Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

Makaveli - Episode 11
The phone rang on the third breath.

Trey had it in his hand before the second ring finished. The screen lit up with a number he didn’t recognize, the area code from somewhere up north, and he thumbed it open without checking the rest.

“Talk to me.”

“Say, Blood,” Leroy’s voice came through thin, the connection pulling in and out like something underwater. “You good?”

“You know how it is. You straight?"

“They ain't roll me out this motherfucker yet."

Trey looked through the windshield. The street sat empty in front of him, the afternoon sun hitting the asphalt hard enough to make it shimmer. Trey shifted in the seat.

“You got any squad members up for a round of basketball?”

The line went quiet for a beat. Then Leroy’s voice came back lower.

“Who we playing?”

“Just some benchwarmers from fat boy’s side.”

Another beat of quiet. Trey could hear something in the background on Leroy’s end, a voice, distant, then nothing.

“Why you ain’t using the home team?” Leroy said. “They always up for a round. Shit, them young motherfuckers be looking for a pickup game from what I'm hearing."

Trey’s jaw worked.

“Nah,” Trey said. “It’s my game. I started this shit. Can’t go down no other way. Not on some real shit.”

The line stayed quiet. Trey could hear Leroy breathing on the other end.

“I feel you,” Leroy said. “I can get something together. I need a few days. But I’m sure I can find a starting five for you. Maybe some bench too.”

“Appreciate you.”

“Don’t appreciate me yet,” Leroy let out a small chuckle. “When you go to war, son, you gotta go to war. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Alright then.”

The line went dead. Trey set the phone back on the dashboard. The screen went dark.

…

The parking lot didn’t look like a parking lot anymore.

Keshawn walked between two rows of white tents, the kind with the peaked roofs and the side panels that rolled up, and the ground under his feet was covered in the rubber matting they’d laid down yesterday. The stage sat at the far end, the PA system already wired, the Chase Forward logo blown up on the backdrop behind it. A crew of four guys was running cable along the perimeter, tucking it under the matting where it crossed the walkways.

He stopped at the main entrance and turned around. The whole thing spread out in front of him, the tents, the stage, the vendor booths, the kids’ zone with the inflatable slide they’d rented, the registration table near the front with the stack of programs and the QR code sign. It looked like something. It looked like the thing they’d been talking about for months, drawn on whiteboards, argued over in conference rooms, and here it was, sitting in a parking lot in Inglewood, real and almost finished.

Angela came up beside him.

"All we’re missing are the food trucks and they come in tomorrow at eight," Angela told him, "Just got off the phone with Toussaint. Food is being prepped right now, still on schedule."

Keshawn nodded.

They walked back toward the cars. The asphalt was warm under his shoes where the matting didn’t reach. Angela’s car was a few spots down from his. She pulled her keys out of her back pocket and stopped at the driver’s side door.

“I think we’re good,” she said. She looked back at the lot. “I mean, something’s going to go wrong. Something always goes wrong. But we’re good.”

"I don’t know about that," Keshawn pitched his voice up a bit, "I’m a bit of winner, Angela. I don’t know if you know."

"Last I saw, you were dapping up a very tall and handsome Frenchman and wishing him success while he advanced and you went home."

"Cold," Keshawn shook his head, "Valid but cold."

She laughed as she lowered her head, leaning on her car. They stood there, the sun high and white and the parking lot was loud with the sound of the crew working. A truck backed up near the stage and the beeping filled the space between them.

"For real, though," he said, "You did a great job. An amazing one."

"Let’s not count our chickens until they cross," she let out a breath through her teeth, "But thank you."

“I want you to run this thing,” he said.

She looked at him. Her head tilted a half inch.

“Like, the foundation. Not just the event. The whole thing. Full time. Salary, benefits, the whole nine. Your actual job. Not something you’re doing on the side while you’re sitting in some corporate office doing work that doesn’t mean anything to you.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Her eyes moved from his face to the parking lot and back.

“Ke—”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you’re serious.” She crossed her arms. “I just—I need to think about it.”

“Think about what? You’re already doing the work.”

"I know," she uncrossed her arms and recrossed them the other way. "Qutting your job and accepting another one isn’t exactly something you do in a parking lot after one conversation. If we can even call this that."

