We Were on the Northside

By Nicholas Viglietti

The sleek, candy painted caddy sat on chrome 22’s (rim-size), and it gleamed prominently like a greek statue. Its metallic exterior blasted my eyes with an ineffable shade of blue that I’ve never seen replicated. The scent of cooked meat floated on the soulful cadence of tunes that conventional radio stations don’t play.

Katrina was a memory, albeit surface level, and the remnants of damage lingered everywhere; you could see the pain, the resilience; the difference between black and white culture, on that ruthless coastline. 

I was a few months shy of legal beer purchases at the corner store – but that never really mattered much, down on the Mississippi seaside, anyway. Biloxi is like Reno on the gulf coast, and the sandy beach – blizzard white – grazes the gulf’s dingy water and dissipates into the mystery of the swamp. 

We were on the Northside – the location of the cook-out, and the reference that Jax used for the location – the place that made him who he was...Americorps brought him back there, same reason for my first time in the vicinity, and we became friends – Jax will always strike that favorable slice of personal development in my heart that, no matter the passage of time, I can never forget, or return my gratefulness. 

“C’mon, we gon’ swang through my ol’ hood, and hit yo’ first cook-out – at my homie’s – D’s house,” Jax said, and I crawled out of my sleeping bag, ravaged from last night – Jax revealed an excitability that his hardness, otherwise, concealed.

Currently, we were there, with Jax’s homies, and we made jokes between puffs of blunt smoke. The memories of their past picked up easily where they left off. I didn’t exist, then, and the overall experience of a cook-out was new to me. We leaned against the caddy; it’s clean twinkle displayed the distance they had travelled from when they were youngbloods at the bottom. 

They were a group of gruff bros – tough shells over sweet souls. Jax rocked a crisp fade-cut; while his homie’s swung long, hanging locks, over wife-beater, Wal-Mart-3-pack, tank-tops – Tha Carter III had just dropped, and the swampland was filled with the beats of Holly Grove; the sounds boomed out of every neon, Daytona Charger, shooting like a rocket, across highway 90, as it traced the beach. 

I chilled and soaked in the laidback southern vibe of the dirty-dirty south; my tan lined and flip-flopped feet thumped to a cook-out beat. I was slim with construction grade muscles; draped in neon tank-top vivacity, boardshorts to match and I wore shades that would garner Macho-Man's approval with an, “OH YEAH!” – I stuck out like titties at an ass show, and it was a big dick game.

Our smoke didn’t seem to matter and drew little attention. The cook-out scene flows, but eyes, from elders, guests, and the domino table, surreptitiously know every normality and unordinary factor – the peeps are covert, and it was obvious I was the odd-ball in the smoke break crew.

BANG! – the front door of the host residence flung open. “You ain’t da FUCKIN’ PO-LICE, RIGHT!?!” erupted out of D’s lips, his eyes, unmistakably, set on my pale face – pin-pointed accuracy like a torpedo guidance system. I think, he wanted every damn person, up & down the bayou, to notice that his inquiry was directed at me. 

I flushed red with embarrassment – white-boys and police ran equal, regardless, round here. Instantly, I became the person that was the most wrong to be. The other. An outsider: the one to be wary of...and I couldn’t shed who I was.

I shit an anchor in my trunks, and Jax interceded – some smooth over attempt for what was misunderstood. He ran to greet D, who looked like Suge Knight intimidation – D was an ex-NFL pro; 6’8” of formidable barbarity.  

“D...D! C’mon! Sup dawg! Dis my mane, Nico – I told ya, I was poppin’ by wit him, ‘member? At da corner store – da other day,” Jax said. 

D’s memory couldn’t conjure up the details. I’m sure the interaction occurred. One of those agreements made in a hurried, amicable moment that doesn’t expect to collide with the later promises of reality. 

It was on-site and blatant skin-tone disapproval, and I felt the boil like a live crawfish hits the boil of the pot. I didn’t personally deserve it, but I’m sure there was a tenor of retaliation for a past I could never atone for. 

