A door squeaked open. It was Miss Katie, the widow from 3D. Her apartment was toward the entrance of the building and from her window she could see both corners of the streets below.
“Hi Coco. How are you doing?” Ms. Katie asked. “It’s been about a month now, right Coco?”
“Yes, Miss Katie,” Coco answered politely. It was not her usual style, but Katie Patterson was different from the other neighbors. She was in her fifty’s and still looked young and bright. Her husband was killed in Viet Nam, she would say during times she allowed herself to talk about him. Coco knew him only as Sgt. Patterson. Miss Katie didn’t sit around moping; she went back to college and earned her bachelor’s degree.
Coco admired her greatly for accomplishing that. Miss Katie did this while raising and sending her children, Roxy and Robert, to none other than Princeton University. Coco smiled at Miss Katie, who deserved a lot of respect and love. The teen gladly gave it up to the elderly lady.
“Well, I’m pleased to report that she didn’t go down to the dens today,” Miss Katie reported, as if she was reciting her daily orders.
“That’s good news,” Coco beamed. She’d been getting that account since her mother came out of drug rehab a month ago and was continuing counseling on an out-patient basis.
“How’s she on the inside?” Miss Katie asked. Coco flipped her right hand up and down, wrist loose. “So-so, huh?”
“How’s school and your tests coming along?”
“Fair to fine,” Coco replied, enthusiasm in her voice.
“Good, good. Keep it up, Coco.” Miss Katie called after the girl.
“Coco, is that you?” Her mother stood in their doorway.
“Yes, yes. I’ll see you later, Miss Katie.”
“Bye, Coco. Take care, alright?”
Coco entered an apartment that was well worn. It appeared every stitch of the family’s clothing was laid out in the tiny hallway.
“I was gonna do laundry,” her mother said, “but I just couldn’t make it down them goddamn steps. Elevator still out?”
“Yeah, ma,” Coco said. “I’ll get them in a few. Just sort ‘em out.” The teen knew that it would be an opportunity to go downstairs and sit with the pay phone. “Any mail?” Coco asked.
“Girl, you constantly asking the same question. What you hoping for? Publisher’s Clearinghouse told you that you gonna be their next first prize winner? Huh?”
“No, Mom. Just checking, just checking,” Coco said and grabbed a bag of chips. She slipped a couple into her mouth and crunched.
“The mail’s over by the kitchen window.”
Coco sauntered to the window.
“Why can’t you walk ladylike? You’re getting older, and you’ve got to learn to conduct yourself proper, like a lady.”
“Mom, please save the sermon,” Coco sighed. She leafed through the mail. Bills, junk mail. No college acceptances, no record contracts. She looked down through the window. People were milling around. From above, they looked like robots, moving a few steps at a time, pausing as if trying to reach something, but never succeeding. Coco saw beggars with turned up palms stained with dirt. The working people moved faster, walking quickly with noses turned up in disgust. Just across the side of the building, a torch was sparked—a fiend had score.
Coco turned her back to the window. Her mother plopped herself down on the soiled sofa. Everything was worn out just like the sofa. A mouse scuttled from underneath somewhere and disappeared through a hole in the wall. Well, maybe not everything.
“I guess I better start the laundry.” Coco grabbed the keys, along with the cart. Just as Coco started out the door, her mother approached.
“Get me a pint of Hen,” she said and handed Coco a ten-dollar bill. All the time she was looking the other way. “You can bring it after you put the clothes in the washer, okay?” Mrs. Harvey noted in her a sincere tone. Coco noted that her mother’s demeanor was like that of a little girl asking for candy.
“Okay?” Her mother asked a second time. Coco wished her mother was more like Miss Katie. “No,” she wanted to answer. “No more candies for you.” But instead she replied with an enthusiastic, “Yeah, yeah. Ahight,”
“Don’t be giving me that ‘yeah, ahight’ street lingo. Just be careful with your mouth,” Mrs. Harvey said.
“To the dungeon,” Coco said as the door slammed shut. She stopped in the hallway outside the door.
