3 1/2
Batty Boy Rakeem

Rakeem ought to have been King of the Island
by now. No doubt, he was as natural-born a homerun hitter
as Boca Chica produced. So why was he still eating ramen
in a dilapidated hovel, scouring the coast for the occasional 
catfish amongst trash like some scrub?

Simple: he was “fruity”. Zesty
in a taxonomical sense. None of his tough
guy accomplishment really ranked in the face of straight
posturing.

Never nocturnal
Baseball bat wakes in sun’s grasp
Drinking day’s blood-orange

Calloused thumbs fondle the syrupy grain
(sacré dieubois aka “Holy God Wood”) of a tree so called upon
a deathbed denied 1 Kristoff Kolombo, esteemed discoverer of New found lands
poxed by the indigenous populations
as was often the case in those dark days
before vacation hot spots came pre-cleansed.

Sweet woodpecker Kristoff, perched
dying underneath the shade of his bene-ficus
chops it down to extract its saps (spilled, shipped, and sold)
ridding in his possession the syphilitic headbangs
threatening to cut his life short too—
“Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”
Unburdened to resume his missionary position.

In what must have been penance, this tree’s regrowth
wood would centuries later gift Rakeem a grip truer
than pine tar ever could.
Allowing him to interlock fingers tightly around
handle and steady this fabled bat to face
down opponents with the surety of Okinawan steel. Even an arm’s length
in front of his nose its allspice aroma
wafted into his wide nostrils soothing him into Zen focus.

Flamboyant Rakeem
Sore ‘n lone against the tide
Homo Erectus

Rakeem reflects—
Stick’s ebony-brown finish mirroring his own skin
shining and glistening.
—Listening, all the easier to visualize
the heavy stick an extension of self. Half a lifetime ago,
which in this instance amounts to a little less than 9 when
he was still some knock-kneed
narrow-shouldered
banjo-hitter barely squeaking out an excuse-me
swing—Rakeem christened this fresh weapon
keeping such unity in mind: the letters M W A H ! shakily carved down its barrel
using a glass shard he pocketed off the ground after
primary school boys had bored themselves throwing rocks and bottles
his way.

Only later would Simon teach him
the “me” of our gifted tongue Francais is spelled M O I.

Whatever. Rakeem punctuates
the nom de guerre with a signature kiss
from his Le Chocolat #5 lip gloss—

Boy had taste. The LC series was renowned by those of darker
complexions; didn’t need liner to help blend or nothing.
Kiss on bat, he vindicates
the Master’s words:
“Fear not the man who’s practiced 10000 different strikes
but the man who has practiced 1 strike 10000 times.”

Jean-Luc’s Gang
along with the occasional Avenida Raider straggler
would receive this lesson loud and clear 
on the kiss-end of this bat
and its parabolical precision. Stumbling lovestruck
rubbing fresh hickeys.

They’re small-fry.
Never able to mete out a millimeter of prowess
besides the 9 found in spent shell casings. So once guns evaporate
from the streets like raindrops on hot asphalt
so too does the big talk and macho posturing. The criminal
element on this island has gone soft. Flaccid. Limp.
Another hour passes. Rakeem swing…swing…swinging. Air sliced
in too many identical arcs to count.

Ocean’s water breaks
Against his island rock shore
Waves “hi” To Morrow

II.

Simon spent the night on edge before he hit
the dirt floor next to a pair of dirty drawers.
Izzy wiggled snug and comfortable as she sprawled
out laying claim to the rest of Simon’s mattress. Never
had he so loved cramped quarters and a twin size.
His curtainless window facing east, roaming retinas rewarded
him with more morning light than hungover eyes could bear. Day
was most unwelcome.  He couldn’t tell what time it was
but the beer bottle that’d broken his fall jutted deeper
into his spine signifying now was as good a time 
as any to get his ass up.
Had he been fully alert, thinking clearly, he’d have heard
knob on front door turning an hour before the end
of his mother’s shift. He’d have invoked
the trapped ingenuity of every nègro that ever kicked
it with a white girl then had to throw her out momma’s house
lickety-split. At the very least
he’d have found the strength to toss his bed
wholesale with Izzy on top of it. Instead, his oblivious
self splashed water on his face while his mom breezed
right on past the bathroom and her patented “Boy
have you lost your cotton-picking, black-ass mind!?” rang out
from his bedroom. Fortunately, he was already dressed and had enough
sense to be out the door before Mrs. Harris could tear herself away
from his bed of sin and lies.

