Dirty South

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  “Wallet’s in my right pocket,” Fiasco said. “PIN is zero, zero, twenty-two, seventy-two.”

  No sooner had he said that than the gun went off.

  Shot four times. Something he never mentioned in interviews. A media secret. Fiasco wasn’t about to sell records off of his unfortunate past. Didn’t want his destructive past life feeding the young and impressionable minds of his fans. Didn’t want them buying CDs because they thought his past brushes with thuggery, getting shot and whatnot, was cool.

  Getting shot wasn’t cool.

  Living was, though.

  Living allowed him a second chance.

  Allowed him to leave that life behind, focus solely on the music.

  And he’d done that for the most part. He’d come close to selling his soul last year. Recorded a hard street record under the alias Murdaa. But at the last moment he scrapped that project. Just couldn’t go through with it. The near tragedy with Alonzo and Eric’s sister had refocused his mind. He made good music as Fiasco. Intelligent and thoughtful music. Uplifting music. The Murdaa record was reckless, a mistake he narrowly avoided. Mya was happy. One of the few times he made her happy last year. And his fans still had music. Fiasco. They still had a choice.

  And they’d made it.

  His album was tanking. Sales were thin as Calista Flockhart.

  Meanwhile, all these talent-challenged rappers were moving units. Yung Chit, a primary example. The Southern rapper’s CD had come out around the same time as Fiasco’s and was two times platinum already with no end in sight.

  Two million in sales.

  Everybody loved Yung Chit.

  Even Eric’s little girlfriend.

  That bothered Fiasco. Really put him on edge.

  And Yung Chit was everywhere. Constant reminders in front of Fiasco’s face. Ubiquitous. One of the words Fiasco had learned. Yung Chit in magazines. On the radio. TV. Trumpeting the time he’d gotten shot as if that made him a better artist. As if taking bullets had increased his lyrical ability on the mic. It hadn’t.

  Fiasco had a choice now, too.

  What was that saying? If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Should he speak about his past? Talk about the shooting? Would it even help at this point? And did Fiasco want that kind of help?

  The Vibe journalist sat forward in her seat, her recorder playing, interest in her eyes.

  He’d told her the entire story up until the shots.

  A Latina with sexy, large eyes, and a warm, winter-proof smile, not to mention a thick li’l athletic body. She flashed that smile, batted those sexy eyes. Fiasco felt her smooth fingers on his knee. Wasn’t even sure how it had gotten there, she was so subtle.

  Vida. That was her name.

  “That is some story,” Vida said. “You haven’t told it before?”

  He shook his head. “No. I haven’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Focused on my craft. The art.”

  Vida nodded. “Congratulations on your newest release.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Congrats on a dud?”

  “I have all of your songs downloaded in my iPod. There isn’t a weak song on the entire CD.”

  That was something he could get behind. “Thanks. Glad to hear you feel that way. I worked hard on this album.”

  “It’s evident,” she gushed. “Nas famously said ‘Hip-hop is dead’ a few years back. How do you feel about that statement?”

  “A lot of truth to it.”

  “Meaning?”

  Fiasco shifted in his seat. “Meaning real music isn’t getting made anymore. A bunch of jingles masquerading as songs.”

  Vida smiled again. “Your album is critically acclaimed, but according to SoundScan you’ve sold only 135,000 copies. Reconcile your sales with the artistry of your music.”

  She’d done her homework.

  One hundred thirty-five thousand. Worse than he knew.

  “It’s disappointing. But I don’t get enough spins on the radio. I don’t get the interviews anymore. The young kids that buy the music are led like rats to cheese. They’re influenced in what they buy. And I’m not the cheese anymore.”

  “Interesting.” Vida’s eyes glowed. So did her smile. “Why do you feel—in your words—you aren’t the cheese?”

  Fiasco shrugged. “I don’t know.” He did. Why avoid the truth? He cleared his throat. “The marketing of rappers has changed. It’s about the backstory more than the music.”

  Vida laughed lightly. “That’s the truth. A compelling backstory helps sell records. You haven’t been arrested. Your name doesn’t come up in anything negative. As opposed to, say, a Yung Chit. He’s burning up the charts right now. He’s been arrested, shot, everything. The critics aren’t kind to his music, but it still sells. That boosts your theory, I’d say.”