"You said you hated your job."

"I never said that."

"They have you organizing lunches."

"That’s just part of it."

"Double the salary.”

She laughed. “You don’t even know how much I make."

“Exactly.”

She laughed harder.

“I’ll think about it,” she said. “For real. I’m not saying no. I’m saying I need to think.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

…

Vic sat on the couch with his laptop open on the coffee table, the screen split between a spreadsheet and a browser tab with a venue’s website. Jessica sat at the other end, her legs tucked up under her, a notebook balanced on her knee.

"I just feel like spring is perfect. It’s not going to be too hot so we can look at outside options."

Vic scrolled through the spreadsheet. “Spring is playoffs.”

“You’re assuming he makes it that far.”

Vic looked up from the screen. Jessica had her pen poised above the notebook, waiting, the corner of her mouth pulled up.

“That’s fucked up,” he said.

“I’m just saying. You don’t know.”

She wrote something else down. The notebook was already half full.

“We can do late spring,” she said. “After the finals. June.”

“June is summer.”

“June is late spring if I say it is.”

He laughed. She didn’t look up from the notebook but her shoulders moved.

Yesenia was on the floor near the TV, surrounded by a ring of stuffed animals she’d arranged in a circle.

"I’m probably fucked up for saying this but I really hope he doesn’t sign with the Lakers," Jessica said, not looking up, "Or the Clippers."

Vic didn’t say anything.

“I know that sounds bad,” she said. She set the pen down on the notebook and finally looked up. “And I know what he’s done for this family. For us. For Yesenia. I know all of that. I’m not ungrateful.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I’m just saying,” she pulled her legs out from under her and let them hang off the edge of the couch. “If he comes back to LA, you’re going to get pulled back into his orbit. And I don’t know what that looks like for us. For this.”

Vic closed the spreadsheet. The browser tab was still open, the venue’s website showing a ballroom with chandeliers and white tablecloths. He looked at it for a second and then closed that too.

"I feel you," Vic shrugged, "I hope he signs back with Portland. Or Detroit. Or Brooklyn. Probably not Brooklyn."

Jessica’s head turned toward him.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I just don’t think LA is the best thing for him right now.”

She didn’t say anything. Then she picked the pen back up.

“Okay,” she said, "So June. Late spring. Early summer. Whatever you want to call it.”

“June works.”

…

The door opened on the second knock.

Charlene stood in the frame, one hand on the door, the other holding a wooden spoon. She looked at the bag in his hand, then at his face, and stepped back without saying anything. He walked past her into the apartment.

The kitchen was going. Something on the stove, the lid tilted, steam coming up around the edges. The table was set for two. She set the spoon on the counter and pulled a third plate from the cabinet above the stove. Set it on the table. Went back to the cabinet and got another glass. The silverware drawer opened and closed.

“Smells good,” he said.

"Hmm, hmm."

He set the bag on the floor by the table and sat down.

"You met with your PO this morning?"

“Yeah."

She nodded. Stirred the pot. The spoon scraped the bottom.

Little Malc was in the living room, on the floor, his back to the kitchen. Trey could see the top of his head over the arm of the couch, the hair cut close on the sides, the longer part on top flopping forward as he leaned over whatever he was doing.

"How beauty school going?"

"It’s going."

He nodded. She turned the burner down and wiped her hands on the dish towel hanging from the oven handle. The kitchen was small enough that she could reach the sink without taking a step. She ran water over her hands and dried them on the towel again.

“He’s been asking about you,” she said.

Trey smiled.

She went back to the stove. The lid went back on. She turned and leaned against the counter, her arms crossed, looking at him.

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, you know how shit go.”

She held his eyes for a beat longer. Then she uncrossed her arms and turned back to the stove.

After a while he got up. The chair scraped against the linoleum. He picked the bag up off the floor and walked into the living room.

Little Malc didn’t look up. He had a Lego set spread out in front of him, the pieces sorted by color in little piles, the instruction booklet open to a page he’d folded back on itself. He was working on something that looked like a car, the body half-built, the wheels still separate.

Trey set the bag down and lowered himself to the floor beside him. His knees popped as he sat cross-legged.

