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Me: Yo, where are you? I’m here.
No response needed. A force of nature directs my attention over to the left side of the street towards a Citgo gas station. Rayne’s pacing back and forth right in front of it. He’s wearing a black beater, red shorts, and flip flops. No socks. Both hands are on top of his head. His posture alone says something happened. Sunken shoulders. His eyes are repeatedly downward. There’s a look of failure etched on his face like a tattoo. Similar to how I look whenever Morgan says she’s on her cycle.
“Ahh fuck,” I grumble, already prepared for the wet shit storm getting ready to drop on my head.
Once clear to do so, I turn around, pulling in right next to him. His only true possession, a black Mustang sits parked close to a pump. Eye contact is initiated instantly as I’m getting out of the car. We meet at the center of my ride, both leaning against the car itself. There’s no brotherly hug. No loving handshake. Not even a dap. Just stares and silence. At least in the short term.
“Took you long enough,” his voice is raspy and tiresome.
“Worry less about my time of arrival and more about why I’m here in the first place.” “Marissa kicked me out this morning,” he confesses, trying his hardest to garner sympathy.
I struggle to suppress laughter, “Of course she did.”
“Man, watch out,” he shouts, defensive out of the gate, “I ain’t even do shit to that hoe.” “Why do I have a hard time believing that, Rayne?”
He sucks his teeth, “Because I’m your brother. I’m telling you I ain’t do shit to that hoe. She woke up this morning on some whole new shit.”
The body language alone tells me he’s lying. He’s avoiding direct eye contact. Every other word is followed by stammering or a slight body turn. I don’t need a degree in psychology to study a mothafucka who’s been lying to me since the age of three. Everything he says always feels scripted. Like an improv actor performing on Water Street after midnight.
“Yeah, aight,” I say, rather unconvinced, “So, what now? On to the next vulnerable victim?”
He scoffs at that, head tilted to the side, “Nigga, what? Man, no. Look, I just need money, bro.
Bad.”
As if that’s a damn shock. It wouldn’t be Rayne if he didn’t need cash. Might as well call me
ATM Ross. Anytime I come around this nigga, my right palm gets to itching. He’s a fucking
dollar bill vacuum. Always with his hand out. Always with an excuse. If he can’t get it from our folks or little sis, I’m the one he comes to. This time, I’m not with the bullshit.
“Family Dollar is still hiring.”
“Wow. Come on, bro. I already spent all I had…”
“Doing what? Putting in slips on Prize Picks again? You have a fuckin’ problem, Rayne. Like always.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong, nigga,” he rages, boldly shoving his finger into my chest, “I just used my last twenty for this gas.”
The aforementioned finger instantly gets swatted away, “I call bullshit.”
“Nigga, Ona G, I did,” Rayne snaps, growing more impatient, “Why the fuck else would I be at a gas station, Dame? To buy honey packs?”
A careless shrug follows, “I don’t know and don’t really give a fuck. Regardless, I’m not about to bail you out again, little bro. Alright? Neither is Destiny. Neither are Ma and Pop. You’re a grown ass man now. It’s time to start acting like it. Stop always looking for people to save you.”
Once he realizes I’m not budging, his attitude shifts. The anger subsides in favor of a more relaxed, gaslight-heavy tone.
“Look, bro. I feel you,” he claims in a clear facade, “You know how cold these streets are. I literally have nowhere to go. Pop won’t even answer the phone for me. He only answers for you and Des. I’ll be dead or in jail within a night if I’m wandering these streets. All I’m asking is for you to look out for a nigga. One more time.”
He wears desperation like it’s a t-shirt. Frankly, it’s pretty pathetic. Usually he’s all bravado. Bragging about how he can knock out any nigga on any given night. Makes sense. I mean, the nigga’s had more fights on the street than Kimbo Slice. Now all of a sudden, he’s shaking like a mouse caught in a trap. Worried. It still seems like manipulative bullshit.
“Nah. You’re a survivor, Rayne,” I argue, patting him on the shoulder, “You’ve always been a survivor. It’s the one thing I can’t take away from you. You’ll find your way. Besides, I tried to
look out and offer you a job a while back. Remember that? And what did you say? You said you ain’t trying to be no damn coffee boy. As if my business wasn’t shit. So, little brother, you’re on your own this time. You’re not shacking up with me and my wife again. We have no room for you. Sleep in your car.”
Hearing no is clearly Rayne’s worst enemy since he transitions from Mr. Hyde back to Dr. Jekyll. He’s practically combusting, ranting and raving behind me while I’m walking away. Trying his best to provoke me with malicious accusations.
“Oh, I get it,” he rages with resentment, “Big brother’s become big time out here and forgot about his own people. Typical shit.”
