The Cocaine Chronicles Part 15

Clyde tried to stay calm. But handling his habit was not an experience that lent itself to calmness. And making the money by breaking into houses, apartments, and an occasional second-hand store, the kind that should not have alarms, only added to the tension. No wonder he always felt tired-except when he was riding the blow, of course. Then he could do anything, anytime, anywhere. Make love to the most beautiful woman. Pull off the most outrageous heist in thief history. Kick a.s.s. Be the man.

Ripping off old Ray's sax didn't exactly fall into the historical category. Stealing the cripple's instrument, Ray's source of income, probably ranked as outrageous, pitiful but outrageous.

He tried to explain to Linda but she didn't get it.

"I can get twenty, thirty bucks for the sax. Ray keeps it in good shape. Take me five minutes to get it, maybe. His lock's gotta be a joke. And what can Ray do about it if I get in his crib and yank the sax? Not a d.a.m.n thing. Nothin'."

Linda arched her eyebrows.

"But c.r.a.p, Clyde. It's Ray. He don't harm no one. He's a little weird, but who around here ain't? And you know him, man. He knows you, too. What if he sees you? What if he turns you in to the cops? You ready for that?"

Clyde knew there was one thing he definitely was not ready for, and that was another lockup. He refused to consider the possibility.

"No way there's any risk. Ray drinks himself to sleep every night. Calls the juice his Oblivion Express. I heard him talkin' about it one day when he was on the corner playing for handouts, explainin' to that Jesus Saves preacher why he can't get up early for the coffee and doughnuts and sermon at the center. Goes out like a match in the wind. And in his chair, you think he's goin' to pull any hero stuff? Come on, it's a setup. Made for Clyde the Glide, smoothest second-story pro on the West Side."

Linda shook her head but she knew it was hopeless. And maybe Clyde could sc.r.a.pe enough together for a line or two, if he did an all-nighter and hit at least a half-dozen places. Ray's sax by itself wouldn't pay for a taste, much less a good time. It was stupid but it was Clyde's lifestyle, so to speak. To each his own.

Ray slept curled in a ball in his chair, clutching the saxophone he dreamed was his rifle. The street below his room shook with the noise from buses and taxis, ambulances screaming their warnings to the dealers, pimps, and winos prowling Ray's neighborhood. He slept through it all. He prowled, too, but the thick jungle that surrounded him held more terror than the actors in the midnight street scene could conjure up in their wildest drug-induced fantasies. He moaned and twisted his blanket into a sweaty, crumpled rag, but he slept.

The door creaked and Ray's eyes jerked open. For a horrible, ridiculous second, slant-eyed killers hovered around him, poked at him with their weapons, and Ray whimpered. The door eased shut and a shadow moved around the room. Streetlights bounced off the gleam of a knife blade.

"Get the h.e.l.l out of here!"

Before the guy could react, Ray wheeled into the back of the intruder and knocked him over.

"What the . . . !"

The knife flew across the room. Clyde crawled on the floor, looking for the weapon, trying to regain the advantage. Ray ran over groping hands. A feeble scream mixed with the loud crunch of fractured bone. The thief struggled to his feet, turned around in circles, lost in the darkness, defenseless against the crip he thought would be easy. Ray moved smoothly, effortlessly. His strong, solid fingers grabbed the first thing they touched and flung it at the man.

Dazed, Clyde stumbled out the door and collapsed at the top of the stairs.

Ray's neighbors flicked on their lights, threw open their doors, some with guns in their hands, and kicked the intruder sniveling on the stained, muddy carpet.

Ray wheeled to the hallway and picked up his baseball. The ink had been smeared by the impact on the burglar's greasy skin.

He held the ball with his viselike grip and carefully, slowly, used a Sharpie to fill in the words Roberto Clemente Roberto Clemente over the smudge. over the smudge.

Someone nudged his shoulder.

"Better get that door fixed, Ray. I walked right in. You okay?"

