The Cake is a Lie Read online

  I was startled, it wasn’t every day someone snarled at you so nastily.

  “My bad Mike, I tried to tell them. Everyone get the fuck out of here.” Jeff spat.

  We all backed off to a safe distance. Everyone complained about how Jeff was ripping us off as we watched Mike and Jeff walk off across the field. I still had more questions than answers, did Mike even go to Shorewood? Was he a senior? How come I’d never seen him before?

  Winter, 2004

  The Crack Shack had gone downhill fast over the last two years. There was no power anymore. Everyone sat around putting pieces of wood and newspaper in the open furnace that served as a fireplace. Big and small candles were spread around the living room providing a dim ambience. I was a silhouette, one of the dozen teenagers sprawled out amongst the living room. Sitting on the brim of the futons, posted up against the walls. It was Mike’s show, he was center stage.

  “Call me agent double O deuce 4 blocc”

  Mike had left three giant bags of weed and a large scale as a work in progress on the heavily scraped up and inscribed computer desk. Mike messed around with the station occasionally but he was in no hurry to put it away. He had a crisply rolled swisher clamped between three fingers. Every time he inhaled the blunt he made a quick loud sucking sound.

  “Siiippp.” He moved around frequently. He went from leaning back for a second to walking back and forth. Adjusting his jean leg, then his belt. Pulling up his dangling watch, only staying a second in each pose. Always inspecting his blunt over and over again.

  “Three days ago I sold three zones in two hours,” Mike bragged loudly to no one in particular.

  “Aint nothin my nigga–siipp–shit’s EZ, no problemo, A-OK.” Mike changed up the way he spoke. He changed up the order of words, pronounced words differently, left whole words out. His speaking style was so different; a total rejection of everything taught to me. It was so strange, so fresh. In doses, I couldn’t be best friends with someone that spoke like him.

  “I done jus’ started slangin big time bro, and I’m already da best. I got this shiit on lock, I’m on a three year plan, my nigga.” This got a laugh from everyone.

  “No lie, I got it blue printed out, my nigga. Imma fuck with this shit right here for another minute then Imma start fuckin with that nina,” He tapped his nose for effect. “Start stacking some real paper. Real shit doe–siiiippp–I know some cholos from way back mang, they gon’ hook it up once I got enough to front half. I was just talking to them niggaz and them niggaz was talking real good to me.”

  Mike didn’t pause when he spoke, he only hesitated for the slightest second until the next thing popped into his head. “But I’m da best doing this shit right now. Gotta be da best at somethin my nigga–siiippp–gotta hone your craft knumsayin’. Straight QB’in it. Jus’ call me agent double O deuce 4 blocc, I got that 9mm glock ‘n I’m ‘bout to put one in ya knot.” One in three times the thing that popped into Mike’s head was a lyric from his current favorite rap song. Socially I’d come farther than I ever imagined, but in the face of Mike I was nothing. I wished I were black.

  I’d gone to a symposium on the “N” word held by Shorewood’s Black Student Union during lunch for extra credit.

  “If white people aren’t allowed to say it then why should black people be allowed to say it?” Tysen’s loud voice had boomed through the classroom, most of the white audience murmured in agreement. A white nerdy girl then stood up, “People died to never hear that word again! White slave owners invented that word. It means dumb.”

  The six black girls that composed Shorewood’s Black Student Union had raised their voices right back. Yerusalem, one of the BSU Girls shouted, “Taking that word and making it our own is another example of why black culture is so creative and popular. It empowers us to take that word back.”

  I’d stood silent by the door with a snooty smirk on my face. After 400 years of the worst kind of oppression, letting them have a word to themselves was the least we could do. Even if it did make them cooler than me, and gave the rap videos some of their power.

  I’d heard it said right in front of me, a few times in the halls. But when Mike used it, it didn’t sound forced and off. The way he said it was straight vicious, just like in the videos.

  “BUZZ, BUZZ” Mike’s beeper went off, he took it off his belt and looked at it. Then he looked around the room until he landed on me standing next to Jeff by the dresser.

  “Yo lil’ dude, want to make some bowls? All ya gotta do is walk down the street to the bowling alley.”

