Soni, we on tonight or what?” I asked. She paused. The phone was on speaker. Dog Boy covered his mouth, suffocating a laugh.
“You are so aggressive! Gosh, I have anxiety now!” Soni said. I heard her friends giggle in the background. “Yes, Dee, pick me up at eight, none of that two-hour late stuff!” We exchanged good-byes and clicked off.
“What the fuck is anxiety, like a rash?” asked Dog Boy. Long Tooth walked in yelling that Jay Z: “One million! Two million, three million, four! In eighteen months, eighty million more.” Waving our cash, we joined in, like, “You now looking at one smart black boy!”
The idea of making it as big as Jay made us smile. He was our Bill Gates and his albums were literally the blueprint. Long Tooth—who started going by Young LT—was starting to get women and it showed. The grimy jeans and boots that used to be his armor had been replaced with new Polo shirts and bright Nikes. He kept a cut and baptized himself in Ralph Lauren Blue ten times a day.
“Yo, anxiety is what people get when they don’t smoke weed, now roll up, LT!” I said.
“Got one rolled, here, hit this. You wanna pill too?”
I said yes to the weed and no to the pill. I didn’t want to be too gone on our first date. “Maybe I’ll grab one for later,” I replied, taking the blunt from Long Tooth. Long Tooth’s blunts were seamless—they looked like they’ve never been gutted and dumped. Shorty was the best at rolling, better than a Cuban kid in a cigar factory—he could even roll them perfectly while gloveless in a blizzard and posted on the block in fifty-below weather. Blueberry, the weed we had been smoking, had canceled my anxiety and I was ready to see Soni. We had talked on the phone a few times and each conversation was better and better. Effortlessly, she’d sucked up my attention and three hours flew by—to the point where the Nextel left burn marks on my ear and face.
I’m used to women saying buy me a new weave, let’s pop a bottle, I need a Loui bag, do my ass look fat, why bitches hate, cut the Hot Boyz on, you got some money, I hate my child father, I hate you, I miss you, I love you, don’t fuck my friend, we getting money, I’ll beat that bitch ass, I only wear 7 jeans, buy me a Gucci bag, buy me a dozen crabs, where the party at, where the party at, where the party at!
Soni was all natural hair, fresh oils, the New Deal didn’t do much for African Americans, seven gallons of water a day keeps my skin clear so it could work for you too, yoga, you do know the effects of chattel slavery still plague us, healthy eating is healthy living, the Trail of Tears was so sad, nature makes me happy, make sure you eat some vegetables, I’m a feeler because I always know how people feel, I love togetherness, you ever heard of Mumia, the Great Society, and on and on—she was like a walking encyclopedia without any physical flaws. Well, half of a walking encyclopedia because she never finished a lesson. Soni used to start off telling me about science or something in history and stop halfway through, like, “My memory is so bad, Dee, I’m taking gingko root extract so it’s getting better!” I would always Google the rest, and I didn’t care, I just loved hearing her voice and the way my name came out of her mouth, Deeeeeee. I learned so much in the short time we were talking, more than I learned in college. She was the first woman I craved in a nonphysical sense, which made me crave her in a physical sense even more.
I wanted our date to be right so I threw some new clothes on. I had bags of designer shit stacked to the ceiling that I had yet to touch. I decided to tone it down on the jewelry too because she thought I OD’d on platinum the last time I saw her. I kept it gangsta with a black tee, one thin Cuban with a Jesus piece, my stainless steel Submariner Rolex, some black Evisu jeans, and retro Charles Barkleys with the straps undone. Everything felt new, even me.
I looked at the mirror and Bip stared back, his features creeping in. I tied on a do rag—it was tight enough to make my waves pop, but loose enough to keep one of those dumbass lines from forming in the middle of my forehead. I planned on wearing it until I reached her block because dudes that wear do rags as a part of their outfits were corny. I sprayed six shots of Burberry cologne into the air and let it rain on me before padding my pocket with about $2,500. I knew I didn’t need that much but I had to have it on me just in case; she needed to know that if she wanted something, I could get it. I looked at myself in the mirror one more time, plucked the boogies out of my nose and hit the window. “Kruger Man, get the wheels good, man! I be out in a minute.” Kruger Man, the MVP of drug relapse, was cleaning my car. His face was long enough to fit a guy with a seven-foot-two frame, but he was five-foot-six so his chin reached past his chest. His body was riddled with pus-dripping cuts that never healed; it looked like his head was stuffed with cream cheese or custard. On Halloween we’d give him free drugs, a black hat, and clawed glove so he could scare the shit out of kids.
“All’s clean, boss, and my God, she lookin’ pretty! Almost pretty as me!” Kruger said, tossing me the key.
“Kruger, you ugly as two ugly motherfuckers but I love you, man!” I replied, giving him a handshake with a piece of crack balled up in a twenty-dollar bill.
Kruger cleaned the shit out of my car; it smelled better than a pair of new sneakers. The paint looked wet and the sun hit my wheels from three different angles, blinding anyone who tried to make eye contact. I thought about buying some aftermarket rims, but those factory joints looked perfect.
My favorite feature was the keyless entry. Not keyless as it hit a button and hop in, but keyless as in I didn’t need a key. The car came with a small black card that fit in my wallet. As long as I had the card on me, I could get in and drive the car without the key. James Bond shit.