Antoine Wallace by ucarr

Chantelle, you party animal! Making me keep late hours! Too much Hennessy! Too much herb! It’s 7:45 and I gotta be to work at 8:30!

No time for a shower. Yesterday’s pants and shirt will have to do.

Fumbling towards the kitchen in my untied Jordans.

Made it to the cabinet for the Captain Crunch.

Made it to the ‘fridge for the jug of two-percent.

Sliding into the window seat of the breakfast booth for a quick chow. No time for a fried egg.

Glancing out the window at my recently Simonized baby.

“Oh, God damn! Where’s my car?!”

“Hey there, Walter! Stop that cursing!”

Next moment, my father enters the kitchen wrapped in a serape made of chili peppers.

“Daddy! What happened to my car… this time? Where you git them chili peppers?”

“Now you know Jorge supporting thirteen chilruns and has to be down to the plant without missin’ a day.”

Looking out the window and staring across the fence to the other side of the street, I can see Jorge’s hoopdie, parked in front of his house. I start sinking down in my seat.

“You loaned him my car… again?”

“Now you know his car ain’t right more ‘n half the time.

“I know something ain’t right more ‘n half the time.”

“You getting an ungrateful attitude? Is you?!”

“No.”

“I know you work hard to keep your flashy car. But this way, you getting a dividend with the man upstairs.”

“And what we getting down here? Some jalapenos and a few habaneros?”

“Lemme ask you something. What lesson you think the Lord wants you to learn today?
“Umm… I think the Lord wants me to learn the lesson that it’s cool to drive my own car to work, ‘specially when I’m fixin’ to be late.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. I work so I can drive to work… an anywhere else I wanna go.”

“Boy. Today you takin’ the bus to work.”

“Yes, sir.”
¬

I walked up to the bus stop bench and sat down in a foul mood.

Now I have to wait here on Rosecrans and become a sittin’ target for these fools who run around with guns lookin’ for somebody to shoot.

I’m gunna be late on a Saturday when I got three cases of pictures to process, instead of the usual two. And old-ass Higgenbottom’s lookin’ to fire me too.

Uh oh. Some new graffiti on this bench, and it’s blue. Shit’s supposed to be red. Invader Crips? Aw naw, man. Don’t even think it. Not while you takin’ the bus.

All of a sudden screeching tires as a red Five-Oh donuts around from Avalon Blvd. in a cloud of burning smoke and Indy 500 deafness. Stop. Shit, man! Some bad-ass wheels. One dude.

All of a sudden screeching tires as a blue Challenger donuts around from Central Avenue in a cloud of burning smoke with Le Mans percussion. Stop. Aw, shit! Some more bad-assery. A driver and one passenger.

Face-off. *

Aw-ite. Who’s the bull? Who’s the matador?

A Carroll Shelby clap of engine thunder explodes the cars forward.

Last second they swerve away from the head-on and circle each other in a continuous donut.

I choke on the burning tire stench and gawk, thinkin’ AQMD should be on they ass like poison ivy.

Gunshots crack the air.

All of a sudden, the Five-Oh spins out of control and slams into the Bay Fig across the street in front of the boarded up Pentecostal shack.

The driver is slumped over his wheel.

Aw shit. Time to go. As I get up –

The Challenger stops right in front of me and the two dudes stare me down.

As I sit back down, I realize I don’t have on anything red, but that’s not helping my bladder.

The Challenger does a four-on-the-ground wheelie towards the Five-Oh and stops.

The passenger gets out the car, holding his big-ass gun with two arms forward, just like they do on TV when officers clear a building where an armed suspect might be hiding.

With his head cocked at a cool angle, looking just like Will Smith, the dude carefully approaches the car.

Finally, he yanks open the driver’s door and pulls him onto the ground.

The dead driver doesn’t move.

The passenger jumps into the air, beats his chest and yodels like Tarzan, firing up several shots.

God damn it! I hope those bullets don’t come down on my head!

The passenger jumps into the Five-Oh, guns it back from the Bay Fig and torpedoes down Rosecrans. The Challenger follows, and the two cars drag race away.

Now it’s time to go. I get up and freeze again as,

“Dude! Hold up, man.”

