Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Got Angela getting beat on like Tyler Perry writing this
Neighborhood.
Summertime '06 - Episode 4
Loraine fumbled with the key, her fingers trembling slightly as she unlocked the door to unit 2B. They had allowed her to take a tour of a similar unit prior to signing the lease but the actual unit they’d be moving into hadn’t been vacated until the previous night so she had no idea what she was walking into. The hinges creaked in protest as she pushed it open, revealing a small but tidy living space. The air inside hung heavy with the scent of fresh paint and industrial cleaner, masking years of other tenants' lives.
"Well, this is it," Loraine said, her voice carrying a forced cheerfulness. She glanced at Keshawn, searching his stoic face for any hint of emotion. "It's not much, but it's a start, right baby?"
Keshawn nodded silently, his tall frame filling the narrow doorway as he surveyed the room. His dark eyes took in the mismatched furniture - a sagging beige couch, a scratched coffee table, and a small TV that had seen better days. It was a far cry from their spacious home in Baldwin Hills, but it was undeniably a step up from the cramped house they'd left behind.
As they began to unpack their meager belongings, Loraine couldn't help but sneak glances at her son. Keshawn moved with purpose, his long limbs graceful despite the confined space. He carefully arranged his childhood trophies and medals on a rickety shelf, each one a bittersweet reminder of happier times.
Loraine paused in her unpacking, studying her son's profile as he gazed out the window. She ached to bridge the growing distance between them, to find the words that would ease his pain. But she knew that healing would take time, that they both needed space to adjust to this new reality.
"You know," Loraine ventured, desperate to break the silence, "We’re not too far from The Grove, we could hang out there tonight after we visit your dad?”
"Yeah, maybe," he murmured, his deep voice barely above a whisper.
Through the window, Keshawn could just make out the hills of their old neighborhood, a tantalizing glimpse of the life they'd left behind. The familiar skyline seemed to mock him, so close yet impossibly far away. Deep into the Village, living with Aunt Elly and them, there was no mistaking where he was. But now, it all felt imbalance and in limbo. He felt a twinge in his chest, a mixture of gratitude for this slight improvement and bitter resentment at how easily their world had crumbled.
The apartment, with its generic beige walls and threadbare carpet, was a far cry from the spacious home they'd once known. But Keshawn couldn't deny the relief he felt at leaving behind the constant sirens and shouting matches of their previous neighborhood. Here, at least, the air felt a little lighter, the future a shade less bleak.
As he unpacked a box labeled "School," the reality of his situation suddenly hit him. Textbooks and notebooks tumbled onto the threadbare carpet, reminding him of the approaching fall semester. Keshawn cleared his throat, breaking the companionable silence that had settled between him and his mother.
"Mom," he began, his voice hesitant, "how am I gonna get to school come next fall? Vic normally takes me but…”
Loraine cut him off mid-sentence, her voice firm but tinged with an undercurrent of excitement. "Baby, I'm getting you out of that school as quick as I can. Which reminds me, you submitted that application yet? Simone really busted her behind to get you on that waitlist and from what she was telling me, you got a pretty good chance at getting in.”
Keshawn shook his head, a mix of emotions swirling in his chest. He'd almost forgotten about the application his sister had pushed him to complete. “Not yet.”
"Well," Loraine continued, her eyes shining with determination, "you need to finish that essay and submit it ASAP. It's a great opportunity, Ke. A fresh start, away from all this mess."
Keshawn's mind raced, thoughts of leaving Hamilton, his teammates, and the now familiar streets of Los Angeles warring with the allure of a clean slate. The prospect of escaping new reality that had plagued him since his parents' arrest was tempting. Yet, he had learned to accept that reality and all that came with it.
He forced a smile, nodding at his mother's enthusiastic words. "Yeah, I'll get on that tonight," he promised, carefully keeping his conflicted feelings hidden behind a mask of calm acceptance.
…
Loraine sat ramrod straight in her plastic chair, her fingers drumming an anxious rhythm on the table's surface. She had been on the opposite end just a mere months ago. Keshawn could feel the nervous energy radiating off her in waves, and he fought the urge to reach out and still her hand. Instead, he focused on the door at the far end of the room, willing it to open.
When Elijah finally appeared, Keshawn felt his breath catch in his throat. His father looked smaller somehow, his once-proud shoulders slightly hunched beneath the weight of his circumstances. But his eyes, when they landed on Keshawn and Loraine, lit up with a fierce love that made Keshawn's chest ache.
"Baby boy," Elijah said softly, enveloping Keshawn in a tight embrace. The familiar scent of his father's cologne, now mingled with the harsh smell of industrial soap, brought a sudden lump to Keshawn's throat. He blinked rapidly, determined not to let the tears fall.
Loraine rose to her feet, her arms outstretched, but Elijah's gaze had already shifted, his brow furrowing as he took in her appearance. "You look good, Raine," he said, his tone cautious. "I heard y’all moved into that new spot already.”
Loraine's smile faltered for a moment before she recovered, smoothing down her blouse with trembling hands. "Just this morning," she began, her voice bright with forced cheer. "It’s an extended stay. It's small, but it's in a decent neighborhood, right by Village Green.”
"How?" Elijah cut her off, his eyes narrowing. "I mean, from what I hear, the economy ain’t too good right now. You’re barely out a few weeks and look at you.”
Keshawn watched as his mother's face tightened, her cheerful mask slipping to reveal a flash of anger. "Does it matter?" she snapped. "We're out of my sister’s house, Eli. Isn't that what you wanted?"
Elijah leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Tell me you didn't go to Dro for this, Loraine. Tell me you're not that stupid."
The silence that followed was deafening. Keshawn's gaze darted between his parents, confusion and dread building in his stomach. He'd never seen his father like this, eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and fury.
"It's just a loan," Loraine finally admitted, “I got better rates than I would at any advanced pay day places and it’s not like the banks are going to be rushing to get me a loan.”
“I bet you did get a good rate,” Elijah remarked before looking towards Keshawn, “You looking good, Ke! How much you benching now?”
“I don’t really lift that heavy,” Keshawn pushed through the lump in his throat, “Me and Vic mostly work on flexibility and stuff.”
“I can’t say I’m with the new age stuff,” Elijah laughed as he tilted his head from side to side, catching a glimpse of the death stare that his wife was giving him, “But what do I know? It’s getting you results from what I hear. Pepperdine, right?”
“They’re the school that reaches out the most,” Keshawn shrugged, “The coaches think I’ll get more offers once the summer’s over and they can come see me play.”
“That’s what up,” Elijah nodded, “I know Hamilton ain’t Thornwood but you’re making the best of the situation. I’m proud of you, son. Life is going to throw you some obstacles, you just have to tackle them. You can’t take the easy route, not matter how hard it is.”
“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Loraine muttered under her breath.
“Raine,” Elijah warned her, motioning towards Keshawn, “Not right now, not here.”
“I was going to let it slide until you decided to say some slick shit,” she sucked her teeth, “The easy route? Motherfucker, I’m doing what you’re supposed to be doing, taking care of this damn family!”
The pit in Keshawn’s stomach just dug deeper and deeper as he watched, unsure what to say, unsure if he should say anything as the bickering had started to garner the attention of onlookers.
“Which I would be doing if your ass ain’t tell me to take that fucking loan! You and Muncie, always wanting more, always wanting to make the business bigger and bigger! We were fine, Loraine! More than fucking fine! But no, the house ain’t enough, you need the car with it. That ain’t enough, you need the fucking designer bag to go with it and then you need money in that bag too and ten bands around your fucking neck!”
“The store was on it’s last fucking legs when you met me,” Loraine reminded him, putting a finger in his face, “And I don’t to hear about no shortcuts when we all know how y’all got that store.”
…
Vic's worn sneakers scuffed against the cracked sidewalk as he made his way through the dimly lit streets of Baldwin Village. The weight of the cash in his pocket — freshly earned from the recent tournament — felt both reassuring and burdensome. He glanced over his shoulder, more out of habit than any real concern, before climbing the rickety stairs to Charlene's second-floor apartment, her third in as many years since Trey’s arrest.
The door swung open before he could knock, revealing Charlene's tired but beautiful face. Her eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, lit up at the sight of him. "Vic," she breathed, relief evident in her voice. "Come on in.”
The apartment was small and cluttered, but clean. Toys were scattered across the floor, evidence of the absent four-year-old who usually occupied the space.
"Here," Vic said, pulling out a wad of cash. "It ain't much, but it should help with the bills and stuff for little Malcolm."
Charlene's fingers trembled as she took the money, her eyes welling with tears. "You don't know how much this means, Vic. I was scared the lights would go out any minute now.”
An hour later, they sat on her threadbare couch, a half-empty bottle of cheap tequila between them. The TV droned in the background, neither of them really watching. Charlene's laugh, tinged with bitterness, cut through the silence.
"You know," she slurred slightly, turning to face Vic, "I always knew you had a thing for me back in the day."
Vic felt heat rise to his cheeks, grateful for the dim lighting that hid his reaction. "Nah, come on," he protested weakly. "You and Trey…that was out the playpen type shit.”
Charlene's eyes, glassy from the alcohol, bore into him. "So? That didn't stop you from looking. We weren’t always together, lord knows I had to take him back a bunch of times." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I saw you looking, stealing a glance at the pool, when I’d come over in my little shorts. I knew what I was doing, trust me, and it wasn’t just for Trey. Sometimes I think... why didn't you ever make a move?"
The air between them grew thick with unspoken tension. Vic's heart hammered in his chest as he struggled to find the right words. "It wasn't like that," he finally managed. "I mean, me and Angel…you and Trey, y’all were good together. I wasn't about to mess that up."
Charlene scoffed, taking another swig from the bottle. "Good together," she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Look where that got us. Me, struggling to keep a roof over our kid's head. Him, locked up for who knows how long."
She turned to Vic, her eyes suddenly intense. "You, though. You've always been different. You didn’t get sucked into this dumb shit, always knew what you wanted and more importantly what you didn’t want. You would've been a better father for Malcolm. A better man for me."
Vic felt a pang of guilt mixed with a surge of long-buried feelings. He opened his mouth to speak but the words caught in his throat as Charlene's eyes filled with tears.
"I'm scared, Vic," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Even when Trey gets out, what then? He'll be right back in the thick of it, running with them. It's like a revolving door - in and out, in and out. And one day..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Vic felt a lump form in his throat as he watched Charlene's shoulders shake with silent sobs. The weight of her fears, of the harsh reality they both knew too well, settled over the room like a heavy blanket.
"Hey, hey," he murmured, gently pulling her closer. "Don't think like that. That’s fucking Trey, alright? He’ll be good, trust me. Ain’t nothing happening to that motherfucker. He’s too hard headed, even against life.”
But even as he spoke the words, Vic knew they rang hollow. He'd seen it happen too many times - guys getting out, swearing they were done with the life, only to be pulled back in by the allure of quick money or the inescapable tentacles of old debts and loyalties. He saw it happen first hand with his uncle Quincy, who opted for the bottle as his grave instead.
Charlene looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and glistening. "You don't believe that any more than I do," she said softly. "I see it in my nightmares, Vic. Trey lying on the pavement, blood pooling around him. Or worse, little Malcolm following in his footsteps, thinking that's what it means to be a man."
She shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't do it anymore. I can't live like this, always waiting for the other shoe to drop."
Vic felt his heart constrict as Charlene's pain washed over him. Without thinking, he reached out, gently brushing a tear from her cheek. "You're stronger than you know, Char," he said softly. "You've been holding it down all this time, taking care of Malcolm, keeping your head up. That takes real strength."
Charlene's eyes met his, a flicker of something - gratitude, longing, he couldn't quite tell - passing between them. Then, with a shuddering sigh, she lay her head in his lap, her body curling into itself like a child seeking comfort.
Vic hesitated for a moment, then began to stroke her hair, his fingers moving in slow, soothing circles. The room fell silent save for the muffled sounds of the city outside and Charlene's occasional sniffles.
As he sat there, Vic's mind raced. He thought of Trey, his brother and best friend, locked away in a cell. He thought of little Malcolm, innocent and unaware of the struggles swirling around him. And he thought of Charlene, beautiful and resilient, fighting every day to keep her little family afloat. The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders, heavier than any he'd ever felt.
…
"I think that's enough for today," Ronnie said, stifling a yawn. "We can pick this up again tomorrow."
Angela nodded absently, her eyes fixed on her phone screen. She tapped out another message to Vic, her umpteenth unanswered text of the night. The blue bubbles seemed to mock her as they sat there, unread.
Ronnie watched her with concern, noting the tight set of her jaw and the worry lines creasing her forehead. "Hey," he said gently, "why don't we grab some something to eat? I'm starving, and I bet you haven't eaten all day."
