Be-who?
The host came, beckoned them to follow him, and showed them to their table. Gully pulled out Santana's chair, then helped push her closer to the table. She thought his action was nice, but she'd never tell him. Holding out chairs wasn't in Pharaoh's makeupâpeople went out of their way for Pharaoh, not the other way around. But as long as he paid, Santana didn't care who held out her chair. She eyed Gully closely. He did one thing Pharaoh didn't, but he certainly wasn't Pharaoh.
He took her napkin from the table, snapped it opened, then placed it on her lap.
Okay. Two things
. What was he, a corner boy who spoke gentlemen's English and waited tables on the side? He sat down in his seat, and spread his napkin in his lap.
Okay. Three things
.
“Would you like me to order for you? Tell me what you like andâ”
“I can order for myself. Who do you think you are, my daddy? Do I look three to you?”
Gully held up his hands, leaned back in his chair, then folded his arms in his lap. He seemed to be waiting.
Santana opened her menu, and to her surprise and embarrassment, the menu was written in a different language. Her eyebrows shot up.
“I'll just have the chicken.”
They both laughed, and Santana's mood lightened.
“So you speak . . .” She looked at the menu again.
“Spanish, French, Italian, Portuguese, Patois, and, of course, Englishâexcept for slang. I'm not good with slang or dumbing down my vocabulary. I think, after a while, speaking badly affects a person's lexicon.” Santana's eyebrows shot up. “Sorry, it affects a person's vocabulary.”
Okay. Nine things, including a lexi-whatever
.
They talked for a while, and Gulliverâwhat he preferred to be called, was a genuine nice guy.
Ten things
. No criminal record.
Eleven things
. No questionable business.
Twelve things
. And he was borderline genius, on his way to college a year and a half early to be an architectural engineer.
Thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen
. He volunteered at homeless shelters.
Sixteen
. Didn't wear clothes with the designer's name splashed all over the place.
Seventeen
. And built computers and databases, and designed video games for a living.
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty
.
“Why don't I know you? If Pharaoh let you use his carâleft you alone with me, he has to trust you. So why don't I know you? I've never seen you before,” she said, leaning forward on the table.
Gully smiled. “Of course you wouldn't know me. I grew up on the block, but I'm not a part of the block, Santana. I'm always away at school or on trips overseasâa survival mechanism, so to speak. I'm usually only home for the holidays. So unless you were at my house for Christmas or attending Easter service at my church, we wouldn't have met.”
Santana nodded. That explained everythingâespecially the way he spoke and his politeness. The block hadn't ruined him or given him swagger.
“You know, Santana,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out some money and slid a one-hundred-dollar bill to her and a card. “I really enjoy your company. As a gentleman, I can't let Pharaoh pay for dinner. You keep the money. This is my treat. And if you ever need help with school or need some work done on your computer, call me. That's my card.”
Santana looked at him and smiled.
Twenty-one
. He was a perfect jackpot. Too bad he didn't have swagger. She'd bet a dollar to a dime, no Naes were lurking in his world.
5
DYNASTY
T
he bright green jelly shoes were sticking to the bottoms of her feet, and now had begun to make sucking noises when she walked. Swoosh. Smack. Flop. Swoosh. Smack. Flop. Dynasty made it to the barred door of the store, and pushed her way inside. Head-scarved women, dusty teenagers, and children with freshly greased hair and faces were inside, along with a few stray bums and corner boys. Her eyes roamed the counter, looking for Old Man Curtis, the owner. That's who she wanted to see. He was the only one who would help her.
“Get out!” an old-gruff voice boomed. “Whatcha loitering 'round here for?” Mr. Curtis appeared with a broom as ancient as he, and began sweeping dirt toward the bums and dusty teenage boys who'd come to his store hoping to make their own transactions. “Not in here! What I say about y'all trying to sell that poison in my store? Get out! And I ain't gonna call no police neither. I'm the law 'round here. So get, before I go get Lucy.”
Dynasty smiled as the unwelcomed riffraff left the store. No one wanted Mr. Curtis to get Lucy, his sawed-off shotgun. He'd been known to pull her out in the past, and use her too.
“Afternoon, Mr. Curtis.”
He held up his finger to quiet her, then waited for the store to clear. One lone boy got cocky, refusing to move from the potato-chip rack.
“All right, young'un, you done asked for it.” Mr. Curtis bobbled as fast as he could toward the counter, looking like he was ready to jump into double-Dutch ropes. One of his legs was significantly shorter than the other, so he rocked side to side when he walked. Reaching behind the counter, he grabbed his precious Lucy. The boy was gone before he could turn around. “These fools 'round here ain't got the sense God gave 'em! Lawd ha-mercy.” He looked at Dynasty, and flashed her a toothless smile. “Now what'chu want, lil gal?”
Dynasty's stare hit the floor. She'd had to come to Mr. Curtis for help before, and it never got easier. “Is there anything I can do for you around here?”