  “I’m down.” I announced opportunistically.

  “Who dat hit you up?” Mike’s homeboy, Seth, called out from where he was sitting, watching the fire. Seth was a half Mexican kid that was born to play linebacker, but he’d gone another direction and now he was one of those kids who got all their jokes laughed at out of fear they might attack you at any minute. He wore shirts with phrases like “We Run This.” Standing in the same room as him was like being in a cage with a wild animal.

  “Juan, niggaz been hitting me up all day, talking I owe him a quarter.”

  “That niggaz loco, he with Derrek?”

  “Cha.”

  “Aw, fuck that.”

  “I know, that’s why I’m not rolling cuddy.”

  I was now fully alarmed.

  “Well don’t send lil’ homie.”

  YES, I shouted inside. Go Seth, great wise Seth.

  “Mind your own fucking business, you cool right homeboy?” Mike asked me.

  “For sure,” I was stuck in Lemming mode.

  “Aight,” Mike grabbed a bag from his workstation. “Just hand over da shit and then get my money, pinch it all you want I don’t give a fuck. But once you take this bag, you owe me 80.” Standing over me, pushing the bag into my chest, I felt the full implication of his last you.

  “Ok,” I said bravely, putting the bag into my coat pocket. I wasn’t in charge of my body at this point, I only had one choice.

  “Marco, don’t do it,” Jonsen’s voice rang through the room, he was standing in the hallway with a girl that was taking up most of his attention.

  “So it’s like that homie?” Mike immediately answered loudly back.

  “I’ll do it,” Jonsen said, walking into the living room.

  “Chill, I got it,” I said, with absolutely no conviction.

  Jonsen took the bag out of my coat and headed out the screen door into the night.

  “Buzz Buzz” Mike’s beeper went off again. He checked in before breaking out in song again, “I was a dead man, walking they say, so every night I hit the J.”

  “What’s the rest of your 3 year plan?” Seth asked as he ripped off half a phone book to throw into the fire.

  “Real Estate,” Mike said, “I’m gon cop a house and just sit back collecting paper. I’m gonna be a real estate boss.” This got a roaring laugh from everyone. Mike took a big French-inhale before responding, “Man, ya’ll haters.”

  More likely in prison, I thought. I knew our society locked 1 in 3 black men in a box at some point in their lives. I wondered how smart Mike was, I imagined that he still bought products based on the logos, slogans and packaging he liked best, like I did when I was 10. That he still picked his “favorite” character to root for at the beginning of a movie or show.

  He’s so exhaustingly aware of maintaining his image, I observed. Does he not know that half of everything he says is stupid just like the rest of us? What a materialistic whore. My parents always said growing up poor made you value material things more, I can’t relate to that. Did Mike grow up poor?

  “Many clips and 24 riches, packed, but really who’s got my back? Fade. Now that them niggas done hit the grave, I'm killing ‘em off for the old days. Sack of purple kush make me sicker than sic straight cannibal shit…

  Spring, 2005

  I popped awake to the sound of ruffling. I turned around and found myself looking inside a hanging leather jacket. By the strong Acqua
Di Gio cologne I could tell it was Mike. Was he robbing me?

  “What up, Mike?”

  “Sup lil’ homie? I can’t find my wallet.”

  I was lying on Ian’s bed. Mike kept on doing what he was doing, which was hunching over me on his hands, scanning the bed all around me with the light of his cell phone. The inside of his leather jacket had like ten pockets, I could see a half a weed pipe hanging out of one, a pack of swishers in another, the outline of a butterfly knife. Dangling from his neck onto my chest was a lace necklace that had an Office Depot photo I.D. attached to the end. But my gaze kept coming back to the huge bulge where his huge bag of weed was.

  “Maybe it’s under the pillows, Mike?”

  “YaYa, that’s a good idea,” We got off the bed and flipped all the pillows over, it wasn’t there but he leaned over and inspected the bed closer with his celly light anyways.

  “That sucks man,” I went to lie back down on the bed. I was still wasted and felt really gross.

