Manchester Boulevard + St. Andrews Place

by Ike Moses , Los Angeles, CA, USA

"Where you from, loc'?"

Jawan didn't reach for his piece. The question came from close enough range to determine he had already come up short. Getting caught slipping like this wasn't what worried him—all Angelenos eventually fall on the active plate beneath them—he worried about who might catch him.

He turned and saw two young men approaching on a single hybrid-electric bmx. The man on the handlebars cradled an old-fashioned Russian assault rifle, making it fair to conclude that they weren't a pair of census takers. The rifleman was a lightweight with sinews and muscles woven so tight that Jawan almost thought his flesh was made of Kevlar. He convinced himself that even if he did get the drop on ol' boy riding bitch, the bullet would have been wasted anyway.

It wasn't until the bike stopped, a yard or so in front of him, that Jawan got a good look at the pedaler; another teenager whose wrinkle-free icegrill matched the cold clarity of his navy irises. The men were now close enough for Jawan to read the ink flashing across the gunner's bare torso: "TINY TOON W/S ROLLIN NIN3-OW3 NAYBAHOOD CRIP." Every letter "I" in this alert was represented by an arrow pointing down. He noticed live graffiti on the crumbling stucco behind the bike team was broadcasting the same information, in synchronization with Tiny Toon's tattoos. A never-ending R.I.P. roster scrolled up Tiny's left forearm.

"S'wrong, homie?" Tiny questioned as he jumped down from his perch with the rifle pointed in the general direction of Jawan's sinuses, "You forgot where you stay? If you can't remember, I got a place you can rest at. Right across from The Forum."

Jawan had family there. At least he did before strays scavenged the mausoleum ruins.

"The 89th side of St. Andrews," Jawan answered to the rifle barrel.

"Don't act ignorant, my nigga!" Tiny's patience waned, "Who you with?"

"I live alone, 'migo!"

Tiny pressed the muzzle hard into Jawan's clavicle valley and asked with even breath, "You ain't registered to vote yet?"

Jawan choked a "Nah," keeping his answer short in fear that an excuse would insult the man who held an AK point-blank at his Adam's apple.

"Wacco!" Tiny called back to the bike pedaler without breaking Jawan's eye-contact, "La tableta. Tráigalo aquí."

"Símon," Wacco obeyed. His loose t-shirt reluctantly followed as he hustled over with the tablet in hand. After thumping the transparent plane a few times he asked Jawan, "¿Cho nombre?"

"Jawan. Or just Juan. Jawan Morgan."

Wacco seemed irritated by the irrelevant information, but he continued recording Jawan's personal data with dutiful disinterest. The tab's clear interface allowed Jawan to see Wacco's hand movements from the other side. Images were only projected on the front, however, so Jawan squinted to read what was reflected in the kid's glazed lenses. Upon completing the application Wacco turned the computer over to give Jawan the opportunity to review his answers. Jawan nodded before glancing at the screen.

"Now, what set you claim?" Tiny directed the question with more muzzle pressure to Jawan's neck, darkening the hickey above his collarbone.

"Get this shit off me!" Jawan loc'ed out for a moment and slapped the rifle nose toward his shoulder, "We both know ain't no petró in that AK!"

"You sure about that, cuz?" Tiny replaced the muzzle at Jawan's neck and said, "Claim a goddamn party!"

"¡Soy independiente!"

Wacco sucked his teeth and sighed, "Mark-ass moderados."

Tiny flipped the rifle and thrust the butt plate into Jawan's solar plexus. As he did this he mocked, "¡Soy independiente!" He then knelt near Jawan, who now stood doubled over, and said, "Fuck you think you is? Americano? You think you a 'stizo or some'n? You a yamp-ass 'yate! An independent nigga is a dead nigga. Align yourself or resign yourself, home!"

Jawan didn't rush to catch his wind. He felt like his body was laughing at a joke he didn't get, leaving him painfully confused. He did understand that this sidewalk on St. Andrews was not the place to figure it out, though. When the air came back, he huffed, "What if I want to bang Trays?"

"This es democracia," Tiny shrugged, "Be a Tramp all you want. Just don't come on this side of Manchester 'cause it's Tray-K e'yday."

"Fuck that," Jawan said, knowing all other options would mean relocation as well, "I'll roll with Rollin'."

It wasn't clear if Tiny and Wacco approved or disapproved of this choice, but they allowed it.

"Hang it from the left side," Wacco said, handing a blue flag over to Jawan, "'Cause it's West Side, fuck the rest side."

There was no more ceremony beyond that. Wacco raised the computer to Jawan's face for a video signature. Seeing himself in the tablet's mirror-mode, unable to decide on an expression between his raised brow, flared nostrils, and twitching mouth made Jawan feel like even more of a buster. He composed his mug and gave his verbal consent.

With that the voter registrars extended the thumb, index, and middle fingers from their right fists, to signify N-Hood affiliation, then remounted the bike. Tiny said, "You still need to be initiated, so we'll swoop you in a few days. Until then, remember: Neighbors don't need favors."

Wacco chimed in, "And N's don't need friends."