IQ(5)
“For real, Isaiah,” Deronda said. “I need to change my social standing. I need to change my cultural environment. I need to change my address.”
Deronda was eighteen when she was crowned Miss Big Meaty Burger at a BMB restaurant in Culver City. A TV reporter from Channel 5 was there and Deronda got seven seconds of screen time on the morning show. Her name and picture appeared in the Long Beach Press-Telegram and people came over to see the plastic tiara and the red-and-gold Big Meaty Burger sash.
She was interviewed on KHOP. The DJ asked her if she did anything special to keep her donk fresh and was she naturally thick or did she have to work at it and when was the last time she had some icing on that cake. The highlight of the whole experience was an actual photo shoot and getting her picture featured on the BMB advertisements. The ads showed a giant triple-decker burger dripping burger juice. Deronda was looking over her shoulder, her smile wide and inviting, her cheeks gleaming like polished mahogany and split down the middle by a DayGlo-pink bikini. The caption said:
THE BIG MEATY BURGER
LA’s Juiciest
You Know You Want Some
At the time, Deronda thought this was it, her launching pad. Somebody must have noticed her and seen her charisma and potential but nobody called, there were no more interviews or newspaper articles, and after a few months BMB changed the girl on their advertisements. Deronda stayed hopeful. Something was bound to happen, how could it not? Celebrity was her dream, her destiny, and somehow that made it okay, even sensible to do just what she’d been doing. Getting her hair and nails done, partying with Nona and them, and watching Jersey Shore and the Housewives of Atlanta and Bad Girls and Keeping Up with the Kardashians and the Housewives of Orange County and The Bachelorette. She made ends meet stripping at the Kandy Kane wearing nothing but the sash and tiara. Deronda’s father, a supervisor at Metro Transit for twenty years, urged her to find a new direction and stop frittering her life away but Deronda only got more stubborn and determined to wait for that white-hot bolt of lightning to come ripping out of the sky and blow her up large.
“Don’t you want to get out of the hood?” Deronda said.
“I don’t know,” Isaiah said. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? Shit, that’s crazy. I mean like, if I had your profile I’d be a brand by now.”
Isaiah turned off Anaheim onto Kimball.
“This ain’t the way to my house,” Deronda said.
“I’ve got to stop off at Beaumont’s,” Isaiah said. Beaumont’s was a corner store called Six to Ten Thirty. It sold everything from cold beer and microwave burritos to pi?atas and Scarface posters.
“You know how they say nothing stays the same but change?” Deronda said. “Where is it? I don’t see no change.”
“Things can change and still be the same,” Isaiah said.
They were coming up on the Capri, a Section 8 apartment complex. According to HUD regulations you could only live there if the value of your bank accounts, stock portfolio, and real estate holdings didn’t exceed fifty percent of the median income for the area, which was around forty thousand give or take. There was a long waiting list.
A group of East Side Sure?os Locos 13 were hanging on a strip of grass near the entrance, a spot chosen with care. There was a low cinder block wall for cover and banana palms to hide their straps in. A lot of the homies were in county lockup for gun possession. Most of the Locos were in their teens but hard-core killas for real, everybody in uniform today. Baggy shorts, oversize white T-shirts or football jerseys, and a splash of red. A wristband, a cap, a flag hanging out of a pocket. Red was their color.
“Check that out,” Deronda said, pointing with her chin at a Loco drinking from a forty-ounce bottle of Miller that looked like pee. “How’s he ever gonna be anything but a damn criminal with Locos 4 Life stamped all on his forehead?”
The Locos knew who Isaiah was but threw up signs and talked shit just as a matter of principle. One vato with a hairnet over his bald head was nodding all exaggerated. “This ain’t your hood no more, esé,” he said. “Drive your f*cking ass on.” Isaiah looked at him neither afraid nor disrespectful. He’d grown up with some of the OGs but these youngsters didn’t care about anything. If you weren’t a Loco you were a victim.
Isaiah’s cell buzzed. He checked the number and hesitated. Some people were like the oldies you hear on the radio, evoking another time, another place, and who you were back then. The sound of Dodson’s voice and the rhythm of his speech stirred up a stew of memories burned black at the bottom of his heart. The last time they’d spoken was at Mozique’s funeral but it took a day or two before the burnt taste was out of his mouth.
“Who is it?” Deronda said. “It’s a girl, ain’t it?”
Isaiah thought about sending the call straight to voice mail but if Dodson wanted something he’d keep calling and maybe show up at the crib. He put the call on speaker. “Hey,” he said.
“Whassup, Isaiah?” Dodson said. “It’s been a long damn time. I ain’t laid eyes on you since we put Mozique to rest. That was a sad sad day, wasn’t it? Bad a nigga as he was I always thought he’d die by the sword and what happens? The boy wins the Trifecta at Santa Anita, drives over to Raphael’s to buy some weed, and gets hit by an Amtrak train. Just goes to show you, luck beats money any day of the week. You got some luck the money will come looking for you.”