Push Comes to Shove

by Oasis

  “Shoot, that I had to kick her butt. She put her hands on me first.” Secret watched her brother scrape the bug from the bottom of his shoe. “You think Daddy will ever get us all that stuff we named last night?”

  Junior ran the question through his head, then shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know…Nah, not all of it.”

  “Go in the house and get us something to drink.”

  “I ain’t; you go.”

  Secret nudged him. “Scaredy-cat, you’re too old to be afraid of the dark.”

  “I’m not thirsty. Go get your own drink.”

  “Chicken.”

  “You must be scared yourself.”

  She smirked. “No, I’m not.”

  “Go get something to drink, then, with your ugly—”

  Kitchie pointed to the light pole while coming up the driveway. “What did I tell y’all hardheaded butts about being outside when them street lights are on?”

  “It’s lighter out here than it is in there.” Secret aimed a thumb toward the house.

  Junior skipped to Kitchie. “Something’s wrong with the lights. They broke, Ma.”

  Kitchie sat the duffle bag down, looked at the dark interior of their home, and began to cry.

  GP climbed a steep hill that led to Cliffview Apartments. He never understood why they were called apartments when they ranked as no more than drug-infested projects.

  He went into the building and held his breath to avoid inhaling the thick cocaine smoke as he passed a group of addicts smoking crack on the stairwell. He reached the third floor and pound on his best friend’s door.

  “Don’t be banging on my shit unless you’re in a hurry to get fucked up.” The metal door squealed as Jewels yanked it open. “Oh, what’s up, homeboy? I thought you were somebody coming to borrow some shit. A motherfucker asked me to borrow my dustpan yesterday.”

  Their fists touched in a greeting manner.

  “I did come bumming.”

  Jewels turned away from the door. “You don’t count.”

  She wore brush waves and dressed better than any man GP had ever known. Beneath today’s expensive urban wear was an average-looking woman. She was built like Serena Williams but much stronger.

  She lay back on the weight bench and pumped 225 pounds effortlessly. “I didn’t hear that raggedy-ass car of yours pull in the lot doing the beat box.” She racked the iron after ten reps.

  “You got jokes. It broke down yesterday. I went to check on it before I came here, but it was gone.” GP plopped down on the designer couch in front of a McFadden and Whitehead album cover littered with marijuana.

  Jewels sat up and stuffed a rolling paper with marijuana while looking at him from the corner of her gray eyes.

  He shrugged. “I had to leave it in Chang’s Chinese Food parking lot. Ignorant-ass Chang said it sat there too long, called my bucket an eyesore. Fake chink could’ve left my ride alone, you know?”

  Jewels nodded and put a flame to the joint.

  GP kicked a foot up on the coffee table. “He had it towed. Damn thing ain’t worth more than it’ll cost to get it out the impound and fixed.”

  “That’s fucked up. Anything is better than footing it…unless you enjoy a good walk.” She passed GP the joint. “Chang do got more Black in him than me and you, fronting like he grew up in China.”

  “Rent-A-Center stuck me up yesterday. I got five days to pay the bank or the foreclosure is final.” He choked on the smoke, then released it. “And the list goes on. Junior wants a bike—which he deserves. Secret needs, and wants, new clothes to keep up with the Joneses. She’s a good kid, too.”

  “You need some money, homeboy. It’s cool to have big dreams and shit.” She tugged at his Street Prophet shirt. “But you got a good wife and kids, too. They don’t deserve to get dragged through a mud puddle while you chase your rainbow.” She averted her gaze to her kickboxing trophies lining the top of the entertainment center. “It’s not about you no more, GP. You need to come up or do something to start contributing to your social security. Do your cartoons on the side. Fool, you ain’t young no more; you got real responsibilities.”

  “Twenty-seven ain’t old.”

  “It’s too old to be dead broke.” She pointed the remote at the flat screen. “You lucky I ain’t never been on dick. If I had been the one to give you some pussy, for real, I’d do something vicious to you if you didn’t take care of me and mine right.” Jewels pulled out a nice-size bank roll. “How much you need?”

