19-Joe

They needed more seats on the porch, so Trey and Paul pulled out some dusty old beach chairs that they found in Antwann’s garage. Sitting on one, Joe sipped the ass-end of his second forty, his head spinning. Trey sat on the other one, but several straps on it were ripped, so his backside hung through the hole, nearly touching the ground. But Trey didn’t care—he sat there smoking and grinning, while talking like a ghetto surfer. Each glance at him set Joe laughing uncontrollably. The gleeful, unabashed identify crisis was a real thing, and the results were phenomenal.

Joe made an attempt to get up, but it wasn’t happening, so he fell back in the chair. Alana Herrera sat at the end of it, and she giggled at his attempt. Joe lit up a smoke instead, waiting for the spinning to stop. He got the cigarette lit, but then he noticed Alana looking over to the side yard. Trey was too—and for the first time all night no one was laughing or smiling.

Then, he heard the yelling and shouting.

Looking toward the gate, Joe saw the front lines of the party had been breached by a group of newcomers that stood there grinning like jackals. Jimmy Redman was in the center of them, with his crew that he’d rallied up. They looked amped, like they were ready to fight and expected to do so.

The loudest voice of all came from the porch though, and it was Rob, who was livid, outside himself, screaming one ridiculous insult after another.

“Rob, shut up,” Ronnie yelled, standing in between everyone, his arms spread out wide. “Hold him back. Chill him out.”

“Fuck it, Ronnie, let him come down here,” Jimmy said. “I’ll drop his ass right now. Then we’ll be even, and we can call it a night.”

“Fuck that. How about you guys work it out on your own time?”

“Yeah, this shit ain’t happenin’ here,” Antwann added.

“Well, we ain’t leavin,’” Jimmy said, grinning maniacally.

“We’ll fuck you all up, then,” Raza interjected. “What the fuck you think you gonna do about it here, stupid ass motherfucker?”

“Bring it on, you little fucking bitch.”

“Nah, fuck that,” Ronnie said. “Raza, shut up! And get back. Get back, I’m serious.”

“Yeah. This shit ain’t happenin’ here,” Antwann said, again, like it was all he could say.

“Jimmy, just get the hell outta here, man. Just leave. C’mon,” Ronnie pleaded.

“Fuck that, Ronnie. Look, I’m cool with you. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you. Just let that motherfucker come down here,” Jimmy said, pointing up on the porch toward Rob, where it required three people to restrain him.

“You too, bitch,” Jimmy said, pointing at Paul, singling him out from the group in the yard. “Why don’t you try something now, huh? Now that I know you fight like pussies. I’m ready for you now.”

Having been called out, Paul stepped forward, detaching himself from the group, but they were quick to pull him back. Among them was Lauren, pleading for him to back down.

Jimmy laughed. “Yeah, that’s right, have your bitch protect you, you fuckin’ pansy.”

That line pushed things over the top as both sides erupted in noise, the screams and shouts raw and incoherent. Joe yelled for people to chill out, to calm down, but it was like no one could even hear him. It seemed inevitable something would happen then, like a runaway train falling off the tracks—there was no stopping it, and it would end with an intense, brutal crash.

The yelling reached a crescendo, and right as the first pushes would become punches there was a rush of movement, a collective reaction to something, one that was sharp and instinctual. Joe looked in the direction they all did, which was up on the porch, where he saw one of the guys standing atop a chair in a statuesque pose like he was holding a gun. He held it sideways, gangsta-style, and the sight was so absurd that Joe actually started giggling.

“Why is he acting like he’s holding a gun?” Joe asked, puzzled, even still laughing. Even crazier was the sight of Jimmy Redman, blithely holding his hands up in the air, like he was just going along with it. That lasted for just a second though, until his friends all bolted toward the gate. Jimmy hesitated for just a moment before following.

Joe saw the urgency in their running, realizing it wasn’t feigned, nor was the panic amidst several of his friends. It made him fall dead silent, as he felt the chord strike within him. When he opened his mouth, he could hear words coming out of it, words that were like, “Dudes, dudes, c’mon, c’mon?” They came out again and again, and while the words did vary to some degree, they were always spoken more or less in the same tone.

From the street Joe could hear the roars of engines followed closely by rubber screeching on pavement. That triggered everyone in the backyard to emerge from where they’d settled, and some stood about already talking and laughing, while others still peered nervously over their shoulder. It was an odd disparity between these two groups, and so was the look Trey shot over to Joe, which was not the stoned perma-smirk which would normally be plastered on his face, but instead a kind of strange detachment.

