Life Without Hope Page 7

  I reached into my pocket and put on my two chunky

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  bracelets, and the fat iced-out chain I took from the police back

  there at the hotel. As I pulled out my bankroll, I could see Hope

  watching me through the corner of her eye. So I stunted for her

  doing what playas do. Money, hoes and clothes is all a brotha

  knows. Then I gave her my best Mack pose, leaning against the car

  door, I took of my Kangol and caressed the waves on my head like

  I was blessing myself. I just transformed right before her eyes.

  “Here.” I passed her two crispy one hundred dollar bills. “Go

  get me a hotel room, the biggest room they got with a view of the

  pool,” I said just like I intended, a command, showing no respect

  for her. Hope sucked her tongue as she turned and glowered at

  me. If looks could kill, her fulgurant eyes would have done a drive

  by. She opened her mouth to speak and suddenly thought better

  of it. She got out and slammed the car door. I watched her as she

  walked away angry. I was sure she was unconscious of the sensu-

  ous sway of her hips. Her struts forceful like she could take out

  fr ustration on the concrete. I’ve always wondered what their

  mommas gave them. Moments later she returned. I could not help

  admiring her walk.

  “Here,” she said passing me the keys along with a slip of paper.

  Just then a car drove by, music bumping. It was a sleek, sky blue

  Lexus SC430, full of shouting females. The car made a U-turn in

  the middle of the street. There was always something about col-

  lege females, they’re always hyperactive, like where is the party at.

  I watched Hope as she watched the car. “No, this can’t be hap-

  pening to me,” she mumbled. The car pulled in right next to us.

  Females were five deep. They were loud and excited to see Hope.

  I stood outside to get an eyeful of diamonds glistening. I felt like

  a pimp on a hoe farm. All eyes on me.

  “No it isn’t! Not the good sister Hope. On the smoooove

  creeeep,” the driver droned. The rest of the girls cracked up in

  giddy laughter. Hope smiled painfully like she was getting a tooth

  pulled. The driver was mixed with something. If I had to guess, I

  would say Spanish. Her complexion was amber, like she was kissed

  by the sun. Her deep green chatoyant eyes were stunning, they

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  could hypnotize a man. She had me spellbound. She had long

  silky black hair that cascaded down to the middle of her back, like

  she had just brushed it and let it flow. She stepped out of the car

  wearing a white halter top and tight-fitting blue jeans. Her walk

  was provocative, like the purest essence of a woman’s femininity.

  The pussy print between her legs was balled up like a fat fist on

  both sides. Damn she was wearing them jeans. I bit down on my

  knuckle and Hope rolled her eyes at me. The driver never took her

  eyes off of me. Not even one second. It felt as if I were being

  inspected.

  “Trina, this is L.”

  “Heeeey L, with your fine self,” cooed a girl in the car.

  I tried my damnest not to blush and then they all joined in

  harmously, “Hi, L.” I was cheesing like a brotha posing for a

  toothpaste commercial. Then someone yelled, “look at those cute

  dimples.” The whole time Trina was checking me out, my jewelry

  and my clothes. There was something uncanny about her. Like she

  knew me from somewhere.

  “Damn, ain’t you and Marcus still together?” Trina asked,

  slinging the words in Hope’s face.

  “I’m on my way to his house,” Hope retorted, with her lips

  twisted to the side accompanied by a tilted neck. I could tell there

  was friction in the air. Women have a strange way of communi-

  cating. They use body language like chickens that used to have

  arms.

  “Trina is my Sorority Sister,” Hope said to me. As if on cue the

  girls in the car made a noise, I guess it had something to do with

  their sorority. They all erupted in jovial laughter.

  “She’s from the Bronx.”

  “Wuz up Shouty?” I said, giving her a nod like I hardly

  noticed she was there. One of the girls said, “Ask him if he has any

  friends fine like him.” They all laughed, everybody except Hope

  and Trina. I watched as they talked in generic chatter while the

  sun beat down on us. I felt a trickle of perspiration cascade down

  my spine as I looked at all of the beautiful sistas. It was like I was

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  in paradise.

  “What room are you staying in?” Trina asked, completely

  catching me off guard.

  “Who, me?” Dumbfounded. I looked at the key in my hand

  and answered “A-4.”

  “We’re going to get something to eat, you want to join us?”

  Trina asked like it was a challenge. The whole time she just looked

  at me.

  “No, I was dropping L off. I gave him a ride from Sarasota yes-

  terday. We had car trouble and just made it into town.” I listened

  as Hope made excuses that sounded like lies.

  Trina frowned at her, and then asked me, “What brings you to

  Tallahassee, L?” I thought I detected a trace of an accent.

  “I’m here on business.”

