Urban Legends 3

Phonics

Wearing a straw hat that gives me a slightly Amish look, I walk the dog in the hot dusk. Up by the muni pool, a kid asks me if I have a cellphone he can borrow. "No," I quickly lie. His eyes catch me. We size each other up, face to face. He says, "I'm tryin' to find my brother and I can't find him. I don't know where he's at up here." "Your brother?" I say, almost adding, "You don't know where your own brother lives?" He gets the implication just the same and says, "Not my brother like dat. My friend, I'm looking for my friend for about twenty minutes. I can't find him." The private joke between us is that we both could be laughing over this term brother, as if I don't get it but I do, and vice versa. He's tall, gangly, maybe 16; maybe 14. His bike is way too small for him, tricked out in duct tape around the handle bars and a peace symbol uniting several cables just above the front tire. I reach into my right pocket and take out my shitty, worn cellphone. I ask for the number he wants to call; he calls out the numerals; I punch in the digits. When it starts ringing, I hand him the phone. No answer. We try again. Finally, he gets a response. "Yo, where's your crib at? Hunh? I'm on it. I been up here waiting on you. For like twenty minutes. 270? Aaight." He gives me the phone. "Thanks," he says. "Have I good night," I say. He rides off, but I lose track of him, mildly curious as to which street he goes to. I walk the dog home, down the half-block.

Histrionics

After supper, I'm in my car, roll down the window, and approach Richaaargh. "Hey, Rich," I say. "I saw how you tracked down that hot rod the other night. You're crazier than I am." He says, "Yeah, I followed him all the way down the hill, even knocked on his door, but he wouldn't come out." I convey my doubtful admiration for Richaaargh's persistence. "I had to laugh when I saw you out there checking his car out with a flashlight. You're gonna get yourself killed." Rich laughs (though he's not The Laughorist). "His plates don't match the registration sticker." I tell Rich all he has to do is call the cops and they'll tow the Firebird Z28. "I know, " Rich says. "But I'm gonna get that car." "How's that?" I ask. "Next time, I'll stand in the road, and all he has to do is just touch me and I'll fall down, then the car is mine." I chuckle. "Well, then, we never had this conversation, then, did we, Rich?" I tell him. "What conversation?" he says, and I drive away.




Tonics
Not far from my neighborhood but oceans away in other respects, in the upper room, at the top of the church stairs, they are talking honestly and openly. I am late. No one seems to mind. Of the dozen or so in the room, I am the only white male. And an old one at that (but likely not the oldest person in the room; hard to say). No one seems to know, or mind. There is the occasional laughter, and yet an aura of serenity. When someone talks, no one interrupts. I sit by the window. I feel perfectly safe, as I close my eyes and listen and faintly smile. The breeze is a welcome tonic, as is the lilt of their voices, their stories, their journeys, their amens.