The Portable Promised Land Read online

  Tear the roof off the sucker.

  Muss be jelly cuz jam doan shake like dat!

  Don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.

  Shake what your momma gave ya!

  Tha roof, tha roof, tha roof is on fire!

  Sex machine. Sweetback. Skins. Snatch. Tail. Trim. Coochie. Booty. Honeypot. Mo better. Nappy dugout. Poontang. Ill na na. Jimbrowski. Tap that ass. Freaky deaky. Freaknasty. Super freak. Gettin kinky. Doin the wild thang. Knocking the boots. Doin the nasty. Wham, bam, thank ya, ma’am!

  Boo.

  Babymuva.

  Wifey.

  Seeds.

  Bread. Dough. Cream. Cheese. Bank. Paper. Papes. Scrilla. Ends. Funds. Lucci. Cheddar. Duckets. Benjamins. Dead Presidents. Mo money, mo money.

  Lampin. Kickin it. Coolin. Chillin like a villain. Droppin science. Kickin ballistics. Street knowledge. Crooklyn. La-La. Illadelphia. Sugar Hill. Brick City. The Boogie Down. Uptown. Chi-town. Oaktown. Motown. Hotlanta. New Jack City. Chocolate City. Soul City. The corner. The block. The ave. The concrete jungle. The hood. The ghetto.

  Ghetto pass. Ghetto blaster. Boomin system. Human beat-box. Dice circle. Double dutch. Aerosol art. Sheepskin. Beatdown.

  Soul in the hole. I got next. Hoops. Check ball. Pass the pill. Dish the rock. Wheel’n’deal. Shake’n’bake. Make it rain. In yo face. Coast to coast. Posterize. Kodak moments. Schoolin kids. Breakin ankles. Bricklayer. Finger roll. Slam dunk. Alley-oop. Stutter step. Sky hook. Fadeaway. Hangtime. 360. Facial. Brick. Handle. Hops. Jam. Slam dunk. Rim wrecker. Chocolate thunder flying, Robinizine crying, teeth shaking, glass breaking, rump roasting, bun toasting, wham bam, glass breaker I am jam. Want fries wit that shake?

  The Life. Ride or die. Shit is real in the field.

  Pusherman. Hustla. Thoroughbred.

  Iced-down. Frostbitten. Bling-bling.

  Product. Crack. Smack. Crank. Chronic. Cess. Stress. Boom. Buddha. Reefer. Ism. Indo. Lah. Trees. Tical. Freebase. Mary-jane. Moonrock.

  Dope fiend. Speedfreak. Basehead.

  Beaming up. Lifted. Nod.

  Snitch. Rat. Narc.

  Burner. Heat. Nine.

  Iced. Gaffled. O.J.’d.

  Pig. 5-0. Bacon.

  The cage. The clink. Inside.

  Gangsta lean. Pushin up daisies. Deaded.

