Midnight Read Free Page A

for Rodney King, Benny Powell, Clarence Chance, Latasha Hawlins, the racist pre-New Year’s sweeps through the project to arrest the brothers the police thought would fire their pistols on New Year’s, for flooding South Central L.A. with crack, for making men lie on the ground, their initiation into humiliation, for no jobs, for hopelessness, for the secret promotion of gang warfare by the Los Angeles Police Department, for sheer racism.
    Bop felt a level of agreement with his uncle concerning the Korean merchant burnout.
    â€œI don’t see why they burnin’ up their stores.”
    â€œâ€™Cause they’re nasty, disrespectful, and rude.”
    â€œThen why shop in their stores? Shit, if you didn’t shop in their damn stores for a week, they’d become very respectful and courteous. Or else they’d go somewhere else quick!”
    He took a final hit on the joint and popped the roach into his mouth, gulped it down with a swallow of beer.
    Bone had called back twice.
    â€œBop, you should be down in the ’hood now; home, these motherfuckers is loadin’ up on shit!”
    Skateboard tried to lure him down into it with promises.… “I promise you this, man; if you tripped through here right now, you could pick up VCRs, booze, anything you want. I promise you mo’ shit than you ever had.…”
    He was tempted but didn’t feel compelled. This is a fucking setup. Once the fire dies down, niggers is gon’ pay for this and I’m gon’ be in Ghana, West Africa .
    He stutter-stepped back into the living room. The analysts were analyzing the analysts; the pundits were punditing; the sociologists were sociologizing; the urbanologists were making money; people were being interviewed.
    A young black man with his Raiders cap on sideways summed it up. “If you have to ask me why this happened ’cause you really don’t know, then my daddy was right, white folks is a bunch o’ dumb motherfuckers!”
    It came as close to being live television as it would ever be. Profane statements skipped past the censors, and the media’s desperate need to be first with the latest tragedy gave a party atmosphere to the news.
    â€œTom, what’s that burning over there?”
    â€œWell, Jerry, that’s the warehouse that we pointed out to you earlier. The fire department hasn’t been able to get to it yet.”
    He remoted the television off, after having learned that most of the television newscasters were racist-thinking (“They’re savages. Who would do this to a city?”) and that the city was likely to be placed under a curfew and that the National Guard might be sent in.
    Bop staggered up the hall to his bedroom, flopped across the bed for a few minutes. Damn! I hope this don’t fuck with my shit!
    He slid off the bed and fumbled through the top drawer of his bedside night table. He pulled the miniature briefcase from underneath a pile of socks and shorts, stared at the briefcase for a moment, and finally opened it.
    My yellow-fever card, my passport, my plane ticket, my trip to Africa, with a thousand ol’ nasty drug-saved dollars to spend .
    He opened the yellow-fever card and studied the entry— this is the one that made me feel like I had the flu for a week .
    â€œNow, I have to explain, Mr. Johnson; about seven to ten days from now, you’ll begin to experience yellow fever symptoms. Don’t be alarmed. That is what this shot is all about.”
    He flipped the passport open and studied his picture. What the fuck would you call a motherfucker who looked like this?
    He stumbled over to the dresser, to stare at himself. Well, I ain’t ugly. But I ain’t pretty neither . He pulled his T-shirt off and studied his top half. Pumping iron had put a physique on his five-foot-eight-inch frame. He had stopped pumping iron after his first year in Chino, upon the advice of Brother Simmons.
    â€œAin’t no