The Portable Promised Land Page 13

  “Do you drive?”

  “Nah. Just being behind a wheel makes me ill. I don’t even like driving that thang,” he said, pointing at a three-wheel scooter, the sort senior citizens use. “If I have to go somewhere my wife drives one of her cars.” Under his breath he said, “If she’s not out with one of her boyfriends.”

  Up until six years ago Jinkins had five chronic-crashee com-patriots. Every third Monday they dragged themselves to a restaurant called Lucky Strike (unless one of them was in the hospital, in which case they’d meet there). Because none of them much enjoyed movement, they made a day of it, meeting for breakfast and staying through dinner. They toasted having gobs of free time and kvetched about their deteriorating physical conditions. They traded hellos from chronic crashees in other cities, discussed which lawyers were good at getting fat settlements, which hospitals had the worst food, and, of course, they talked endlessly about television. “If you overheard us you’da thought we was television executives breaking down the season.” The only thing they would not discuss was their nightmare: the hit-and-run driver. “Such a depressing thought,” Jinkins said. “All that work for nothing.”

  Over time two of them died, another was forced to retire by his wife, and another quit to become a television critic for a small newspaper in Tennessee. Now, as far as he knows, Jinkins is the only chronic crashee left. “I never saw them guys as competition. There’s plenty of muhfuckin cars to get in front of. It was company. I miss them.”

  Jinkins took another long pull from his spliff, then leaned over and pulled a Macintosh G4 onto his lap. “The Internet has changed my muhfuckin life. I don’t have to rely on my wife for everydamnthing.” He logged on and went to Travelocity.com and considered plane fares to a city he asked I not name.

  Surely, he wasn’t considering another business trip. It could kill him. “Well,” he said, “my wife wants an island in the kitchen.”

  “You can’t be serious.” He was in no shape to walk to the kitchen, forget take contact with a speeding car.

  “I got a stack of money, yeah, but it cost a lot to live in Honeypot Hill and we bought some bad stocks the last couple years. My wife shops a lot.”

  “Man, this is a life-and-death issue! You’ve got to know you might not come back from this trip. Get a job!”

  “A job?!” he said. “That’s pain, man! You think I’m in this career because I like pain? This is about pain avoidance! As a Black man in America pain is agiven, but if you can effect some control over the specific dynamics of yo pain, then you’re being smart about it. Plan when and how you’re going to take your pain and you’re winning. I’ll never drag myself out of bed to race to some thankless job to slave under some merciless massa. That’s pain, man. I’d rather get hit by a Mack truck.”

  A GUEST!

  A knock on the door. A surprise visit. A beautiful girl! A Friday night. A wee hour. A quiet hello. A long hug. A tight sweater. A black leather boot. A lace up the seam. A seat on the couch. A record by Miles. A joke. A laugh. A glass of red. A joint. A pass. A puff. A laugh. A listen. A sharing. A Scrabble game. A war on a word. A begging to differ. A laugh. A sweet nothing. A tight shoulder. A slow massage. A Marvin song. A spellbinding bass-line. A spontaneous dance. A Polaroid camera. A posed smile. A silly frown. A tackle. A tickle. A laugh. A stolen kiss. A Prince song. A nasty bassline. A close dance. A slow dance. A lot of friction. A nasty flattery. A mischievous hand. A bare thigh. A slap of that hand. A recent memory. A Friday afternoon. A boyfriend. A raised tone. A thoughtless word. A diss on a Moms! A heavy tear. A No-I-didn’t-mean-it. A big fight. A gargantuan fight. A storming out. A long walk.

  A Prince song. A room dark. A slow dance. A lust affliction. A stolen kiss. A dangerous look. A slow kiss. A quartet of wet lips. A feathery touch. A deeper kiss. A chipping of teeth! A hasty retreat. A sorry of two. A real kiss. A kiss that could kill. A rush of kisses. A torrent of kisses. A monsoon of kisses. A mouth going south. A stop on the neck. A stop on the chest. A graze of a breast. A bungee-ing heart. A tackle. A tickle. A made bed. A messy bed. A lost shirt. A tossed bra. A mingling of lips. A tumble of tongues. A collage of bodies. A mélange of limbs. A dominant gesture. A submissive reply. A boy on his knees. A bitch in her boots. A blindfolding. A boot licking. A long spanking. A nipple ringing. A bearable pain. A growing pain. A burning! A burning! A screaming of mercy! A catching of breath. A boy on all fours. A bitch in her boots. A brown eye. A lube job. A finger. A trio. A hand. A fist. A thrust. A fist! A thrust! A squeal like a bitch!

