Push Comes to Shove (5 page)

“Forget about it.” He tossed the paper on the nightstand. “We’re not stealing dead people.”

“Cremated pets work, too.”

“No, Jewels.”

“Buy yourself some shoes.” She counted out a hundred dollars and put it in the suit pocket. “Listen, GP, if for some reason this interview doesn’t work out, I’ll set you up with a few ounces to get your pockets right.”

“I’m not selling crack no matter how bad it gets. I can’t believe you just tried me. Every time I see somebody on it, or hear about something happening because of it, I think—”

“About how your mother was a pipehead. How she gave birth to you in prison. You forgot that I know all about you and I’m tired of hearing it.” She browsed through the clothes on hangers. “When are you gonna stop feeling sorry for yourself and get over it? Anybody that had to go through what you have should be as strong as a gorilla. Sorry I tried to help.” She took out a collarless dress shirt matching the cream stitching of the suit. “On everything, if I come up with this money I need for this account hustle, I’m gonna do something real proper for you so you can handle your business.”

“You stay in something.” He pictured himself in the suit.

“What can I say but I’m a hustler. I’m thinking about changing my name to Dividends. All I need is one hundred grand, and it will yield me six hundred grand in a month’s time—guaranteed. Why wouldn’t I play at them odds?”

As GP neared his home, he slowed his pace and frowned upon the unusual sight. He scrutinized the other homes on his block and ruled out a power outage.
Maybe Kitchie put the kids to bed early
. Then, he noticed that the porch light was out.

That light never goes out.

He burst through the front door. “Kitchie!”

“We’re upstairs.”

He flicked the light switch at the bottom of the stairs.

Nothing happened.

He climbed the stairs and stood in the entrance of his bedroom. His family was bunched together on the bed. Two candles had burned down to their base, casting small flames from both nightstands.

GP dashed out of the back door and into the garage. He dumped his tool box onto the concrete.
Why is the world caving in on me all at once?
He grabbed a monkey wrench, then went to the light meter that was fastened to the aluminum siding. With rage and frustration driving him, it only took four determined tugs to break the meter’s lock.

“What are you doing?” Kitchie’s brown eyes were plagued with concern.

He snatched the meter out. “What does it look like?”

He removed the plastic breakers obstructing the electrical current. He shoved the meter back in place.

The house illuminated.

“There’s no way in hell we’re gonna sit in the dark looking crazy at each other. I’m doing the best with what I got to work with, and I’m not willing to let the little bit of food that we have in the fridge go bad.”

Kitchie folded her arms and turned to go inside but paused long enough to see her meddlesome neighbor watching them from his
kitchen window.
Nosy old bastard
. “Come in the house, GP, and talk to your daughter.” She trudged up the back stairs; GP followed.

He placed the wrench on the Formica countertop. “Who scratched you like that?” He leaned in closer, examining Secret’s bruised face.

“I tried to ignore her like you said, Daddy. But she pushed the back of my head like this.” She reenacted by pushing the back of her own head.

Kitchie brushed the hair away from her face. “Now this child is suspended off the school bus for a week.”

“I’m glad the lights are fixed.” Junior came in the kitchen carrying a sneaker with a hole in its sole and waving a piece of cardboard. “Ma, would you fix my shoe now?”

S
queeze looked inside the deep trunk of a Mercedes at a frightened youngster dressed in army fatigues. “All of this is your brother’s fault. It’s a shame that you’re caught in the crossfire, but some people have to learn the hard way.” He closed the trunk and faced Hector Gonzales. “Take him to the country and lay low. If Miles don’t cash in by tomorrow night, have fun with the kid and clean up your mess.”

Hector chomped on a wad of chewing gum. “You should let me kill Miles and get it over with.”

“Then who’s gonna pay me?”

When Jap felt the car begin to move, he hit the
Mark Home
button on his watch.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Patterson.” Tracy Morgan stepped from behind her desk to shake GP’s hand. She had no idea that GP was so handsome—braids hanging below his shoulders, a perfectly groomed goatee just the way she liked them. To have him in her department from time to time would suit her fine. She took in his tan suit with detail. It hung on to his muscular frame with style. She gazed at his scuffed work boots and the melody in her head came to an abrupt stop. She pulled her hand away from his. “Please have a seat.”

“Thanks for considering me for this column.” GP eased onto a cozy chair facing her desk.

“Your artwork is captivating. May I have a look at your portfolio?”

GP handed her a soft leather folder that was resting on his lap. “You’ll find the first series of an underground comic book in there that I put out last year.” He watched her facial expressions as she flipped through the drawings.

“This is great stuff. I’m in love with this Street Prophet character.”

“I’ve been developing him since I was a kid. He’s like an urban version of the
Tales of the Crypt
character, but he’s more upbeat. A character that identifies with the Hip-Hop culture.” He wiped the sweat off his palms onto his slacks. “The Street Prophet tells stories through the eyes of an all-wise black man of morals and integrity. Stories that the reader can draw a positive experience from.”

