PERSPECTIVE

It’s Roundball at the hoops and he’s allowed to play with the older boys today.  He’s excited, but he can’t let on.  Gotta keep it real.  He knows its just because they need another man to round out the teams.  He takes off his shirt along with the others on his team.  He’s a skinny kid, just turned twelve last month.  The other’s take off their shirts, showing hard lines of dark brown muscle in contrast to his thin strips barely covering stark ribs.  It’s hot and humid, another late spring afternoon like so many others.
 Before long they are all glistening with sweat.  He is pushed around and shoved by the taller boy he’s playing against.  The larger boy taunts him as he easily keeps him away from the ball and the rest of the action.
 “Hey Little Dawg, you to small to run with the big dawgs.  Man you jump like a white bitch.  I own yo ass nigga.”  The harassment continues through the game, but he manages to get by him a time or two.  The important thing is he didn’t quit.  Finally he gets a chance and even makes a shot.
 “Albright” he thinks.  ‘He aint so great.  I can still outmove him.”
 Then on the next play, the boy slams into him and knocks him down.  His knees and one hand are scraped by the blacktop of the park court.  While slow
ly getting up, he tries to decide what he should do next.  He knows everyone is watching him and waiting to see what he is going to do..  He starts to speak, but Tywann steps in first.
 “Yo nigga, what you mean dissing my man, just cause he’s smaller than you?   You wanta try that shit with me?  You punk ass!”
 “Yo dawg, we just playing ball.  Bump it, I aint tried to hurt him, “ returns the larger kid.
 The game continues, with Tywann giving him a pat on the shoulder.  “No fear dawg, No fear.”  When the game is over, they gather together around the park
ing lot, while Fat Boy takes out a Black N Mild and starts rolling it between his fingers.  The tobacco falls like brown snowflakes onto the ground while Boo takes out a small baggie.  He knows its weed and that he’s supposed to leave, but he doesn’t.  He can’t leave now when he’s just starting to be accepted.  When the Blunt is finally loaded, they start to pass it around.  Tywann makes sure that he gets a turn.  It’s his first time, but he tries to make it look natural and even manages not to cough too much.
 Its dark when he finally gets home excited and yet scared too.  He’s worried his Mom will notice he’s been smoking.  As he walks up the shabby gray wood steps, he keeps to the right side to avoid the sagging middle step.  It’s a movement born of long practice.  The living room is darker than the streets he has just left.  There are ashtrays lying on the table by the couch, still full of burnt to the end Newports and the stubs of small cigars.  The room is decorated along every cor
ner and piece of furniture with the drab colors of dis
ed clothes from his little brothers and sisters.  Mom is on the couch, but one look tells him there will be no questions from her tonight.  Her eyes have a faraway look and the small metal pipe with the black rubber band around one end is sitting on the table between her and the man lying next to her on the couch.  Ellron is over again.  The two bottles of Forty Ounce beers are still wet on the table, their screw caps cast about the room the join the jumble and mess.
 He goes over to the stove and looks at the pot of macaroni and cheese that is left open on top and already turning brown and hard.  He flips on the kitch
en light and watches the mad scramble of roaches seeking refuge along the counters and sink.  The sink is filled with the remains of the last four days meals, like a vi
al menu of dinners past.  He finally finds the remains of something on an open plate in the fridge and heads down the hall.  He ignores the pop under his shoe, as one roach moves too slowly to make a getaway.
 He walks to the back bedroom and tries to find a place within the masses of mixed clean and dirty cloth
ing for a place to lie down.  There are papers from school and colored on pages from the younger kids filling up every available space.  The smaller kids are already in bed and the others are being babysat by the thirteen-inch old rotary dial television in the corner.  He looks at the butter knife stuck under the dial to hold it onto one of the three local channels that they are still able to reach.  Aluminum foil is twisted in a misshapen bowtie and tied between the antennae on top of the set.  He finds a small area on the bed in which to flop while h
e eats what he found in the fridge.  He moves his book bag over next to the bed, so he can find it in the morn
ing.  He’s a pretty good student, not brilliant, but pretty good.  Ignoring his brothers and sisters, he goes to sleep.
 In the morning, he is awakened by his little sister telling him to hurry or they’ll be late again.  The single bathroom is in a state of constant use as each comes in for their personal business in spite of who may already be there.  Privacy is something he has nev
er had, so how can he miss it. He wipes his face with a washcloth that smells sour as he passes it over his face.  He searches through the stacks of clothes in the corner of his room to find something that look a little better than the others.  At least something that doesn’t smell too bad.  Then it’s into the kitchen for a bowl of cold cereal, but the milk is all gone.  Mom didn’t go shop
ping again.  Finally he grabs a chunk of light yellow cheese out of the white government box and heads out the door chewing as he goes.