  “What kind of business?” she asked placing her hands on her

  round hips. I noticed somehow she had inched up closer, the wind

  blew her hair. A car passed, some brothas hollered at the girls and

  the girls hollered back. I smiled like a sly fox, the way men do

  when they’re lying to a woman and they both know it.

  “I’m in the import and export business,” I said turning the

  gold bracelet on my wrist. Something about Trina pounced on

  me, perhaps it was her eyes, the way she looked at me, bold,

  aggressively. She made no secret about it. She was trying to get

  with me, and when she walked away, she showed me more. I

  watched for a moment, placing her index finger over her temple

  like she was contemplating the plot.

  “Gee, Hope. You say that you left town yesterday, but your

  paper tag has today’s date on it.”

  “Ummm, that was a mistake they made at the car lot,” Hope

  stammered.

  “Yea, right. You better be careful Marcus doesn’t learn of your

  mistakes,” Trina said, like a threat, and then winked her eye at me.

  “I’ll be seeing you around L.” She pointed at me like she had just

  staked her claim on me. I raised a brow thinking I just witnessed

  a cat fight. Trina jumped in her car. The girls clamored. The sys-

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  tem in her car was turned up loud, thumping so hard I could feel

  it vibrating. Mary J. Blige’s song “Real Love” filled the air as they

  drove off.

  “Bitch!” Hope cursed giving me the evil eye. “Listen Life, you

  got to stay away from her. Trina is bad news. Her family, or some-

  body is heavy into drugs. Her last boyfriend was a baller, now he’s

  doing life in the feds.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  A car pulled up and
two gorgeous women got out. They were

  holding hands.

  “I don’t want you to get into any trouble. That’s all.”

  She looked at her watch, a signal to me that she was about to

  go. She turned and opened the car door. As I placed my hand over

  hers, she gulped air, and took in a deep breath. So much more

  innocence exuded from her. In the sunlight, I watched the wisps

  of baby hair cascade down her delicate forehead. I noticed that she

  did not remove her hand, nor did she blink for that moment in

  time. Our eyes locked and I knew if there were a way to check her

  heartbeat, it would be in the same rhythm as mine.

  “Life, you know I’m the kind of girl that believes in speaking

  her mind. I’m very much attracted to you …” I watched as her

  tongue moistened and primed her lips, lips that I wanted to kiss,

  preparing to tell me what I did not want to hear.

  “ … and … and last night you made love to me like I had

  never been … been touched, made love to before.” She then took

  my hand off hers, and looked away, breaking our physical com-

  munication.

  “We’re from two different worlds.” Her voice now sounded

  harsh and cold. “Your world is where I am running from. Poverty

  and pain fills us with greed and envy. Money can’t buy love. It

  can’t buy me.” She shook her head like she was trying to chase

  away some evil demon. “You’ll end up dead or in them white folks’

  prison.”

  Her words stung me like a premonition. One of my knees felt

  like it was going to buckle. A Black woman’s premonition is the

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  closest thing to God, my stepmom taught me that. Somehow, I

  know that Hope’s words held the truth. The kind of truth that no

  hustler wanted to take heed to.

  “For you, Hope, I’d hang up my scale, no mo dope game,

  place my pistol, Jesus, in the closet. If you help me, I’d go

  straight,” I said, dead serious not knowing or caring where that

  voice was coming from. I knew that it just felt good talking to her.

  Silence. I looked over her head. There was a Goodyear blimp in

  the sky. Her rejection of me was written all over her face. It

  answered my question in a way she could never have. Time was of

  the essence. What I just said even sounded whack to me, that was

  my weak heart talking. I realized I needed to spit game like flavor

  in her ear. “Tell you what, give me something to read, something

  conscious.” I watched her delicate eyebrows furrow like she was

  trying to read my brain to see if I was lying. I know that all them

  people with that fake-ass “Black Man” talk were suckers and want-

  ed to tr y to get people to read like it was going to kick star t a rev-

  olution. Her eyes softened, maybe she saw potential in me. I damn

  sure did, enough to want to sell bricks and buy a villa in Manila,

  smoke trees while getting my dick sucked by one of them exotic-

  looking bitches under a palm tree.

  “Life, there’s a book titled,

  The Destruction of Black

  Civilization

  , written by a man named Chancellor Williams and

  another book,

  Miseducation of the Negro

  .”

  I could have won an award for best actor the way I feigned

  interest. She went on to talk about some cat name Marcus Garvey.

  Her faced beamed, like she really enjoyed the topic. Boring. I was

  trying to remember how far the Black section of town was that we

  passed. I knew it was called Frenchtown. I heard talk about it

  while I was in the joint. I needed to know what size their dime

  rocks were. I was making plans, like a general, about to mount an

  attack, to take over them Tallahassee niggas tur f.