Simon’d been running for 1 and a half, 2 miles (all the way
up La Playa Drive from south end to north) and was inhaling
every grain of salt carried by ocean air—scratching
nose and throat in the subsequent effort to catch his breath—when
the bzzt-bzzt-bzzt! of his portable phone against his thigh
finally caught his attention. He flipped it
open with a winded, “Hello…?” and was met with an equally curt
“Come meet me.” followed by a click. Rakeem never asked
for anything. It never really bothered Simon
before; he appreciated having someone close by
to make decisions. But lately…

The word “homeless” somersaulted in his brain
free as a dolphin. He’d messed up
pretty bad in the past, sure—
Ditching class.
Not coming home after curfew.
Smoking the reefer.

But even Booboo the Fool
had a grasp on the rules.
So much as inviting a kokoye over to dinner
earned you 5 across the lips:
“What I look like working double hours to put food
into white mouths! What they ever done for us?”
Some blond jeune filly snoring, having been
frolicking, in his sheets? Absolutely beyond the pale (so to speak). Critical
failure. Game over. He was now a persona non grata in his own household.

He handed the cashier his last dollar for the lottery
ticket instead of the orange juice with milk he’d walked in for.
Who knew?
Maybe he’d walk out the corner store a millionaire in an instant
and all his problems would go away.

“Loser!” stared back at him faster
than if he’d simply taken a look in the mirror. Simon tore up
the ticket and looked around wondering how he’d wind up
one of those middle-aged nègros in wife-beaters shooting 
craps outside the convenience store; always
within arm’s reach of a job (which he ought to have asked for)
but never holding one down. Only they had 1 up on him
chugging down their bottles of cheap mamajuana:
Simon was homeless, broke, and thirsty.

Horatius Laventure Secondary School started standing 
on its tippy-toes, rotting exterior more and more visible
over the horizon, and school seemed less and less a bad option. 
Too late for breakfast, but choking down a little Algebra
for the opportunity to wash it
down with a bottle of community-serviced Mango-Nectar
wouldn’t be so intolerable
right? Nah, that was dehydration taking the reins
over brains. Moms would snatch him straight out of class.
He suddenly remembered the deal he and Rakeem were closing
today. He’d be flush with cash.

Fresh pep with his step, he almost outran the kids popping
wheelies on their bikes. They thought they were flossing, but
Simon’s envy wouldn’t be wasted here:
1) Find solid metal bar.
2) Place bar firmly into link of bike chain.
3) Rotate bar from both ends clockwise
until you feel that oh-so-satisfying “Pop!”
4) Ride away. 

Jacques Pierre Nelson would never see his bike again. 

III. 

“Rocksteady on wheels?” Rakeem asked, flashing a gigawatt grin. 

Simon nodded: “Hop on.”

Petite Islands was technically an antiquated misnomer.
The Island Road Initiative back in the ‘70s or whenever
and all its derivatives had mandated natural roadways
between them and Boca Chica be prettied up and maintained
while further above-water inroads be built for the sake of unification. Whole
“Stronger Together” spiel politicians love to campaign on. To kokoye taxpayers,
it felt more like holding the diamond-studded leash to a rabid pitbull and nègros weren’t much happier remaining tethered to their masters. Both would rather have been allowed to drift apart.

“Rocksteady goes up to the plate?” Rakeem muttered in Simon’s ear as Simon pedaled and pedaled down Island Road, “No. Rocksteady stepping up to bat? Better. Simon, help me with this cypher.”

“I can’t spit and pedal at the same time, bro.” Simon answered, focused on the road ahead. 

So much so, that by the time he noticed Rakeem hop off the back pegs
he’d shot a good 100 feet ahead of him. With a sigh, he turned to ride back:

“That’s not what I meant. Why is this so important right now?”

“Heroes need theme music, man.”

Simon pumped the brakes on the handlebars for a second
feeling confessional, “My mom caught Izzy in the house today.” 

“Good Golly, Miss Molly!” Rakeem exclaimed, stifling a laugh. 

He teased by putting on this voice like 1 of those Saturday morning
cartoon narrators (which was particularly vexing to Simon
because he was pretty sure Rakeem had never owned a TV in his life). 

“No home left behind him, the only path Simon can take is onward. Meeting head on whatever challenges await just over new horizons–”

“I’m being serious, Rock.” Simon said.

“Me too! That’s your story now. Embrace it. Mama’s hugs, home-cooked meals… All that soft stuff’s in the past. Stay at the dojo with me.” Rakeem puffed out his bare chest, “Live rugged, manly, off the fat of the land. No more distractions from our training. Too many women been pulling your strings. White girls the most dangerous of all.”

