Capital City

by Omar Tyree

  Steve says, “Naw, man, we got ends.” It’s good to see that he finally bought a new coat. People might start to think I got homeless people working for me.

  They all pull out green backs and slip them into my hands.

  “Yo, we got two more sales,” Otis says with his fast-ass tongue. “You’n, we can sell a half-ounce to these niggas for six hundred or seven. These young’uns is New Jacks.”

  “Yeah, well, hold dat shit up until I count this money.”

  I walk to the car and jump in to count it up. Shank is still listening to Kool G Rap & Polo.

  “Damn! Ain’t’chu ti’ed a listenin’ to that ‘Ill Street Blues’ shit yet? You tryin’a memorize it?”

  Shank smiles. “Yeah, ma’fucka. Kool G Rap is da shit.”

  “He talk like he got a ball of shit in his mouth, ta me.”

  “He got a lisp,” Shank says through a tight grin.

  “Oh, yeah? Well, how come only niggas in New York got that shit then?”

  Shank shakes his head. “You lunchin’, Joe.”

  I count the money up and the numbers is right on time. Steve then taps on my window.

  “Yo, we got some new customers for later on.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck ’em ’til tomorrow, ’cause I got some other runs t’ make.”

  “So what’chu want me ta say?”

  “What da fuck? Tell them young’uns you got it hooked up f’ t’mar.”

  “But they got money t’night, you’n. We might mess around and lose out on these niggas. I mean, if we sell ’em. t’night, then we’ll have ’em as constant customers.”

  “Look, I don’t give a fuck! I’m not goin’ back t’ da crib t’ get no more shit t’night. One damn day ain’t gon’ kill ’em, Joe. Damn!”

  “Aw’ight, man. Now when’ney hook up wit’ some other ma’fuckas to buy their package from, it was ya call.”

  I suck my teeth, roll up my window, and drive off, heading back toward Adams Morgan. It’s almost twelve o’clock now. I have to have me some of that weed Ahmad sells me. Tonight! I need it to calm my nerves.

  “See dat? Now if you was poor you wouldn’t let that sale go,” Shank says. He puts his dark shades on.

  “Yeah, well, fuck it, ’cause it’s more ta life than jus’ feedin’ niggas’ habits. Me and Bink got some ass lined up.”

  I’m smiling now as Shank sits silently. He’s finally listening to the radio instead of that Kool G Rap tape. “Yo, you got any girls, you’n?”I ask him out of curiosity.

  He smiles, slick-like. “Naw, rough niggas don’t get no bitches.”

  “Aw, you crazy! My nigga Red had many girls pressed. But he messed around and got this girl Keisha pregnant, like a damn fool. And, you’n, dat girl ain’t got no damn sense!” She is right about sayin’ nigga all da time though, I’m thinking. But fuck it! I can’t help the shit.

  Shank slips out another smile, which is rare for this nigga. He reminds me of Rakim. “Yo, you like Rakim?” I ask him while we inch down Eighteenth Street in Friday night traffic.

  “Oh, you ma’fuckin’ right, Joe! Rakim is da Godfather!”

  I laugh. “You really in ta them rap songs, huh?”

  “A li’l bit.”

  “What about da go-go?”

  He frowns. “Fuck dat go-go shit. I ain’t never liked dat shit.”

  “What about Rare Essence, ‘The Niggas That I Fuck Wit’?”

  “Oh, that song is cool. I like the beat. But the rest of that shit? Man . . .” He shakes his head.

  “What about Junkyard, ‘Ruff It Off‘?”

  “I mean, dat song is cool, too. I just don’t like most of that go-go shit. But if dey come correct wit’ some bumpin’-ass beats like that ol’ ‘Sardines and Pork & Beans’ song, then you gotta give it up to them niggas.”

  I jump out and buy two dime bags of killer from Ahmad. Then I make a phone call to these girls.

  “Hello.”

  “Yeah, it’s Butterman.”

  “Hey, sweetness, where you been at? Been waitin’ for you for a hour.”

  “I’m in Adams Morgan. I’m ’bout to call up Bink now. Then we’a head ova ta ya crib by like one thirty.”

  “Aw’ight, well, as long as y’all come, shaw’, ’cause me and Kita horny like shit.”

  I hear Marquita laughing in the background. I can visualize that healthy-ass, light brown body of hers. “Aw’ight, well, let me make this call.”

