A South Central Love Affair

by Tranay Adams

  “Later y’all.” Marbella waved goodbye to her friends and sped off.

  Chapter Six

  The sun had set on The City of Angels giving birth to a night as dark and as cold as a pimp’s heart. Brolic and Zonyai leaned against his Maserati taking in the view of the city from atop of a mountain as he took swigs from a bottle of Belvedere. The lights of the corrupted city below looked beautiful. It almost resembled New York City at the moment.

  “Damn, look at her...ain’t she beautiful?” Zonyai looked from the city to Brolic then back again, his hands stashed inside of the pockets of his slacks. A smile was plastered on his face. He shut his eyes and tilted his head back, inhaling the fresh cool air and feeling the breeze on his face.

  “Who?” Brolic’s face twisted with wonder. He was shit faced and that wasn’t hard to tell. He looked all around. “Ain’t nobody up here, but you and me.” He took the bottle to the head and when he brought it back down, he wiped his mouth with the back of his fist.

  Zonyai laughed and shook his head, “No. South Central, mothafucka,” he said as he pointed to the city and Brolic raised an eyebrow. He didn’t see what his homeboy saw. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t anything beautiful about South Central, Los Angeles. It was ugly, fucking hideous. At least that’s what he believed. “If a nigga lived up here instead of down there, he wouldn’t believe half the shit that goes on down there if we were to tell him.”

  Things were silent for a time, but then it was broken.

  “Fucking weirdo,” Brolic shook his head and took a swig from his bottle, some of it spilled from the corner of his mouth. He took the bottle from his lips and sucked the alcohol from his bottom lip. “So what’s up, Yai? You rolling out with us to Majestic’s, or what?” He burped.

  “Damn, my nigga,” Zonyai frowned having gotten a whiff of the scent. He turned his head to avoid it but straightened right up afterwards. “No, I’ma stay in, probably rent a movie or something.”

  “Rent a movie? Come on, cuz, come out and chill with cho niggaz for a change. I wanna see you out enjoying your life, having fun. All you ever do is come out to handle business and then you crawl back into your little hole like a groundhog, or some shit. Fuck are you, depressed or some shit? You’re not thinking of...” he made his hand into a gun and stuck his finger into his mouth, closing his lips around it.

  “Nah, long as you’ve known me I’ve never been the partying type of cat. Shits never been me, baby, I’ma homebody.” His head moved back and forth as he took in what he believed was the most beautiful city there ever was.

  “Real life,” Brolic cosigned and took his bottle to the head again. His words had become slurred now. “Yo, Yai, you know I love you, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. I love you, too.”

  “Nah, you’re not hearing me, though. I mean, I really, really love you, cuz.” He tapped him on his arm and he turned to him. He stared him in his eyes. “And it ain’t shit a nigga wouldn’t do for you.”

  “I appreciate that, and you got that same type of love right here.” He slapped hands with him.

  “I’ll die for you, and I’ll rock any nigga to bed behind you. And on my momma, rest in peace,” he kissed his fingers and held them to the sky. “Them dudes that did that to your leg, them cats is dead.” He brought his hand across his throat pretending to slit it.

  “Nah, nah, nah, that’s shits dead, fam. Leave that shit in the past,” Zonyai tried to convince him. Right then, he felt a cool breeze that made his stump ache. He frowned and looked down at it, massaging it gently.

  “Nah, fuck that. You’re my brotha, my mothafucking family. Those cats put their hands on you, so they gotta pay what they owe, Yai. They gots to, smell me?” Brolic slurred eyes glassy and bloodshot. He moved sluggishly, head bobbling about.

  Suddenly having grown irate, he snapped and threw the Belvedere bottle into the trees. It shattered against a tree and broken glass came raining down. Next, he opened his arms for an embrace. “Come here, Cuz, gimmie some mothafucking love.” Zonyai hugged him and patted him on his back. Abruptly, the hoodlum sniffled and cried, tears came flooding down his cheeks. “I’m sorry...I’m sorry, Loc; I should have done something when that whole shit went down. I should have laid my murder game down, man. Please forgive me; I love you, Yai, man.” He kissed his cheek and stepped back. He stared into Zonyai’s eyes lovingly which made him feel funny. He figured that he was tripping off of the liquor, so he let it ride. Then suddenly his hand came up and he caressed the side of his cheek. Zonyai’s face tightened and his eyes shot to his hand, wondering what the hell was he doing? The next thing he knew he’d gripped his neck and was pulling him in for a kiss, mouth open with his tongue visible.

