“YOU’RE BREATHING A BIT TOO HARD ON MY NECK, BRUH,” I say to Bowie.
Bowie huffs and puffs behind me, pressing down on his bike pedals as we make our way up Warwick Boulevard. I’m perched on his handlebars, hanging on for dear life as he maneuvers past cars and pedestrians.
“My apologies, Your Highness,” Bowie says in between breaths. “It usually doesn’t take this much exertion to ride my bike, but I’m carrying deadweight at the moment.”
“I’m typically described as lean.”
“Can you lean your ass more to the right as I whip this turn?” Bowie asks.
I shift to the right as Bowie grunts under his breath and turns on Colony. Poor guy. We wouldn’t be in this predicament if Meek hadn’t been waiting for me at the bus ramp, as expected. I hid behind a shrub and watched his nostrils flare as he paced back and forth in front of my exact bus. Homeboy did his research. I had two options: endure the beatdown and show up to my Taco Bell interview half-dead, or ask Bowie for a ride that would get me to Taco Bell in one piece, albeit with a sore ass.
I chose the handlebars and sore ass.
“You can drop me off here,” I say to Bowie as we reach Canal Street.
“I got you this far, might as well give you door-to-door service.”
Panic crawls up my throat as I spot the opening to the Ducts. “It’s all good. I have to regain the feeling in my ass anyway. Walking could do me some good.”
“It’s not a big deal. I could use some water and—”
“Stop the fickin’ bike!” I jump off the handlebars before Bowie can get to a complete stop. The pavement skids so much under my sneakers that I expect to see a trail of smoke behind me. Instead, Bowie stares back at me with question marks in his eyes.
I should’ve known this would happen. Bowie tried to invite himself to my place for years, but every time I made up some bullshit excuse, like the air conditioner was busted, or MiMi was having the carpet cleaned. Eventually Bowie figured out I was dishing lies, so stopped asking like the good friend that he is. And I liked that about him. How he knew when to drop things. When to cut the tension with some whack-ass joke. Like when the other white kids at school find out about where I live, he puts the cap on that real quick.
Random White Kid: The Ducts. Holy shit. Have you ever been shot?
Bowie: My nana gets shot every day. I mean, she’s diabetic, but still . . .
Hearing about the Ducts is one thing, but actually seeing it is a whole other beast. The beat-up furniture spilling out of the dumpster. The neighbors inspecting said beat-up furniture to add to their collection . . . and that’s not even mentioning all the foul shiz that goes down when the moon’s at its highest. But that’s what all the assholes talk about. The ones that consider the Ducts to be the worst kind of stereotype. The ones that have never been to a neighborhood fish fry, or tasted Mrs. Jackson’s sweet potato pie on Thanksgiving. If Bowie starts looking at me like those assholes do, I don’t know how I’ll get through the next year at Youngs Mill. I couldn’t.
“Man,” I say, pushing out a smile. I rub my backside to dim the awkward, but rubbing your ass is always awkward. “If we’re going to make this a thing, you should invest in a pillow or something.”
“I don’t live in a palace, Jay,” Bowie says, ignoring me. He looks me dead in the eye, speaks in a low voice. Last time I saw him like this, I had spent the night at his house for the first time and just told him about my parents. “That sucks, bro,” he said after the longest five seconds of my life. Then he let me have the last slice of pizza. Bowie would eat his own underwear with the right amount of tomato sauce, so that last slice solidified our friendship.
“Yeah, pretty sure they wouldn’t let you into Buckingham with that hair.” I slip my backpack off his shoulders and give him a salute. He studies me and I don’t move. He and I both know that I’m not taking another step until he pedals in the opposite direction.
Bowie finally gives in and returns the salute. “Text me later. Let me know how it goes at El Taco Bell.” He lays on the accent extra thick, but every time he tries any accent, he always ends up sounding like some sweaty guy that works in a pizzeria in the Bronx.
“Yeah, and send my regards to your uncle Vito,” I say.
“Why I oughta . . .” Bowie shakes his fist at me like a true stereotype as he gives himself a push on his bike. I wait until he rounds the bend before I trek the rest of the way to my apartment building.
