Portray

Get Up, Get Something

The sound of a baton smacking against metal bars echo. Noise from inmates yelling can be heard from a distance. The rattling of the steel bars gets closer,

"Inmate 1-3-5-8-0-2." a guard calls out, "up on your feet!"

Tray is awakened out of a deep sleep from the gate
slamming open. He shields his eyes from the light shinning through. Wiping the drool from his mouth, he opens his eyes once they were no longer sensitive. He finds relief seeing the painted walls and the feel of hardwood underneath his thin blanket.

"Rise and shine," Don said, standing over him as he threw on his coat. "turning in the truck to unk by noon. Meet me outside in ten." he then opens the front door, letting in a cold gust of wind.

Tray stands to his feet and quickly folds his blanket. He then drags his feet towards the bathroom while scratching his crack.

He tosses water in his face and rakes the cole from his eyes. There was no tooth brush available for him to use, so he substitued with an index finger. In the living room, he squeezes into his gym shoes and exits the house. Making his way to the truck, cold air seeps through his Air Forces. He makes a mental note to get a pair of boots soon.

Don was scanning the radio, as they ride down the desolate neighborhoods of Brightmoor. To the natives that lived in the area for over half their lives, it was known as "Brightmo". Tray became familiar with the area, right around the time he drove with his mama to a church on west Chicago boulevard.

For most of the ride, the truck was silent except the low melodies of Jazz streaming through the speakers. Tray had never known his close friend to listen to any other genre of music besides rap. He figures that it was an indication of growth developed over the years. He recalls Don's uncle listening to various kinds of music such as old school hip-hop, R&B, soul and including Jazz. The tunes were growing on him, he realizes.

"What's going on with y'all getting y'all own whip?" Tray asks.

"Ion know. Shit needs to be real soon with JaDonna and all. Unk been looking out for us at the yard," Don replies, "tho to be real, I'm not good with copping a whip that's gonna cause me to come out my pocket every month." Don pulls up to a red light.

"Gotta make sure baby girl is straight." Tray agrees.

Don stares ahead at the swarm of cars going in the opposite direction while stroking his beard, visibly in thought.

"This bullshit factory job aint cutting it. Been in that mug for over three years and they aint up a fools pay or nothing." he says, frustrated.

"Dang, you say it like that. type of stuff to discourage a nihga from goin' up there." Tray looks at his boy funny.

"Look, this your first job on paper, that ain't your concern. I'm saying to work a job, then getting that first check... you excited. The feeling is almost the same as when you hit some new coochie." Don says, delving into his analogy.

Tray gives his friend's point some thought.

"and you know like any other man, after you hit a few more times, it just ain't the same."

"We still on the topic of a check, right?" Tray was lost.

"Yeah, dawg!" Don replies like he was interrupted while making a profound point.

"anyway, some shit gone change, believe that!"

Seven to ten minutes later, they pull in front of the Secretary of State on Seven mile and Evergreen.

"Aye, you good on catching the bus back to the crib," Don asks.

Trays nods his head while checking out the scene inside the DMV.

"You need some cash? I could toss you a few bucks to hold you."

Tray thought on it for a minute, "Nah, I'm straight bro. Good lookin' out." Tray said, hopping out of the truck.

* * * *

To Tray's surprise, the line of people waiting consisted of about eight to ten people. He snatches a ticket and takes his spot in line. In about thirty minutes, the clerk calls him over and he hands over his papers. And he was on his way out the door with a paper copy of his I.D. At the bus stop, he stands with a bag of Grandy's Coney Island food in hand. He scans down the street in search of the DDOT bus. Every so often, he mistakes a tow truck's light bar for one from a distance. Seeing he has some time to wait, he opens his food container and began to chow down on his steak, egg and cheese burito.

The warm taste of cheesy eggs and tender steak sets of his taste buds. It was remarkable the way food could change a person's mood in a matter of seconds. The cars whizzing by causes a gust of wind to blow up the lid to his container. Several fork-fulls into his ketchup-drenched hashbrowns, he spots the bus up the next block. He places his food back into the plastic bag and gathers his bus fare as it nears.

The bus eases to a stop along the curb and soon after the doors spreads outward, letting out a mixture of body odors accumalated by the passengers. Right as he was to step on to the bus, the driver stretches out his hand. Tray stops in place,

"I can't let you ride with food." the man states.

Tray looks down at his bag in confusion, "What you mean? It's a bag. ."

The driver sucks his teeth, "You're not hearing me. Passengers aren't allowed on board with food." he points above his head at the sign listing the rules for the passengers on board to follow.

"or you can catch the next bus coming."

Tray didn't need to weigh his options as he didn't feel like waiting on the next bus. As cold as it was. He tosses the food onto the curb and boards the bus. The few measly bites he got from his food was sure to leave the raging beast of his hunger untamed. During the bumpy ride, he takes in the sight of the city. He scans over the local shops and businesses that instantly resignates with him. There were a few new shops in place of old ones. And old ones that were permanately closed for sometime.

Apart from the minor changes, things were the same as he last remembered them before he was locked up. He scans the faces of the pedestrians walking the streets. He couldn't help to imagine how their lives must be like. The tribulations they were currently facing. Though he might not have earlier in his life, he thought of the possibilities of changing places with them. Their simple lives must have been ten times easier. Less stress. More opportunities. Their main concern being able to get to work five days out the week to pay the rent on the first of the month.

Within a half hour of enduring a bumpy ride, he reaches his destination. As he went to exit, he couldn't help looking back at the driver as he contemplates on socking the old man for the petty stunt. Yet, the possibility of being in another confined space got him off the thought real quick.