  “Brolic, what the fuck, man!” Zonyai shouted and shoved him back, causing him to stagger and nearly fall on his ass.

  “I’m, I’m, ah, I’m sorry, fam. Man, I’m drunk, Yai, my fault. My fault, bruh bruh,” He gripped his head with one hand and blinked his eyes uncontrollably. Mouth hanging open as he tried to figure out what had gotten into him. He couldn’t believe he’d come at his man. Now he was going to think that he was some kind of fag or something. “You forgive me, man? You forgive me?” He came stalking over but his man held up his hands on some Stay over there type of shit. He froze where he was becoming as still as one of those trees on that very mountain top.

  Zonyai hung his head and shut his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck. He blew hot air as he listened to his homie rattle off reason after reason why he’d tried to kiss him. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked up, seeing him pace the ground still running his mouth.

  “I forgive you.”

  “I’m drunk, man, I’m high, me and my son nice off a couple lines of coke. I’m sorry, Yai. I really am.”

  Brolic kept on going apologizing and giving reasons until he screamed at him.

  “Brolic!”

  “Huh?” His head snapped in his direction.

  “I said, I forgive you,” he spoke calmly. “You were drunk and high. Shit happens, but don’t let that shit happen again.” He pointed his finger at him, giving him a stern look and warning.

  “I won’t, I promise to God, Yai.” He crossed himself in the sign of the crucifix and kissed his fingers throwing them up to the sky where The Lord Almighty resided.

  “Don’t even sweat that shit, you still my nigga.” Zonyai told him.

  “Gimmie love.” Brolic spread his arms and approached for a hug, but he threw up his hands.

  “You good. You gotta ‘nough love for the night.” He gave him a stern look like Back up.

  “True, true, true, I feel you.” He pounded his fist to his chest.

  A car horn honking stole their attention. When they turned around, they found Wayne behind them in his X5 truck doors and tints pulsating from the music inside. The driver side window descended and revealed Wayne’s face. He smiled, showing off a mouthful of shiny gold teeth. He threw his head back like What’s up? And called for street daddy to hop into his ride with him.

  “Alright, Yai, I’m finna get outta here, my nigg.” He held out his fist and his man looked at it. Hesitantly, he leaned closer and touched fists with him.

  Zonyai watched as his niggaz pulled off in the truck until they were swallowed by the darkness of the mountain top. Once they were gone, he hung his head and took another deep breath, thinking about what had occurred between him and Brolic.

  “Nahhh, my nigga, ain’t gay. Like he said, he was drunk and high,” he reasoned, trying to convince himself that his brother from another mother wasn’t a homosexual. “Alcohol and cocaine are some hell of a drugs, real life.”

  ****

  Bwap! Wap! Crackk!

  Young Zonyai stumbled back after catching them hands from Puma. The husky brute smiled sinisterly and snickered as he held up his marred knuckles which look like they’d been in many of battles. He was three times his opponent’s size and out classed him in skill. He was a brawler with a reputation that su
perseded his hood.

  Zonyai doubled over spitting blood and a loose tooth out in the street. His T-shirt was torn at the collar and he had speckles on blood on it. His face was swollen and his nose and lips were twice their size.

  “You gon’ come outta them Jay’s or what, homeboy?” Puma asked, wiping his bloody fists on his plaid shirt and cracking his knuckles as he licked his lips.

  “Fuck you, nigga, You gon’ have to kill me out here ‘cause I ain’t giving you notta goddamn thang,” Zonyai spat back defiantly, wiping a length of red slobber from his bottom lips with the back of his hand.

  “Well, somebody best call the coroner then.” He threw up his hands ready to get it in.

  “Yai, just give him yo’ shoes!” Sabrina, Zonyai’s teenage girlfriend called out from where she stood among the crowd of spectators watching the fight like they were ringside.

