Bright Lights, Dark Nights (3 page)

Jason actually wrote his own raps and was the only kid I knew at school who knew more rap than I did. He hadn't stumped me yet, but eventually he was going to pull out that gem.

“Show me how it's done. Your turn,” Jason said.

“Me? I'm not rapping. There's people here,” I said. Jason was bolder than any comic hero on the shelves. He wore bold colors, stripes, polka dots. Ridiculous outfits, but he owned them. Jason could rap in a store and pull it off; I could not. Not that I could rap anyway. That was Jason's talent. I had no sense of rhythm. I just listened to Jason and tossed out ideas when we'd talk about his forever-in-the-making demo.

“Don't be a nerd, Walter. Rap at the comic-book store with me,” Jason said. “You have all the classic white lyricists to draw from. Macklemore, Eminem, Mac Miller. Vanilla Ice. What do I have, KRS-One? Fine, here's another one:
I was tryin' to get it on my own, working all night, traffic on the way home. And my uncle calling me like, ‘Where ya at? I gave you the keys, told you bring it right back.
'”

“Drake. You're the biggest Drake geek there is,” I said. If I did rap in the comic store, I'd go deeper than Drake. “You getting anything?”

“No, I'm broke. You?” Jason asked.

“Yeah, I think so.” I had a stack of new DC comics I had to narrow down. I'd cycled through the covers a handful of times and decided to put back Teen Titans.

“Let's go now while Romero's girl is at the register,” Jason said softly, suddenly excited, eyeing her at the front of the store. “Watch this. I'll show you some rapping.”

Jason had the genes I lacked, the ones that made you do nutty stuff in public for attention, or say crazy stuff you don't mean to get laughs, or put yourself in actual danger to impress a girl. Anytime he said “Watch this,” it was too late to turn back.

We made our way to the front of the store, where Romero was MIA and his girlfriend sat at the register reading a thick volume of Strangers in Paradise. She was cute in an odd way, with most of her head shaved, leaving a red punk Mohawk. She had a midriff on, showing off a belly-button piercing and pale white skin. Jason walked up to her, and I trailed comfortably behind. Far enough that I could pass for not being here with him.

“Excuse me. Sorry to bother you. Do you work here?” Jason asked her with a broad grin.

“I'm just watching the register, but I can—” she started to say.

“
Don't mean to sound like a jerk here
,” Jason conversationally rapped, “
but you deserve a paycheck for attracting all these nerds in here
.” Not only did I not have the genes to rap to a girl in public, but I was also flushed with embarrassment just watching. I might not be able to come to Shadows anymore.

“Um,” she said, blushing as Jason leaned onto the glass counter over a lineup of highly detailed Lord of the Rings pewter figurines.

“
Like my homey from the 'burbs here, he's sitting straight up like Captain Kirk's chair, full attention like a kitten with perked ears
,” Jason rapped-talked. He pointed at the graphic novel she was looking at. “Can I ask what you're reading?”

“Uh, it's—” She turned her book around to show the cover.

“
Can you read between lines? Can you read what's on my mind?
” Jason asked, all friendly smiles. I really felt bad for the girl.

“Bryan? Help?” she called back to the employee room. Romero came out alert but dropped the defense when he saw us. “I think this kid wants to ring out.”

“You guys? Pay for your stuff and get out of here, will you?” he asked.

Outside, Jason was cracking up. I hadn't even been the one doing all that and my armpits were sweating. We started walking east from the comic shop until we reached the corner and waited for the light to turn. It was cloudy and dark out for three thirty. We were standing on the corner of Main and Laurents, famous last month for a carjacking—guy approached a stopped car after midnight and shot twice, pulled him out, and left him for dead. Police found the car a week later about two towns over, empty and clean.

“You know why that's not embarrassing?” Jason asked. He took my bag and looked through my comics picks. “I can tell you're uncomfortable, but let me teach you something. You make a fool out of yourself for a girl, and she'll shoot you down nine times out of ten. But later, when she's alone, when she's feeling lonely, guess who she thinks about? That's right, she thinks about your boy Jason, because she knows I'm with it. I planted that seed, metaphorically speaking.”

“She's in her midtwenties, dude,” I said. “She's not going to be thinking about you.”

“Maybe not her, but other girls. Girls our age,” Jason said. He dropped the comics back in the bag and handed it to me. “What are you doing now? Come over. I'll let you listen to my new demo stuff and I'll read your comics.”

A door slammed open right behind us, and two guys nearly knocked me off my feet and spilled to the ground in front of Jason and me. One of the guys tried to grab a couple cartons of cigarettes that scattered. There was a struggle for a second—I half expected a knife or a gun to come out. I checked my pockets to make sure I had all my stuff.

Jason cheered them on. “Yeah! Get 'im! Knock him on his ass, son!” One of the guys kicked his feet at the other, scurried to a standing position, and took off.

“Shoplifters,” the guy still with us said, and shook his head. He was big.

“I gotta get home,” I said, also shaking my head.

“Why?” Jason asked blankly.

“Why do I have to get home?” I asked. Because it's safe and giants don't ram into me there. “Because I live there. I have to have dinner and stuff. My dad's expecting me.”

“Have dinner at my place,” Jason said. “You always gotta go home. Your dad can eat alone for a night. He doesn't care if you hang out. I'll give you some more dating tips.”

