CHAPTER TWO

Wyld Heart

“It Looks Fit For A Female To Me.”

 

The wind blew a thin dustsheet over the sparkling money magnets as they sat on the porch of a red brick apartment building.

Always fresh, Wyld (pronounced Wild) Heart swept the particles off his new white Polo T and focused on the scene that was Baltimore before him. To his right was his cousin Spyrit (pronounced Spirit) and to his left was Bosh, an up and coming block hugger who Wyld was attempting to rear up in the street life the proper way.

“I’m not fucking with Quaykiesha no more,” Spyrit said as he stuffed his cell in his jean pocket before scratching his vanilla colored face as a police car whizzed by. When the siren was out of earshot he pulled a bottle of Ciroc vodka from behind his back and burned his pallet by gulping a mouthful. “The bitch run too many games for me.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Nigga, you been saying that shit for years,” Wyld reminded him. “Just do it already and stop making announcements.”

“You don’t get it, cuz.” He twisted the cap back on the bottle and sat it between his white Giuseppe tennis shoes. “She sucks dick too good to cut her off. I need more time before I let that go.”

Wyld shook his head.

“I don’t want a shawty like that,” Bosh advised as if anyone inquired. “Couldn’t do it, man.”

Wyld and Spyrit looked at him with raised brows.

“Why the fuck not?” Spyrit inquired.

“Cause to give bomb top means she gotta practice. And there’s only one way to become a dick sucking guru.” He pointed at Spyrit. “And you both know what I mean.”

Wyld placed a firm hand on Bosh’s shoulder. “For some reason I doubt you’ll have that problem, youngin’. I’ve seen the bitches you fuck and none of them are pros.”

When an older model silver BMW pulled up on the curb the men refocused their attention on the vehicle. A minute later Wyld and Spyrit’s cousin Ryan slithered out along with his villainous homie.

Possessing a light complexion like Wyld and Spyrit, Ryan was quite different. He kept his hair picked out in a short open bush with a close shave down the middle causing him to look like an African American Wolverine.

The rays from the sun put his shimmering chains on stage, including the gold skull he went nowhere without. To his immediate left was his short pudgy friend Perkins, whom folks called Cujo because he talked about everybody like a dog.

Holding two brown shopping bags from several local luxury men’s boutiques, Ryan raised them in the air for effect but remained at the bottom step while Wyld and the others sat on top. They all looked down at him curiously.

“I’m about to be fresh as fuck tonight,” he announced to the court. “None of ya’ll niggas can fuck with me. So keep your bitches home if you know what’s good for you.”

Since he had the stage at the moment, and was eager to perform, three dealers under Wyld’s regime moved closer to watch the antics. Although their eyes alternated from him to the streets respectably, to keep a look out for customers and cops.

Even Kante’, the neighborhood functional addict whose house also worked as a trap, stood at the bottom, not worthy enough to stand near the money team.

Ryan placed the bags on the ground to begin his display. “First I got this,” he said reaching into one and removing a pair of straight leg blue jeans, guaranteed to show off his plump ass and dick print, a look Wyld wondered if he was going for since he made the purchases.

A few soldiers looked back at Wyld as the fashion show continued; every man knowing his opinion was the only one that mattered.

When Ryan elevated a yellow shirt, cut a little too low in a V shape fashion to be considered manly, Cujo snatched it from his hand and said, “That’s my shit, bruh. Why you put it in your bag?”

Wyld chuckled causing all the soldiers to do the same. Embarrassed, Cujo stood back and cleared his throat. After all he was unsure of what was so funny. He had no idea that Wyld wondered how his oval physique would fit inside such delicate material.

But to each his own.

Garment after garment was presented before the court and none measured up to Wyld’s tastes. But when Ryan lifted a red blouse-like shirt, clipped with shoulder pads for a Grace Jones effect, Wyld laughed boisterously, unable to contain his composure.

Ryan froze, the shirt in his hands, eyes wide with concern, he waited to hear what was so hysterical from his kingpin cousin because to say he worshipped him was an understatement. As hard as he pretended not to give a fuck what Wyld thought, it was evident that in Ryan’s life, Wyld was a God.

Wyld’s laugh, which seemed to go on for an eternity simmered slowly after a minute. Every face was turned in his direction, each waiting for the verdict. “Nigga, you not wearing that shit to my party,” Wyld said. “So cut it out.”

Ryan’s mouth opened and closed, before opening and closing again. “Why…what…what’s wrong with it?” He looked down at it again and back at him.

“Where you want me to start, nigga?”

Ryan considered the shirt again as if by doing so he could go back to the moment he lifted the last one off the rack, afterwards slamming three hundred dollars on the counter to make the purchase. He even knocked a dude to the floor when he tried to take the last one. If only he could erase the trip he wouldn’t feel so ashamed in that moment.

Let it also be said that Ryan was a man and to admit he made a mistake with his fashion statement in his mind would shrink his dick size several inches, leaving him with a loss he wasn’t willing to take.

“This shit like that,” was all Ryan could come back with, his voice a mere whisper over the thundering laughter of the multitude.

“You keep believing that if you want to,” Wyld continued. “But it looks fit for a female to me. Matter of fact give it here, I’ll give it to my bitch.”

The audience focused on Ryan and grew quiet. The environment was so silent now that it was as if they all had been morphed to the desert, each watching Ryan being sucked in quicksand, no one bothering to lend a helping hand.

Needing back up Ryan gazed behind him at his man, who he knew would surely come to his rescue to say he liked the shirt too. But as he looked in Cujo’s eyes his expression said he was five minutes from using the “I gotta make a phone call right quick,” speech to make an escape.