  Yung Chit.

  Everywhere.

  Ubiquitous.

  Fiasco wasn’t letting Yung Chit steal another second of his shine.

  He shifted in his seat again. “Dude doesn’t make good music. Let’s be real. But everybody is caught up in all the arrests and the shooting as if that means something. And Yung Chit harps on that because he knows his music isn’t noteworthy.”

  Fiasco paused. This was the moment of truth.

  “What’s funny,” he continued, “is I could have went that same route, but didn’t. I think he’s a fake thug, actually. Real thugs don’t announce the shit on billboards. I could have done the same thing as him, but I wanted my music to be the focus, not the fact I’d gotten shot in a motel room with my pants down. And spent time in prison.”

  Vida’s eyes widened. “Are you saying—?”

  “That I’ve been shot? That I’ve been to jail? Yes. I told you some of my story, but not all of it. Let me keep it all the way real with you…”

  Spanish music was playing softly on the restaurant’s jukebox. The singer, a female with a voice like velvet, kept singing the same two words: amor, corazon. The musical backdrop consisted of guitar licks and what sounded like an accordion. A couple in the rear of the restaurant danced around a pool table. Lark didn’t want to be there. But her father insisted. And you didn’t tell Earl Edwards no.

  “Heard the barbecue here is off the hook,” Earl said.

  Off the hook. Lark’s father still thought he was young.

  “Your father’s talking to you,” Honey said. “Answer him, girl.”

  Was he? Lark hadn’t realized. “Oh yeah?”

  Earl chuckled. “You weren’t even listening. It’s all good, princess. Your night, live it how you will.” He paused, picked up his glass, took a swallow of the amber-colored liquid inside. “I’m getting faded.”

  Johnny Walker Black, Lark believed.

  How embarrassing. Lark sighed as Honey fixed her gaze on her, eyes tight, jaws tense. A slap would have followed if they weren’t in public. Honey was blaming Lark for her dad’s drinking. Convoluted logic, but whatever.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Lark said. “I really appreciate this celebration.”

  Celebrating her leaving for school.

  Earl waved her off. “Sure you do.”

  Honey’s eyes tightened even more.

  Lark’s father swimming in the Johnny Walker.

  It was bound to be a long, suffering evening for Lark.

  Donovan had gone back to Jamaica with his parents to visit relatives. She wished he were here. She wished her parents would have let her bring Kenya.

  Speaking of Kenya, she hadn’t heard from her friend in hours. That was unusual. Lark pulled out her phone, kept it shielded under the table, sent Kenya a text message: I’m dying over here. Parents have me out for dinner.:(

  Their dinner orders arrived.

  Baby back ribs, a side of black beans, Carolina coleslaw made with apples, apple juice and cider vinegar. Same order for all three of them. Lark was in the mood for chicken. But her father had ordered. And you didn’t tell Earl no.

  Guy who served the food had blond dreadlocks, blue ey
es, walked with a serious bop. Bob Marley mixed with Brad Pitt. Lark thought he was cute. She couldn’t help but stare. The only good thing about the evening so far. She was at the point of noticing guys more than ever. Hormones in overdrive. Girls went through the same things boys went through in puberty. But how could you not notice this guy? Big and beefy, looked like he could have played linebacker for Nebraska and then moved on from there to the NFL. He’d ruptured his ACL rushing the quarterback, had his career cut short, came back to Jersey and opened up this quaint little restaurant. He wasn’t just a waiter; he owned the joint.

  Lark created a complete story around him.

  Just looking at him opened the floodgates of her mind.

  Flannel shirt, opened, a gray T-shirt under that, sleeves of the flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows. He wore a white apron over everything; it was covered in long, maroon squiggly stains. Barbecue sauce, Lark hoped. His blue jeans were torn in both legs, a hairy sunburned knee visible in his right pant’s leg. He placed their food down before them, unsnapped linen napkins and dropped them on the table beside their plates. Lark noticed a bracelet of different color rubber bands wrapped around his thick right wrist. His hands were huge. He could have been a cornerback maybe?

