Christmas in the Hood (21 page)

High-Top decided discretion was the better part of valor, and said fuck it. “Ball up top,” he said, and checked it to Fats. The game continued. High-Top missed the tray he put up, then watched Fats nail three treys in a row to win the game for his team. The dudes on High-Top’s team were salty, but that was how it went.

Fats and his crew lost the next game anyway, and afterward they were sitting on the bleachers drying off the sweat that had accumulated from four consecutive games, getting ready to go back to the unit.

“Country, you a crazy-ass nigga,” Little G said to his big homie. “You trying to start all types of shit up in here.” All the homies laughed.

“Naw, fuck that, slim,” Country said. “I’m about holding mine for my homies. That’s what it’s about. Unity. If we all stand together, then we’ll never fall. I’ll give these crackers what they want to see: all of us wild-ass niggas at each other’s throats. I ain’t for seeing my homies get roughed off for nothing, basketball or
nothing else. And if we find out who dropped that note on Rock, we rolling on ’em. That’s no bullshit, slim.”

Fats liked listening to Country. He seemed to have his shit together. He was a good brother who looked out for his homies. Or at least that was what Fats thought at the time.

“Open up for the two-thirty one-way move from recreation to the housing unit,” the PA blared. Fats and his homies rolled out of the gym en masse. Everyone on the compound knew that the D.C. mob went hard when it came down to it. It was just the Lorton in them, Fats liked to think, even though he’d never set foot in Lorton. At the block, Fats ran into the Italians Mikey P and Johnny Two-Fingers, who were playing cards in the common area.

“Hey, Fats, what’s up?” Mikey P greeted him. “Say hi to Fats, Johnny.”

Johnny Two-Fingers looked up and obliged Mikey P.

“Hey, Fats, how you doing? Going hard in the rec, I see.” Fats stopped and pounded rocks with the two Italians.

“I’m doing okay,” he said. “Mr. P, Johnny, nice to see you guys. I’ll holla at you later.”

“All right, yeah, yeah,” Mikey P said as Fats walked over to his cell. “I’m telling you, Johnny. I like that kid. He’s a good kid. I’m telling you. He’s nice, respectful, and got manners,” Mikey P told his friend. “Not like a lot of these kids. They’re fucking animals. Forget about it.” Mikey P and Johnny Two-Fingers laughed and continued playing cards for twenty-five dollars a game.

At the cell, Fats walked in and found his bunkie, Mel-Mel, sleeping.
This nigga trying to sleep away his time
, Fats thought.

“Hey, old head,” Fats called out, waking Mel-Mel up. “I gotta take a shit, moe; let me use the room.”

Mel-Mel got up, all cranky and shit. “Dumb-ass young nigga,” he said. “Why you have to wake me up with your bamma ass?”

“Chill out, old head,” Fats shot back. “You didn’t want me in here shitting while you was sleeping, right.”

Mel-Mel didn’t say anything; he just walked out of the cell.

I guess I’m right
, Fats mused, and put the towel up so he could shit in peace.

*  *  *

Later on Fats made a call to his babys’ mama, Laquesha. He had to check on the home front to make sure everything was cool. As Fats dialed the digits and his pin number, the prerecorded message came on. Fats had heard that all this new phone shit was recent. Mel-Mel had told him that back in the nineties you could call straight through back-to-back after every fifteen-minute call, and there was no three-hundred-minute-a-month limit like there was now. Mel-Mel told Fats that it was big ballers like Rayful Edmunds, who were selling kilos of cocaine and running criminal empires from the pens, who jerked the phones off. Just Fats’s luck, he had come in after these bammas fucked the whole system up. A lot of people said the feds was sweet, but Fats didn’t think so. This new joint he was in, FCI Beckley, sucked for real.
Three-hundred minutes, that’s only five hours
, he thought. Fats could use the phone for only ten minutes a day. Imagine that. How’s a motherfucker supposed to keep good family ties with only three-hundred minutes a month? He had heard that you got an extra hundred minutes at Christmastime. That was better, but it
was still some shit. The call went through, and Laquesha pushed five to accept it.

“What’s up, boo?”

“What’s up, La? How’re you doing?”

“I’m good. You wanna say hi to the kids?”

“Yeah, put them on.”

“Hi, Daddy, I love you,” Yvette greeted her father.

“I love you, too, baby girl. Let me talk to your brother.”

