Dirty Jersey Read online

  DIRTY Jersey

  Phillip Thomas Duck

  DIRTY Jersey

  I’m thinkin’ why would I send you

  when I knew it ain’t right

  I’m thinkin’ what would

  make you sacrifice ya life

  You must love me

  —Jay-Z, “You Must Love Me”

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Eric

  Kenya

  Eric

  Sister

  Kenya

  Eric

  Kenya

  Eric

  Sister

  Kenya

  Eric

  Kenya

  Eric

  Kenya

  Eric

  Kenya

  Eric

  Kenya

  Eric

  Acknowledgments

  I give honor and thanks to the Creator, from whom all blessings flow, the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end. God, thank you for my talent and blessings. Thank you for my drive and vision. Thank you. Thank you.

  To my daughter, Ariana, thank you for your unbridled love and innocence.

  To my mother, Melissa, thank you for your unwavering support and love. One day I’ll try my best and give you back all I owe you tenfold. To my brother, Michael, thank you, and as always good things soon come. To my Uncle Joe, thanks. Uncle Pat, thank you. My aunts Jackie and Janice, thank you, love you both. Aunt Dorothy, RIP, you passed during the writing of this novel. I’m heartbroken and miss you much. My cousin Vern (my twin) and his lovely wife, Vanessa, much love. To my little cousins Jasmine, Andrew and Brianne, I thought of you all with each page I wrote. Thanks for the inspiration. And to the rest of my large and loving family, I can’t count you each by number but I love you all with my heart and soul.

  GGB (Gary Garfield Birch) and Pook (Wendell Logan), my brothers from a different mother. Your friendships are greatly appreciated. And yeah, we need to hang more, I know. My goddaughter, Elania, the only little girl as beautiful as my own. STA, you know who you are (smile), TOY always. Keith Lee Johnson (they need to build a Steak ’n Shake in the Dirty Jersey, bruh. What’s going on? Lol.). Margaret Johnson-Hodge (My Literary Momma, thanks).

  My agent, Sara Camilli, thanks.

  My editor, Evette Porter. Getting this novel out of me was like pulling teeth, I know. I’m sorry the process was so painful, but I’m thankful you are so gifted and kind. Thank you. Thank you.

  Linda Gill, thanks once again for the support and belief.

  My writer family, keep pen to pad fam. What we do isn’t easy, but it’s enjoyable.

  Pilgrim Baptist Church, Reverend Terrence K. Porter, thank you for the spiritual food.

  To all the book clubs and groups, thanks for the support all these years.

  I know I missed someone. Charge it to my head and not my heart.

  Lastly, but certainly not least…my readers. Thank you. Holla at your boy in the “Dirty Jersey”—[email protected].

  One,

  Phillip Thomas Duck

  Eric

  A fight, a fight

  A black and a white

  If the black don’t win

  We all jump in…

  A dollop of sweat drips off the tip of my nose. It’s so large and so heavy I swear I hear it as it thuds against the pavement. And that’s saying something, because the pounding of my heart fills my eardrums like the bass line from a Timbaland song. I have my hands balled in a fist and up by my chin, in my boxing stance, my weight evenly distributed on the balls of my feet.

  I’m ready to do some serious damage.

  Across from me, Benny Sedgwick has his hands similarly fisted, but he holds them carelessly down at his sides. His greasy, unkempt hair keeps falling into his eyes, and he keeps swinging his head to clear it away and concentrate his focus on me. Benny’s cheeks are beet red, his ocean-blue eyes wide as a big city highway. Acne dots his chin, his cheeks and forehead. The same hateful kids that tease me, they have a name for him as well: Pizza Face.

  Benny and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. We’ve been one another’s ally, one another’s support system. A bonding of the uncool, I guess you could say. I just know he’s wondering why I want to leave my knuckle prints tattooed on his face over all that acne. He’s got to be wondering why I would want to hurt him.

  I have to wonder myself.

  “Come on, Poser,” a too-deep-for-high-school voice calls from over my shoulder, “drop this fool-ass white boy so we can bounce.”

  Wonder no more.