D, held two trays of raw, seasoned fish, said nothing more, and proceeded to the fry station. The party resumed its good time tune, and I thought my presence had more of effect than it did – people could care less, but they weren’t gonna interact with me – I was young, and thought the slightest transgression had a larger effect, that you don’t learn to later, doesn’t really matter.  

My cringe flickered like club lights. “Um, chill weed...but I better check the cooler’s frigidity,” I said, and handed back the blunt to Jax’s amigos, with twitchy fingers, and edgy execution – I dropped it, and that didn’t help my case.

Terrible response, I thought, I have no lounge-cool capability, now, called out like that. I carried a six-pack, nobody seemed to notice me, even though, I had the odd sensation I was being evaluated – I need redemption to remove that unwarranted blunder...is this what black folks feel in white spaces? – I’m exhausted. 

In my smoke-brain rearrangement of the cooler; a pretty, curly-fry weave, engaged my conversational services. “You got a drink for me, copper?” asked the thick hips of black elegance – she was pressing mid-45, could pass for 25, and made me salute, below the hips. 

My brain and vocal function lost connection. “There might be...um...I ain’t, like, a cop...um...but that’s not important...um...so, are you like, ya know, a C-latte, kind of chica?” I atrociously asked, and the dubiety on her face made me realize how high & strung my mind was.

She grabbed a wine cooler. “I got it, baby,” she said, and retreated from me like I was a wild animal. 

I wanted to peel my skin off. Curl up into a ball and roll into the bayou – just let a ‘gator devour me – get removed, long gone, and away from that scene of sizzled discomfort – Jax!?! 

Where did he go?! 

I caught sight of him, over at a set of folding chairs. “Sup, I dunno, dude, but I don’t think I’m gettin much appreciation...ya know, like, for the groove of my chill (present personality)...think Ima bail,” I said.

Jax’s face contorted with lame, disbelief. “C’mon, mane...you can’t ride out for an hour, what a brotha [he uttered a word my flesh can’t type] gotta deal wit’ all da damn time...c’mon, mane...you know how to play bones – go get on a game,” Jax said, like hard truths you have to own in order to grow your reality. 

I chameleon-ized – best I could – sipped beers, broached conversation jovially, and old, familiar faces came up to Jax; approached with quick salutes, cursory cares about his weight-loss, prayers, and opulent expressions of personal affection – heavy concerns & big compliments, executed in the fashion of basic conversation; the difficulty of the situation navigated simply was impressive.    

Every so often, “domino! Mothafucka,” rang out. The cook-out was communal, like neighbors that were family, and the facile jubilation provided an escape from the every-day plights on this earthly grind. Out of nowhere, the notification to eat, cut the laid-back ease. “Food’s ready!” D hollered, and his wife finalized the buffet arrangement on two folding-tables. 

“We’ll let the line die,” Jax said, like a gentleman. Once the ladies and old folks got served, we moved to plate ourselves. I figured I’d amend any distress I caused, “thanks for cookin’ D – really appreciate the hospitality.” 

He’ll appreciate my affable courteousness – I’ll be on his good side & on my way – pile food – just flow into the ease of the vibe. “Hey, mane!” – shit! Foiled plans – D hollered at me, like an easy target, “you’s a fishaman, right?” 

“Uh, yeah, bro.” I responded, “been fishing the gulf, a bit – doing some cast-netting, too; just trying to get a better fling on the thing, ya know,” I said. 

“Oh, so you’s a gulf-fishaman, huh...so what kind of fish is dis – if you’s a fishaman – prove some kinda expertise,” D slurred, facetiously.

I felt like a trapped animal, and I knew the torture was coming...our interaction became a free show, and the mind-yo-business crowd, piqued subversive brows at our performance. Get flush with the flow – ebb the chill and slide this awkward groove. “Let’s take a look,” I said, and made a guess, “I don’t know...um...is it catfish?” 

D looked irritated, like a cat bored by the struggle of the slaughtered and was about to make the death blow. “Mane, how you gonna call yo’self a fishaman and not know what fish dis is,” he announced, slathered in mockery.

