The streets of Chicago weren’t shit to play with. Been running those muthafuckas since I was ten years old. Years later, I was still trying to run them or trying to run from them. Many niggas had a kill-or-be-killed mentality, but the only thing I was trying to do, at the present time, was save myself from becoming a statistic. In order to do that, I had to refocus and do whatever to stay on a straight and narrow path. It damn sure wasn’t easy, but day by day, I was making progress.
The problem was knowing too many people. I basically knew every single individual on my block, and then some. So when niggas who weren’t from around here showed up, I could sniff them out a mile away. Either they were here to do some gangbanging shit, or a plan was put in motion for somebody in the hood to die. There were plenty of times when weak niggas turned to me to handle their beefs. I didn’t mind. My reputation was stellar. My word, bond. If I told a person what I was gon’ do, ten times out of ten, it got done.
That was then, the past. Today was a new day, and I excluded myself from much of the madness that was being reported on the news, every single day. It was sad to see sometimes, but it all boiled down to one simple thing—choices. Within the last year, I’d made mine. I wanted to live. Live life to the fullest, at least until I was 110 years old. To me, that was a possibility. And as far as I knew, I didn’t have no beefs with any of the niggas around here. My boys, Theo and Nate, I wasn’t so sure. They were involved in all kinds of illegal shit, and making the almighty dollar by any means necessary was their priority. I had no problem with the route they’d chosen, and it didn’t bother me one bit because I was known as being boss . . . a leader, not a follower. And when all was mulled over and done, those two would still be my niggas.
We all had been down with each other since grade school. Our family situations were about the same—absentee fathers, mothers dead, on drugs, or in prison. I kicked back with my grandmother, Theo resided with his aunt, Lala, and Nate was here and there. Wherever he could lay his head, that was home for him.
Many times, Nate shacked up at my grandmother’s house or with Theo and his aunt. Then he hooked up with a chick named Alexis. When she got pregnant and had his child, the two of them got a place on Section 8. I was surprised by how quickly Nate had pulled back on his womanizing ways. He was known for being out there with a whole lot of bitches, but I was happy for him. That was . . . until I found out how much he got a thrill out of kicking Alexis’s ass. He had always been the abusive type. Theo and I feared that Nate would kill Alexis one day . . . only because Nate had a temper that would flare up at the drop of a dime.
Years ago, it wasn’t Nate’s temper that got us expelled from high school. It was mine. I/we beat the fuck out of two teachers who snitched on us. As the beatings took place in an alley, I delivered my “specialty” and cracked plenty of bones. I got high off doing that shit; they didn’t call me Bones for nothing. The snaps, pops . . . cracks gave me a rush and left me with the feeling of pure satisfaction. It was my revenge for those who somehow or someway made me suffer, like those fake-ass teachers did. We left school in handcuffs that day, and after spending several months in juvie, education was a wrap.
Without a diploma, I opted for fucked-up jobs at McDonald’s, Burger King . . . even a sales job at the mall. That’s where I worked now, but I hated smiling in muthafuckas’ faces, pretending that I was happy to be there making chump change. Theo and Nate laughed at my ass for working as a sales representative, but I promised my grandmother that I would do better. After all she’d done for me, I didn’t want to disappoint her. I didn’t want her to think that her efforts had been wasted, but I’d be the first to admit that the way my job situation had been going, change was coming.
“Bones!” my flamboyant supervisor hissed, then snapped his fingers. “This customer needs some help. Pleeease put that down and hurry yourself over here. I don’t know where Sally is, but you need to step up when she’s somewhere stuffing her fat little ass with cake.”
This dude was a trip. Whoever hired him needed to be fired. I had been hanging some new leather jackets on a rack in the men’s section and hadn’t seen the ugly bitch standing nearby with a twisted face. I also didn’t appreciate my supervisor’s tone, but sometimes shit like this had to be ignored. I put the jackets down and sluggishly walked up to the customer.
“What do you need?” I said.
My supervisor rolled his eyes and stomped away like a little bitch. “A smile never hurt anybody,” he said underneath his breath. “I don’t know what his problem is.”
I wanted to fire back at him, but I had grown skillful at ignoring people.
With an attitude, the chick pointed to a yellow shirt that her five-two frame was unable to reach. At six feet tall, it was no problem for me.
“Reach up there to get that for me,” she said. “I need it in a small, if you have it.”
A small? Seriously? I thought. More like a triple X. She wasn’t about to squeeze all of that into a small, but maybe she was looking at the shirt for someone else.
I pulled down the shirt and gave it to her. She held it in front of her, and then asked where the dressing rooms were.
“The lady’s dressing room is in the far back to the left. Men’s room to the right.”