Angela hesitated, her thumb hovering over the send button on yet another text to Vic. After a moment, she sighed and slipped the phone into her pocket. "Yeah, okay. That sounds good."
They made their way to a small Ethiopian restaurant tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. The warm, spicy aroma of berbere and roasted coffee beans enveloped them as they stepped inside. The walls were adorned with colorful woven tapestries and black-and-white photographs of Addis Ababa.
As they settled into a cozy booth, Angela's phone buzzed. She snatched it up eagerly, only for her face to fall when she saw it was just a notification from Instagram.
As they pored over the menu, filled with unfamiliar names like kitfo and doro wat, Ronnie couldn't help but notice the dark circles under Angela's eyes. "You know," he said carefully, "maybe we should consider scaling back the Block Party a bit. We've been running ourselves ragged, and with all these empty vendor stands—”
"No," Angela cut him off, her voice sharp. "We can't give up now. This is like the biggest thing we’ve ever thrown and if we back out of it now, it’ll set the standard for what people will expect of us now.”
Ronnie held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I'm just saying, maybe we need to adjust our expectations a little. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know?"
Angela's eyes flashed with determination. "And if the Romans had that attitude, it never would have been built at all. We can figure this out.”
Angela's eyes drifted to the small TV mounted in the corner of the restaurant. SportsCenter was playing, the anchors animatedly discussing the previous night's NBA Finals game. The screen flashed with highlights - gravity-defying dunks, impossible three-pointers, and nail-biting defensive plays.
"We need something big," Ronnie mused, following Angela's gaze to the TV. "Something that'll really draw people in, you know?"
Angela nodded absently, her mind racing. The basketball highlights sparked a memory - that last game against Westchase. An idea began to form, nebulous at first but rapidly taking shape.
"What about Keshawn?" she said suddenly, turning back to Ronnie with renewed energy.
Ronnie raised an eyebrow. "Keshawn? What about him?"
"He's pretty popular, right? There was at least a hundred people at that tournament, just watching," Angela leaned forward, her eyes alight with excitement. "What if we could get him to help us set up some kind of basketball event? Something with real star power, you know?"
Ronnie considered this, drumming his fingers on the table. "That's not a bad idea," he said slowly. "I know everyone’s been talking about this Pro-Am that’s coming up.”
“Pro-Am?” Angela asked, “That sounds familiar, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard Vic talk about taking Keshawn to something like that.”
“It ain’t exactly the Drew or even the Rico Hines runs but it’ll probably have some pros in there and people pay to go see them.”
“English, please?”
“If Keshawn is playing in that tournament, he probably has a couple of tickets allocated to him or could ask for some. He could donate them to us and we could do a raffle or something.”
Angela's mind was already racing ahead, envisioning the possibilities. "And we could set up a mini-court at the block party," she added. "Get Keshawn to do some demonstrations, maybe even a little one-on-one tournament for the kids."
The waiter arrived with their food, setting down a large platter covered in injera bread and colorful mounds of stewed meats and vegetables. The rich aroma of spices filled the air, but neither Angela nor Ronnie paid much attention to the food, too caught up in their burgeoning plans.
"See?” Ronnie laughed, tearing off a piece of injera, “We work well together after all, when you’re not trying to take my head off.”
Loraine fumbled with the key, her fingers trembling slightly as she unlocked the door to unit 2B. They had allowed her to take a tour of a similar unit prior to signing the lease but the actual unit they’d be moving into hadn’t been vacated until the previous night so she had no idea what she was walking into. The hinges creaked in protest as she pushed it open, revealing a small but tidy living space. The air inside hung heavy with the scent of fresh paint and industrial cleaner, masking years of other tenants' lives.
"Well, this is it," Loraine said, her voice carrying a forced cheerfulness. She glanced at Keshawn, searching his stoic face for any hint of emotion. "It's not much, but it's a start, right baby?"
Keshawn nodded silently, his tall frame filling the narrow doorway as he surveyed the room. His dark eyes took in the mismatched furniture - a sagging beige couch, a scratched coffee table, and a small TV that had seen better days. It was a far cry from their spacious home in Baldwin Hills, but it was undeniably a step up from the cramped house they'd left behind.
As they began to unpack their meager belongings, Loraine couldn't help but sneak glances at her son. Keshawn moved with purpose, his long limbs graceful despite the confined space. He carefully arranged his childhood trophies and medals on a rickety shelf, each one a bittersweet reminder of happier times.
Loraine paused in her unpacking, studying her son's profile as he gazed out the window. She ached to bridge the growing distance between them, to find the words that would ease his pain. But she knew that healing would take time, that they both needed space to adjust to this new reality.
"You know," Loraine ventured, desperate to break the silence, "We’re not too far from The Grove, we could hang out there tonight after we visit your dad?”
"Yeah, maybe," he murmured, his deep voice barely above a whisper.
Through the window, Keshawn could just make out the hills of their old neighborhood, a tantalizing glimpse of the life they'd left behind. The familiar skyline seemed to mock him, so close yet impossibly far away. Deep into the Village, living with Aunt Elly and them, there was no mistaking where he was. But now, it all felt imbalance and in limbo. He felt a twinge in his chest, a mixture of gratitude for this slight improvement and bitter resentment at how easily their world had crumbled.
The apartment, with its generic beige walls and threadbare carpet, was a far cry from the spacious home they'd once known. But Keshawn couldn't deny the relief he felt at leaving behind the constant sirens and shouting matches of their previous neighborhood. Here, at least, the air felt a little lighter, the future a shade less bleak.
As he unpacked a box labeled "School," the reality of his situation suddenly hit him. Textbooks and notebooks tumbled onto the threadbare carpet, reminding him of the approaching fall semester. Keshawn cleared his throat, breaking the companionable silence that had settled between him and his mother.
"Mom," he began, his voice hesitant, "how am I gonna get to school come next fall? Vic normally takes me but…”
Loraine cut him off mid-sentence, her voice firm but tinged with an undercurrent of excitement. "Baby, I'm getting you out of that school as quick as I can. Which reminds me, you submitted that application yet? Simone really busted her behind to get you on that waitlist and from what she was telling me, you got a pretty good chance at getting in.”
Keshawn shook his head, a mix of emotions swirling in his chest. He'd almost forgotten about the application his sister had pushed him to complete. “Not yet.”
"Well," Loraine continued, her eyes shining with determination, "you need to finish that essay and submit it ASAP. It's a great opportunity, Ke. A fresh start, away from all this mess."
Keshawn's mind raced, thoughts of leaving Hamilton, his teammates, and the now familiar streets of Los Angeles warring with the allure of a clean slate. The prospect of escaping new reality that had plagued him since his parents' arrest was tempting. Yet, he had learned to accept that reality and all that came with it.
He forced a smile, nodding at his mother's enthusiastic words. "Yeah, I'll get on that tonight," he promised, carefully keeping his conflicted feelings hidden behind a mask of calm acceptance.
…
Loraine sat ramrod straight in her plastic chair, her fingers drumming an anxious rhythm on the table's surface. She had been on the opposite end just a mere months ago. Keshawn could feel the nervous energy radiating off her in waves, and he fought the urge to reach out and still her hand. Instead, he focused on the door at the far end of the room, willing it to open.
When Elijah finally appeared, Keshawn felt his breath catch in his throat. His father looked smaller somehow, his once-proud shoulders slightly hunched beneath the weight of his circumstances. But his eyes, when they landed on Keshawn and Loraine, lit up with a fierce love that made Keshawn's chest ache.
"Baby boy," Elijah said softly, enveloping Keshawn in a tight embrace. The familiar scent of his father's cologne, now mingled with the harsh smell of industrial soap, brought a sudden lump to Keshawn's throat. He blinked rapidly, determined not to let the tears fall.
Loraine rose to her feet, her arms outstretched, but Elijah's gaze had already shifted, his brow furrowing as he took in her appearance. "You look good, Raine," he said, his tone cautious. "I heard y’all moved into that new spot already.”
Loraine's smile faltered for a moment before she recovered, smoothing down her blouse with trembling hands. "Just this morning," she began, her voice bright with forced cheer. "It’s an extended stay. It's small, but it's in a decent neighborhood, right by Village Green.”
"How?" Elijah cut her off, his eyes narrowing. "I mean, from what I hear, the economy ain’t too good right now. You’re barely out a few weeks and look at you.”
Keshawn watched as his mother's face tightened, her cheerful mask slipping to reveal a flash of anger. "Does it matter?" she snapped. "We're out of my sister’s house, Eli. Isn't that what you wanted?"
Elijah leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Tell me you didn't go to Dro for this, Loraine. Tell me you're not that stupid."
The silence that followed was deafening. Keshawn's gaze darted between his parents, confusion and dread building in his stomach. He'd never seen his father like this, eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and fury.
"It's just a loan," Loraine finally admitted, “I got better rates than I would at any advanced pay day places and it’s not like the banks are going to be rushing to get me a loan.”
“I bet you did get a good rate,” Elijah remarked before looking towards Keshawn, “You looking good, Ke! How much you benching now?”
“I don’t really lift that heavy,” Keshawn pushed through the lump in his throat, “Me and Vic mostly work on flexibility and stuff.”
“I can’t say I’m with the new age stuff,” Elijah laughed as he tilted his head from side to side, catching a glimpse of the death stare that his wife was giving him, “But what do I know? It’s getting you results from what I hear. Pepperdine, right?”
“They’re the school that reaches out the most,” Keshawn shrugged, “The coaches think I’ll get more offers once the summer’s over and they can come see me play.”
“That’s what up,” Elijah nodded, “I know Hamilton ain’t Thornwood but you’re making the best of the situation. I’m proud of you, son. Life is going to throw you some obstacles, you just have to tackle them. You can’t take the easy route, not matter how hard it is.”
“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Loraine muttered under her breath.
“Raine,” Elijah warned her, motioning towards Keshawn, “Not right now, not here.”
“I was going to let it slide until you decided to say some slick shit,” she sucked her teeth, “The easy route? Motherfucker, I’m doing what you’re supposed to be doing, taking care of this damn family!”
The pit in Keshawn’s stomach just dug deeper and deeper as he watched, unsure what to say, unsure if he should say anything as the bickering had started to garner the attention of onlookers.
“Which I would be doing if your ass ain’t tell me to take that fucking loan! You and Muncie, always wanting more, always wanting to make the business bigger and bigger! We were fine, Loraine! More than fucking fine! But no, the house ain’t enough, you need the car with it. That ain’t enough, you need the fucking designer bag to go with it and then you need money in that bag too and ten bands around your fucking neck!”
“The store was on it’s last fucking legs when you met me,” Loraine reminded him, putting a finger in his face, “And I don’t to hear about no shortcuts when we all know how y’all got that store.”
…
Vic's worn sneakers scuffed against the cracked sidewalk as he made his way through the dimly lit streets of Baldwin Village. The weight of the cash in his pocket — freshly earned from the recent tournament — felt both reassuring and burdensome. He glanced over his shoulder, more out of habit than any real concern, before climbing the rickety stairs to Charlene's second-floor apartment, her third in as many years since Trey’s arrest.
The door swung open before he could knock, revealing Charlene's tired but beautiful face. Her eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, lit up at the sight of him. "Vic," she breathed, relief evident in her voice. "Come on in.”
The apartment was small and cluttered, but clean. Toys were scattered across the floor, evidence of the absent four-year-old who usually occupied the space.
"Here," Vic said, pulling out a wad of cash. "It ain't much, but it should help with the bills and stuff for little Malcolm."
Charlene's fingers trembled as she took the money, her eyes welling with tears. "You don't know how much this means, Vic. I was scared the lights would go out any minute now.”
An hour later, they sat on her threadbare couch, a half-empty bottle of cheap tequila between them. The TV droned in the background, neither of them really watching. Charlene's laugh, tinged with bitterness, cut through the silence.
"You know," she slurred slightly, turning to face Vic, "I always knew you had a thing for me back in the day."
Vic felt heat rise to his cheeks, grateful for the dim lighting that hid his reaction. "Nah, come on," he protested weakly. "You and Trey…that was out the playpen type shit.”
Charlene's eyes, glassy from the alcohol, bore into him. "So? That didn't stop you from looking. We weren’t always together, lord knows I had to take him back a bunch of times." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I saw you looking, stealing a glance at the pool, when I’d come over in my little shorts. I knew what I was doing, trust me, and it wasn’t just for Trey. Sometimes I think... why didn't you ever make a move?"
The air between them grew thick with unspoken tension. Vic's heart hammered in his chest as he struggled to find the right words. "It wasn't like that," he finally managed. "I mean, me and Angel…you and Trey, y’all were good together. I wasn't about to mess that up."
