Free Dark Corner by Brandon Massey

white man, in his sixties, with faded tattoos on his wiry forearms. He raised his watch and tapped it. "What time are you
supposed to be here to work?"
    "Four, I guess," Jahlil said.
    "Four? It's four-twenty, little Jackson!"
    "I got held up by some things," Jahlil said. This guy was a
trip. What difference did it make if he was twenty minutes late?
There was nothing going on there that demanded Jahlil's attention. He was only a stock boy, he didn't own the stupid store.
    Old Mac grunted. "Mop the aisles. There are some boxes in the back that need to be broken down and disposed of too.
And pick up the lot. You forgot to do that yesterday, little
Jackson"

    "Fine. And my name's Jahlil." He stormed away into the
back room.
    Jahlil was sixteen, and this was the third job he'd held in
the past four months. First, he'd worked for the town
grounds crew, cutting grass and weeds, and cleaning up litter, and he hated that job and quit. Then his father got him a
job at Shirley's Diner, as a busboy, and that lasted only a
week, because there was no way he was going to clean up
after folks. His dad had lined up his latest gig, too, here at
Mac's Meat and Foods, and he'd been there about a month.
He hated it there. Old Mac was a mean bastard who ran the
place as though he were a sergeant and the employees were
his soldiers. A Vietnam war veteran, Old Mac seemed to
have forgotten that the war had ended a long time ago.
    The only reason Jahlil had kept the job so far was because
he was sick of Dad hounding him. To be honest, he didn't
understand why he had to work at all. The fellas he hung out
with didn't work, and their folks didn't harass them about it.
Dad was always riding him about being responsible and
earning his own money. Jahlil understood all that responsibility shit, but he didn't think it was something for him to be
concerned about right now. He was only in high school. Why
couldn't he enjoy being a teenager?
    When Jahlil raised that argument, Dad would cite his low
grades, the same reason he gave for not allowing Jahlil to
drive. Dad was full of explanations and excuses. It was impossible to win an argument with him.
    He wished his mother were alive. Things would be different if she were here. She never would have forced him to
work....
    He had to stop thinking about how much he missed her.
His chest had gotten tight, a sure sign that tears would follow soon.

    He was outside picking up the lot-collecting trash, in
other words-when the fellas came through. T-Bone was driving his mama's old blue Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight, and
Poke was riding shotgun. A hip-hop joint rumbled from the
car stereo, the latest song by the gangsta crew from Jackson,
Jacktown. T-Bone had been playing the album so much
lately that Jahlil was convinced he would soon wear down
the tracks on the CD.
    The plate-glass windows of the store-plastered with
handwritten signs advertising sales on ribs and chicken-vibrated in unison with the heavy bass booming from the
speakers.
    Jahlil set his broom and dustpan against the store's brick
wall, and went to see his boys. T-Bone lowered the music's
volume a few notches.
    Jahlil had grown up with T-Bone and Poke. They were the
same age and in the same grade, but they looked as though
they lived in different worlds. Both T-Bone and Poke sported
a gold tooth and earrings, and they had tattoos on their arms
and chests. Fake platinum hung around their necks. T-Bone's
hair was braided in cornrows, and Poke had a puffy, wild afro.
    Jahlil's father would not allow him to get a gold tooth,
wear an earring, get a tattoo, rock more than one gold chain,
or sport a hairstyle other than a low-cut fade. Dad was too
damn strict. When Jahlil argued with him about it, Dad
would say, "Why you wanna look like those 'hood rats, boy?
They ain't even gonna graduate from high school." Although
Jahlil didn't like Dad's 'hood rats comment, he had to admit
that he was right about his boys