  I hang up, page Bink and put my code in. I’m late by now. But Tamisha got her own apartment. They gon’ be there all night.

  Bink calls me back after waiting out here in the cold. “Yo, nigga, you beeped me too late and now I got another date.”

  “What? You wanna be a rapper now?”

  “Naw, but you always been one.”

  “How you figa?”

  Bink mus’ got me confused wit’ somebody else, I’m thinking.

  “’Member you used to wrap ya yellow-ass lips around my big, dark brown dick I mean, don’t tell me you forgot.”

  I laugh at that crazy shit. This nigga let me walk right into that one. “Aw’ight den, man. I got Shank wit’ me, so I’ll jus’ take him.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll throw my balls in Marquita’s mouth another day, ’cause I don’t mind sharin’. Shank is my boy. He cool like dat.”

  My brows raise. “Yo, Kita suckin’ balls?”

  “Oh, I’on know. I was just bullshittin’.”

  “Oh, ’cause thought ya old girl Shannon was da only one suckin’ balls the way she did me last time.”

  “Aw, go ’head, nigga. Shannon only like men wit’ big balls. And ya light-bright, li’l-dick ass don’t qualify.”

  “Shit, I’m Big Daddy Long Stroke.”

  “Fuck outta here. You a Little Daddy Half Dick.”

  I laugh like shit before I hang up and walk back to my 3000. Shank hops out and makes a three-minute call and hops back in.

  “Yo, wanna go to these girls’ crib wit’ me?” I ask him.

  “I thought you and Bink was goin’.”

  “Yeah, we was, but that nigga Bink is sellin’ me out.”

  Shank thinks for a minute with his hand to his chin. “Fuck it! Aw’ight, I’m down.”

  “What, you had somewhere else ta go?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve been spendin’ too much time wit’ dis one bitch anyway.”

  I smile at him. “Oh, so you do have a girl?”

  “She ain’t my girl, she jus’ knows how ta treat me.”

  I rev up my smooth engine and roll out toward Fourteenth Street. Tamisha lives in Takoma Park, Maryland, so I use New Hampshire Avenue. I don’t know how this girl talked me into seeing her again. Maybe it’s because them walls of hers are so damn good.

  “So what this girl look like?” I ask Shank.

  “Sade.”

  “For real?”

  “Yup. She got a shiny forehead and e’rything.”

  I laugh. “So what do you mean when you say she treats you right?”

  “She don’t bother me, she feeds me, lets me spend the night, and she gives me the pussy whenever I want it.”

  I nod with a broad-ass grin. “Yeah, you’n, I see what’chu mean. That’s my kind of girl too. But my girl is in Atlanta. She goes to Spelman down’nere.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yup. That’s my baby, you’n. I love that girl.”

  Shank smiles at me. “So why you fuckin’ wit’ dese other hoes?”

  I smile back. “Why you comin’ wit’ me instead of goin’ t’ see ya girl?”

  “’Cause, like Denzel Washington said in Mo’ Better Blues, ‘It’s a dick thing.’”

  I laugh like hell. “Yeah, well, it’s a dick thing wit’ me, too.”

  I park in the parking lot of Tamisha’s building and roll up a couple of joints. “You want one, right?” I ask Shank.

  “Ma’fuckin’ right.”

  We lean the bucket seats back and get fucked up before going in to get some ass.


  “So do you think you could ever be faithful to a girl?” I ask him.

  Shank takes a hit and holds it. Then he blows it out. “For what?”

  “You know, t’ be a good man, an’ shit like that.”

  “A good man? Fuck that shit, Joe! A good man is any nigga that lays his pipe right.”

  I geek off of the shit. “Yeah, you got that shit right. Once you make a girl scream and dig her nails in ya back, she ain’t goin’ nowhere. But I ain’t never been’na one t’ say I’on need a girl or call them bitches and hoes, ’cause I got too much respect for my mom and my sisters. So you know, I’ll listen to that Dr.Dre and Snoop Doggy Dogg rap, talkin’ ’bout bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks, but I don’t really feel that way. I mean, yeah, I love black pussy as much as the next nigga, but I don’t feel like that makes me evil or nothing. ’Cause pussy is good for ya health, you’n. For real!”

  We’re laughing hard now. This weed got me talking out of my ass.

