First Laugh

by Rahiem Brooks

  Jean-Mary saw that he was out of breath and panicked. She thought that they were in danger and grabbed a bat that stood up next to the stove.

  “Boy, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. I have some good news and some bad news.” “I’ll take the good news first, maybe it’ll outweigh the bad.

  But first, can I put the bat away?” she asked and leaned sassily on the bat.

  “Yes, Mama, put the lethal weapon away. The good news is, Kim hired me to clean the store at night.”

  “Congratulations!” She was excited that he had his first job. “And the bad?” She asked afraid of what she might’ve heard.

  “Bad news is, I’m no longer interested in becoming an attorney. I want to be an entrepreneur.”

  “It’s pronounced ahn-tre-pra-nurr, son. And what type?” She asked concerned.

  “The kind that sells clothes, like Strawbridge’s. I’ll be the first black man to own a store of that magnitude,” he responded and opened his hands wide. “Ta da.”

  “Boy, you’re too silly,” she said and chuckled. “What do you know about that sort of store?” She was perplexed by his sudden career change.

  “Whatever the magazines I have been reading have taught me. Speaking of magazines, I am going to need a subscription to these Mama, seriously.”

  “You have a job now, so you can buy them. What’s the Inquirer for?”

  “I need to research what people who sell clothes earn and their job descriptions.”

  “You’re serious, huh?” she asked, but she was impressed that he chose to do that.

  “As serious as a fat dude at an all-you-can-eat-buffet.”

  They both laughed and Jean-Mary encouraged him to be whatever he wanted to be, and too be the best at it. She prepared plates as Kareem set up fold-up tables in front of their living room TV. They would enjoy dinner there and watch their evening programs together.

  After dinner and TV, Kareem perused the employment guide, and was not impressed with a sales associate’s salary. He told Jean-Mary that he might be an attorney after all. She convinced him that everyone started at the bottom of the ladder and worked their way up with dedication. With his social knack, she assured him that he would be part of a company’s executive staff in no time and then he could branch out and do his own thing. Satisfied with her points, he went to his room.

  While he said his prayer that night, he asked God to bless him with the resources to become a fashionista.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dre sat on the edge of his bed playing his game and listening to Tupac. He thought, this is a boring way to spend a Thursday when there is so much money to be made. He sat there and reflected on his earlier behavior. He realized that he had fucked up. He took Dawn to a drug torn zone and let her hear that he was selling rocks. He knew that exposing her to drugs was foul. He planned to never err like that again. There was no way that he would make her think that selling drugs, women selling their bodies, or becoming hood rich was acceptable.

  He was born into the game. Dope had taken both brothers to the corners to hang with local dealers. He took them inside bars and exposed them to scantily clad women and liquor. Dear ol’ dad allowed them to roll dice in crap games and afterwards drove them to Toys R Us to buy games and toys. Throughout those adventures, Dre took careful notes, as if he sat in a Princeton University lecture hall. In Dre’s mind, Delores would not stop him from making money.

  Dre dropped his controller and reached for the telephone. After three rings, a husky male voice answered. “Speak.” “Yo. What up, Ice? Dis, Dre.”

  “What up with your mom, man?” Ice asked getting right down to business.

  “Did she tell you everything that happened in this nut-ass house?”

  “Yeah, why you put me out there?”

  “She got your number outta my pocket, man. She straight made me empty my pockets and took my bread.”

  “That’s crazy. I denied that shit. Your mom and I go way back.”

  “Aiight, well, what’s up then?” Dre asked as the other line interrupted. “Hold on, fam.”

  “Yo,” Dre said and answered the other line.

  “Yo? Did I teach you to answer the phone like that?” Delores asked Dre.

  Oh shit, Dre thought. “Mom, my bad.” Dre said and cleaned up his act.

  “Well, who taught you that?” “Mom, I am sorry.”

  “That’s better. Is the grass cut?” “Doing it now.”

  “Carpet vacuumed?” “Yes.” Dre seethed. “Up and down stairs.” “Yes, mother.”