  A pause. A talk. A laugh. A mingling of lips. A tumble of tongues. A collage of bodies. A mélange of limbs. A cyclone of passion. A mouth going south. A breast. A belly. A bush. A box. A dive. A curious tongue. A located clit. A vacuuming mouth. A pant. A pant. A louder pant. A tongue. A tongue. A faster tongue. A scream. A scream. A falsetto scream!

  A catching of breath. A catching of breath. A shared cigarette. A slow drag.

  A happy two.

  A sound on the steps. A sound on the steps! A sound at the door. A key in the lock. A whine of a hinge. A snatch of a robe. A rush to the door. A roommate’s return. A slick Casanova. A smile that’s wry. A strut in the room. A short hello. A loss of a shirt. A zipper undone. A giant shlong! A mountainous dong! A losing of breath. A girl on the floor. A soaking punany. A shlong in her crotch. A boy in a chair. A thunderclap thrust. A masculine groan. A falsetto scream! A crash of a crotch. A masculine groan. A falsetto scream! A quake of the earth! A double explosion! A catching of breath. A catching of breath. A boy in a chair. A walk cross the room. A hand on a chest. A kiss of the boys. A mingling of lips. A tumble of tongues. A head on a shlong. A tender embrace. A hug of a three. A thought of a thing. A throb of a three? A girl on her back: A shlong in her snatch: A dick in his ass. A movement of frames. A body aligned. A groove of three. A falsetto scream! A masculine groan. An unending ooohh! A groove of three. A falsetto scream! A masculine groan. An unending ooohh! A groove. A groove. A very hard groove. A chain of explosions. A fall on the bed. A catching of breath. A catching of breath. A shared cigarette.

  A rest.

  A piss.

  A breeze.

  A joint. A puff. A pass.

  A ring. A ring. A very close friend. A very wee hour. A rare situation. A short discussion. A dash down the street. A sprint up the stairs. A knock at the door. A striking couple. A coquettish Lolita. A sly Lothario. A quick introduction. A peeling of clothes. A dive in of five, a symphonic congress, a blizzard of thrusts, a tsunami sex: a kiss, a lick, a jerk, a smack, a hickey, a grab, a grope, a shlong, a nipple, a foot, a cock, a cunt, a clit, a tit, a tush, a toe, a tongue, a twat, a rimming, a reaming, a frightening velocity: a Caligula scene: a falsetto scream!, a masculine grunt, an unending ooohh!, a chirp of a finch, a suck-in of breath, a falsetto scream!, a masculine grunt, an unending ooohh!, a chirp of a finch, a suck-in of breath. A Gotdamn G’Lord! A fucking fantasia. A bliss. A bliss. A frenzied bliss. A jism. A jism. A fountain of jism. A climax. A climax. A climax that’s final.

  A catching of breath.

  A shared cigarette.

  A slow rising sun.

  A pretzeling in bed. A catching of breath.

  A catching of breath.

  YOU ARE WHO YOU KILL

  The Black Widow Story

  PART ONE

  The Black Widow — Brooklyn’s next great MC, this year’s the-future-of-hiphop MC — is at the wheel of her canary-yellow 4.6 Range Rover, flying down Manhattan’s West Side Highway at ninety-five miles an hour, slaloming around Fords and Benzos as if they’re little orange cones. With each sharp lane change you can hear the Uzi under her seat rattle. (It’s spray-painted pink. She calls it Lil’ Sis.) Her left hand is less focused on the wheel, more attentive to cradling a plastic cup of Hennessey and Coke and half a sizzling blunt. Her right is busy dialing her silver 8810 Nokia. We’re going 100 — oh, now it’s 104 — and she’s steering with her left knee.

  I try to resume our interview, but
two members of her ever-present crew, Myesha and Killa Kyla, are in the back of the Range watching Saving Private Ryan on DVD, the volume cranked. They rewind that opening battle scene over and again, so the blazing car is alternately filled with the sounds of bullets and bombs and death cries and the whoops and cheers of Myesha and Kyla. “I love seein MCs get blown away!” Kyla says. In The Black Widow’s crew, the KCC, the Kamikaze Capitalist Clique, white people are called MCs, as in Melanin Challengeds. Kyla sings in the melody of that old commercial — Have you had your sprinkle today?—“One dead MC a day, helps keep mofos away! Have you killed an MC today?”