Little Malc picked up a red piece and snapped it into place. Then a blue one. His fingers moved without hesitation, finding the right piece from the right pile without looking.

Trey reached into the bag and pulled out the basketball. Set it on the floor between them. Little Malc glanced at it, then back at the Legos.

“Thought you might want that,” Trey said.

Little Malc didn’t say anything. He kept building.

Trey watched his hands.

“You know,” Trey said. "You’re going to experience a lot of things in life. A lot of things are going to happen to you. Some of it good. Some of it bad. Some of it you won’t understand. Most of it you probably won’t understand. Whatever it is, though, whatever you choose, you gotta live with it, Malc."

Little Malc snapped another piece into place.

"Whatever you signed up, you signed up for it, you feel me?"

The car was taking shape. The hood, the windshield, the little seats inside.

"This shit really started over some sneakers," Trey shook his head, "You believe that? Probably some eighty dollar sneakers too. You can’t even get them anymore. Shit gonna run you about one twenty, one thirty now. Back then though? Eighty dollars got it done."

Little Malc looked up. His eyes were big and dark and they held Trey’s for a second.

“Daddy,” he said. “Can you help me with this part?”

He pointed at the instruction booklet. The page showed the underside of the car, the axle assembly, the pieces that connected the wheels to the body.

“Yeah,” Trey said. “Yeah, I got you.”

He picked up the booklet. His eyes found the step. He reached for the pieces Little Malc needed and handed them over one at a time. Little Malc took them without looking, his hands already moving to the next connection.

“And that’s the thing,” Trey said. “You don’t get to go back and change shit. You just get to live with it. And you gotta be okay with that. You gotta be able to sit with yourself and say yeah, I did that. You gotta answer for it. Every single time. Not some of the time. Not when you like how things turned out or you’re proud of it. No matter what, you gotta answer it, Blood."

Little Malc snapped the axle into place. The wheels spun when he tested them.

"That’s the problem. Niggas want it one way and not the other. Nah, you gotta have it all. If it’s this then it’s this and if it ain’t then it ain’t."

The car was almost done. Little Malc was working on the roof now.

"I know I wasn’t always there for you," Trey continued, "Shit, I was almost never there. I was so fucking scared when I found out you were coming, man. I ain’t know what to do. I mean, I wanted you. I know that. I always wanted to be dad. I always felt like that was the coolest shit in the fucking world. I just ain’t know what to do. I just know the decisions that I made, the path that I chose, I just knew that I ain’t want you to go through that. I don’t know, maybe me not being there would make that easier for you. Make it so that you didn’t even know what that side of the world look like but you’re a smart kid, I know you do."

Little Malc looked at him then back at the car.

"I guess what I’m trying to tell you is you gotta be your own man. You gotta listen to your heart. You got a good heart. You get it from your momma. Listen to your momma. Listen to your Uncle Vic. This is a good family, Malc, a really good family. I wish I knew that. I wish I had known that."

Trey sat there. The words had run out. The apartment was quiet except for the clicking of plastic and the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of Charlene moving around in the kitchen, the lid coming off the pot, the spoon against the side.

He looked at the car. It was finished. Little Malc set it on the floor between them and pushed it forward. It rolled a few inches and stopped against the basketball.

“Nice,” Trey said.

Little Malc picked up the instruction booklet and turned to the next page. There was a whole other car on it, bigger, more pieces. He started sorting through the pile, pulling out the ones he needed, making new piles.

Trey sat beside him.

[Captain Canada]

Vic a complete bitch for that

[Caesar]

Marrying a non-Black woman he had a baby on a Black woman with in June?

I feel like what Keshawn did here should be considered tricking.

[Soapy]

Vic a complete bitch for that

I'll be honest, I don't get the Vic hate (anymore)

Marrying a non-Black woman he had a baby on a Black woman with in June?

I feel like what Keshawn did here should be considered tricking.

Chat, is paying your employee, who also happens to be your friend from high school and your cousin's ex, a fair and competitive wage tricking?

[Soapy]

Makaveli - Episode 12
The smoke alarm went off for the second time.

Keshawn grabbed the dish towel off his shoulder and started waving it at the ceiling, the bacon still spitting in the pan behind him. The alarm kept screaming, the towel flapping uselessly against the smoke

“Boy, if you don’t get that thing—” Candace was laughing so hard she had to set her phone down on the island. She had one leg tucked under her, the other dangling off the edge, her robe pulled tight across her knees.

