Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
Rashad sat letting his car warm up, on a call with his lead PO.
“Mr. Turner has good things to say about you, Rashad. He hinted at visiting your place of work soon.” Rashad heard finger taps on a computer keyboard. “What’s it called again?”
“Side Chic’k. With an apostrophe between the c and k.”
“Right. Are you still there only three days a week?”
“Yeah. I know you’d prefer I be somewhere with more hours, but here I’m head chef.
I get to use what I learned under my mentor Francisco and get more experience running a restaurant, my ultimate goal.
Plus, we’re hoping the holidays bring more catering jobs.
More customers, too. If so, we can maybe go to being open five days by spring. ”
“Speaking of the holidays, what are your travel plans?”
“I’m definitely homesick and would love to see my family. Not sure I can swing a ticket, though.”
“Because of how well you’re meeting your parole obligations, holiday travel for you should be okay. Send me the proposed schedule so that I can take the request through the proper channels, and inform Mr. Turner. It would also be nice if you and I could have a visit while you’re here.”
Rashad ignored the invisible yet ever-present penal chain around his ankle. “Okay.”
“I’m proud of you Rashad. You’re staying out of trouble and doing the work.”
“Appreciate that.”
“Have a good evening, Rashad.”
“You, too, Nichole.”
Finally, warm air flowed through the vents. Rashad doubted he’d ever get used to the crazy Midwest weather. He’d already checked his watch but looked again and shook his head. It was barely six o’clock but already dark. How did people get used to nighttime coming so quickly?
He left the Side Chic’k parking space without a clear destination.
Decided to explore the area, to drive and think.
Rashad was restless, antsy. Jamilah was the reason.
She’d pulled out several minutes earlier, hoping to catch her father before he went to work to try to patch things up.
Rashad wanted to be with her again and had made those wishes known.
On Friday night she’d taken a rain check, but he’d stayed at her condo last night.
Waking up there felt perfect and weird at the same time.
In the middle of the night while Jamilah slept, Rashad had a moment of paranoia.
He’d imagined a loud knock at the door followed by officers running in, guns drawn and a smug-looking James leading the charge before hauling him off in handcuffs. Going back to sleep hadn’t come easy.
Jamilah had put a lot on the line to be with him. It both impressed and flattered him, yet he still felt a way about it. Her moves applied pressure for him to do the right thing. But what was that, exactly?
Jamilah was everything a man could want in a woman: smart, ambitious, honest, fine.
Surprising, too. He would never have thought that the woman who tightened up like Questlove’s snare drum at the start of a show would be the passionate lover he experienced.
She was classy, in his mind not the type to do casual hookups.
They were in the CWWB zone: coworkers with benefits.
But what happened if one day she wanted more?
There was something about a steady partner that was satisfying, but Rashad didn’t see himself in a relationship right now.
A personal commitment wasn’t on his list of priorities.
Until Jamilah had driven over unannounced, it hadn’t been on the list at all.
WWJD? Of all his friends, him and Juke were the closet, the voice of reason when Rashad might crash out. He decided to find out what would Juke do. His call went to voice mail.
“Yo, hit me back.”
Rashad was acclimating to Kansas City, but he missed his LA friends—Juke, Sky Walka, Eight Track, a politically incorrect nod to this friend’s ADHD, Sir Zimbabwe, whose parents were really from there, and PhD, who during his many years in prison had read at least a thousand books.
Hands down, Phil Diggs, his government name, was one of the smartest, most knowledgeable men walking upright.
His IQ was probably off the charts. Given another set of circumstances, Phil was one of those brothahs who could have helped change the world.
These boys, now men, had known each other since babyhood and, like almost all of their peers and half the melanated teen boys in the world, grew up dreaming to be world-renowned rappers.
Sky Walka and PhD came the closest. PhD had a handful of features with famous West Coast rappers and production credits on popular mix tapes.
One song with a Sky Walka hook actually reached number two on the hip-hop charts and led to him joining a tour overseas.
Eight Track sold a few beats to the TDE camp, where Kendrick honed his skills, and was cast in a couple B movies, basically playing himself, about life in the hood.
There were others, those who’d gone the gang or pharmaceutical route and ended up either buried alive, another term for being in prison, or buried for real.
