What's Really Hood!

by Wahida Clark

  “No!” she blurted out, “I’m pregnant!”

  She said it so loud, Wiz swore Crystal heard her. He quickly glanced her way, but she made no indication she had heard.

  “And?” he quipped, trying to keep his answers short.

  “Please don’t do me like that, Wiz, I’m not a ho. I know it’s yours, please, just come see—”

  Wiz cut her off. “Whatever. See you then.” He hung up.

  Crystal could sense something in his mood. “Everything okay?”

  Wiz mixed the sauce with the noodles. “Yeah. Fuckin’ Veronica want more money for the trip, that’s all.”

  Crystal shrugged. “Can you blame her? Shit getting hot out there.”

  Wiz didn’t really hear her, because he was already thinking about an abortion, and whether or not he could convince Veronica to have one. His or not, he was willing to foot the bill, to avoid the hassle down the road.

  Before he could sit down, the phone rang again. He started to get up but Crystal was already on it. “Hello?… Yeah hold… Veronica, you okay?”

  Before he knew it, Wiz had snatched the phone, yelling, “What the fuck you keep callin’ for?”

  “Don’t be like that—”

  Wiz hung up again. Crystal just looked at him.

  “Wiz. What is going on?” she asked in the calmest voice she could muster.

  He looked away to get a lie together, but before he could the phone rang a third time. He flinched for it, but Crystal’s gaze dared him to touch it. It rang two more times, then she answered.

  “Yes.” Her guts were all quivery like when you expect bad news. “Yeah, go ’head…” When her eyes shut tight, he knew what she was hearing, and when she put her hand to her stomach, he knew what she was feeling. “I’ll tell him for sure.”

  Crystal hung up and said, “Veronica says she’s sorry it had to be this way, but you wouldn’t talk to her. She hopes you understand.” With that Crystal turned to walk away.

  “Crystal! So you just gonna fall for that bullshit? That ain’t my fuckin’ kid, yo!” Wiz explained to her motionless back.

  “So… you sayin’ you didn’t have sex with her, Wiz?” Crystal asked, then turned to him. “Look me in my eyes and tell me you didn’t fuck her, Wiz?”

  “Before, okay, before,” he admitted.

  “So you’re telling me a female you claim you pay with money just bit the hand that feeds her because you used to fuck her?”

  Crystal shook her head and began to walk away again, but Wiz admitted, “I fucked up, aiight?”

  Silence.

  “Aiight?” Wiz sighed.

  “What you gonna do about it?” she asked.

  “It’s too late to get another mule, so after this last run tomorrow, I’m cutting her off, word is bond,” Wiz declared.

  Crystal looked at him and replied, “Do what you feel is best,” and walked away.

  He knew he had been set up. It all played back in his head. The phone call, the timing, the sob story. It all added up to the pistol to his temple.

  “Run that shit, nigguh.”

  He vowed to kill Veronica. She had watched him come up from half a brick to three every two weeks. Then she had made her move. Two cats in masks pistol-whipped him until he told them where the coke was at in the car. He spit up a tooth along with three kilos of cocaine and his Jetta. They even took the measly eight hundred dollars he had on him, leaving him leaking on St. Nicholas Avenue.

  * * *

  Crystal sat at home waiting for him to return, but he had been gone all night. Too long. All kinds of things went through her mind. She thought of all the nights just like this one, when he was with Veronica, betraying her love… He was taking too long… Her thoughts turned over on themselves and before she knew it, she felt that itch. She couldn’t sing it away because she felt more alone than ever before… And the urge to scratch grew. Just one… she knew where his stash was… just one… But she forgot, one is too many, and a million is never enough. One became two, two became a clip and the clip made her guilty enough to know she had gone too far. She imagined Wiz coming through the door. She couldn’t let him find her like this. She had to go… get out. Wiz had about a half a kilo left, of which Crystal took at least a good nine ounces. She grabbed her coat and headed out the door.

  Meanwhile Wiz tried to call collect, but he got no answer, so he tried again. Still no answer. He called four times until he accepted the fact Crystal wasn’t there. He called Moe collect and finally got an answer. He told Moe he was needed in Harlem and to bring the heat. An hour later he and Moe pulled up to Veronica’s building. They went to her apartment, but when they got no answer, Moe kicked in the door.