  That’s Crash. His mother named him Percival Marques Johnson at birth, but if you want to know how he picked up the nickname Crash, then make the mistake of calling him by his “government name.” I’ve seen Crash turn men into blubbering boys and boys into groaning girls for calling him Percival. Even most of the teachers at our high school are down with the program. Crash is feared by just about everyone. He’s the only boy in our school with a tattoo. Quod me nutrit me destruit—“What nourishes me also destroys me.” It’s inked on his stomach. Drawn in among the ripples of his six-pack abs. It was there at the beginning of this school year, something Crash picked up over summer recess. I’m not even sure he knows what that Latin phrase means. I’d never say that to Crash, though. He’d destroy me if I did.

  Benny, mindful of the heavy pull Crash has over me, attempts to talk me down off the ledge. “I was just fooling with Kenya,” Benny whines. “Eric, you know that. Come on. Why are you taking this so serious?”

  “Nah, nah, kill that noise,” Crash says from behind me. “This white boy told your sister—a fine young Black Queen—to back that thing up. He disrespected the black woman, Poser. And not just any ol’ bird, either. Your sister, B. I know you ain’t takin’ that, my dude.”

  I was in the lunchroom when it all happened. Kenya didn’t appear too bothered by Benny’s remark, to tell you the truth. In fact, she put her hands on her knees and morphed into the girl in Juelz Santana’s “Clockwork” video. Sad to say, but my sister shook that behind like clockwork.

  Not exactly the move of a disrespected Black Queen.

  Crash says, “Enough of this. Bust this kid up, Poser. Bust him up.”

  Crash’s voice has gotten even deeper. He’s serious. Very serious.

  I know Kenya’s my sister. And her honor definitely means something to me. But Benny didn’t mean anything by his remark, I’m certain of that. I want to explain all of this to Crash, but there is no explaining anything to him when his mind is set on something. He speaks, people listen. Period. End of story. A point that is not open for negotiation. Those who have tried to negotiate with Crash before have learned quickly, and usually painfully, the error of such a move. I don’t want to be in that number.

  “See, I’m about to get agitated,” Crash says. “You ain’t moving fast enough, Poser.”

  I grind my jaws then and manufacture the evilest look I can on my face. Hearing Crash use a big word like agitated lets me know just how pressing this situation is. I gotta drop this fool-ass white boy for sure. I try to think of some hard hip-hop, the toughest rap song going. Young Jeezy, Lil’ Wayne and Birdman, somebody like that. Mood music. I need a sound track to help me drop fool-ass white boy Benny.

  I look deeper at Benny. His hands are still down at his sides. At least he has the sense to admit he doesn’t know what to do with his fists. I’ve got mine up as if I’m about to get my Floyd Mayweather or Oscar de la Hoya on.

  “Eric Posey the Poser,” Crash chides.

  Poser? He’s probably right.

  Crash moves toward me, pushes one of his baseball-mitt-sized hands against my shoulder blades. That move edges me forward. His voice has a sharp corner to it as he says, “Kic
k this white boy’s ass or I’m gonna kick yours. You understand?”

  I look at Benny apologetically. Hope he understands. He seems as if he does. He raises his hands finally, both of them touching, giving him the appearance of praying. I step forward, some of Young Jeezy’s hard thug music ringing in my head, and plant the best right hand I’ve ever thrown—okay, the only right hand I’ve ever thrown—deep into Benny’s soft gut. Benny folds over immediately. I’m in church with my mother at that moment. “Victory Is Mine,” that gospel song, replacing the Jeezy in my head. But then Benny hurtles forward suddenly, catches me seriously off guard, grabs my knees, and pushes me tumbling backward. We wrestle around on the ground. He’s slippery, hard to grip, but I get some kind of hold on him. It’s not a good hold. And unfortunately he’s got one on me, too. I can hear Crash singing that stupid song in the background as I struggle to beat up Benny: “A fight, a fight, A black and a white. If the black don’t win, We all jump in….”

  Crash says, “Aiight, Poser. Chill. Quigley is heading this way.”