Charlene scoffed, taking another swig from the bottle. "Good together," she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Look where that got us. Me, struggling to keep a roof over our kid's head. Him, locked up for who knows how long."
She turned to Vic, her eyes suddenly intense. "You, though. You've always been different. You didn’t get sucked into this dumb shit, always knew what you wanted and more importantly what you didn’t want. You would've been a better father for Malcolm. A better man for me."
Vic felt a pang of guilt mixed with a surge of long-buried feelings. He opened his mouth to speak but the words caught in his throat as Charlene's eyes filled with tears.
"I'm scared, Vic," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Even when Trey gets out, what then? He'll be right back in the thick of it, running with them. It's like a revolving door - in and out, in and out. And one day..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Vic felt a lump form in his throat as he watched Charlene's shoulders shake with silent sobs. The weight of her fears, of the harsh reality they both knew too well, settled over the room like a heavy blanket.
"Hey, hey," he murmured, gently pulling her closer. "Don't think like that. That’s fucking Trey, alright? He’ll be good, trust me. Ain’t nothing happening to that motherfucker. He’s too hard headed, even against life.”
But even as he spoke the words, Vic knew they rang hollow. He'd seen it happen too many times - guys getting out, swearing they were done with the life, only to be pulled back in by the allure of quick money or the inescapable tentacles of old debts and loyalties. He saw it happen first hand with his uncle Quincy, who opted for the bottle as his grave instead.
Charlene looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and glistening. "You don't believe that any more than I do," she said softly. "I see it in my nightmares, Vic. Trey lying on the pavement, blood pooling around him. Or worse, little Malcolm following in his footsteps, thinking that's what it means to be a man."
She shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't do it anymore. I can't live like this, always waiting for the other shoe to drop."
Vic felt his heart constrict as Charlene's pain washed over him. Without thinking, he reached out, gently brushing a tear from her cheek. "You're stronger than you know, Char," he said softly. "You've been holding it down all this time, taking care of Malcolm, keeping your head up. That takes real strength."
Charlene's eyes met his, a flicker of something - gratitude, longing, he couldn't quite tell - passing between them. Then, with a shuddering sigh, she lay her head in his lap, her body curling into itself like a child seeking comfort.
Vic hesitated for a moment, then began to stroke her hair, his fingers moving in slow, soothing circles. The room fell silent save for the muffled sounds of the city outside and Charlene's occasional sniffles.
As he sat there, Vic's mind raced. He thought of Trey, his brother and best friend, locked away in a cell. He thought of little Malcolm, innocent and unaware of the struggles swirling around him. And he thought of Charlene, beautiful and resilient, fighting every day to keep her little family afloat. The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders, heavier than any he'd ever felt.
…
"I think that's enough for today," Ronnie said, stifling a yawn. "We can pick this up again tomorrow."
Angela nodded absently, her eyes fixed on her phone screen. She tapped out another message to Vic, her umpteenth unanswered text of the night. The blue bubbles seemed to mock her as they sat there, unread.
Ronnie watched her with concern, noting the tight set of her jaw and the worry lines creasing her forehead. "Hey," he said gently, "why don't we grab some something to eat? I'm starving, and I bet you haven't eaten all day."
Angela hesitated, her thumb hovering over the send button on yet another text to Vic. After a moment, she sighed and slipped the phone into her pocket. "Yeah, okay. That sounds good."
They made their way to a small Ethiopian restaurant tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. The warm, spicy aroma of berbere and roasted coffee beans enveloped them as they stepped inside. The walls were adorned with colorful woven tapestries and black-and-white photographs of Addis Ababa.
As they settled into a cozy booth, Angela's phone buzzed. She snatched it up eagerly, only for her face to fall when she saw it was just a notification from Instagram.
As they pored over the menu, filled with unfamiliar names like kitfo and doro wat, Ronnie couldn't help but notice the dark circles under Angela's eyes. "You know," he said carefully, "maybe we should consider scaling back the Block Party a bit. We've been running ourselves ragged, and with all these empty vendor stands—”
"No," Angela cut him off, her voice sharp. "We can't give up now. This is like the biggest thing we’ve ever thrown and if we back out of it now, it’ll set the standard for what people will expect of us now.”
Ronnie held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I'm just saying, maybe we need to adjust our expectations a little. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know?"
Angela's eyes flashed with determination. "And if the Romans had that attitude, it never would have been built at all. We can figure this out.”
Angela's eyes drifted to the small TV mounted in the corner of the restaurant. SportsCenter was playing, the anchors animatedly discussing the previous night's NBA Finals game. The screen flashed with highlights - gravity-defying dunks, impossible three-pointers, and nail-biting defensive plays.
"We need something big," Ronnie mused, following Angela's gaze to the TV. "Something that'll really draw people in, you know?"
Angela nodded absently, her mind racing. The basketball highlights sparked a memory - that last game against Westchase. An idea began to form, nebulous at first but rapidly taking shape.
"What about Keshawn?" she said suddenly, turning back to Ronnie with renewed energy.
Ronnie raised an eyebrow. "Keshawn? What about him?"
"He's pretty popular, right? There was at least a hundred people at that tournament, just watching," Angela leaned forward, her eyes alight with excitement. "What if we could get him to help us set up some kind of basketball event? Something with real star power, you know?"
Ronnie considered this, drumming his fingers on the table. "That's not a bad idea," he said slowly. "I know everyone’s been talking about this Pro-Am that’s coming up.”
“Pro-Am?” Angela asked, “That sounds familiar, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard Vic talk about taking Keshawn to something like that.”
“It ain’t exactly the Drew or even the Rico Hines runs but it’ll probably have some pros in there and people pay to go see them.”
“English, please?”
“If Keshawn is playing in that tournament, he probably has a couple of tickets allocated to him or could ask for some. He could donate them to us and we could do a raffle or something.”
Angela's mind was already racing ahead, envisioning the possibilities. "And we could set up a mini-court at the block party," she added. "Get Keshawn to do some demonstrations, maybe even a little one-on-one tournament for the kids."
The waiter arrived with their food, setting down a large platter covered in injera bread and colorful mounds of stewed meats and vegetables. The rich aroma of spices filled the air, but neither Angela nor Ronnie paid much attention to the food, too caught up in their burgeoning plans.
"See?” Ronnie laughed, tearing off a piece of injera, “We work well together after all, when you’re not trying to take my head off.”
Neighborhood.
Summertime '06 - Episode 5
The sun shined onto on the bustling street, transforming the asphalt into a shimmering mirage as the Block Party pulsed with life. The air was thick with the aroma of sizzling barbecue, the rhythmic beats of hip-hop, and the excited chatter of the crowd. Colorful banners fluttered in the warm breeze, proclaiming "Black Excellence" in bold letters, while makeshift booths lined the sidewalks, offering everything from handmade jewelry to voter registration forms.
Ronnie couldn't contain his excitement, his eyes sparkling as he surveyed the scene. "Yo, this is kind of fire," he exclaimed, gesturing widely at the crowd of a few dozen people mingling around them. "I’m not gonna lie, I was worried for a moment.”
Angela nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. She was trying to match Ronnie's enthusiasm, but her gaze kept drifting to Vic, who stood slightly apart from them, mindless scrolling through his phone. "Yeah," she replied, her voice tinged with forced cheerfulness. "I'm glad people are showing up."
Vic shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling the tension crackling between him and Angela like static electricity. He knew he'd messed up by ignoring her texts, but he wasn’t exactly at liberty to address it directly without either digging a further hole or lying to his long term girlfriend. Instead, he focused on the event at hand. "Y'all did good with this," he offered, his voice gruff but sincere. "Especially for y’all first big event."
Angela's eyes flickered to Vic, a mix of hurt and longing evident in her gaze before she quickly looked away. She had her own secret too, no matter how innocent the dinner with Ronnie ultimately was. She knew enough of the male ego, especially in South Central LA, that no such thing as an innocent dinner between two friends of the opposite sex existed.
"I really think we can do something good for the community with things like these," she said, her voice taking on a passionate edge. "I’m all with y’all on throwing parties and good time for the community but we have to start pushing our message across every step of the way too.”
Ronnie nodded enthusiastically, oblivious to the underlying tension. "We got voting registration sign-ups, tutoring sign ups, job application aids. The whole point of this was to fund the tour we doing next month and we’ve already gotten someone to donate a bus.”
As they spoke, a group of young kids ran by, their faces painted with vibrant designs, laughing and chasing each other. The sight brought a genuine smile to Angela's face, softening her features. "I know, I know," she replied, “You know I’m always going to push us to do more. Ain’t it my job be the annoying one?”
“Speaking of,” Ronnie pulled out his phone and navigated to his calendar, “Your boy about to be up, where he’s at?”
Vic's eyes widened as he scanned the crowd, realizing he hadn't seen Keshawn in a while. A mere months ago, he’d have been attached to his hips at a gathering like this. "I don’t know,” Vic shrugged, “He’s got to be around here somewhere, ain’t exactly hard to find his tall ass.”
The trio weaved through the throng of people, the vibrant energy of the block party pulsing around them. Children darted between adults' legs, their laughter mingling with the soulful strains of a live band setting up on a small stage. The scent of fried plantains and jerk chicken wafted from a nearby food truck, making their stomachs growl despite their preoccupation.
As they rounded the corner past a face-painting booth, Ronnie spotted a familiar tall figure in the distance. "There he is," he said, pointing towards a small group gathered near the community center's entrance.
Keshawn stood head and shoulders above the rest, his lanky frame impossible to miss. He was surrounded by a handful of people, including a couple of volunteers. But it was the bodacious figure standing closest to Keshawn that caught Angela's attention.
Gayle stood there, her hand resting casually on Keshawn's chest as she laughed at something he said. Her eyes sparkled with admiration, and she seemed to be hanging on his every word.
Angela felt a twinge of something she couldn't quite name. She nudged Vic, nodding towards the pair. "I’m making this up too?" she murmured, her voice low. "What's going on with them?”
Vic glanced over, his expression neutral. "I told you, it’s nothing," he said dismissively. "You know how Gayle is, she friendly to everybody and Ke ain’t gonna say nothing.”
But Angela couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it. The way Gayle leaned in close to Keshawn, the easy familiarity between them – it all seemed a little too intimate for mere friendliness.
As they approached, Keshawn looked up and nodded, his face breaking into a modest smile. "What’s good?" he called out as he noticed the purposefulness in their gait. "Oh shit, it’s time already?”
“Yeah,” Ronnie dapped him up, “We’ll give a little buffer with the face painting and all that but we should probably get you set up and everything. Get a crowd going before we start.”
“Don’t embarrass me in front of these folks,” Vic teased, “You got the Victor Singleton stamp, don’t be having people think I’m a shitty coach or something.”
“Boy, he’ll dunk on your ass,” Gayle sucked her teeth as she looked up towards Keshawn, “The fuck you teaching him, how to be a sorry ass team that ain’t never won shit?”
Vic opened his mouth but bit his tongue, opting for a force laugh instead, “You really should get into standup, girl, you’ll make a killing.”
As they made their way towards the basketball court, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, making way for Keshawn's towering figure. Angela quickened her pace, falling into step beside Keshawn. She glanced back, ensuring Vic and Ronnie were engrossed in conversation before getting Keshawn’s attention.
"Look, Ke," she began, her eyes darting around to make sure no one else was listening, "I know it ain't my place, but I gotta say something. You need to be careful with girls like Gayle."
Keshawn's brow furrowed, confusion evident on his face. "What you mean?"
Angela sighed, choosing her words carefully. "You know what I mean. You ain’t the first one and you sure as hell ain’t gonna be the last one. All I’m saying is a girl like her, she’s looking to jump onboard a moving train and all she’s going to do is weigh you down. God forbid you put a baby in her like all those other dummies…"
Keshawn's eyes widened for a moment before he burst into laughter, the sound rich and deep. A few heads turned their way, drawn by his mirth. "Ang, you trippin'," he said, shaking his head. "There's nothing going on between me and Gayle. We just friends, that's all."
His laughter died down as he noticed the serious expression on Angela's face. "For real," he added, his voice softer now. "I appreciate you looking out for me, but you don't need to worry. Me and Gayle is just cool, that’s all. Shit, she’s the only person that be talking to me so I just talk back to her."
Before Angela could respond, Vic's voice cut through the air, sharp and annoyed. "Angela, I already done told you to stay out that man business. Always trying to lecture somebody on what they’re doing.”
Angela bristled at Vic's words, her chin lifting defiantly. "I'm just looking out for him," she retorted. "Someone's gotta do it."
The tension between them crackled like electricity, threatening to ignite the very air around them. Ronnie, sensing the growing discord, stepped in smoothly. "Hey, hey," he said, his voice light but firm. "We got a show to put on, remember? Let's focus on that and not where Keshawn is putting his dick in, respectfully."
