by JEDAH MAYBERRY
Cages
Why would a bird ever choose to walk, to abandon its single greatest gift and brave the streets by foot, hopping gingerly, cognizant that walking is not a thing a bird should be out here doing? Why would a person take the life of another man? Deprive him of the thing both men are fighting desperately to preserve? Kill or be killed. Get or get got. Is this the life we were born to suffer?
That’s the first thing I’m gonna ask God when I see him, when those Pearly Gates crack open and I’m granted admission inside – IF I’m granted admission. If you haven’t guessed by now, I’ve been got, fell short in one effort or another to get, to kill a man. I sought to end a life. Was handed death instead. Get until you’re got. It is the life I chose to suffer.
I was raised to believe we trade in our souls once death comes calling. No one ever said my soul would be sitting up next to me, looking over at my dumb ass trying to figure how we got here, the prospect that we’ll make it inside as uncertain to him as it is to me.
‘Do you remember the first one?’ my soul asks. I call him Edgar. My grandfather was named Edgar. He’s the only one who ever attempted to talk some sense into me. Of course, I remember. You never forget your first – that nigger, Steve. Always lampin’ on the block, like GOT ain’t in his vocabulary. I crept up on him – tip, tip, BLAUH. “Now look who got GOT!” I screamed, standing over his crumpled body before turning to run.
It wasn’t long before this became my block to hold, a loose scrambling of little niggers my crew to run, to keep whole, to stay fed. We all work for this shystie, Haitian fuck. He strolls through every now and again like his dick’s sweet as Indian Summer.
‘It’s that kind of sentiment that got you here in the first place, wouldn’t you agree?’ Edgar admonishes me. I mind my language, check my tone.
I’m Luscius Brand’s only kòmandan plucked from local roots. All the other crews are run by compatriots imported directly from his native, Petionville. Luscius and I have gotten crosswise of late, after he nabbed me with my hand in the cookie jar, skimming. How else I’m gonna get ahead with all these little mongrels to feed?
Last week, Luscius assigned another little knucklehead for me to bring on line. He’s said to be kin to that nigger, Steve, a baby cousin or something. No importanto – I pay it no mind. Only Steve’s soul knows for certain how he got GOT. Yet, from day one, this lil’ cock-a-roach keeps eyeballin’ me. I’m eventually gonna have to check him.
That’ll have to wait another day. I’ve got this chirping in my ear, numbers to keep: how much product in for how much product out. What I need to make good on the added tax Luscius imposed on my crew as a pinch for the apparent move I made against him.
I’m on the block early this morning, clockin’ this lame ass bird. He hops past like his leg’s broke. He flaps his wings to get a bit of air underneath him, set his feet straight. Then he hops away to show me the leg’s working fine.
The bird continues down the walkway. And I’m caught sittin’, wondering why he don’t just fly away from here. “You ain’t got no cage,” I whisper in the direction the bird has bounded off to when – tip, tip, BLAUH.
I find myself here, sitting outside The Pearly Gates, formulating questions to God, Edgar looking over at my dumb ass, the both of us hoping we get in.