Still Trying
“Damn, I’ll be glad when we get back to the projects, ’cause it’s
hot and a nigga feet on fire,” Flick said, looking over at Pokey. “Hey Pokey,
you all right? ’Cause you ain’t said shit the whole walk back.”
“Oh, I’m good, dirty. I’m just thinking about a lot of shit. It’s
so much a nigga gotta do. The shit have me zoned out sometimes, that’s all,”
Pokey said, looking Flick dead in his eyes.
“All right, dog,” Flick said, feeling bad for his long-time
friend. “Just know, my nigga, if it’s ever too much on your plate, you can pass
the dish to me, and I’ll help you handle whatever it is,” Flick said.
“I know you will. I just don’t understand a lot of shit, ’cause a
lot of things ain’t adding up.”
“Man, fuck that. We’ll stress about this shit some other time.
Right now, let’s roll over to my momma’s crib.”
“Right quick,” Pokey said, as they enter the projects, looking
around. Pokey was thinking, “Man, I’m tired of this shit, tired of being broke,
tired of watching my momma struggle. Shit gonna change.” As he looked at all
the dirty buildings he was passing by, he said, “I’mma make shit happen.”
Sooner than later, as he was thinking, a kid ’bout twelve years
old ran up to him, yelling, “Hey Pokey. Pokey, you got a dollar?” the young kid
said.
“Na'll, lil man. I’m fucked up.”
“Oh, all right,” lil man said, walking away with his head down.
“See, this the shit I’m talking about!” Pokey yelled. “A nigga
can’t even help a young nigga out. I ain’t even got a dollar, that’s bad,”
Pokey said. His two friends just looked at him.
“In a minute shit gonna happen for us, watch and see, if not, it’s
on and popping,” Pokey said, pulling his shirt up, exposing the gun he had
tucked in his pants.
“Look, y’all, let me go holla at ma dukes’ right quick,” Flick
said, running to his building.
“I’mma do the same,” Fatboy said, with thoughts running ’round in
his head. “Shit, I’m tired of living like this too. So it’s whatever,” he said,
entering his building.
As Pokey watched his two friends go their separate ways, he was
saying, “One day, we gonna get up out this hood. I’mma just need y’all to trust
me,” he was thinking as he walked in the door, looking around the house. He
sees his mother asleep on the couch, slowly making his way over to the sofa, he
places a soft kiss on her cheek.
As she slowly opens her eyes, she says, “Boy, you better stay out
them streets, ’cause you never know when you PB officers will call or come
around. You know them people don’t give a damn about you and they trying to
give your behind a lot of time if you
mess up again.”
“I know that, Ma, but I ain’t doing shit. I mean nothing, so I
ain’t worried ’bout them crackers messing with me,” Pokey said.
“A hard head makes a soft behind,” his mother said, closing her
eyes.
“Hey, Ma. What you got in here to eat? I’m hungry as a baby bear.”
“Look in the microwave, it’s a plate in there,” she said, rolling
over.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Hey, Pokey, what’s up? When you leave again, make sure you lock
the door for me, ’cause I’m going back to sleep,” his mother said, yawning.
“And did you run across your sister yet?”
“Yeah, I seen her at the park, she tried to clown on me though.”
“I bet she did,” his mother said. “You know she mess with that
old-ass man Walter, right?”
“Na’ll I didn’t know that,” Pokey said.
“Damn, she tripping. That’s what I told her. But that’s hers,
what’s between her legs,” his mom said.
“So she gonna do what she want, Ma. If you want me to fall back
and chill with you, I will.”
“Baby, hush that fuss. Go have some fun. I know you just came home
from prison. And I ain’t trying to lock you down,” she said, smiling at her
only son. “I just want you to be careful and stay outta trouble.”
“I will, Mom, and I love you,” he said, heading toward the kitchen
to get his grub on. Removing the plate from the microwave and taking a seat at
the table, he ponders his next move. He knows its a couple months before his
birthday, and that’s when his Uncle Sico is supposed to help him get on his
feet. But in the back of his mind, he knows that’s a ways away. And a nigga
can’t be broke all that time. “So I wonder who that nigga was at the park in
the Rolls-Royce.” As he takes his last bite of fried chicken, he gets up, and
walks toward the phone, dialing his uncle’s number. After the third ring, a
voice yells, “Speak, who this?”