“I got it, I got i,” He flapped it again, the towel catching the edge of the alarm, and the thing finally shut off. The kitchen went quiet except for the bacon.

He turned back to the stove. The bacon was fine. He flipped it with the tongs and it sizzled back at him like nothing had happened.

“You know you could’ve just opened a window,” she said.

“I know that.”

“Or turned on the fan.”

“I know that too.”

She was still laughing. He cracked two eggs into the other pan and the whites spread out across the surface, going from clear to white in real time.

“Look at you,” she said. “All Gordon Ramsay and shit.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m serious. When did you learn how to do this? Because I know for a fact the only thing you could make when we were together was cereal. And even then you’d put too much milk in it.”

He laughed. The eggs were starting to set around the edges and he tilted the pan to let the uncooked white run to the side. The bacon was almost done. He pulled it out and set it on the paper towel he’d laid out on the counter, the grease soaking through immediately.

He pulled two slices of bread from the bag and dropped them in the toaster. The avocado was already on the counter, the knife next to it, the cutting board.

“You know,” she said, watching him slice the avocado, “I’m actually impressed."

"Don’t sound too surprised."

The toast popped. He pulled it out, spread the avocado on top, sprinkled the salt and pepper, and set it on a plate in front of her. She picked it up and took a bite.

“Okay,” she said through the mouthful. “Okay, okay. This is actually good.”

“Told you.”

“Don’t get cocky. It’s avocado toast. A child could make this.”

“A child didn’t make it. I did.”

She took another bite and chewed, her eyes on him as he moved back to the stove. The eggs were done. He slid them onto a plate, added three strips of bacon, and set it next to her avocado toast.

“Look at you,” she said again, softer this time. She set the toast down and picked up the fork. “Cooking breakfast. Making avocado toast. All domestic and shit. Who are you and what have you done with the real Keshawn?”

“Man, stop.”

“I’m serious,” she laughed. “I’m glad to see it, though. Ready to settle down and be somebody’s husband.”

He cleared his throat, a half-smile, a half-confused look on his face. “I don’t know about all of that.”

She took another bite of the avocado toast, chewing slower than she needed to, her eyes on the plate. He turned and started rinsing the pan in the sink, the water hitting the hot metal and sending up a cloud of steam that fogged the window above it.

She finished the toast. He dried his hands on the dish towel and turned back around. She had the fork in the eggs now, cutting into the yolk, and the yellow ran across the plate.

“So what,” she said between bites. She didn’t look up. “You’re still trying to live that bachelor life?”

He leaned against the counter. The granite was cold through his shirt. He shrugged.

“I’m just enjoying life. Taking it a day at a time. All that corny and cliché stuff, but it’s true.”

She looked up then. The fork stopped halfway to her mouth. The yolk dripped off the edge and landed on the plate.

"Oh, okay."

"Oh?"

"I don’t know," she shrugged, setting the fork down, "I’m just a bit surprised."

"About?"

"You seemed different. Grown up."

“I have grown up,” he scoffed. "I just don’t even know where I’m going to be living in two weeks. I don’t think right now would be a good time to be dating. Not with intention, like you call it."

"There’s nothing wrong with casual," her shoulders came up, "I was just saying."

She took another bite. The bacon crunched between her teeth. He watched her chew and then look around the kitchen like she was seeing it for the first time, the wine rack, the high ceilings, the windows facing the canyon.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you last night," she said, covering her mouth as she chewed, "I won’t be able to make it today. Got a meeting."

"Oh," he nodded, "Okay."

“I’m sorry. I really wanted to come. I know you’ve been working really hard on this.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’ll catch the next one.”

“Bet.”

She finished the bacon and set the fork down on the empty plate. She wiped her hands on the napkin he’d set out and slid off the island. Her bare feet hit the hardwood and she stood there for a second, the robe falling open at the collar again, the morning light catching the edge of her collarbone.

“I’m going to hop in the shower,” she said, "Get this smoke off me."

He let out a small laugh. She walked past him toward the hallway. Her footsteps moved down the hall and then the bathroom door opened and closed.