“I done told you I can't hire you. You ain't old enough, and you doggone sure ain't big enough. Folks see you in here and they gone think they can get away with murder. Child, I got thoughts bigger than you; you ain't big as a fly wing, so how you gonna stop these thieves and riffraff from loitering? Huh?” His voice was rough, but his eyes were warm.
The bell above the door rang, signaling someone had entered the store.
“Come on, child. Speak!” Mr. Curtis urged. “I ain't gots all day.”
Dynasty looked up into his eyes with tears in her own. “Mr. Curtis, I know you can't hire me, but I only need to make a few dollars. Today. If I don't make moneyâonly ten dollarsâI can't go home.”
Mr. Curtis exhaled. “It's your auntie again, huh? I swear that's the craziest loon I've ever seen. What she do to you this time? Beat ya?”
“Can I get my lotto tickets up in here, please? I need to play my numbers! Today is the day, Curtis! I'm gonna hit big. Come on.... You can talk to that hungry-looking child later,” said some man with too-short overalls, rolled-down socks, and a cigarette butt hanging from the side of his mouth.
“Shut up, Red! I'm coming.” Mr. Curtis looked at Dynasty. “Wait here.” He rocked his way toward the back of the register.
“I only need to make ten dollars!” yelled Dynasty. “I can sweep, break down boxes, stock shelves . . . anything.”
“Does anything include knowing your way around, miss?” a raspy voice with clipped words asked from behind in what sounded like an English accent.
“Of course,” Dynasty answered before she turned and saw who the voice belonged to. As long as she was safe, she didn't care. Ten dollars was ten dollars and a way to keep a roof over her head and Aunt Maybelline's foot from connecting with her butt.
“Word?”
Word?
What did that mean? Dynasty wondered. She had never heard that expression before, and knew that the person with the raspy voice wasn't from her housing project. She turned around and locked eyes with the stranger. She was right. There was no way on heaven or earth that they came from the same place. He was almost as tall as Rufus, Oreo-cookie chocolate, with the longest eyelashes she'd ever seen, and a long jagged scar on the right side of his face. His features were very pronounced, and said his ethnic roots ran deep. He was stately, standing erect as if no one or nothing could sway him. He was sure. If she had to sum him up in one word, it'd be supreme. She guessed he had to be at least sixteen or seventeen.
He pulled a thick wad of money from his pocket, and began peeling off ones from the stack. “Ten. Right, miss?”
Suddenly Dynasty felt insecure. She looked at his fresh clothes. Jeans that looked like they cost lots of money. Shirt that said the same. Prada sneakers that she'd never seen anyone around her way wear, so she knew they were the real deal. Then she glanced down at her own tangerine, aqua, white, and yellow halter top, orange booty shorts, and fluorescent green jelly shoes, and remembered the ragged purple scarf tied on her head. She shook her head. “I'm sorry, I can't. I don't know you. Plus, I have to go home and study semantics, morphology, and etymology,” she said, turning away from him. She loved his accent, look, the way he called her miss, but she was from the projects, and project girls knew better than to go off with strangers, because most times you never came back.
“Lil gal, if your crazy auntie don't let you back in today or she beat you, you come back here tomorrow. I'll see what I can do for you,” Mr. Curtis called out from behind the counter.
Tomorrow? I could be dead by then
. Dynasty pushed open the door, then slid her way back out into the broiling heat. Her feet slapped against the broken blacktop as she made her way through the parking lot and down the block. She had to figure out something to tell Aunt Maybelline, or risk sleeping on the front steps again.
“Shuckey duckey, quack, quack. Unlucky, hungry-looking, and burnt black. What's going on Die Nasty?” Rufus teased, bounding his hundreds of pounds toward the store, with sweat pouring from his pores, streaking down his forehead, and gathering in the dark folds of his neck.
Dynasty stopped, put her hands on her nonexistent hips, and looked him square in the eyes. “Not today, Dufus! Oops, I mean, Rufus!” She waited for him to reach her, then walked by him. With the nonsense she had to go home to, she didn't have time for Rufus's buffoonery.
Rufus pivoted, then began walking behind her. “You know what, Die Nasty Young? You too skinny, and you think you too smart and good for people. I only came to help you carry your beer and cigarettes . . . since you
thirteen
. With your lying self, telling your crazy auntie that.”
Her eyes widened. Rufus could've only gotten that information from one person. “And you know what, troglodyte? You look like you stink. Go somewhere.”
“And you look like you're about five minutes from being homeless! That's what your dear Aunt Maybelline's outside telling everybodyâif you don't have her beer and cigarettes . . . and I don't see no Bud or Newports.”
Dynasty swallowed the unkind remark she had for Rufus and kept walking. She couldn't believe Aunt Maybelline was outside telling everyone what Rufus just told her. But, then again, she could. It wasn't as if this was the first time Aunt Maybelline was putting their business on the street. Every time she'd forgotten or refused to take her medication, she'd put on a show, and Dynasty would be the laughing stock of the projects. She wished her mother would get off drugs and her brother would come home from jail, but she knew the likelihood of either wasn't high.
