his head to me. I nod back and head for the elevators. I ride up to the ninth floor and walk to Carlette’s room. I stop at the door before I knock. Somebody the hell in here giggling and shit!

  Yo, I swear to God, if this bitch got some other nigga up in this joint . . . I knock on the door like I’m the police.

  “Who is it?”

  Oh, damn, it’s her fucking roommate. “Is Carlette here?” I ask her.

  She opens the door. She’s dressed in some baggy-ass, faded blue jeans and an oversized white T-shirt. This tall-ass dude she got with her is wearing the same type shit.

  “Do you have to knock so hard?” she asks me.

  “Yeah,” I tell her, walking past to Carlette’s room. I know they gonna stand out here and talk trash about me, but fuck them. And I’d rough that punk motherfucker off.

  I shut Carlette’s door.

  “What are you doing here?” Carlette asks me from her bed. She’s stretched out across the shit, face down and looking inside some book. She’s wearing a black skirt with black stockings and a green silk blouse.

  Man, I love how she dresses! My shit is getting hard already. I take my jacket off and jump on top of her. “I was feeling horny.”

  She smirks, playing like, “Oh, that’s all you want me for?”

  “Naw, I took you out t’ da movies a couple times, didn’t I?”

  She smiles. “Yeah, you did, but that don’t mean nothin’.”

  I reach up for the top of her stockings and start to pull them down.

  “Umm, excuse me, but what are you doing?” She’s grinning at me and shit, like I’m joking with her.

  “I’m takin’ ya clothes off. It ain’t that time of the month yet.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, but I’m studying for a test.” But she’s still not trying to stop me.

  I pull her clothes to her ankles and take off her black patent-leather shoes.

  She says, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we just did it last night.”

  “So??
??

  “Didn’t you get enough?”

  I pull up her skirt. “Naw. Are you sore?”

  “No.”

  “Well, be quiet then.”

  I spread her legs and climb on top of her with my pants down and hit it from the back. She intertwines her fingers with mine and moves with me.

  Oh God, she got some good pussy! Damn, damn, damn!

  I get up off of her and look for a towel to wipe myself off with.

  “It’s in my bottom drawer,” she tells me, rolling over on her bed. “Now see, you done got me all messy.”

  I smile. “So? Get up and wash ya self off.”

  She duck-walks to the dresser and pulls out another towel. Then she walks to the door to see if her roommate is still out in the kitchen area. “You lucky they left,” she tells me.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I’d make you lick it off of me.”

  I look at her cum-dripped legs and cringe. “Yeah, you nasty as hell, girl.”

  “Nasty? How? You the one who wanted to do it to me in the middle of the day.”

  I shake my head and smile. Carlette heads to the bathroom.

  “Are you coming back here later on?” she asks me after washing herself off.

  “Why?”

  She sighs. “What, I can’t ask you a question?”

  I grin at her while she changes her top bed sheet. “What if I do?”

  “Then I wanna talk to you about something.”

  Oh, shit! I’m thinking. I don’t like how that sounds. “What, are you pregnant?”

  “No, Darnell. I am not pregnant, okay?” She shakes her head, grinning at me. “I told you I was on the pill.”

  “Yeah, so, what do you wanna talk t’ me about?”

  “You’ll see when you come back.”

  “Yeah, aw’ight.” Sounds like she’s gon’ try another Joker’s Wild on me. But she do got me curious.

  I walk back out into the blue-carpeted hallway and catch the elevator so she can get back to studying for her test. I don’t really have nothing else to do while Carlette is studying, so I’m heading down to Georgetown on the 34 bus. I hope I don’t get stopped by no cops down here. I don’t leave the house without one of my guns on me. I’m packing my .25, and this Polo jacket is lightweight. I didn’t want to carry my .38 or my .45 because I’d have to hide it inside of my pants. It’s easier to hide the .25 with this springtime gear. I ain’t planning on ever carrying that bullshit-ass .22. I’d pull that shit out and somebody might laugh at me. Matter fact, I’m thinking about giving it to Carlette, since she so much into that Black Panther shit.