  Thang. Dang. Ain’t. Cain’t. Tain’t. Stank. Gank. Skank. Stomp. Chump. Crunk. Conk. Pimp. Herb. Scrub. Sass. Gots. Kicks. Peeps. Props. Fox. Dime. Duke. Dap. Gat. Bro. Vibe. Zoot. Zion. Zulu. Biter. Butta. Mambo. Mofo. Mojo. Dolo. Gumbo. Gusto. Rasta. Flava. Drama. Ganja. Gullah. Samba. Holla. Mecca. Okra. Ofay. Po-po. Griot. Steelo. Juju. Bogart. Bozack. Buster. Seckle. Celly. Salty. Polly. Gully. Geechee. Grimey. Crimey. Loosey. Janky. Hooptie. Hoochie. Homie. Honky. Cali. Caddy. Jiggy. Chumpy. Sheisty. Shorty. Shuffle. Scattin. Slangin. Skeezin. Creepin. Fittin. Flossin. Frontin. Slammin. Blazin. Buggin. Baggin. Maxin. Mashin. Wildin. Jackin. Loungin. Slaxin. Sashay. Strangé. Kente. Backbeat. Downbeat. Downlow. Down-home. Cornrow. Corn bread. Whitebread. Gangbang. Young-blood. Woodshed. Homeboy. Homeslice. Milquetoast. Dancehall. Bumrush. Baadasss. Buckwild. Hepcat. Freestyle. Roughneck. Dilznick. Doofus. Moonshine. Fatback. Redneck. Hamhocks. Hellafied. Honeydip. Wallabee. Junkanoo. Callaloo. Colorstruck. Babylon. Similac. Signify. Sanctified. Supafly. Sinnerman. Pecker-wood. Mothership. Chickenhead. Politick. Percolate. Perpatrate. Repasent. Rugcutter. Cocksucker. Showstopper. Hotstepper. Crumbsnatcher. Rumpshaker. Streetsweeper. Shotcaller. Door-knockers. TLC. TCB. CPT. PHD. OPP. DWB. BMOC. HNIC. Daddy-o. Day-o! Boo-ya! Bitch slap. Be cool. Beat box. Beat street. Jump street. Front street. Dope beat. Juke joint. Fish fry. Talkin trash. Livin large. Blasé-blah. Mean mug. Gris gris. Rahrah. Thing-thing. Somethin-somethin. Sho nuff. Bust this. Ass out. Break out. Bug out. Kick it. One-time. Co-sign. Soon come. Souped up. Straight up. Step up. Big up. Throw down. Cock block. Drop top. Wild style. Quiet storm. Ego trip. Playa hate. That’s real. That’s nervous. That’s gangsta. That’s hype. The mix. The mack. The shit. The whips. The breaks. The beast. The blues. The vapors. The Gods. The Earths. The Alphas. The Deltas. The digits. The dozens. The haters. The honeys. The bit-ties. The girlies. The PJs. The A-K. The AKAs. The Qs. Yo, B. Yo, G. An L. The DL. The O.G. Make Gs. The realest. The joint. Da bomb. The okee-doke. The County blues. The Five Percenters. The 411. A 187. I’m 730. Audi 5000. Ya dig? Ya heard? Yo mama! Oh, snap! True dat! Holla back. Say what? My bad. Do you. Ai-ight. Right on. No doubt. Step off! Stay up. Nuff said. Don’t sleep. It’s on! I’m down. I’m ghost. I’ma jet. Peep game. Game tight. Caught up. Shout-out. Be out. Played out. Turned out. Thugged out. Come hard. Come correct. Catch wreck. Get paid. Get money. Goin off. One love. All that. Bump that. White trash. Ice grill. Iron horse. Tar baby. Trick daddy. Mack daddy. Posse deep. Knotty dred. Gimme five. Stone cold. Shook ones. Love jones. Nigga rich. Right quick. Dirty South. Bebe’s kids. Johnny Blaze. Willie Bobo. Mumbo jumbo. Mister Charlie. Fully strapped. Not pressed. Get waxed. Get served. Get smoked. Talkin smack. Poppin junk. Packin steel. Hittin switches. Throwin signs. Taggin up. Catchin feelins. Sweatin me. Feelin you. Funny actin. Never slippin. Set trippin. Steady mobbin. Keep steppin. Jive talkin. Needle dancin. Check yoself. Brace yoself. Played yoself. Off the hook. Off the hinges. Off the hee-zee. Off the meter. Off the meat rack. On the low. Round the way. To the bone. To the nines. To the max. It’s like that. Be’s like that. Like it is. Lemme find out. Gimmie some skin. Break me off. Break it down. Up in here. You go girl! Goin all out. In effect mode. In full effect. Roun the way. Ace boon coon. Rope-a-dope. Slow your roll. Set it off. Shit on you. Who’s the man? You the man. No, you the man. Do the knowledge. Paid in full. Wheels of steel. Where ya at? Whatdedeal? What’s goin on? What’s the dilly-o? It’s Mop’n’Glo. It’s all gravy. It’s your world. It’s my prerogative. Take no shorts. Don’t get gassed. For yo ass. Go for delf. Got me open. Got your back. Baby got back. Bring the noise. Kill that noise. Kick yo ass. Keep it real. Keep hope alive. Keep keepin on. Down by law. Dig you later. Fuck the dumb. Some next shit. You know this. I’m that guy. Word is bond. Bring it on. In the house. Fight the power. Move