It was accompanied by the soothing voice of Mary J Blige. Vincent cursed,
“Fuck!”
Ms. Jackson’s curvy nude figure slowly disappeared. That was as close as he would ever get to having sex with her.
Still brooding over the miss, Vincent heard knocking on the door.
“Vincent, you up?” a male voice asked.
The teen rose up out of bed and rested against the headboard in an attempt to get ready for the day.
“Yeah, dad, I’m up,” he finally shouted back while scratching his head.
“You know what today is right, boy?” his father asked.
“Yeah, I know,” he answered.
“Alright now, get your behind out of bed and don’t be late on your first day. Turn that music down, boy. You gonna wake up death one morning.”
“Okay, okay” Vincent replied, slowly dragging himself out of bed, wiping cold out his eyes before turning down the radio.
He glanced at the calendar. July 10th, the first day of his new summer job at the Burger King that recently opened down the block. His father got him a job there right after high school graduation.
Vincent was reluctant because he thought that working at Burger King was a job for nerds and losers. He brushed his teeth and remembered what his pops had told him. “You think working at Burger King makes you less cool? You’re a man for having a job no matter what job it is. If it’s legit and will put some money in your pockets that’s good. You gotta start somewhere in life…even if it means shoveling shit everyday.”
He finished rinsing his mouth. If a man had to shovel shit for a living, then he might as well kill himself, Vincent thought. He showered away his drowsiness wishing he could sleep until noon. His father would be all over him if he was late for his first day. He left the shower thinking that this summer would be the worst yet. Instead of hanging out with his crew playing ball and meeting new girls, his three months would be wasted slaving over hot-ass grills flipping burgers at minimum wage.
Vincent quickly got dressed, throwing on some black Guess jeans, tan Timberlands, an Armani T-shirt, rocking a gold herringbone and a fitted Yankees cap. He threw his brand new work uniform in his book-bag and slung it over his shoulders. Vincent peered at his reflection in the mirror admiring how he looked.
“Vincent, you need to hurry up. Your breakfast is getting cold,” his mother shouted, from the bottom of the staircase.
“I’m coming, ma,” Vincent shouted back still standing in front the mirror. “I’m gonna be the best lookin’ nigga they got workin’ in fast food.” He smiled.
He trotted downstairs and strutted in the kitchen. His father was already seated at the table drinking tea, the newspaper in his hands while his mother was near the stove scrambling more eggs.
Mr. Grey took time out from reading his paper and looked his son up and down.
“Where’s your uniform?” he asked.
“In my book-bag,” Vincent replied.
“In your book-bag…? Why?” he asked.
“Cuz, I’m gonna change into it when I get to work,” Vincent answered.
“Oh God, please help me with this damn boy. What is wrong with kids today?” He shook his head before continuing. “You mean to tell me that you’d rather go into work dressed like some thug in baggy jeans and that damn chain around your neck than in your uniform. Are you too ashamed for everyone in the neighborhood to know that you have an honest paying job? Is that it? You wanna look like a damn hustler all the time and do nuthin’ with your life!”
“Pop, you buggin’ right know. That ain’t even it in me. I just feel comfortable like this,” Vincent retorted.
“Comfortable, huh…? That’s why the police wanna throw you against wall and harass you. Cuz you and every other young black male wanna walk around with y’all pants sagging off your young asses and looking like trash. If you look like trash, then society and the police will treat you like trash,” Mr. Grey stated.
Vincent sucked his teeth and glared at his pops. He knew he was far from trash in his sixty dollar jeans and two-hundred dollar chain. It was his style and he was against anyone trashing his style.
“You always got sump’n’ to say,” Vincent exclaimed. “Everything that I do is always fucked up in your eyes. You ain’t even happy that I took this job.”
“Boy what you say to me? You wanna be a man and curse at me in my home, in front of your mama and at this table,” Mr. Grey shouted, rising up from the table.
Mrs. Grey had enough with their bickering. “Please, the both of you, enough already. Y’all are like children. Vincent eat your breakfast and enjoy your first day on the job,” she shouted.
“I ain’t even hungry right now, ma. I’ll eat later,” he said easing out of the chair and walking toward the backdoor.
“Vincent,” his mother called out.
He ignored her and kept it moving.
“Let him go,” Mr. Grey said. “Let him be a hardhead.”
“Jason, why do you always gotta be so hard on him?” his wife asked.
With his anger cooling, he looked at his wife and said, “Because I love that boy so much, Jean. I want the best for him, and I know he’s smart and has the potential to make more out of his life than I did. I don’t want him to end up in these streets like so many of his friends.”
Jean went over to her husband, sat on his lap with her arms wrapped around him and proclaimed, “You’re a wonderful father to him, Jason. And you push for the best. With the love we give him, our son will turn out okay, baby. I trust him.”
Mr. Grey stared up at his wife and smiled. “I love the both of you so much,” he proclaimed.
“I love you too.”
Vincent hastily strutted to the bus stop. He was still angry at his father. It never fails, he said to himself. All the time, he’s gotta be on my ass about sump’n. He’s never happy with anything that I do.
Vincent was one block from Guy R. Brewer Blvd when he noticed a white four door Acura Legend with tinted windows coming to a slow creep towards him. He got a bit nervous, thinking about any previous beef that he may have with anyone. In the hood, it didn’t take much for someone to get shot or murdered. A wrong stare at an individual could be a reason.
Vincent took a deep breath thinking fuck it, if its beef then let them bring it. He clenched his fist. The Acura pulled beside him and the passenger window came rolling down displaying a friendly smile. It was his boy Spoon who lived across the street from him. Tyriq was behind the wheel.
“What’s up, Vince,” Spoon hollered.
“Yo, why y’all creeping up on me like that? You lucky I ain’t strapped.”
“Nigga you ain’t never been strapped,” Tyriq shouted out.
“Yo man, where are you going this early?” Spoon asked.
“Work…”
“Work…? Your pops got you slavin’?” Tyriq asked.
“Yeah, he got me a job in the city. I gotta be there by nine.” Vincent lied then quickly changed the subject. “What y’all doin’ out here so early anyway? It ain’t even eight yet.”
Tyriq reached into his pocket and pulled out a phat wad of twenties and fifties. “Gettin’ that