  On-screen Tom Sizemore charges to a safe bunker on the beach and Myesha says, “I’m kinda feelin him.” Kyla looks at her like she’s insane. “He’s a sexy lil’ MC,” Myesha says. “But don’t get it twisted. I won’t hesitate to blow his brains out when the Revolution comes.”

  That revolution is the focus of The Black Widow’s upcoming Def Jam debut You Are Who You Kill. “It’s the long-overdue apocalyptic race war about to descend upon this wretched country,” she says. She envisions a millennial American civil war in which people of color, strapped with Israel’s finest heaters, attack all white people, chasing them up and down Sunset Boulevard and Broadway, taking a Bush daughter hostage, and capturing entire American cities as The Black Widow leads the charge, a latter-day Nat Turner.

  “It’s just something that’s got to happen,” The Black Widow says over Spielberg’s bullets and bombs. “It’s just a matter of havin true soldiers, gettin enough ammo, and comin with a precise strategy. We would’ve had a model for how to do it from South Africa if a few more years of apartheid had passed. Mafuckers were leaving the country and goin places where they learned how to run a proper military coup. They were comin back ready to take over that place. You think it can’t happen here?”

  What will other countries say?

  “The way America is viewed on the world’s stage right now, other countries will welcome a change. If we can get our message to the right people in Cuba, Libya, Russia, China, Afghanistan, Mexico, Iraq, Colombia, and North Korea, we might get some help. We built this country and now we let them buck forty-one bullets into us, let them ram sticks in our asses, let them shoot us in the back like dogs? No way. We’re takin it to the streets and takin the whole country. This is the ultimate Black empowerment strategy. The final solution. Think about it: the so-called world’s policeman with this kinda blood on they hands? Oh no. They got to get that national throat slashed.”

  You Are Who You Kill is a thirty-two-song essay about the coming race war. There’s little talk of cars, diamonds, or gear. It’s filled with images of battle, prophesies of victory, and inspirational calls-to-arms laid over some apocalyptic hiphop beats produced by Myesha. “If our soldiers need an inspiring uplift before they go out to battle, my album got it,” The Black Widow says. “If they need strategic direction to get through the war, my album got it. And if they need some euphoric catharsis at the end of a long day of killing, my album got that, too.”

  It’s a record of political weight and sonic muscle unheard-of since Public Enemy’s It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. It costars Jay-Z (“I Feel Naked Witout My Gun”), the RZA (“The Wretched of the Earth”), Eminem (“He’ll Die, Too”), Mos Def, Snoop, Andre 3000 of Outkast, DJ Premier (not producing, but rhyming), and a chilling spoken-word monologue by Mike Tyson (“Still Are Warriors”). “Since I started recording I’ve made some friends,” The Black Widow says. “A lot of people are interested in being a part of this project.”

  They’re interested because The Black Widow is that rare MC with true mic skills and a complete political ideology and a commanding, charismatic persona. Remember all those MCs who came with one piece of the package, hoping to become the new Malcolm X? All those MCs who made you wish for the political complexity and hiphop passion and technical mastery and pure soul of Tupac, Rakim, Big? Meet The Black Widow.

  And there’s more. At six foot one with tight cornrows and curves for days, the twenty-one-year-old Isis Jackson from Brooklyn’s Marcy Projects is a dominating sexual presence — possibly the most baadass sexy woman Black America has seen since her Highness Pam Grier busted out. If you imagine yourself doing female rappers in accordance with their image — and really, who among us hasn’t — you might picture you in a candlelit-whispered-sweet-nothings-slow-grind atop the spiritual love-mama Lauryn Hill, or having a freaknasty bronco-bucking-bonkfest in the back door of boy-toy Lil Kim, but, believe me, you’ll only see yourself underneath The Black Widow, being ridden, dominated, spanked, peed on, and made to squeal like a pig — and loving it.

  Manhattan, Fifth Avenue, the six-floor Gucci store. The Black Widow and the KCC are taking over. She’s here with Myesha, Killa Kyla, Poo Poo, Berries, and Z (Sade and Cent are doing time upstate). The KCC is so close, the girl-crew love between them so thick, the air in their vicinity feels on edge, as if a thunderstorm were imminent. They are shopping for tonight’s show, but also for the everyday. The Black Widow is on a serious Gucci thing right now —”I get into one designer and just rock that head to toe for the year,” she says. “Last year it was Versace. Year before, D&G. Now I’m just on some Gucci shit. I hate MCs, but that nigga Tom Ford can make some tight gear.” Her Range pulls up to the store and she steps out in some tight gray silk Gucci jeans with silver and black flowers embroidered down the sides and a dark navy Gucci button-down dress shirt open enough that her buxom cleavage is popping up to say hello. She moves into the staid, spacious, postmodern store not walking, but pimp-striding, whipping each leg ahead with a small, bold snap from her little waist, sending the entire store — the Asian tourists dressed like Imelda Marcos, bulemic blonde teens with cell phones attached to their cheeks, and too-hip salespeople in all black — into a full-blown commotion.