“Uncle Sico, it’s me, Pokey.”
“Boy, when you came home?” his uncle asked.
“On this morning.”
“Well, what’s up, ’cause I’m in the middle of something very
important,” his Uncle Sico said, looking back at the dime piece, who had her
legs wide open. Playing in her pussy with two fingers while motioning for Sico
to get off the phone. “What’s up nephew? Damn, boy, you call at a bad time.”
“Oh, Unc, I just need a lil favor, that’s all.”
“Boy, you know I said. When you turn—”
“Unc,” Pokey said, cutting him off. “I ain’t even talking ’bout
that. I just need a lil money, some money.”
“For what?” his uncle asked.
“’Cause I just got home from doing eighteen months, and I ain’t
got shit, you know, momma shooting bad. So she really can’t help.”
“All right, boy. Damn, but if you wasn’t family, you’ll be ass
out,” Sico said, looking back at the chick, who by now done closed her legs and
rolled over on her side. “Oh well,” Sico said. “Look, nephew, I’mma get dressed
right quick, then I’ll roll through.”
“Na’ll, Unc, don’t do that. Just meet me at the 7-Eleven. You know
how momma be tripping on you.”
“Boy, you dead right. I’ll be there in no less than forty-five
minutes,” Sico said, hanging up.
“Damn, it’s ’bout time. Now a nigga might be able to move ’round a
lil bit,” Pokey was thinking. As he hung up the phone and started walking
toward the door, he saw Fatboy and Flick about to knock on the door. Taking off
running and jumping over the table that sat in the middle of the floor, he ran
and snatched the door open before his dogs had a chance to knock and wake his
momma up. “Shh, my momma sleep,” Pokey whispered, as he looks at his mother
asleep, he starts thinking, “One of these days, I’mma buy you a house with AL
in it, just trust me,” he was thinking.
Then he asked his dogs, “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” they both replied. “Look, y’all, I gotta go meet my
uncle at the 7-Eleven right quick. Y’all gonna roll with me.”
“Let’s ride,” they both said.
“That’s what’s up,” Pokey said.
“What you got to meet him for?” Flick asked.
“Oh, nothing major. He finna hit me off with a lil chance, that’s
all,” Pokey said.
“Well, let’s burn up then, ’cause it’s hot as hell standing in
this sun,” Fatboy said.
Flick throws in, “It’s hotter than cooking grease you mean. I hope
your uncle got enough money to buy some ice creams, since he the reason we
walking in this hot-ass sun.”
“Don’t worry about that, nigga. I got us,” Pokey says, giving his
friends some dap, and they started toward their destination and the walkup to
the 7-Eleven.
“It’s was jam-packed. Damn, they act like this the block or
something,” Flick said, looking at all the people come and go.
Looking around, Pokey said, “Damn, outta all these peoples. I
ain’t see my uncle yet. Y’all, let’s sit down and wait on this nigga,” Pokey
said. After about ten more minutes of waiting, they look up to hear the sounds
of Tupac, “Picture me rolling, coming from this brand-new candy apple red box
Chevy, sitting on datons.”
“Here goes the nigga right there,” Pokey said, standing up.
“I can’t wait till we be rolling like that,” Flick said, standing
up, beside his dog, as they looking at this shinning-ass car.
Sico rolls the window down and yells, “Nigga, tighten your ass up.
I got other things to do than to sit out here in this hot-ass sun waiting on
you.”
Pokey slowly started making his way toward his uncle’s side of the
whip. All he can do is smile as he sees the bills his uncle is counting, “Huh,
nephew, here you go. That should do you a lil justice,” he said, handing Pokey
five hundred dollars.
“Boy, two hundred of them dollars for your momma, make sure she
get it. Just don’t tell her it’s from me, ’cause she’ll trip,” Sico said,
laughing. “Tell her you found it or something.”
“I got you, Unc, and good looking,” Pokey said, walking back
toward his friends, stuffing the money in his pockets. As he walked up to his
friends, Flick yelled out.
“Shit, I guess ice cream on you, right?” Flick asked.
“Nigga, chill out with your greedy ass. I told you I got y’all,”
Pokey said, watching his uncle exit the parking lot. “All right, he gone,”
Pokey said, “so check this out. I told y’all we in this together. So look at
this as our first come up together,” Pokey said, reaching in his pockets and
pulling the money out. Dividing the money, he gave Fatboy and Flick both a
hundred dollars, which they gladly accepted.