Keshawn’s face was flushed with embarrassment, never wanting to be the center of attention, let alone conflict. Angela thought of a thousand more retorts as she stared Vic down but with a crowd beginning to form for the upcoming event, she thought better of it.
“Whatever,” she sucked her teeth, “Let’s just get this shit over with.”
…
The city stirred to life as dawn broke, its first light barely penetrating the grimy alleyway where Quincy had spent the night. He rose stiffly from his makeshift bed of flattened cardboard boxes, his joints creaking in protest. The acrid taste of last night's high lingered in his mouth, a bitter reminder of his ever-present need.
Quincy shouldered his worn backpack and shuffled out onto the awakening streets. His eyes, sunken and bloodshot, scanned the sidewalks for opportunity. He knew the routines of the city by heart, the ebb and flow of potential marks and odd jobs.
His first stop was the loading dock behind a small grocery store. He loitered nearby, hoping to catch the eye of the manager who sometimes offered cash for help unloading trucks. Today, luck was not on his side. The manager waved him away with a curt gesture, leaving Quincy to trudge onward.
By mid-morning, the sun beat down mercilessly. Quincy's threadbare clothes were damp with sweat as he made his way to a busy intersection. Here, he pulled a dirty squeegee from his bag and approached idling cars, offering to clean windshields for spare change. Some drivers ignored him, others shooed him away, but a few relented, allowing him to earn a meager handful of coins.
As afternoon wore on, desperation gnawed at him. The need for a fix consumed his thoughts, driving him to scour dumpsters behind restaurants for discarded bottles and cans to recycle. His fingers, trembling and dirt-encrusted, picked through the refuse, adding to the jangling collection in his plastic bag.
The recycling center was his next destination. The acrid smell of stale beer and soda assaulted his nostrils as he waited in line, clutching his bag of salvaged containers. When his turn came, he watched the counter tick upward, each cent bringing him closer to his goal.
With the sun dipping towards the horizon, Quincy finally had enough. He made his way to a familiar corner, eyes darting nervously as he approached his dealer. The exchange was quick, furtive. The weight of the small package in his pocket felt like an anchor, simultaneously dragging him down and keeping him tethered to this world.
As twilight painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, Quincy slipped into the abandoned park. Overgrown grass tickled his ankles as he picked his way through broken playground equipment. He settled beneath a gnarled oak tree, its branches casting long shadows in the fading light.
With practiced movements, he prepared his fix. The ritual was a comfort, a moment of anticipation before the rush. As the first tendrils of smoke curled from his makeshift pipe, Quincy's eyes glazed over. The park around him faded away, replaced by a hazy euphoria. In this moment, perched on the edge of oblivion, he was at peace.
…
A.J.'s heart raced as he stood outside her apartment door, his hand hovering uncertainly over the knocker. The faded green paint peeled at the edges, revealing layers of history beneath. He could hear muffled shouts and the tinny sounds of gunfire from inside - video games, he hoped. Taking a deep breath, he rapped his knuckles against the worn wood.
The door swung open, revealing Alyssa's radiant smile. Her dark curls cascaded over her shoulders, framing her face in a way that reminded A.J. why he hade made the venture into unfamiliar territory. "Don’t get shy now," she purred, grabbing his hand and pulling him inside before he could second-guess himself.
The living room was a whirlwind of activity. Two young men, presumably Alyssa's brothers, sprawled across a sagging couch, their fingers flying over game controllers.
"Don't mind them," Alyssa whispered, her breath warm against A.J.'s ear as she led him past. One of the brothers glanced up, giving A.J. a quick once-over before returning to the game. A.J. felt his shoulders tense, hyper-aware of his every movement.
They navigated through a narrow hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath their feet. Alyssa's room was a stark contrast to the rest of the apartment. Fairy lights twinkled along the walls, casting a soft, dreamy glow. Posters of musicians and a vision board covered every available surface, creating a collage of aspirations and fantasies.
"You can sit down," Alyssa said, gesturing to the bed covered in a soft, purple comforter. A.J. perched on the edge, his hands fidgeting in his lap. The scent of vanilla and something distinctly Alyssa filled the air, making his head spin.
Alyssa settled beside him, close enough that their thighs touched. "You did a lot of talking in them text messages," she murmured, “You scared or something?”
“Hell nah,” he fired back, “I was just making sure my head don’t get knocked off trying to see no girl.”
“I ain’t just a girl, now am I?” she teased, “Besides, not like you bang or nothing. You don’t, right?”
“You know that shit don’t matter,” he laughed, “You don’t fuck with niggas that trip?”
“I don’t need them type of drama,” she abruptly threw her leg over his waist until she was now straddling him, pushing his body towards the bed, “I bring enough of them on my own.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she muttered as she took off her top, “This pussy done made plenty niggas crash out.”
The sun shined onto on the bustling street, transforming the asphalt into a shimmering mirage as the Block Party pulsed with life. The air was thick with the aroma of sizzling barbecue, the rhythmic beats of hip-hop, and the excited chatter of the crowd. Colorful banners fluttered in the warm breeze, proclaiming "Black Excellence" in bold letters, while makeshift booths lined the sidewalks, offering everything from handmade jewelry to voter registration forms.
Ronnie couldn't contain his excitement, his eyes sparkling as he surveyed the scene. "Yo, this is kind of fire," he exclaimed, gesturing widely at the crowd of a few dozen people mingling around them. "I’m not gonna lie, I was worried for a moment.”
Angela nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. She was trying to match Ronnie's enthusiasm, but her gaze kept drifting to Vic, who stood slightly apart from them, mindless scrolling through his phone. "Yeah," she replied, her voice tinged with forced cheerfulness. "I'm glad people are showing up."
Vic shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling the tension crackling between him and Angela like static electricity. He knew he'd messed up by ignoring her texts, but he wasn’t exactly at liberty to address it directly without either digging a further hole or lying to his long term girlfriend. Instead, he focused on the event at hand. "Y'all did good with this," he offered, his voice gruff but sincere. "Especially for y’all first big event."
Angela's eyes flickered to Vic, a mix of hurt and longing evident in her gaze before she quickly looked away. She had her own secret too, no matter how innocent the dinner with Ronnie ultimately was. She knew enough of the male ego, especially in South Central LA, that no such thing as an innocent dinner between two friends of the opposite sex existed.
"I really think we can do something good for the community with things like these," she said, her voice taking on a passionate edge. "I’m all with y’all on throwing parties and good time for the community but we have to start pushing our message across every step of the way too.”
Ronnie nodded enthusiastically, oblivious to the underlying tension. "We got voting registration sign-ups, tutoring sign ups, job application aids. The whole point of this was to fund the tour we doing next month and we’ve already gotten someone to donate a bus.”
As they spoke, a group of young kids ran by, their faces painted with vibrant designs, laughing and chasing each other. The sight brought a genuine smile to Angela's face, softening her features. "I know, I know," she replied, “You know I’m always going to push us to do more. Ain’t it my job be the annoying one?”
“Speaking of,” Ronnie pulled out his phone and navigated to his calendar, “Your boy about to be up, where he’s at?”
Vic's eyes widened as he scanned the crowd, realizing he hadn't seen Keshawn in a while. A mere months ago, he’d have been attached to his hips at a gathering like this. "I don’t know,” Vic shrugged, “He’s got to be around here somewhere, ain’t exactly hard to find his tall ass.”
The trio weaved through the throng of people, the vibrant energy of the block party pulsing around them. Children darted between adults' legs, their laughter mingling with the soulful strains of a live band setting up on a small stage. The scent of fried plantains and jerk chicken wafted from a nearby food truck, making their stomachs growl despite their preoccupation.
As they rounded the corner past a face-painting booth, Ronnie spotted a familiar tall figure in the distance. "There he is," he said, pointing towards a small group gathered near the community center's entrance.
Keshawn stood head and shoulders above the rest, his lanky frame impossible to miss. He was surrounded by a handful of people, including a couple of volunteers. But it was the bodacious figure standing closest to Keshawn that caught Angela's attention.
Gayle stood there, her hand resting casually on Keshawn's chest as she laughed at something he said. Her eyes sparkled with admiration, and she seemed to be hanging on his every word.
Angela felt a twinge of something she couldn't quite name. She nudged Vic, nodding towards the pair. "I’m making this up too?" she murmured, her voice low. "What's going on with them?”
Vic glanced over, his expression neutral. "I told you, it’s nothing," he said dismissively. "You know how Gayle is, she friendly to everybody and Ke ain’t gonna say nothing.”
But Angela couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it. The way Gayle leaned in close to Keshawn, the easy familiarity between them – it all seemed a little too intimate for mere friendliness.
As they approached, Keshawn looked up and nodded, his face breaking into a modest smile. "What’s good?" he called out as he noticed the purposefulness in their gait. "Oh shit, it’s time already?”
“Yeah,” Ronnie dapped him up, “We’ll give a little buffer with the face painting and all that but we should probably get you set up and everything. Get a crowd going before we start.”
“Don’t embarrass me in front of these folks,” Vic teased, “You got the Victor Singleton stamp, don’t be having people think I’m a shitty coach or something.”
“Boy, he’ll dunk on your ass,” Gayle sucked her teeth as she looked up towards Keshawn, “The fuck you teaching him, how to be a sorry ass team that ain’t never won shit?”
Vic opened his mouth but bit his tongue, opting for a force laugh instead, “You really should get into standup, girl, you’ll make a killing.”
As they made their way towards the basketball court, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, making way for Keshawn's towering figure. Angela quickened her pace, falling into step beside Keshawn. She glanced back, ensuring Vic and Ronnie were engrossed in conversation before getting Keshawn’s attention.
"Look, Ke," she began, her eyes darting around to make sure no one else was listening, "I know it ain't my place, but I gotta say something. You need to be careful with girls like Gayle."
Keshawn's brow furrowed, confusion evident on his face. "What you mean?"
Angela sighed, choosing her words carefully. "You know what I mean. You ain’t the first one and you sure as hell ain’t gonna be the last one. All I’m saying is a girl like her, she’s looking to jump onboard a moving train and all she’s going to do is weigh you down. God forbid you put a baby in her like all those other dummies…"
Keshawn's eyes widened for a moment before he burst into laughter, the sound rich and deep. A few heads turned their way, drawn by his mirth. "Ang, you trippin'," he said, shaking his head. "There's nothing going on between me and Gayle. We just friends, that's all."
His laughter died down as he noticed the serious expression on Angela's face. "For real," he added, his voice softer now. "I appreciate you looking out for me, but you don't need to worry. Me and Gayle is just cool, that’s all. Shit, she’s the only person that be talking to me so I just talk back to her."
Before Angela could respond, Vic's voice cut through the air, sharp and annoyed. "Angela, I already done told you to stay out that man business. Always trying to lecture somebody on what they’re doing.”
Angela bristled at Vic's words, her chin lifting defiantly. "I'm just looking out for him," she retorted. "Someone's gotta do it."
The tension between them crackled like electricity, threatening to ignite the very air around them. Ronnie, sensing the growing discord, stepped in smoothly. "Hey, hey," he said, his voice light but firm. "We got a show to put on, remember? Let's focus on that and not where Keshawn is putting his dick in, respectfully."
Keshawn’s face was flushed with embarrassment, never wanting to be the center of attention, let alone conflict. Angela thought of a thousand more retorts as she stared Vic down but with a crowd beginning to form for the upcoming event, she thought better of it.
“Whatever,” she sucked her teeth, “Let’s just get this shit over with.”
…
The city stirred to life as dawn broke, its first light barely penetrating the grimy alleyway where Quincy had spent the night. He rose stiffly from his makeshift bed of flattened cardboard boxes, his joints creaking in protest. The acrid taste of last night's high lingered in his mouth, a bitter reminder of his ever-present need.
Quincy shouldered his worn backpack and shuffled out onto the awakening streets. His eyes, sunken and bloodshot, scanned the sidewalks for opportunity. He knew the routines of the city by heart, the ebb and flow of potential marks and odd jobs.
His first stop was the loading dock behind a small grocery store. He loitered nearby, hoping to catch the eye of the manager who sometimes offered cash for help unloading trucks. Today, luck was not on his side. The manager waved him away with a curt gesture, leaving Quincy to trudge onward.
By mid-morning, the sun beat down mercilessly. Quincy's threadbare clothes were damp with sweat as he made his way to a busy intersection. Here, he pulled a dirty squeegee from his bag and approached idling cars, offering to clean windshields for spare change. Some drivers ignored him, others shooed him away, but a few relented, allowing him to earn a meager handful of coins.
