On the Come Up(39)

By the time we get into the building, I’ve heard this lady’s life story. She also tells Jay about the churches and organizations that distribute food. Jay takes note of every single one. Guess this is our life now.

There are tables around the gymnasium covered in clothes, toys, books, and packaged foods. One of the volunteers takes some information from Jay, gives her a box, tells us to make our way around. Other volunteers pass stuff out. Over near the basketball hoops, a black Santa gives kids candy from his bag. A boy with zigzags cut into his hair helps him and poses for selfies. The front of his sweatshirt says “Mr. Swagerific.”

I’ve always had this theory that God is a sitcom writer who loves to put me in ridiculous situations. Like, “Hahahaha, not only does she have to beg for food, but she has to do it in front of Milez. Hilarious!”

This show needs to go in a new direction.

Jay follows my eyes over to Milez. “That’s that boy you battled, isn’t it? The one with that dumb song?”

How does she know? “Yeah.”

“Ignore him.”

If only. As dumb as “Swagerific” is, I can’t go around the neighborhood without hearing it.

I’m waiting for Aunt Pooh to tell me what to do with “On the Come Up.” She’s still MIA though. I’m not worried. Like I said, she does this sometimes.

“C’mon.” Jay tugs at my arm. “We’re only getting food. That’s all we need. Some of these other folks aren’t so lucky.”

The first table is covered in canned goods. These two elderly ladies—one black and one white—staff the table. They wear matching Christmas sweaters.

“How many in your household, dear?” the black one asks Jay.

Her table partner watches me with the smallest smile, and the look in her eyes makes me wanna scream.

Pity.

I wanna tell her that this isn’t how it normally is for us. We don’t usually get in long lines at community centers and beg for food. We sometimes have an empty fridge, yeah, but it used to be guaranteed to fill back up.

I wanna tell her to stop looking at me like that.

That I’m gonna fix this one day.

That I wanna get the hell up out of here.

“I’m gonna walk around,” I mumble to Jay.

The food’s on one side of the gym, and clothes, toys, and books are on the other side. Near the toys and books, little kids circle Milez and do his dance. A camerawoman catches that action.

I get as far away from them as I can and go to the shoe table. It’s about as long as the tables in Midtown’s cafeteria and sectioned off by sizes. All the shoes are secondhand, at least. I glance around the women’s size six section for the heck of it.

Then, I see them.

They’re taller than most of the other shoes. There’s a small scuff on the toe of the left one, but they’re new enough that the little leather tag hangs from the chain.

Timbs.

I pick them up. These aren’t the knockoffs like I got at the swap meet either. The little tree carved into the side is proof.

Real Timbs that could easily be mine.

My eyes drift to my own shoes. Jay said to only get food. These Timbs should go to someone who might not have any shoes at all. I don’t need them.

But I do. My insoles have almost rubbed out. It started days ago. I haven’t told Jay. I can deal with a little discomfort, and she doesn’t need to worry about getting me shoes right now.

I bite the inside of my cheek. I could take these, but the moment I walk out of here with them, I’m fucked. We’re fucked. It means we’ve gotten to the point that we need shoes that someone decided to give away.

I don’t wanna be that person. Yet I think I am that person.

I cover my mouth to hold back the sob. Jacksons don’t cry, especially not in community centers with eyes full of pity and news cameras looking for pitiful moments. I suck it up, literally suck it up by taking a deep breath, and put the boots on the table.

“Why don’t you try them on, Li’l Law?” someone behind me asks.

I turn around. Santa wears dark shades that hide his eyes, has two gold fangs in his mouth, and rocks a couple of gold chains. Unless the traditional Santa look changed and nobody told me, that’s Supreme, my dad’s old manager.

“Ain’t nothing like some real Timbs,” he says. “Go ’head. Try ’em on.”

I fold my arms. “Nah, I’m good.”

There are rules for battling, and there are rules for after the battle. Rule numero uno? Stay on guard. Last time I saw Supreme, I whooped his son’s butt in the Ring. Doubt he was happy about that. How I know he’s not about to come at me sideways?

Rule number two? Don’t forget anything. I haven’t forgotten how he laughed at that garbage Milez said about my dad. I can’t let that slide.

Supreme chuckles to himself. “Boy oh boy. You just like your daddy. Ready to fight, and I ain’t hardly said anything to you.”

“Do I need to be ready to fight?” I mean, hey, knuck if you buck.

“Nah, I ain’t mad. You made Milez look like a damn fool up in the Ring, yeah, but I can’t hold that against you. His head was somewhere else.”

“It wasn’t somewhere else that much. He said that disrespectful line about my daddy.”

“Yep, you definitely Law. Mad over a line.”