“Whatchu thinking about, Dynasty? Lipstick and King? Well, your aunt said King ain't coming home from prison this week like you lied and said. So maybe Lipstick will swirl your way and save you.” He laughed a big fat jolly laugh.
Dynasty looked back, cut her eyes at Rufus, and snatched Aunt Maybelline's bright green jelly shoe off her foot in one swoop. It left her small hand, spinning like a torpedo, and bounced off of Rufus's forehead.
“Don't talk about my momma, Rufus. And you can listen to Aunt Maybelline about King if you want. I told you he's coming home
this
week, didn't I? So when he comes for you, you better be ready.” The wind gusted, blowing specks of dirt in her face. She dabbed her tearing eyes.
“Ouch. That's why your brother's named after a dog. Aunt Maybelline said that too. I had a dog named King once. A pit bull.”
A black car with shiny silver rims pulled alongside her, on the wrong side of the street. The door opened, and the guy from the store got out.
“Yo son!” he barked on Rufus with his clipped English accent. “Why you bothering her for? She like one-fourth your size, kid. What's the deal with that?”
“Come on, City, man. We was just playing. We've been friends forever, that's just how we conversate. Ask her.” Rufus said.
Rufus knew him? She wondered how that was possible, when she didn't.
“Yo, what I tell you about all that playing, son? Look at what you've done to herâshe's in tears over here.” He shook his head in disgust. “Pardon me, miss. You a'ight?”
Dynasty looked at the guy from the store with new eyes. He was as supreme as she'd thought, and his Oreo-cookie-brown complexion was even more beautiful in the sunlight. Compared to Rufus sweating like a stuck hog, City hadn't a trace of perspiration.
“I'm okay. I don't pay Rufus any attention; he's a bit . . . well, different. But he's my friendâon most days.”
“You the one who different, Dynasty! That's why your aunt gonna kicks you out if you don't have her beer and cigarettes! About the ten dollars. City, you heard about her, right? The crazy lady that's loony.”
“Stop talking in fragments, Rufus. And make your subjects and verbs agree. And by the way, it's
you're
and
who's
, not you and that's. Who is for a person, that is for a thing.”
The guy posted up. He moved his feet until they were shoulder width apart, and clasped hands in front of him. He turned only his face, and glared at Rufus. “Yo son, for real, though. I'm not going to tell you any moreâlay off, kid. That's my word.” He turned back to Dynasty. “That's your real name, miss? Dynasty?”
She nodded, stopping herself from smiling. With only a few sentences the guy had managed to make Rufus shut up.
“I like that. That's what I'm buildingâa dynasty. They call me City because I'm from up north. Brooklyn, USA. So now that I know why you need ten dollars, you sure you don't want to show me where I need to go? I can't get Mekaâthat's my peopleâto show me, she's too busy working. And if you can do it, I can pay you up front, that way your aunt or whoever will fall back. And beer and cigarettes aren't a problem either, that's an easy fix.” He held up his hands in surrender. “You can trust me, Dynasty. You can ask Rufus or Pork Chop. Even Old Man Curtis can vouch for me. I'm on the up and up.”
So his accent wasn't English. City was from the city, and now she could tell. That's where his clipped words, almost one-hundred-percent-proper enunciation, authentic Prada sneakers, and sure demeanor came from. Dynasty looked at Rufus, and he nodded his head.
“Pork Chop's his granddaddy.”
Dynasty raised her eyebrows, then cupped her hands over them. The sun was high in the sky and burning too bright to see without shade. “And you're going to give me the money up front?”
He reached into his pocket and handed it to her.
“And take me home so I can change?”
“With pleasure.”
Dynasty nodded, not sure if City was being smartalecky or not about her multi-Crayola-colored outfit. But she didn't care; if he was Pork Chop's grandson, she felt as if she could trust him, plus she needed his ten dollars more than ever. “Okay. Where do you have to go?” she asked, walking toward his car.
City jogged slightly in front of her, then opened the passenger door. “On Peach something. May be Peachtree.”
She got inside the car, welcoming the clean scent and cool air. “Peach or Peachtree?” She laughed. “That could mean one of a hundred different streets here. It could take all day,” she warned him.
City rounded the car, then hopped in on the driver's side. “Word? I'm good with that.... I like being in the company of pretty girls. First, answer something for me, Dynasty? I consider myself to be a pretty smart dude, and you stumped me earlier, and it's been bothering me ever since. What does that morph, eta . . . you know what I'm talking aboutâthe stuff you study. What does all that mean?”
“Oh you mean morphology, semantics, and etymology. They're studies of words. Respectively, word structure and form, words and language forms, and word origins.”
City whistled. “Beautiful
and
smart? Today is going to be a great day, Dynasty. No, this week is going to be a good week. I promise you that.”