  “Don’t have no attitude with me. I wasn’t trying to be Mr. Illegal Big Time.”

  Dre did not feel like hearing that, again. He sat silent and then realized that Ice had hung up. Damn, he thought.

  “Who was that?”

  “A friend.”

  “A friend, who?” Delores asked.

  “Come on, mom. I’m working like a slave and trapped in

  the house like it’s prison. And—”

  Delores cut him off. “No, I am making sure that you don’t go to prison. I called to see if you wanted to order out or you wanted me cook?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay, take out the turkey wings from the deep freezer and I’ll see you when I get home.”

  Delores hung up and Dre was relieved. He didn’t bother calling Ice back. Between the chores and the conversation, he was burnt out.

  CHAPTER 8

  Germantown High School was situated in the northern- most part of Germantown, not far from the Mount Airy section. The school sat along the number 23 SEPTA bus route. The school looked like a prison with it being secured by black wrought iron gates. Except in the area where fifteen-foot-high chain link fencing had been put up. That was a security blanket that prevented the teacher’s vehicles from vandalism and break-ins.

  Just five days ago, Dre was being scolded by his mother about selling drugs. It was the first day of school and Dre rode the 23-bus to school. He had resolved himself to the idea that he could not fail any class. He knew that his mother would render him hopeless and kick him out. He needed to do his best to avoid her wrath and a possible trip to boarding school.

  Amazed at the mob of students camped outside of the school with no intent to go inside, Dre realized it may not be simple to attend class or study to be a nerd like Kareem. He stared at students clad in the hottest urban street-wear designs, and they seemed more interested in modeling than school, and Dre knew he’d fit right in. He hated his options, though. He could either be at that fashion show, or down North Philadelphia selling crack. How much money was he missing by being at the school. Fuck it, Dre thought. I ain’t tryinna hear Delores’ mouth, so school it is. I’ll just bring the drugs to the school.

  The access to the school was a narrow concrete walkway surrounded by wild lawns and trees that shaded the path. Dre entered the school and was immediately trapped in an atmosphere that bred criminal cretins, rather than the attorneys that represented them.

  “Get the fuck outta my way!” a student barked at another student, and gave him a shove to compliment the request.

  “Damn, Kisha, ya ass got fat over the summer,” someone yelled out to Kisha across the hallway. Kisha was the only student in the school likely headed to an Ivy League university.

  The darkness of the ill-lit hallway reeked of marijuana and stinking cheap perfumes. The stage was typical for a hood high school—four story brick structure with hundreds of students all acting the same. Students ebbed up and down the hallways. Some heads bobbing to CD walkman blaring hip-hop, some with pagers pressed to their hips, and very few worried about class.

  Dre entered his advisory, and on Ms. Johnson’s walls were posters to cover holes in the walls and chipped paint. The desks were packed so closely together that Dre could not breathe. He searched his roster and knew that his 10th grade year would be over in no time if he stayed focused. The bell rang and he was off to his first period class: English 2.
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  Dre approached room 128 and saw a crowd of pupils in the hallway. They were in a gambling cluster. He passed the crowd and knew that he would never get to class with that sort of enticement. Troy Jackson had called him.

  Fuck outta here, Dre groaned under his breath. He paused in the spray-painted hallway to see what the menace Troy wanted.

  Troy walked toward Dre and his diamond studs blinged brightly in the dim hallway. Troy had a thuggish stroll that showcased his Adidas sweat suit. In Dre’s eyes, Mr. Jackson was financially up and worked overtime to expose his hood wealth. Dre noticed Troy’s image, but the new picture of beauty tied to Troy’s side was of more interest. They shook hands, as Dre admired the chick with Troy.

  “Damn, Dre, what’s good with you? It’s been a minute since ya mother moved you to Andorra.”

  “Yeah, but as she see, I am not going to no other school. I had to show mom dukes who was in charge. I see you’re on top of your game.”

  “You know I am making a dollar on “The Ave”. Something small.”