the crowd. Bust a move. Make it happen. Caught out there. Hate me now. Hold it down. Show and prove. On and poppin. Pop that junk. Don’t go there. Take you there. In your face. Bust a cap. Peel your cap. Pull your card. Protect ya neck. Do your thing. You went there. You got jokes. You’re a lie. You’re damn skippy. You’ll get nathan. You ripped it. You be illin. You betta recanize. You betta work! Betta axe somebody. Pimpin ain’t easy. Shuckin’n’jivin. Handle your bidness. I been buked. It’s all good. It’s all God. Good lookin out. Knock yourself out. Get outta Dodge. Guard your grill. Makin a movie. Play on, playa. I and I. Sooky, sooky, now. Everythin is everythin. Game recognize game. Fakin the funk. Funky cold medina. Phi slamma jamma. Bad mammajamma. Throw them bows. Bout-it, bout-it. Each one, teach one. Same-o, same-o. Keep on, keepin on. No woman, no cry. So Black of you. Lay it on me. Layin in the cut. Let’s get it on. Get off my dick. Talkin out your neck. Talkin all that jazz. Ain’t no half-steppin. Ain’t mad at ya. How ya like me now? How can I be down? If I’m lyin, I’m flyin. This, that, and a third. Go for what you know. You know how I do. Do you know what time it is? Hard head make a soft ass. Don’t call me out my name! That’s what I’m talkin about! Ain’t no thang but a chicken wing. Just a squirrel tryin to get a nut. Diff’rent strokes for diff’rent folks. Brother from another mother. The game is to be sold, not to be told. Don’t hate the playa, hate the game. A mind is a terrible thing to waste. Once you go Black, you never go back. It’s a Black thing, you wouldn’t understand. The Blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. Don’t start none, won’t be none. There goes the neighborhood. You can’t see me. You don’t hear me, dough. Act like ya know. I ain’t no joke. Like white on rice. I wish you would. I got the hook up. I got it like that. Don’t get it twisted. Get the gas face. Get my grub on. Get my swerve on. Got it goin on. Go head with that. Push your wig back. Blow your spot up. Sock it to me. Talk to the hand. Kicked to
the curb. Lost in the sauce. Back in the days. A month of Sundays. Do me a solid. Drama for ya mama. In there like swimwear. Work my shit out. My mans and them. You know my steez. We in this piece. Show me the money. Get at me dawg. Holla at your boy. Homie don’t play that. Kissmyblackass! Ohnoyoudi’ent! Knowhumsayin? Gets no love. Nuttin but love. Gettin them thangs. Gettin no rhythm. Jumpin the broom. Clockin the hos. Parking-lot pimpin. Driving while Black. Black don’t crack. Niggers and flies. Government name. Melanin challenged. Microphone fiend. Media assassin. Thuggish ruggish. Dream deferred. Cold-blooded. Ghetto fabulous. Invisible man. Jungle fever. Brown sugar. Amen corner. Playa hater. Player’s ball. Wack juice. Old school. Jimmy hat. Big pimpin. Woof ticket. Home training. Cotton-pickin. It’s crackin. What’s poppin? What’s hapnin? What’s cracka-lackin? Whatever’s clever. He’s official. That’s whoa. My mellow. No diggity. Bomb diggity. Whip appeal. Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik. Supergroovalisticprosifunkstication. Psychoalphadiscobetabioaquadoloop. Jiveturkeymuhfucka. Absofuckinlutely. Ghettocentricity. Afristocracy. Tricknology. Connigeration. Sambomorphosis. Mobbphonics. Infamousbonics. Bootylicious. Braggadocious. Dopalicious. Irregardless. Niggerati. Botheration. Blaxploitation. Mackadocious. Harmelodics. Orientated. Incognegro. Blackmanwalkin. Beautifullest. Funeralize. Dy-nooo-mite! Sometimey. Sassafras. Hellacious. Ass-backwards. Razzmatazz. Comeuppance. Ziggaboo. Bamboozle. Ebonics. Kumbaya. Conversate. Speechify. Wrecktify. Over-stand. Underdig. Blackula. Beautillion. Malition. Fruitation. Illmatic. Uglying. Doggone. Vodou. Hoodoo. Bookoo. Booshit. Summbitch. Beeatch. Shiznit. Gotdamn. Stoopid. Triflin. Trip-pin. Snappin. Bangin. Bredren. Kwanzaa. Ignant. Nahmean. Crimey. Irie. Sprung. Vamp. Riff. Chile. Tude. True. Trick. Trill. Trife. Juice. Jah. Jook. Hoop. Heads. Hip. Hot. Wack. Whup. Baad. Ill. Dope. Diss. Def. Down. Fresh. Fly. Flow. Fam. Foin. Folk. Cuz. Cool. Cold. Cat. Phat. Shade. Shine. Sheeeeet.