Still, Ryan tossed him under the bus, backed up and rolled forward again. “Me and Cujo liked this joint. Right, Cujo?”

Cujo grabbed his cell from his pocket and texted Dominos Pizza to get the spotlight off of him.

Wyld’s laugh grew heartier. “Listen, them shirts bitch like. Now if you clown niggas wanna play pussy have at it. Somebody gotta entertain the king.”

With that everyone but Wyld, Spyrit, Ryan and Cujo snickered. The block hustlers pointed their long fingers at Ryan, adding insult to the injured. Baltimore seemed to come alive with humor, with Ryan and Cujo finding themselves as the right and left butt cheek of the joke.

As the crowd continued to have fun at Ryan’s expense, he and Wyld looked at each other silently. While a few of the soldiers took to snatching the clothing out of the shopping bags, holding them against their chests as they paraded around like queens.

Ryan was devastated.

In all of his life he had never been humiliated in such a massive way. And yet he couldn’t help but feel like Wyld could care less.

When Wyld’s cell phone rang in his pocket, and he removed it to check the message, his eyes widened as he read the words:

 

Wyld, something’s wrong!

I’m in an ambulance.

Come 2 the hospital! Please.

Wyld stuffed the phone back into his pocket and dashed down the steps, bumping into Ryan accidently on his way off the block.

 

 

Ryan and Cujo sat in the car smoking a blunt. After the crucifixion they pretended to go on with their lives but it wasn’t happening. The embarrassing scene was on repeat in both of their feeble minds.

“That nigga really tried to play you,” Cujo said shaking his head from left to right, as if Wyld didn’t embarrass the fuck out of him too. “I know that’s your cousin but—”

“Be careful, slim,” Ryan warned pointing at him. “I fuck with you but Wyld is family. Never forget that or it could mean trouble for you.”

Silence.

Cujo swallowed the lump in his throat. “Well maybe it was just me but he seemed off today. I never see him do you like that. I mean son called you a clown…In front of the whole block. You think that shit was cool, yo?”

Silence.

Ryan didn’t acknowledge what Cujo asked. He continued to pull on the blunt and stare out in front of him as if he was replaying the humiliating scene over again in his mind.

Cujo shook his head and sighed. “Them your people so have at it. I won’t say shit else.”

Ryan’s nostrils flared and he gripped the steering wheel hard in an attempt to keep his composure before taking a deep breath and stating, “I gotta go back to the mall.”

Cujo frowned. “For what?”

“To take my shit back.”

Cujo shook his head. “Just because of Wyld? I thought you like them cuts. That’s why you bought ‘em right?”

“Fuck no. Them block niggas touched my shit and messed them up,” he lied. “Left stains all on my fresh gear. I ain’t wearing that shit to the party tonight.”

Cujo laughed. “Yeah…aight. If you say so.”

Just then crack head Kante’ knocked on the passenger window with greasy knuckles, leaving round prints. Cujo looked at Ryan. “Want me to open it or scare him off?”

He shrugged. “Fuck it. See what the nigga wants.”

Cujo hit the button lowering the window, which allowed inside an odor mixture of dirty feet and mint from the gum he had tucked in his mouth, which rolled over his rotted teeth.

“What, nigga?” Cujo frowned, unable to stomach his body smell for long.

Kante’ looked across him at Ryan. “Can I rap to you, boss?”

“For what? Wyld took me off the blocks.” He frowned. “I don’t run the trap no more. Talk to Bosh.”

“It’s about your family. I know something I been holding back for a while, but after what I saw your people just do to you, I think you have a right to know too.”

 

 

Wyld ended the call on his cell as he maneuvered in traffic, piloting his new silver E Class. Spyrit was in the passenger seat, adjusting the air for the perfect comfort zone. “The doctor said Anna is okay but they may have to induce labor if she doesn’t stop having contractions,” Wyld said.

Spyrit sighed with deep relief and twisted the cap off of his vodka bottle before taking a gulp. “Good, cause I was worried.” He left the top off knowing he would finish it before they arrived at their destination.

“I still am,” Wyld admitted. “She been up all night having these crazy as dreams, man. ‘Bout losing the baby and shit. I haven’t gotten no sleep.”

“Oh…that’s what it was.” Spyrit nodded. “Everything makes sense now.”

“What you talking ‘bout?” Wyld frowned.

“Bruh, you cut Ryan down today on the street. I ain’t never heard you go at him like that in front of niggas. It was painful to watch.”

Wyld waived him off. “Stop being dramatic. Ryan know I’m just fucking around.”

Spyrit shook his head from left to right rapidly. “Wyld, he don’t know, man. I promise you. I saw the nigga’s eyes when you called him and fat boy clown niggas. You gotta apologize and let him know what you just said to me. Cause I see this situation going a number of negative ways if you don’t and soon.”

Wyld looked at him, considering each word. “You saying he crazy enough to come at me?”

“All I’m saying is that you know the nigga personality be on the half at times. Not to mention how sensitive he is. First you took him off the block, then you embarrassed him in front of the city on them same blocks.” Spyrit used his hands as he talked to animate his revelations. “Trust me…he feeling some type of way right now. I spend a lot of time with him, fam. And I know that face. Please tell that nigga you was just fucking around. Let the boy know and do it today!” He pointed downward.

“Listen, right now my wife in the hospital. I don’t have time for Ryan and his tender ass emotional games. If he can keep his feelings at bay for a minute I’ll revisit the situation later but not a moment sooner.”