  Lark had to gather herself. Donovan was teaching her football, but she couldn’t imagine he’d be happy she was using the new knowledge for this, fantasizing about some hot white man in a restaurant. She looked away from the blond dread, eyed her parents. Fantasy was better than reality, though.

  The blond dread said “Rail up” after he’d settled their food in front of them.

  Accent. Jamaican.

  Oh boy!

  God seriously had a sense of humor.

  Lark’s father rubbed his hands together and nodded. Dug in right away. Honey bowed her head and said a quick prayer. Hypocrite, Lark thought. At least her father didn’t pretend to be friendly with the Lord.

  The blond dread nodded at her father’s empty glass. “More libations?”

  Earl shook his head. “No thanks. But I will have another Johnny Walker Black.” He cackled, found that so funny.

  Dumb. Lark wondered how come she was so smart. Where did it come from?

  Honey? Earl?

  As Kenya would say, Oh hells no.

  “I’ll bring dat straightaway, nuh?”

  Lark’s stomach rumbled. For a second she’d thought, hoped, her father wouldn’t get drunk. She wanted to tell Brad Pitt-slash-Bob Marley of how bad things got at the apartment when her father drank, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t even shared that knowledge with Kenya, her best friend. Best friend who wasn’t returning her text messages. Three so far.

  The blond dread paused, his blue eyes unblinking behind the curtain of nappy blond hair. His jaw muscles were tight, rippled his skin. He glanced at Honey. “You, ma’am?” She shook her head. Then he turned to Kenya. Didn’t speak, asked with his eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. “No. I’m good,” Lark said.

  She wasn’t.

  He seemed to realize it, too.

  His eyes stayed on her for several beats.

  She noticed his Adam’s apple, dancing in his throat.

  He finally looked away, scooped up her father’s empty glass. “Soon come.” He stepped away, bopping, dreads flapping.

  Lark snuck another text message to Kenya. This made four.

  “A blond dread,” Earl said. “Is that the Twilight Zone or what? Where’s Rod Serling?”

  “Who?” Lark said.

  Earl chuckled. “Wow! I know something you don’t know. Wow!”

  “Whatever.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Earl barked. “Whatever. Whatever.”

  Honey laughed a nervous pitter. She knew her husband. Knew he was teetering on the edge. Knew what that meant for her. Nothing nice.

  Lark bit into her ribs. “Ribs are good, Daddy.” They were.

  Earl, neck deep in his own, grunted.

  They ate in virtual silence. Food was good, better than good. Ribs tender. Barbecue sauce tangy and sweet. Black beans firm and flavorful, dusted with cheese. The non-mayo Carolina coleslaw top-notch. Earl grunted after every bite. Honey hummed every so often. Lark just ate.

  And thought.

  What was up with Kenya?

  Lark was up to six messages. No reply.

  “You never did say how that school visit went.” Earl bit into his tender ribs; barbecue sauce dripped to his chin. He didn’t bother wiping it away. His shirt looked like the blond dread’s apron. Embarrassing. “You need to learn to share your experiences with your folks.” Slurring.

  “We just the piggy bank, Earl,” Honey said. “Ain’t you figured that out? Ain’t no sharing with us.”

  Scholarships, scholarships, scholarships.

  Part-time job, part-time job, part-time job.

  How were they the piggy bank?

  Lark was doing it on her own. Like with everything.

  “It’s nice,” Lark said. “Sorry you guys couldn’t visit with me.”

  “I bet you’re sorry,” Honey said.

  Lark ignored her. “I’m thinking about joining a sorority.”

  Earl grinned. “Delta Alpha Sigma Phi Theta Beta Sigma Gamma. That’s my princess.”

  Oh, he was definitely drunk.

  “Kenya and I might join,” Lark said.

  “Following behind that girl on everything,” Honey barked.

  “She’s my best friend.”

  “But you ain’t no Kenya yourself. Sooner you learn that, the better.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Mama?”

  “What I said. You ain’t no Kenya. That girl’s beautiful and talented and…”

  “…got a phat ass,” Earl finished. “Not that I’ve noticed but a time or two or three.”

  Honey acted as if she hadn’t heard that.

  Lark bit her lip.

