I made the next.
Then he took another.
We met in the middle.
Again,
dove into each other.
This time the hug,
a mix of I miss you
and who are you
and I’m confused
and I’m cracking
and I don’t know what
the hell to do
or where the hell to go.
My father’s hand
gripped my back
as I did my best
to bury myself
in his armpit,
to get lost in the new
and strangely familiar feeling
of fatherhood.
AND THAT’S WHEN IT HAPPENED.
He pulled the gun
from my waistband.
And put it to my head.
I FREAKED OUT.
What you doin’?
I shrilled,
in shock.
What the hell you doin’!
Eye-to-eye,
a tear streaming
down his face.
Just one,
so it ain’t
really count.
Chest aching
like a weight
crushing me,
biscuit tight
against my temple.
He cocked it.
Sounded like
a door closing.
I CALLED OUT
for help
but couldn’t
see no one.
Not Uncle Mark,
or Dani,
or Buck,
or hear them,
or even smell
the dank
of tobacco turning to tar.
Like it was suddenly
just the two of us,
me and my dad,
both of us apparently
losing
our minds.
POP STOOD OVER ME,
the gun pressed against
the side of my face.
Was the first time I had
ever had one to my head.
First time I had been that
close to death. To the end.
And at the hand of
Pop. Pop? Pop!
YOU WOULD THINK
I would be thinking
about whether or not
he could actually do it
since he wasn’t real.
But the hugs were real.
And the gun was real.
Weren’t no ghost bullets
in that clip.
Those were real bullets.
Fifteen total.
One for every year
of my life.
MY STOMACH
was aching,
the quaking world
in the bottom of it,
and it wasn’t long
before I could feel
myself splitting
apart.
A WARM SENSATION
ran through the lower
half of my body,
seeping
down my leg
into my sneakers.
Cigarette smoke
cut once again,
this time by the smell
of my own piss.
09:08:40 a.m.
THEN POP UNCOCKED THE GUN,
wrapped his arms around me
again,
squeezed tight like
I was some rag doll,
stuffed
the gun back into
my waistband.
I SCREAMED,
pushed him away,
yelled until my throat
stripped,
until my words became
sizzle.
Weak.
Wet.
Worried
about looking like
a punk-ass kid.
And my father
leaned against the wall,
staring,
chin up,
cocky,
quiet,
while I exploded.
AND LIKE OLD TIMES
Uncle Mark
came to his side
like a brother,
pulled the extra cig,
the one tucked
behind his ear,
handed it to
my father,
chest heaving.
Eyes on me,
he threw the cig
in his mouth.
Buck took his cue.
I backed into
a corner,
wished this
stupid elevator
would get to L ,
for this whole
thing to hurry up
and be done.
Buck struck
a match and the
elevator came
to a stop.
A STRANGER,
chubby,
light skin,
almost white,
the type that
turns red,
that burns,
dirty brown hair
curled up
on his head,
got in the elevator
like a normal guy.
Didn’t acknowledge
nobody.
No dead body.
No live body.
No smoke.
Normal.
SO I FIGURED
he was real.
Which
made me real
embarrassed
about the pee
but
made me real
happy
I wasn’t all
the way gone.
09:08:47 a.m.
THE THICK PALE DUDE
stood staring at his
blurry reflection in
the metal door
when Buck started
trying to get his
attention.
Yo,
Buck said.
Psst.
The guy didn’t
budge.
Yo, dude,
Buck called,
reaching
for his
shoulder.
THE MAN TURNED AROUND.
I know you.
Buck flashed his
big choppy grin.
Your name
Frick, right?
Only to people who
know me
know me,
the guy said,
reluctantly reaching
for Buck’s hand.
Remember me?
Buck said,
like a distant
relative at a
reunion.
Buck,
he said,
showing the back
of his T-shirt again.
Oh shit,
Buck?
Head cocked.
Buck?
Arms wide.
What’s good, man?
Nothing.
Is good.
At all.
THIS IS
Dani,
Mark,
Mikey,
and
you remember
Shawn?
This his little brother,
Will.
BEFORE FRICK COULD ANSWER,
I asked Buck
how he knew
him,
what his connection
was to me,
what he was doing
in this spooky-ass
elevator.
09:08:50 a.m.
HOW DO I KNOW HIM?
Buck scoffed,
shaking his head.
This is the man
who murdered me.
WAIT.
Wait.
Wait . . . wait.
Hold up.
Hold
up.
Hold the hell
on.
On my brother,
on Shawn’s name,
You serious?
Wait . . .
Wha?
Wait, wait, wait.
. . .
What?
YOU HEARD ME RIGHT.
See, Frick here—
Buck paused.
Why they call you that, anyway?
he asked,
sidetracked.
It’s really Frank. Twin sister,
Frances. Frick and Frack
came from my uncle.
Stupid shit old men call you
stick in the hood,
Frick explained.
Who you tellin’.
Matter fact because
of you—
Buck paused again,
turned back to me.
Because
of him, Will,
people ’round here
know my government name
is from reading it on
my damn tombstone.
BUCK’S REAL NAME
was James.
I’ve only heard it one time.
Buck better
than James.
Buck short
for young-buck.
Nickname given
by stepfather as a joke
because Buck
couldn’t grow no facial hair.
Smooth baby face,
nothing rough
about it.