  “I didn’t come over here for money. I’ll ask if I need it.”

  “You the one who said you came bumming. What your foolish ass want, then?”

  “I have an interview tomorrow at the Plain Dealer. I need to borrow something to wear.”

  “Get out of here.” She made a huge fist and tapped his chin. “Greg Patterson, Senior, a job interview? Hell must be below zero. Not only can you borrow something, you don’t ever have to bring it back.” Jewels led him to her immaculate bedroom.

  GP fell back on the oversized bed. “As nice as you put this place together, why don’t you move somewhere…more fitting, like Cleveland Heights or Shaker?”

  “This stolen shit ain’t nothing.” She motioned toward her elaborate furnishings. “Wait till I come off with this account fraud. I’m strictly hood, though. Ain’t no place like it. Damn suburbs are too quiet. I’ll be forced to fuck up the noise ordinance.” She slid the closet open and selected a garment bag. “This should fit you nice.” She laid a tan Christian Lacroix suit beside him. “It hasn’t been altered yet.”

  “You’re really a jewel. I promise you, one day I’m gonna buy you a big diamond because I appreciate you.”

  She picked up a newspaper from her nightstand. “Check this out. Technology is a beast.”

  GP took a moment to examine the article. “FamilyGewels? Who the hell thought of some shit like this? Turn dead people into diamonds; come on.”

  “All they need is your ashes. I wouldn’t mind coming back as a phat-ass diamond ring. But you don’t have vision; the cemetery is full of dead motherfuckers. That ain’t nothing but money.”

  “Forget about it.” He tossed the paper on the nightstand. “We’re not stealing dead people.”

  “Cremated pets work, too.”

  “No, Jewels.”

  “Buy yourself some shoes.” She counted out a hundred dollars and put it in the suit pocket. “Listen, GP, if for some reason this interview doesn’t work out, I’ll set you up with a few ounces to get your pockets right.”

  “I’m not selling crack no matter how bad it gets. I can’t believe you just tried me. Every time I see somebody on it, or hear about something happening because of it, I think—”

  “About how your mother was a pipehead. How she gave birth to you in prison. You forgot that I know all about you and I’m tired of hearing it.” She browsed through the clothes on hangers. “When are you gonna stop feeling sorry for yourself and get over it? Anybody that had to go through what you have should be as strong as a gorilla. Sorry I tried to help.” She took out a collarless dress shirt matching the cream stitching of the suit. “On everything, if I come up with this money I need for this account hustle, I’m gonna do something real proper for you so you can handle your business.”

  “You stay in something.” He pictured himself in the suit.

  “What can I say but I’m a hustler. I’m thinking about changing my name to Dividends. All I need is one hundred grand, and it will yield me six hundred grand in a month’s time—guaranteed. Why wouldn’t I play at them odds?”

  As GP neared his home, he slowed his pace and frowned upon the unusual sight. He scrutinized the other homes on his block and ruled out a power outage. Maybe Kitchie put the kids to bed early. Then, he noticed that the porch light was out.

  That light never goes out.

  He burst through the front door. “Kitchie!”

  “We’re upstairs.”

  He flicked the light switch at the bottom
of the stairs.

  Nothing happened.

  He climbed the stairs and stood in the entrance of his bedroom. His family was bunched together on the bed. Two candles had burned down to their base, casting small flames from both nightstands.

  GP dashed out of the back door and into the garage. He dumped his tool box onto the concrete. Why is the world caving in on me all at once? He grabbed a monkey wrench, then went to the light meter that was fastened to the aluminum siding. With rage and frustration driving him, it only took four determined tugs to break the meter’s lock.

  “What are you doing?” Kitchie’s brown eyes were plagued with concern.

  He snatched the meter out. “What does it look like?”

  He removed the plastic breakers obstructing the electrical current. He shoved the meter back in place.

  The house illuminated.