It’s weird to call the Ducts home. My tongue still gets in my way when I try, as if it’s embarrassed for me. Dad’s eyelid twitched more times than his doctor would have liked when he found out that MiMi was moving here. It isn’t that the Ducts are the projects—it’s the neighborhood that everyone migrates to when they move on up from the projects. The buildings might be newer, but the chaos inside those buildings remains the same. Behind these walls, there are still families living paycheck to paycheck, and the occasional idiot creeping into windows to steal those paychecks.
I walk past the security booth stationed at the entrance but, of course, the guard is nowhere to be seen. The booth is just something to make government officials sleep better at night. To show that even though the Ducts is part of the public housing system, they still care about our well-being. So they hire security guards as twisted as some of the folks who live here.
The most twisted of them all, though, is Javon. Remember when I said I’d get back to him later? Here goes: Javon Hockaday is the Ducts’ resident Don Corleone or Walter White or any other badass who makes money off fear. And he has the whole fear factor thing on lock. I’ve never actually seen him lay a hand on anyone, but I have seen grown-ass men—big dudes who like to show off their biceps in wife beaters even when the sun isn’t shining—cross the street to avoid eye contact with Javon. There are rumors Javon and his boy, Kenny, once seared a guy’s eye with a lit blunt for staring at Javon too long after asking for directions. Kind of surprising to hear that about Kenny. Though he rolls with Javon, he still takes the time to help MiMi carry her groceries upstairs when I’m not around. Sometimes, when he isn’t making runs for Javon, we’ll catch him playing freeze tag with the younger kids in the hood. But Javon is a different story. Only time I’ve seen him smile is when something sinister lurks behind his eyes. Like he’s plotting all the ways to dismember you and where to hide every limb.
Javon’s apartment building is in the parking lot to the left of the security booth. He does his business right under the guards’ noses, slinging out bliss, crinkle, and other drugs du jour. A part of me figures that’s why he got into the business. A big ol’ middle finger to the system that gives the side-eye to guys who look like us.
As expected, two of Javon’s goons, Slim and Quan, are perched outside of Javon’s building, ratchet hip-hop music spilling out of one of their Bluetooth speakers. They both crack up as they check out something on one of their phones. Slim even pounds one of his chubby feet against the pavement, punctuating the hilariousness of whatever he’s watching. Usually Nic’s on the stoop laughing right along with them. Other times she’s holed up somewhere with Javon. I prefer her out in the daylight though, that way I can check to see if her eyes and head are clear. When she’s off with Javon, no telling how cloudy she might be when she makes it home.
No lie, Old Jay shows up when I don’t spot Nicole with Slim and Quan. Maybe I should try calling her before my interview. But she did text that she was all good . . .
“Ay yo, come here!” a voice booms.
The air around me freezes. I turn around and Javon stands at his stoop. His platinum chain rivals the sun for light. Even Slim and Quan know that staring directly at him will scorch their eyes. Half of Javon’s hair is zigzagged into crisp corn rows, while the other half is full on ’fro. He chews on a Black & Mild cigar, face warped with irritation.
I point to myself like an idiot, and Javon frowns at me to validate I’m an idiot.
“Nah, the dopey nigga behind you,” Javon says.
Do not look behind you, I think—knowing if I do his crew will start clowning me for at least two minutes. I walk back over to Javon’s stoop, but make sure not to walk up the steps. No one walks up there unless they live in the building, and even residents take pause.
“Ay,” Javon continues, “where’s your sister?”
His question hits me in the gut. I peek at the window that, based off my own floor plan, leads to Javon’s living room. Expect to see Nic peering back at me. “What do you mean? She’s not with you?”
“Wouldn’t be asking if she was.” Javon flicks away his cigar and I jump to my right to dodge it. “Haven’t seen her since last night.”
Last night. Last night, Nic was tripping hard, talking so much nonsense over the phone that she must’ve smoked up whatever Javon didn’t sell yesterday. Figured she was coming down from her trip with him this morning, like usual. But if Javon’s lost in the sauce, where the hell could she be?
“I don’t know where she is,” I admit. Saying it aloud makes it even truer, and the fried bologna sandwich I had for breakfast crawls up my chest.
“You wouldn’t have a reason to lie to me, would you?” His question isn’t just any question—it’s a warning. And I hear it loud and clear.
“Why would I lie?” I ask.
Slim and Quan both suck in a breath and I wince. My attempt at sincerity was seen as a dig. Dig too deep with Javon and someone will have to dig you up. Or so they say.
