Black Buck(3)

Just as I did every day, I jumped down the stairs of 84 Vernon Avenue, jogged down the street, turned right on Marcy, and headed for the G train.

“Morning, Darren!” Mr. Aziz, the Yemeni owner of the corner bodega, shouted as he beat the living hell out of a speckled floor mat like it was a badass kid.

“Sabah al-kheir!” I shouted back, always trying my best to connect with local folks, both old and new.

But inner-city diplomacy was hard. Factories, restaurants, and every other building with a few cracks in it were being torn down to make way for high-rises and the influx of Bed-Stuy’s newest, pigment-deficient residents, which is why I always found hitting the corners next to the G a fresh breath of air. No matter how early or late it was, the usuals were there, like gargoyles on a Gothic church.

“What’s good, Superman?” Jason said, as our hands connected, palms popping and fingers snapping.

“Not much, Batman. Jus’ headin’ to work, you?”

He laughed, slapping his hands against his jacket. Even though it was May, it was already heating up, and I imagined him sweating like a suckling pig under there. With his baggy jeans, spotless Timberlands, and durag topped with a bucket hat, my man looked like an original member of the Wu-Tang Clan. We were both twenty-two, with the same athletic build, but somehow people always thought he was older. Must’ve been the manicured moustache and goatee.

“Already workin’,” he said.

Man, this guy was a trip, but he was my best friend. Had been for more than seventeen years, when some clown was trying to press me for my Ninja Turtles backpack and Jason knocked him upside his head. When I asked him why he defended me, he just shrugged, and said, “Jus’ ’cause someone wants somethin’ doesn’ mean they gotta take whatchu have.” From then on, we were Raphael and Donatello, Batman and Superman, Kenan and Kel. But if I had known that being boys with him was going to land me in the deepest of shits, I may have just laid him out then and there.

“What?” he asked, noticing my stare. “You ain’ the only one tryna get up outta here.”

“I’m not tryna get up outta here, man. I’m jus’ waitin’ for the right opportunity, tha’s all. And when I get it, I’m not gonna switch up and bounce. You’ll see me grabbin’ a slice from there,” I said, pointing at the Crown Fried Chicken next to Mr. Aziz’s bodega. “There,” I repeated, pointing at Kutz, the barbershop next to Crown Fried Chicken. “But you for sure won’ see me there or there,” I said, nodding at the new hipster bar and condo building that just went up.

Jason laughed. “Yeah, tha’s what all them say until they leave yo’ ass for a white world.”

“I’m good where I’m at, Batman, and with the company I keep. Like your wack ass. But I gotta bounce. Whatchu readin’ now, anyway?”

“Williams.”

“Tennessee?”

“You buggin’, son. John A. You?”

“Huxley.”

“You need to stop readin’ them old white writers, nigga.”

“Aight, bro. I’ll catch you later.”

“Bet.”

Wally Cat sat on an overturned plastic crate on the corner across the street reading the newspaper. I was rushing into the subway when I heard him say, “Aye, Darren!”

Something told me to ignore him and descend into the damp, urine-smelling subway, but I didn’t listen.

I crossed the street. “What up, Wally Cat?”

“How’s yo’ momma?” He licked his lips like a sweaty pervert.

If I’d had the balls back then, I would’ve told Wally Cat that if he didn’t stop asking about Ma I’d put him in a casket quicker than a steady diet of Double Big Macs with supersize fries could, but I didn’t. Partly because I was shook, but mostly because I liked him.

You see, Wally Cat was the definition of an oldhead. But not the kind that just reminisced about all of the stuff they coulda, woulda, or shoulda done “back in my day.” No, at sixty with a Hawaiian shirt, low salt-and-pepper afro, immaculate fedora, and burgeoning paunch, Wally Cat was a millionaire a couple times over. As Ma tells it, this guy used to live on a farm and study horses—their weights, temperaments, the way they moved and ate—then just roll up to a racetrack and almost always pick a winner.

One day he was scanning the upcoming races in the paper and noticed all these new companies popping up on the stock market. And that was that. He stopped betting on horses and started betting on companies. But the way he’d do it was by going to a company’s office and speaking with the janitors, who always had the scoop on the CEOs, VPs, whether a company was sloppy or clean, punctual or late, and more. He turned a couple thousand into a couple million in less than a decade. All on his own. And then he started buying up property. But the thing is, what Wally Cat loved most in the world was just sitting on the corner, reading the newspaper, and watching people go by. Plus, he still used coupons.

“She’s aight,” I said, sitting on the crate next to him. Parents with children too young for school and too energetic for home arrived at the playground behind us, Marcy Playground, and let them loose. Screams filled the warm air.

“Good, good. You know, back in the day your momma was the finest woman in Bed-Stuy. So fine she didn’ mess with no niggas like me. She had to have that high-quality, knowwhatImsaying? Like yo’ daddy. He was one of those clean, suavamente Spanish niggas who had girls all over him, but he was aight.” He removed his fedora, patting his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.