Simon snapped back, “How would you know? You don’t like girls period! I don’t want to survive off noodles and bottom-feeders the rest of my life.”

Dismissing the slight edge in Simon’s words with a shrug, Rakeem sighed, “Your heart pumps champagne with rose petals in it, Loverboy, but I’m built different. A warrior. Hand-to-mouth, hand-to-hand: there are worse ways to live.”

Simon knew the proverbial wall would yield to words
sooner than Rakeem so naturally his attention sailed away
into the ocean surrounding the road. There was one sticking point
that’d been gnawing at his guts half the morning
even when he’d fantasized about retreating to his status quo: 

“Don’t you ever get sick of this? Just going back-and-forth?”

“You kidding!?” Rakeem exploded before Simon even finished the question. “I’ve never had more fun out here on the islands!”

Rakeem unsheathed the baseball bat he always kept
holstered and gave out a few practice swings.

“Knocking heads without having to worry about some chump evening the score with his 9. What’s not to love?” 

“The road’s half underwater. Soon, we won’t be able to cross into the city at all.” 

“We’ll buy a boat. Soon as this partnership starts paying dues.” 

Looking over at his crestfallen compadre kicking rocks
like a lost child, Rakeem couldn’t help but be budged
an inch. The hardest heart would have crumbled into sand
at the pathetic sight. Placing a hand on Simon’s shoulder,
he reassured him:

“Know what your problem is, Simon? You’re busy eyeing the stands looking for everybody else’s reaction before you’ve even swung the bat. Keep your eye on the ball, buddy. Team Rocksteady has scores to settle right here in front of us. A man doesn’t leave business unfinished behind him.” 

Simon nodded without even a glancing insight
into the philosophy Rakeem was kicking. 

All the same, Rakeem stepped back onto the bike’s pegs, “So… about this cypher?”

RAKEEM
(Verse 3)
Offin’ they heads with a flick of my wrist
Watch you peasants take knee in my midst
Yeah, I’m King of this Cliff
I stay crossing names off my list
Countin’ down the tough dudes I done kissed
And who could resist
‘Round me the word straight don’t exist
Make the hardest nèg talk with a lisp
Soon as “Mwah!” hits his lips
I’ll have your crew switching positch
Chasing after you dudes with a switch
Switch!

SIMON
(Verse 4)
Bad boys move in silence and violence on kush
If Rakeem is the loud, I’m the shush
Try keeping it hush
Faithful to my word, you can trust
Put a mic in front lips, turn ‘em loose, they go slut
Yo, pause, straight off the cuff
Stay spitting from morning ‘til dusk
Guess the truth leaves a taste of disgust
Go ahead, baby, blush
Got every girl heart in my clutch
Ain’t bout dem breaks, I just ride out the rush
We

RAKEEM AND SIMON
(hook)
Stepping up to bat like (woo!)
Stepping up to bat like (woo!)
And the crowd goes Rock-stead-y!
And the crowd goes Rock-stead-y!
And the crowd goes Rock-stead-y!
And the crowd goes Rock-stead-y!

Maybe the whole beatboxing B-boy aesthetic was a little
corny and played, but rapping was the only time Simon could use
his own voice with anything approaching authority. I been sparing
y’all patience and my hyphen count by not ty-ty-typing every
stutter. I don’t know the natural science behind music and speech.
Though, if you’d deign to entertain my little ol’ opinion
Yoruba-descended peoples were not put upon
this Earth to live in sterile stillness.
I assert, dear sir or madam, rhythm is not simply the pathway
to cushy record deals and expenses-paid tours Steppin’ and Fetchin’
for white folks; it achieves equilibrium and finds commune with
the world itself (and all the spirits contained within).
Or two friends were just goofing off.
Lighten up.
Let kids be kids, man!

IV.

Terrence didn’t understand. If ever there was a phrase
destined to be engraved on his tombstone
as epitaph to his life. Terrence didn’t understand
why or how in gods’ names Jean-Luc had arranged the truce
with the other gangs. Terrence didn’t understand this disarmament
nonsense, a conference room full of hard-hitting gangsters had debated
like some Parliament Funkadelic with the “Hear, hear”
gavel-slamming and everything. 

“Be a man! On your feet!” Virgil barked. 

Terrence didn’t understand why
Jean-Luc kept Virgil’s barely-turned-eighteen-years-old-ass
as trusted lieutenant while he hardly held dominion over this rinky-dink
trap house. He sat on the couch adjacent the exposed spring
and didn’t understand why he was watching
some poor flop sweat-soaked subordinate
rise to his feet and struggle to balance a milk bottle atop his head.
He continued watching and continued not understanding
as Virgil dipped down into some Liu Kang kung fu “Wa-taaa!” pose
performing a high kick which landed
square in the subordinate’s nose flooring the damn kid.