As afternoon wore on, desperation gnawed at him. The need for a fix consumed his thoughts, driving him to scour dumpsters behind restaurants for discarded bottles and cans to recycle. His fingers, trembling and dirt-encrusted, picked through the refuse, adding to the jangling collection in his plastic bag.
The recycling center was his next destination. The acrid smell of stale beer and soda assaulted his nostrils as he waited in line, clutching his bag of salvaged containers. When his turn came, he watched the counter tick upward, each cent bringing him closer to his goal.
With the sun dipping towards the horizon, Quincy finally had enough. He made his way to a familiar corner, eyes darting nervously as he approached his dealer. The exchange was quick, furtive. The weight of the small package in his pocket felt like an anchor, simultaneously dragging him down and keeping him tethered to this world.
As twilight painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, Quincy slipped into the abandoned park. Overgrown grass tickled his ankles as he picked his way through broken playground equipment. He settled beneath a gnarled oak tree, its branches casting long shadows in the fading light.
With practiced movements, he prepared his fix. The ritual was a comfort, a moment of anticipation before the rush. As the first tendrils of smoke curled from his makeshift pipe, Quincy's eyes glazed over. The park around him faded away, replaced by a hazy euphoria. In this moment, perched on the edge of oblivion, he was at peace.
…
A.J.'s heart raced as he stood outside her apartment door, his hand hovering uncertainly over the knocker. The faded green paint peeled at the edges, revealing layers of history beneath. He could hear muffled shouts and the tinny sounds of gunfire from inside - video games, he hoped. Taking a deep breath, he rapped his knuckles against the worn wood.
The door swung open, revealing Alyssa's radiant smile. Her dark curls cascaded over her shoulders, framing her face in a way that reminded A.J. why he hade made the venture into unfamiliar territory. "Don’t get shy now," she purred, grabbing his hand and pulling him inside before he could second-guess himself.
The living room was a whirlwind of activity. Two young men, presumably Alyssa's brothers, sprawled across a sagging couch, their fingers flying over game controllers.
"Don't mind them," Alyssa whispered, her breath warm against A.J.'s ear as she led him past. One of the brothers glanced up, giving A.J. a quick once-over before returning to the game. A.J. felt his shoulders tense, hyper-aware of his every movement.
They navigated through a narrow hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath their feet. Alyssa's room was a stark contrast to the rest of the apartment. Fairy lights twinkled along the walls, casting a soft, dreamy glow. Posters of musicians and a vision board covered every available surface, creating a collage of aspirations and fantasies.
"You can sit down," Alyssa said, gesturing to the bed covered in a soft, purple comforter. A.J. perched on the edge, his hands fidgeting in his lap. The scent of vanilla and something distinctly Alyssa filled the air, making his head spin.
Alyssa settled beside him, close enough that their thighs touched. "You did a lot of talking in them text messages," she murmured, “You scared or something?”
“Hell nah,” he fired back, “I was just making sure my head don’t get knocked off trying to see no girl.”
“I ain’t just a girl, now am I?” she teased, “Besides, not like you bang or nothing. You don’t, right?”
“You know that shit don’t matter,” he laughed, “You don’t fuck with niggas that trip?”
“I don’t need them type of drama,” she abruptly threw her leg over his waist until she was now straddling him, pushing his body towards the bed, “I bring enough of them on my own.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she muttered as she took off her top, “This pussy done made plenty niggas crash out.”
Neighborhood.
Summertime '06 - Episode 6
The first quarter was brutal. Keshawn fumbled passes, missed easy layups, and found himself consistently outmaneuvered by savvier opponents. While there weren’t any household names, the court was filled with players from Mid-Majors and a few pros that played overseas. His confidence waned with each misstep, the jeers from the crowd piercing through his usual quiet demeanor.
But as the second quarter began, Keshawn started to settle into the game, no longer having the crush of Vic on the court with him. Instead, he just constantly reminded him to make an impact on the game on every possession, no matter how small. Keshawn caught a rebound, his long arms stretching above the crowd. Instead of immediately passing, he took a breath, pivoted, and drove down the court. The sea of players parted as he accelerated, his gangly frame surprisingly agile. He leapt, the ball rolling off his fingertips and through the net with a satisfying swish.
When a former Euro League point guard tried to cross him over on a switch, Keshawn stayed with him step for step, using his length to poke the ball free and start a fast break.
By the fourth quarter, Keshawn was playing with the confidence he had in the latter part of last season. He caught an alley-oop from the top of the key, slamming it home with authority. On defense, he swatted away a shot from a starter for San Diego, sending it into the third row. The gym erupted, and Keshawn allowed himself a small smile, his reserved nature giving way to the thrill of competition.
…
As Keshawn made his way towards the locker room, his muscles aching pleasantly from exertion, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a man in his mid-forties, notebook in hand. He had seen him before but couldn’t quite place the face.
"Keshawn Chase? I'm Shawn Elias from the Los Angeles Times. Got a minute for a quick interview?"
Keshawn nodded, looking around to see if Vic was nearby. "Yeah, yeah, sure.”
"You had some pretty good runs out there, man, how’d it feel to compete with some older guys?”
Keshawn wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Uh, thanks. It felt good. Took me a minute to get going, but once I did, I was able to make an impact on the game.”
Elias scribbled in his notebook. "I've been watching you all day, saw a couple of your games last year at Hamilton, especially against Westchase. How's the recruitment process going? Any early favorites?”
Keshawn shifted uncomfortably, his eyes still searching for Vic. "Mostly Pepperdine, right now. Fullerton, Irvine, and Weber State are talking to me a little bit but they haven’t offered or anything.”
Elias's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Really? I would've thought... Well, that's interesting. You’re looking to stay in state or what’s the move?”
Keshawn shrugged, his long arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. "I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about it much. I’m just really taking it in stride and listening to what these schools have to offer and make a decision once I have a better understanding of what my options are.”
Elias leaned in, his voice lowering. "Between you and me, kid, you’re not playing at fucking Fullerton, okay? Don’t get me wrong, nothing wrong with that program but you’ve got high level D-I talent, it’s clear as day. You’re not playing AAU this summer?”
Keshawn's eyes widened. "No, just really focusing on my game right now. My cousin Vic's been helping me, but..."
Elias pulled out a business card and handed it to Keshawn. "Look, it’s all about getting eyes on you. If you're interested, I know a couple good showcases I’ll be checking out this summer, a good place to show your talent. Ain’t no guarantees in this shit but it couldn’t hurt, right?”
Keshawn stared at the card, his mind racing. He had been told since his growth spur that he would be playing college basketball and even as a lanky, uncoordinated freshman at Thornwood, college coaches would come and visit, mostly gawk at the potential. But it was always ‘just wait until next year’ so that’s exactly what he did but now, it all seemed to be happening. He wasn’t just going to be playing college basketball at some point. He was going to be playing college basketball in the relatively near future.
"I... I'll think about it," Keshawn said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Elias nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "You do that. And remember, just keep hooping, keep getting better. The offers will come pouring in.”
…
"Bitch ass nigga always trippin'," Fat Stacks muttered, adjusting his sagging jeans. "Don’t nobody give a fuck about that big brother shit.”
He approached the run-down apartment complex, eyeing the graffiti-covered walls and rusty security gate. Fat Stacks checked the address on his phone one more time before buzzing Unit 2B.
A woman's voice crackled through the intercom. "Who is it?"
"It's Stacks. I mean, Dro sent me. Open up, we got business."
There was a pause, then a buzz as the gate unlocked. Fat Stacks made his way up the grimy stairs, his heavy boots echoing in the stairwell. He rapped his knuckles on 2B's door, impatience written across his face.
The door opened a crack, revealing a tall, slim woman with worry lines etched into her forehead. "Can I help you?"
Fat Stacks pushed his way inside, ignoring her initial shock. "Yeah, you can help by paying what you owe. Dro sent me to collect."
Loraine’s eyes widened with recognition and fear. She took a moment to collect herself, having been accustomed to dealing with Dro directly who had a way of masking the rougher edges of their dealing.
“I just didn’t expect you,” she forced a smile, “My purse is in the kitchen, I’ll be right back.”
She kept her eye on Fat Stacks as long as she could before disappearing into the nearby kitchen, hurrying herself. Fat Stacks meandered in the living room, his gaze grifting towards a family portrait that stuck out like a sore thumb in the humble apartment. He picked it up, studying it closely as he made out Keshawn’s face.
“Ain’t that a bitch,” he laughed to himself.
…
Quincy shuffled down the street, his eyes darting nervously from side to side. The familiar itch beneath his skin was growing stronger, driving him forward despite the ache in his feet. He turned the corner onto Crenshaw, his outstanding debt pushing him further and further away from his home based. He began scanning the faces of the people milling about, hoping to spot a familiar connect.
That's when he saw Debra, leaning against a graffitied wall, her gaunt face a mirror of his own desperation. Their eyes met, a flicker of recognition passing between them.
"Yo, Debra," Quincy called out, his voice raspy. "You copped yet?”
Debra pushed herself off the wall, her movements slow and deliberate. "What you think?”
Quincy nodded, understanding all too well. "I got a little something on it. You?”
A small smile cracked Debra's chapped lips. "I knew you came over here for a reason.”
They pooled their meager resources and made their way to a nearby alley, where that familiar connect was waiting. The transaction was quick and furtive, leaving them both clutching their precious cargo.
“I ain’t fucking with that park by Stocker no more,” she warned him as they walked through the alleyway, “Damn near chased us out there last night.”
“Blue?”
“I wish. Some fucking kids,” she shook her head, “They ran Tone for everything she had on her. I think its Stacks and them on some real low down shit, robbing us twice.”
“That would be an excellent business plan,” Quincy amused himself, “Sell a motherfucker some shit, rob him. Now, he hurrying back to cop it again, paying for it twice.”
“Ain’t nothing funny about that,” she contested, “We work hard for this shit.”
"We could head over down there," Quincy suggested, jerking his head towards the small green space a block away, “We’ll see their ass coming up the hill.”
Debra nodded, and they set off, their steps quickening with anticipation. The park was nearly empty, save for a few pigeons pecking at discarded food wrappers. They found a secluded bench partially hidden by overgrown bushes.
Quincy's hands shook as he prepared their score, the ritual as familiar as breathing. Debra watched, her eyes gleaming with a mix of shame and eagerness as her previous high had wore off, the fleeting moments of sobriety between fixes.
As the smoke curled around them, Debra let out a long sigh. "You ever try to kick this shit? Like, for real?”
Quincy leaned back, feeling the drug seep into his system. "All the damn time. I had a good run earlier this year, almost made it to April. Ever year, I string a couple good weeks, maybe even months if my sister’s cooking decent.”
Debra nodded, her gaze distant. "Yeah, I don’t think I made it more than a few days. I don’t think I want to either.”
“I don’t know why anyone would,” Quincy shrugged.
“Shit, you just said you did it.”
“I was just too broke to get anything,” Quincy scoffed, “And a man got to have a code, even when you dabbling in this shit. I ain’t gonna steal from family or sell that virgin hole of mine.”
“You’re a fool,” she cracked a smile.
“I’m serious, every time I get clean, I ain’t really want to get clean for real. A nigga just be tired, man. You fuck around go through them shakes, too fucking tired to get up to cop something so you just lay there, going through hell. You get out of it and you just tired from that, tired from life so you just say fuck it, I’m going to just stay alive for today and figure out what the fuck tomorrow going to be like when it comes. And you string that together…until you don’t.”
“I’m scared of getting clean,” Debra admitted, her voice cracking at the mere thought of it, “I don’t know about you but…I ain’t one of those people with a fucking fairy tale before this shit. Shit, it probably saved my life come to think of it. I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do after the accident? Take my husband away from me…take my little girl’s daddy from her…and what now, I’m just supposed to keep living? Fuck that, that ain’t what I signed up for.”
“He was a solid motherfucker,” he nodded his head, “See, back in my day, when this shit meant something for real, we would have rolled on that no-good cracker. It’s like motherfuckers forgot the whole point of this shit was for us to protect each other, take care of each other. Now you got fucking kids running around with guns bigger than they fucking arm, selling dope to their own momma.”
“You’re fucking up my high,” Debra muttered, forgetting she was the one that started the conversation.
Quincy stared into Debra's face, watching as the drugs took hold. Her eyes, once sharp with the clarity of their conversation, began to glaze over. The worry lines etched deep into her forehead softened, smoothing out like ripples on a pond settling into stillness. Her jaw, which had been clenched tight with the tension of their discussion, slowly relaxed. Her pupils dilated, turning her eyes into dark pools that seemed to reflect the depths of her escape.
Debra's breathing slowed, becoming deep and rhythmic. The constant tremor in her hands, something he was all too familiar with, gradually subsided. Her shoulders, which had been hunched up around her ears as if to ward off the world, now slumped in relief.
