Tycho's Ghetto

Tycho dribbled his basketball on the linoleum kitchen floor. Between his legs, around the back. He had serious handles for a nine-year-old. His Mama was yelling at him.
"Tycho, I swear to God if you don't stop bouncing that ball...Tycho!" She swatted the ball against the dish-drainer causing a plate to fall onto the floor. "Oh my God. Lord, please give me the patients to not strangle my son at this hour. I beg you. He's driving me crazy, Lord."
"Sorry, Mama."
"No you ain't son. No you ain't. Cause if you was sorry, you woulda put that muthafuckin' ball up a long time ago, and taken your ass to school, like I told you to."
"Mama, I don't need school. My game is nice."
"His game is nice," added Polly, his older brother.
"Boy, mind your business. And turn that T.V. down. Don't nobody give a damn about the evenin' news anyhow."
"Grandpa Jessup said he can't hear it low. Beside, they talkin' about the vote."
"You vote?" Grandpa Jessup asked Polly.
"I'm only seventeen, pops. One more year. I prolly wouldn'ta voted anyway."
"You right," Grandpa shrugged. "Don't matter even if you do. Black man got no chance as it is. Don't need a vote to find that out. Turn it up a little, boy."
"...the outcome of yesterdays vote has been called unspeakably inhumane by many foreign leaders, and has received heavy criticism by many Republicans and Democrats, alike. Yet the fact remains that Black neighborhoods simply could not turn out enough voters to prevent the proposed constitutional amendment. The proposal will bar African-Americans from voting on anything governmentally instituted again, effective immediately. How about some weather, Tina?..."
"Don't matter to me. My customers still be lining up on the block," gloated Polly, flashing a wad of cash.
"Polly! I told you I don't wanta hear that shit in front of Tycho. I lost you, I ain't losing him too."
"You ain't lost me Mama, I'm right here." Polly demonstrated by tugging on his throwback Nuggets jersey, causing his oversized gold chains and medallions to thrash about.
"Yeah, Mama. You don't gotta worry about me. I won't need to sell drugs, when I'm in the NBA," said Tycho pirouetting as he dribbled again through his legs.
"You just better be at school in the morning. You here?"
"Yes Mama."

Tycho decided it was best to avoid his mother's wrath, so he dressed for school. White shirt, black pants, black shoes. He pulled his I.D. card out of his clear plastic school bag and hung it around his neck. He dribbled from his apartment 5-13, down the five floors of stairs to a small bulletproof glass booth. He showed the policeman inside the booth his I.D.,and wrote his name on the form attached to a clipboard hanging in air by a thin chain, spinning in circles.. He found his friend Lloyd outside, past the high razor-wire fence.
"Your Mama makin' you go, ain't she?"
Tycho nodded, dribbling mechanically.
"We got a Social Studies test today. Civil War. Abe Lincoln and all that."
"Let me copy. Write real big, alright."
Lloyd shrugged. "I guess, man. But I don't like doin' that. If I get caught, I get an 'F' too. Us little guys ain't goin' pro like you."
"You could rap."
"C'mon man. You gotta be cool to be rapper."
"Oh! I know. A DJ. Most people don't even see them dudes."
"That might be alright," Lloyd said, smiling.
The two boys strolled to school walking in the middle of the street. They passed a twenty-foot long Buick, rusted and dented, with shinny chrome hub-cap rims. Then a police car. Then an old hatchback Honda with a plastic bag taped over the passenger window. Then a police car.
The sidewalks were crowded but not active. People stood or sat, or both, in groups talking or watching the other stagnant pockets of people across the street from them. Most people moving around were the many police officers monitoring the days activities, strolling in pairs.
"How about 'DJ Omega Fats'. Yeah, that sound tight," Lloyd daydreamed aloud. "Hey, ain't that your bother?" He pointed a stubby finger toward a white policewoman crashing Polly against the hood of the police car.
"Polly!" Tycho screamed, and ran toward the scene, dribbling subconsciously the whole way. "That's my brother let him go. Please?"
"Go away kid. Don't make me tell you again," the lady cop said, struggling with Polly.
"What he do?" inquired Lloyd.
"Let's just say he wasn't spending his time the right way. Now get outta here, both of you."
She wrangled Polly into the back of the squad car, deliberately smashing his head on the top of the car. She wiggled a small plastic bag with her thumb and index finger, and slid it into her back pocket.
As she drove away, she stuck her head out of the window. "Go do something useful for a change."
Tycho stopped dribbling and looked at Lloyd.
"I gotta go, Lloyd. You heard her, I gotta work on my jumper. Mama can't have both of us locked up. I gotta go pro, if I'm a make it."
"I'm goin' to school. You should to."
"Man, that don't make no sense. Why go to school, if I already know what I'm good at? I'm a baller, always will be. You can go to school. I'm a play."
Lloyd shrugged and trudged off to school. He listened to the ball bounce away, farther and farther. It became a faint thud, like the heartbeat of the ghetto, pulsating under the sirens and yells.

Tycho's Ghetto