“Nah, nah. Not yet. I need my smokes.” Coco started banging on the door. Mrs. Harvey came to the door. From the outside, Coco could see her clearly through the damaged peephole. She opened the door and threw the pack of cigarettes. Coco caught them in her left hand easily.
“We’ve got to get them to fix this hole, yo,” Coco said.
“Yeah, when you get back. Hurry. And I’m not gonna tell you again to stop da street slang. I’m not your ‘yo, yo’. I’m your mother, alright? I don’t know how many more times I’ve gotta remind you of that fact.”
Calm down mother. Cuz right now you just akkin like a little girl. You’ll have your candy soon, Coco thought.
“Okay,” she blurted out as she started for the stairwell, dragging the cart with the dirty laundry.
“Damn girl, where you going? That’s a lotta shit.” It was Deja. He had been visiting his son and his son’s mother who lived in the building.
“Yeah, what’s up Deja? What ya doing around these parts, yo?” Coco asked.
“Ya know,” Deja said. He grabbed the front of the cart and guided the wheels down the steps. Finally they reached the bottom.
“Good looking out, Deja,” Coco said, genuinely grateful. “It would’ve been hell.”
“That’s ahight. Wanna burn some weed, Coco?” She thought about the high and was tempted.
“Nah, I’m a pass, yo.” Coco said almost shocking her own self.
“You sure, now?” Deja asked, a little surprised at Coco’s answer. She had always smoked with him. “Coco, I’m telling you, this some good shit you turning down.” He held the blunt to her face. Its brown paper wrap was moist from the licking his tongue had given it.
Coco smiled. “Nah I ain’t fucking wid that, yo. I got things to do,” she said. But her mind wandered. Why don’t I just hit it a couple of times? One or two drags then chill. Just say no. I don’t know what’s wrapped up in it. It might not even be just chronic. Guided by her judgments, Coco made good her escape.
“Well that’s never stopped your ass before,” Deja yelled as he went up the stairs, leaving out of the building.
That bitch was acting nervous, he reflected. Edgy fucking bitches. One day they on one side of da edge, next they on da other mothafucking side. “That’s reason the land gave man da herb’s blessing,” he said aloud. Once he was out the building, Deja placed the brown homemade cigar between his lips. “Peace, God,” he said and squeezed a blue-tinted lighter. Its silver tip sparked and Deja inhaled deeply, pulling the flame up to the tip of the blunt. He held the smoke in his lungs, and then exhaled, extinguishing the flame’s dance on the cigar tip. Another smoker, Rightchus, moved over toward Deja.
“What’s up, Rightchus,” Deja said.
He clasped Rightchus’ hand with his right hand. They bumped shoulders and held each other’s hand in a tight-fisted embrace. They released each other’s hands, fists clashing.
“Good to see ya, Rightchus,” Deja laughed. He choked on the smoke of the weed. “So whazzup? Want some?” He passed the blunt to Rightchus.
Rightchus had never been known to turn down weed or anything else he could smoke. Rightchus never passed on a free high. They smoked and talked.
“Wow, man, this shit got some power to it,” Rightchus announced. “Yo, you know about the cosmic,” he continued.
“Cos-what?” Deja asked.
“Cosmic, kid,” Rightchus said.
“Cosmic? I hope that don’t mean Cos on da mike,” Deja laughed. He was lightheaded from the deep draws on the weed.
“Now I see. I can�
��t kick shit, because you ain’t ready,” Rightchus said just as two Rastafarians emerged. They shouted to the smokers.
“Jah Rastafari!”
“Peace, Jah man,” Rightchus answered. He turned to Deja who was sucking on the blunt then passed it to Rightchus.
“I’m gonna go through some degrees though—nah mean? Based on da science, mathematics states that all men are created equal. Nah mean?” Rightchus asked, puffing.
“Word is bond,” Deja agreed.
The grin on his face said he was less than serious. This situation was more beneficial to Rightchus. He figured the longer he kept talking, the more Deja would be engaged. The amount of weed smoked was directly proportional to beguiling Deja. Rightchus inhaled hard, holding his breath as he continued.
