and take the plunge. Renny follows, pulls the door closed behind him, and hail, hail, the gang’s all here.
It’s a tiny room and the double bed doesn’t leave much room for company. The bed’s got Juan E with a blunt, a bottle of brew, and a huddle of his homeys.
I look around and back and what we’ve got is a six-man chunk of the U Street Crew and each one of them is wearing $300 sneakers and droopy pants and a surly smile and the one thing I think is that these guys are kids. Juan E’s eighteen if he’s a day; none of the others can be older than twenty-one, twenty-five tops. Except the Yellow Nigger. And he’s way over in the corner, alone, hidden behind the same old pair of shades, wearing them inside, at 6:00 a.m., lost in some waking dream and watching TV, it’s on ESPN if he can see it. He’s an old-timer in this crew. Ancient. Maybe even thirty-five. Too many of these guys die, by the trigger or consecutive sentences. These guys have been banging, and once you go banging, you don’t ever come back. Come eighteen years, they’ve shot, been shot at, been to juvenile hall six or seven times, been locked up and locked down; they’ve seen it all, maybe more than me. Maybe.
Yo, cuz, says the closest kid, the one with the headband. White meat in the house.
Fuck you, says Mackie, ever the diplomat. But he pockets his pistol.
Then we’ve got the handshakes and jive bullshit all around. The bald one, gangly and grins, is Django, and that’s Lil Ace in the USC sweatshirt, and then there’s Malik, one of those flash-frozen guys who’s most definitely got a body count, and finally the one with the headband, that’s … Headband.
Hey. Hi. Hey there. How ya doin? I mean, just what do you say to a roomful of gangbangers? Well, leave it to Mackie the Lackey:
Who you guys down with? The Bloods? Crips?
So now we’ve got silence.
Juan E gives Mackie the Wile E. Coyote stare, but Mackie keeps going.
C’mon, says fucking Henry Kissinger. What colors are you running with?
Juan E elbows this Django guy next to him, and this Django guy makes some kind of funny sign with the fingers of his right hand. The homeys, all but the Yellow Nigger, who looks maybe stoned or asleep in front of that TV, nod and laugh, nod and laugh, and finally Juan E curls his lip and says:
You don’t know nothin, man. Bloods, Crips, colors … fuck that shit. USC beyond all that, you know what I’m sayin? We ain’t just a set, we the whole damn ball of wax. D.C. is ours, mothafucka. Chocolate City, you know what I’m sayin? We own the street. And the war’s over, baby, ain’t you heard? It’s over. Nigga runnin for the White House now. Pretty soon we gonna call it the Black House.
Another elbow. Hands slapping. Laugh, laugh, laugh.
But Mackie says, Wait a minute. You talking about this guy who wants to be Vice President? Shit, man, he’s no nigger. He’s a Republican.
That gets a good enough laugh, but then out of the chatter comes a low voice, like some deep Hennessy and five-packs-a-day shit, and it’s this iceman Malik and he’s saying:
It’s over, baby. Niggas ain’t killin niggas no more. We gots bigger fish to fry. Like cod and cat. You know what I’m talkin bout? White fish.
Yeah, right. It’s CK and you can tell he’s had enough. You got drugs and you got guns, CK says. Let the revolution begin.
Juan E turns on him. You ain’t listenin, mothafucka. These are righteous soldiers, you know what I’m sayin? New Afrika.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, CK tells him. Well, I’m an old-timer, see. Traditionalist. Believe in family values, school prayer, knowing your place. Guess I kind of like Old Africa better.
Hey, cuz, Headband says to Juan E. I ain’t down with this jainky shit. And I sure ain’t gonna go with no Mzungu.
Mackie leans toward Headband, says: What is that, fuckface, some kind of Zulu bullshit? Muslim talk?
Headband looks at Mackie like he’s seeing him for the first time. You on this planet or you
It’s a tiny room and the double bed doesn’t leave much room for company. The bed’s got Juan E with a blunt, a bottle of brew, and a huddle of his homeys.
I look around and back and what we’ve got is a six-man chunk of the U Street Crew and each one of them is wearing $300 sneakers and droopy pants and a surly smile and the one thing I think is that these guys are kids. Juan E’s eighteen if he’s a day; none of the others can be older than twenty-one, twenty-five tops. Except the Yellow Nigger. And he’s way over in the corner, alone, hidden behind the same old pair of shades, wearing them inside, at 6:00 a.m., lost in some waking dream and watching TV, it’s on ESPN if he can see it. He’s an old-timer in this crew. Ancient. Maybe even thirty-five. Too many of these guys die, by the trigger or consecutive sentences. These guys have been banging, and once you go banging, you don’t ever come back. Come eighteen years, they’ve shot, been shot at, been to juvenile hall six or seven times, been locked up and locked down; they’ve seen it all, maybe more than me. Maybe.
Yo, cuz, says the closest kid, the one with the headband. White meat in the house.
Fuck you, says Mackie, ever the diplomat. But he pockets his pistol.
Then we’ve got the handshakes and jive bullshit all around. The bald one, gangly and grins, is Django, and that’s Lil Ace in the USC sweatshirt, and then there’s Malik, one of those flash-frozen guys who’s most definitely got a body count, and finally the one with the headband, that’s … Headband.
Hey. Hi. Hey there. How ya doin? I mean, just what do you say to a roomful of gangbangers? Well, leave it to Mackie the Lackey:
Who you guys down with? The Bloods? Crips?
So now we’ve got silence.
Juan E gives Mackie the Wile E. Coyote stare, but Mackie keeps going.
C’mon, says fucking Henry Kissinger. What colors are you running with?
Juan E elbows this Django guy next to him, and this Django guy makes some kind of funny sign with the fingers of his right hand. The homeys, all but the Yellow Nigger, who looks maybe stoned or asleep in front of that TV, nod and laugh, nod and laugh, and finally Juan E curls his lip and says:
You don’t know nothin, man. Bloods, Crips, colors … fuck that shit. USC beyond all that, you know what I’m sayin? We ain’t just a set, we the whole damn ball of wax. D.C. is ours, mothafucka. Chocolate City, you know what I’m sayin? We own the street. And the war’s over, baby, ain’t you heard? It’s over. Nigga runnin for the White House now. Pretty soon we gonna call it the Black House.
Another elbow. Hands slapping. Laugh, laugh, laugh.
But Mackie says, Wait a minute. You talking about this guy who wants to be Vice President? Shit, man, he’s no nigger. He’s a Republican.
That gets a good enough laugh, but then out of the chatter comes a low voice, like some deep Hennessy and five-packs-a-day shit, and it’s this iceman Malik and he’s saying:
It’s over, baby. Niggas ain’t killin niggas no more. We gots bigger fish to fry. Like cod and cat. You know what I’m talkin bout? White fish.
Yeah, right. It’s CK and you can tell he’s had enough. You got drugs and you got guns, CK says. Let the revolution begin.
Juan E turns on him. You ain’t listenin, mothafucka. These are righteous soldiers, you know what I’m sayin? New Afrika.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, CK tells him. Well, I’m an old-timer, see. Traditionalist. Believe in family values, school prayer, knowing your place. Guess I kind of like Old Africa better.
Hey, cuz, Headband says to Juan E. I ain’t down with this jainky shit. And I sure ain’t gonna go with no Mzungu.
Mackie leans toward Headband, says: What is that, fuckface, some kind of Zulu bullshit? Muslim talk?
Headband looks at Mackie like he’s seeing him for the first time. You on this planet or you
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