BACK TO THE FUTURE

It’s a few days after the big night at the movies with my sisters and Skinny and Kyla - and the final realization that it’s not going to happen with Kyla - what do I do now without Esperanza?

Of course, you know when I wake up the next morning, it all just seems like a nightmare, that flash of insight. And for the next few days, I can convince myself of that, as I buy another dime bag, and a little hash from Marc. I meander down the school hall, inattentive and dull over these next few days. Suddenly, from around the corner, a fist plunges into my forehead. I react instinctively, firing a punch back, but my reaction time, slowed by the fog of the weed, badly misses my target as he runs off, his laughter echoing through the hall. David White.  Motherfucker. Those hyenas are just itching to get me.  A welt grows on my forehead.

The next day, I come back to school a little warier now. A crowd is gathered in the hall around the words Uncle Tom, spray painted in huge red letters covering the span of about eight or nine lockers, across from Contreau’s office. Black kids and white kids are both puzzled, fearful, and angry. Na-Na Johnson and Contreau are still waging their own little private war, I think to myself. I don’t even get off on it anymore – too preoccupied with my own stuff. Besides, Na-Na is too smart, too stubborn, to get caught.

Later that day, walking down Chestnut Street on my way to work, I notice a black sedan following me, cruising along slowly. First, I try to make believe I’m ignoring it, clenching my fists in my coat pockets. I’m getting ready to defend and attack, as I pick up my pace. It’s David White and the Orange Face brothers, and their boys. I just know it is.  I cross the street ahead of me; the sedan pulls up alongside me.

I’m not going to run – fuck them! The window rolls down.

“Strong.”

“Holy Shit! Na-Na! Where you been? I haven’t-”

“Step in”

He’s puffing on some ganja. Sly and The Family Stone is playing on the radio, through a fog of aromatic smoke.  He offers it to me, and I take a drag.

“Them mo’fuckas been fuckin’ wit you?”

“Punk-ass David White snuck me in the head yesterday, then runs away like a bitch.”

He’s silent for a moment, as he ingests the fumes deep into his chest cavity, and holds.

“Aiight.”

“So where you been, man? I scoped out that shit you painted on the lockers today.”

He lets out a slight laugh with the exhalation of smoke.

“Contreau still doggin’ you, huh?”

“Yellow mo’fucka can’t do shit to me, ain’t got proof of a mothafuckin’ thang.”

I smile, enjoying the contact high.

“Yeah, he think he slick an’ shit – he don’t know who I am.”

We pass the spliff back and forth another time.

“Nigga think he back in the CIA or FBI, or some shit. like I don’t know what up wit’ his game.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that shit, Na?”

“Nigga think he gonna play me - me against your ass. They don’t do shit to you, calculatin’ I be buggin’ cuz you bitched me out. I come in lookin’ for payback…man, that nigga be illin’.

Divide and conquer shit, the White man be playin’ that same technique since back in the day…how he shackled them strong young African brothas and sistas. Turn niggas against each other. Plant hate in their minds. This mo’fucka ain’t nuthin’ but a Uncle Tom, pimpin’ for the white man. Kissin’ they ass like he be their house nigga… he don’t know. I got something fierce fo’ that nigga, somethin’ extra fierce!”

“What you gonna do, Na?”

No response. We drive around a few minutes in silence, take another toke each before he drops me off in front of The Fox Hole.  

“Yo, gonna hook you up wit’ my man, Malik, Strong. He a righteous Muslim brotha. Later.”

Of course, Philly is in front of the store again. He smirks and goes into his Mick Jagger impersonation again, this time singing Brown Sugar, using the broom as a mike. I don’t pay him no mind. I’m deep in the swirl of my own thoughts. Something gets switched on. Na-Na’s words strike something heavy in me.