Portray

Same thing, Different place

Minock Park, a small neighborhood resting between Rosedale Park and North Rosedale. It is the smallest neighborhood of Grandmont. Bordering over three-hundred homes, house-to-house, each lawn was neatly trimmed and cut. The bushes perfectly manicured every other week. The cars parked throughout the small community were no older than ten-years-old.

Though the neighborhood was mere blocks from the city limits of Detroit, the crime rate was below twenty percent. Overtime, the area became an attraction, luring in groups of different ethnicities from Arabic, white and Hispanic races into the community. Even with the popularity of smart phones and technology, young boys toss a football across the lawn while lil' girls play tick-tock-toe. Tray walks down the residential block with Black and Mild smoke streaming out his nostrils. He eyes the well-kept homes. The curbs free of debri and trash was what was most noticable.

It's as if the neighborhood was in a city outside of Detroit. He stops in front of a brick home that sat between two houses towering over it. It was actually one of the smallest homes on that block. He knocks on the white painted wooden door and finishes his Black and Mild as he looks on down the street. Then the locks to the door unlatches from the other side and swings open. A young woman stands with the door crack ajar. For a split second her face wore a look of confusion.

"Tray?" she exclaims, launching towards him and wrapping her arms around her cousin.

"What's good, DD?"

"You done got big, boy!"

* * * *

Inside the home resembles an ordinary household. A thirty-two inch flat screen TV mounted on the wall opposite of a leather couch wrapped in plastic old-school style. A coffee table with magazines scattered about sat in the middle of the couch and TV. The room appears small with the plants placed about each side of the couch.

"You just got out today?" Denise asks, crashing on the couch.

"Yesterday," Tray replies, "crashed at my boy's crib last night."

He peers around the hall, "Yo, your mama here?"

"She's in her back room, working," Denise nudges her head to the back room.

"She think she all that since she got some remote gig." she says, low enough for just them to hear.

"You thirsty? We got some Vernors and Arizona in the fridge."

* * * *

At the dining table, Denise comes over with an Arizona bottle. For some time they sit there. Nothing was said between them. This was how it was for the cousins growing up. The chaotic fights between the family. They grew to embrace the peace of silence offered. Yet, not even looking up, Tray could sense Diane's eyes on him.

"So you see Junior, yet?" she asks.

"Nah, not yet." Tray mumbles. "plan to some time next week." Tray takes a swig from his drink.

"Got some pics of him?"

He digs into his back pocket, pulling out a small picture from his wallet.

"This was from some months back." he says, sliding the picture across the table.

"Look at him! He looks just like you with that big ole nose." Denise cracks on him.

"Girl we got the same nose in the family."

A door off to the hallway closes and slippers slide across the wooden floor approaches them.

"Ok. Sounds good, bye bye."

Aunt Vanita steps into the kitchen in between ending her phone call.

"Girl you know I could hear your big mouth all the way in the room." she said to Denise, her hands on her hips.

"Ma, you know I get my big mouth from you." Denise comes back.

Aunt Vanita's eyes scans across the kitchen to Tray, "What's going on, nephew?"

* * * *

"We don't come down here but to do laundry, so you'll do fine here." Aunt Vanita said, giving Tray a grand tour of the basement.

"There's a couch to sleep on, shower in the bathroom, fridge, washer and dryer, everything you'd need.  You shouldn't really need anything upstairs."

"What that mean?" Tray was taken aback. "I'm not allowed upstairs in the main part of the house?"

"Listen child, before your mama passed, I gave her my word I'd help you in the best way I could." Aunt Vanita sits on the arm of the couch.

"and this is the best way I'm able to. You got more than what a lot of young men in your shoes got after leaving that God forsaken place."

Tray sits there looking in his aunt's eyes. Not really sure on what to say.

"You can have meals with us, but you got all you need here. Your cousin is enough as it is." Vanita stands, making her way up the steps.

"How is this better than where I just left?" Tray states.

All there was to hear was the creaks in the stairs as they became a faint noise. Then the door slams. And she's gone. He's left sitting there on the sofa. He wrecks his brain on what his aunt just laid on him.

He recalls Vanita never being short of taking him by surprise from the ways she treated so-called family. Even her own blood daughter, Diane. On several family cookouts, right at the time the party would kick off, Vanita would already have three containers filled with food. And not one of them were intended for her daughter.  After rubbing his temples sore, he jumps up and checks out the rest of the basement. The only light fixture in the kitchen flickers above him indicating there was a weak power source.

There was a few old wooden dressers, plastic lawn chairs and boxes of dusty kitchen-ware utensils. He deciceds to make use of the dressers. He takes a bucket of hot dish soap water and scrubs the dust and cob webs from the drawers. After about thirty minutes of cleaning each of the dressers out, they were ready to be put to use. Once the deed was done, he goes into the bathroom and runs the shower. He drops his clothes near his feet and climbs into the shower.

The small bathroom fills with steam. The hot water trickling down feels like hot hands releasing the tension from his body. He showers 'til the water turns lukewarm. With a towel wrapped around his trimmed waist, he vacates the bathroom. In a matter of minutes he was dressed. He then snatches his jacket from the arm of the couch. From the pouch of his jacket, he retrieves a lighter and a mini cigar.  With the Black and Mild resting between his ear, he stomps up the creaky stairs. Disappointment quickly floods his face. The damn door was locked from the other side. He jiggles the knob in disbelief.

"The fuck?" he pounds on the door.

After waiting with no avail, he trotts down the steps and flops back onto the couch. He leans his head back while rubbing his temples again. He cusses at his aunt under his breath. Haven't been under her roof for twenty-four hours, he was already unsure on how he would stick it out for the next six months to come. Seeing the way things were starting off, a storm of pressure was brewing within him. And he was in need of a way of releasing that pressure.

He places the Black and Mild between his lips and ignites it. His first pull was strong and long. He leans back, letting the cushions consume him. Right then he blows out the smoke into the air. Above him there was a vent. He was sure the potent stench would carry up to the main part of the house. The way he was feeling,he could care less. Another puff.  Another recent memory of the hell hole he left, just for it to be replaced by another holding cell.