JAYLEN BIGGS WAS pissed. He’d just watched the YouTube video of the Beta party. Bunch of frat boys singing “nigga” like pretend gangstas? Whatever. What made him mad was that he never approved the play. How dare those two-bit raggedy-ass revolutionaries do this without his say-so!
Jaylen pushed through the doors of the PSA. Why they get such a dope building, anyway? There they were, sitting around, getting high, as usual. Middle of the damn afternoon. “Man, that all you motherfuckers do is smoke weed?”
Red smiled. “Jaylen! Welcome, my brother!”
“Don’t brother me, asshole.”
“I thought you would be in a better mood today, Jaylen. What brings you by?”
“Fuck you. That’s why I’m here. Who said you could up and do another race play?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my friend.”
“Bullshit. I know you posted that video, the one with them dumbass frat boys.”
“Oh, you mean the one where they use that abhorrent language? Yes, we saw it, but damned if I know who made the thing. Good thing, though, right? Fucking racist fraternities.”
“Whatchoo think I’m stupid? Your boy Roof here was spinnin’.” Jaylen glared at Rufus.
“Hey, that’s all I was doing,” Rufus said. “Whatever else was going on was none of my business.”
“So, I’m confused,” Red said. “When I saw it, my first thought was ‘Boy, my man Jaylen’s gonna kill with this.’”
“Not the point. When you brought me and the Cultural Center into your little play with that teacher, that was one thing. It was little shit. This here is bigger, especially with that graffiti. You went rogue.”
“Graffiti?” Red asked.
“Oh, shut up, motherfucker. There’s probably still paint on your hands.”
“Moi?”
Some of the others snickered.
“Okay, listen up. Y’all can bitch all you want about LGBTIA-whatever-the-fuck-letter-comes-next, or unionizing the grad students, or fucking fracking, or whatever, but as president of the Cultural Center, this kind of thing is our turf. Don’t get me wrong—we gonna run with it, cuz it presents an opportunity, know what I’m sayin’?”
The last words came out nome sane. Despite Jaylen’s having grown up in affluent Rye, New York, gone to private school, and being the son of a prominent neurologist, he could don a ghetto affect when it served his purposes.
“But understand this,” he continued. “Race is our thing, not yours. I already told you once, and I ain’t gonna tell you again. From now on, keep the fuck out. You hear me? Stick with yo’ hippie shit and keep the fuck out.” He turned and left.
“A thank-you might have been nice,” Red said.