She winced and cut her eyes at me. “For a man who is so darn fine and who smells very delicious, you’re not too bright, are you? I didn’t ask where the men’s dressing room was. I said girls. Do I look like a man to you?”
She really didn’t want me to answer her. Hell fucking yeah, she did. I bit down on my tongue so I didn’t have to share my inner thoughts with this overweight, stank-breath bitch whose compliments didn’t move me in no way. All I did was point in the direction of the fitting room, and then I walked away. I was one to believe . . . treat others as they treat you. She didn’t encourage me to represent my true professionalism. Seconds later, my supervisor approached me.
“Are you special, Bones? I saw the way you treated that customer. I’m warning you about this attitude problem of yours. It needs to cease or else.”
I rubbed the fine hair on my chin while staring at my supervisor without a blink. He had no idea who he was fucking with. Pushing my buttons was a huge mistake. I cocked my neck to the side, then cleared my throat. “I’ma finish hanging up these jackets. Then I’m taking my break.”
Doing the norm, he rolled his eyes, threw his hands in the air, then stomped away. I hurried to hang the rest of the jackets, and then clocked out so I could go to the food court to get some grub. On my way out, I accidentally bumped into a fine-ass black chick that was with two other people.
“Sorry about that,” I said, picking up the bag she dropped and gave it back to her.
The smile on her face got wide. Her eyes traveled from my flowing waves to the leather shoes on my feet.
“No problem at all. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, and I hope that I didn’t hurt your shoulder when I bumped it.”
She reached out to touch my muscular shoulder that formed an impression in the ocean-blue, crisp shirt I rocked. It was tucked neatly into my black jeans, and a leather belt was at my waistline, making me look neat. I moved her hand from my shoulder and told her everything was fine.
“Yes, you are. And rather sexy too. I know you must have a million-and-one girlfriends.”
I wasn’t trying to have this conversation, especially with someone who I didn’t know. From the look in my eyes, she could tell it was time to move on.
“Have a nice day,” she said, still smiling. “And don’t hurt nobody with those looks.”
I walked off, revisiting some of my past relationships in my head. I had a difficult time expressing my feelings, and none of my relationships lasted for long. Whenever I felt myself getting too close, I shut the shit down. Why? Because most females were trouble. Like niggas, they plotted and schemed too. They lied. Cheated. Manipulated. Claimed to love when they didn’t, and then pretended to be victims. Fuck that. The only time I wanted to deal was when I had an urge to quietly slip in, then get the fuck out.
After paying for my food, I sat at the table eating chicken and rice, thinking about the last chick I directed my dick into. She was a stripper. Met her while we were out celebrating Theo’s birthday. Fucked her in one of the stalls. She got hers. I got mine. I left. That was about two . . . three months ago. Pussy was fire, but I couldn’t even tell you her name. Nate was the one who revealed to me that her name was Red. She made it too easy for me and had proven one fact—pussy came a dime a dozen. How in the hell was any nigga supposed to be faithful? I didn’t believe that anyone could be, especially since being unfaithful to her so-called boyfriend, pimp, or whoever the fuck he was, had cost my mother her life. I watched in horror as she paid the price for cheating on a fool who was cheating on her.
I was awakened from my sleep that night. Mama and her boyfriend, Stan, were arguing. She had been out all night long, and like always, she strutted through the door with her hair disheveled and wrinkles throughout her clothes. Her makeup was smeared, and the look of “I just got fucked well” was written all over her. She took slow steps back into a corner, while Stan moved forward, gritting his stained teeth. His fists were tightened. Chest heaved in and out and sweat ran over the thick wrinkles lining his forehead.
“I can smell that foul pussy all the way over here. The second you came through the door, I could tell that you’d been somewhere fucking that nigga again! Don’t you lie to me, woman! The smell of his dick is still on yo’ breath!”
Mama crouched down in the corner and kept on with her lies. Her hands trembled as she held them together, hoping and praying that Stan would fall back and chill.
“Stan, baby, please. God knows I wouldn’t cheat on you. I was with Jasmine. We had a few drinks, and then . . . then we drove to her mother’s crib to drop off some groceries. On the way back, she had car trouble. We were stuck for a long while. Didn’t nobody stop to help us.”
I peered through the brown wooden rails on the steps, looking at Mama and knowing that she had fucked herself. Jasmine had already been here earlier. Stan waxed that ass, gave her some paper, and then she left. They’d been fucking behind Mama’s back for years. I wasn’t sure if she’d known about it, but young boy or not, I paid attention to what was transpiring around me.
“Bitch, stop lying!” Stan yelled and staggered closer. He was drunk as hell. Spit flew from his mouth as he called Mama all kinds of trifling bitches and hoes. “I want the truth! I want to know where the fuck you were at! I want you to call that nigga and tell him that you’re done!”
