Friday, February 02, 2007
Brother’s Keeper
It was a bad day to get in my face. Though I had loads of work to do, I had left early; though it was unseasonably warm, bright, and sunny, I was headed right home to draw my blinds and go to bed. It was the afternoon on which my long-term low-grade sinus crud had transmogrified into a full-blown headcold the likes of which I had not had in a very long while.
I had fought to retain focus as I’d sat at my desk, experiencing between my ears the simultaneous sensations of implosion and explosion, an aching discomfort that built up mercilessly to a searing burning pain that forced tears from my eyes and then forced those eyes to close involuntarily, till I found myself cradling my head in both arms, bent over on my work-strewn desk. I couldn’t keep my concentration long enough to read one sentence, to comprehend one question. I just kept re-reading the same line, moaning my woes inwardly and only able to maintain the coherence necessary to ask myself why the hell I was still at the office. I realized, finally, that I had to leave while I still could.
Thus I found myself at my bus stop, not at 6:30 or so, but at 3:30 on a nice afternoon. Then I waited nearly half an hour for a bus that runs every four minutes, my sinuses suppurating with what must have been magma. I didn’t even want to venture a solid snifflesnort for fear of scaring that timid bus away. By the time I sat down on my typical seat on the almost-empty 38 that finally pulled up, I was in about the worst mood of my natural days.
As we rode along, the sun flashed at me in reflections off passing buildings, and each bright blast felt like a 4x4 to my frontal lobes. I was hungry. Nauseated. Needed to blow my goddamn cerebral cortex out my goddamn nose. It was obvious that I was in a bad way.
Because the bus had been so long in coming, it filled up fast and big crowds were waiting at every stop. That made the ride even slower. I turned my face toward the empty benches that hovered over the articulation just to my left – a space just marginally quieter, stiller and more restful than anything else in my life at that moment.
I was shaken from this reverie by the shouting. I turned to look outside when I heard him as the bus pulled up at Stockton and I instantly picked him out of the sidewalk mob: he was young, loud, and furious, about six feet tall, very slim, didn’t seem to be shaving yet. His abundant hair was densely dredded. He held a clamshell cellphone ostentatiously in front of his face, shouting at it with increasing agitation. He wore a nice tracksuit, and by his side stood his little brother.
The fraternal bond was evident in a similarity of build and expression, but also in the younger’s aping of his elder’s style – from his tracksuit to his bugeye shades to the Kangol perched atop abundant floppy dreads. I’d put him at about 12. A very wise and widely-experienced 12.
The bus squealed to a stop and the boy and his brother got on with the rest of the crowd. He was still bellowing into his cellphone, and he seemed to be getting more belligerent as he went along. He goggled with anger at the receiver in his hand, his wide delicate jaw chomping down on his words as if he were biting through bones. “Fuckau tokinbau muthafuka – I godda wuk! Godda WUK! I godda make moneh evry day! Evry fukin day! Don’t give me that shit. I don’ need that shih. Fuk YOU! Niggah muthafuka FUK YOU!”
His tirade was building as he pushed his way down the bus aisle and dropped into the further of the articulation seats to my left; his brother, eyes on his pristine court shoes, took the one adjacent, next to me. The shouting continued unabated. I sensed an impending conflict.
My throat ached and my lungs were clotted with discolored spackle. My eyes burned in their sockets and my head began to crumble under the onslaught of the boy’s tirade. Threats, obscenities, racial disparagements, maternal denigrations – everything he could shout at the phone from the depths of his rancor, he let loose with it all. I dragged my gaze from the floor at his feet to my fellow riders and met an unusual number of their eyes. They all conveyed the same point: this loud angry young man is out of line. Some expressed this with fear in their eyes; some, with frustration; some, with a good humor that I, by now, entirely lacked. I was at the edge of my patience and one more outburst would surely push me over.
“MUTHAFUKA YOU CAN KISS MY ASS – DON’ MAKE ME SO ANGRY HEAH – I’M PISSIN OFF MUTHAFUKAS ONDA BUS NAU – YOU BEIN’ FUKIN’ DISRESPEKFU NIGGAMUTHAFUKA – “
Snap.
That was my patience coming to an end. I turned in my seat and stared at the two manchildren beside me. The young one raised his eyes to mine, wordlessly. I got a sense from him, beneath that flamboyant hair and under that fabulous velour suit, that he was not entirely at ease with the situation.
I leaned over toward him; he reciprocated. I spoke softly, but with a ravaged voice like something dragged up from beneath the mortal plane: “He’s talking about respect? What he’s doing is no respect to us. He needs to cool down or get off this bus.” There was no threat. I was making a request more than anything else.
