Cruisin’

The wad of soiled bills hit the ground with a thump.  The canvas bag holding it kicked up dust that settled on the big guy’s Doc Martens.

Looking down at the bag, he said, “You bes’ be pickin’ dat up, homie, an’ handin’ it to me wit’ a show of respect.”

The smaller guy’s face split in a defiant grin, revealing ganja-stained teeth.  Two long-healed scars on his face gleamed in the dim light.  “It’s yo’ money, big mon.  You pick it up or don’t, don’t matter none to me.”

The six young men flanking the two gang-leaders, three on each side, tensed visibly as the standoff began.  None had a firearm, but all fingered six-inch switchblades in their pockets.  And all looked ready to use them if necessary.

The big guy lifted each foot in turn, wiped his boots on the back of his pant-legs.  “Why you wanta be dissin’ me, homie?  You be thinkin’ I gotta bend over in front of you?  You got a short memory!”

“Don’t got no memory problem,” the smaller guy said.  “Council says I gotta pay you for sellin’ on some street corners, but dey don’t say I gotta hand it over like a bitch!  An’ I ain’t yo’ homie!”

“Not what yo’ mama tol’ me when she waked me up in her bed dis mornin’,” the big guy said.  The young men behind him laughed out loud.  “She sweet, yo’ mama!”

“My mama?” the smaller guy said.  “My mama die befo’ she soils herself wit’ da likes of you!  You best be leavin’ her outta dis!  You already be cruisin’ fo’ a bruisin’!”

The big guy turned to his cronies.  “You b’lieve dis boy?  You b’lieve dis ignorant homie be threatenin’ me?  Me?”  Facing his challenger again, he said, “If we be cruisin’, homie, you gon’ be losin’!”

“Well, we jus’ see ‘bout dat, I guess,” the smaller guy said, glancing over his shoulder at his own coterie.  “My advice to you, big mon, you wanta be mixin’ it up wit’ us, y’all better practice fallin’ down first.  Get yo’self used to it.” 

All six gang members grinned at that.

The big guy took a step forward, looming over his adversary.  Kicking the money-bag disdainfully to one side, he said, “You already be lookin’ up at me, homie!  Keep runnin’ yo’ mouth, you gon’ be lookin’ up from flat on yo’ ass!”

As if on cue, the six gang members began to spread apart behind their leaders, hands still in pockets, feet braced shoulder-width apart.  The two closest to the money-bag kept a wary eye on each other.

“It’s yo’ money, big mon,” the smaller guy said with a shrug, rolling a toothpick between his teeth.  “You don’t wanta pick it up, dat’s fine wit’ me.  Me an’ my boys done brought it, like Council say we gotta do.  You an’ yo’ pussies cruisin’ fo’ a fight ain’t gon’ change dat, not one bit!”  He stepped back two paces so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck to meet the big guy’s stare.

As the distance between them increased, the tension seemed to lessen.  “How ‘bout one of yo’ boys be handin’ it to one of mine?” the big guy offered.

The smaller guy waited a heartbeat, then nodded to the guy closest to the bag.  He picked it up, scowling, approached his counterpart, tossed it lightly into his grasp.

“We square now?” the smaller guy said.

“Soon’s we count it,” the big guy said.

“You gon’ be countin’ it?”

“Gotta be sure you don’t be short-cuttin’ us,” the big guy smiled.

It was the smaller guy’s turn to face his gang-members.  “You b’lieve dis?  You b’lieve dis ignor-anus be disrespectin’ me like dis?  Me?”  Turning to the big guy again, he said, “You really be cruisin’ now, big mon!  You be openin’ dat bag befo’ yo’ fat ass is outta my sight, me an’ you gon’ have serious problems!  You get my drift, big mon?”

“Well, in dat case,” the big guy said, stepping forward again, “yo’ crew’s in big doo-doo!  You bes’ be callin’ 9-1-1 befo’ we get started, ‘cause you ain’t gon’ be able to do dat after we be finished wit’ you!”

As the knives flashed in the dim glow, the eight protagonists heard the woman in the rear of the darkened, high school theatre call, “Cut!  Great segment, everyone!”  As the house-lights came up, she trotted down the centre-aisle, darted up the stairs to the stage, clapping enthusiastically.  “That’s the best yet, boys!  Way to go!  The audience will eat it up!”

“I think I messed up right at the end, Miss Brodie,” the boy playing the big guy’s role said.  “I said doo-doo, which I don’t think a tough street-guy would say.”

His drama teacher smiled at him.  “Just say shit next time, Marlon.  Nobody in the audience is going to object.  Even I was beginning to think the scene was the real thing!  You guys rock!”

Wayne, the boy playing the smaller gang-leader, said, “We were in the zone, for sure!  And it felt great!”

“You were in the zone,” Brodie agreed.  “You were cruisin’!”

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2023}