Mama wiped his spit from her face. She pressed her knees against her chest and continued to shiver in the tight corner. “Stan, you’re delusional. I . . . I promise you that I ain’t been with—”
Stan silenced her lies with a swift kick to her face, provided by the bottom of his foot. Her head knocked against the wall so hard that it caused a dent. While holding the back of her head, she squirmed against the wall, attempting to stand. That was when he snatched her up by the back of her hair and slung her toward the kitchen. She skidded across the dirty tile floor, appearing weak and dazed. Stan stood over her, darting his finger at her face.
“Are you ready to tell me where you’ve been?” He punted her in the stomach, and as she curled herself into a fetal position, she screeched and pleaded for him to stop.
I inched my way down a few more steps, just so I could see more of what was happening. My heart ached for Mama. The last time I intervened, she yelled at me. Told me to keep my black ass out of grown folks’ business. I wasn’t sure if I should’ve done something or not. Stan was way bigger than I was, but I was strong for my age. I wasn’t sure where my strength had come from, but I’d gotten in trouble at school often for wrestling with the other kids and causing major injuries when they upset me. Mama never did much about me getting in trouble; therefore, I had gotten out of control. She was too busy prostituting herself and selling dope. I’d heard her tell one of her friends one day that she hated I was born. She hated me and wished she had aborted me. In her view, my grandmother could do a better job raising me than she could. She was right, and it wasn’t that I hated her for saying such cruel things, but that shit affected me. It affected our relationship. We didn’t have one. My love for her just wasn’t there, but I still needed her. I felt bad about how Stan was treating her. Watching him do her that way brought hella tears to my eyes.
“O . . . okay,” Mama yelled out as she scrambled to get away from him. He kicked her in the ass this time, and she fell flat on the floor. “I . . . I’ll tell you, but pleeeease stoooop this!”
He stood over her looking like a madman. More sweat ran from his forehead, and his eyes were real wide. He wiped across his thick, ashy lips, waiting for Mama’s confession.
“I was with Carl.” She dropped her head in shame. “I’ve been spending time with Carl because I knew you’d been fucking that bitch Jasmine!”
There was no secret that Stan didn’t like Carl. Mama could screw any other nigga that Stan wanted her to. Not Carl. He was Stan’s enemy. The truth in no way set Mama free. What it did was cause him to go crazy. The cold, sinister look trapped in his eyes alerted me that something heavy was about to go down. He grabbed Mama’s long hair and wrapped it around his hand. While dragging her across the floor, her legs flopped like fishes as she kicked and screamed for him to release her.
“You said the truth would set me free!” Mama cried out. “Why won’t you just let me be and leave me the hell alone!”
Stan yanked open a drawer and pulled out a long, shiny knife with a sharp-ass blade. I rushed into the kitchen, and while standing in nothing but my dingy underwear, I pleaded with Stan too.
“Don’t hurt my mama.” I smacked tears away from my face. Didn’t want him to think I was soft, and crying was for punks. “Please, please, don’t kill my mama. She all I got.”
Stan had a smirk on his face while gazing at me. Then the nigga had the nerve to laugh. The direction of my eyes moved to Mama. I was upset with her for bringing this coldhearted animal in our house, and how in the fuck could she put a nigga like him before me? I wanted to ask, but the sad look in her eyes, as she looked at me, said she was sorry. She knew better, but it was too late.
“Go, baby,” she said to me. “Go to your grandmother’s house. Get out of here before he hurt you too. He will hurt you, and I don’t want you to leave here like this.”
I refused to leave her. Shook my head from side to side, indicating no. “No, Mama, I . . . I can’t leave you.” Snot dripped from my nose as I threatened Stan, hoping to put some fear in him. “Put the knife down or else I’ma call the police. You gon’ go to jail, and those niggas in there gon’ beat you up!”
Stan laughed, then raised the knife over his head. “Call the police and tell them what? That yo’ Mama is a ho, and I did this to her?”
He dropped his hand and plunged the knife right into the center of Mama’s chest. She and I gasped at the same time. My breathing stopped. Face twisted and stomach tightened in a knot. Mama’s sad facial expression tore at my heart and soul. Salty tears streamed down my face as I saw her eyes pleading for me to do something. She even reached out her trembling hand for me to hold it. I rushed forward, and that was when Stan had his way. He yanked the knife out of her chest and jabbed it in—again and again. At least fifteen to twenty more times. Her blood sprayed my body and soaked every inch of the clothing she had on. Her head was tilted, and Stan dropped her to the floor as if she wasn’t shit.
“Now,” he said, swiping his hands together, “you can call the police on me.”
I tried to speak but couldn’t say one word. Tho. . .
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