  “Yeah, I’ll give him my pride and my respect right along with it.” He threw up his knuckles and approached his opponent. They circled each other, eyes locked in on one another’s form looking for the chance to launch the first attack.

  “Yeahhh, that’s what I’m talking about. Come get this ass whooping,” Puma declared, faking him out with a double flinch before landing a solid right square in the face. The blow made the audience cringe. The third made them wince while the last caused them to turn their heads. Zonyai was leaking and his girl was begging him to throw in the towel, but he wasn’t having it. He couldn’t see himself giving away what he owned for nothing. A nigga had to kill him to get him to unass his Jordan 13s.

  Wook! Wook! Wook!

  Puma snickered, ducked and maneuvered around the wild swings, giving the youngster one to the body and two to the head. When he buckled, he kicked him in the chest and the impact sent him stumbling backwards, falling into the crowds’ numerous hands. They threw him back into the fight dazed and confused. His aggressor caught him by his collar and pulled him close. His eyes were rolling around in his head and he was moaning, but he was coherent.

  “Now, are you gon’ take off them kicks or am I gon’ have to beat chu up outta of ‘em?” his confrontational eyes bored into the courageous young man. Finally, able to get his eyes to focus on the man holding him about the collar, he vomited his response. Pewk! He spat blood in his face and it splattered against it, rolling downward and curving at the shape of his nose. This enraged him and his face twisted up, twitching. He growled and went to send his fist hurling into his face when a tap on his shoulder stole his attention.

  “Huh?”

  Bwap! Puma dropped Zonyai and went staggering backwards. Losing his footing, he fell on his back in the middle of the street. Grimacing, he struggled to lift his head up from the asphalt. Once he did and his sight adjusted, he found Brolic there. The sun was beaming brightly at his back, so much so all that could be seen was his muscular form being that the florescent light obscured his face. At his rear on the surface was a Huffy bike that looked like it had seen better days. The spectators oohed and awed feasting their eyes upon the ghetto gladiator. He was a man equal in size to Puma, who was a youngster with the build of a guerilla. He was dressed in a wife beater and brown Dickies and his fists were clenched at his sides.

  Puma, dazed and confused, shook off the birds circling his head. He slipped his hand into his jean shorts and when he pulled it out, it was wearing brass knuckles. They shined as a gleam of light swept across the length of them.

  “Oh boy, you just invited yourself to The All Ass You Can Kick Buffet and I’ma ‘bout to pull you outta seat.” Balling the fist wearing the lethal weapon, he pushed off of the ground and sprung to his feet. His big black, ashy lips stretched across his face as he smiled wickedly, snickering once again like he knew a secret no one else knew.

  “Brolic.”

  The buff neck thug’s head whipped around to Zonyai.

  “Why’d you cut in? I had him right where I wanted him?” His head bobbled around and his eyes moved lazily behind his half open lids as Sabrina and someone out of the crowd helped him to his feet.

  “I can’t let chu have all of the fun, homie.” Brolic smiled. “Fall back, I got this one,” he assured him, feeling like he owed him ever since he took on tutoring him after school. It was because of him that he could remain on the football team because had he not gotten his grades up, he sure as shit wouldn’t have been playing that year.

  Although the two of them only really spoke while crossing one another’s paths in the halls at school, the rough neck had love for his smaller counterpart and had been waiting for the day he could pay him back for the kindness he’d extended to him. Now here the opportunity was and he was going to play it forward.

  “Alright, but the next one’s all mine,” Zonyai responded, his arms resting on the shoulders of his girl and on the shoulders of the other person who’d helped him up.

  “Come on, mothafucka!” Puma motioned Brolic over with his thick stubby fingers.