  Empty.

  “Fuck!” Wiz exclaimed.

  Just like that, he was out a large portion of his weight. All he had left was the half at the crib and a few bundles of clips, which all totaled up to less than a key.

  “Let’s go.”

  But his nightmare wasn’t over… When Moe dropped him off, and he went upstairs, he called out, “Crystal! Crystal!” He looked in the bedroom, no Crystal. He looked in the bathroom, no Crystal there either. But there was no time for that, he was in hustle mode, and he was determined to get his weight back up.

  Wiz rushed to his stash, opened it and couldn’t believe his eyes. He had found Crystal—or at least where she had gone… Wiz lowered his head into the palms of his hands, thinking of Ali Smalls’s words, “Any mistakes and shit be like dominoes.” He felt like his whole castle had fallen in on him. But Wiz wasn’t a quitter. The absence of Crystal had him sick and his loss had him boiling, but he refused to fail. He went and took a long hot shower. And washed the caked-up blood off his body.

  He put on a fresh Sergio Tacchini sweatsuit and prepared to take his grind back out the block. The only problem was the one he had created for himself. Clips were no longer a hundred dollars, they were fifty dollars. But with the loss he had taken he couldn’t keep up with his own prices, but it was too late because everybody was on that now, so the feens expected it.

  Wiz went hard, hand to hand for a few days, getting little sleep and little food. So when Ali Smalls pulled up to him on Goldsmith, he didn’t look like the man he used to be. He needed a haircut and his sneakers weren’t crisp. A sure sign that a man in the streets ain’t on top of his game.

  Ali approached, gave him a hug and asked, “Whut up, lil’ Wiz, how you?”

  Wiz shrugged because he could see how he was doing in Ali’s eyes. “Just tryin’ to get mine.”

  Ali nodded. “I heard about the New York shit. Shorty just disappeared, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What goes around comes back around, you’ll see her again.”

  Wiz just nodded, glancing around, keeping an eye out for narco.

  “Whut up wit’ you and ol’ girl?” Ali asked, getting Wiz’s complete attention.

  “Ain’t nothin’, yo… nothin,” Wiz told him.

  “Yeah, I figured that. You know, since I see she back on the shit. I figured you cut her off,” Ali surmised, knowing that it wasn’t the case at all.

  Wiz bit. “Where you see her at?” he questioned with too much urgency in his tone.

  “Why?” I thought you said wasn’t nothin’? Lil’ cuz, do Ali a favor. Leave her alone, aiight?” Wiz wanted to, but he needed to see her. Talk to her, so he couldn’t answer. Ali sighed. “She on Lehigh Avenue. Staying wit’ some head named Tricia.”

  Wiz shook Ali’s hand. “Good lookin’ out, Cuz. I ’preciate that.”

  “Yeah, I bet you do.”

  Crystal sat on Tricia’s bed, letting the TV watch her. She hated to be back around Tricia, but she had no place else to go, and when she gave Tricia a little bit of coke, she was damn sure welcome. Crystal hadn’t even smoked too much of the nine ounces, but she had smoked enough to know she wasn’t cured. It was still in her.

  She missed Wiz, but she was hurt by his betrayal and ashamed of hers. She yearned to go back to him
, but…

  “Crystal.” Tricia came to the bedroom door. “Somebody here to see you.”

  Crystal didn’t have to ask who it was, because she already knew. “Okay.” She didn’t know what he would do or say, but it had to be confronted. Wiz walked in and for a moment they just looked at each other. “How’s Veronica?” she quipped sarcastically, really wanting to say how she missed him.

  “Fuck Veronica, where’s my shit?” he intoned, really wanting to ask, Why did you leave me?

  Crystal reached under the bed, pulled out some socks and pulled out more than half of what she had taken. She tossed it to the end of the bed.

  Wiz stared at the white rocky substance and said, “Why?”

  She began to say, “Because, Wiz, I was confused and hurt, so—”

  He cut her off. “Not that, yo, why period? What about this shit make you just fuckin’ abandon everything, huh? Why?” he repeated.

  “You wouldn’t understand, Wiz, you can’t.”