  “There’s no way in hell we’re gonna sit in the dark looking crazy at each other. I’m doing the best with what I got to work with, and I’m not willing to let the little bit of food that we have in the fridge go bad.”

  Kitchie folded her arms and turned to go inside but paused long enough to see her meddlesome neighbor watching them from his kitchen window. Nosy old bastard. “Come in the house, GP, and talk to your daughter.” She trudged up the back stairs; GP followed.

  He placed the wrench on the Formica countertop. “Who scratched you like that?” He leaned in closer, examining Secret’s bruised face.

  “I tried to ignore her like you said, Daddy. But she pushed the back of my head like this.” She reenacted by pushing the back of her own head.

  Kitchie brushed the hair away from her face. “Now this child is suspended off the school bus for a week.”

  “I’m glad the lights are fixed.” Junior came in the kitchen carrying a sneaker with a hole in its sole and waving a piece of cardboard. “Ma, would you fix my shoe now?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Squeeze looked inside the deep trunk of a Mercedes at a frightened youngster dressed in army fatigues. “All of this is your brother’s fault. It’s a shame that you’re caught in the crossfire, but some people have to learn the hard way.” He closed the trunk and faced Hector Gonzales. “Take him to the country and lay low. If Miles don’t cash in by tomorrow night, have fun with the kid and clean up your mess.”

  Hector chomped on a wad of chewing gum. “You should let me kill Miles and get it over with.”

  “Then who’s gonna pay me?”

  When Jap felt the car begin to move, he hit the Mark Home button on his watch.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Patterson.” Tracy Morgan stepped from behind her desk to shake GP’s hand. She had no idea that GP was so handsome—braids hanging below his shoulders, a perfectly groomed goatee just the way she liked them. To have him in her department from time to time would suit her fine. She took in his tan suit with detail. It hung on to his muscular frame with style. She gazed at his scuffed work boots and the melody in her head came to an abrupt stop. She pulled her hand away from his. “Please have a seat.”

  “Thanks for considering me for this column.” GP eased onto a cozy chair facing her desk.

  “Your artwork is captivating. May I have a look at your portfolio?”

  GP handed her a soft leather folder that was resting on his lap. “You’ll find the first series of an underground comic book in there that I put out last year.” He watched her facial expressions as she flipped through the drawings.

  “This is great stuff. I’m in love with this Street Prophet character.”

  “I’ve been developing him since I was a kid. He’s like an urban version of the Tales of the Crypt character, but he’s more upbeat. A character that identifies with the Hip-Hop culture.” He wiped the sweat off his palms onto his slacks. “The Street Prophet tells stories through the eyes of an all-wise black man of morals and integrity. Stories that the reader can draw a positive experience from.”

  “I like the concept.” She closed the portfolio. “I—”

  “Ms. Morgan, I apologize for interrupting, but if you give me this column I’ll be an asset to the Plain Dealer. I have at least three years of material ready to go. I’m a fast learner and I don’t have an editing complex.”

  “The comic page could use a new black face. It’s a two-year contract that pays close to fifty thousand in six equal payments over the term of the contract.”

  GP smiled.

  “Your strip will be syndicated. When we run the Street Prophet, he’ll receive national exposure. But there are some minor changes that will need to be made.”

  “Cool. What kind of changes are we talking?”

  She leaned forward and rested her forearms on the polished desktop. “Morals and integrity doesn’t sell newspapers. The public wants the dirt, violence, and political corruption. I need you to portray the Street Prophet as challenging, outrageous, politically opinionated, offensive to the point of being censored. I need him to play the race card. I want most of the truth in this paper…” She pointed to a newspaper that was encased in glass and mounted on the wall. “…to come from the Street Prophet’s comic strip. He needs to be the voice that screams at the injustices designed by the government.” She took a deep breath and smiled. “You pull this off and I promise you that this type of controversy will draw you more media attention than Aaron McGruder’s Boondocks.” She produced a contract from her desk drawer and pushed it toward GP. “All rights to the Street Prophet must be signed over to the Plain Dealer. You’ll retain the artistic rights.”