I didn't do much outside of home since my sister left for college. When I used to go out, I usually tagged along with her, or we'd do something as a family. At some point I just started avoiding things, not on a conscious level. Even with Jason, I'd brush off his invites like I'd swat a mosquito. It was instinctual, if not entirely rational.

“Okay,” I said. It didn't need to be a big decision. “Let me drop off my stuff at home and talk to my dad, and I'll come over.” I turned to walk to my place. Noisy construction had the street closed off, so I crossed it easily.

Jason and I had been good friends for the better part of a year. I first met him when we were freshmen. I was uncharacteristically forward and approached him, knowing I wanted to be friends. It was after the talent show, in which he performed “So Fresh, So Clean” by Outkast. I told him it was “dope” and Jason cracked up, and our friendship evolved from there.

*   *   *

As I reached home, it had gotten even darker out, and the streetlights were all turned on between the buildings. Dad was outside on the stoop talking to our neighbor Rosie Maldonado. Rosie was the reason why everyone on the street knew about Mom leaving us and about Dad's diabetes and about what I had for breakfast. Dad said none of that was secret and she could talk if she wanted to.

“It could be the same kids from last summer who were taking things out of unlocked cars every night,” Rosie said, nodding. “Two teenagers were doing it.”

“How do you even know that?” Dad asked. “I know it—I'm a cop. How do you know that?”

“Maybe I should be a cop, too,” Rosie said.

“Maybe, Rosie,” Dad said. “We'll put a wire on you. I'll bet you'd bring the whole underbelly of the city down. We'll get you started in training.”

Personally, I thought they liked each other. Rosie was cute and spunky. Wild hair she'd pull together with a bandanna or some barrettes. She was small, just over five feet probably, and looked really young for her age, which was maybe early forties, a good age for Dad. He could do worse.

“Kids have no respect,” my dad said, and crossed his arms. I made my way up the front steps. “They want the fast dollar and they don't care who gets hurt. Right, Walter?”

“Not Walter; he's a good boy,” Rosie said. Rosie liked me. She was always asking about “the love life.” I knew enough to keep that to myself, or would, if such a thing existed. She was always bringing food over for us, which was nice. Chicken and rice, flan, chorizo. It was a food-gossip trade.

“My guess is the kid got spooked—he'll lie low for a couple days and pick back up,” my dad continued. “This incident aside, he hasn't encountered a reason to stop yet. He doesn't know I'm waiting for him, though.”

“Don't get yourself in trouble,” Rosie said.

“I don't mind a reasonable amount of trouble,” Dad said in classic Bogart mode. I'd seen this side of Dad before. In fact, when I was a kid, it was all I saw. But these days it came out around Rosie a lot.

“What's going on?” I asked, leaning against the railing with Dad.

“One of your friends is robbing people's homes late at night,” Dad said. “All over the neighborhood, keeps happening. They got Mrs. Johnson down the street. Rosie checks in on her once a week. They got her good, emptied the place out.”

“No way,” I said. “What do you mean by my friends?”

“Rosie thinks it's a teenager,” Dad said. “She's doing her own detective work on this one.”

“Sorry, James, I know that's your job,” Rosie said.

“Don't worry about it, Rosie,” my dad said. “You did the right thing coming to me, and I'll personally see to it that we get this punk behind bars. Any other theories you think up, you let me know. You know where to find me.”

“Thank you, James. I can't help much, but I do what I can,” Rosie said. I could never tell if those two were flirting or just liked each other's company or what.

This seemed like a good thing for Dad. He stood tall when he was in cop mode, sucked in his gut. He even spoke a little sharper. There was focus and purpose there that made him look like a different person. He gave me a nod, so I dropped off my book bag and headed back out.

*   *   *

Just walking a few blocks was still a novelty, years after moving. It just felt different. My parents had to drive everywhere in the suburbs. I couldn't even just walk to a friend's house. Our neighbors on either side of us were kinda shut-ins when they weren't doing yard work, the big social hangout of our old neighborhood. Half the kids in our school still live out there.

We were a divided group—we'd always been divided, but when we were younger it was by town lines. The poor kids in one town, the rich kids in another. The city and the suburbs. Now, we made our own lines. We were still the poor kids and the rich kids, the white kids and the black kids, and we stuck to our own groups, for the most part. We stayed with who we grew up with, and when there was interaction between groups, it was generally a fight. That seemed to be fading with time, as we all got to know each other.

I did want to hear what Jason recorded, see if he used any of my ideas. I'd been devouring rap for years. The right beat with my eyes closed was like comfort food. When I was walking through the city and the right song was on, I felt like the most alive person there. Rap put some swag in my step, lifted my head up, had me looking people in the eye. I could get lost in drum rhythms and lyrics. Now, I don't look like the biggest rap fan. Or maybe I do—maybe everyone listens to rap these days. I could be the quintessential rap fan now. But for all my insecurities and physical shortcomings (I weigh about 120 and have densely thick glasses), when Dead Prez's “Hip Hop” comes on, I'm the toughest guy on the block. In my head, anyway.

I felt a crunch under my feet and looked down to see a pool of broken glass in the road. It belonged to the window of a car I had just walked past. Maybe Rosie was right, and these break-in kids really were expanding their business.