“I like the concept.” She closed the portfolio. “I—”

“Ms. Morgan, I apologize for interrupting, but if you give me this column I’ll be an asset to the
Plain Dealer
. I have at least three years of material ready to go. I’m a fast learner and I don’t have an editing complex.”

“The comic page could use a new black face. It’s a two-year contract that pays close to fifty thousand in six equal payments over the term of the contract.”

GP smiled.

“Your strip will be syndicated. When we run the Street Prophet, he’ll receive national exposure. But there are some minor changes that will need to be made.”

“Cool. What kind of changes are we talking?”

She leaned forward and rested her forearms on the polished desktop. “Morals and integrity doesn’t sell newspapers. The public wants the dirt, violence, and political corruption. I need you to portray the Street Prophet as challenging, outrageous, politically
opinionated, offensive to the point of being censored. I need him to play the race card. I want most of the truth in this paper…” She pointed to a newspaper that was encased in glass and mounted on the wall. “…to come from the Street Prophet’s comic strip. He needs to be the voice that screams at the injustices designed by the government.” She took a deep breath and smiled. “You pull this off and I promise you that this type of controversy will draw you more media attention than Aaron McGruder’s
Boondocks
.” She produced a contract from her desk drawer and pushed it toward GP. “All rights to the Street Prophet must be signed over to the
Plain Dealer
. You’ll retain the artistic rights.”

“I can create you a character to fit your requirements, Ms. Morgan. I’m sorry, but the Street Prophet is not your man.”

“We’re in no position for you to be turning down jobs, GP.” Kitchie stuffed a T-shirt and some Street Prophet stickers in a bag, then thrust it at a customer.

“I apologize for that.” GP collected the money from the man.

“I don’t believe you would do something so stupid and irresponsible.”

“Get the hottest Street Prophet gear right here.” Secret walked back and forth in the front of the booth, holding up a T-shirt. “Special on customized airbrushing until one o’clock. Get your issue while it’s hot. Don’t be unhip and go home empty-handed.” She had heard her parents solicit the crowd a thousand times.

“That child is s’posed to have her tail in school.” An older woman lugging a Gap bag nudged a heavyset woman wobbling beside her.

GP stuck his finger through Kitchie’s belt loop and pulled her
to him. “I’m not gonna argue with you in public. Period. They wanted me to sign over all the rights to the Street Prophet. I’m not about to give my life’s work away like that.”

“But it’s okay for us to be out on the street? And don’t forget that forty-seven hundred dollars is a lot of money to come with in the next few days. GP, we don’t have but a couple hundred to our name.”

He took out a hundred dollars from his breast pocket. “Jewels gave me this to buy some dress shoes.”

The pay phone rang.

“Get that, Secret.” Kitchie leaned against the table.

“Ninth Street Artwork, home of the Street Prophet. Secret speaking, how can I help you?”

“Secret, baby, what’s the deal?”

“Hey, Aunty Jewels. When you coming to get me?”

“We’ll go catch a flick or something when I come back from New York.”

“Ooh, bring me something back.”

“You already know I am. Did your crusty father get the job?”

Secret glanced at her parents and saw Kitchie talking with her hands. “I don’t think so. Him and Mommy trying to pretend like they not arguing, while I’m hustling.”

“Why you ain’t in school?” Jewels tied her wave cap on.

“Had to kick some butt. I put that move you taught me on this bigmouth girl named Kesha. I got suspended off the bus, and I didn’t have a ride today.”

“She knows what time it is now, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t sound too sure. Let me hear you say
you motherfucking right, she know
.”

Secret put a hand over the mouthpiece. “You motherfucking right, she knows what time it is.”

“Give me that.” Kitchie scowled at Secret, then snatched the phone. “Jewels, I asked you not to influence my child to cuss. She’s too grown for her own good as it is.”

“How you know it was me?”

“I’m on to y’all. This stubborn husband of mine turned down a decent job today. He act like he doesn’t understand we’re having bread-and-butter nightmares.”

“You got to be fucking joking. I talked to that knucklehead yesterday about taking care of his business. Put him on so I can bite his head off.”

Kitchie let the receiver hang. “Jewels wants to talk to you.” She rolled her eyes at GP, then walked over to Secret and popped her on the lips. “Watch what the hell you let come out your mouth, girl. Cuss again and you’re gonna get your ass whipped.”

A white man with solid gray hair, wearing a business suit, came to the booth. He studied the various Street Prophet merchandise. He shifted his head as though intrigued by the Prophet’s appeal. “Who’s the artist behind the character?”

Kitchie pointed at GP. “Can I bag that up for you?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll take one of everything.”

“What size shirt and pants would you like?”

Secret passed Kitchie a bag.

“Any size; it doesn’t make a difference. I like this guy. I want some friends of mine to see him—”