  Honey smiled. “Don’t worry about it, girl.” Soft tone, as if she cared. “Everybody ain’t meant to be special.”

  Lark wasn’t even mad.

  Kenya was special.

  The best friend a girl could have.

  But why wasn’t she returning her texts?

  Lark was worried.

  The blond dread returned to clear their plates. He glanced at Lark briefly. She smiled. He looked away, launched right into business. The place offered two desserts only: apple pie or ice cream. Or, if they were truly ambitious, apple pie with a scoop of ice cream on top. If they wanted coffee, there was a Starbucks two blocks over. Keep it simple.

  Nobody at the table wanted dessert.

  “Best barbecue ever,” Earl slurred to the blond dread.

  “Sassafras and applewood.”

  “Come again?”

  “The wood we use to cook-up on,” the blond dread replied. “Makes it good, nuh?”

  Earl nodded. “That’s ups what’s.” His tongue was a weight.

  The blond dread fixed his steel-blue eyes on Earl, brushed aside a handful of blond dreads. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

  “Thought you didn’t serve coffee?”

  “My private own.”

  Earl waved him off. “I’m straight.”

  “I’m driving,” Honey said.

  “To hell you are.”

  “Earl, please…”

  “To hell you are,” he repeated.

  Honey let it go.

  “Long as the Pope pisses at the Vatican, I will be the man in my house,” Earl slurred. He slammed his fist on the table, shook silverware, made the salt and pepper shakers dance, keep up beat with the Spanish woman singing about amor and corazon.

  The blond dread stepped away.

  That disappointed Lark.

  She glanced at her cell phone again.

  Nine messages.

  Kenya, where are you?

  The drive home had been uneventful. Not much happened. The real fireworks were when they first left the restaurant, getting Lark’s father to hand over the keys. After some fight, he did. Now, the stre
ets were dormant. It was an unseasonably cool evening. The hawk was actually out, keeping the criminal element at bay. Earl was asleep in the passenger seat. Honey drove carefully, had made one stop, at 7-Eleven. Bought a handful of items that would have been cheaper at the grocery store. And her lottery. Cash 5, Quick Picks.

  Night had fallen hard, painted the sky black.

  Honey pulled down the alley of their project building. One of her shortcuts. They were blocked. A Lincoln Continental, dark blue, late model. Out-of-state tags, Indiana. The car’s brake lights were blinking like Christmas decorations.

  Honey honked her horn. Nothing. “Go tell them to move,” she told Lark. “I ain’t got time for this.”

  Lark slid out of the car, took tentative steps toward the Lincoln. Brake lights were still blinking like crazy.

  She moved to the driver’s side, was about to tap on the window, but stopped abruptly. Inside, a middle-aged man’s trousers were pooled at his ankles. A woman, crooked brunette wig on her head, was bobbing up and down in the man’s lap. She wasn’t bobbing for Granny Smiths, either. The man’s head was thrown back against his headrest, his foot tapping the car’s brakes unintentionally.

  Lark stumbled backward.

  Honey honked her horn again.

  Lark stumbled a couple more steps.

  Honey rolled down her window. “Girl, what you doing?” she yelled. “Tell them to move.”

  Lark stumbled down the alley.

  In the opposite direction of her mother’s yells.

  “Girl, where you going? Lark? Get your narrow behind back here.”

  Lark ignored Honey, started running.

  She had to get away.

  Kenya’s house.

  That’s where she’d go.

  She ran for three blocks before her legs started to get weary. Panting, lungs burning, she slowed from a full-out trot to a leisurely walk. The image of the man and woman in the Lincoln was burned into her brain. It had horrified her. But it had excited her, too. That was hard to admit, but true just the same. All kinds of thoughts swirled in her mind. Kenya was her best friend, no doubt. And she was worried about her girl, true. But. But. But. The Lincoln episode, as she was now calling it, had stirred something in her she couldn’t deny. Passion. Desire. Want. Donovan had fumbled with her bra straps more times than she could count. Fumbled over his words every time she covered his hands with her own and let him know things had gone as far as she would allow them to. Maybe it was time to move beyond the fumbling. Maybe it was time to seal the deal. She felt something, right down between her legs in that naughty place, that she couldn’t pretend away.