Under Da Tree #1

Why or how did I get hooked on hanging out under the tree in my cousin Big Saul’s yard? To this day, I couldn’t pinpoint one single, particular reason for you.
But I could tell you this: years ago, while in high school, way before I went to prison or even thought about breaking the law, it was under the shade of one of the many trees in Saul’s yard where I’d parked my black ’77 Chevy Caprice Classic and let Donnie Ray take my last few Dollar-General earned pennies to tint me out for the sum of twenty dollars.
Another thing I could tell you is that, upon my release from my first, last, and only trip to prison, it was Tommy Lamb who had flagged me down as I rode through the A&A plaza’s parking lot and offered me two dollars to run him over to Big Saul’s yard. “Them ya kinpeoples anyway, ain’t it?” he’d asked, opening the door and getting into my Nissan pickup, which I was driving with a quart of Mickey’s beer clutched in my right hand, a suspended license, and a license plate that was supposed to had been thrown promptly in the trash when I had mounted a new license plate on my grandmother’s Chrysler Fifth Avenue. Sike!
But, nevertheless, today, many years later, the reason I now found myself sitting on a milk crate in my cousin Saul’s yard with an ice-cold Bud Light in hand was because there was practically no other place on earth that could match the comedy show I was witnessing here. The yard had a crowd of approximately twenty to thirty people. And, as usual, there was no one particular spot where each person was standing, as the crowd was dispersed in little pockets of gatherings. Big Saul and Saul Jr. had a crowd of observers watching them as they made adjustments to Saul Jr’s race car. Hound and Tex had a small crowd amongst themselves as Hound was leaning against his car, Michelob Ultra in hand, insisting that “nonna y’all cats work as hard as me. Y’all can’t handle that electricity.”
When Rick Broxton had finally parked and exited his big Bronco and headed toward the race car, he made sure he was well heard by everyone when he looked around the yard and,rather loudly,said, “That gottdamn slow-ass shit can’t beat a gottdamn raggedy school bus in the quarter. I bet I can get on a bicycle and outrun that shit right now, gottdammit!”
Over where I was sitting, my classmate Dead Al and another guy named Frederick were riding Lil D pretty heavy about his beloved Dallas Cowboys. They cracked jokes on the fact that LSU’s football team and the UCONN Huskies had more post season victories in AT&T Stadium, also known as “Jerry’s House,” than the Cowboys. And being a Cowboy hater myself, D found very little sympathy my way from the verbal assault being levied upon him. In fact, I made a concerted effort to laugh extra loud every now and then, even when the comments weren’t all that funny, until Frederick took a sip from his cup of Tanqueray and smirked as he told Lil D, “Nigga, I know you’on wanna hear no mo’ of this shit. I know ya lil ass gettin tired of us, but I’ma tell it. I’ma tell what I know. I gotta put this shit on the airwaves.”
“Tell it, dawg,” said Dead Al. “Preach the word, my nigga.”
I shook my head, watching Frederick take another quick sip.
In our little crowd Dead Al was sitting on my left, Frederick on Dead Al’s left side, Lil D directly across from me, and old man Mr. Curry was leaning back against one of the trees, swigging on a Natty Daddy, nodding contentedly at me as we made eye contact. All of us were either sitting on milk crates, most of which had been stolen from Evan’s Supermarket, or on the yellow and green never-been-used recycling bins issued by the city.
Frederick smacked his lips finally before he spoke. “Now, a bitch can say what they want, but I’ma tell y’all what really went down the other night.” He focused in on Lil D, sarcasm plastered on his face as he pointed at him.”That fuck-ass, wrinkled-ass Jerry Jones, y’all pussy-ass owner, stepped out on the town the other night. He wanted to get ‘is thug life on. So, he go chill at mufuckin The Nines in Dallas. He hangin out like a O-G. Linen suit, fresh gators, drink in hand, a martini, pinkie ring all blingin. He pimp-walkin through the club till he see ‘is bitch shakin that ass on the dance floor. Now he mad as fuck, so he slide over there and, BAM, it’s Dak Prescott, tight skirt, white and pink cowgirl boots, white Stetson. He over there droppin it like it’s hot. JJ mean-mug that ho and go over and dash ‘is drink in that bitch face and say, ‘Bitch, you’ll never be my quarterback again, you no-good, slutty bitch you.'”
Laughter erupted from everyone in our little circle, except D.
Honestly, I laughed so hard that the beer I’d just swallowed had somehow rerouted, causing a stream of it to exit my nose.
Dead Al recovered first and said, “Nigga, you slap crazy.”
“But that’s how that shit gon play out,” Fred continued. “Dak gon end up goin to the gottdamn Ravens, backin up Lamar, and bein a shower-stalker. And Jerry Jones and the Cowhoes gon win, probably, two, three games this year.” He shrugged. “Maybe four.”
“You got a sick mufuckin imagination,” said Lil D.
“Or,” I said to Fred, “you’re a darn good prophet. Only time’ll tell.”
Lil D shook his head, and by the look in his eye I could easily tell he was looking for an outlet, an avenue to turn the comedy spotlight off himself and onto someone else.
He looked over at Mr. Curry and shot him a fake scowl. “The fuck you laughin at, old bitch you? Ol’ funny-lookin-ass nigga.”
Curry flicked him off.
And D laughed and continued on with: “Sittin yo ol’ pamper-wearin ass over there, shitty-ass diaper, lookin like gottdamn old-ass moon monkey,” staring right at Curry as he spoke, nodding, and I couldn’t help but laugh at their exchange of glances. So did Dead Al and Fred.
Then Mr. Curry shot all of us sour looks and….
… and right here I think it’s only fair to tell you all that I first met Mr. Alton Curry in prison. We were both incarcerated at Lawtey Correctional Institution. It wasn’t until one day on the recreation yard that I’d unofficially met him. I was asked by Coach Pendelton to grab a wheelchair out the rec office and push an old man up to the infirmary. A diabetic dude spazzing out, I was told. The diabetic dude was nearly incapacitated while I pushed him all the way to the infirmary, and it wasn’t until two days later when, once again on the rec yard, I was summoned over to the horseshoe pit by the words, “Ay, you, tall nigga. Brang yo gottdamn muddafuckin ass over here.” An hour later I had found out that not only was the diabetic dude a butcherer of the English language, but that he was also from my hometown of Melbourne, and that he could name darn near all my family members from my mother’s side of the family as well as my father’s side. “Me, I always keep my gottdamn ass either at Spain’s Bar, Cleo’s, or my gottdamn homeboy Big Saul yard” were words Mr. Curry had said to me far too often when we first met.
Continued next Monday — Chain Gang Poet