“Now that y’all got y’all own money, y’all can buy y’all own ice
cream,” Pokey said, giving them dap. “Tighten up. It’s getting late,” Pokey
said as they started making their way back to the projects with ice cream in
hand. The thought of the money Flick and Fatboy just received had them both
thinking about the big picture. Money makes the world go round, but one thought
invaded their mind, would the money solve the problem in the end, or would it
make shit worse? Only one way to find out though, make the money and see.
“So what y’all gonna buy with the rest of the money,” Pokey asked,
not really caring what they did with it ’cause it’s theirs now.
“Shit, I don’t know, dog, I might invest for a rainy day, feel
me?” Fatboy said.
“Yeah, I’m feeling that. What about you, Flick?”
“Oh, I might cop me some new track shoes or start saving too.”
“Well, y’all know I’m on the come-up, so I’mma take what I got and
try to flip it,” Pokey said, as they enter the projects. “Now that we home and
it’s almost dark, what y’all wanna do, sit out here and chill, or what?” Pokey
asked.
“Shit, I’m ’bout to head to the crib and take a shower, get some
of this funk off me,” Fatboy said.
“Yeah, I’mma call it a night too, ’cause I gotta catch up on this
homework,” Flick says. “But before I go, y’all wanna hit the mall or something
in the morning?” Flick asked.
“Yeah, dirty, we might do that, but you know it’s a party tomorrow
in Sutton Place, and they talking like that bitch gonna be off the chain,”
Pokey said. “So we’ll hit the mall, then swing through the party,” Pokey said.
“I’mma get up with y’all then,” Flick said, walking off.
“I’mma holla at you later, dog, Fatboy said, leaving. As Pokey
watched both his friends leave, he sees Double D coming on a different bike and
runs back down the stairs.
“Hey Double D, Double D!”
“Boy, what you want?” Double D yells. “You scared the shit outta
me. Now I gotta check my pants to see if I shitted on myself, smelling like
shit, for real. Now what you want, young blood?”
“Man, just tell me, who that nigga was at the park?” Pokey asked.
“Young blood, it was over a hundred niggas at the park, and you
talking ’bout tell you who that nigga was. What nigga?” Double D asked.
“The nigga you sold the TV to, stupid,” Pokey said.
“You got some money?”
“Yeah,” but then thinks about the come-up. “He’s on, no, I don’t,
not yet anyways,
“Then you know the rules,” Double D says, jumping back on his
bike, peeling off, waving.
“Well, at least I tried,” Pokey says. “I guess it’s time to call
it a day,” as he walks back upstairs. “Momma, I’m home.”
“Baby, I’m in the tub right now,” his mother yells.
“Okay, I was just making sure you was all right. I’m about to
watch some TV.”
“All right, baby,” his mother yells.
As Pokey begins watching juice for the millionth time, he dozes
off on the couch, not realizing the money hanging out his right pocket. After
drying off and slipping into her nightclothes, Mrs. Queen goes into the living
room to find her son asleep on the sofa. As she walks over to give him a kiss
on the cheek, she notices the money sticking out his pocket, ready to snap, she
pauses, and takes a deep breath, “Lord, I hope this boy ain’t out here being
stupid again. I done told him, them people gonna end up giving him a life
sentence in prison,” she cries. “Lord, whatever he is doing, please let it be
the right thing,” she says, heading to her room. She knows one day she will get
another call, telling her, her son is in jail, or worse, dead. But she knows
she can’t do nothing but pray, as she walks over to her bed and slowly falls to
her knees, she begins reciting the 23 Psalms, “The Lord is my shepherd, and
there is nothing I lack. In green pastures, you let me grace. To soft waters,
you lead me. You restore my strength, you guide me along the right paths. For
the sake of your name, even when I walk through the valley of shadow and death,
you protect me.” As she finishes her prayer, in her mind she can only hope faith
is enough to keep her son from the street life.
“Momma, you all right?” Pokey says on the other side of the door.
“Yeah, I’m all right,” his mother says back.
“Okay, Mom. I love you,” he says, sliding two one hundred dollar
bills under her door. Before she has a chance to say anything, she hears his
door being closed. And she tells herself, “I’ll let him sleep right now,”
bending over to pick up the money. “But in the morning we gotta talk,” she
said, getting in her bed.