  “But you know what I’m sayin’ though, Shank?”

  Shank takes another hit. “Naw, ’cause my mom been a bitch all my ma’fuckin’ life.”

  I’m laughing so hard that my stomach is hurting! “Yo, why you say that, man?” I ask him, wiping tears from out of my eyes, still giggling.

  “She is, man. Sometimes I felt like she jus’ wanted t’ fuck wit’ me, jus’ ’cause I was there and she ain’t have nobody else t’ fuck wit’. So whenever I see these evil-ass black women draggin’ney sons around, talkin’ dat trash, I jus’ be feelin’ like fuckin’ ’em up, Joe. I mean, I ain’t wanna live in no fuckin’ Washington. My mom fucked around and lied to me while I slept in’na back of her car. You believe that shit, you’n? The bitch lied to me!”

  Damn! I’m still laughing and all but I got this nigga talking a little bit, don’t I? I guess I hit a nerve or something. Or maybe it’s just the weed.

  Shank stares out of the window as if he’s in a daze, thinking to himself. His shiny black skin shimmers from a street light slashing inside the car. He’s starting to look like them hard-ass African warriors that I used to see in library books.

  “Yo, you ever heard of Shaka Zulu?” I ask him. Shank’s eyes pierce into a slit as he takes another hit.

  “Yeah, I saw that nigga on TV. My cousin taped da shit.”

  “What’chu think about ’im?”

  “He was da man.”

  “And you ever heard of Nat Turner?”

  He blows out more weed, feeling that herb like I’m feeling it. “Yeah, I heard a him. That ma’fucka from Haiti, Toussaint Ouverture, or something like that. Then you got Hannibal and Ghengis Khan and a whole lot of other tough ma’fuckas.”

  I frown. “Ghengis Khan? He wasn’t black.”

  Shank grimaces. “Who gives a fuck? He wasn’t white.”

  I laugh, overdoing it because of this killer we’re smoking. “How you know about these people?” I ask him.

  “What? I mean, how da hell you know?”

  “From readin’ and jus’ hearin’ about da shit. I mean, this is Black History Month.”

  Shank smiles. “Black History Month. What kind of shit is that? These white people got history all year long, and we got a fuckin’ Black History Month. And yo, the shit is on the shortest month of the year at that.”

  “Yo, I didn’t know niggas like you paid attention t’ stuff like that.”

  Shank looks at me through sharp, dark eyes. “Niggas like me? See, I tol’ju you act like one of those rich niggas. You think ma’fuckas is stupid. Fuck it though, as long as you keep my pockets fat, I’on really care. And if you ever try any crooked-type shit on me, you’n, I’m gon’ lynch’cha ass jus’ like all the rest of us get it.”

  “Yo, man, cool out an’ shit, Joe. I ain’t mean it like that. That’s da weed talkin’.”

  He says, “Yeah, like they say, when you fucked up you do stuff that you usually suppress. But you be thinkin’ ’bout da shit though.”

  “So you think that I think about black people like that?”

  “Fuck what’chu think! I ain’t hurt by it. Many ma’fuckas treat’chu like you don’t know nothin’. But all you have to do is ask a ma’fucka.”

  “A lot of times you ask somebody somethin’ and he don’t know,” I tell him, trying to compensate.

  “So, that ain’t no reason to assume that ma’fuckas is stupid. That’s jus’ how white people treat’chu an’ shit. That’s why I hate being aroun’em ma’fuckas.”

  “Me too, man. I’m in the same boat,” I explain, pressed like a girl trying to make up with her man for some more dick.

  Shank smiles as he hops out of the car. “Yeah, sure ya right. Now let’s go in here and get some ass, ’cause my dick is hard as Chinese arithmetic.”

  I laugh at that Eddie Murphy-type shit and get out with him, still trying to explain myself. But Shank’s not listening.

  * * *

  It’s Saturday morning. My head is still ringing from that nigga Shank. He really fucked me up last night with the things he said. Maybe I’m still more like my pop than I think I am. And that’s fucked up!

  I call up my girl and she answers on the first ring. “Hey, baby, it’s me,” I tell her.

  “Where were you at last night?”

  “Outside.”

  “Doin’ what?”

  I frown. It’s too damn early for this shit. “I mean, did’ju wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?”