  She turns the women’s department into a one-model fashion show with her electrifying presence and curvy body, freezing shoppers into an audience when she bursts from the dressing room in a black sleeveless scoop-neck sweater with buckles at the ribs and bright-yellow silk and nylon pants. After a moment she returns in a $2,600 red leather motorcycle-style jacket with a curved zipper, then a white $1,000 neoprene jacket and pant suit decorated with green, yellow, and red orchids (and matching silk panties), and then, baddest of all, tight white silk pants and a thin $2,300 sleeveless jacket — white goat hair on the outside, brown rabbit hair inside. She steps from the curtains, flashes that smile, and pulls the zipper down just below nipple level. The awed assembly sprinkles The Black Widow with gasps and light, nervous applause.

  Salespeople run offstage, fetching her more Evian and more off-the-rack items reserved for V.I.P. customers. After two stunning hours she settles the $29,800 bill with her platinum Amex and pimp-strides out to the Range, as three bag-toting salesmen hurry to keep pace, bouncing behind her like little Yorkshire terriers.

  We pull away from the curb and head toward Brooklyn. Poo Poo and Berries, in the back with Kyla, start digging into their baggy cargo pants and yanking out clothes. A sharp black V-neck sweater, some blazing pinstriped pants, a silk sleeveless purple T-shirt — while The Black Widow was showing out, they’d snuck around the store, slipping razors from their mouths, slicing off pesky sales tags, dye tags, and magnet locks, making thousands of dollars of gear disappear.

  “You thought I’d just give cream to some Italians and not take some for myself?” The Black Widow says. “I’m on some truly subversive shit. I’m not just talkin this. I’m livin it every day! Economic terrorism is part of the master plan. We can’t just take these MCs with guns. Our army needs pure soldiers and thugs as well as stickup kids, petty thieves, cat burglars, financial geniuses, CIA guys, Internet hackers, all that. I wanna get with some serious counterfeiters and create some real good hundred-dollar bills. Get enough bills into circulation, then the value of the dollar drops. Then Wall Street flips out. Then the average Joe loses his job, his money, and his confidence in the governme
nt, while America’s place among the world’s leaders goes down, down, down. Then the country is in upheaval and primed for an all-out military assault, which all those countries that owe us trillions and never planned to pay back will support for their own survival. You know how Damon Wayans used to say, ‘Mo money, mo money, mo money?’ Well, we on some other shit: mo chaos, mo chaos, mo chaos....”

  . . .

  If you live in Brooklyn and hear the streets talk, you’ve already heard of The Black Widow. She’s something of a legend in certain parts. Long before there was a Bad Boy, niggas knew Christopher Wallace as that big funny kid who hustled in Bed-Stuy. Years before Roc-A-Fella, heads knew Shawn Carter as that tall, smooth nigga who had Marcy locked down. Before she hit the studio, mafuckers feared The Black Widow.

  Her legend has been complicated because in her line of work, you leave no witnesses. And many refuse to believe that any crew, a crew of girls to say the least, could possibly be bad enough to rob drug-dealer crews. But doubters — convinced The Black Widow was nothing more than a ghost story, Brooklyn’s Keyser Soze — were her prey. And when the streets began whispering that you and your crew had scored she’d say, “I’ll just go by and do a little cleaning.”

  So the KCC would come. Descending on your building, where you sat with your top lieutenants, the place messy with stacks of cream and weight, puffing an L as fat as a stogie, reliving tales of business done ruthlessly, of crime committed lustfully, of death cheated valiantly. Meanwhile the KCC is climbing up the side of your building, or hopping over from an adjacent roof, or bribing your super for a secret back entrance. Next thing you know, you’re feeling like that helpless punk whose Big Kahuna burger got snatched by Sam Jackson in Pulp Fiction. Killa Kyla has deaded your three hardest thugs, Berries is vacuuming up your bounty, and The Black Widow has her pink Uzi in your face and is about to introduce your brains to the floor and the ceiling and the back wall, too. “We cleaned niggas’ apartments,” she says with a laugh. “We cleaned em out! And we didn’t use Ajax, we used AKs.”