He stood at the counter with his plate. The eggs had gone cold. He ate them anyway.

…

The parking lot was already full by the time he pulled in.

Keshawn found a spot near the back fence and killed the engine. Through the windshield, the white tents stretched across the asphalt in rows, the Chase Forward logo on every other one, the stage at the far end with the backdrop and the PA system already being put to work. People moved between the tents in clusters, some of them carrying folders, some of them with kids in tow, the whole thing moving at the pace of a Saturday morning that had somewhere to be.

He got out and locked the car. Toussaint’s truck sat at the end of the row, the palm tree and the yellow lettering catching the sun, smoke rising from the grill in a steady column. Two people stood at the window, plates in hand, and a line had already formed behind them.

He walked toward the main entrance. The rubber matting gave under his shoes, softer than the asphalt. A woman at the registration table handed him a program without looking up and he took it, folded it in half, and tucked it into his back pocket.

The first row of tents was all businesses. He recognized most of them from the spreadsheet Angela had sent him last month: the auto repair shop from Crenshaw, the print shop on Florence, the barber collective that had set up a full station with two chairs and a mirror. Each table had a sign with the company name and a stack of applications, and at least half of them had someone sitting across from someone else, pen moving across paper, the low murmur of interviews happening in real time.

A young guy in a button-down sat at the barber collective’s table, his hands clasped on the table in front of him, nodding at whatever the woman across from him was saying. Keshawn watched him for a second. The guy’s shirt was pressed, his shoes clean, his hair cut close. He looked like he’d been waiting for a table like this.

Keshawn kept walking.

The mentorship sign-up tent sat in the middle of the row. The banner above it read CHASE FORWARD MENTORSHIP PROGRAM in the same font as everything else, and underneath, in smaller letters, Formerly incarcerated individuals encouraged to apply. Two women sat behind the table, laptops open, a stack of clipboards and pens between them. A line of maybe eight people waited, some of them holding folders, some of them empty-handed.

He stopped at the edge of the tent and watched for a moment. A man near the front of the line stepped up to the table, set his folder down, and started talking. One of the women typed something. The other one handed him a clipboard.

“Keshawn!"

He turned. A woman stood behind him, maybe forty, her phone already out and angled toward him. She had a kid on her hip, maybe two years old, his head resting on her shoulder.

“Can we get a picture? My son loves you.”

“Of course.”

He stepped closer. She held the phone up and he smiled and the flash went off. She looked at the screen, nodded, and held the phone out to show him. The kid was looking at the camera, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “This is amazing what you’re doing. My brother just got out last month and he’s already got two interviews today.”

“That’s what it’s for,” he said. “Make sure he checks out the mentorship table too.”

She nodded and walked off, the kid’s head bouncing against her shoulder. Keshawn watched her go, then turned back toward the tents.

Chase Family Market had a table near the food trucks. His mother sat behind the table in a folding chair, a stack of applications in front of her, talking to a young woman who couldn’t have been older than twenty.

He kept moving.

The scholarship announcement had gone up on the big screen near the stage. The Chase Forward Scholarship Grant, full tuition for five students from the neighborhood. Keshawn’s Starting Five. The screen still showed the details, the eligibility requirements, the application deadline. A small crowd had gathered in front of it, some of them taking pictures of the screen with their phones.

He walked past it without stopping. A kid maybe sixteen looked up from his phone, did a double take, and nudged the guy next to him. Keshawn kept walking.

Gordon and Bronstein stood near the stage, off to the side, talking to a man in a suit Keshawn didn’t recognize. Gordon had his hands in his pockets, his body angled toward Bronstein, nodding at whatever was being said. Bronstein stood with his arms crossed, his expression the same one he wore at every meeting.

Keshawn didn’t go over there either.

He stopped at Toussaint’s truck. The line had grown since he’d walked past it the first time, maybe fifteen people now, stretching back toward the mentorship tent. Toussaint stood at the window, his apron stained with something dark, his hands moving between the grill and the plates. He looked up and saw Keshawn and his face opened.

“Mr. Chase. You eating?”

“Not yet. How’s it going?”

“Busy. Good busy.” Toussaint wiped his hands on a towel. “We already gone through half the pork. My wife went back to the truck to get more.”