  “Man, I ain’t talking about your pockets. I am talking about this fine ass babe on ya hip.”

  “Oh, this is...”

  The girl cut Troy off.

  “I’m Alize.” She twisted her hips and poked her ass out, and then said, “With the body like Beyonce.”

  Her body language told Dre that she was not Troy’s property, so he proceeded full steam ahead.

  “Um, Alize, like the drink?” Dre asked as he scoped her from head to toe. “I’d sure like a shot glass of Alize.”

  Alize Bayoumi had an Egyptian father and a Black mother and the combination was lethal. She had long, straight, black hair, a perfect honey complexion, and aqua eyes. She told Dre, “Not right now,” and then walked up to him. She then put her lips to his ear and whispered, “I know a sip of any drink would have a brother tipsy, but a shot of this will have you drunk.” “Let me leave you two alone,” Troy said. “Dre if you’re trying to blow up, get with me,” he continued and then spun off just as the bell rang.

  “That’s my cue to get to class,” Alize said, matter-of-factly. “Where are you headed?” Dre asked. He was in love and about to walk her to class.

  “Mr. Jainlette’s. English 2.”

  “Me too. Let’s be out.”

  Seconds later, Dre and Alize entered the classroom last and had all eyes on them. Mr. Jainlette’s class was full of round tables and not desks. Alize walked to the back table and Dre followed. Dre sat down and Alize cleared her throat. He then jumped up and pulled out her chair as a gentleman should. Dre couldn’t believe her antic.

  The limping Mr. Jainlette sat one writing text book on each table. The books were out of date with rigid spines and ready to crack at any moment. Mr. Jainlette did not have an assignment, he simply asked each student to share an anecdote of their summer vacations. This suited Dre fine, as he had no intentions of working: Alize was the only thing he wanted to work on.

  ***

  Troy continued his craps game in the hallway after the bell rang, but his mind was saturated with thoughts of Dre. He knew that Dre was also in the game. Troy was jealous of Dre’s parents moving into an area so close to the suburbs, and sent him to school dressed all jazzy. Dre didn’t even have to hustle, and did. Then Dre had possibly pulled the baddest bitch in the school. Fuck that! Troy thought. Dre may be getting money down North like his dad, Dope. And despite his calm demeanor, Dre was a loose cannon, but I’m the only don on this campus.

  ***

  Dre left English 2 and walked down the narrow corridor, which opened to the forties-wing of the school. He entered room 348, Ms. Frias’s Spanish 2 class, ignoring all admiring stares. He knew that mobs of girls were on to his father’s legacy, and he tried not to live in Dope’s shadow. He sat at an empty desk in the row that lined the window. He wanted to stare out onto Germantown Avenue and beyond.

  “Dawg, you’re in my seat.”

  Dre looked up at the person that made the comment. This clown must be high, Dre thought.

  Staring down at Dre was a tall aquiline-faced teenager with a bald head. He had two scars in his scalp, and his head resembled a cracking chicken egg. “Yo, I said you’re in my fucking seat.”

  “You see a hearing aide? I ain’t deaf,” Dre said and stood toe-to-toe with baldy. He was not for a fight and have to hear Delores’ mouth, but he planned to get down if he had too.

  “Where’d the fuck you put my books?” the kid seethed half-heartedly.

  Dre pointed to the seat behind the one in dispute, and then turned around.

  The kid grabbed Dre’s shoulder. “Put ‘em back where you found them.”

  Dre yanked away, raised his eyebrow, and said, “You have jokes?”

  “That wasn’t a joke. Put my shit back where you found it.” Dre ignored his foolishness.

  “Get my shit!”

  Dre attempted to locate another seat once again, but the teenager blocked his path.

  “I said get my shit.”

  Eager to see a fight, other students began to look with great anticipation.

  Now, this clown got me on stage. Now, I gotta act. Getting punked at even my twist. “My man, I’mma turn and walk away. Get your books and don’t touch me again, yo.”

  “Fuck dat, pussy. I don’t care about ya dad. Put my shit back where you found it.”