“Maybe he really is six foot,” Virgil complained, looking down at the milk bottle which remained undefeated, “I’d have cleared him easy if he’d taken his shoes off. These jeans cut off my lateral movement.”

Our boy (in the conversational sense;
Terrence was 34 and 1-point-5 decades too old for this shit)
kept on cleaning out his revolver. Without understanding. 

“This really the new regime, huh? Karate class with the kiddies.” He said, imagining Virgil’s brown-nosed rebuttal before he even said it.

“What the boss says goes. I wouldn’t get caught with that.”

The barrel spun with all six
bullets loaded as Terrence snapped
it shut and took aim at Virgil, 

“How else am I supposed to bang on the corner assuming these other nègroes ain’t so sincere about the big timeout? With an actual stick?” 

“Works for me.” a loud voice spoke from the entrance, “I’ve been having a field day.” 

This Motherf—er waltzing in like he owned the place with that stupid
bat resting on his shoulders and his little nègro tag-along so tucked up
under his wing he was shoving his shadow out the way to make room: 

Rakeem. Only, “motherf—er” was precisely the wrong insult;
that’d imply this Muscle Mary was in any capacity trying to regain
entry into the paradise requiring only a handle of tequila and the parting of
a woman’s left and right kneecaps.

The teenaged basers cutting H in the kitchen
agreed soon as Terrence thought this thought,
room filling with hushed snickers of “Switch-hitter!”, hooked
into telepathic WiFi.

Enough! Terrence squared up nose-to-nose with the delusional upstart, “Jean Luc out his mind he think I’m about to let a couple freelancers bop around like they bad in my spot.”

Rakeem smirked, eyes locked with Terrence’s ice-cold, even as he felt the barrel of the revolver nuzzling the bottom of his chin, “Had no idea you felt so strongly about me. I’m flattered.” 

Today wasn’t going to be the day
he picked to start flinching.
Wasn’t going to be tomorrow neither. The day after:
too far beyond his concern.

“Talk that Wu Tang swagger now, Batty Boy. I’ll empty more than thirty-six chambers into you.”

“Am I supposed to be sweating that limp little piece in your hand?”

Click. 

Terrence held the hammer cocked back, “It’s enough to blow your mind.”

Simon tugged in vain on Rakeem’s sleeveless hoodie, “Come on, Rock. Forget it. Let’s just leave.” 

Virgil leaned in closer on Terrence’s flank hoping to see
gray matter make a supersonic exit out the back of a nègro’s skull.
Then, not wanting to get blood on his clothes
he took a step back. Unnecessary in the end.
This laborious ceremony wound up being nothing more
than a howdy-do between two testosterone-addled idiots. 

Terrence lowered his revolver chuckling, “Now I see why they call you Rocksteady”
[Correction: common mistake, but the moniker Rocksteady
belonged to Rakeem and Simon as a unit].
“You the truth!”

“Batty Boy?” Rakeem whined, a touch wounded.

“You carry a bat and you under 18. I ain’t mean nothing all like that by it,” Terrence relented.

“I’m a Batty Man, baby, and don’t you forget it, oldhead!”

“I used to have an uncle was funny like you is. He was cool.”

The one time I’ll ever sympathize with Virgil is his expressing exasperation toward watching this farce play out, “How disappointing.” 

I get secondhand exhaustion
dealing with men on a minimal, strictly-transactional basis.

“Where you running off to, Virgil?” Terrence asked, keeping eye on the morose lieutenant.

Not breaking stride on his way toward the bathroom, Virgil replied, “Taking a piss. Unless you and your boyfriend want to hold it for me…” and skulked away out of sight. 

Boca Chica being such a third-world
slice of nowhere for anyone darker than a brown
paper bag, it’s easy for a nègro to mistake their own vigilance
for paranoia and underestimate the technological reach of…
I don’t give a damn what you call them:
The Man,
his Big Brother,
The White Hegemony,
their cousin Johnny Law.

