Read Online Rails Under My Back by Jeffery Renard Allen - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeffery Renard Allen
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ain’t tell me we walkin to Stonewall?
Chill.
Nigga, you crazy.
You be aw ight.
A fenced-in basketball court loomed in the distance, thick shapes roving inside. Jetting along, Jesus and No Face found a stone bench and sat down to watch the game. Tongues circulated the circumference of the court. Homeys lined the fence, fingers poking through the chain-link holes, slurping Night Train and firing up missile-shaped joints. Floating heat. Sweat air. Grit that Jesus tasted in his cough.
Whirling colors, four men played the full-length of the court. Jesus took a good look. Two men in khaki pants and bare chests, and two in chests and blue jeans. Khaki One a tall (Jesus’s height) man with a sharp-angled haircut like a double-headed ax (V from widow’s peak to neckline). Bull-wide nose and thick worm lips. Wedges of muscle angling up from the waist and fanning out to a winged back. Big Popeye forearms. Dull white skin, as if faded from bleach. Whispered under his breath when he shot a free throw. Khaki Two a short nigga with carefully greased and patterned hair—a sculpture—and proud, bowed wishbone legs. He passed Khaki One the ball for a rim-ringing dunk. Serious hang time in the radiant haze. The opposing team took out the ball. Light-moving, the white man fell like an avalanche and smothered a shot. Drove the ball up the alley and around the other defender for the easy layup. Hoop, poles, and backboard cold-shuddered. The ball swirled around the rim before it flushed.
Good game.
Who got winners? Khaki Two curled up first one leg, then the other, checking his shoe soles. He pulled an old fighter pilot’s helmet (World War I stick-winged biplane, Snoopy and the Red Baron) over his sculpted hair.
A scuffle flared up. No Face started for the court, Jesus followed him. Like a magnet, faces drew them in.
Keylo. No Face spoke to Khaki Two. Why you give me that whacked weed?
Give you? Bitch, I ain’t give you shit. You paid me.
Jesus blinked. Focused. Keylo? So Khaki Two was Keylo, legend in the flesh. Word, drove an old red ambulance with a bed (stretcher?) in the back. His ho buggy he called it. Say he never changed the sheets.
Keylo approached, and Jesus imagined him choking No Face in the noose of his bowed legs. He smiled toothless, like a snake. Crunched his face, a single line of eyebrow above lidless rat eyes. Balled in a boxer’s crouch. Rose on his toes with a dance in his body and pimp-slapped No Face upside the head.
Damn, Keylo. Why you always fuckin around?
Cause I want to. Keylo slapped No Face again. A storm of laughter convulsed the spectators.
Damn, Keylo. No Face’s dreads rose like cobras. Quit.
Make me, bitch. Fists moving, Keylo circled No Face, dukes up, slow-moving like an old man. Circling, he fired slaps, loud as thunder in easy rain, stinging blows which rocked No Face, hard, fast-pitched blows to the soft mitt of his raised chin. No Face hung tough, refusing to go down.
Chill.
Laughter died down.
That’s right. Chill.
Jesus searched for the voice’s source. Khaki One. Sunlight streaked his greased flesh, accentuating every vein. Chill, he said, voice feverish, cloggy and hot, phlegm-filled as if from a cold.
Damn, Freeze.
Freeze. Freeze.
No Face alright, Freeze said. He hooked No Face’s head under his elbow and stroked the idiot’s bowed head. No Face grinned, tongue fish-flopping in his mouth. He alright. Freeze yanked down on No Face’s head, then released it. No Face ballooned up to his normal height. Don’t try to play him like a bitch.
I was—
Freeze cut Keylo off with a sharp glance. Shoved him into No Face. Kiss and make up.
What?
Kiss and make up. Freeze’s biceps were round and solid, train wheels. Go on. Kiss and make up.
Keylo searched the crowd, pleading eyes and mouth.
Freeze cut a grin. The crowd flew into stitches.
You see the look on his face?
Yeah.
Had that nigga goin.
Yeah.