  The boy’s luck had expired. Being compared to other people, especially his dad, was a no-no. Dre was supposed to be down North making a quick dollar so that he can establish his own image and not dealing with this noodle.

  Without warning, Dre punched the kid in the gut and he immediately bowed for the audience. Dre then delivered an uppercut to the kid’s nose And he hit the deck.

  “Now pick your fucking self up, pussy!” Dre remarked curmudgeonly. He then pushed the books onto the floor and onto his victim. “Along with your books, bitch.”

  Ms. Frias entered the classroom as the bell rang. Kenny Bivins climbed from the floor, as Dre calmly took a seat across the room. The other students were silent. Ms. Frias had no idea that a boy with a sanguine nose was perched in the back of the classroom.

  “Clase de buenos días y bienvenidos a español dos,” Ms. Frias said joyously. Good morning, welcome to Spanish 2.

  Trust me, this is not a good morning, Dre thought. Just a few more classes and then football practice. That was all Dre was concerned with.

  PART 2 December

  CHAPTER 9

  On a pleasant Saturday, Barbara, Kareem’s maternal grandmother, picked him up to take him Christmas shopping. It was the first week of December and she was rather early for Christmas, he thought.

  Barbara was a home-care nurse aide for the Franklin Family, as in Franklin Chevrolet. Not only was she privy to a new Chevy at her convenience, she enjoyed winters in sunny Florida caring for Grandfather Franklin. Barbara was scheduled to leave Philadelphia for Tallahassee in a week, so she was taking everyone out shopping early. She pulled up on Kareem in a Caprice Classic and greeted him with a chipper smile on her face. She was a stout, attractive woman in her sixties, but told everyone that she was 49. She was a God-fearing woman, though, who enjoyed the finer things in life and traveled with her husband often. Together they had the baddest home in the family.

  Twenty-minutes passed and they walked through the parking lot of Lord and Taylor on City Avenue. Kareem wondered why she took him to a store that sold the kind of clothing that the kids at his school wore. The kind of clothes that he had seen in fashion magazines. He was happy, but thoughts that he would not be able to afford what he wanted subdued his happiness.

  In the women’s department, Kareem watched Barbara search for a new purse. He did not understand why women paid so much for handbags or why they carried so much in them. However, he realized that if he wanted to pursue a career in fashion, he had better understand the female purse-psyche fast.

  Barbara pulled a brown handbag from a shelf under a sign that read “Coach”. At the register, she
used a Lord and Taylor charge card to pay the $248 damage.

  Kareem was filled with questions and forced to ask, “ Why did you just pay that much for a silly pocketbook, Grandma?”

  Barbara looked at him condescendingly. “A silly pocketbook? Boy this is Coach, one of the best leather handbag makers around.”

  “But why is it so expensive?” Kareem asked inquisitively. He had to know what would possess a woman to pay that much for a purse.

  “Because retailers know women will pay for a good purse. Oftentimes, a good bag completes a woman’s boring outfit.”

  When they entered the men’s department, Kareem was in awe. He was finally at a retailer that sold high-end fashion to buy something and not just to browse. What should I buy, he thought.

  The thought was interrupted when two burly football– player-built men ran out of the dressing room area and roughed up a man, before dragging him back into an office. Kareem didn’t understand what was happening. Barbara hugged him tightly and told him that the guy was probably stealing. Kareem’s eyebrows flew up. He was surprised by the embarrassing arrest. When the undercover security guards carted the thief away, the department sales representative approached Barbara and Kareem.

  “Sorry about that,” she said and then smiled. “That happens every so often. But how can I help you?”

  “What happened?” Barbara asked. She was curious.

  “Just some guy trying to use a stolen credit card. I mean did you see him? He was as African-American as they come and tried to use a L&T card in the name Dan Polanski,” the sales lady whispered. “The name couldn’t have been any more Polish. I informed security, who called Mr. Polanski, who happened to be at home watching college football on this fine Saturday afternoon. Talk about dumb.”