He felt the familiar warmth spreading through his own body. The aches in his joints faded away, replaced by a comforting numbness. The constant chatter of his mind, the endless loop of regrets and what-ifs, began to quiet.
He didn't fight it. Instead, he let himself be carried away on the same current that had swept Debra along. The world around them blurred at the edges, the harsh realities of their lives fading into the background.
Quincy's last coherent thought before succumbing entirely to the drug's embrace was a dim recognition of the tragedy unfolding. Here they were, two broken souls finding solace in oblivion, their pain temporarily numbed but not healed. But even this realization slipped away as the high took hold, leaving them both adrift in a sea of artificial peace.
The first quarter was brutal. Keshawn fumbled passes, missed easy layups, and found himself consistently outmaneuvered by savvier opponents. While there weren’t any household names, the court was filled with players from Mid-Majors and a few pros that played overseas. His confidence waned with each misstep, the jeers from the crowd piercing through his usual quiet demeanor.
But as the second quarter began, Keshawn started to settle into the game, no longer having the crush of Vic on the court with him. Instead, he just constantly reminded him to make an impact on the game on every possession, no matter how small. Keshawn caught a rebound, his long arms stretching above the crowd. Instead of immediately passing, he took a breath, pivoted, and drove down the court. The sea of players parted as he accelerated, his gangly frame surprisingly agile. He leapt, the ball rolling off his fingertips and through the net with a satisfying swish.
When a former Euro League point guard tried to cross him over on a switch, Keshawn stayed with him step for step, using his length to poke the ball free and start a fast break.
By the fourth quarter, Keshawn was playing with the confidence he had in the latter part of last season. He caught an alley-oop from the top of the key, slamming it home with authority. On defense, he swatted away a shot from a starter for San Diego, sending it into the third row. The gym erupted, and Keshawn allowed himself a small smile, his reserved nature giving way to the thrill of competition.
…
As Keshawn made his way towards the locker room, his muscles aching pleasantly from exertion, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a man in his mid-forties, notebook in hand. He had seen him before but couldn’t quite place the face.
"Keshawn Chase? I'm Shawn Elias from the Los Angeles Times. Got a minute for a quick interview?"
Keshawn nodded, looking around to see if Vic was nearby. "Yeah, yeah, sure.”
"You had some pretty good runs out there, man, how’d it feel to compete with some older guys?”
Keshawn wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Uh, thanks. It felt good. Took me a minute to get going, but once I did, I was able to make an impact on the game.”
Elias scribbled in his notebook. "I've been watching you all day, saw a couple of your games last year at Hamilton, especially against Westchase. How's the recruitment process going? Any early favorites?”
Keshawn shifted uncomfortably, his eyes still searching for Vic. "Mostly Pepperdine, right now. Fullerton, Irvine, and Weber State are talking to me a little bit but they haven’t offered or anything.”
Elias's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Really? I would've thought... Well, that's interesting. You’re looking to stay in state or what’s the move?”
Keshawn shrugged, his long arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. "I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about it much. I’m just really taking it in stride and listening to what these schools have to offer and make a decision once I have a better understanding of what my options are.”
Elias leaned in, his voice lowering. "Between you and me, kid, you’re not playing at fucking Fullerton, okay? Don’t get me wrong, nothing wrong with that program but you’ve got high level D-I talent, it’s clear as day. You’re not playing AAU this summer?”
Keshawn's eyes widened. "No, just really focusing on my game right now. My cousin Vic's been helping me, but..."
Elias pulled out a business card and handed it to Keshawn. "Look, it’s all about getting eyes on you. If you're interested, I know a couple good showcases I’ll be checking out this summer, a good place to show your talent. Ain’t no guarantees in this shit but it couldn’t hurt, right?”
Keshawn stared at the card, his mind racing. He had been told since his growth spur that he would be playing college basketball and even as a lanky, uncoordinated freshman at Thornwood, college coaches would come and visit, mostly gawk at the potential. But it was always ‘just wait until next year’ so that’s exactly what he did but now, it all seemed to be happening. He wasn’t just going to be playing college basketball at some point. He was going to be playing college basketball in the relatively near future.
"I... I'll think about it," Keshawn said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Elias nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "You do that. And remember, just keep hooping, keep getting better. The offers will come pouring in.”
…
"Bitch ass nigga always trippin'," Fat Stacks muttered, adjusting his sagging jeans. "Don’t nobody give a fuck about that big brother shit.”
He approached the run-down apartment complex, eyeing the graffiti-covered walls and rusty security gate. Fat Stacks checked the address on his phone one more time before buzzing Unit 2B.
A woman's voice crackled through the intercom. "Who is it?"
"It's Stacks. I mean, Dro sent me. Open up, we got business."
There was a pause, then a buzz as the gate unlocked. Fat Stacks made his way up the grimy stairs, his heavy boots echoing in the stairwell. He rapped his knuckles on 2B's door, impatience written across his face.
The door opened a crack, revealing a tall, slim woman with worry lines etched into her forehead. "Can I help you?"
Fat Stacks pushed his way inside, ignoring her initial shock. "Yeah, you can help by paying what you owe. Dro sent me to collect."
Loraine’s eyes widened with recognition and fear. She took a moment to collect herself, having been accustomed to dealing with Dro directly who had a way of masking the rougher edges of their dealing.
“I just didn’t expect you,” she forced a smile, “My purse is in the kitchen, I’ll be right back.”
She kept her eye on Fat Stacks as long as she could before disappearing into the nearby kitchen, hurrying herself. Fat Stacks meandered in the living room, his gaze grifting towards a family portrait that stuck out like a sore thumb in the humble apartment. He picked it up, studying it closely as he made out Keshawn’s face.
“Ain’t that a bitch,” he laughed to himself.
…
Quincy shuffled down the street, his eyes darting nervously from side to side. The familiar itch beneath his skin was growing stronger, driving him forward despite the ache in his feet. He turned the corner onto Crenshaw, his outstanding debt pushing him further and further away from his home based. He began scanning the faces of the people milling about, hoping to spot a familiar connect.
That's when he saw Debra, leaning against a graffitied wall, her gaunt face a mirror of his own desperation. Their eyes met, a flicker of recognition passing between them.
"Yo, Debra," Quincy called out, his voice raspy. "You copped yet?”
Debra pushed herself off the wall, her movements slow and deliberate. "What you think?”
Quincy nodded, understanding all too well. "I got a little something on it. You?”
A small smile cracked Debra's chapped lips. "I knew you came over here for a reason.”
They pooled their meager resources and made their way to a nearby alley, where that familiar connect was waiting. The transaction was quick and furtive, leaving them both clutching their precious cargo.
“I ain’t fucking with that park by Stocker no more,” she warned him as they walked through the alleyway, “Damn near chased us out there last night.”
“Blue?”
“I wish. Some fucking kids,” she shook her head, “They ran Tone for everything she had on her. I think its Stacks and them on some real low down shit, robbing us twice.”
“That would be an excellent business plan,” Quincy amused himself, “Sell a motherfucker some shit, rob him. Now, he hurrying back to cop it again, paying for it twice.”
“Ain’t nothing funny about that,” she contested, “We work hard for this shit.”
"We could head over down there," Quincy suggested, jerking his head towards the small green space a block away, “We’ll see their ass coming up the hill.”
Debra nodded, and they set off, their steps quickening with anticipation. The park was nearly empty, save for a few pigeons pecking at discarded food wrappers. They found a secluded bench partially hidden by overgrown bushes.
Quincy's hands shook as he prepared their score, the ritual as familiar as breathing. Debra watched, her eyes gleaming with a mix of shame and eagerness as her previous high had wore off, the fleeting moments of sobriety between fixes.
As the smoke curled around them, Debra let out a long sigh. "You ever try to kick this shit? Like, for real?”
Quincy leaned back, feeling the drug seep into his system. "All the damn time. I had a good run earlier this year, almost made it to April. Ever year, I string a couple good weeks, maybe even months if my sister’s cooking decent.”
Debra nodded, her gaze distant. "Yeah, I don’t think I made it more than a few days. I don’t think I want to either.”
“I don’t know why anyone would,” Quincy shrugged.
“Shit, you just said you did it.”
“I was just too broke to get anything,” Quincy scoffed, “And a man got to have a code, even when you dabbling in this shit. I ain’t gonna steal from family or sell that virgin hole of mine.”
“You’re a fool,” she cracked a smile.
“I’m serious, every time I get clean, I ain’t really want to get clean for real. A nigga just be tired, man. You fuck around go through them shakes, too fucking tired to get up to cop something so you just lay there, going through hell. You get out of it and you just tired from that, tired from life so you just say fuck it, I’m going to just stay alive for today and figure out what the fuck tomorrow going to be like when it comes. And you string that together…until you don’t.”
“I’m scared of getting clean,” Debra admitted, her voice cracking at the mere thought of it, “I don’t know about you but…I ain’t one of those people with a fucking fairy tale before this shit. Shit, it probably saved my life come to think of it. I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do after the accident? Take my husband away from me…take my little girl’s daddy from her…and what now, I’m just supposed to keep living? Fuck that, that ain’t what I signed up for.”
“He was a solid motherfucker,” he nodded his head, “See, back in my day, when this shit meant something for real, we would have rolled on that no-good cracker. It’s like motherfuckers forgot the whole point of this shit was for us to protect each other, take care of each other. Now you got fucking kids running around with guns bigger than they fucking arm, selling dope to their own momma.”
“You’re fucking up my high,” Debra muttered, forgetting she was the one that started the conversation.
Quincy stared into Debra's face, watching as the drugs took hold. Her eyes, once sharp with the clarity of their conversation, began to glaze over. The worry lines etched deep into her forehead softened, smoothing out like ripples on a pond settling into stillness. Her jaw, which had been clenched tight with the tension of their discussion, slowly relaxed. Her pupils dilated, turning her eyes into dark pools that seemed to reflect the depths of her escape.
Debra's breathing slowed, becoming deep and rhythmic. The constant tremor in her hands, something he was all too familiar with, gradually subsided. Her shoulders, which had been hunched up around her ears as if to ward off the world, now slumped in relief.
He felt the familiar warmth spreading through his own body. The aches in his joints faded away, replaced by a comforting numbness. The constant chatter of his mind, the endless loop of regrets and what-ifs, began to quiet.
He didn't fight it. Instead, he let himself be carried away on the same current that had swept Debra along. The world around them blurred at the edges, the harsh realities of their lives fading into the background.
Quincy's last coherent thought before succumbing entirely to the drug's embrace was a dim recognition of the tragedy unfolding. Here they were, two broken souls finding solace in oblivion, their pain temporarily numbed but not healed. But even this realization slipped away as the high took hold, leaving them both adrift in a sea of artificial peace.
Neighborhood.
HIGH SCHOOL SPORTS
Column: Southern California has the best high school basketball
anywhere right now
‣ Unranked hidden gem Keshawn Chase of Hamilton is among the bevy of talented players in SoCal
By Shawn Elias
Columnist
June 10, 2023
If you’re a fan of amateur basketball, there’s no better place to spend the next twelve months than Southern California, where talent at the high school level has converged among the classes of 2024, 2025, 2026 and 2027 to create one of those “I can’t believe it” moments.
“No question, it’s special,” Harvard-Westlake coach David Rebibo said.
“SoCal basketball is the greatest amateur basketball in the world right now. Tomorrow may be different but today,” Inglewood coach Jason Crowe Sr. said in a tweet.
The top end talent is undeniable. Nikolas Khamenia from Harvard-Westlake has grown to 6 feet 9, won two gold medals representing USA national teams and is committed to Duke. Tyran Stokes of Sherman Oaks Notre Dame, Brandon McCoy of St. John Bosco, Alijah Arenas of Chatsworth, Jason Crowe Jr. of Inglewood, Tajh Ariza of Westchester and Christian Collins of St. John Bosco are top-15 college prospects.
Add Kaiden Bailey from Santa Margarita, Luke Barnett from Mater Dei, Brannon Martinsen from JSerra, and a Southland all-star team could travel the country and take on anyone.
“To have this many national-level-caliber players in Southern California is pretty amazing,” St. John Bosco coach Matt Dunn said.
The depth is there too. In any other region, Hamilton's Keshawn Chase would be considered a standout and he still might end up becoming that. The Thornwood Academy transfer led Hamilton in points, rebounds and blocks and more than held his own in his two matchups against the younger Ariza this past winter. Chase is currently unranked but that shouldn't be the case for long as he heads into his senior year with a chance to lift Hamilton into improbable heights as they haven't seen a talent like his in recent years.