My biggest fear comes true as Javon steps off his stoop, approaches me. “Fuck you just say to me?” I can still smell the smoke from his cigar on his breath. See the smoke seeping from his nose and ears. I swallow so hard that I taste the burnt vanilla remnants.
“Huh?” I ask, knowing damn well I heard every syllable. But “huh” was the only thing my throat would let me squeeze out.
“Bruh,” Quan calls out from the stoop, scratching the angry scar across his eyebrow. “I think he’s clowning you.”
My throat gets even tighter. “What?” I practically squeak. I clear my throat as much as I can and take a stab at articulation. “I wasn’t clowning anyone. Just trying to get home.” I take two tiny steps back from Javon in case he doesn’t believe me.
With one large step, Javon eats up the space between us. “You playing me?”
“Huh? No. No. That was the exact opposite of what I just said.”
“Now he’s saying you can’t hear, Von!” Slim says. He buries his hand in a bag of pork rinds and then passes the bag to Quan. My impending death is much more amusing than whatever they were cracking up at on their phone.
“Nigga, if you’re covering for Nic, I’m going to find out.” Spit flies from Javon’s mouth and lands inside mine. I’m too frozen with fear to gag.
“Javon . . .” I speak to him slowly, calmly. Just like I do with Nic when she’s floating. “I promise you, I’m not covering anything. I haven’t spoken to Nic since—”
Javon’s palm eclipses my face and I’m knocked off my feet. My mouth and nose are against the sidewalk and I’m munching on concrete. My arms flail. I try to push myself up for air, but Javon’s hand is glued to the back of my head. Pushing me down so hard against the pavement that I wait for my nose to crunch.
Slim and Quan whoop and holler in the background, egging Javon on. “Kill that nigga!” one of them says with a laugh. Kill? For asking a question? The fick are these guys on? I slap my hands against the sidewalk to show Javon that he wins the game I didn’t know we were playing. I feel more pressure on the back of my head, and then Javon’s mouth is right next to my ear.
“When you see Nic . . .” he begins in between breaths, like punking me is his cardio for the day. “Tell her to hit me up. Immediately.”
At that, he loosens his grip. My head snaps up and I gulp so much air that I almost choke from it. Tiny drops of blood fall from somewhere on my face and kiss the sidewalk underneath me. My self-respect spills with each drip. I scramble to my feet, don’t look back as Slim and Quan cackle at me like black folks at a Kevin Hart movie. Javon hisses more words in my direction. Something sharp and dangerous. But the words never stick because something else runs through my head: Where the hell is Nicole?
As soon as Joshua Kim slides into the booth across from me, his managerial facade goes to shit. He pauses, cocks his head, and furrows his eyebrows so hard that they basically shout: Dafuq?
I get it, though. My face looks like it just made out with a cheese grater. My dance with Javon’s palm left me with a busted lip and enough scratches to form their own constellation. I thought about rummaging through Nic’s drawers, finding makeup to cover the nicks—but I know as much about makeup as I do about self-defense. So, I made sure to wear the crispest button-down in my closet. Tucked it into my pants like a productive citizen. My dad was all about appearances and passed that eager-to-please gene down to me. I even push my bottom lip into my mouth to hide the cut as much as possible, play it off like I’m serving severe thinking face.
Joshua finally remembers the reason we’re sitting together and flashes a quick smile before shuffling through papers. Can’t imagine what else he has in his hand aside from my application, which was nothing but two sheets with my contact information and my answers to a few math problems. It’s hard to imagine anything else, actually, aside from where the hell Nic could be—and why the hell Javon seemed so pissed when he mentioned her. I only remember her getting into it with Javon one time. It was just this past Halloween. Nic came home early in short shorts, a white tank top, and heels. Beyoncé from her “Crazy in Love” music video. I’m assuming Javon pulled out his best Yankees fitted cap to be her Jay-Z. I was lounging on the couch, committing to my yearly Halloween tradition of being a loser at home watching some Michael Jackson movie about ghosts.
“You’re home early,” I said to Nic.
Nicole frowned at the old white guy on the TV screen. “Why does that old white dude look like Michael Jackson?”
“Because it is Michael Jackson.”
Nic’s frown shifted toward me.
I shrugged. “I guess the makeup artist wasn’t that good. Why are you home? Thought Kenny was having some huge blowout.”
She bites down on the cross hanging from her necklace. “He was. But Javon decided to be a jealous dick, so now I’m here.”
