SKAYDA!

Sorry about the lack of updates lately. Shit got weird, then shit got busy.

 

Anyway, I went to RJ's to see if he had any ideas about what happened to that exploded fella by the railroad tracks.

 

I knocked on the door like a beknuckled raven on a mission to confound and harass an already bewildered Edgar Poe.

 

"TAY!! TAAAAYYYY there's somebody at the door!" All these years and RJ still sounds almost exactly like Stinkmeaner from The Boondocks.

 

No response from Tay.

 

"TAAAYYY I'M TAKIN' A SHYIT, GET THE DAMN DOOR!!" Tellin' ya: Stinkmeaner. Uncanny. When RJ cusses you out, it feels like he's speaking in cursive.

 

I very much wanted to leave. I'm not particularly well-versed in the kind of juju one brings upon oneself when interrupting a crackhead in the throes of dropping some prodigious east-side ass, and today I learned that as it turns out, this was one of my favorite qualities about myself.

 

After a few minutes, the door opened and a shirtless, emaciated Black man greeted me like a tower would greet an ant. RJ is tall and lanky, like if Shaggy Rogers went into supplying the neighborhood with lightly-adulterated crack instead of solving mysteries with the help of a talking dog and sandwiches which were clearly brought about by the repeated partaking of cartoon ganja. RJ is an enterprising lad in the area of various don't-tell-the-cops pharmaceuticals, so I tend to keep my distance, but he's harmless otherwise. I once watched him get into a fistfight with a tire my mom had converted into a planter for a cactus and he hurt himself. At the time, he pointed at the cactus and told it to "watch yo' lil cactus ass, I'ma come for you next."

 

A flash of recognition crossed RJ's face and the wrinkles in his forehead disappeared as a smile emblazoned across his face like a CRT television when first powered on. "Oh shiiiit, it's Gump! Tay, call up a pizza, Gump is here!" Again, no reply from Tay, and RJ motioned for me to enter. Against my better judgment, I followed.

 

I... I used to run everywhere, before all the aging and the fat and the depression and the general dread of adulthood crept in, and everyone in Blackbottom and East Lake called me Gump for it. As far as fringe economy wasteland ghetto white trash nicknames go, I honestly still count my blessings.

 

RJ's house was always weirdly clean. The twin fears of cop searches and forgetting where needles are placed tend to exacerbate the ol' paranoia, so he always balmed its itch by meticulously cleaning his living and working space. If you ever need maid service and you're not particularly attached to literally anything you think you own, hire a crackhead. They do amazing work, and far too often you'll find the place is *too* clean, but they also do it for dirt cheap.

 

He gestured to an old-ass leather couch replete with rips and cat claw marks. Sitting down, he patted the seat next to him and held a Super Nintendo controller out to me. "Let's shoot the shit over some Mario Kart."

 

I plopped into the seat and accepted the controller. I couldn't help but notice "MJ" Sharpied on the back. 

My dad had traded my Super Nintendo to RJ for a hit while I was away at school, some time in... I wanna say seventh grade, I think? I was pissed at the time but honestly I'm genuinely happy to know someone is still getting joy from it all these years later. And RJ's probably never pieced together where it came from in the first place. He loves it better than I would.

 

Life is fucking weird, y'all.

 

He chose Yoshi, so I muttered a "dammit" and chose my second best, Toad.

 

"What brings you this side of the Boulevard?" he asked.

 

"Actually I'm kinda looking into something," I replied as Toad yeeted a turtleshell into the wild digital yonder. "You remember that guy who exploded by the tracks over there?" I gestured with my thumb, which was stupid on a number of levels, not the least of which was that my accelerator in the game was no longer active and it's difficult to win racing games that way.

 

"Oh yeah," RJ replied. "BJ. He was tryna sell me something, said it was gonna 'revolutionize my product.' If that's the shit made him go all gooey-kablooey, I ain't interested. 'Sides, you can't go changin' a good thing."

 

I watched as Yoshi's go-kart shat a pixelated banana in the middle of a field of power-ups. A diabolical move on RJ's part for sure, but as someone who is at least 25% asshole on my dad's side, I gotta respect it.

 

His answer deflated me, but I was happy I wasn't gonna have to kick his ass. It always felt so mean. Even if he could fight back, I just don't think he would. He just wasn't that kind of dude.

 

Before you give me any shit, I've only kicked his ass like four times, and even if you were to ask him, he'd tell you he absolutely deserved it every time. And I'm not telling those stories right now, but trust me, you'd also be in agreement, and then you'd march up 9th and whoop his ass yourownself.

 

All that said, RJ absolutely wiped the floor with me in Mario Kart, but to be fair, I didn't get to play as Yoshi. And it will make me feel a little better remembering this in the event I ever need to kick his ass *again.*

 

We exchanged a fist bump and he lit up a J, took a drag, and passed it to me. "I think," he said, "that whatever BJ was tryna sell me, either kill't him or would have." He passed, I hit. I think he still gets it from my uncle. It's old school but it works.

 

I noticed a large green bag in the corner. "Y'all setting up for Christmas already? It's Aug... Shit is it September?" I accepted the blunt and looked at my phone, having spent more than ten minutes in a crackhouse and having subsequently lost all track of time.

 

"Naw," RJ laughed. "That's where Tay be sleepin' these days. Sorry it took me so long to get to the door. Asked him to get it but maybe he didn't hear me. Hey Dante! Wake up! Gump's here!"

 

So it looks like Dante's been sleeping in a Christmas tree bag. Even for crackheads, I thought, that's weird fuckin' behavior.

 

"Your brother..." I enunciated, feeling the curves and edges of the words as they whizzed past me before finally settling into place, "sleeps in a Christmas tree storage bag?" Drag and pass.

 

"Yeah... Momma think it's the Down's Syndrome but, for real? He just bein' goofy."

 

A muffled sound from the bag: "SKAYDA!"

 

"Ooohh that's right," RJ said. "Tay's obsessed with cicadas lately. Something about how both kinds were screaming everywhere just a lil bit ago. Wikipedia."

 

The bag unzipped and Dante, bellowing "WIKKEEEEE," clambered out with all the grace and charm of a four-car pileup outside (and partially inside) a Denny's. Where RJ is a lanky string bean of a man, his brother Dante "Tay" Notgonnatellyouthelastname is an absolute boulder, not quite six feet tall, but built like a linebacker. He has Down's Syndrome and a limited vocabulary, and he's probably the sweetest human being in Tennessee when Dolly Parton is out of state.

 

Tay spread his arms out as if to say "ta-daaa!!" but said "MOLTED!" instead.

 

RJ laughed. "That's right, bro! You molted just like the cicadas!"

 

Tay beamed. Here, now, in this one moment, he had been understood.

 

There was a knock at the door.

 

"Door," said Tay, and gestured to it.

 

"Indeed, Tay," smarmed RJ, like a Smarmy McSmarmerface. "That would be a door. Would you be ever so kind as to walk up to it open the sumbitch?"

 

Tay laughed and opened the door. Some dude in a rain poncho. It's like 96 and sunny.

 

"Hey, is RJ home? I'm Brandon. I think y'all know me as BJ here. I need to know if y'all seen BJ--uh, me, I need to know if y'all seen me come by the railroad tracks."

 

RJ and I both turned out gaze to the blunt and silently agreed we're both done with that for the day. Then I got called in to work and took Lizzie to a ghost hunt on the Battlefield. Look forward to her account of that in the coming days.

 

I'ma get some rest. Have a good night, folks.