Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

Fat bitch jus stand there lookin at me. She got all this white makeup on her face. Look like she dead. She be like, I’m tired of you lowlife niggers. Some people should never be born. Then that fat bitch kick me right in the nuts. Wit that fine-ass big toe.

You can make yo best money down in the financial district at lunchtime, when all the suckas spill outta they offices, hungry and loud. When you see a sucka, stick out yo belly and put on a sad face. Then you be like, Sir (or Madam), could you spare me a quarter for sumpin to eat? You can gank a few. And you can pull a big draw if you can find a whole gang of suckas from the same office all bunched up together.

Hunger make people feel all guilty and shit. An easy hustle. You can pull some substantial loot if it ain’t too many bums around. I don’t believe in knockin nobody’s hustle, but a bum ain’t nothin but a raggedy-ass scarecrow scarin all the money away.

Lucky for me, I see jus these two bums. One curled up off by himself inna space between two buildins, his face all red and shiny, set like a diamond in his grimy rags. And this other one, wearin a sign round his neck sayin INSULT ME FOR A DOLLAR. He jus sittin there on the dirty ground with his legs all folded Buddha-style, sittin there like he can’t move, like his sign heavy as a concrete slab. Scarecrow.

I try not to sweat them bums, and start workin my hustle like I always do, but, for whatever reason, suckas is cheap today. I’m talkin nickels and dimes and pennies cheap.

I’m like, What the fuck is this, a recession or some shit? Gots to try another strategy.

So I see this one square, an easy mark, and I tell him that I’m wit the circus, the Man of Steel, and ask him if he wanna punch me inna stomach for a dolla. I pull up my shirt and brace myself. This square, he just look at me and shit. But that ain’t all. Guess what he does next? Punk motherfucker spit on me. You heard me? Word. Yo, I’m all hot inside, hot, real hot. I’m like, Hey, money. Suck my dick. Then I run. Fast.

I use some of my draw for carfare and catch the train to my girl Juicy’s crib. Juicy meet me inna hall with a kiss, all sexy and fly in this negligee, thin like a spiderweb. She be like, Hey, Pea, you sweet bitch. How you doin?

I had better days.

Poor baby. She takes my hand, turns — she got more ass than a donkey; I ain’t gon tell you bout her face — and leads me into her crib. Then she leave me standin in the middle of the room and go over and sit down on the couch in fronta the TV to watch her favorite talk show — You know this my show — all content wit her snack: root beer and potato chips wit hot sauce. She be like, Pea, I was gon give you some. But, damn, I’m sick.

What’s wrong?

My throat sore. I been smokin trees all day, but it don’t do nothing.

Oh, I see. Kids ain’t ready?

No. Ain’t you hear me? I’m sick.

Sorry.

What? she say. Sorry? She frown up her face. What sorry gon do fo me? Can’t you order me a pizza or sumpin? Some Chinese food? Home delivery?

I got to make them ends first. We got this sweet business arrangement, my after-school hustle. I give her twenty-five dollars a day for the use of her sons, Crust and Hamfat. Fifteen dollars for the older one. He ten. And ten dollars for the younger. He seven. Suckas like kids. On good days, I can turn a nice lil profit. On bad days, I’m lucky to break even.

Aw ight. Well, you better go get them boys, then.

I go into the bedroom, where Crust and Hamfat all holed up wit the Nintendo game at the foot of the bed, lookin up at the TV on the stand above them. What up, yall?

What up, Pea.

What up.

Ready to make that money?

Can we finish our game first?

Yeah. I’m whoopin his ass.

You wish.

Come on, fellas. Time is money.

Ahhh.

I take them back out into the other room. Juicy look up at me from the couch. Yall ready? We nod. Hold up. I’ll walk yall to the train. She goes in the bedroom. I take the time alone with the kids for a last-minute review.

You got the wig?

Yeah.

And the dress?

Yeah.

And you practiced the rhyme?

Yeah.

Let me hear it.

Do we have to?

I don’t feel like it.

Aw ight. Stop whinin. But you better not mess up.

Juicy come outta the room stylin some stupid gear. This leather top all tight over her titties. These little shorts, real tight too. And some sandals, toes stickin out like a turtle inside his shell, each toenail painted a different color. Aw ight, yall. Let’s go.

So we bounce from her crib and head for the El, Juicy hangin all on my arm, though she taller than me, the kids holdin hands in fronta us. The hood gnats see me and start wavin their wine bottles, glass flags. They swarm over and start in wit the beggin. Look at the happy family. I got a family too. Aw, Pea, you a righteous brother. Can’t you set me straight? Family man, let me hold a ten to run up and see my PO. Can’t you let me hold five till Thursday? I’m good for it. I’ll pay you on Tuesday fo a taste today.

Hey, Juicy say, step the fuck off. What do we look like, the Red Cross or some shit? Those niggas quiet down and disappear like roaches into dark cracks. Then Juicy turn to me. She be like, Pea, I know you don’t be givin them broke niggas no money. I turn my face away. You better not. A nigga will ride yo jock worse than a bitch.

We go on a ways. What time you think yall be back?

Not too late.

Pick me up a pack of cigarettes. I’ll pay you back.

I don’t say nothing.

Be careful wit Ham. He got a slight cold. Now, yall mind Pea.

Yes, ma’am.

I don’t wanna hear bout yall actin up.

We ain’t. We gon be good.

Some big fat sloppy motherfucker is comin up the block toward us, hoggin the street. I curve around a lamp pole to keep from runnin into him.

Damn, Pea, Juicy says. What the fuck is wrong wit you? Ain’t I told you bout splittin poles? Bad luck.

But that dude—

I can’t have you cursin no bad luck on my sons.

You believe in all that?

She looks at me. Is you stupid or what?

I turn my face away. A cage is a little ways up, and as we pass by, who do I see on the other sidea the fence, watchin the game? Shiheed. Shit. Shiheed and Juicy hate each other, cause Juicy is mouth dangerous and Shiheed’ll slap a bitch inna minute. Shiheed looks over and catches my eye. I turn my head. Too late.

Yo, Pea. What the deal, son?

He walks over, stands lookin at me through the diamond spaces of the fence. I keep walkin, but he follows us along the fence, Juicy inches from him.

Nigga, what you doin up here? Shiheed don’t even look at Juicy.

You know, doin my—

I know you ain’t hangin now wit them project niggas.

I feel quick heat on my skin.

Got way too much pride for that. You handle that business?

Yep.

My nigga. Pea. Always doin yo thing. You still doin that thing, right?

You know me.

Yeah, I know you. Shiheed sucked his teeth.

Then Juicy says, Damn, Pea. You gon let him diss you like that?

Bitch, was anybody talkin to you?

Who you callin a bitch? Juicy stops in her tracks and stands lookin through the fence, right at Shiheed.

Ain’t but one bitch standin here. Maybe two.

Nigga, where yo mamma? I don’t see that one-tooth bitch.

What, you gon talk bout—

Jus shut the fuck up, Juicy says. Yo breath stank.

Yo, Pea, Shiheed say. He lookin at me, big-ass nostrils aimed and cocked at my face, a sawed-off shotgun. I can’t talk. I can’t move. Yo. You better do sumpin bout yo ugly Hee Haw — lookin bitch.

Ugly? Nigga, how many mirrors ran away from you today?

Yo, Pea, you better put yo bitch on a leash.

Why don’t you do it?