To Simon, for whom the flip-phone in his pocket
may as well have been beamed right off the Star Trek
Enterprise rather than hand-me-downed from his kokoye
more-than-platonic/less-than-romantic girl friend
(we’ll tap-dance across this minefield of mixed
signals hand-in-hand later, I promise), the forces at play
all around him were unfathomable even if we limited ourselves
to the secular and man-made. Fiber optic cables thin
as the hair on my head, for example…
Okay, my fro’s kind of on the nappy side. The hair on your head.
Carrying a camera the size of, say, a hole
in the crumbling wall
of a trap house
looking like it’d been left by a nail… 

Even if he had had my prescience, realizing
Rocksteady and the rest of the “bad actors” in the room
were making their television debut in the back of a surveillance van
down the street, what happened next could have played out
no differently. A true thespian can only stick to his script, right?

Dollar-Dollar-Bill cooing her siren song from the briefcase
Terrence had carelessly left open,
laying bare her in all her glory,
our boy Simon’s senses stalled inside his tunnel-vision.

Rakeem and Terrence, meanwhile, buddy-buddying over failed baseball glory,
bum toes, and dubious connections to Flamingos batting phenom
Winoc LeFleur barely breached his periphery. 

SLAM! 

Terrence cut the peep
show short, shooing
the buxom Million Bucks off stage
replacing her with the anorexic Hundred Note (to be divided
evenly amongst Rocksteady) dancing limply in his hand.
Their meager cut from the bag of drugs Rakeem had taken off previously mentioned Avenida Raider. 

“Members only, little man,” Terrence patronized, prepping a line of cocaína atop the shut briefcase. He offered Rakeem a bump which the latter blithely declined.

“Commandment number four: Never get high on your own supply,” Simon parroted mechanically.

This amused Terrence: “You got him well-trained.”

Rakeem stepped up to defend his friend, “It ain’t like that.” Tapping his forehead, “Can’t afford to cloud our third eye.” 

Simon had never known anybody over the age of fourteen,
who wasn’t a total lame at least,
as viceless as Rakeem. He didn’t smoke
weed or menthols. He didn’t drink
beer or liquor. He couldn’t afford coffee.
Was he able to scrounge up three squares
on the regular, Rakeem would have been healthier than any
health-obsessed kokoye. 

“Ever wanna get out of the minor league, I’d vouch for a stand up like you. These other young bloods be buckin’. And Virgil been up in his feelings,” mused Terrence. 

Hmmmm….? Where was Virgil? Us locals were half-immune
to dysentery brought on by unwell-sourced tap water;
likewise, there wasn’t that much constipation in all of Boca Chica. 

Bzzt-Bzzt-Bzzt! Hold that thought. Simon’s phone
was rattling in his pocket like a fistful of jumping beans. 

He picked up, “Hello?”

Rakeem could rarely discern between Simon’s normal-twitchy
versus his twitchy-twitchy—but the way Simon paced back-and-forth,
a peek out the window inducing rapid-fire perspiration—worried
even him. Bad juju wafted in the air and Rakeem wasn’t
so spiritually-dead as not to sense it.

“I understand your contribution; what’s little nègro bringing to the mix?” Terrence asked, clueless to Simon’s nuances and subtleties.

Rakeem had his response locked and loaded, clarifying, “Simon’s more big picture than I am,” even with his attention now fully on his little bro. 

Simon nabbing the briefcase caught even a vigilant Rakeem off-guard
so Terrence may as well have been neck-deep in cane syrup
by the time he caught up.

“You little mother—”

With a flick of his wrist, Rakeem half-unsheathed his bat
using the knob to send Terrence’s revolver skittering across the floor.
Simon never called audibles like this! 

Rakeem dug the initiative: “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

Nary a baser in the kitchen ran interference
when Simon bolted right past them. An empty doorway
yelled back, “Bro, run!” before the back door swung back closed.

Trailing after someone as rabbit-blooded as Simon
was a fool’s errand, but this split-second head start
saved Rakeem from sharing the ignominious fate of his peers.
He’d heard the window shatter, but instantly the whole world blazed
white hot then a deafening thunder knocked him cold.
Later he would learn he had tasted the tartness of leftover
“pomegranate”of a stunning variety, thrown by the police
but in this moment his shallow pool of reference floated
the idea he’d been struck by lightning.
He regained his senses a few seconds after, barely having made it beyond
the threshold of the back door, face-down in a patch of dead
grass; ears ringing and eyes dimmed.

Rakeem stumbled into the next yard
over feeling the same dizziness he’d felt
that time Grann threw him to Mami Wata, thinking it untoward
a boy from the islands not be able to swim, and the remainder
of his summer vacation was spent having water-sick
ear canals swabbed with Q-tips dipped in the bitter,
potent juices of an asosi melon. Simon was long gone. But Rakeem could easily guess where
he was headed next. Rather, towards whom…

Tune in next time…