BUCK WAS TWO-SIDED.
Two dads,
step and real.
Step raised him:
a preacher,
a real preacher,
not scared of no one,
praying for anyone,
helping everyone.
Real run through him:
a bank robber,
would steal air from the world
if he could get his hands on it.
PEOPLE ALWAYS SAID
he was taught to do good
but doing bad
was in his blood.
And there’s that nighttime
Mom always be talking about.
It’ll snatch your teaching
from you,
put a gun in your hand,
a grumble in your gut,
and some sharp in your teeth.
BUT HE DIDN’T START THAT WAY.
At first Buck was
a small-time hustler,
dime bags on the corner.
Same old story
until my pop got popped
at the pay phone that night.
Then he became a big brother
to Shawn
and a robber to a bunch of
suburban neighborhoods
every morning
(he knew better than to
jack people around here)
and come back with
money (the most)
sneakers (the best)
and jewelry (which he loved to show off).
BACK TO FRICK.
I was shocked
when I heard that
this dude killed Buck.
Yeah,
Buck said,
hand on
Frick’s shoulder
all buddy-buddy.
This the guy.
He glanced
at me.
Shawn never
told you that story?
HE NEVER REALLY TALKED ABOUT IT,
I said.
Shawn just said
you were shot
and that he knew
who did it,
I explained,
remembering that time.
Shawn’s face a candle,
melted wax,
flame flickering out.
I remember the cops
banging on our door
to question him,
to tell him they heard
he was close to James—
that was the one time
I heard Buck’s real name—
and to ask him
if he knew who might’ve
done it,
killed him,
shot him
twice
in the stomach,
in the street.
SHAWN AIN’T SAY NOTHING
to the cops,
to no one,
just locked
himself
in his room
for hours
and the next
day I caught him
sitting on his
bed pushing
bullets into
gun clip.
09:08:54 a.m.
WELL, LET ME TELL YOU,
Buck said.
We were hanging out at the court
sharing a bottle of something cheap
and strong just before it went down,
Buck said.
Shawn was telling me how he had
gotten into a little scuffle, nothing
major, with one of the dudes from
the Dark Suns,
Buck said.
Said he had to get your mother
some kind of soap she uses that
he could only get from the store
down by where they hang out.
A DUMB THING TO SAY
would’ve been to
tell Buck how important
that soap was
that it stopped Mom from
scraping loose a river
of wounds.
But instead
I just said,
Riggs.
I’M NOT SURE WHAT HIS NAME IS,
Buck said.
Said Shawn
said he was
going to the
the dude Riggs
ran up on
him talking
all this shit.
Said it was
nothing
serious, just
poppin’ off
at the mouth
about how he
was a Dark Sun
and how Shawn
ain’t belong
around there.
Said Shawn
was in his
feelings
all huff-huff
explaining to
Buck how he
had grown up
with the kid Riggs
and how the
kid was brand-new.
Buck said
he told Shawn
to let it roll off,
but he couldn’t
because that’s
just how he was.
All emotional
all the time,
Buck said.
WHILE HE’S GOING ON ABOUT THIS DUDE,
I’m trying to show him this chain
I just got from some kid out in
the burbs. Didn’t even snatch it.
I just growled a little bit and asked
for it and the sucka just took it
right off and handed it to me.
Ain’t even snatch it,
Buck said,
thinking back on that day
like he still couldn’t
believe it.
But what does that have to with
my brother and this guy?
I said,
pointing to Frick.
Hold on.
I’m gettin’ to that.
SO BECAUSE SHAWN WAS
tripping so hard about this dude,
I gave him the gold chain,
Buck said,
proud.
A gift.
His first one.
Then Shawn left
the basketball court.
And that’s when I came,
Frick chimed in,
a big smile
on his face
like he had just
won some
kind of award.
HOW TO BECOME A DARK SUN
1 TURF:
nine blocks from where I live.
2 THE SHINING:
a cigarette burn under the right eye.
3 DARK DEED:
robbing someone,
beating someone
or the worst,
killing someone.
Note: Apparently, you also gotta be corny.
I WAS ASSIGNED
my Dark Deed
for initiation,
Frick explained.
And it was to kill Buck?
No,
he said.
Funny thing is,
I was just supposed
to rob him.
I didn’t think it was
a funny thing at all.
Everybody knew
Buck was always flossin’,
always flashy. But nobody
would touch him because
of his pops. Both of them.
Real and step.
GANGSTAS
always respect
older
(original)
gangstas
(OGs)
and preachers
who act like
gangstas.
FRICK SAID
his plan was to
jack the jack-boy.
Said he knew Buck
would be at the court
so he ran up on him,
pulled the hammer,
and got laughed at.
BUCK SAID
he couldn’t get got
by a dude who he could
tell was as soft as the
suburban joker he’d
just jacked.
Everybody in the
elevator laughed.
Except me.
09:08:58 a.m.
WHATEVER, MAN,
Frick said.
I was just trying to
earn my stripes.
Can’t knock me for that.
He turned around,
caught eyes with
Pop and Uncle Mark.
They nodded in agreement.
No judgment over here,
Uncle Mark said,
throwing his hands up.
Anyway, this crazy fool,
Buck, swings at me.
Just tries to take me
even though I had a boom stick!
Frick looked
at Buck, shook
his head, then cut