  Benny lets his grip on me go. I do the same with him. Both of us jump up and brush off, doing our best to avoid being dealt the swift hand of discipline from Mr. Quigley, the school’s chief hall aide. Detention would mean no surfing the Internet or MySpace for Benny or me, plus the added indignity of a beating from one of my mama’s switches, in my case. Neither one of us wants that. I particularly wouldn’t want to deal with Mama. Just the thought of her discipline makes me want to cry big crocodile tears.

  Benny and I take off in separate directions, spared for the time being.

  Crash is beside me, walking calm, with a bop I’ve practiced in front of my mirror but can’t seem to get right. The girls love how Crash moves. They don’t love how I move. They don’t love how I dress. They don’t find me cool unless midterms or finals are coming up. Then I’m the tutor king, overlooking how utterly dumb some of these girls are because they smell good and their Apple Bottoms fit so snug.

  Crash’s long stride matches my half run.

  I ask, hopeful, “I kicked his ass, Crash?”

  “If the black don’t win, we all jump in,” he replies. He shakes his head and looks at me with eyes painted with pity. I’m used to that look.

  “He picked Poser up and body-slammed him,” Crash announces to the assembly in the locker room. I’m at the eye of the storm, at the center of my peers as they surround me. They all look alike. Timbs, throwback jerseys, bald heads or cornrows. I look like some form of Kanye West or Pharrell: cardigan sweater, khaki pants, suede Wallabees. I still get no play. Kenya’s best friend, Lark Edwards, she’s summed it up on more than one occasion: “You’re trying, Eric, I give you that. I mean, you’re really trying.” At least she sounds sincere when she says it.

  Trying, that’s the key word. Close but no cigar. A cliché, I know. I hate clichés, but that one fits me. I’m just missing that element that comes so naturally to most of the other boys. That element that can’t be bottled, can’t be manufactured. Cool. It gives them confidence. And I’m missing cool in the worst way.

  I keep my eyes focused on my suede Wallabees.

  I can’t look any of the cool boys surrounding me in the eyes.

  “He did get in one weak jab, though,” Crash says on my behalf.

  I look up as those words are spoken and wait. Hopeful that my one swing will draw me some kind of reprieve, that I’ll get some level of respect from everyone instead of the usual pity or taunts.

  “A jab,” someone says. “Benny don’t weigh but a buck five and all this lame got off was a jab?”

  My shoulders slump at ease; these guys will never grant me a reprieve. Never. My gaze falls back on my Wallabees.

  Crash says, “You know the deal with this dude. Eric Posey the Poser.”

  I retrieve my backpack from the bench in front of my locker, prepared to make another of my many tail-between-the-legs exits. I’m almost beyond the circle of cool boys when Crash pulls me back by the shoulder and wrenches the backpack from my hands.

  “Give me that. What you got in here you always guarding so hard, Poser?” he says, reaching his hands into my bag and pulling out a black-and-white composition book.

  “M-my Book of Rhymes,” I say, upset at myself for stuttering and being so slow of hand.

  “Book of Rhymes…” Crash studies the book. “My dude, you are straight-up obsessed with those fake rap cats, always talking about some phony rapper. What, you a closet MC now, Poser?”

  I reach for the book. Crash holds it above his head and well out of my reach. Even on my tiptoes I fall inches short of getting my hands on it again. I’m a high school sophomore, just five-seven. Looking for a growth spurt, like someone looking for love with Tila Tequila.

  “Let me see what you spittin’,” Crash says.

  “Give it back, Crash.” My voice is barely a whisper. I know it. I hate that about myself.

  “‘Seen my lady home las’ night, Jump back, honey, jump back,’” Crash reads from my book. “‘Hel’ huh hand an’ squeeze it tight, Jump back, honey, Jump back.’” Crash looks up at me, perplexed. “What’s this, Poser?”

  I hang my head in shame. “Paul Laurence Dunbar…it’s poetry.”

  The others snicker. Wannabe Paul Wall grills blind me. Crash shakes his head and tsks at me. “Thought you said it was rhymes, Poser? Real rhymes.”

