IQ(16)

“Where’s what?”

“The money.”

“I’m a little short this week. How ’bout I give you a hundred now and the rest next week?”

“How about you come back when you got the two-fifty?”

Dodson felt a wave of humiliation, bested by this chump. He stood there looking at the ground, head slightly tilted, one fist clenched. He wanted to pop the boy a few times, let him know who he was messing with. Instead, he sneezed. Fucking cat hair. Dodson turned and walked away, thinking, This ain’t but the first round, muthaf*cka.





CHAPTER THREE


Where’s My Samitch, Bitch?


July 2013

Dodson was sitting in a metal folding chair on the auditorium stage at Carver Middle School. He vaguely remembered being a student here, although calling him a student was a stretch. His attendance was so bad his history teacher said he should wear a visitor’s badge. Homework was like a strange ritual they did in some foreign country where everybody was blond and wore wooden shoes.

Dodson was sharing the dais with a firefighter in a big canvas coat, a Filipina nurse in green scrubs, a bulky-looking woman in a gray uniform who worked as a prison guard, and an old man in oil-stained coveralls and an STP cap who owned a wrecking yard. Above them hung a banner in blue and green tempera that said: CAREER DAY. Dodson saw Isaiah slip into the back of the auditorium and he smiled to himself. This could only mean one thing. Isaiah needed money and he needed it bad.

The old man was up first. He started his presentation with a joke. “All right,” he said, “so this black man walks into a bar, you see, and he’s got a parrot on his shoulder. Big beautiful bird, all kinds of colors in it and everything, and the bartender says, man, that thing is beautiful. Where’d y’all get it? And the parrot says, Africa.”

It was all downhill from there. The nurse had an accent and that was the end of her and the firefighter put everybody to sleep talking about good grades and character. The woman prison guard said her job was tough but it was union and they couldn’t fire you unless you smuggled in dope or had sex with an inmate.

The vice principal, Mr. Ingram, came to the podium. He was wearing khaki Dockers and a baby-blue polo shirt, a weariness about him like he should have followed his dad into the carpet cleaning business. “All right, everybody, let’s settle down,” he said, looking at a clipboard. “Our next speaker is a prominent entrepreneur and well-known local businessman, Mr. Juanell Dodson. Mr. Dodson?”

Dodson stood up. He was wearing a chalk-striped charcoal double-breasted suit with a canary-yellow tie and matching pocket hankie. He could have passed for an ordinary businessman if it weren’t for the diamond studs in his ears and the Stacy Adams black-and-white spectators. He strolled across the stage, a hitch in his stride like a pimp on his birthday, snapping his cuffs and glancing at his sundial-size watch, so many dials and buttons on it you could hardly tell the time. The kids hooted and whistled but they might have been birds chirping for all Dodson cared.

A table and a projector were set up at center stage, a mike on a mike stand next to the table. Dodson squared up to the mike, took a slow, deep, charitable breath and surveyed his audience, a look on his face like he smelled something past its sell-by date. The kids continued to snicker and whisper but Dodson waited… and waited… and waited… until there was absolute silence. A circumstance so unusual the kids were looking at each other.

“Losers,” Dodson said, “I don’t see nothin’ but losers. Bad hair, ashy elbows, prepaid cell phones you ain’t even allowed to use unless you get kidnapped, and sneakers with logos on them nobody’s ever seen outside of Hong Kong and Vietnam. Don’t you wish there was one thing about you that was stylish? That was now? Something your mama didn’t buy at the Kmart after-Christmas sale? Something you could be proud of and flaunt in front of your friends? Well of course you do, you know you do.” Dodson raised a hand like he was fending off a reporter’s question. “Oh I know what you thinkin’. What could my raggedy self ever possess that would give me the status and attention I may or may not deserve? What vestige of the good life could somebody from my pitiful demographic ever hope to acquire? Well, pay attention, young people, Juanell Dodson is about to make your dreams come true.”

Dodson got out his cell and swiped the screen and music came through the PA system, Tupac’s “California Love”; the kids bobbing their heads and smiling at each other. Dodson swiped the cell again and a PowerPoint slide show commenced on the onstage screen. The first slide was of Jay-Z, smoking a cigar and wearing a gold curb chain fat as a boa constrictor. Nelly wore an all-diamond chain with matching studs. Flo Rida’s chain was relatively modest but the diamond-encrusted Jesus pendant was the size of a chicken pot pie. “Check out them joints,” Dodson said, beaming like he’d crafted the chains in his own workshop. “Makes you feel like a playa just looking at ’em.”

As the music flowed and the kids danced in their seats, there were more slides of rappers, singers, actors, record producers, and pro athletes, all of them wearing outrageous gold chains. “Oh I know what you thinking,” Dodson said, that hand coming up again. “How could somebody as financially challenged as me afford bling like that? Get a job? Doing what? Who’s gonna hire my illiterate ass? Maybe my parents could help? Please. Ain’t no extra income on their monetary horizon. You not gonna get a raise if you pushing a hot dog cart or working the cash register at Shop ’n Save.” Some of the kids laughed but most of them didn’t. “But Juanell,” Dodson said, “why are you even showing me these treasures when you know I’m broke and even if my whole family died at the same time the only thing they’d leave behind is some lottery tickets and a car note? Well, don’t despair, young people, Juanell Dodson’s rent-to-own financing plan can put you in a genuine fourteen-karat rope big enough to put a crick in Kanye’s neck for only pennies a day.”