  After being called, Brolic lifted his fists and moved in on him. They circled one another, heads moving as they tried to find an opening in their contender’s defense. Puma fists came fast and relentless, looking like blurs in motion. Brolic moved lightning fast avoiding being hit. Once he found his opening, he attacked with full force, making every blow count. Two to the torso and two more to the head, whipped the big son of a bitch’s dome from left to right. Puma went to fall and he grabbed a hold to his opponent’s shirt, tearing the collar. Brolic grabbed him and kneed him twice in the stomach causing his eyes to bulge in their sockets. He stared ahead wearing a grimacing facial expression. The final blow which he delivered to his jaw caused him to stagger backwards and bump into a parked F-150. The brass knuckle slipped off of his hand upon impact of the truck and fell to the street with a clasp. He lay up against the SUV, bloody and breathing huskily. His hooded eyes stared up at an approaching Brolic. His vision was coming in and out of focus as he saw him walking over to him cool and calm. The audience was cheering him on as well as Zonyai and Sabrina. He scooped up the brass knuckles and slid them on his hand, flexing his fingers in them on his way over to make sure he held a firm grip on them. Once he reached Puma, he punished his face and every inch of his body that he’d left exposed. A time later, he went falling to the asphalt like a load of lumber. His eyes were rolled to their whites and blood was pooling out his open mouth. His nostrils flared and he breathed hard, blowing up the debris on the ground.

  The audience fell silent. Standing there, watching the brute having been put in the hurt locker. Brolic pulled off the lethal weapon from his hand and let it fall to the ground. It clasped beside his defeated contender. Staring down at him with animosity, he harped up some yellowish phlegm and spit it on his face.

  “Bitch ass nigga!” he kicked him in his ribs causing him to wince from the pain. Afterwards, he pulled off his Timbs, tied the laces together and threw them bitches over the power line. They wrapped around the line and bumped into each other. They hung there dangling like so many others. The shoes were put there whenever someone died in the hood. And although Puma hadn’t been slain, his reputation had. Once he’d done this, he looked to the crowd with a pair of eyes that threatened violence. The look startled the people that were once cheering for him and they took a step back, afraid of what the new King of the Streets would do next.

  Brolic’s thick neck moved from left to right taking in all of the faces, committing them all to memory. Suddenly, his thick arm came up and pointed in Zonyai direction. He began to speak with pulsating nostrils and a scrunched nose, looking like an angry pit bull.

  “Ya’ll see this nigga right here?” they all looked to Zonyai and nodded, fear evident in their eyes. They were observing Brolic, like he was the God that they praised and they were villagers. “Well, that’s my mothafucking nigga and any problem with him is a problem with this nigga right here.” He smacked his massive palm against his broad chest. It sounded like he was patting a slab of raw meat. “Bet not nothing, I mean nothing...” He n
arrowed his eyes into slits and bit down on his bottom lip, tilting his head back as he went on to speak. “Ever happen to him over here, as far as I’m concerned, my nigga good. He gets diplomatic immunity. Is that clear?” he looked around at everyone and they nodded. “What the fuck? Are y’all mothafuckas hard of hearing or something? I said did I make myself clear? What? I gotta make another example outta one of y’all?” they all shook their heads no and replied loud and clear yes. “Good.” He approached Zonyai and threw his arm over his shoulder. “How you doing, Yai? You alright?”

  “I’ll be okay. Good looking out.”

  “Come on, let’s get chu home,” Brolic told him, then looked to Sabrina. “Lil’ momma, grab my bike, I got him. I’ma walk ya’ll home.”

  Sabrina picked up the brawler’s Huffy and they walked off into the illumination of the beaming sun. From that day forth, Zonyai and Brolic had been stuck together like glue. They made nearly all of their moves together and you rarely seen one without the other. They were tight. So tight that people thought they were brothers. Although that wasn’t true, blood couldn’t make these two niggaz any closer. They always had one another’s back. That’s just how they were. Their loyalty ran deep.

  Present

  “Gay?” Zonyai snickered, hopping into his Maserati and pulling off. “I don’t know no fags as tough as that.”

  ****

  Marbella wandered through Block Buster video store looking for the last DVD she’d wished to rent. The mob wife already had some of her favorites: Baby Boy, Friends with Money, and Ten Things I Hate About You. But there was one more she had in mind; it was her and Zonyai’s favorite, True Romance. She was beginning to lose hope on finding it being that she’d already combed through the Thriller and Romance section twice without any luck of finding it. Having grown agitated, she gave up on her search and decided to head up front to ask the store clerk had anyone brought back a copy since she’d been there.

  “Excuse me,” Marbella addressed the store clerk as she approached. “I noticed you don’t have any more copies of True Romance over there. By any chance, has someone brought back a copy since I’ve been here?” she asked with hope in her eyes.