"Yeah, Art. Guess I still got my throwing arm. I think I know that guy. You recognize him?"

"No way. Dirty creeps around here. About time one of them got it. You really clobbered him. What the h.e.l.l you hit him with?"

"This ball. Check it out. My old man gave it to me, about the only thing I got from him. It's worth some money, but it means more to me, it's kind of special. Sentimental value and all that."

Rich Alderete

DETRICE JONES DETRICE JONES was born and raised in San Francisco and is currently an African-American Studies major at the University of California, Los Angeles. This story is her first published work, and is based on her own life experiences. was born and raised in San Francisco and is currently an African-American Studies major at the University of California, Los Angeles. This story is her first published work, and is based on her own life experiences.

just surviving another day

just surviving by detrice jones

There was a knock at my door. Then a jingle and he was in.

Cheap-a.s.s lock. I looked at the clock and it was 3:36 a.m.

He turned on the light and began his search. I watched him, hoping he wouldn't find it.

"Let me get that money and I'll pay you back in the morning," he said.

"No. I need it for lunch."

"I'll give it back to you in the morning."

Yeah right. How was he going to do that? If he didn't have any money now, he wouldn't have any in the morning. He came over and searched near me and around the bed. It wasn't next to me. I learned quickly that it was one of the first places they looked. They had just given me the money no longer than six hours ago. I guess they had smoked up the little cash they already had. Which meant if he found the money, I wouldn't have any for tomorrow or the next couple of weeks when somebody got paid again. He found it in the little chest on my dresser.

"I'll give it back to you in the morning," he said as he left the room and turned off my light, as if I would be going to sleep anytime soon. I lay there and worried about food and eating for tomorrow. I had to get hunger off my mind. When I finally fell asleep, it seemed like it had been two minutes before the alarm clock went off. I hit the snooze and went back to sleep. This repeated five times. I finally woke up an hour later. I knew even if I missed first period, I would have to make it to my next cla.s.s because we had a quiz that I couldn't make up.

After I got dressed, I looked for my dad. Like always he was nowhere to be found. My mom was in the kitchen. She pressed her blackened fingers on the stove looking for crumbs, little rocks or anything that was round and white. I made some toast so I wouldn't starve for the whole day. I didn't say a word as I tried my best to maneuver around her.

"Where Ronnie at? I gotta go to school."

"He'll be back soon."

Denial. I knew better. I took my time to eat and looked for some loose money around the house. I found fifty cents in the big couch. Beatrice saw that and had a slightly jealous look in her eyes.

What the h.e.l.l could she smoke with fifty cents? I went outside to see if I could find my dad, Ronnie. He was in the driver's seat of our van. At that moment I wished I wouldn't have talked so much in drivers ed, stopped procrastinating, and got my license sooner.

"You gotta get to school?" he asked in a mumbled, half-sleep voice, without turning his head at all.

"Yeah, I'm late, but I gotta go to second period, at least."

"I'ma have to give you that money this afternoon," he said, still looking straight ahead like he was unable to move his neck in either direction.

He drove like I was Miss Daisy. It took at least thirty minutes to get there when it should only take fifteen. I went to the attendance lady to get a tardy note. She knew my name, homeroom number, and grade by heart. Sometimes she would already have my note ready for me when I got there. I was there in time for the quiz I didn't study for. n.o.body could convince me that I got anything less than an A, though.

During our nutrition break, I bought a Snickers from the student store. I was . . . kinda hungry.

"How was Mr. Springsted's quiz?" my friend Jessica asked.

"Pretty easy. Make sure you know about the Great Depression.

Dates, how it affected minorities, s.h.i.+t like that."

"You think you did good?"

"I don't know, maybe a B. Hopefully. I didn't study."

"You said the same thing last time and got an A."

"I was lucky. Hey, you got some money I could borrow?" She looked at me and hesitated. She was going to say no. I could see it in her eyes. She must have been thinking about the money I already owed her.