The dead driver has moved over to the Bay Fig, where he has recovered his big-ass gun, glinting like strikes of lightning and pointing straight at me.

He’s got both arms forward, with the gun on me, but wavering badly.

Wounded bad-ass. Dangerous.

Was this going to be the Lord’s lesson? Today would be my last day? And all because I’m apeshit for muscle cars?

I maintain my freeze as the bad-ass hobbles and staggers forward, keeping the gun barrel somewhere within the vicinity of me.

He makes it right up to me and pitches forward into my arms as we fall together backwards onto the bench.

Intense pain makes me forget death for a minute. This is after I hit my tailbone on one of the bench partitions.

I’m getting wet from his wet t-shirt.

As he starts to fall backwards, out my lap, onto the sidewalk, a psychotic impulse makes me catch him in my arms.

His face is filmed over with sweat, his breathing is hard and raspy, a red bubble escapes from his lips.

The breathing and the rasping and the gurgling get louder as he makes some kind of energetic effort.

Oh. He’s trying to say something to me. I lean in to him.

“This my daddy’s gun, ‘fore they kilt him. Take it… take it back to mama.”

It’s a silver-plated automatic, with a mother-of-pearl grip.

We stare at each other. Soon, there’s so much water flowing out my eyes until everything before me becomes a burning blur.

Another red bubble escapes from his lips.

“What’s your name?” I leaned in to listen.

“Antoine.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Antoine… Wallace… Antoine Wallace.”

What do I do?! What do I do?! What do I do?! How I’m gunna find his mama?

All of a sudden, his energy dropped.

I couldn’t feel him anymore.

I look through the wavy lines of flowing water and see he’s not breathing.
I pry the gun from his hand. Must weigh a pound.

I remove the clip and jam it into my back pocket.

With the gun in hand, I swing my arm, to and fro, to and fro, just like a battering ram. On the last fro, I release the gun and it arcs upward into the air, curving over the roof of the bus stop, where it clang-bangs and rattles around until, finally, it stops.

I can only hope no one gets to it before I return tonight, after my shift.

How I’m going to work?! The bus is coming!

What do I do?! What do I do?! What do I do?!

All of a sudden, more screeching tires as two black and white patrol cars pull up, one on each side of the bus stop.

Once again, I freeze.

Two cops in each car.

There’s a long interval of frozen silence. Then a voice comes over the public address on top of the left patrol car.

“Get onto the ground.”

I remain frozen.

This time louder and meaner.

“GET ONTO THE GROUND!”

I had no choice but to stand up, with both arms raised, both palms facing out, sending Antoine crumping and crumpling and bouncing around onto the sidewalk. I hear his skull smack the pavement.

I bend my left knee and go down, keeping my arms raised and palms out. Then, I go down on my right knee. Next, as if praying to Mecca, I pitch forward and use my palms to cushion my landing.

Aw, shit! One whole side of my face starts frying like an egg on the hot pavement.

I see two pairs of shiny black shoes come right up to my eyeballs.

While getting patted down, the clip is snatched from my back pocket.

“Where’s your weapon?!”

“Ain’t got one.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“Ain’t got no weapon!

I hear a voice call for an ambulance on the walkie.

My arms are positioned behind my back, and I get handcuffed.

My head gets snatched up from the scruff of my collar and my ankles are grabbed from behind.

I’m hoisted prone and bundled towards the rear door of the patrol car, which is yanked open. Then, like a battering ram, I’m swung to and fro, to and fro. On the second fro, when I’m nearest the door, I’m released and my whole body flies into the partitioned rear of the patrol car. I slide across the backseat, until the top of my head crashes against the far side rear door, with my neck crunching as it stops my forward momentum. My legs are grabbed at the knees and I’m swung around inside the car, with the door slamming.

Blam! I know the lesson the Lord wants me to learn. I have a father, and I see him every day.

Blam! My face slams into the partition with my forward momentum as the patrol car speeds away, with the public address hooting and squawking at intersections.

My handcuffs are so tight that, under normal circumstances, I’d be crying with pain.

But right now, I’m not feeling any pain. I’m too numb.