  I say, “Rappers are our modern-day poets. Look at Talib Kweli, Common, Nas—”

  Crash puts his hand up to halt me. “I ain’t trying to get no Hip-hop 101 lesson, Poser. Aiight? So shut up.”

  I shut up briefly.

  Then a thought gnaws at me and I say, “I’m just pointing out the correlation between rap and poetry.”

  Crash looks around the room at everyone, says, “Did this nigga just say ‘correlation’?”

  One of the others pipes up. Kid in a LeBron James jersey. I couldn’t tell you his name. “Poser has a point, Crash.” Everyone looks at him, like he’s the real LeBron James, a human highlight film replayed over and over on ESPN. He’s one of the cool boys. That’s how it is with them, they command attention. I want to be one of them so bad it hurts. Hurts like a bad tooth. “Check this,” the faux King James says. And the room quiets to hear what he has to offer. I’ve learned not to be overly hopeful. I’m sure this isn’t going where I’d like it to. Still, I wait. Maybe this one time…

  “Instead of Tupac Shakur,” King James continues, “we can call your boy…Two Packs of Sugar.”

  They all burst out laughing. Even Crash, who rarely cracks a smile, has one on his face. I bite my lip. Death, taxes and me being picked on—the only certain things in life.

  Crash looks at me, says, “Nigga, you disappoint me.”

  I clear my throat. For once I’m going to fight for my dignity. “A Tribe Called Quest tried to say nigga was a term of endearment on the Midnight Marauders album…but I don’t like the word, Crash. So don’t call me that.”

  Crash places my composition book back in my bag nicely but then hurls the fifteen-pound JanSport backpack at me. I’m not prepared for that hammer throw. The bag plunks against my chest and knocks the wind from me for a second. I almost topple over but somehow keep my balance, stay on my feet. More laughter comes from the others in the locker room. It fills our space like music.

  Crash says, “Nigga, get on up out of here before there be a correlation between my foot and your ass.”

  I leave without another word or complaint to a chant of “Poser, Poser, Poser.”

  Mr. Atkins scribbles his indecipherable handwriting across the chalkboard, taps the board with the chalk when he’s finished, and turns to face the class. Benny’s sitting one row to my left. We haven’t spoken a word since our aborted fight. Crash is directly in front of me, sound asleep, snoring lightly. He does this through most of his classes. Even the really difficult ones, like trigonometry, where paying attention is vital. Sleeps them away. Yet, somehow, he always is granted a passing grade. I can’t
think of many teachers willing to sign off an F on Crash. I shudder to think how little Crash will know when he graduates, how unprepared he will be for the real world. But that’s not my boat to row.

  Mr. Atkins, however, is one teacher brave enough to give Crash the grade he actually deserves, even if it is a failing one.

  Crash had better watch himself.

  “Shakespeare wrote sonnets of fourteen lines,” Mr. Atkins says from the front of the classroom. “The rhyme scheme is ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG…so the first line rhymes with the third, second with the fourth, and the last two lines rhyme with each other.”

  Mr. Atkins starts a slow stroll down the center aisle. I tap Crash’s shoulder to try and jar him, but he shrugs me off and continues his head-back slumber. Atkins reaches Crash’s desk and slams his hand down hard on the surface. It echoes like a gunshot. Crash is unmoved. He sleeps through similar sounds every night at home. His projects are beset by the things that turn boys into men way too fast: guns and sex. Gangs and pimps and prostitutes. The intersection of which often ends with gunshots. Mr. Atkins fires a second shot. Crash slowly rises, wipes at his eyes and blinks from the harshness of the overhead track lights. There is no sense of urgency in him.

  “Shakespeare’s sonnets were written in iambic pentameter,” Atkins says. “Would you know what that is, Percival?”

  “Each line has ten syllables and every second syllable is stressed,” I call out in an attempt to save Crash. He and Mr. Atkins are like fire and ice. Mr. Atkins and Officer Gerard, who mans the metal detector when we enter the building in the morning, are the only adults I can think of brave enough to call Crash by his given name. I give Mr. Atkins mucho credit, because Officer Gerard has a gun on his hip.