Black Buck(93)

“Dry-erase boards over there,” Rose ordered, pointing to the wall across from the old couch. “Someone sweep up that glass and toss out anything else that’s broken—mugs, plates, these tables and chairs.”

I folded the letters and placed them into their envelopes. I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Huh?” I asked, seeing Rose looking up at me, confusion on her face.

“I asked if it’s cool for us to throw out a bunch of stuff. We’re going to start unpacking the U-Haul. You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s just that I haven’t been back here since my mom died, so . . .”

“Can’t be easy. But let me take care of all of this. Go do what you have to do. We got it under control.”

“Thanks,” I said. I remembered that I had exactly two things I needed to do.

Down the stairs. Turn the corner. I stared at Mr. Aziz’s bodega and saw a steady stream of Saturday-morning traffic entering empty-handed and exiting with egg sandwiches, Arizona iced teas, and cigarettes.

Only one gargoyle was out: Wally Cat.

“What up, Wally Cat?” I asked, my nerves banging like bells in the wind.

“That you, Darren? I ain’ seen you in what, half a year, nigga? How you doin’?”

“I’m aight.” I wished there was an extra crate for me. Like before. “What about you, man? What’s good over here?”

He shot a stream of spit into the street and looked over his shoulders. “Ain’ shit, you know. Same ole same ole. More whities movin’ in, niggas movin’ out. It’s the damn circle of life out here.”

I had to do something, say something, to let him know I was sorry. About everything. I planted my ass on the curb and looked up to meet his eyes. “Yo, Wally Cat, I’m—”

“Don’ you dare say you sorry, nigga. Everyone makes choices, you know that. And you gotta live with yours, ’specially whatchu did to Percy. You know you was wrong for that, right?”

Mr. Rawlings. I saw him only in my nightmares.

I tried to gather some spit and clear my throat, but it was bone-dry. “Yeah,” I whispered, looking away from Wally Cat. “I know.”

“Good, ’cause every action has an equal and opposite reaction, nigga. And you betta hope he’s aight so you don’ get yours. But”—he placed a hard hand on my shoulder—“I been watchin’ you on TV, seein’ you pop up in the newspaper. Seems like you made a new life for yourself in the WWW. So I’m proud of you. Yo’ momma would be too.”

I can’t lie; hearing that made me feel a little better, but the feeling didn’t stick. Wally Cat was an OG and having his respect meant a lot, but I still had bridges to rebuild. And he couldn’t do that for me.

“Thanks, Wally Cat. I appreciate that more than you know.” I stood up and dusted my ass off. “Where’s Jason at? He still on the corner?”

He nodded at Jason’s corner. “What it look like?”

“Where is he?”

“Mickey D’s,” he said, finally breaking out his big-mouthed smile. “Boy stopped tryna be a gangster and became a man.”

“And Soraya?” I asked, trying to be casual. “You seen her around here lately?”

Wally Cat sucked his teeth and leaned back on his crate, nodding at Mr. Aziz’s bodega. “She over there, you fool.”

“Thanks, Wally Cat.” I dapped him up and he pulled me in for an embrace, holding on longer than he ever had before.

“You didn’ fuck no snow bunnies, did you?” His grip was tight, with grave concern in his voice.

“Nah,” I quickly whispered.

He laughed. “Good. Seven years bad luck, don’ forget now. You gon’ be stickin’ ’round a while?”

“Somethin’ like that,” I yelled back as I crossed the street, opting to begin with the easier of my two tasks.



* * *





There were two McDonald’s about the same distance from us—one on Broadway and the other on Fulton—and I knew that Jason would never work at the one on Fulton because he once said he found a fully fried chicken head in his six-piece McNuggets. But then again, I never could’ve pictured him working at a Mickey D’s, so what did I know?

I jogged to the one on Broadway, looked through the window, and found him behind the counter clad in a short-sleeved blue button-up, a black hat with a big McDonald’s M on the front, and a ‘Please kill me now!’ face as he surveyed the endless line of Black and brown families waiting for their Sausage McGriddles and burnt coffee.

“Yo,” I said. He looked up from the register, surprise flashing across his face, then anger.

“Whatchu doin’ here, nigga? Tryna buy a McFlurry?”

“What are you doin’ here?”

“What it look like? Makin’ an honest livin’. Prolly more than I can say for you.”

He looked the same but slightly older. He stood up straighter and moved his body with more control.

“Whatever, man. Listen, I’m here with an opportunity. To help.”

He stretched his head over the register, scanning the line snaking out the door. “I don’ need your help. If you ain’ gonna buy anything, step up out the line. You holdin’ it up.”