Players have played with and against each other, so that raises the level of intensity for the upcoming matchups. Stokes and McCoy were teammates on the USA U17 gold-medal team. Crowe and Arenas have been club teammates. Ariza and Collins used to be teammates at St. Bernard. Much of the talent is concentrated in the Mission and Trinity leagues, and games involving them will be played on Jan. 10 in a special one-day showcase at the Intuit Dome.
Neighborhood.
Summertime '06 - Episode 7
The rhythmic thud of the basketball echoed through the empty gym as Keshawn and Vic ran through their final drills. Sweat glistened on their skin, catching the morning sunlight that streamed through the high windows. The squeak of their shoes against the polished hardwood floor punctuated the silence that had settled between them.
Keshawn glanced at Vic, noting the unusual quietness of his normally boisterous cousin. Vic's face was set in concentration, his eyes focused intently on the hoop as he sank shot after shot. The ball arced gracefully through the air, swishing through the net with a satisfying sound.
As they moved into their cool-down period, Keshawn decided to break the silence. "What y’all throwing on the grill today?" he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. "No disrespect to my mom but Auntie Elly? I do miss her cooking, I’ll say that.”
Vic shrugged, his eyes still fixed on the court. "I don’t know," he muttered, reaching down to touch his toes in a stretch. "She’s the one that wanted to have something. Just a regular day for me.”
Keshawn furrowed his brow, caught off guard by Vic's dismissive tone. He knew his cousin had worked hard for this opportunity, had seen the late nights and early mornings Vic had put in to make it happen. "Come on, man," he said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. "You're going to be playing college basketball. I didn’t even care about that until you did and now, what, you’re over it already?”
Vic straightened up, finally meeting Keshawn's gaze. "Yeah, I guess," he said, his voice low. "Just... it's not exactly picking between UCLA or USC. Not like I had a lot of choices to pick from for real.”
“You wished you play AAU last summer?" Keshawn probed, dribbling the basketball aimlessly as they began their walk to the bench to gather their things. "You think that affected your recruitment?"
Vic snorted, shaking his head. "Nah, man. That ain't got nothing to do with it. And it won't for you either."
Keshawn caught the ball, holding it still against his hip. "It can’t hurt, right? I mean, if I’m not that Pro-Am last week, I’m probably not in that article.”
"Listen," Vic interrupted, his voice sharp. He turned to face Keshawn fully, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made Keshawn take a step back. "A fucking article ain’t shit and what did the article even talk about? The shit you actually did on the basketball court in an organized environment, not some fucking AAU tournament in Nebraska against Little Timmy and them. That shit ain't all it's cracked up to be. You wanna get better? You actually work on your game, this shit right here."
"The reporter dude said I need exposure," Keshawn started, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words.
Vic's annoyance continued to grow. "Cuz, it’s your fucking life. If you think AAU's gonna help, then go fucking play AAU, nigga. Ain’t nobody stopping you, I ain’t your daddy.”
…
The aroma of grilled meat and spices wafted through the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and chatter from the backyard. Vic hadn’t spoken to over half of the people in attendance in months, some of them years but any excuse for some brew and grub would do on a summer day.
Angela had been working the scene, as always, talking to people about the Block Party and the club’s upcoming events. She glanced over at Vic, who was slouched in a lawn chair, his eyes fixed on his phone.
"Hey, babe," she called out, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. "Can you believe you’re actually going to be playing college basketball in a few months? It still seems crazy to me!”
Vic barely looked up, his fingers still tapping away at his screen. "Yeah, I guess," he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the sizzle of the grill.
"Come on, you can’t fool me," she pressed, moving closer to him. "I know how long you’ve been waiting for this day.”
Vic finally looked up, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of frustration and indifference. "It’s fucking LPU. What the fuck is there to be excited about?”
Angela felt a surge of irritation. "So what? It's still an opportunity. You should be proud of yourself."
Vic scoffed, shaking his head. "Proud of what? Getting into some no-name school that probably won't even exist in five years? A school that you fucking hated on by the way, the entire process."
At the other end of the backyard, Eleanora stood over the grill, tongs in hand, expertly flipping burgers and rotating corn on the cob. Loraine hovered nearby as she watched her older sister work.
"You know," Eleanora said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "you don't have to stand there supervising. I'm sure I can manage without your expert advice."
Loraine bristled, her fingers tightening around the glass of lemonade she held. "I was just trying to help, Elly. No need to get defensive."
Eleanora snorted, using the tongs to arrange the food on the grill with more force than necessary. "Oh, now you want to help? Funny how that works. Couldn't wait to get out of my broke ass house but here you are, offering pointers like you're some kind of grill master."
The tension between the sisters was palpable, crackling like the flames beneath the grill grate. Loraine's jaw clenched, her dark eyes flashing with a mixture of hurt and anger. "That's not fair, and you know it. We were grateful for your help, but we needed our own space. You know I don’t like feeling like a burden."
"Your own space," Eleanora echoed, her laugh bitter and sharp. "I’m sure you had plenty of your own space for those couple of months.”
Loraine set her glass down on the nearby table with a sharp clink. "That was low, even for you. We're just trying to get back on our feet, to give Keshawn and Simone some stability."
"Don’t be bringing them babies into this," Eleanora scoffed, turning to face her sister fully. The heat from the grill radiated between them, mirroring the intensity of their argument. "Simone is away at college, doing just fine, putting in the work that needs to be done. Ke was the happiest kid ever by the time you got out. Probably got himself a little girlfriend by now, not that you would approve of him mingling with us common folks. He’s got the scholarships coming in, articles being written about him. All from putting in that work, here, with his family, where he belongs.”
The sisters' voices had dropped to harsh whispers, aware of the celebration happening around them. Nearby, a group of cousins played a rowdy game of spades, their laughter and trash talk providing a stark contrast to the tense conversation by the grill.
Loraine's eyes darted around the yard, making sure no one was paying them too much attention. "You don’t know the first thing about my fucking kids or putting work in. Is that what you’ve been doing all those years? Still living at that house?”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with that house,” Eleanora laughed, “At least I ain’t in jail, owing them people, what, three million dollars?”
“Fuck you,” Loraine muttered as she walked away.
…
“It’ll be fun,” Angela pleaded, “We still have a spot open for you.”
Keshawn shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tapping against his phone case. "I don't know, Ang. That's a lot of time on the road. We talking what, like 100 hours on a bus?"
Angela waved her hand dismissively. "More like 50, but that's not the point. It's about the experience, the culture. You can't put a price on that."
Keshawn's hesitation was evident in his voice. "I get that, but I've got workouts, some showcases, another Pro-Am. I can’t exactly throw away a week this summer, they all matter.”
"Come on," Angela pressed, her voice taking on a persuasive tone. "This is bigger than basketball. It's about connecting with our history, our legacy. You can't tell me you're not even a little curious?"
Keshawn shrugged, his eyes drifting back to his phone. "I’m not going to lie, Ang, I haven’t even heard of any of these schools and my sister applied to a bunch of HBCUs. Paul Quinn doesn’t even sound like a real college.”
Frustrated by his lack of enthusiasm, Angela turned to Vic, who had just wandered over, a plate of food in his hand. "Vic, back me up here. Tell Keshawn how great the campus tour was last year."
Vic paused mid-chew, his expression neutral. "It was alright," he said after swallowing. "He’s already visited Pepperdine a few times though and them shits don’t compare.”
Angela's eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you serious right now? That's all you have to say?"
Vic shrugged, taking another bite of his burger. "Just being honest. Howard was nice, but some of the others... I don't know. They could use some work."
Angela felt her anger rising, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "That's the whole point! They need our support. How are they supposed to improve if we don't invest in them?"
"I'm just saying what I saw," Vic replied, his tone defensive. "Not trying to start anything."
"No, you're just perpetuating the same bullshit stereotypes that keep our institutions underfunded and undervalued," Angela snapped, her voice rising. "Do you have any idea how hard these schools have to work with the limited resources they have? And here you are, Mr. Big Shot going to LPU, acting like you’re above it all.”
Angela's eyes widened as she realized the impact of her words. The righteous anger that had fueled her outburst drained away, leaving her feeling hollow and ashamed.
"Babe, I..." she started, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean—"
"Nah, it's cool," Vic cut her off, his voice flat and controlled. "You said what you meant. I'm just some sellout going to a no-name school, right?"
Angela reached out, her fingers brushing against Vic's arm. "Baby, please. I'm sorry. I got carried away. You know how passionate I get about this stuff."
Vic shrugged off her touch, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. "Yeah, I know. It's fine. Don't worry about it."
The tension hanging in the air was suddenly shattered by a loud, boisterous voice from the front yard. "Where my motherfucking nephew at?! My little nigga going off to college like he a Huxtable!”
All heads turned to see Quincy stumbling through the gate, his gait unsteady and his eyes glassy. He was dressed in a mismatched ensemble of a wrinkled dress shirt and cargo shorts, a Kangol perched precariously on his head. In his hand, he clutched a brown paper bag that clinked with every step.
"Uncle Q!" Vic called out, a mixture of surprise and concern in his voice. He quickly made his way over to his uncle, reaching out to steady him as Quincy swayed dangerously.
"There he is!" Quincy exclaimed, his words slurring slightly. "You looking good, neph!" He fumbled with the paper bag, eventually producing a bottle of Mickey’s Fine Malt Liquorr. "I got you a little something to celebrate, my man."
Vic couldn’t contain his laughter as he looked at the bottle. "I don’t know if this is the type of time I’m on, Unc.”
"Nonsense!" Quincy interrupted, pressing the bottle into Vic's hands. "This right here is what you need to be on so you can get your freak on, you overstand me?”
The commotion drew Eleanora and Loraine from opposite ends of the yard. Eleanora reached them first, her face a mask of concern and affection. "You ain’t told me you was coming, would have saved you a plate.”
Quincy grinned broadly, throwing an arm around his sister's shoulders. "Couldn't miss my nephew's big day, could I? Had to come congratulate him properly!"
Loraine arrived on the scene, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. "Quincy," she said, her voice sharp and cold. She hadn’t seen him in years.
Quincy's smile faltered for a moment before returning, albeit a bit forced. "Aw, shit. Loraine, our majesty, how good of you to serve us with your presence. I would have brought some champagne with me.”
Eleanora shot Loraine a warning look before turning back to Quincy. "We still got some food if you hungry.”
Vic nodded, still holding the bottle of cognac awkwardly. "Yeah, Uncle Q. We got some wings, some burgers. I know you don’t touch the pork but mom fucked those ribs up, I’m telling you.”
Loraine's eyes narrowed as she watched the interaction. "Is no one going to mention it?”
The atmosphere grew tense once more, the earlier argument between Angela and Vic forgotten in the face of a decade long feud. Angela and Keshawn seeped into the background, unsure of what to even do with their mere presence.
“Mention what, sis?” Quincy asked her.
“You fucking disappear after Elly done took you in — again — and now you show up, reeking, high off god-knows-what and you’re giving alcohol to a minor,” she scoffed before looking towards Eleanora, “And this is where my kids should be?”
Eleanora's eyes flashed with anger as she stepped between Quincy and Loraine. "Now hold on just a minute," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You don't get to come into my house and start talking to my brother like that. Our brother."
The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. The cheerful chatter of the party faded into the background, replaced by an uncomfortable silence as everyone turned to watch the unfolding drama.
"Your house?" Loraine scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. "You’re proud of that?”
Quincy swayed slightly, his glassy eyes darting between his sisters. "Now, now, sisters," he slurred, trying to diffuse the situation. "Let's not fight on this joyous occasion."
Eleanora ignored him, her focus entirely on Loraine. "At least my house ain't been seized by the feds," she spat. "And Quincy might have his problems, but he's family. He's here, showing up for Vic. Where were you when Trey needed help at his sentencing? Or when Malcolm died?”
Loraine's face contorted with rage. "Don't you dare bring Malcolm into this," she hissed. "We offered to help with his treatment.”
"Bitch, please," Eleanora cut in, her voice sharp as a knife. "You can’t just throw your money at me.”
Vic stepped forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Come on, y'all," he pleaded, his voice strained. "Can we just-"
But his words were drowned out as Loraine launched into a tirade, her voice rising with each word. "You have no idea what I've been through, what I've had to do to keep my family together. And here you are, defending this sorry excuse of a man that threw away his entire family for a fucking needle," she gestured wildly at Quincy, who was now leaning heavily against the fence.
The argument escalated, voices rising and overlapping as years of pent-up resentment and frustration poured out. Keshawn watched from the sidelines, his heart racing as he saw the pain and anger on his mother's face.
Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Keshawn stepped forward. "Mom," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Let's go home."
Loraine turned to him, her eyes wide with surprise. For a moment, it seemed like she might argue, but then her shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of her.
"Fine," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Let's go."
As they walked to the car, Loraine's anger resurged. "I can't believe I let you talk me into coming here," she muttered, fumbling with her keys. "I'm done with those people.”