  “This shit is crazy,” he stated, more to himself than to her. “How the fuck can that shit make you just say, fuck everything, take everything, take you away from me?” Wiz probed, striking his chest for emphasis. “How?”

  Crystal looked at him “Wiz… I wanna go home.”

  But Wiz was too focused on his rival to hear her. His pride felt challenged and his curiosity was aroused. “Gimme your pipe.”

  Crystal’s eyes widened. “Why?”

  Wiz grabbed her purse. He emptied the contents, then rummaged through them until he found the pipe.

  “What are you doing, Wiz?”

  “I’ma show you this shit ain’t nothin’, yo. Then you’ll see for yourself you don’t need it.”

  “Wiz? You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  But his mind was made up. He stuffed the pipe full and Crystal tried to snatch it away, but he moved, put the lighter to it, and for the first time he heard crack speak. “See, Wiz… it ain’t shit… only weak-minded nigguhs can’t handle me. But you ain’t weak, are you, Wiz? Hell no… but let me ride with you ’cause I’ma keep you sharp. Put you back on top and give you that edge… see how open you is? I do that, me and you, Wiz, me and you. Let’s get this money!”

  Crystal refused to watch him, but she heard the lighter flick over and over and over again. When it finally stopped, she glanced over and saw Wiz standing in the corner, mumbling. “Me and you, baby… me and you,” but he wasn’t talking to Crystal.

  Six months later…

  “Yo, Wiz! Wiz! Over here, yo!” Nu-Nu called out to him, snickering.

  Nu-Nu, Lil Mike and Pills were chilling on Goldsmith when Nu-Nu spotted Wiz around the corner in his trademark gray sweatpants and army jacket. He wasn’t coming to Goldsmith to pick up money anymore; he was here to give it away. Everybody knew Wiz was smoking, and it was cats like Nu-Nu who wanted to rub it in.

  “Whut up, Nu? Pills? Mike? What’s up?” Wiz asked, pulling out six crumpled-up dollar bills. “I’m a little short today, but—”

  “Man, you short every day!” Nu-Nu laughed. “No shorts today.”

  “Come on, baby, this me. Look out, yo,” Wiz begged.

  “Wash my car, Wiz, I’ll give you a dime,” Pills teased.

  “A dime? At least let me get two?”

  Lil Mike watched the banter until he couldn’t take it anymore. “Fuck that shit, Wiz, I got you, yo. Come on.”

  He and Wiz walked away from the group, then Lil Mike turned to him and said, “Don’t fuck wit’ them nigguhs, Wiz, they be tryin’ to play you out. Here.” He handed Wiz four bottles.

  “Good lookin’, Mike, word up. Here, you want this?” He tried to give Mike the money.

  “Naw, just keep it,” Mike replied, feeling sorry for the man he used to admire.

  “Thank you, man, and, yo… trust me. I know I’m fucked up, but this is Wiz, baby. I’ma bounce back. Get strong, yo, then me and you gonna sew shit up, word is bond,” Wiz promised, believing his own pipe dream.

  “Sure, Wiz, sew shit up.” Mike shook his hand. “I’m down, homeboy.” He smiled. Mike watched Wiz shuffle off, wondering how a nigguh like Wiz could fall off.

  Wiz wondered the same exact thing on his way back to his mother’s house. Last year this time, he was the man. Now he was just a sham. But it couldn’t be the crack. Naw, he could quit whenever he wanted, he just didn’t want to. For what? Crack kept him on point, or so he made himself believe.

  As soon as he walked in, his mother was in his face. “They let you get the short?”

  Wiz gripped the bottles in his pocket tighter and handed her the money back. “Naw.” He headed for his room.

  “Well, did you tell them I get my check tomorrow?” he heard her say as he closed his door and stuffed a towel under it so she couldn’t smell the smoke. He pulled out the vial and retrieved his pipe from under the pillow. He loaded the pipe as he had done a thousand times, flicked up and fantasized about his master plan to come up.

  He was jolted back to reality when his mother banged on the door. “Wiz! You on probation or somethin’? Some lady here to see you.”

  Lady? Probation? he thought. He wasn’t on probation and he ain’t have no lady, ever since Crystal left. “I’m comin’.”