“Need anything?”

“We good. We good.” Toussaint turned back to the grill. The woman at the front of the line handed him a twenty and he made change without looking, his other hand already plating the next order.

Keshawn stepped back from the line. A man in a blue polo shirt was standing near the food truck, watching the line, a clipboard in his hand. He caught Keshawn’s eye and held up the clipboard.

“Everything good over here?”

“Everything’s good.”

…

A black Escalade had pulled up along the curb, the tinted windows reflecting the white tents and the sky. The back door opened and a woman stepped out, her body angled away from the lot, one hand raised to shield her face from nothing. The handler came around the other side, guiding her through the gap that had opened in the crowd.

The blackout shades covered half her face. She moved through the lot, her head tilted at an angle, her handler’s hand hovering near her elbow without touching it.

The handler said something and she turned, the shades coming off for exactly as long as it took to take a picture with a teenage girl who looked like she might pass out. The shades went back on. She signed something on a phone case, handed it back, and kept moving.

She did this three more times. A picture with a group of boys near the food trucks, their arms around each other’s shoulders. A quick conversation with a woman who’d pulled her aside, the handler checking his watch. Another photo, this one with a couple and their toddler, the kid squirming in the father’s arms while she held the pose.

She kept working the crowd, making her way through the lot until she reached her destination.

The shades came off. Her face changed. She crossed the parking lot with her arms already out, the handler falling a step behind.

“Keshawn!"

He met her halfway. She wrapped both arms around his neck and the hug slightly lifted her up of the ground, her heels dangling, and they stayed like that for a long second.

“Look at you,” Gayle said into his shoulder. “NBA superstar. I can’t even.”

“Look at you,” he said, setting her down. “Billboard hits."

She laughed as she stepped back, holding him at arm’s length.

"This a whole new man in front of me."

"Hopefully that’s a good thing."

"Just a little," she winked and turned, taking in the lot, "You did your big one with this. Look at this! You got the whole neighborhood out, boy!"

"Yeah, it came out alright."

“This is amazing,” she said. “Like, for real."

"That’s all Angela," he nodded towards Angela, who was standing near the mentorship tent, talking to one of the staffers, "You know she don’t play when it comes to this."

"She sure don’t," Gayle followed his eyes. She looked at Angela, then back at him, "I be seeing y’all pictures on Instagram. Y’all make a cute couple or whatever."

"Girl, stop," he shook his head, "How was the tour?"

"You’re asking the wrong person," she cackled, "I’m still trying to figure that shit out myself. That shit was a whole fucking blur honestly."

…

The line at Toussaint’s truck had grown again. The mentorship table had a new group of people waiting, the clipboards moving down the line one at a time. His mother was still behind the Chase Family Market table, talking to someone new now.

Keshawn walked between the rows. A kid in a Hamilton jersey stepped in front of him, his phone already up, and Keshawn stopped and smiled and the flash went off. The kid looked at the screen and his face split open.

“Thank you, Keshawn."

“Appreciate you coming out.”

He kept moving. The sun had climbed past the stage and the light hit the white tents at an angle that made everything look brighter than it was.

He felt the tap on his shoulder before he saw who it was.

DJ stood behind him, white tee, black jeans.

“Good look, Blood,” DJ said as they shared a dap. “This is a good thing you doing out here."

“Appreciate you coming through.”

DJ nodded. His eyes moved past Keshawn, scanning the lot, the tents, the crowd near the stage, then back.

“Trey here?”

Keshawn looked around. The lot was full of faces, most of them unfamiliar, some of them he recognized from the neighborhood, his family members scattered throughout. He didn’t see Trey. He hadn’t seen him all morning.

“Nah,” he said. “Haven’t seen him.”

DJ nodded again. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and they dapped again.

…

The sun was gone by the time they started walking.

The parking lot had emptied out in stages. First the families with the kids, the strollers and the diaper bags and the tired parents carrying both. Then the vendors, one by one, the tents coming down, the tables folding up, the trucks pulling out. Toussaint’s grill had gone cold an hour ago, the last of the pork sold, the window closed, the truck backing out of its spot with a wave from the passenger side. The mentorship table was the last to pack up, the two women stacking clipboards into a cardboard box, the laptops already in their bags.

