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He's an elderly black man that has a disdain for black people. When gang members and police run amok in his hood he sees it all. In his hood there's always something going on, but most seem to miss what's going on just beneath the surface.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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Mr. Cleanup
BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich1
I’m Mr. Cleanup. Meaning, that I’m the nigga that cleans up shit in this neighborhood and keeps it looking crispy clean for the residents that walk these streets. I come across as just the average elderly nigga for sure, and that’s understandable. There’s nothing about me, nothing unique, so to speak, that would make me stand out more than any other resident that strolls these crumbling streets. Nothing except for the fact that I’m the one man that takes his time in the morning to grab an economy-sized garbage bag from his own stock, some of his personal gloves, and sets out each morning to clean up the litter left by all the trailer trash and niggers, alike. Do I talk this way when I speak to my brothers? Of course not, but that’s what most of them are. White niggers, black niggers, from what I see this neighborhood is full of them. To the brothers I call the whites trailer trash, and to the whites I unabashedly call the blacks the niggers. But in the end they’re all niggers. I’m one of the few actual ‘people’ that roam these streets.
It’s a Monday when I begin my routine for the three thousandth and twelfth day, and as I make my way through tall weeds and brambles between the side of a gas station and a chain-link fence, I notice a white base-head talking to a drug dealer near the double-glass doors that give entrance to the store. I try to keep my head down, and pretend not to notice a thing, but even as I keep my eyes on the trash that I’m picking up I can see the exchange as it plays out in my head. It is a routine that is mundane at this point. Dealer checks the street for five-o, slaps the white boy a five that is the exchange for funds, then the white boy strolls away and shakes another man’s hand on the way out of the lot, which is where the transfer of product occurs. Of course these men will eventually get caught, because the base-heads always come back here to get their drugs and the dealers always look to get their money. They can’t help themselves.
“Dumbasses,” I muttered. “Drugs right in front of the gas station. I hope you do get caught with your retarded asses.” I picked up a pair of dirty female underwear and shoved it into the economy-sized garbage bag, tossed in a few Twinkies wrappers, pop cans, liquor bottles, and used condoms, before coming across a pair of dirty male underwear. I shoved those in too.
I continued to clean and the exchanges continued to happen. In about twenty minutes I had a bag half full of garbage and was ready to head elsewhere to continue my self-imposed clean up duties. Before I headed out of the weeds however I found the front page of a newspaper lying on the ground, fluttering in the breeze. I picked it up and read the headline.
MAN KILLED IN DRUG DEAL GONE WRONG
Now this always amused me. I pick up the front pages of newspapers often and when I see this shit I think, ‘now how do they know that?’ It seems like half the time they just make the shit up to grab attention. They probably found no drugs on the man—no drugs no drug deal—but if they were fortunate found some unregistered gun. That still didn’t prove that a drug deal was involved, and if the drugs were found on the man that didn’t prove anyone was trying to steal drugs from him. Where’s the proof? All the stories I read are pretty much duplicates of the others. Now to me that’s some lazy-ass writing. This murder, like so many of the other supposed drug related murders, was unsolved, but that was because the police weren’t looking that hard. And why should they? To a white policeman, who gives a fuck about one nigger killing another?
I shoved the newspaper into the bag and walked away from the weeds along the side of the store.
2
When I wasn’t cleaning up trash I spent time at the slot machines inside of the same gas station where the drug dealers sold dope. You would think I was in Vegas with this shit. Except it smells in here, it’s dirty, and they’re
no higher rollers or old ladies with retirement savings or 401ks to blow. No, instead there are people on blow, with false hopes of using these slot machines as the means of earning a retirement savings. I play to pass the time. Yeah, I have my own savings, and if I didn’t have such a history with this shitty part of the city, I’d be wetting my feet on the beaches of South Padre and tanning skin not in need of darkening.
But if I wasn’t cleaning this part of the city, who would?
“Don’t got money to blow, nigga,” one man said, and took a seat next to me. “I don’t got money to blow.” But he had B.O. to spare, enough B.O. to drown the sperm population of China. Yes. That means take the roughly half a billion males and multiple them by trillions. Trillions, nigga! His B.O. could’ve drowned a whale. So I’ve dubbed him the B.O. man and this man wore a black-wife beater and had missing teeth because what the hell else would someone like this look like. You think he’d come waltzing in here with a grill of pearly whites, a one thousand dollar tailored suit and twinkling platinum cuff-links as a metaphorical cherry on top? No, that existed in dreams. The man looked at me.
“What’s up brother?”
“Still breathing, blood,” I responded.
“Nigga, just gonna see if he could get paid right quick.” There was a woman standing behind him that looked like she’d sharpened her nails and tried to grate cheese off her face once a day. It hurt my already-old and sore eyes to look at. I pulled the lever on my machine and didn’t get shit that matched. A pineapple, pear, and gold coin. Ain’t get shit, just like the infrastructure budget for this part of Houston TX.
For the next thirty minutes my nose hairs shriveled as they endured their punishment. I provided the reprieve. It was time for me to fucking leave. I stood up from the chair with nothing gained and headed out of the store to pick up some more trash before I headed home for the day. When I stepped outside a white lady with chicken bones for legs and arms was making a deal with the same drug dealer I had seen earlier. She had less tact than the last base-head and failed to keep her money concealed as she attempted to hand if off to the drug-dealer under the guise of a hand-slap. She was all shaky. This upset the drug dealer.