  Peace.

  Word.

  SOUL CITY GAZETTE PROFILE : CRASH JINKINS,

  LAST OF THE CHRONIC CRASHEES

  Kojo Jinkins is forty years old but he moves with the speed and agility of an eighty-year-old. Known to all as Crash, the man who moved to Soul City in 1994 “for the cool pace and laid-back livin,” he’s the undisputed king of the chronic crashees, men who throw themselves in front of unsuspecting drivers to make a living. He resides in Soul City’s ritzy Honeypot Hill with his wife, Turquoise, in a three-floor 1920s country home filled with Phillipe Stark three-legged chairs, original paintings by Pollock and Basquiat, and custom-made off-kilter furniture from a New-Agey vision of Beetlejuice.

  But Jinkins can barely enjoy the fruits of his labor because he rarely moves from his Karim Rashid sofa. He’s never been inside his wife’s Alfa Romeo and cannot recall which artists are on his walls. He can, however, give you a complete rundown of what’s on every channel at any hour from “Wake up, Soul City!” to “Insomniac Music Theater.” He spends entire seasons under his blue cashmere throw, his lap filled with remotes aimed at his three 32” television sets, his two DVD players, and his 1,000-disc CD changer. His wife serves him dinner on the couch, cleans his bedpan — well, couchpan — and if they were to have sex, “Which hasn’t happened in years!” she said, it’d be there, on the couch. Jinkins can’t even remember what his bedroom looks like.

  Jinkins has installed himself on the couch for the good of his career. “See, I breaks it down like this a here,” he said. “For me to keep on keepin on vis-à-vis takin contact, I gots to minimize the pain dynamic vis-à-vis my body. This means this: do not move.”

  One of the remotes on his lap slipped off and fell on the floor. “Oh no, I’ll get it,” he said. He went to lean over, moved just an inch forward, and then stopped abruptly, his face a wincing, stricken crinkle. After a twenty-five-year chronic-crashee career, he cannot blink without pain. He leaned back slowly, lifted a thick half-smoked spliff to his lips, and drew in deeply. He let the smoke flow into his lungs and loosen his body. He did not exhale. He then leaned over gingerly and picked up the remote. “I couldn’t live widout dis shit right here,” he said of the medicinal-grade marijuana he gets as part of a hush-hush settlement with a doctor who drove into him eight years ago. He smokes six to eight fat joints a day. “If I ain’t zooted, I’m in paaain.”

  “Do you ever think that maybe you’ve made a wrong choice in life?” It had to be asked. He was a comically grotesque creature. A small man with a body that creaked and squeaked and looked so fragile it seemed that if you pulled back his skin you’d find whatever muscles and bones were left were held together by rubber bands and safety pins.

  “Son, this whole game is about managing pain,” he said.

  “What game?”

  “Life, man! To me the way to play the game is to manage how and when you feel the pain. When I first thought of gettin serious about takin contact I said to myself, ‘Self, you wanna get a little pain all the time every day, or one big chunk of it when you choose and take it really, really easy the rest of the time? You know, sit back, relaxin, slaxin, coolin and chillin all day long?’ Seein as the latter option sounded much better, I said to myself, ‘Self, what you want to do is pay your pain bill all at once.’ Next thing I know, I got a career where I spend thirty or forty weeks a year on my couch, or in a hospital bed, and clear maybe $200,000 each annum. According to my math, this is the way to go.” Later, Jinkins opened his robe to show the purple and blue marks that cover his chest. You’d call them bruises, but he calls them trophies. Just by looking at each one he can tell what sort of car had caused it. “Porsche... Range... Alfa,” he said as he pointed to each one, “... Land Cruiser...Ferrari... Navigator.” There were also a slew of long scars and stitch marks all over his chest. His torso resembled a detailed topographical map of a small African country, including its rivers, train routes, and the approximate locations of important villages highlighted in purple and blue. He then pulled back his blanket to reveal a bone jutting out from beneath the skin on his right shin. “Muhfuckers couldn’t get the bone back in proper and couldn’t wedge the muhfucker out. The skin just grew back round it.”

