“It’s all right. She believed me. You can come into the kitchen and eat something.”
“No thanks. I gotta get home.” I swung my legs out of bed. “Does my mom know I’m here?”
“Yeah. Mom called and left a message.”
“Shit. Well, I’ll deal with her. Did the cops come?”
“No. We got you outta the gym through the fire exit, then called the ambulance from a payphone. You was tripping, Ty. I thought maybe you’d . . . die, you know?”
“Ah shit, son. Nobody dies from a few ’shrooms.”
Joe sighed. “Whatever.”
“C’mon, man, don’t be like that. Think of how it all went down! No cops, no trouble with the school, no nothing! I can still talk to your mom—”
“Don’t sweat it.”
“A’ight. I’ll call you later. I owe you big, son. We’ll go see a movie. It’s on me, playa!”
“Don’t call. My mom . . . ”
The look on his face said it all.
Control wasn’t all I lost that night. Joe’s parents wouldn’t let him hang out with me no more.
One good thing came out of it: I learned never to give up control again. Not for a day, an hour, a minute.
And I learned that the idea of trying everything once is bullshit.
GIRLS, LIKE BASKETBALL
Tonight was the night.
I caught the elevator to the eighth floor, feeling something weird in my stomach. Damn, was I sweating over a girl?
Well, Alyse wasn’t the type of girl I was used to. She lived in the hood, but she was no hood rat. You could tell just by looking at her that she lived clean. And when you talked to her, you knew she was mad smart.
But this was no date, I told myself. She only invited me over to work on our project. And I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, anyway.
That didn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy what Mama Nature gave us, if she was up for it.
The way I saw it, girls were like basketball, and I knew how to swish.
I knocked on the door. I heard music inside. A bass line of African drums.
I heard feet moving, then the door handle turned.
“Hi.” In a red shirt and tight blue jeans, she looked so fine. She was wearing a little more makeup than usual, and some perfume. I could tell that she was a little nervous.
“Come in. Sorry it’s kinda messy.”
“Any cozy crib is kinda messy,” I said, though my own crib was neat as hell.
I heard a noise behind her. A little kid in overalls was trying to fit a toy into his mouth.
“Don’t do that!” Alyse took the toy away from him. “No, sweetie.” The kid plopped down on his butt and giggled.
“What’s his name?”
“Gavin.”
“Hey, Gavin. What up, G?” I bent down and patted his head. “He your brother?”
“He’s my son.” She didn’t look at me.
That knocked the wind right out of me. I couldn’t think of what the hell to say except, “He’s cute.”
“Thanks.”
“Uh, how old is he?”
“Almost two.”
“His daddy around?”
“His daddy isn’t in my life. We live with my mom.”
“Oh.”
“Guess you weren’t expecting this.” It sounded like she was apologizing.
“Ain’t nothing. Lots of girls I know got babies. This ain’t nineteen fifty-three.”
“You looked surprised.”
“Me? Nah.”
She patted Gavin’s stomach, making him giggle and try to grab her hands. “The first year, I stayed home with him. Then Mom found a job where she could do evening shifts, so she’s home while I’m at school.”
“That works.”
“Yeah. Anyway, let’s get started. We can work at the kitchen table. That way, we can spread our stuff out and I can still keep an eye on Gavin.”
We sat down at the table. A lot about Alyse was now making sense. Maybe being a mom was why she acted so much like an adult.
“Ty, did you hear what I said?”
“Uh, no, sorry.”
“I asked for your e-mail address.”
“Sure, here it is.” I wrote it on a piece of paper and passed it to her.
“Your e-mail address is ‘King of Streets at gmail’?” She laughed. “That’s a good one. I’m Alyse N. Wonderland.”
“I like it.”
“Thanks. Now, I was thinking that if we use two Internet sources and three books for the project, that should be enough.”
“We don’t gotta O.D. We can get all we need in one book.”
“Yeah, but we want to show Ms. Amullo that we looked at a few different sources. We’ll look them over, even if we don’t actually use them all. I want to get an A on this.”
“I can’t even remember the last time I got an A.”
“Really? That’s weird. I mean, you’re such a smart guy, I don’t think it would take much for you to get A’s.”
“To get A’s, you gotta go to class. I ain’t good at that.”
“Don’t you want to get into a good college?”
“I don’t need college. I’m gonna start my own business right out of high school.”
“Don’t you need money to start a business?”
I couldn’t tell her that I already had plenty. “Don’t worry, Alyse. I got a business plan.”
“If I were you, I’d get the best marks I can in high school, just in case your plans fall through. As for me, I have to get A’s if I’m going to college.” She looked at her son. “Eventually . . . I’ll get where I want to be.”
“Where’s that?”
“A criminal lawyer.”
“So you gonna put the bad guys away, or help them get off?”
“I’ll be a prosecutor. I want to get criminals off the streets.”
“I’d’a thought you’d be a defense attorney.”
“Defense? Sure, I’d defend an innocent person. But I don’t want to make my living helping good-for-nothing murderers or rapists or drug dealers get off easy.”