  “I can create you a character to fit your requirements, Ms. Morgan. I’m sorry, but the Street Prophet is not your man.”

  “We’re in no position for you to be turning down jobs, GP.” Kitchie stuffed a T-shirt and some Street Prophet stickers in a bag, then thrust it at a customer.

  “I apologize for that.” GP collected the money from the man.

  “I don’t believe you would do something so stupid and irresponsible.”

  “Get the hottest Street Prophet gear right here.” Secret walked back and forth in the front of the booth, holding up a T-shirt. “Special on customized airbrushing until one o’clock. Get your issue while it’s hot. Don’t be unhip and go home empty-handed.” She had heard her parents solicit the crowd a thousand times.

  “That child is s’posed to have her tail in school.” An older woman lugging a Gap bag nudged a heavyset woman wobbling beside her.

  GP stuck his finger through Kitchie’s belt loop and pulled her to him. “I’m not gonna argue with you in public. Period. They wanted me to sign over all the rights to the Street Prophet. I’m not about to give my life’s work away like that.”

  “But it’s okay for us to be out on the street? And don’t forget that forty-seven hundred dollars is a lot of money to come with in the next few days. GP, we don’t have but a couple hundred to our name.”

  He took out a hundred dollars from his breast pocket. “Jewels gave me this to buy some dress shoes.”

  The pay phone rang.

  “Get that, Secret.” Kitchie leaned against the table.

  “Ninth Street Artwork, home of the Street Prophet. Secret speaking, how can I help you?”

  “Secret, baby, what’s the deal?”

  “Hey, Aunty Jewels. When you coming to get me?”

  “We’ll go catch a flick or something when I come back from New York.”

  “Ooh, bring me something back.”

  “You already know I am. Did your crusty father get the job?”

  Secret glanced at her parents and saw Kitchie talking with her hands. “I don’t think so. Him and Mommy trying to pretend like they not arguing, while I’m hustling.”

  “Why you ain’t in school?” Jewels tied her wave cap on.

  “Had to kick some butt. I put that move you taught me on this bigmouth girl named Kesha. I got suspended off the bus, and I didn’t have a ride today.”

  “She knows what time it is now, right?”

  “Yeah.”

>   “You don’t sound too sure. Let me hear you say you motherfucking right, she know.”

  Secret put a hand over the mouthpiece. “You motherfucking right, she knows what time it is.”

  “Give me that.” Kitchie scowled at Secret, then snatched the phone. “Jewels, I asked you not to influence my child to cuss. She’s too grown for her own good as it is.”

  “How you know it was me?”

  “I’m on to y’all. This stubborn husband of mine turned down a decent job today. He act like he doesn’t understand we’re having bread-and-butter nightmares.”

  “You got to be fucking joking. I talked to that knucklehead yesterday about taking care of his business. Put him on so I can bite his head off.”

  Kitchie let the receiver hang. “Jewels wants to talk to you.” She rolled her eyes at GP, then walked over to Secret and popped her on the lips. “Watch what the hell you let come out your mouth, girl. Cuss again and you’re gonna get your ass whipped.”

  A white man with solid gray hair, wearing a business suit, came to the booth. He studied the various Street Prophet merchandise. He shifted his head as though intrigued by the Prophet’s appeal. “Who’s the artist behind the character?”

  Kitchie pointed at GP. “Can I bag that up for you?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll take one of everything.”

  “What size shirt and pants would you like?”

  Secret passed Kitchie a bag.

  “Any size; it doesn’t make a difference. I like this guy. I want some friends of mine to see him—”

  “Mr. Lee, we must be going or we’ll be late,” another man in a suit and tie said.

  “Just a moment, Hartford. You can wait for me in the car. I’ll be along in a moment.” Mr. Lee paid for his purchase.

  GP watched the exchange from the pay phone. “Come on, Jewels, you know it ain’t even like that. That broad had me confused. I created the Prophet. He’s supposed to work for me; not the other way around.”

  “You even talk like that damn drawing is real. Man, you bugging.”