“Word is bond, indeed. Manifest in da cipher, da truth is da wisdom. Da wisdom is da wise. Take you to the sixth degree of science. Word is bond. I’m going through some degrees though, know wha’ I’m mean?” He asked then exhaled and passed the blunt to Deja.
“You trying to drop some knowledge on me now?” Deja asked. He puffed twice and passed the blunt to Rightchus. His cheeks collapsed when he inhaled.
“The degrees of mathematics ah… wisdom cipher, means: That all men are born in wisdom, know wha’ I’m saying and that’s showing and proving that truth is in da square when you manifest da cipher, know wha’ I’m saying?” Rightchus breathed and let go the blunt.
“Go ahead. Kick that shit it sounds interesting,” Deja requested as he puffed once and passed. Rightchus immediately took some tokes before continuing.
“When you manifest da truth, da truth is wisdom, which is da wise word manifested by da wise and intelligent black man, with supreme knowledge of himself. Know wha’ I’m saying?” Rightchus puffed away.
“Preach, man,” Deja added, waving the blunt on.
Rightchus kept on puffing and lecturing.
“Wisdom is the wise, where no more wise would be dumb, and the ignorant. Wisdom is also that black women secondary, but most positively necessary to God, know wha’ I’m saying? Wisdom is also H20, you know wha’ I’m saying? Water. He wisdom cipher, when he wisdom cipher, he only manifest light, ‘cuz water is the substance of light. Therefore, wisdom is bearing the seed of light or seed of the true and living god, the black man. The Black man have to build God. Know wha’ I’m saying?” Now Rightchus was inhaling and exhaling in rapid succession.
Coco heard this sermon on the way to and from the liquor store. Rightchus had drawn a crowd. Others rolled and lit blunts. Soon they were passed around until the crowd became a big puff of smoke. A patrol car casually drove by. The officers observed the smoking crowd.
An interruption came next. “Disperse now!” The cop riding shotgun announced. “Get off the street corner.”
“I’m a go to the store and get a brew. Peace,” Deja said. The others headed into other buildings. The crowd dispersed as quickly as they had formed, but not peacefully.
“Fuck da police,” Deja yelled.
The police heard him. Emergency lights flashed.
“That’s why we had Tyson in jail. Don’t move. You in the red jacket, walk toward the car.”
Evening had begun to fall. The sun emitted a yellow-and-red hue against a gray blue sky on its way down.
“Build, Black man,” Rightchus yelled as the cops frisked Deja. They both were out of the car. The engine was still running the doors were left open. Deja submitted to the search. He knew he was clean. Coco watched. She shook her head and kept going. Then the police spoke to Deja. Cuffs were out. Would he be arrested?
“Tin shields always showing out,” Coco said.
She threw the cigarette down and walked through the, now deserted, front entrance. Quickly a man reached down, picked it up and puffed desperately. His clothes were tattered and dirty: street living. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. Coco almost articulated, but decided not to interrupt the loud conversation he was having with himself.
She entered the building. There were no visible numbers, a front door that used to be a red door, with lock-and-key security. Seven years earlier, she and her mother had moved into this building after a series of welfare motels. It seemed then to be a nice living space, but not for long. Things are always broken; never fixed, she thought, as she walked past the broken elevator. Its brown doors spread invitingly.
Coco returned to her apartment and left the Hennessy on the table. Her mother shouted from the bathroom, “Coco, Coco. Is that you?”
“Yeah, Mom. I gotta check on the laundry.”
She hurried down concrete stairs to the basement that harbored four washing machines that worked when they wanted to, and dryers that invited quarters for very little heat. She had left her laundry in the dryer. A friend, Bebop, from the sixth floor, was keeping an eye on it.
“Thanks, yo.” Coco said, bursting through the door and startling Bebop, who had just settled into a comfortable position.
“Shit, Coco, slow down,” Bebop said. The twenty-three year old daughter of Jamaican immigrants was someone Coco knew she could trust.
“You scared da living shit outta me, gal,” Bebop screamed. The fright brought out her native dialect.
“Chill, Bebop.” Coco said. “How’s my laundry?”
“They should be finished. But check them. The machines are still going,” said Bebop. “I heard you were at the club dancing up a storm when they jacked that girl and raped her,” she added.