The one with the phone jumped on my words, screaming into his palm, “SEE BITCH NAU YAGAH’ NIGGAZ ON TH’BUS PISSED AT YOUR MUTHAFUKIN ASS –” and on he went as I spoke, a little louder and more forcefull, directly to him this time: “I don’t care about your phone call. I’m not mad at who you’re talking to. You are the one who’s out of line. Keep your voice down or get off this bus.”
“Nigga you can shut yo’ass too, I got bidnez and I be pissed off –”
“If you’re that angry just get off this bus, I’ve got enough trouble in my life and I don’t need yours – “
“FUK YOU BITCH, I’M STAYIN’ HEAH AND I’M TAKIN’ CARE OF MY SHIT AND IF YOU DON’ LYKIT YOU CAN STEP OFF MUTHAFUKA, I’M NOT TAKIN’ ORDERS FROM YO’ HONKEY NIGGA ASS MUTHAFUKA! Shit!” - and then, back to the phone, “Shi’muthafuka naw you got me con-flikin’ on the bus muthafuka! You fukkin’ treatin’ me like I’s yo fe-male! Fuk you!” - and then, to me, “FUK YOU!”
I felt blood rush to my face and my muscles; my fingertips tingled with a desire to clench into fists, yet I remained very still. My voice dropped a little, it carried though the now otherwise silent bus like an anvil through jello: “I do not care about your problems. You’ve picked the wrong day to make an issue of this. Get off the phone or get off this bus.”
“Beyotch fukyew I ain’takin –”
“HEY!” The voice boomed out from the back of the bus, behind dozens of shellshocked riders that filled every seat and the aisle. “That dude is right! Shut the fuck UP!”
The little gangsta gaped and spun at the sound of a new playa in the game; his little brother slid further down in his seat and looked even more intently at the floor. The guy at the back of the bus was six foot tall or more, built burly with muscular extremities. He wore a t-shirt, jeans, buzzcut, goatee, and scowl. His ethnic heritage was indeterminate, but his indignation was unmistakable. He was stepping up for a piece of the action from his bench over the rear wheels, barrel chest outthrust and thick hands gesticulating. A buddy stood by his side. The angry boy’s younger brother was extremely still.
“Shi’muthafuka hoodafukayewbee – nobody be talkin’ t’yew biotch –”
“That’s IT punk – you get the FUCK off this bus right now and I’m not shittin’ you, you are outta line and – “
The cellphone boy sprang to his feet, hair flailing the air and jaw jutting, and pushed his way through everybody toward the back. “FUK dis shit I’m not getting’ off this bus, this shit’s MY bus, I du’wha’th’fukeye wan’, you bitches ain’ treatin’ me lykno FE-MALE, FUK THIS, I’m outta here, this shit is shit yo, FUK’YALL….”
He waded in his knee-crotched knickers toward the back stepwell, holding his phone with one hand, his pantwaist with the other, and keeping up a running tirade at the burly dudes in the back all the while. The little brother followed after him, avoiding eye contact with the world. But once they reached the stepwell the tyro stopped and turned to exchange a few more choice words with his new nemesi.
The argument continued for blocks, the burly dude and the skinny cellphone boy each pausing only for breath and to refresh their store of obscenities. They were far from me now, though, so the shouting was muted and less oppressive. That boy wasn’t going anywhere and nothing was going to get resolved; they were all just going to bellow at each other. I looked up across the aisle at a young blonde woman in casual office attire across from me; she mouthed the words “thank you” to me, a faint smile on her face. I told her, in a voice I hoped sounded non-confrontational, “I can usually put up with this stuff, but not today. Today, I had to cut him off.” A general murmur of accord ran through the immediate vicinity.
The fight in the back continued, waning and waxing in intensity as the bus rolled westward. At some point, though, the little brother had apparently had heard enough. I didn’t see him turn away but I saw him working back up the aisle, eyes on the floor. People shifted and shrugged out of his way and he moved sinuously, but reluctantly, past them. As he passed me I caught his attention for a moment – I had claim to it, since I’d actually spoken to him already. Behind those half-tinted shades his eyes were a mile deep, but I had no sense whatsoever what was behind them. I felt that every step he took was both a triumph and a tragedy for him. He had to put some distance between himself and his wacked-out brother, whom he clearly otherwise idolized. He felt bad but he had no better response – every choice seemed wrong somehow, but finally he had to make a move so he moved back up to the front stairwell, where he stood just as his brother was standing at the back of the bus, but quietly, thoughts inward, his handsome young face magnificently blank.
