Maurice Broaddus - King Maker

"Guess we going to have to get to work early this morning." Her breasts peered unapologetically through the flimsy material. She stretched, her shirt raised to expose her belly, fully revealing that she wasn't wearing any panties. A smile with too much knowing inched with devilish glee across her face. "Send them off early, maybe they can catch a free breakfast at school. Then hook up with me at the spot."

Miss Jane slipped into gray sweatpants and a matching jacket and pulled her hair up into a pink wrap which matched her slippers. Schemes already half-forming as to how to raise enough money to not only get right but also to get through the day, she marched out the house with nary a backward glance.

Percy roused the babies and found some clothes which had been aired out for a few days. Maybe tomorrow he would be able to scrounge enough change to make it to the laundromat or perhaps a teacher might do a load for them. He, too, bled a life full of maybes. He walked them to school, many of the children kept a mocking distance from them. The babies without combed hair who smelled funny were easy targets, even from children just as poor and just as crusty-assed. Percy waited until the school doors swallowed his younger siblings, before he was assured they were even somewhat safe for a time.

And he felt tired.

He wanted to go to school. If nothing else, it was a break from the world he knew. Some days, however, he had to put in work. Almost like skipping school to help out on the family farm… if by "family farm" one meant a new way to get over on folks. Percy met up with her behind the Fountain Square Mortuary. She made a few extra dollars as a professional griever. The old man who ran the place gave her forty dollars to wail at funerals, especially when there were only a few mourners in attendance. For an extra twenty, she'd throw herself onto the casket.

"Boy, look at you." Her hands on her hips, she eyed him up and down, a scorn-filled countenance displeased with the measure of the man.

"What, ma?"

"Shuffling around like you got nowhere to go. What, ma?" she mocked. "Even when you talk, you sound beaten down. You radiate weakness like you the sun beaming down on all us folks. You ain't ever going to be half the man your daddy is."

"Is?" His voice raised with hope. It wasn't as if he believed his father to be dead or even purposefully absent. Hope gilded Percy's thoughts of the man. With dreams of being wanted but his father being too busy to come around. Too important. Yes, he had one of those important jobs which had him constantly traveling. The word "is" carried the promise that not only was he still around but that Miss Jane knew where he was. Hope was a death of a thousand small cuts, bleeding the life from him in a steady, painful stream.

"Boy, you too slow for words most days. You ain't built for this here game. You have to have hardness. You have to have heart. And you? You so…"

"Soft." Percy sighed, eyes cast downward.

"Look here." Miss Jane sidled alongside him, not putting her arm around him or anything too… maternal. But the boy, despite his obvious deficiencies, touched something within her. Maybe he was so simple, so pathetic, she drew near just to staunch his feebleness. He had a way about him, not his father's way, but a way. A purity, one which shamed her every time she approached. She stepped back. "You see them boys over there." Dollar and his crew stood about gearing up for the day's trade. These days, Dollar oversaw a couple of crews. He might be in line to rise to the next level. As it was, boys buzzed about, attending to him without so much as a word from him. "You have to know a few things about folks. First, everyone is out for they self."

"But…"

"Ain't no buts. This is all about survival and doing whatever it takes to survive, well, sometimes ain't a lot of room for pride left. You get over on them or else they will get over on you. That leads to rule number two."

"What's that?"

"You can't trust nobody."

"Not even you?"

"Not even me." Miss Jane paused, struck by the honesty of her answer. Something about the boy just made folks… simple. "Folks be stupid or too sneaky. Everyone's got an agenda, some angle they working. That's why you have to play or get played."

"I don't think I like this game."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. Not everyone's cut out for this. See? Look."

They turned to the scene drawn by someone hollering in pain. He probably got his ass caught shorting money, diluting product to squeeze out some side money, or selling burn bags as their product. All variations on the same theme: his hand in their pockets. Dollar delivered the first fisted blow, knocking the man's head back with the sound like a bag of ice dropped to the sidewalk. After the first punch, he seemed to lose interest, giving license to his boys to stomp and pummel the man into senselessness.

"Why'd they beat him up?" Percy asked, mouth agape and eyes lingering too obviously. It didn't pay to be too fastidious to details. Miss Jane turned his face to hers.

"Dude over there shorting them. Someone takes you off, you can't let that shit slide. Never. Once they see you as weak, you done out here. So you have to put a beatdown on them. They do it again, you got to fuck them up for real. So what you learn?"

"Don't let them read you for weak. Or soft."

Miss Jane caught scent of some new-tested package and ambled off. Percy stood there for a moment, watching the boys play at manhood, and hummed to himself.

The day was brisk but sharp, a chill wind under a blue sky. A second-chance day, when one dreamt of doing things right this time: finish school, don't mess with that girl, get a straight job, be about family. Living life without waiting for the click of a hammer to end it all.

Baylon walked along the street of Dred's house at an easy pace. For some reason, the song "Jesus Can Work It Out" kept running through his head: That problem that I had/I just couldn't seem to solve. He hadn't thought about that song in ages. The breakdown chant of "work it out" brought to mind a frenzied choir and folks anxious to get caught up in the Holy Ghost. He hated the show of church.

"Baylon!" a voice called out as he walked by.

He returned the slightest of head nods.

A group of boys slung rocks down the street, not trying to hit anything in particular. Simply whiling away the time with casual destruction the way boys were prone to. At Baylon's approach, the flicker of recognition, respect, and perhaps even fear filled their eyes. They stopped their game and parted for him. Their gazes lingered on him in admiration.

"Hey B," a sultry voice sang. Pert breasts tenting her low-cut blouse with no back over some tight blue jeans, stretched to bursting seams by her full hips. "You got something for me."

"Yeah, why don't you hit me up at the spot later on." Baylon waved her off knowing a few years ago, a girl like that would have rolled her eyes in a "Nigga, you can't step to this" way at his approach, much less chase after him. The charge of fame had pipeheads running up to him to beg for a free sample, like fans pining for an autograph. His name ringing out, he was every bit just as much a junkie, hooked on status, on being the man. He paused on the porch and surveyed the neighborhood. Then he went in.

Every time he crossed the threshold he felt transported to another place. Odd symbols etched the doorframe. When he ran his fingers along them, they gave the same sort of tingle as licking a battery. Baylon thought it unusual that Dred rarely kept any soldiers at the house. None were required here, he had told him. The kinds of enemies I've made wouldn't be stopped by thugs with guns. Baylon ignored the irony of him saying that from his wheelchair.

Dred waited for him in the spacious living room. His scraggy goatee never grew in right. He had to grow it. His face had a natural boyishness to it. The softness of retained baby fat which made him appear younger than his twenty-odd years. His nest of hair coiled out in serpentine aggression. The color of cold onyx, he glared his ancient gaze from bloodshot and rheumy eyes. Long wizened fingers propelled his chair with little exertion, his all-white Fila jogging suit matching his brand-new tennis shoes.