Now it was just the stragglers. A couple of guys near the stage. A woman walking toward her car with a stack of flyers under her arm. The crew breaking down the PA system, the cables being wound into neat loops, the speakers being loaded onto a dolly.

Keshawn and Angela walked the perimeter.

The rubber matting was still down, curling at the edges where it had been pulled up from the asphalt. They stepped over the places where it had buckled, their shoes making a soft sound against the rubber. The white tents were gone, the metal frames stacked against the chain-link fence, the tarps folded into squares. The space looked bigger without them, the parking lot returning to what it was.

“Toussaint said they hit three hundred,” Angela said.

"I believe it," Keshawn laughed, "That shit was packed all day. I had to have them sneak me a plate out the back."

They walked past the spot where the kids’ zone had been. The inflatable slide was gone, the matting underneath it still indented from the weight. A single blue balloon sat on the asphalt, half-deflated, the string tangled around itself.

“It was nice seeing Vic,” Angela said, "They look good together."

Keshawn glanced over.

“Yeah,” he said. “They do."

They kept walking for a bit more.

“How’s Ronnie?” Keshawn said. “He make it out?”

Angela let out a breath through her teeth. “Whew chile. He got pulled into work."

“That sucks."

“It’s always something,” she said. “Like, literally always. If I’m working, he’s off. If he’s working, I’m off."

Keshawn nodded. They walked past the stage. The crew had the speakers loaded onto the dolly now and were pushing it toward a truck parked near the entrance.

“You know,” he said, “the offer still stands.”

She looked at him.

“One job,” he said. “More money. More free time. You wouldn’t have to balance both.”

She laughed.

“I’m thinking about it,” she said. “For real. I’ll give you an answer soon.”

They walked past the entrance. The registration table was gone, the folding chairs stacked against the fence, the sign-in sheet and the QR code sign packed away. The lot stretched out in front of them, the asphalt dark and empty, the white lines of the parking spaces visible again where the matting had been pulled up.

“How about you?” she said. “Have you fallen victim to the bosom of some porcelain queen or you waiting for that next contract first?”

He laughed.

“I won’t lie. I’ve dabbled in the ivory ways,” he said. “But I prefer my coffee black.”

“For now."

"Now is all we got, right?" he shrugged. She laughed.

They walked a few steps in silence.

“I’m seeing someone,” he said. “If you could call it that.”

She looked over. Her eyebrows were up.

“We dated a few years ago,” he said. “Kept it on the low. Which made it different once it went public. The dynamic changed.”

“The rapper girl?”

He nodded.

“We’re hanging out again,” he said. "I know she wants more. She says it’s fine but I don’t know. I feel like she’s just saying that. I don’t want to waste her time but like I also do like hanging out with her and being around her."

He laughed.

“I sound like a fuck nigga,” he said.

“Yeah you do,” she said with a small smile. “But maybe you just haven’t found that right person.”

They had reached the end of the space. The chain-link fence ran along the edge of the lot. Beyond that, the city sat in pieces, the dark stretch of the 405, the faint glow of downtown to the east. The air was warm and still and loud at the same time, the sound of traffic from somewhere close, the low hum of the city doing what it always did.

They stopped.

"Great work today, partner," he said.

"You too," she replied, "Goodnight."

“Goodnight.”

[chosenone58]

Man, I am so far behind.

Took Wemby to 7 and got blown the fuck out! Squad disappeared on you.

Story is back.


The Clippers, my guy?

[Caesar]

Okay,” she said through the mouthful. “Okay, okay. This is actually good.”

This bitch is talking about eggs and bacon.

“I won’t lie. I’ve dabbled in the ivory ways,”

never wrong, just early.

[Soapy]

Man, I am so far behind.

Took Wemby to 7 and got blown the fuck out! Squad disappeared on you.

Story is back.


The Clippers, my guy?

Okay,” she said through the mouthful. “Okay, okay. This is actually good.”

This bitch is talking about eggs and bacon.

“I won’t lie. I’ve dabbled in the ivory ways,”

never wrong, just early.

You've never had bad eggs and bacon?

nothing wrong with dabbling (i heard)

[Soapy]

anti bump agenda will never thrive

[Soapy]