Ghetto Girls Too. Anthony Whyte

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       SEVEN

      Rightchus had seen the paramedics and cops zoom by him. He was in the lobby of Ascot’s building waiting around and was close to loitering. The doorman had asked him to leave a half hour before but Rightchus refused to go. Claiming he had business with Eric Ascot, he refused to accept the doorman’s explanation that he was unavailable and demanded to see Ascot’s representative. He would not budge when the doorman told him no. Rightchus was still in the lobby when the police and emergency technicians hurried by with Lil’ Long lying on a gurney. Rightchus saw a second gurney with a zipped body bag. He knew that someone had been killed and not knowing that person’s identity bothered him.

      “I’ve come too far not to find out,” he said and darted after the ambulance. Rightchus quickly caught up before it pulled out.

      “Get back. What the hell are you doing here?” Detective Kowalski asked and grabbed him.

      “Just tell me, please, who caught it and I promise I’ll leave. Who caught the bad one?” Rightchus pleaded with the detective who brushed his pleas aside and attempted to walk away but Rightchus was persistent.

      “This is not your concern. This is police business. Go home, Rightchus,” Kowalski seethed and Rightchus stared back defiantly.

      “Look, man, three or four of my very good friends were up there. I’m just trying to figure out if anyone important to me got dropped.”

      “That’s not important to me. Now beat it.”

      “Look, I just hope it wasn’t my girl, Coco.”

      “How do you know who came here today?”

      “I just do. I came with them. I just...”

      “Who were you here with?”

      “I came here with some girls. What, you don’t believe me or sump’n?”

      “You’re impeding official police business. Are we gonna leave today?” Detective Hall asked as he interrupted.

      “Detective Hall, won’t you please tell me who got shot?”

      “No, I will not.”

      “Why?”

      “It’s none of your goddamn business. Let’s go, Kowalski.” Both detectives were off and Rightchus, realizing he still didn’t know who was in the body bag, gave chase.

      “Hey, yo, wait up, wait up,” Rightchus shouted but the two detectives ignored his pleas. They were in their Malibu speeding away. “Them cops, they devils. That’s fucked up that they don’t want to inform you but when they ready for info, that’s another story,” Rightchus continued in disgust. He walked back, dodging traffic, and made his way home, angry at not knowing who was inside the body bag.

      The devil, he doesn’t want you to know yourself. That’s the only way he can keep you enslaved. I guess I’ll find out who got shot by watching the evening news like rest of this city, Rightchus thought as he continued down the block, stopping only to bum a cigarette.

      He entered his east Harlem building and ran up the stairs to the second floor. He opened the door and threw himself onto his worn out wine colored alcohol stained sofa. It doubled as his bed but he was too edgy to sit still. Instinctively, he reached for the glass pipe lying on top of a dusty, well used end table. Searching his underwear, he fished for the vial he had stashed in the crack of his ass.

      “Aha, found you. Thought I’d lost you but I know, I know. Those crack dealers,” he said shaking his head, “they must be tap dancing on the shit. I can’t even get a handle on it. Damn thing so skinny,” Rightchus mumbled and held the piece of rock to the light.

      Salivating, he fastidiously began chopping a piece of the yellow substance and frenetically packed it into a glass pipe. Rightchus cleared his throat and whipped his tongue over his lips then brought the stem to his mouth and sucked hard, deflating his cheeks in the process. With his thumb and index finger, he squeezed off air through his nostrils. His cheeks inflated and veins grew vivid in his neck.

      Really hope it wasn’t my girl, Coco. She wanna be a rap star. He breathed out. Her mother would die, he thought as he set the blowtorch again, lit it, and inhaled. Sweat poured down the side of his face. Rightchus smiled with the high. He let out a laugh.

       That old biddy would run out and smoke up all the rock in the world and then die. That bitch is a crazy fiend. I wonder how she’s doing. I know that bitch went to that drug rehab but for crack heads like me and her, there is no rehab. No turning back.

      The taste made him feel so good that he was up, dancing and singing, “Once a crack head, always a crack head. You just got to have it. Ain’t no turning around for me and you, sis. No rehab, no counselor, no peer pressure, no nothing. We’re doomed to our fate. Our souls have been bought and paid for by the devil. Nothing can save us.”

      Rightchus broke off another piece and repeated the incantation, “Once a crack head, always a crack head.”

      The yellow flame blazed from the torch igniting another piece of impure coke and once again, Rightchus’ lungs filled and he hopped around the tiny apartment. He danced, his imagination filled by a grand audience enjoying his show.

      Applause followed as he focused on the decorated walls cluttered with pictures from magazines and newspapers. An assembly of some of the greatest feats in sports history was splashed across the walls of Rightchus’ alcove. He was lost in examining each picture as if seeing them for the first time then he began imitating the movements captured in each picture. Kareem Abdul Jabbar forever tossing that winning skyhook over Larry Bird while the fans at Boston Garden cheered in perpetuity. Magic’s smile and the Lakers’ championship squad of the Eighties posed tirelessly.

      “I wanna smoke rock right now. I’m Rightchus and I came to get down. I’ll free base whether you’re a fatty or skinny. I don′t care, just you holler. I wanna smoke rocks wit’cha, ain’t turning nothing down but ma collar,” Rightchus sang as he drifted past pictures of Jordan in complete Nike-flight, Ali caught delivering another invisible jab, Bruce Lee executing a painful grin, and teen boxer, Iron Mike, wearing a champion’s scowl with three title belts hanging around his trim waist. Rightchus waved his arms.

      “I’m old school like that,” he said with a smile as he plopped onto the ruined sofa and closed his eyes as if on the verge of passing out. Rightchus was on his beach building his castle of sand. He played with the birds and fishes.

      A long time ago, his mother told him he would never amount to nothing. At the end of a trying teenage life, he mapped out his adult living to prove how right mothers could be. Rightchus knew he would need help to accomplish that so he formed a partnership with crack in order to accommodate a quick end to his tale of frustration. “Round here, you either smoke it, sell it, or stay the hell away from it. That’s the three ‘S’s’ СКАЧАТЬ