“Hi, Daddy, what’s up?” Maurice said.

“What’s up, Maurice, are you being good and listening to your mom?”

“You know it, Pops, it’s all good.”

“Awright, son, put your mom back on the phone.”

“Awright, Pops, ’bye.”

“’Bye. So, La, it’s all good on the home front, right?”

“Yeah, boo. But guess who I saw the other day?”

“Who?” Fats said, wondering what she was gonna drop on him now. “Kim.”

The phone was silent for a second. “Oh yeah?” he said, trying to be indifferent where his baby-mamas were concerned, but it was hard because they were always trying to stir up shit with each other.

“Yeah, and Fats, you better not be trying no shit with her when she visits. I’m telling you, don’t even go there. Don’t mess shit up for the rest of your family. I won’t put up with that bullshit.”

Fats had been thinking long and hard about the move, and he’d figured Kim was his ace, but now this? For real, he didn’t need this shit. He hadn’t even said nothing about it to Kim yet. She was coming up this weekend and bringing lil’ Demitrius, and
he was gonna feel it out with her. He expected her to go for it because she was very money motivated, but he hadn’t even reached the subject with Kim yet, and Laquesha was already sweating him about it. He had to dead this quick before World War III erupted between the two. If the shit was easy, though, everybody would be doing it.

“Laquesha, what the fuck are you talking about?” Fats hollered into the phone before he checked himself. “Better yet, don’t even tell me. You know they record all these calls. I ain’t got shit going on, so stop acting like a nigga is doing something behind your back.”

“I’m just telling you, Fats. We gonna be okay. I love you, and I don’t want you to do anything stupid to jeopardize your situation.”

“Awright, La. I feel you,” Fats said. On the inside he was mad as hell, but he decided to try to play it off. No reason to keep Laquesha suspicious. “Look, ain’t nothing happening, La, for real. I gotta go. Awright?”

“Awright, boo.

“’Bye.” “ ’Bye.” Fats hung up the phone, thinking,
That bitch Laquesha must be a fucking mind reader or something.
How does she always know his next move before he does? But for real, he needed Kim to do the move. As soon as she agreed, Fats would get with his homie Country to set it up. Fats was a man on a mission, and he was determined to make good on his promise to the children.

Back in the cell at lockdown, Mel-Mel was telling Fats about the bags that the prison gave out for Christmas.

“Yeah, joe, back in the day they used to hit a nigga up,” Mel-Mel
was saying. “I remember when I was at Manchester before they transferred me to this spot, we used to get a big-ass bag with candy, shorts, socks, and some mo’ shit. And them shits weren’t no generic-type shit like they sell in the commissary here, either, joe. No bullshit. I’m talkin’ bout Nike and shit. Nigga was styling.”

Fats listened in, hoping that they would give some shit like that here, but from what Mel-Mel was saying, he doubted it.

“And, joe, they used to give out pizza and shit, too. They gave out those little-ass personal pan lunch pizzas from Pizza Hut in the little box and all. Those Italians, like Mikey P and Johnny Two-Fingers, would be going around buying all the pizzas up for a book of stamps each, no bullshit, joe. A nigga could come up by catering to them at Christmastime. They’d be buying the bags and everything. But last year at this joint, they didn’t give us shit but this weak-ass little bag of candy and cookies. But still, joe, them joints were selling for a book of stamps a pop!”

Fats took it all in, wondering if he’d sell his bag. He doubted it. He had a severe sweet tooth. He was just looking forward to his visit so he could get his move on. That was the only thing on his mind. He needed some real paper. Fuck a book of stamps.

The weekend came, and so did the visit. Fats was happy to see his little boy Demitrius, and it was nice to see Kim again, too. He and Kim weren’t as close as him and Laquesha, but she still brought his son to see him. He was surprised that when he brought up the move Kim readily agreed. So it was all set. Now he just had to make the arrangements with his homie Country. Fats was sad to see Kim and Demitrius leave, but he got a chance to take some photos with them. The gumps had brought in a
Christmas tree while Fats was visiting, and he got the picture dude to take the photos in front of the plastic tree. So everything was looking up.

