Margaret Sexton - A Kind of Freedom

“Whoa, nigga,” Tiger called out. It was an expression that still stirred fear in T.C. Technically it just meant come here or let me talk to you , but it had been what the boys had called out before they jumped him in high school, and once before he even started hustling, three dudes cornered him with the same line before they pressed a gun against his temple.

“I’m just messing with you.” Tiger walked up closer. “You know I’m just messing with you,” he repeated, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “You done gained weight, huh?” He leaned into T.C. and felt his biceps.

“You know it, ain’t nothing else to do in there,” T.C. said, feeling his heartbeat settle. He had an urge to knock the boy out for scaring him like that, but he took a couple of deep breaths like the counselor inside had taught him, told himself to calm down. “But looka you, you ridin’ on them thangs, huh?” he asked after a while, nodding at the new rims.

“Yeah, yeah, you know how I do.” They both walked closer to the car. “But looka you, your dreads all twisted up, and long. They almost catchin up with mine.” Tiger fingered T.C.’s thick, black hair. His own hung past his bright green T-shirt, nearly touching the top of his tapered jeans. He was shuffling his feet, socked up in Adidas slippers.

“Still light bright and damn near white though,” Tiger play-scoffed. “That’s why they let you out early? I thought you had another two weeks.”

“Nah, overpopulation, nigga,” T.C. said, laughing. “They need to make room for the real menaces to society.” T.C. was lucky — he’d been headed to reup when he was caught and only had a few ounces of weed on him; if it had been a day later, hell, a few hours later, he’d be in jail two years minimum.

“Aw, nigga, they done made a mistake releasing you then,” Tiger said. They laughed together finally, gave each other dap, then came apart again.

“You look good though,” Tiger added. “You must be getting ready for the comeback, and we got competition now, boy. Right after you caught your lil’ bid, Spud got out.”

“What?” T.C. leaned against the car, guessing they’d catch up for a minute, then he’d ask Tiger to drive them the hell out of there.

“Yep, he been trying to reposition himself. I been spreading the word that you coming back but nobody ain’t hearing it. Half our block been buying from him.”

“Oh, yeah?” T.C. let out a nervous laugh. “Well, maybe that’s for the best.”

“What you mean ‘that’s for the best,’ nigga?”

Tiger looked at him as if he’d been joking, and maybe he was. He didn’t know.

“What you mean?” Tiger repeated. “We got to eat. What, you plan on going back to Winn-Dixie?”

“Hell, no,” T.C. said, then laughed suddenly, an awkward burst of sound, but he had been thinking about it, had even calculated how many hours he’d have to work to make enough to get an apartment over in Lakewind East on Bundy. It came out to a lot, but people did it, some he went to school with, and he’d run into them bagging groceries on his late-night munchie runs.

“Bruh, I ain’t trying to think about that right now,” T.C. said. He opened the passenger door. The truth was it was all he had been thinking about. It was jailhouse policy to declare you weren’t coming back. He didn’t know anybody who hadn’t screamed it across his cell at least once in a fit of rage or desperation, or repeated it to himself like a prayer during meal lineup, and that wasn’t to say he didn’t believe it. He did, but something happened when you walked away from those prison gates: Freedom and its expansive nature convinced you it could last forever. The promises you made to yourself flitted from the front of your consciousness. It was funny, but already, not even in the car that would take him away, he could remember the allure, the fast money, the easy power of his old life. The one thing was, he was really good at it, and there weren’t too many other things he could say that about anymore.

“Anyway,” T.C. went on. “I need you to ride me Uptown.”

“What the hell? That’s in the opposite direction of home.”

“Is it that far?” He smiled his big goofy smile he’d gotten teased for in fifth grade. He didn’t smile for a while after that year, but sometimes he couldn’t help it.

Tiger started the car. Lil Wayne’s “Right Above It” came on, still getting bumped on Q93 after four months inside. T.C. put his head back and sighed as they pulled out of the prison lot. They passed the St. Louis Cemetery, its white cement tombs like little houses above ground, then the old St. Bernard Projects. The city tore them down after Katrina, gutted the windows, razed the tall bricks. They were almost done building something new in its wake, but T.C. still didn’t know where all the old residents had gone.

“It’s hot as hell in here,” he said. “You ain’t got no air conditioning?”

“You see the windows down. It’s broke, nigga.”

“The windows being down ain’t helping. That’s just hot air comin in here then, nigga.”

“Well, maybe I need to slow down and let yo’ ass out. Maybe the air is cooler on the sidewalk.”

T.C. laughed, felt the sweat start to roll down his balls.

“You not going out by Alicia, then, huh?” Tiger asked.

At the sound of her name, T.C.’s head shot back up. “Aww, hell no. She beaucoup pregnant, bruh. You can’t fuck a woman when she big like that. I’d push a hole in my lil’ baby’s head.”

Tiger laughed. “That ain’t true, bruh. I went up in my old lady till the last minute with all my kids.”

“Ain’t one of your kids slow though?”

“Nah, bruh, all my kids is straight.”

“Nah, bruh, you told me one of them niggas tried to fight a teacher and had to be put in the slow class.”

“Nah, bruh, that teacher tried to sneak up on him one day, ya heard me. My man got them killer instincts like his daddy. He ain’t gon’ stand for that bullshit. Anyway you was in the slow class yourself, my nigga.”

“Yeah, exactly, that’s why I ain’t trying to fuck no pregnant lady. My kid’s gotta start out smarter than everybody else.”

Tiger was turning onto Tulane. That was good, he was listening at least. T.C. just had to make sure he didn’t try to stop at Popeyes. That fool couldn’t get enough of their popcorn shrimp with a side of red beans and rice, and he was going to try to get T.C. to pay for them. Any other day that would have sounded like a plan, but four months was too long to be sneaking porn to hit it before the sun came up. He needed to release; the weight of the impulse was drilling a hole in his goddamn brain.

“Awright,” T.C. said, “the traffic ain’t bad at least.”

“Aww, bruh, you still talking about that girl. If we gon’ go Uptown, we might as well stop for a bite on Napoleon. Don’t tell me you gon’ make me drive out of my way, and you ain’t even gon’ break bread with me, dawg? That ain’t right. You know that ain’t right.”

“Man, you ain’t caught a bid in a while, you must not remember what it’s like. I got somewhere I need to be. She waiting on me is the thing.” His words came out frantic and out of order, reminding himself of his mother; it was what he meant about his needs taking over his body right now.

“Let’s just stop at Popeyes, my man,” Tiger said. “Get a couple orders of those Cajun fries. It’s on the way. We’ll be done in an hour, I’ll carry you over there, you’ll bust a nut by noon.” He laughed, glancing at the dashboard for the time.

T.C. shook his head. “We could go out there tomorrow. And I got you, I promise. I really appreciate the ride and everything, but not today, bruh. I ain’t gon’ be good company anyway.”