The Boyz

Going south, southwest, east, through a human labyrinth to my locker.  Crack the safe.  Grab my parachute hooded sweater.  Shake with the team.  Pensive, a verbal genius, mind spoken, and controversial.  Wrapped with a grey “Mad Soul” shirt.  Rex, walking laughter.  Toader, a speed demon, with a determined face.  Cask, silent.  (Pause)  Greasy pushed back hair. 

We bail from the school, growlin’ it’s the belly of our beasts.  Maxwell’s it is. Walkin’ towards there we speak of wack tracks and dope albums. 

Pensive:  “Illmatic, was illness ‘til your ears go numb, but Nastradamus was a cup coaster, know what I’m sayin.’”

Arrive at the spot.  No chairs, only a bullet proof sliding window and a stainless steel counter outside. 

We each get the double cheeseburger with fries for $2.69.  Stood at the counter, and had an eating marathon.  Now we’re at the train tracks by Lawndale.  Chopped stones beneath us, tags one-liners, the walls, City of Chicago’s light boxes, it’s their canvas.  Green lines and blue curves.  Hidden messages found by us explorers.

“Damn.”  (All of us)  Stretched out on the tracks was the biggest, flattest, dead rat in all of Chicago.  Body decayed, eye sockets exposed, stiff skin gripping the last bits of bone.  Blood dried to a light brown. 

Rex:  “We should call ‘em sheep, fa’ real.

Toader:  “Yo, remember that one overgrown ninja, turtle loving rat?”

Cask:  “Yeah, what was his name?”

Pensive:  “Stuart Little.” (Laughter)

Focus:  “Hell nahh!  Master Splinter.”

            Later Rex stepped on “Ahh!”  And Toader slipped on the tracks trying to do his own stunts, but this was the best time, exploring without a map.