  Jinkins flipped to the Weather Channel. They were about to hand down their forecast for the next three days. “Check the techniques yo,” he said with childish glee. “My body is better than the best weather-detection system out there. I’m like a got-damn meteorologyist or someshit. I could feel rain, thunder, sunshine, humility, all that shit.” Storm Fields said it would rain all day Sunday, be sunny on Monday, and windy on Tuesday. “That ain’t what it’s gon be,” Crash said. “Here’s the reals: tomorrow it’s low 70s with high wind, Monday low 60s and rain in the morning, then Tuesday it’s partly cloudy with a slight breeze and a pleasant mid-80s.” He was right.

  Jinkins began his chronic-crashee career at age fifteen as a high-school freshman living with his mother in Brooklyn, New York. “I’m at the corner of Flatbush and Atlantic [Avenues in downtown Brooklyn] wrapped all up in the most heated argument with some girl I was seeing. We goin at it like crazy. And that intersection there is really hot. Muhfuckers are flyin through that muhfucker like it’s the muhfuckin Daytona 500. I turned a lot of guys onto that spot and believe me, all of em got paid. Anyway, mo screamin, mo screamin, and all I could think of was just get away from her. Everyone’s been at that point. Just get away from her at all cost. And I knew the cars were comin but I thought someone will screech and stop and it’ll be a big scene and she’ll get all Florence Nightingale on a nigga and the screamin’ll stop. So I step out into the street. Next thing I know there’s a bang so loud I don’t even hear it, I just, like, feel the bang in my chest and my joints and the space between my skull and my brain. And then everything’s crazy still and quiet for a long time — I ain’t know then that I’d taken contact with a Benz and I was in the air, flyin and shit. My memory goes into snapshots then: first I’m on the ground staring at the sun, then a million muhfuckers are standin over me, then there’s a big bump in the ambulance, then there’s a hospital room and it’s the next day.
” There was a golden lining in Jinkins’s cloud that day. The driver was rich and had a bad driving record — “You pray to get hit by dem muhfuckers.” Five days after the collision the driver paid Jinkin’s hospital tab and cut him a check for $100,000. “I sat up in that hospital for two months like it was a four-star hotel with a funny smell. I had a broken hip and knee, and a fractured elbow and shoulder. Not bad at all. I came home and sat on my momma’s couch for a year and after a year of loungin I still had a bigger stack of cash than I’d ever had in my life. That was when I said to myself, ‘Self, you’ve found your calling.’”

  But once he was back on his feet he discovered how hard it is to plan an accident. “The first two years was rugged. I couldn’t get hit by rain. People think it’s easy to get hit by a car, but it ain’t.” Jinkins acquired detailed maps of major metropolitan areas — New York, Detroit, D.C., Chicago, Houston, Atlanta, LA — and found stretches of road where there were sharp curves that gave him a chance to see oncoming traffic without them seeing him. He studied multiple cities because chronic crashees cannot take contact in the same city over and again. “If you deal with the same lawyers and insurance guys too many times they get wise so you gots to keep it movin.” He said there were many good cities in which to take contact, but none was better than New York. “In LA they actually respect pedestrians. No matter what, they stop for you and are happy about it. It’s annoying! I heard there are guys makin a livin in LA but I ain’t never been able to make it happen there. In New York muhfuckers expect you’ll move, and by the time they realize you ain’t movin, it’s too late. For them.”

  Ever-increasing vehicular technology has made Jinkins’s vocation harder. “Before muhfuckin antilock brakes, if I walked in front of three or four cars I’d get hit fuh sho. Now I have to get in front of six or seven cars to take contact. That takes a lot of time! And these big SUVs have changed shit, too. It’s hard to step in front of a truck. Hard as hell. But you have to find that courage and be a professional and shit because this shit is a business and it’s harder for a truck to stop and it’ll injure you more and net you a bigger settlement, so for me steppin in front of a truck makes more sense.”