"I'll give it back, I promise. I left my money at home today. I'll pay you back with all the other money I owe you."

"I only got a dollar to spare," she said while handing me the money.

"That's cool. Thanks. I'll pay you back tomorrow," I said, knowing she would forget. She always did until I asked her for some more. The bell rang. "I gotta go to cla.s.s, you know how Mr. Gordon is about people being late."

"Yeah."

"I'll see you at lunch."

"All right."

"Good luck on that quiz," I had to yell at her down the hall.

"Thanks."

Mr. Gordon was known for not letting people in the cla.s.s if they were tardy. You would have to wait in the hallway with all the other late people and not make too much noise. He would be madder if we made noise in the hallway when he was ready to let us in. He would ask us why we were late, then give us a lecture on why we shouldn't be late. Then, of course, there was the embarra.s.sing walk back into cla.s.s with the whole room watching. Later in the year I would learn to stay by the room during break. For now I had to d.a.m.n near run to the cla.s.s all the way on the other side of the tiny elementary school that they turned into a high school and packed us in like sardines.

Lunch took too long to get here. I always got hungrier when I thought that I might not be able to eat for the rest of the day, and a dollar wasn't gonna cut it. When I got through the crowded hallways to the place where my friends usually ate, they were almost done.

"How the f.u.c.k ya'll get ya'll food so early in that long-a.s.s lunch line?"

They all laughed. They were something like little girls when I cursed. Coming from families with more money than mine, they were sensitive about that stuff. So cussing was always the fastest and easiest way to make them laugh.

"Why you always cuss so much?" April said.

"'Cause I can."

"Does your mom know you curse like that?" Erin asked, wiping cream cheese off her fingers.

"I cuss in front of her."

"She does," Keyona said.

"You bad," Erin said.

"Ya'll didn't answer my question. How did ya'll get ya'll food so early?"

"We got out of art cla.s.s early," Erin said.

"One of ya'll got some money I can borrow?"

"You ain't got no money?" Keyona asked.

Obviously, I almost said with att.i.tude. Why would I ask them for money if I had some? "I left my money at home." They were silent. "If each one of ya'll give me a dollar, I will be able to eat."

Still, nothing. "I'll pay ya'll back tomorrow."

April gave me a wrinkled dollar out of her tight jeans.

Erin gave me four of the six s.h.i.+ny new quarters she had.

Keyona, reluctant to give me anything, asked, "Are you going to pay me back tomorrow?"

"I will."

She turned to her purse so no one else could see and pulled out a crisp dollar bill.

"Thanks, you guys. I'll give it back," I said, not knowing if I could live up to that promise. I would definitely have to repay Keyona tomorrow. I went to the lunch line and saw Jasmine and Jessica-the Big Ballers, even though they wouldn't admit it. They had the best cars in school. I would trade shoes with them any day.

I had already asked Jessica for some money earlier. I had to figure out a way to ask Jasmine for some money without Jessica getting mad.

"Jasmine, can I borrow some money?"

"I just gave you some money earlier."

"A dollar? I can't eat with a dollar."

Jasmine pulled out five dollars and handed them to me.

"Thanks, I'll pay-"

"Don't worry about it. You don't have to."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. It's all good."

Good. I could pay back cheap-a.s.s Keyona and eat tomorrow, and my parents wouldn't know that I had some money.

After school I went to basketball practice. If I didn't eat lunch today, I probably would have pa.s.sed out.

"Point guards lead from the front." My coach yelled at me because I was the last to finish the suicides. I hated being a point guard because I was lazy. My coach was right, though. I was the leader and shouldn't be last. We had to do three sets of suicides today because two people were late and one person on the team couldn't come. We ran most of the time during practice. It was more like a track team than anything because our coach was not a basketball coach. So we ran, rarely ran plays out of his store-bought playbook, and almost never scrimmaged.