  “Life! Life! Boy, you ain’t heard a word I’ve said.” She got into

  the car.

  “I heard ya.” I made a face, my best impression of don’t go.

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  She reached in and placed each one of the bags that I bought

  for her on the curb. “I’m sorry, but I cannot accept these. Call me

  at the station tonight, we’ll make arrangements to pay for the car.”

  As she pulled out, I shouted, “Bring the books when you come

  back tomorrow.”

  “Come back?” she mouthed the words, looking at me strange-

  ly. I thought to myself,

  you’ll be back as soon as you find Jesus under

  your front seat

  .

  I went to my room. It was nice and comfortable with a scenic

  view and a king-sized bed. It even had a kitchen with a stove and

  fridge. I counted out my cash, a little over eight grand. I cut a hole

  in the mattress and stashed it there for safe keeping. I placed my

  jewelr y under the pillow and changed clothes, a simple pair of

  jeans and a large white T-shirt. I was about to make my first foray

  into the Black section of town. There was a risk involved. I need-

  ed to look as inconspicuous as possible. I easily concealed the .380

  in my pocket and only took eighteen dollars and some loose

  change with me.

  I walked a mile or so taking in the sights. This city was alive.

  The Florida State campus was huge. White broads walking

  around, scantily clad, teaming with other vibrant ethnicities. I

  blended right in, and even though it was hot as hell, I enjoyed the

  sights and sounds. To me it was like being in a foreign land. I

  passed a car lot, across the street was a Popeye’s Chicken, and

  down the street from that was Nether world, better known as

  Frenchtown. I’ve often wondered how the Black section of town

  was always placed in the middle of white folks’ areas so that they

  can conveniently drive by with their expensive cars, windows up,

  doors locked and scorned expression on their faces at the shock of

  the plight of Black life.

  I was definitely approaching the Black section. I could tell

  because the value of the land looked dilapidated. I strained my

  eyes to the glare of the sun. I saw it up the street. To the casual eye

  it would not have been detected. I spotted what looked like a

  lookout man or woman. Any trap that is making any money has

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  one. The best lookout in the world is a dope fiend. They stay para-

  noid, on perpetual alert. That is, if they’re not getting high.

  As I continued to scan the streets, I walked gingerly as I passed

  a drugstore. Little kids were inside buying candy. Then a barber-

  shop. On the corner where I stood was a soul food restaurant. My

  pace slowed. Across the street was a pool hall, a sleazy tavern and

  a liquor store all right next to each other. People were gathered out

  front. It felt like a thousand pair of eyes stared at me as I waited

  for the light to change. One thing was for sure, whenever you

  make an excursion into someone else’s hood, they know that you

  are not from there and that’s where the problem starts. Like walk-

  ing into a lion’s den. I crossed the street. In the abandoned lot

  there was a big commotion. A tall goofy-looking white boy was

  walki
ng backward, palms in the air. His eyes darted back and forth

  and he wasn’t wearing a shir t. He kept wiping the dirty blond hair

  from his face. His glasses were so thick that I wondered if he could

  be legally blind without them. About ten teenagers had him sur-

  rounded. They had baseball bats, two-by-fours and iron pipes.

  “Give me dat money, cracka,” one of them shouted. I watched

  as all hell broke loose.

  POW! CRACK!

  They tore off into his ass

  like he was responsible for slavery. One thing I can say about that

  white boy, he never fell to the ground, nor did he give up that

  money. He made the crucial mistake of coming to buy a rock

  without the aid of a Black person he knew, a mistake that has

  caused many a white man his life, trying to buy dope in a Black

  neighborhood. Someone hit him in the back and the sound

  exploded like a cannon. That white boy found a small crack of

  daylight and took off like a racehorse. As he attempted to pass me

  I stuck my foot out and tripped him. He fell flat on his face and

  slid across the worn out concrete. His glasses went one way while

  he went the other. I ain’t never liked a cracka. Never! Ever since

  my stepmother told me the sad story about how they stole my

  granddaddy’s land and killed him. That was one of the reasons

  why my father lost most of his mind.

  The crowd of youngsters moved on him again. This was pure

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  recreation for them. Black boys have so much pent up energy, for

  them this was almost a daily occurrence, and it wasn’t just white

  boys asses they whipped either. They didn’t discriminate. I know

  just as sure that if they knew I was from out of town they would

  have rat packed my ass too.

  They continued to kick his ass. This was all done in broad

  daylight. White people passed in their cars with the look of hor-

  ror on their pink faces. Talk about the natives being restless, this

  was turning into some kind of sport. One thing was for sure, it

  was going to draw a lot of heat.

  Whoever’s trip this is, they’re not

  doing a good job of managing it

  , I thought.

  I watched as this woman ran into the melee, arms flailing,

  screaming and pushing, shoving people off the white boy.