Since when were hustlers as bad as murderers and rapists? I decided to be smart and keep my mouth shut.
An hour and a half later, when Alyse was sure that we’d done enough work, we decided to watch some TV. She’d already put Gavin to bed, so it was just gonna be us.
Alyse went into the kitchen to make some microwave popcorn, so I got up from the table and went over to the couch. I plunked down. My ass hit something hard. The couch spring was broken. I scooted around till I got comfortable.
Alyse came back with a bowl of popcorn and two Cokes on a tray. By that time, I had on a Kevin Hart comedy special.
She sat down on the couch, not too close, but not too far. The broken spring did me a favor, tilting her my way.
“You like Kevin Hart?” I asked.
“Yeah, he’s the best.”
“I saw him in the city last year. So classic.” I ate some popcorn. “Chris Rock’s my all-time fave, though. But he can be pretty nasty.” I looked down at her. “That stuff bother you?”
“Not if it’s funny. But nasty and not funny, that’s the worst.”
“Word.”
After Kevin Hart, we watched the end of a music awards show hosted by some skinny white guy I never heard of. I liked chilling with her and hearing what she had to say on a lot of things.
At one point she turned to me with a big smile. “You know, I’m glad you came to Les Chancellor. Classes are more interesting with you there.”
I smiled back. “We have a good time, don’t we?”
“The best.” Her eyes sparkled, and I could tell she was feeling me.
My cell phone rang. Fuck it, I won’t answer. But Alyse had already looked away.
The caller ID said: Monfrey.
I answered, “Yeah?”
“Ty, we might have a problem.”
“Go on.”
“There are new niggas in the hood. They’re asking
too many questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like who the connections are.”
“So?”
“Well, it ain’t that I think they’re narcs. I never seen narcs who look that much like thugs. I just got a bad feeling about them.”
“Then go with your gut. I hope you and Davica can work it out.”
“Huh? Oh shit, someone’s there, right?”
“Bingo. I gotta go, man.”
“Okay. I wanted to give you the heads-up.”
“Gotcha. Later, man.” I hung up.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yeah. It’s this friend of mine. He got girl problems.”
She smiled. “That’s cute that he calls you for advice.”
“He trifling, that’s what. He always got drama going on.”
“I got friends like that too.” She yawned. I knew what that was. It was the dismissal bell.
I took a deep breath, staring into that pretty face. This thing between us was really something. And if we didn’t do nothing about it tonight, it was definitely gonna be there tomorrow.
THE CODE OF THE WARRIOR
By mid-October, I was finding my groove. It was mad hard not cutting class, but I knew the second I slipped up, I’d get kicked out.
It didn’t hurt that I had Alyse to hang with. She was so cute, I did homework so that I could be with her. Sometimes I even studied for tests, just to see if I could get a better mark than her.
And sometimes class was kinda interesting too.
Like Global History. Boring, right?
Today was different.
Mr. Guzman was looking down at his notes, rubbing his hands together. When the bell rang, his head snapped up. “Good morning! I’m going to start us off with a question that relates to our new unit. What are the qualities of a great warrior?”
I raised my hand. “He’s physically and mentally strong. He can lead an army or take orders if he’s got to. He ain’t afraid of nothing.”
“What about his mind-set going into battle? What should it be?”
Justin answered, “He should be calm.”
“He gotta keep his eye on his goal and nothing else,” I added.
“Well, have any of you heard of samurai warriors?” Mr. Guzman asked.
Someone called out, “Yeah, they those guys in black who do karate.”
“You might be talking about ninjas, but the idea isn’t dissimilar.” Mr. Guzman wrote on the board, Bushido: the Way of the Warrior. “Bushido is the code of conduct of the samurai warrior. In medieval Europe, the knights also had a code. It was called chivalry. But in Japan, Bushido was different. In Bushido, you trained all your life for battle, and when you went into battle, you went in seeking to die.”
“That’s stupid,” Richard said. “If you go in thinking you gonna die, then you’ll die for sure.”
“The idea is that if you don’t fear death—and in fact, expect and welcome it—you will be a better soldier,” Mr. Guzman said. “A killing machine.”
Alyse said, “I guess they thought that since they were going to die, anyway, they might as well do it bravely, and take down as many enemies as they could.”
“But what’s the point in being a hero if you dead?” Kristina asked. “Sorry, but that don’t make sense.”
“Maybe they promised the samurais forty virgins when they die,” Todd said. “Like those terrorists.”
Mr. Guzman said, “It could be they were promised rewards in the afterlife. Or perhaps death itself was their honor.”
“It’s like those kamikaze pilots during World War Two,” Alyse said. “Or the 9/11 hijackers.”
“This is wack, if you ask me,” I said. “Those samurais should’ve stood up for themselves. It’s stupid to give up your life just because your leader tells you to. Most leaders stay safe while they send their men to die.”
Alyse nodded. “Like President Bush sending soldiers into Iraq.”
“Maybe that’s why it’s called Bush-ido,” I said.
Everybody laughed, even Mr. Guzman.