Thought he was serious.
Bout to piss his pants.
Shit.
No Face
Chill.
Nigga, you crazy.
You be aw ight.
A fenced-in basketball court loomed in the distance, thick shapes roving inside. Jetting along, Jesus and No Face found a stone bench and sat down to watch the game. Tongues circulated the circumference of the court. Homeys lined the fence, fingers poking through the chain-link holes, slurping Night Train and firing up missile-shaped joints. Floating heat. Sweat air. Grit that Jesus tasted in his cough.
Whirling colors, four men played the full-length of the court. Jesus took a good look. Two men in khaki pants and bare chests, and two in chests and blue jeans. Khaki One a tall (Jesus’s height) man with a sharp-angled haircut like a double-headed ax (V from widow’s peak to neckline). Bull-wide nose and thick worm lips. Wedges of muscle angling up from the waist and fanning out to a winged back. Big Popeye forearms. Dull white skin, as if faded from bleach. Whispered under his breath when he shot a free throw. Khaki Two a short nigga with carefully greased and patterned hair—a sculpture—and proud, bowed wishbone legs. He passed Khaki One the ball for a rim-ringing dunk. Serious hang time in the radiant haze. The opposing team took out the ball. Light-moving, the white man fell like an avalanche and smothered a shot. Drove the ball up the alley and around the other defender for the easy layup. Hoop, poles, and backboard cold-shuddered. The ball swirled around the rim before it flushed.
Good game.
Who got winners? Khaki Two curled up first one leg, then the other, checking his shoe soles. He pulled an old fighter pilot’s helmet (World War I stick-winged biplane, Snoopy and the Red Baron) over his sculpted hair.
A scuffle flared up. No Face started for the court, Jesus followed him. Like a magnet, faces drew them in.
Keylo. No Face spoke to Khaki Two. Why you give me that whacked weed?
Give you? Bitch, I ain’t give you shit. You paid me.
Jesus blinked. Focused. Keylo? So Khaki Two was Keylo, legend in the flesh. Word, drove an old red ambulance with a bed (stretcher?) in the back. His ho buggy he called it. Say he never changed the sheets.
Keylo approached, and Jesus imagined him choking No Face in the noose of his bowed legs. He smiled toothless, like a snake. Crunched his face, a single line of eyebrow above lidless rat eyes. Balled in a boxer’s crouch. Rose on his toes with a dance in his body and pimp-slapped No Face upside the head.
Damn, Keylo. Why you always fuckin around?
Cause I want to. Keylo slapped No Face again. A storm of laughter convulsed the spectators.
Damn, Keylo. No Face’s dreads rose like cobras. Quit.
Make me, bitch. Fists moving, Keylo circled No Face, dukes up, slow-moving like an old man. Circling, he fired slaps, loud as thunder in easy rain, stinging blows which rocked No Face, hard, fast-pitched blows to the soft mitt of his raised chin. No Face hung tough, refusing to go down.
Chill.
Laughter died down.
That’s right. Chill.
Jesus searched for the voice’s source. Khaki One. Sunlight streaked his greased flesh, accentuating every vein. Chill, he said, voice feverish, cloggy and hot, phlegm-filled as if from a cold.
Damn, Freeze.
Freeze. Freeze.
No Face alright, Freeze said. He hooked No Face’s head under his elbow and stroked the idiot’s bowed head. No Face grinned, tongue fish-flopping in his mouth. He alright. Freeze yanked down on No Face’s head, then released it. No Face ballooned up to his normal height. Don’t try to play him like a bitch.
I was—
Freeze cut Keylo off with a sharp glance. Shoved him into No Face. Kiss and make up.
What?
Kiss and make up. Freeze’s biceps were round and solid, train wheels. Go on. Kiss and make up.
Keylo searched the crowd, pleading eyes and mouth.
Freeze cut a grin. The crowd flew into stitches.
You see the look on his face?
Yeah.
Had that nigga goin.
Yeah.
Thought he was serious.
Bout to piss his pants.
Shit.
No Face
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