  “Nah don’t go back to sleep homeboy, come take some BT’s with me,” It was half a plea and half a demand. Strangely, every upstairs door was open so I could see straight through the bathroom to Ian’s brother’s empty dark room, even the hallway windows were open, letting in a cold draft. Where was everyone?

  “Uhhh okay.” We walked into Ian’s bathroom and turned on the light, Mike picked up the bong and took out the colossal bag of weed.

  “I just rolled here from work, I had no idea everyone was gonna be gone.” Mike was wearing a white dress shirt and black slacks under his jacket. It was crazy seeing him dressed up, you wouldn’t have even known he was Mike.

  “Dude I don’t even know where everybody went,” I said, rubbing my eyes. What time did I fall asleep? Mike picked his hair a few times with his hair pick. Mike had been wearing a medium sized fro recently and loved to leave the pick in it. It was the tightest thing I’d ever seen.

  “You’re Marco, right?” The change in Mike’s persona was eerie. He was using less slang, not as hostile. He could switch it up, he was a social genius. I pictured him at Radio Shack, “Yes I can help you with that, sir.”

  “Yep,” I answered, bright and innocently. I liked acting as non-gangster as possible around Mike, hoping to irritate him. Mike took a huge BT and I noticed the thin red and blue coloring around his eye for the first time.

  “How’d you get that?”

  He blew out a big stream of smoke while contemplating what to tell me.

  “My brother man, can you believe that?”

  “Oh what?”

  “Dude started swingin on me at our mom’s birthday. I’m not getting all emotional ‘bout it, but in front of our moms dawg.”

  I tried to pictures Mike’s mom and brother but I couldn’t. Mike handed me the bong but my throat was so sore I couldn’t even bring myself to smoke anymore. “What happened?”

  “He’s in the military and he’s always trippin on how tough he is, found out I’m slingin dope and got all up in my face about it.”

  “Your bro’s prob got some pretty sweet combos huh, straight Haaadouken.”

  Mike chuckled, “He’s got some shit fa sho”

  Awkward silence.

  “You’re a little smart dude aren’t ya? You think I don’t notice but I do. You’re a straight A student huh?” I got giddy inside. I couldn’t believe flamboyant, obnoxious Mike just complimented me like that.

  I laughed it off modestly “Word, I’m ‘ight dawgy.” I let some slang slip. I’d incorporated “word” as my unashamed, go to slang word. I used it all the time. I loved the way it made my parents and teachers look at me, “‘Did you complete the assignment Marco?’ ‘Word.’”

  “What do you think about the war?” Mike looked straight at me with a serious “I’m smart, too” face.

  “It’s expensive, A Tomahawk missile can cost over a million dollars. The war has cost a trillion dollars so fa–”

  “Ya but we need them missiles in order to get that oil,” Mike interrupted loudly like he just knew everything. It was a better argument than most people gave, more honest. I was impressed. Usually I loved debating know-it-alls, but I felt so gross I was shivering. My eyes were starting to linger closed when I blinked.

  “We gotta appropriate that shit.” Mike pulled out big words sometimes, it was 10 times more spectacular than me using slang. A true renaissance man. This is how different people come together, I thought, meeting each other half way.

  “Ya I guess, I’m going back to sleep Mike, there’s no point in me even taking another BT.”

  “You’re gonna do me like that?”

  I handed him the bong. “Well, honestly Mike, I just don’t like you.” He laughed.

  “Well you got my number right homeboy?” He headed for the stairs.

  “Yaya,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Call me.”

  I crawled back onto Ian’s bed. Seeing Mike’s soft side kept making me think about a scene from one of Lil’ Wayne’s video’s that had shocked its way deep into my consciousness. Where he yells into the camera, “Ya’ll niggas ain’t doing it right,” with the cocky screech of someone whose slept with thousands of beautiful women. It was as if he was speaking directly to all the Mike’s of the world, the rest of us weren’t even in the game. I felt jealous I couldn’t act like Mike even if I tried my hardest. Mike was just a social prodigy. I would never be able to stand in that gangster stance, swaying and fidgeting intimidatingly, while flicking the tip of my nose with my thumb and squinting my eyes. The way he did it was perfect.