From there, the class went on about life in early Japan, feudalism, and all that. Mr. Guzman always hooked us in with something interesting, then switched over to what he really wanted to teach.
I couldn’t concentrate on the rest of the lesson because my mind kept going back to Bushido, the way of the warrior. That whole thing was ass-backward. I knew that a great warrior wasn’t supposed to be scared of death. But asking for death as part of the warrior’s path? That was overdoing it.
JIMMY PENNINGTON: THE WHITE, IVY LEAGUE VERSION OF ME
I gave props to Jimmy Pennington. He was a Wall Street broker who sold coke as easy as he sold stocks. For the past year he been dropping fifty Gs a month—a hot deal for both of us.
Tonight he wanted seventy-five. I carried it in a briefcase as I walked into his favorite TriBeCa after-work lounge.
Jimmy sprawled in a cushy chair near the front of the lounge, staring out the window at passing people. He wasn’t into making deals at shady places like piers or parking lots. He liked to meet in upscale places. All I had to do was throw on some dress shoes and pants, a white button-down shirt, a leather jacket, and I was good to go.
“Hi, Jimmy.”
“Johnson!” He got up, shook my hand, and clapped my back. “Great to see you. How’s law school?”
He was always saying things like that. “Top of my class.” I sat down and put the briefcase under the table.
“That’s some achievement, Johnson. Drinks on me.” He flagged down the waitress. “Two martinis, extra olives.”
Jimmy dragged the briefcase close to him. “All here?”
“You got it.”
“Excellent.” He leaned back in his chair like a young Donald Trump—with better hair. Jimmy dropped thousands on threads: Armani suits and loafers, engraved cufflinks. For a guy in his mid-twenties he had it all, but Jimmy always wanted more.
“Got some new connections, do you?” I asked.
“Sure have, Johnson. Give it a little time, and I’ll be asking you for a hundred every month.”
“Whatever you need. Just call.”
Jimmy laughed. “Like the goddamned Visiting Nurse Service of New York!”
I took my martini from the waitress. The service was fast, but I wasn’t surprised that Jimmy got special service. He gave out phat tips.
I sipped the martini. It was so damn sour. Jimmy put them down like Gatorade.
“You still with that lawyer?” I asked.
He smiled. “Woman of my dreams. Just moved in with me.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Sure is. I’m sick of the bar scene. I’ve got a gorgeous woman who’s great in bed and makes almost as much as I do. Plus, she works late, so we don’t get on each other’s nerves.”
“Does she know about . . . ”
“She’s a practicing Catholic, for Christ’s sake. The other week she dragged me to Mass. I told her next week I’d go to confession. I’m going to enjoy spilling my guts.”
“Maybe you taking the joke a little far, man.”
He waved it off. “Priests can’t do anything with what we tell them, trust me. I’m sure the priest’ll just tell me to stop selling, say a few Hail Marys, and move on.” He flashed a smile, then gulped more martini. “You should go sometime, eh, Johnson? I bet you have a few sins to confess.”
“It don’t matter. I’m Presbyterian.”
“Amen.” We clanked glasses.
SWEET DREAMS
Alyse:
Is that you, Ty?
I blinked at the text that popped up on my phone. I’d spent the last hour surfing for sports news and porn, and now I suddenly woke up.
Ty:
No doubt. What are you wearing, honey?
Alyse:
Ty! Stop playing.
Ty:
A man’s gotta have a little fun.
Alyse:
Oh, we’re a man now, are we?
Ty:
What, I ain’t old enough to be a man?
Alyse:
I wouldn’t say that. Being a man really isn’t about age. It’s about taking responsibility, isn’t it?
Ty:
I forgot I was talking to Oprah Winfrey.
Alyse:
Actually, this is Iyanla. She’s just as wise as Oprah.
Ty:
Never heard of her.
Alyse:
Pick up Essence magazine to find out, or go to a bookstore.
Ty:
Sorry, shorty. I got better things to do than read that stuff.
Alyse:
And I guess you read National Geographic?
Ty:
Damn straight. It’s got hot pictures of naked women in the Amazon and all that sh . . . stuff.
Alyse:
You just stopped yourself from cursing, didn’t you?
Ty:
Of course. Wouldn’t wanna curse in front of a lady, would I?
Alyse:
Real smooth, Ty. You won’t curse, but you admit you read National Geographic for the naked women.
Ty:
What can I say? ;)
Alyse:
Hey, what about coming over to do some work on our project Saturday night?
Ty:
You wanna study on a Saturday night? What about letting me take you out?
Alyse:
I can’t leave Gavin.
Ty:
I’ll get you a babysitter.
Alyse:
That’s sweet of you to offer, but it’s too much money. How about we study and then I cook you dinner? I make a mean spaghetti. Then later you can meet up with your friends or whatever.
Ty:
Forget my friends. We’ll do a little work, have dinner, then rent a movie.
Alyse:
Sounds perfect. Thanks . . . you’re a really good guy.
Ty:
No, I ain’t. But I’m a guy who thinks you’re . . .
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