clean it up, donât do it again.
A lighter sparks across Spofford and he can see itâs just Little Nene and Cardell, probably waiting on him, blunting up before they blast off into space. Warp factor five, Mr. Sulu.
Yeah, itâs a good crowd. He can see a clump of girls in front of Miss Fiskâs, huddled so no one can scope them. Not Vanessa, none of them that tall yet. He gets up some speed and hits the door. At least Mr. Linney got the ramp right. Ones down Liberty Center so steep they shoot you out in the middle of traffic, bus run your ass down.
Everyoneâs waiting for him; even the girls turn.
âShowtime!â one of the shorties calls, doing a goofy Dick Vitale. They stick their bikes against the fence.
âCrest,â they say, âcâmon, man, get that thing on!â
Little Nene and Cardell come wandering across the street like they donât care if theyâre late. Little knuckleheads fronting hard, want to build up some respect. Two years behind him at Peabody. Got to be sixteen now, both of them shaving every day. Crest used to kick their nappy asses once a week, not bad, just slap-boxing, give them a taste of whatâs waiting. Since the bridge, they still mess with him, but careful like. He used to groove on playing Little Nene, pop him hard and watch his eyes go psycho. Cardellâs always been stronger, but he ainât half as crazy as Little Nene; Little Nene, heâll take his licks and give some back, but heâll never thump like his brother Nene. Thatâs all used to, like eveything else. Now they think theyâre being respectful andtake it easy on him. âBring it on, suckas,â Crest says, but itâs just sissy taps, then they dance out of range and profile some styling footwork, show him their new moves. Not little dudes no more. Men.
What is
he
now?
Nothing.
Fucked up, thatâs what.
Crowdâs waiting, and Crest backs into the corner so the door canât hit him. Hooks up Brother Sony to the juice and reaches under the ivy, spiderwebs grabbing at his handâand thereâs the cable, spliced right off the box. He tips the set and plugs the jack in, clicks the knob where he wants it. Brother Sony has a plastic kickstand, and he flips it out and rests the set on top of the wall so everyone on the steps has a good seat. One last look at everyone looking up at him, andâignition.
Itâs a golf course, late in the day, that Hennessy kind of light over a putting green. A bunch of old white people are shoving their clubs in the trunk of a huge Buick, all happy like they won something. âAw, man,â Cardell says, disgusted, âI donât want to have to see these old ghosts. I get enough of this shit in real life, you know what Iâm saying?â Everyone agrees, an
mmm-hmmm
like church. Thereâs a clubhouse behind the old folks, ivy-covered, and Crest thinks of when he used to do dishes at the University Club, the thick plates that held the heat from the machine so you had to wear cotton gloves to put them away. Used to cash his check Fridays and take Vanessa out to Isalyâs, chip-chop ham and whitehouse ice cream. It looks like fall there, a few leaves on the green. Itâs a bank commercial, how rich youâllget if you give them your money. When Moms comes home from work sheâs got a dozen gumbands around her wrist, the rubber dirty with black streaks.
âPump it up,â Little Nene calls from the back, but Crest waits. Someone has a box of Better Cheddarsâanother father working day shift at Nabiscoâand they break it out, pass it around, people filling their laps. The commercials are louder, and when
Voyager
comes on he adjusts it. They go right into the show, no credits, no nothing, and thereâs BâElanna Torres with her old rhinoceros-looking head, and googly old white boy Tom Paris, phasers out, in some cave made of fake rocks; itâs your basic away-team
A lighter sparks across Spofford and he can see itâs just Little Nene and Cardell, probably waiting on him, blunting up before they blast off into space. Warp factor five, Mr. Sulu.
Yeah, itâs a good crowd. He can see a clump of girls in front of Miss Fiskâs, huddled so no one can scope them. Not Vanessa, none of them that tall yet. He gets up some speed and hits the door. At least Mr. Linney got the ramp right. Ones down Liberty Center so steep they shoot you out in the middle of traffic, bus run your ass down.
Everyoneâs waiting for him; even the girls turn.
âShowtime!â one of the shorties calls, doing a goofy Dick Vitale. They stick their bikes against the fence.
âCrest,â they say, âcâmon, man, get that thing on!â
Little Nene and Cardell come wandering across the street like they donât care if theyâre late. Little knuckleheads fronting hard, want to build up some respect. Two years behind him at Peabody. Got to be sixteen now, both of them shaving every day. Crest used to kick their nappy asses once a week, not bad, just slap-boxing, give them a taste of whatâs waiting. Since the bridge, they still mess with him, but careful like. He used to groove on playing Little Nene, pop him hard and watch his eyes go psycho. Cardellâs always been stronger, but he ainât half as crazy as Little Nene; Little Nene, heâll take his licks and give some back, but heâll never thump like his brother Nene. Thatâs all used to, like eveything else. Now they think theyâre being respectful andtake it easy on him. âBring it on, suckas,â Crest says, but itâs just sissy taps, then they dance out of range and profile some styling footwork, show him their new moves. Not little dudes no more. Men.
What is
he
now?
Nothing.
Fucked up, thatâs what.
Crowdâs waiting, and Crest backs into the corner so the door canât hit him. Hooks up Brother Sony to the juice and reaches under the ivy, spiderwebs grabbing at his handâand thereâs the cable, spliced right off the box. He tips the set and plugs the jack in, clicks the knob where he wants it. Brother Sony has a plastic kickstand, and he flips it out and rests the set on top of the wall so everyone on the steps has a good seat. One last look at everyone looking up at him, andâignition.
Itâs a golf course, late in the day, that Hennessy kind of light over a putting green. A bunch of old white people are shoving their clubs in the trunk of a huge Buick, all happy like they won something. âAw, man,â Cardell says, disgusted, âI donât want to have to see these old ghosts. I get enough of this shit in real life, you know what Iâm saying?â Everyone agrees, an
mmm-hmmm
like church. Thereâs a clubhouse behind the old folks, ivy-covered, and Crest thinks of when he used to do dishes at the University Club, the thick plates that held the heat from the machine so you had to wear cotton gloves to put them away. Used to cash his check Fridays and take Vanessa out to Isalyâs, chip-chop ham and whitehouse ice cream. It looks like fall there, a few leaves on the green. Itâs a bank commercial, how rich youâllget if you give them your money. When Moms comes home from work sheâs got a dozen gumbands around her wrist, the rubber dirty with black streaks.
âPump it up,â Little Nene calls from the back, but Crest waits. Someone has a box of Better Cheddarsâanother father working day shift at Nabiscoâand they break it out, pass it around, people filling their laps. The commercials are louder, and when
Voyager
comes on he adjusts it. They go right into the show, no credits, no nothing, and thereâs BâElanna Torres with her old rhinoceros-looking head, and googly old white boy Tom Paris, phasers out, in some cave made of fake rocks; itâs your basic away-team