The rhythmic thud of the basketball echoed through the empty gym as Keshawn and Vic ran through their final drills. Sweat glistened on their skin, catching the morning sunlight that streamed through the high windows. The squeak of their shoes against the polished hardwood floor punctuated the silence that had settled between them.
Keshawn glanced at Vic, noting the unusual quietness of his normally boisterous cousin. Vic's face was set in concentration, his eyes focused intently on the hoop as he sank shot after shot. The ball arced gracefully through the air, swishing through the net with a satisfying sound.
As they moved into their cool-down period, Keshawn decided to break the silence. "What y’all throwing on the grill today?" he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. "No disrespect to my mom but Auntie Elly? I do miss her cooking, I’ll say that.”
Vic shrugged, his eyes still fixed on the court. "I don’t know," he muttered, reaching down to touch his toes in a stretch. "She’s the one that wanted to have something. Just a regular day for me.”
Keshawn furrowed his brow, caught off guard by Vic's dismissive tone. He knew his cousin had worked hard for this opportunity, had seen the late nights and early mornings Vic had put in to make it happen. "Come on, man," he said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. "You're going to be playing college basketball. I didn’t even care about that until you did and now, what, you’re over it already?”
Vic straightened up, finally meeting Keshawn's gaze. "Yeah, I guess," he said, his voice low. "Just... it's not exactly picking between UCLA or USC. Not like I had a lot of choices to pick from for real.”
“You wished you play AAU last summer?" Keshawn probed, dribbling the basketball aimlessly as they began their walk to the bench to gather their things. "You think that affected your recruitment?"
Vic snorted, shaking his head. "Nah, man. That ain't got nothing to do with it. And it won't for you either."
Keshawn caught the ball, holding it still against his hip. "It can’t hurt, right? I mean, if I’m not that Pro-Am last week, I’m probably not in that article.”
"Listen," Vic interrupted, his voice sharp. He turned to face Keshawn fully, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made Keshawn take a step back. "A fucking article ain’t shit and what did the article even talk about? The shit you actually did on the basketball court in an organized environment, not some fucking AAU tournament in Nebraska against Little Timmy and them. That shit ain't all it's cracked up to be. You wanna get better? You actually work on your game, this shit right here."
"The reporter dude said I need exposure," Keshawn started, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words.
Vic's annoyance continued to grow. "Cuz, it’s your fucking life. If you think AAU's gonna help, then go fucking play AAU, nigga. Ain’t nobody stopping you, I ain’t your daddy.”
…
The aroma of grilled meat and spices wafted through the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and chatter from the backyard. Vic hadn’t spoken to over half of the people in attendance in months, some of them years but any excuse for some brew and grub would do on a summer day.
Angela had been working the scene, as always, talking to people about the Block Party and the club’s upcoming events. She glanced over at Vic, who was slouched in a lawn chair, his eyes fixed on his phone.
"Hey, babe," she called out, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. "Can you believe you’re actually going to be playing college basketball in a few months? It still seems crazy to me!”
Vic barely looked up, his fingers still tapping away at his screen. "Yeah, I guess," he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the sizzle of the grill.
"Come on, you can’t fool me," she pressed, moving closer to him. "I know how long you’ve been waiting for this day.”
Vic finally looked up, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of frustration and indifference. "It’s fucking LPU. What the fuck is there to be excited about?”
Angela felt a surge of irritation. "So what? It's still an opportunity. You should be proud of yourself."
Vic scoffed, shaking his head. "Proud of what? Getting into some no-name school that probably won't even exist in five years? A school that you fucking hated on by the way, the entire process."
At the other end of the backyard, Eleanora stood over the grill, tongs in hand, expertly flipping burgers and rotating corn on the cob. Loraine hovered nearby as she watched her older sister work.
"You know," Eleanora said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "you don't have to stand there supervising. I'm sure I can manage without your expert advice."
Loraine bristled, her fingers tightening around the glass of lemonade she held. "I was just trying to help, Elly. No need to get defensive."
Eleanora snorted, using the tongs to arrange the food on the grill with more force than necessary. "Oh, now you want to help? Funny how that works. Couldn't wait to get out of my broke ass house but here you are, offering pointers like you're some kind of grill master."
The tension between the sisters was palpable, crackling like the flames beneath the grill grate. Loraine's jaw clenched, her dark eyes flashing with a mixture of hurt and anger. "That's not fair, and you know it. We were grateful for your help, but we needed our own space. You know I don’t like feeling like a burden."
"Your own space," Eleanora echoed, her laugh bitter and sharp. "I’m sure you had plenty of your own space for those couple of months.”
Loraine set her glass down on the nearby table with a sharp clink. "That was low, even for you. We're just trying to get back on our feet, to give Keshawn and Simone some stability."
"Don’t be bringing them babies into this," Eleanora scoffed, turning to face her sister fully. The heat from the grill radiated between them, mirroring the intensity of their argument. "Simone is away at college, doing just fine, putting in the work that needs to be done. Ke was the happiest kid ever by the time you got out. Probably got himself a little girlfriend by now, not that you would approve of him mingling with us common folks. He’s got the scholarships coming in, articles being written about him. All from putting in that work, here, with his family, where he belongs.”
The sisters' voices had dropped to harsh whispers, aware of the celebration happening around them. Nearby, a group of cousins played a rowdy game of spades, their laughter and trash talk providing a stark contrast to the tense conversation by the grill.
Loraine's eyes darted around the yard, making sure no one was paying them too much attention. "You don’t know the first thing about my fucking kids or putting work in. Is that what you’ve been doing all those years? Still living at that house?”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with that house,” Eleanora laughed, “At least I ain’t in jail, owing them people, what, three million dollars?”
“Fuck you,” Loraine muttered as she walked away.
…
“It’ll be fun,” Angela pleaded, “We still have a spot open for you.”
Keshawn shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tapping against his phone case. "I don't know, Ang. That's a lot of time on the road. We talking what, like 100 hours on a bus?"
Angela waved her hand dismissively. "More like 50, but that's not the point. It's about the experience, the culture. You can't put a price on that."
Keshawn's hesitation was evident in his voice. "I get that, but I've got workouts, some showcases, another Pro-Am. I can’t exactly throw away a week this summer, they all matter.”
"Come on," Angela pressed, her voice taking on a persuasive tone. "This is bigger than basketball. It's about connecting with our history, our legacy. You can't tell me you're not even a little curious?"
Keshawn shrugged, his eyes drifting back to his phone. "I’m not going to lie, Ang, I haven’t even heard of any of these schools and my sister applied to a bunch of HBCUs. Paul Quinn doesn’t even sound like a real college.”
Frustrated by his lack of enthusiasm, Angela turned to Vic, who had just wandered over, a plate of food in his hand. "Vic, back me up here. Tell Keshawn how great the campus tour was last year."
Vic paused mid-chew, his expression neutral. "It was alright," he said after swallowing. "He’s already visited Pepperdine a few times though and them shits don’t compare.”
Angela's eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you serious right now? That's all you have to say?"
Vic shrugged, taking another bite of his burger. "Just being honest. Howard was nice, but some of the others... I don't know. They could use some work."
Angela felt her anger rising, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "That's the whole point! They need our support. How are they supposed to improve if we don't invest in them?"
"I'm just saying what I saw," Vic replied, his tone defensive. "Not trying to start anything."
"No, you're just perpetuating the same bullshit stereotypes that keep our institutions underfunded and undervalued," Angela snapped, her voice rising. "Do you have any idea how hard these schools have to work with the limited resources they have? And here you are, Mr. Big Shot going to LPU, acting like you’re above it all.”
Angela's eyes widened as she realized the impact of her words. The righteous anger that had fueled her outburst drained away, leaving her feeling hollow and ashamed.
"Babe, I..." she started, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean—"
"Nah, it's cool," Vic cut her off, his voice flat and controlled. "You said what you meant. I'm just some sellout going to a no-name school, right?"
Angela reached out, her fingers brushing against Vic's arm. "Baby, please. I'm sorry. I got carried away. You know how passionate I get about this stuff."
Vic shrugged off her touch, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. "Yeah, I know. It's fine. Don't worry about it."
The tension hanging in the air was suddenly shattered by a loud, boisterous voice from the front yard. "Where my motherfucking nephew at?! My little nigga going off to college like he a Huxtable!”
All heads turned to see Quincy stumbling through the gate, his gait unsteady and his eyes glassy. He was dressed in a mismatched ensemble of a wrinkled dress shirt and cargo shorts, a Kangol perched precariously on his head. In his hand, he clutched a brown paper bag that clinked with every step.
"Uncle Q!" Vic called out, a mixture of surprise and concern in his voice. He quickly made his way over to his uncle, reaching out to steady him as Quincy swayed dangerously.
"There he is!" Quincy exclaimed, his words slurring slightly. "You looking good, neph!" He fumbled with the paper bag, eventually producing a bottle of Mickey’s Fine Malt Liquorr. "I got you a little something to celebrate, my man."
Vic couldn’t contain his laughter as he looked at the bottle. "I don’t know if this is the type of time I’m on, Unc.”
"Nonsense!" Quincy interrupted, pressing the bottle into Vic's hands. "This right here is what you need to be on so you can get your freak on, you overstand me?”
The commotion drew Eleanora and Loraine from opposite ends of the yard. Eleanora reached them first, her face a mask of concern and affection. "You ain’t told me you was coming, would have saved you a plate.”
Quincy grinned broadly, throwing an arm around his sister's shoulders. "Couldn't miss my nephew's big day, could I? Had to come congratulate him properly!"
Loraine arrived on the scene, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. "Quincy," she said, her voice sharp and cold. She hadn’t seen him in years.
Quincy's smile faltered for a moment before returning, albeit a bit forced. "Aw, shit. Loraine, our majesty, how good of you to serve us with your presence. I would have brought some champagne with me.”
Eleanora shot Loraine a warning look before turning back to Quincy. "We still got some food if you hungry.”
Vic nodded, still holding the bottle of cognac awkwardly. "Yeah, Uncle Q. We got some wings, some burgers. I know you don’t touch the pork but mom fucked those ribs up, I’m telling you.”
Loraine's eyes narrowed as she watched the interaction. "Is no one going to mention it?”
The atmosphere grew tense once more, the earlier argument between Angela and Vic forgotten in the face of a decade long feud. Angela and Keshawn seeped into the background, unsure of what to even do with their mere presence.
“Mention what, sis?” Quincy asked her.
“You fucking disappear after Elly done took you in — again — and now you show up, reeking, high off god-knows-what and you’re giving alcohol to a minor,” she scoffed before looking towards Eleanora, “And this is where my kids should be?”
Eleanora's eyes flashed with anger as she stepped between Quincy and Loraine. "Now hold on just a minute," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You don't get to come into my house and start talking to my brother like that. Our brother."
The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. The cheerful chatter of the party faded into the background, replaced by an uncomfortable silence as everyone turned to watch the unfolding drama.
"Your house?" Loraine scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. "You’re proud of that?”
Quincy swayed slightly, his glassy eyes darting between his sisters. "Now, now, sisters," he slurred, trying to diffuse the situation. "Let's not fight on this joyous occasion."
Eleanora ignored him, her focus entirely on Loraine. "At least my house ain't been seized by the feds," she spat. "And Quincy might have his problems, but he's family. He's here, showing up for Vic. Where were you when Trey needed help at his sentencing? Or when Malcolm died?”
Loraine's face contorted with rage. "Don't you dare bring Malcolm into this," she hissed. "We offered to help with his treatment.”
"Bitch, please," Eleanora cut in, her voice sharp as a knife. "You can’t just throw your money at me.”
Vic stepped forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Come on, y'all," he pleaded, his voice strained. "Can we just-"
But his words were drowned out as Loraine launched into a tirade, her voice rising with each word. "You have no idea what I've been through, what I've had to do to keep my family together. And here you are, defending this sorry excuse of a man that threw away his entire family for a fucking needle," she gestured wildly at Quincy, who was now leaning heavily against the fence.
The argument escalated, voices rising and overlapping as years of pent-up resentment and frustration poured out. Keshawn watched from the sidelines, his heart racing as he saw the pain and anger on his mother's face.
Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Keshawn stepped forward. "Mom," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Let's go home."
Loraine turned to him, her eyes wide with surprise. For a moment, it seemed like she might argue, but then her shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of her.
"Fine," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Let's go."
As they walked to the car, Loraine's anger resurged. "I can't believe I let you talk me into coming here," she muttered, fumbling with her keys. "I'm done with those people.”
Neighborhood.
Angela be telling Keshawn to steer clear of Gayle and Gayle need to steer clear of Keshawn because this family dysfunctional.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 4731
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Messiness all around 