“Sucks to be you,” I said. Then offered her my bowl of popcorn.
Nic knocked my feet off the couch then curled up on the cushion, eating the majority of my popcorn. She ignored Javon’s calls the rest of that night. I still remember her laugh as I tried my best to mimic Michael’s dance moves from the movie. The sound was light and airy, like nothing weighed on her shoulders. Just like we were kids.
The next day, she grew up and answered Javon’s calls again.
“I asked if your name was Jayson Murphy.”
The smell of queso infiltrates my nose and Joshua Kim is across from me again. He’s wearing eyeglasses and, by how shiny they look, I can tell he doesn’t really need them. Probably something he throws on to make himself look like an official supervisor and not some college kid picking up a gig at Taco Bell to pay for textbooks.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. Fold my hands on top of the table between us. “Yes, sir,” I say again. More formal. I put on my polite white boy voice to show Joshua that despite my face looking like the last scene of a horror movie, I could be trusted.
“Hi, Jayson. Welcome to Taco Bell.” He smiles as if he built the restaurant with his own two hands. “It says here you’re a junior at Youngs Mill. Tell me a little more about that.” He leans forward, as if he expects me to say more than: “I’m an eleventh grader at Youngs Mill.”
I make up some shit about how much I enjoy school, how English is my favorite subject. How Youngs Mill has such an inviting atmosphere, which helped me build my team player skills. I think I add in something about math, since the application wanted me to demonstrate my math skills. The words just tumble out of my mouth so I can fill up enough space to push Nic out of my mind. The past year or so has been me covering for her, or worrying about her, or doing something for her. It was time I did something for me. Who cares if she pissed off Javon? They should break up anyways.
“And I decided to lighten my load. Take it easy on extracurricular activities this year to gain some work experience,” I conclude. I punctuate it with a nod since that’s what I’ve seen people in the movies do when they nail a job interview.
Joshua nods back, pleased. “Aside from school, what do you like doing in your free time?”
The fick does that have to do with working at Taco Bell? I rub my hands together, buy myself some time as I try to conjure up a bullshit response. But all I can see is Javon’s hand smacking me in the head. All I can hear is the rage in his voice as he asked about Nic. If he could knock around his girlfriend’s own brother, what did that mean for Nic? I shake my head and shake out the image.
“I like to help out my classmates with homework,” I say. “I’m usually their go-to guy for essays. I also tend to walk my neighbors’ dogs from time to time. I don’t have one of my own, so it’s a good way to sneak in a couple of pats. Oh, and I have a sister.” I wince as soon as the words leave my mouth. Dammit, Nic. All I needed was five—ten minutes tops without her interrupting my life. But now Joshua Kim thinks that my sister is my hobby, whatever the hell that means.
“Um. Okay.” Joshua blinks at me. “I have a sister, too. They’re kind of pains in the you-know-what, am I right?”
I smile and nod at him again. He has no idea.
Joshua exhales and leans back in his seat. “I’m going to give it to you straight, Jayson. Since I’ve begun managing this shift, this Taco Bell has been receiving top marks with our health inspections and customer service surveys. We run a clean, friendly place here. No time for riffraff, follow me?”
“Yes,” I answer, though it comes out more as a question.
“Don’t get me wrong, you look like a good guy, but . . .” He points to his face. Probably because it would be too rude to point at mine.
“Oh. This?” I rub a hand across my mouth and my lip cusses at me. “This isn’t what you think. I fell off a bike.”
Joshua blinks at me again. “How many times did you fall?”
This interview was over as soon as Joshua slapped on his fake eyeglasses and got a clearer look at me, but I play along as he tells me about the next steps in the process. Phone call at the end of the week, and then I get to meet with another shift manager. I hadn’t realized Taco Bell had as many clearances as the FBI. But that’s what usually happens when you come from my neighborhood, live down the street from a guy like Javon, plus walk in with a face like a Picasso painting. Still . . . the run-around feels kinda shitty.
As I wait outside for the city bus, I glance at my phone, but there’s nothing new from Nic. I had called her, but she never picked up. I even left a voicemail, but she didn’t bother to send another text to check in. Her last text stares back at me: Never mind. All good. If she’s all good, why the hell is Javon tripping? I keep the phone in my hand, as if Nic could sense me waiting to hear from her. I hold on to it for the entire bus ride home.
She never calls.