  “No, Jeffrey, and I know you was out there playing that Butterman shit, acting a damn fool. I swear to God, sometimes I hate the hell out of you! All I ask is for you to call me every other day, at least, and you can’t even do that. I mean, not even to call and leave a message on my machine, saying that you been thinkin’ ’bout me or nothin’.”

  She sounds fed up. I shake my head. “Damn! Well, what can I say?”

  “I’on know, but I’m up working on this paper that I started on last night while I was waiting up for you to call me. And I bet’cha ass ain’t even check ya messages. Did you?”

  “Naw.”

  “I know you didn’t. So what you need to do, J, is check your machine to hear what I had to say to you, and then you call me back later on. Okay, ’cause I’m busy right now.”

  I say, “Cool,” and hang up. I’m too damned tired to argue.

  Shit! If people only knew how much dumb stuff I go through. I’m flipping damn near twenty thousand dollars a week now and still got problems. Life is a pinball game for your ass. And I still have to set up that bank account like Wes was telling me.

  I need that nigga, Wes! I’m getting all kinds of money now. I don’t want to waste it. Yeah, I know exactly what I’m gon’ do for Wes’ ass. Hooking him up with NeNe wasn’t enough. I push my answering machine button and let it play.

  “Yo, B, this Bink, nigga. What’s up? I mean, is you tryin’a get some ass or what? Call me up, man, and let me know what time it is.”

  Beep!

  “Hey, Junior, this is big sis, Joyce. Look, me and Chester are going down to Florida for a little winter get away this weekend. And I know you were talking to Mom about needing to just get away from it all. So call me back. We’re leaving in the morning at seven.”

  Seven? God damn, it’s ten o’clock already! They been gone.

  Beep!

  “You know, Jeffrey, I’m real tired of this. I mean, maybe you trying to play me out like a ho now. But then you wanna call up out of the blue and start talking that stuff about how you love me and how you need me. I mean, it’s confusing me, baby. What do you want with your life, J? You can’t just do one thing one day and some totally different shit the next. You just end up running in circles.

  “Now look, I love you like I’m crazy, and I gots to be crazy wit’ all these fine-ass Morehouse guys runnin’ around down here while you up there throwing your hot dick around. And I know you are. Just don’t get me no diseases. I’m out. But just remember that you were never there for me when I mess around and turn i
nto a lesbian or something. I love you too much to mess wit’ another guy, but I still have emotions of my own to be fulfilled.

  “Anyway, call me when you’ve finished fucking somebody else. I’m just sitting in here in my bed, teasing myself. Well . . . bye, J.”

  Beep!

  Shank

  I ain’t seen my mom since I left Southeast in October. Talking with Butterman last night got me thinking about her.

  Yeah. It was messed up the way me and Moms broke off.

  I was in my room listening to Ice Cube’s new album, Predator.

  “How da hell you gon’ tell me what I’m not doin’ t’ get a damn job?”

  “Well, how come I can get two jobs then, Julius?”

  “’Cause you a bitch! The white man likes hirin’ bitches for work!”

  “Look here, don’t call me no bitch, motherfucka!”

  Man, fuck them. They was always arguing about some shit. I just turned my box up louder and ignored it.

  Bloom! Da fuck is goin’ on? I was thinking after hearing a crash against my wall.

  I leaped the hell up and ran into my mom’s room. Julius had her dumb ass pinned up against the wall. He was trying to get a good punch at her.

  I hit that motherfucker with a left jab, an overhand right, and a right hook to the body. That motherfucker curled up on the floor like a snail. Then I kicked him in his ribs and punched him in his fucking mouth and started trying to pin his ass to the floor so I could unleash on him.

  Next thing I know, my mom’s dumb ass is punching me in the back of my head.

  I looked at her like she was crazy. “What’s wrong wit’chu?”

  “You leave him the hell alone!”

  “He was jus’ ’bout t’ beat’cha ass!” I shouted in shock.

  She was really fucking crazy!

  “I can handle my gotdamn self, boy!”

  “Aw’ight, fuck you den!” I said, stomping out of their room.

  Then she rushed me in my back! “You don’t disrespect me like that! I’m your gotdamn mother!”

  I said, “You gon’ be a gotdamn zombie if you don’t get da hell away from me!”

  I saw my little light-skinned sister in the hallway with tears in her eyes.

  “You betta not lay a hand on me!” my mom was still screaming.