  I passed out after one more lingering though drifted away. God, I’m the shit. I’m friends with everyone. Unstoppable.

  Summer, 2005

  Brandon and I emerged from the pitch black neighboring park to behold the bright white walls of Einstein middle school. The blazing lights surrounding the school hummed like gigantic mosquito traps. Brandon was visiting for summer and I was already ready for him to leave. He was getting on my nerves, always bragging about some story involving his country friends and him getting faded and going ATVing or off-roading. His country friends were so cool.

  I didn’t brag back. I didn’t have anything to prove. If he only had a clue about all the partying I’d done while he was gone. Even worse, his mom kept him on a short leash when he was home, so instead of going to the parties we stayed inside half-heartedly playing video games and watching movies.

  That night we’d gone to Tysen’s 16th birthday party. Tysen’s mom had invited his cousins, childhood friends, friends from other schools, it was a social mess. Brandon and I just stood in the corner turning our noses up at the whole thing. No one even noticed when we finally slipped out the door. I had a few dealers, but that night, getting high with Brandon for the first time in a year, I was calling Mike.

  Mike’s red Firebird coup was parked alone with the doors wide open in Einstein’s bus turn around. The streets were quiet, there wasn’t a car to be found anywhere.

  Brandon looked worried, “Dude I haven’t smoked chronic in a year man, I don’t even know if I should. All we smoke is that Mexican weed.”

  I thought you was bad Brandon, remember? I thought. “You’ll be fine man, you used to practically breathe the stuff.” I reassured him.

  We approached the car to find Mike and Kace lying back with their seats fully reclined. Brandon faded to my back while I came up to the driver’s side. Mike had one foot out the car, smoking a cigarette, looking out into the vastness of his car ceiling.

  “You go to Einstein, Mike?”

  “Uh what?” He tilted one eye towards me, “Aw ya, I went to this bitch. I used to run shit. I used to run game on some tricks. You should of seen it...” His eyes didn’t have pupils, they were just pure red. His fro was buzzed off. I still didn’t know how old he was, my best guess was three years older. Kace was asleep in the passenger seat, his crisp, flat billed baseball hat was pulled down over his face, an unlit cigarette in his fingers.

  From Mi
ke’s sound system one of my favorite new rap songs echoed through the night. “Da-da-diamonds on my neck, da-da-diamonds on my necklace, tokin’ pounds of green, tokin’ pounds of green.”

  “..I got your shit hol’ up.” Still lying back, Mike felt around his seat for the recline switch, clearly fighting through some temporary coordination challenges. When that failed, he just reached over to his central console where some nugs were lying in the cup holder. Blindly, he grabbed a few in a handful and then brought his hand slowly and delicately towards me, like he was playing a claw machine. On the way, one fell into his lap and then rolled down into a crevasse.

  “Oh no you didn’t you lil mo’fucker” He grimaced at the runaway. Wide-eyed I took the generous portion of weed as if the cashier had forgot to ring something up.

  “Where you guys coming from?” I asked.

  “We went to a party down south, it got all fucked up. Them city boys think the burbs is soft, just no respect. They started punk’in Kace, but loco Choppy started swinging on their whole crew.” My intestines coiled at the mention of south Seattle, where kids thought Mike and Kace were soft. Shoreline separated from Seattle when I was seven because my parents didn’t want their kids bussed into the city for school, part of the school integration program. I looked over to Brandon to see if Mike had the desired effect yet, he looked tiny and self-conscious. I remembered the way I felt when I first saw Mike.

  “Sheeaaat, whatta they say? Just do it, right?” In one motion, Mike rolled over his dead body weight out of the car onto his feet. From there he reached into the air for a big stretch. His body unraveled into a terrorizing size.

  “So what up, we gon smoke some bowls or what?”

  “Nah man we gotta get home,” I’d been around the block and knew a bad situation when I saw one.

  “No way lil’ homie, I didn’t drive all the way out here, and hook you up phat, to not smoke some bowls.”

  I looked over to Brandon, “He did hook it up phat.” I say persuasively, as if we had a choice. Brandon nodded.