Chapter Six

C
hristmas was getting closer. The environment at the prison stayed the same, but little Christmas decorations started popping up at the different units. On ESPN and BET Fats started seeing all the Christmas advertisements, but it was nothing like being on the streets. At times the staff seemed happier. Maybe it was because of the Christmas bonus or the extra pay they could get for working on the holidays, but for Fats the days all blended together. The mailbags got bigger as Christmas got closer, though, and that put smiles on a few cats’ faces. In prison a lot of convicts lived for the mail. For some reason, it was the only outside communication they got. So at mail call, a lot of dudes would be down there expecting something, but it seemed to Fats that most of them never got anything. But the closer it got to Christmas, a few more dudes got mail. Not that he felt sorry for the ones who didn’t. He figured you got what you gave, and thought a lot of dudes in the feds were grimy niggas who never did nothing for nobody and that was why nobody ever did anything for them.

The holidays could also be a very gloomy time for some prisoners. Fights and arguments would pop off with little to no provocation. Being in prison at Christmastime sucked all right. There was no presents, no Santa Claus, and definitely no partying.
Dudes might drink some hooch or smoke a little weed, but it wasn’t like there were big parties celebrating the holidays like on the street.

*  *  *

As Fats washed his clothes in the laundry room, Mikey P came in to do the same.

“What’s up, Fats?” he asked. “How you doing, boo?”

“It’s all good, Mr. P. Is everything good with you?”

“Yeah, Fats, it’s going all right, except they locked up my laundry guy, so I’m stuck doing it myself. Forget about it.” Mikey P laughed.

“It ain’t all that bad,” Fats said, looking at Mikey P, who looked lost on how to operate the machine. Fats helped him get set up.

“Thanks a lot, Fats. I appreciate it.”

“No problem, Mr. P,” Fats said.

Mikey P was on the verge of saying something, but was unsure if he wanted to say it.

“You know, Fats, every Christmas we make a meal, you know, to sort of celebrate the holiday and such. Why don’t you eat with us this Christmas? You know, as long as you’re not doing something with your homeboys.”

Fats was taken aback at first, but he thought it was cool of Mr. P to ask him.

“That sounds good, Mr. P, thanks,” Fats said, hoping that they wouldn’t ask him to put anything in, because, for real, he didn’t have anything. “But I think I’ll have to pass.” Fats went by the old prison maxim: you didn’t take anything from anybody except your homeboys.

When he said that, Mikey P looked a little insulted. “Oh no Fats, we ain’t having none of that. When a man asks you to join him at his table, you don’t decline. All you need to do is bring your bowl. We’re having pasta, and there’ll be sodas, doughnuts, and I’m getting somebody in the bakery to make a cake. So you be ready, and I’ll let you know when. I won’t take no for an answer.” Mikey P smiled, clapped Fats on the back, and left before Fats could object again.

At the four
P.M.
count, Fats told Mel-Mel that Mikey P had invited him to eat with them at Christmas.

“Damn, joe, you all mobbed up,” Mel-Mel joked. “But for real, that’s cool. You know them Italians do it big. They’ll probably have a nice spread. You know the chow hall will have something nice, too. Probably some kind of Cornish hen or something. You know me, joe, I gotta get that bird. I’m not big on pasta, but you would be a fool not to eat with them Italians. They know how to cook for sure, joe, and they go first class all the way.”

Fats felt foolish for having told Mikey P no at first; now he reveled in his good fortune. He just hoped everything else would come together as well. He really needed to get proper so that he could get his kids some nice presents. Before Fats was aware of it, he had voiced his worries aloud.

“Mel-Mel, I gotta figure out a way to get my kids something nice. I don’t got no money to buy them nothing, and neither do my baby-mamas. My kids are used to getting a lot at Christmas. I can’t let them down, moe.”

“I hear you, young’un,” Mel-Mel said. “It’s rough in here.” Then Mel-Mel sat up as if he remembered something. “Check it
out, joe. They got this program called Angel Tree. You can sign up for it, and they’ll buy your kids presents.”

Fats looked up and felt some hope for a minute, but then he dashed it.

“
Fuck
that, moe. I ain’t trying to get no jive charity presents for my kids. I’m trying to get them something nice, no bullshit.”

“Naw, joe, my man said this Angel Tree shit is good. It’s a church program and all type of big corporations donate stuff to them every Christmas, and then the churches in the local areas, by request from prisoners, call their kids to the churches and give them the presents. The kids that don’t have transportation get presents delivered. My man said they give out real nice stuff. They gave his son a digital camera last Christmas. That’s a nice gift, joe.”