 On the way to school, he sees Tywann walking along the sidewalk.  He’s impressed with the new Nikes that Tywann is wearing.  They are orange and blue high tops.  Tywann always has new clothes.  He’s got Tommy jeans and shirts, the newest sweats, and large silver chains and medallions.  He likes Tywann, and looks up to him.  Tywann treats him like he is somebody, and today he calls him over just like one of the older guys.
 “Yo Dawg, what’s happenin.  C’mon cuz, walk with me. I need to talk to you.”
 “Sure Tywann, what ya need man.”
 Tywann takes him off to the side by an old aban
doned house.  He digs into his pocket, pulling out the blue bandana that was hanging out about halfway.  After digging deeper into his pockets, Tywann takes out a small matchbox with one side scraped until the red colored cardboard shows white.  Tywann holds it out to him and says: “Man, I got some hard stuff here that I need to get into the school to some special peo
ples.  That school officer’s been watching me kinda hard, so I need you to take it in for me.  You’re in the middle school, so they wont search you.  I’ll get it back from ya at lunch.  I’ll hit you off with something later to make up for it.  You do this for me man, and I’ll think about letting you sling a little later on.”
 He knew it was crack.  They had all seen it in the DARE class, but he had seen it a lot more often when his mom and her boyfriends would smoke it in the house.  He also knew why the matchbox was scraped on one side, so that it wouldn’t be opened upside down and have your dope dumped on the ground.  Now was his chance to finally get an in.  If he did a good job on this, maybe he could get in good with Tywann and maybe start slinging for himself.  At least until he was able to afford to go out on his own.  Build up his “own” stash and his “own” set of regular customers.  He could see the whole scene in his mind.  It was a scene he had rehearsed many times.  He would be bigger and better than anybody else, bigger than all of the others.  He would be dealing Keys before he finished high school.  He’d show them all.  And he wouldn’t get caught like some of the stupid ones had.  He knew how to keep from getting caught.  He’d listened when the others talked about who had gotten grabbed by the Five-Oh and why.  He wouldn’t make those mistakes.  He took the matchbox and placed it in his book bag.  They sep
ed and came into school apart from each other.
 Later in the DARE class, he listened to Dep
ty Johnson talk to them about the upcoming DARE grad
tion.  He was supposed to receive a certificate next week.  He had listened real carefully when Deputy Johnson had explained about the types of drugs and what each one did.  He already knew which ones he would sell and he’d keep himself off of them while he was selling.  He’d keep up his grades too.  Not too good, but good enough to be ignored.  You couldn’t sell at school, it you were kicked out or being watched all the time.  Deputy Johnson kept telling them how they were supposed to say no when someone ap
proached them with drugs.  Johnson meant well, but he was clueless about what was really going on.  Actually Johnson was OK for a white guy, but what the hell did he know about being black.  He listened again to how he was supposed to tell if he saw anyone with guns or drugs at school.  He smiled at the thought of the rocks in his book bag.  He wondered what Johnson would do if he knew that there were at least three guns in the classroom at that very moment.
Guns had always been a part of his life.  His older brother had been killed on their street, when they lived up in New York.  He knew he would probably end up shot at some point in his life as well.  Deputy Johnson was always talking about their future.  He’d already seen his future in the face of his mom and her boyfriends.  The last time he had seen his dad, it was while he was fighting with his mom over child support again.  His dad’s last words were something about; “I don’t even want to see the little bastards until they’re old enough to get jobs and pay their own damn way.”  Deputy Johnson always told them how drugs and al
hol would mess up their life.
 “Life.  What was that?”  he thought.  “Life don’t mean nothing on the street.  Me and my boys aint afraid to die.  You gotta be cold to make it on the street.”  D.J. was wearing a blue bandana today.  He knew better than to be flagging at school.  It attracted too much attention.  He wondered if he could get Tywann to help him with a tattoo on his arm.  A tattoo would be OK, if he kept it high up on his arm and out of sight.  He still hadn’t decided if he wanted to get his name put there or maybe “THUGLIFE”.
He knew where his mom kept her 25 pistol under her bed.  He planned to take it out of the house this afternoon before she came home and make like the house was broke into if she noticed it missing.  She’d probably blame it on one of her boyfriends anyway.  They had already stolen most everything else from her.  Anyway, he would need a gun more than she would, if he was going to be slinging.  That big mutha wouldn’t push him around on the court again.  Yeah, life is good.  Things were starting to shape up.  He’d have money, respect and a reputation.  It was just like that beer com
cial on TV.  “It just don’t get no better than this!”

Steve Flowers