The odds were often stacked against men who looked like Rashad and his homies.
Like Tupac, it felt like them against the world.
Thus the loyalty. The camaraderie. The unbreakable bonds.
The reason to do three years rather than snitch on a friend. Codes of the culture.
He reached Paseo and the bright neon lights of Side Chic’k’s nemesis, Fly the Coop, made a right on to Eighteenth Street, and headed toward Vine.
Most of the tourist-attracting venues Charles had told him about were there, plus a jazz venue called the Blue Room and a few restaurants.
He was surprised to see that the area made famous during the twenties and thirties was contained in a few blocks.
He reached the end of one street, turned onto another and was just about to exit the area when a small sign in a window caught his eye: Poetry on the Vine.
He put the car in Park, reached for his phone, and quickly typed the name into the browser.
The link led to a Facebook page, Poetryls, with almost two thousand members.
Reading the content got him excited. Various artists posted their work or about their events.
Written poems, spoken word set to music, video of a podcast. All this happening barely a stone’s throw from where he’d been spending his weekends for the past month.
Who woulda thunk it?
He scrolled the page. The next show was Thursday at seven. Unconsciously, he reached over and stroked his ever-present rhyme book. Seeing that sign was like a message from the Universe. It was time to get back on the mic.
Just knowing there was someplace he might spit his rhymes lifted his spirits.
He almost called Jamilah but didn’t want to take the chance of interrupting a conversation with her dad.
He wasn’t ready to go home to a quiet house.
Charles and Anna were having dinner with Monique and “an old friend,” as Anna explained it.
He thought about Leon but wasn’t in the mood for gaming or sports, Leon’s favorite—correction, only—pastimes besides listening to hip-hop and Blair.
He made his way out of the historic area headed to wherever.
He scrolled his phone to a hip-hop playlist. It beeped in his hand.
A seven-two-five area code. Rashad’s brow creased. Not a California area code, for sure, about the only other state besides Missouri with people who had his new number acquired after relocating here. Well, he didn’t have a warrant and was already on parole. He decided to answer.
“Hello?”
“Ra God!”
Rashad paused, allowed the sound of the voice to reach his brain’s Contacts list. “T-Bone?”
“I prefer Tyson, the name my mama gave me. T-Bone was the dude I retired when I left the streets. Juke gave me your number. Hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s cool. What’s up?”
“Just checking on you. Make sure you’re all right. That was a big thing you did for my little brother, and the family. Wanna make sure you’re straight.”
Rashad nodded. “Appreciate that.”
“I hear you’re in Kansas now.”
“Missouri. Kansas City, Missouri, which is right next door.”
“I’m familiar,” Tyson replied. “Been to Missouri a couple times checking out properties. KC and St. Louis.”
“Juke told me you’re in real estate now.”
“That’s my new hustle. Started flipping houses a few years back. Tripled my money in less than six months. Needless to say, I got hooked.”
“That’s what’s up.”
“I hear you’re a cook.”
“I prefer head chef. Has a much better ring to it.”
Tyson laughed. “The money enough for you to make ends meet?”
“Hell, no. That’s not my main focus. I’m doing it for the practice and the experience. Want to open my own place.”
“Ownership goals,” he teased.
“Tends to happen when you spend time with grown men telling other grown men what to do.”
Tyson’s tone became somber. “You sacrificed a lot. Three years you can’t get back. Saved Drew from a potential third strike. Good to hear you’re out and striving. When we put that skill and intelligence honed in the street toward a legitimate business, bro, sky’s the limit.”
“Real talk. Some of the best and brightest minds are in prison. Just needing a chance.”
“So…have you thought about ways to make this dream of owning your own business a reality?”
“Several, in fact.”
“Talk to me.”
For the next hour, Rashad did just that.
He mentioned pop-ups, food trucks, and—the biggest risk—a space featuring hip-hop, spoken word and satisfying food.
Tyson offered valuable advice and support where he could.
Rashad hung up with reinvigorated confidence about his plans, perhaps even a potential partner.
For the first time since seeing the red and blue lights flashing that late night on Crenshaw, Rashad saw a future he could believe in.
There was only one question as he pondered the call. Would Jamilah believe in him as much as he believed in himself? Because try as he might to dismiss their connection, he didn’t see a tomorrow without her.