Coco went to the three functioning dryers. She watched briefly as the machines emitted squeaky sounds in rhythm with their rotations. She beat out the rhythm on the long, shaky table that separated washers from dryers.
“Yeah, we were at Genesis, but we weren’t involved with that or anything like that, yo.”
Coco turned to face an inquisitive stare. Suddenly, she realized Bebop knew something. Bebop had a way of knowing things.
“Well, we met her on our way to the club and shit. But I don’t know. I don’t really know. Maybe someone she had a beef with, someone waiting outside you know, yo. All I know is I got clocked cold.”
“I don’t know,” Bebop said, throwing her hands up and dropped them on the table. Her fingers tapped the last note to the beat. The washers churned, and then stopped. Coco moved the huge black laundry bag and cart into their receiving positions. She reached into the dryer and dumped the clothes into the bag.“Are you gonna fold?” Bebop asked.
“Are you gonna help, yo?”
“That’s a lot of folding,” Bebop said.
“Well, you don’t really have to, yo. I’ll catch ya—”
“No, no, Coco. I’ll help a little.”
“No, ya don’t have to, child. I’ll be good to ya next time. I’ll see you, yo,” Coco joked.
“You know you want me to help,” Bebop smiled.
“Ahight, yo, let’s do this and stop whining so hard,” Coco said with a smirk pasted to the corners of her lips.
Coco took the clothes out and the folding process began. Bebop waited. Coco knew there was nothing to be said. Then, on impulse, she started something.
“Yo, Bebop. Peep this, yo. What if someone called you out, to—like a performance duel, you know? Singing? Dancing?”
“C’mon, Coco. Nobody wants to do that. You’re already in videos, MTV, BET and all that shit.”
“Nah, but this person is good and they supposed to be down with your crew.”
“You mean Josephine? Nah she wouldn’t play herself like that. It’s that bitch that thinks she’s a Rican. Wanna be fly girl?” Bebop phrased the question as if she was a contestant on the television show Jeopardy.
Coco smiled, giving away the answer.
“I knew it, I knew it,” Bebop said humming in her patois. “I neva liked that dut-ty bitch. I told you she was a ‘ore,” Bebop continued. She looked over at Coco, who held the stare momentarily.
“It’s not that big a deal, yo. I’m just saying...” Her voice trailed off. Coco knew she could count on c
ertain people, Bebop for one.
“Watch your back, Coco” Bebop said, “cause people like that cannot be trusted. Ya know?” Bebop was staring firmly at Coco.
The long folding table between them was obviously unstable; it shook with Bebop’s words, and from Coco leaning ever so slightly against it.
“It’s cool,” Coco said almost automatically. “I won’t sleep, sis.” They continued folding clothes. They heard shuffling noises. Bebop grew angry.
“Fucking rats,” she said. She lit a cigarette.
“Save me some, yo,” Coco said. “I ran out.”
They continued folding. When everything was done, Coco saw that Bebop had beads of perspiration on her forehead. She went to the dryer and dumped the contents into her laundry bag.
“Let me drop these off and I’ll be back to help you,” she said to Coco, “cuz you could stand some help.”
“Ahight. That’ll be peace, Bebop,” Coco said. She accepted without so much as a second thought. “Hurry! I wanna catch Jeopardy, yo,” she yelled after Bebop.
Bebop was out the door. The rats shuffled. Coco waited. Everybody knows about that incident at the club, she thought. Then Bebop was back. They struggled up the stairs with the heavy cart, full of clothing. When they reached the third floor, the long haul was over.
“Where’s the elevator when you need it?” Bebop asked, trying to catch her breath.
“Yeah, right,” Coco said.
“And why did you carry the cart?” Bebop asked.
“Well, this is the way Mom gave me da shit. I was gonna drag it up and down, you know.
“Yeah, you should have. Next time bring the laundry bag only. I know it was a struggle for you bringing it down alone.”
“I didn’t do it alone. Deja helped. Thanks. Next time, sis,” Coco said with a wink and a thumbs-up signal. “Ahight yo?”
Ghetto Girls Page 7
