nothin’ but trouble

So, you wanna know where we live. Well, which home you want to hear about first? Our oceanfront property? The garden estate? Perhaps our in-town residence? Or maybe the gated community— private, fenced, patrolled by a top-of-the-line security service.

Yeah, I’ll show you that one first. Me and Jackson, we got two main residences there, one primarily for entertainment purposes and one for just daily living. Come on, I’ll show you.

The side entrance is the one we mostly use, on the east side down by the railroad tracks where the chain-link fence has been bolt cut and then wired back together. You can’t hardly see it unless you know what you’re looking for, but even then you’d be so busy stumbling back from the ninety-pound Rottweiler hurling himself up against the fence, his snarling spit splashing across your face so bad, that trying to open that side entrance would be the last thing on your mind. The dog? That would be J. Edgar, our own private security service. J. Edgar don’t let nobody in except us. Me and J. Edgar, we had to work a few things out from the jump, but now that dog will roll right over for me, give me his throat.

Anyway, once J. Edgar lets you in, which he won’t, you gotta go down this row, or I should say pile, of Plymouths, past the cherry picker and the shed of engine blocks, out toward the back of the yard. Over there on the left, that’s the stretch limo, crashed in front and back, but still good in the middle—got these wide leather seats, soft, creamy white like a bed, curled all around like a half-circle moon. Then there’s the wet bar, which I don’t got hooked up yet to water, but I’m gonna, and the refrigerator, which I got wired to the battery of a Cutlass Supreme. There’s lights, too, but we can’t ever turn ’em on, of course. So that’s our entertainment residence. Not that we ever have anybody that comes over, but me and Jackson, we find our own damn selves pretty entertaining, if you know what I mean.

Now our main residence is that old three-quarter-ton Ford stepside over there. Primer grey, windshield busted, driver’s side door gone, seats stripped, rusted out clear through the floorboards. My daddy used to say Ford stood for “fix or repair daily,” said Fords would bring you nothin’ but trouble. Guess he’d know because he worked on ’em for years. But we don’t need that thing to run; we just need it to hold up the camper shell on its back.

Ever since Jackson took me in, that’s where we mostly live. Jackson painted the outside with all them signs you see. Don’t ask me what they mean. All that red, green, black—they just something her grandma taught her, marks to keep folks away, white folks mostly, I guess. Didn’t work too good with me, though. Jackson said, once she seen me, her mama, she just shook her head, said it’s been known for one to sometimes slip through, said only her god knows why and he ain’t telling. Jackson’s mama, she don’t like me too much, even though I did save her daughter’s life. She says a white girl can’t mean nothing but trouble, says I’ma like to get her baby killed, says I’m just one more damn cross for an old woman to bear.

Anyway, aside from me, them old Africa marks do a pretty good job of keeping folks away from us. It probably don’t hurt none either that J. Edgar has made his bed underneath this particular truck, or that this is where he gets tied up when men come into the yard to look for parts. Besides, there ain’t hardly nothing left to take. This old truck’s been picked clean as a chicken bone. The engine’s gone, so we leave the hood propped up so everyone can see there ain’t nothing but a hole gaping inside. A hole just like the socket in Jackson’s mouth where her tooth used to be before that john tried to rearrange her face last week. I know he got the worst of it, guess she cut him up pretty bad, probably removing somethin’ of his body parts if I know Jackson. Now, Jackson, she ain’t like me, she don’t like to fight, but you just try and mess with that girl’s face and she’ll cut you quicker than you can spit. That black, pearl-handled knife just flies around like it’s got a life of its own. She especially don’t like nobody messing with her mouth; that girl’s serious as a heart attack about those perfect teeth, makes me steal her Colgate extra fluoride, mint floss, and a brand new toothbrush every few weeks, brushes like five times a day, even when we don’t hardly got nothing to eat. And that girl don’t never, and I mean never, give head or lip lock with a trick. Yeah, she’s fierce about her mouth. Like right now she’s standing there, acting all like a realtor, showing you our home with me, but inside I see she’s got her tongue searching around, interrogating that hole, and I just know that someday, some way, somebody’s gonna pay.

Anyway, this is where we live...maybe tomorrow we’ll go check out our oceanfront property and you can see how the light from the twenty-four-hour Chevron sign shines down at just the right angle into the drain pipes off Venice Beach and you can just curl up in there, listen to the howling surf, and read as late as you want with no one bothering you. As long as the weather’s dry, of course. And you got J. Edgar to watch your back.