  He put the pipe down carefully, brushed himself off and opened the door. The face he saw froze him. It was Crystal. She was dressed in a dark purple skirt set with black pumps. Her hair was cut like Anita Baker’s and her weight was up. She looked good, damn good… too good. “Hello, Wiz.”

  Wiz turned away in disgust. “The fuck you doin’ here, huh?” He hadn’t seen her since the night he first hit the pipe. The next morning she was gone. At first he was sick, but crack quickly cured him, filled her void and became his all.

  “I came to see you, Wiz… to take you home,” Crystal stated, wanting to cry seeing him like this, but knowing he needed her strength.

  “Home?” He chuckled. “I am home, you the one that left.”

  Crystal walked into his room. “I never left you, Wiz, never.”

  “Well, where you been all this time, the corner store? Get the fuck outta here,” he hissed.

  Crystal ignored his tone and said, “The way I was, the way we were… we wasn’t no good for each other. You watched me destroy myself, then I saw you take the same road, Wiz. So I had to do something.”

  “So you left? Just, fuck Wiz, and ran off,” Wiz accused.

  “I went to rehab. That’s where I’ve been. In rehab. I got out thirty days ago, and I’m back in school. I’m stayin’ at home until I find a job, now here I am and I’m takin’ you home,” Crystal concluded.

  Wiz clapped his hands sarcastically. “The end. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got shit to do.”

  He reached for the pipe, but she grabbed his wrist. “Ay yo, take your—” His words were interrupted by a face-turning smack. At first he was shocked, but his emotions quickly turned to anger.

  “Fight,” Crystal commanded him, unafraid of any consequences.

  “I’ma let that go, but next time—”

  She smacked him again, this time harder. “Fight,” she repeated more firmly.

  The emotions that welled up inside him started low and bubbled up like lava.

  Shit from way down, way down deep came spewing to the brink. So when she raised her hand the third time, he sprang from the bed and grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Wiz didn’t have the strength emotionally or the motivation physically to do anything but fall to his knees, holding Crystal around the waist like he was holding on for dear life. The tears ran down his cheeks in torrents, so Crystal just held his head to her womb and whispered, “Fight, black man… because you’re going to need it.”

  THE LAST

  LAUGH

  BY BONTA

  Hey, Nita, where your brother at?” the passenger of a custom-painted candy-apple-red Chevy Caprice asked.

  In the streets, he was known as BoBo. One of the most notorious and most feared of the Black P.
Stones of Chicago’s east side neighborhood called Eighty-third or simply Eight-Trey because of its proximity to Eighty-third Street. From Eighty-first up to Eighty-fifth, from South Chicago Avenue to Commercial Avenue, guys claimed Eighty-third as their set. And BoBo, five feet ten, two hundred forty pounds of dark-complected muscle, with the stature of an NFL player, was in control of it. He was clean-cut in appearance, but grimy in character.

  “I don’t know! Ain’t seen him,” a young wide-eyed girl with plaited hair answered.

  “Aiight then. Tell him I’m looking for him.”

  “Aiight, BoBo.”

  “Drive up to the park,” BoBo instructed the young driver. Although it was not his car, BoBo was calling the shots. If he was instructing, you had better be following his instructions or else! He was known for wreaking havoc on his own guys as well as his enemies.

  They rode up to Eckersall Park, which was situated between Eighty-second and Yates Avenue and Eighty-second and Essex Avenue. It was a fairly small park that had a big basketball court, a small court, a swing set, and a grassy area for playing football. Across the street was a stadium where local high schools played their football games and ran track.

  They turned onto Eighty-second Street from Yates Avenue. Cars lined both sides of the street. Some youngsters played tag football while a full-court basketball game ran with spectators on its sides, some watching and others waiting on next. Not far from the court’s edge a dice game was in session. Hustlers hoped to come up on some money while some just tried their luck. There was an older couple who had seen opportunity knocking. They had converted an ice cream truck and parked right in the middle of the park. They sold beef and turkey hot dogs, Polishes, burgers, chips, candy, and ice-cold sodas. BoBo had let them know that the selling of swine was prohibited in his park. Knowing his reputation, they complied. A little farther down by the swings were benches. Guys and girls sat and stood around talking, smoking and drinking.

  “Drop me off right here and park up there,” BoBo directed the guy driving as he pointed farther down Essex Avenue.