Paul stood at the gate, watching the cars drive off. Mud-stained and bare-chested, his grim face was from a war zone.

“Paul, is there like scorched earth on the ground over there from where those guys ran off?” Raza asked.

He didn’t answer.

“That shit was so goddamn predictable,” Raza continued. “In retrospect.”

“What was?”

“Jimmy and his boys comin’ over here. After Paul and Rob fucked him up. I’m just sayin,’ had any one of us taken just a second to think about it, we should have been sitting here just waiting for his ass to arrive.”

“Yeah, well…asking people to think about stuff is quite a stretch,” Lauren said. “Not a lot of thinking happens on nights like this.”

“You said it.”

“I called it, though,” Joe said. “I said that the Paul and Rob web of mayhem would spread to here next. No one listened to me.”

“Yeah, but that’s vague like shit, Joe. You weren’t explicit.” Raza shook his head. “You ain’t gettin’ credit for that.”

“Who the hell pulled out a gat, anyway?” Joe asked.

“One of Ronnie’s boys. That dude right there.” Raza pointed up on the porch toward a loud group that was on their feet, hooting and hollering, congratulatory toward one another.

“I don’t think I’ve met him.”

Raza shrugged. “I think high school has long since been in his rearview mirror.”

“So, what, Paul spills his beer, this dude pulls out a gat, and so now we all got to be watching our backs, huh?” Joe asked.

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Raza said, nodding. “Who the hell knows what Jimmy Redman is capable of? He ain’t gonna let this sit.”

Everyone was silent, so Raza continued. “Those guys live for trouble, man. I heard stories of the shenanigans they pull, Jimmy and his crew. Those motherfuckers drive up to those drug alleys in D.C., they get their shit, and then they drive off without paying, with the justification that the dealers can’t get a shot off in time before they turn the corner. No shit, man, I heard him say that shit!”

“So, I guess, having a gun pointed in his face ain’t really gonna faze him, huh?” Joe asked.

Lauren groaned suddenly, like she had long since been tired of hearing this conversation. As though in agreement, Alana and her friends she’d come with were on their feet and leaving.

Joe looked around and saw that seemed to be the theme suddenly. The party had quickly dwindled down to just a handful.

“Shit, I think I’m rollin’ out, too,” Trey muttered, his straight and serious face the ultimate symbol of buzz-kill for the night. It was his neighborhood, so he didn’t have to bother with his car. He merely walked off down the street toward his house.

Joe followed suit and walked up on the porch. He stood there for a moment in limbo. He knew he wasn’t going home—he’d been kidding himself earlier, when he thought he’d try to stay sober enough to make it home. Deep down, he knew all along his bed would be whatever random couch he could find inside of Antwann’s house. Hopefully the one in the basement, because it was the most comfortable.

Ronnie spotted him nearing the back door.

“Ah hell no, motherfucker. Where’s your beer?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’m fucked up.”

Ronnie gave him a semi-cold one from an open twelve pack near the table. Feeling his second wind coming on, Joe laughed and popped the top.

It was only him, Raza, Ronnie, Paul, and Antwann remaining on the deck. They each slouched around the porch table, bodies and eyelids sagging, their faces fully baked.

“Everyone balled out like shit, yo,” Ronnie said. “They all flighty as hell, yo.”

“Joe don’t be carin,’ though,” Antwann said. “Look at him.”

“Carin’ about what?” Joe asked. “This Jimmy Redman shit?”

“Yeah.”

“Man, I don’t give one iota of a shit about any of that. Can’t nothin’ bring me down tonight.”

“I guess things went okay with your girl tonight, huh?” Ronnie asked.

Just at the mention of her Joe felt sweeping euphoria course through his body. It truly was like a drug.

“Yes, indeed,” Joe said, nodding. “She’s bomb as hell.”

“Look at this dude,” Antwann said. “Mile-wide grin and shit. You on cloud nine, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right. And I don’t even care if y’all think I’m lunchin.’ I can’t wait to give her a call tomorrow. I ain’t afraid to say it, yo.”

“Word, bro. That’s tight.”

Joe finished his beer and went inside the sliding glass door. He heard mutterings followed by a burst of laughter behind him as he pulled it shut, but he didn’t care. It may have had nothing to do with him anyway.

He heard Rob snoring on the couch in the living room, and Joe did a silent fist pump—Rob had been the prime candidate to steal the basement couch. Joe stumbled down the stairs, happy to see that indeed it was still available. He chucked his hat to the floor, kicked off his shoes, and then literally fell upon it, without bothering to remove any of his other clothes. He passed out immediately, a ghost of a smile still on his face.