Up at the Intersection - Division and Main

By Nicholas Viglietti

It wasn’t a bucket, by any means. I sat in the backseat, and we floated towards Alabama on Division Street, under a dreary sky. My skin was moist in the ways of the gulf coast – but the open hole in the door, near my knee, gave me a hunch that this car didn’t make the punctuality of a 9-to-5, occupation.

I bumped my head to the boom of the sound system, and I peeped that hole in the door; which fit the scene in the direction of our slide, and the dudes I rolled with were more of the stitch-lip variety. 

I didn’t fully understand the slice of the universe I occupied that afternoon, but the world turned, anyway, into late afternoon, and the dope-boys clocked in for their corner shifts. “You gettin’ a half-O – right, mane?” P.T., or Pony Tail, inquired from the shotgun seat, and his cornrows splayed out beneath the headrest. 

I knew P.T. from the neighborhood, and he knew the driver – his name eludes me because years tend to run details dry. “Yeah, bro – definitely,” I said, first time I spun on the block for these reasons. 

We barreled through a stoplight; snagging the slightest amount of yellow, and a crackhead from the corner, recognized the vehicle and frantically tried to flag the driver down. The desperation in his toothless demeanor needed more than a ride.

“What he do – dat make you skip on a few easy dollas, right d’ere,” P.T. said, his grin joked about an answer that they already knew – my paleface pretended.

“Nah – I’m gonna catch dat sucka, later – Ima make him sweat – he gotta debt to make good on – better not smoke it b’foe I wheel on back,” the driver said, and I figured he was the driver’s mechanic.

It was up at the intersection – Division & Main – when P.T. turned around, and said, “A’ight, Nico, we gotta drop you at da Church’s (chicken shop) up here – be back in like 20 minutes – ‘bout as far as da whiteboy’s can go.” He shrugged – it is what it is...and the mystery of some answers are best.   

“Um, yeah – sounds chill,” I responded, agreeably perplexed, and no disputable angle. The driver’s hand went up and back at me – whoa, bro-migo; still junk-ridin' the seat back here, I thought. The blunts we smoked earlier had delayed my verbal reaction. 

His hand dropped lower than my crotch, briefly fiddled around, and pulled out the cold, unmistakable steel of the pistol – so, that's the kinda place we’re going to. Paranoia and silence like being locked in the basement, but nobody knows you’re there. The driver’s hand clutched the tool that makes triggers and bullets dance, and I departed the car – you don’t argue with instruments that play music of that nature. 

They eased off, and I loitered patiently – no holes, intact, stayin’ chill. It was a long wait, but my perspective had an optimistic view. The crackheads analyzed the contentment of my shade, on the soul side of town, crazily, and then, I knew I was really out of place.

The hookers eyed me curiously. Eventually, they approached and nicely offered cheap blowjobs, but P.T. had all my money, and the ATM was inoperable. Even though I felt bad about it, I broke their hearts, gently.

I got stares, like aliens from different planets, as people passed by – at least my blood was internal – the minutes crawled, I smiled at a mean snarl in a four wheeled, slum-sedan, and darkness descended. 

It had been an hour. I’ll have to hoof it, I thought, and in a sudden swoop of a screech, the caddy pulled up, and even if they pinched me short a bit – they did run middleman on the play – I was enroute to another day, and more than less weed. 

About the Author

Nicholas Viglietti

Nicholas Viglietti is a writer from Sacramento, CA. He rebuilt houses on the gulf coast, after Katrina, for two years. He's lived like a bear, out on a trail crew in the Rocky Mountains. He rode a bicycle from Sac-Town to S.D. He's partying on his seventh life, and he tries to sling beautiful sentences.