I froze floridly and tried to wrangle the situation. “Shit, my bad, bro. I don’t know...uh...some sort of sea fish?” I speculated out of deflection. 

I’m sure it was more mentally enhanced worry on my part, but it felt like the entirety of the cook-out's eyes scoped our interaction. “Ahh, shit – got me, mane! I don’t know what da hell kinda fish it is?” D chuckled, I felt humiliated confusion, “shit, we just bought it dis morning at da store.”

“Oh, gotcha, dude – well, thanks for cookin’ it up,” I said, ready to be gone.

I scooted over to Jax at the buffet table – he had watched us, like a furtive bodyguard observes the person under his care. We walked back to our seats, and I wobbled my over-plated of goodies due to my jangled nerves – almost there – when the commotion erupted. 

“WHO DA FUCK ARE YOU!!?!?” D roared, like hurricane clouds fulminate, “what da hell do you’s think you’s doin’ here! I don’t know you’s!”

Jax swiftly interjected the foul situation – he cut-off the vicious pursuit of D like a T-bone car crash. “Dawg! What da hell you doin, mane? I told ya! Dis my homie, Nico – he’s all good; he wit me,” Jax aggressively reaffirmed. 

“Yeah, what-eva! I don’t know dat mothafucka! I don’t give a shit who he is! You ain’t welcomed here!” D spouted – contempt clear about my presence. 

My nerves shook like the tail of a rattlesnake. Things were tense and I wanted to strike at an exit – get away from this gnarly blunder in humanity. “Nico! Grab our beers! We gettin’ da hell outta here,” Jax said like a command to a deckhand on a ship. 

I set my plate down. The cooler was straight ahead; everything else was a blur. I rushed it. I opened it and my premonition synapses fired; I had a bad sense...that something...some force...like the eerie certainty of being stalked in the woods, proves true, too late, when the cougar decides to attack. 

In the split-second of judgement, guided by my look-up instincts – my hand in the cooler, D’s foot advanced towards me; fast, ferocious, imminent danger about to be inflicted – kicked the lid shut with the force of an alligator’s snap shut jaw. I could see the white, furious bulge of D’s eyes, and I narrowly managed to evade the pain of five-digits smashed.

Reflexively, I leapt back and landed in a karate stance like Jackie Chan from Rumble in the Bronx. Whoo, clean, getaway – too bad, I’m fucked – D stood there, and I could swear, steam blew from his nose like a bull ready to charge. 

All his homies, over at the domino table, raised up to assist D in dealing out harm; ready to provide violent help – had to admit, they were admirable amigos. Those are true friends that will destroy somebody for you, no questions asked. Of course, and undoubtedly, my body would get pulverized to hamburger meat.

I braced myself to suffer both physically and financially – I'd get real familiar with Biloxi General Hospital; get at least one good lick in – just my luck, though, like an angel, Jax swooped in. 

“Nico! Get da fuck outta here!” Jax declared, like a leader blocker takes out the defender so the running back can score.

“Couldn’t agree more,” and I ejected from the nose-dive affair like a jet-pilot. 

I got in my champagne cavalier, locked the doors, panic ensued, I sparked the engine, and was eager to make exit. I hoped the mob wouldn’t descend like a pack of ravenous zombies and devour me. I couldn’t leave Jax, though – I wanted to. It had been like 15 minutes, but it felt like interminably agitated purgatory.

I fired up a pre-rolled joint-ski to alleviate the fear, or it only served to magnify my manic delusionality. At last, Jax stepped out from the backyard – angry, frustrated, bothered by bull-shit. He opened the passenger door. “Bro-migo, what the fuck was that nasty blindside of lunacy?!” I screamed, tense as a tinderbox. 

He was mute – sat still – pondered purposefully – the correct words came to summarize the mess of cook-out chaos, I just experienced – then said, “let’s get outta here. D’s movin’ weight, he’s paranoid, and it's just the way it is...black-folks are always gonna wanna know whose comin’ and who gone be there.”

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.