Free Baby Huey: A Cautionary Tale of Addiction by James Henderson Page B

to jail. The idea of putting his tires on a flat crossed my mind too, but Berry probably had a slew of enemies and might not realize I was the culprit. I wanted him to know.
    Finally I drove off. Berry was usually the first to leave after work; I would catch him then.
    A panhandler stopped me going into the liquor store on Wright Avenue.
    “Yo, man, you come out spare any change?” he said, and I recognized his face, Willie, couldn’t remember his last name but we went to school together.
    I ignored him, went inside and purchased a pint of Smirnoff vodka, a bottle of cranberry juice and a cup of ice.
    Outside, Willie said, “Yo, fifty cents, a quarter? Help a nigga out.”
    I reached inside my pocket, found a handful of change and tossed it at him.
    “Yo, what, I’ma dog?” he said, stepping up to me. His breath stank, too much cheap liquor and too little toothpaste. Sleepy was crudded in the edges of his eyes. “Throw money at me, you must think I’m some kinda punk!”
    Holding the Smirnoff bottle by the neck at my side, I said, “I think you need to get out my damn face, is what I think.”
    Willie assumed a boxing stance, his ashy fist held up. Rocking his head sideways, he said, “C’mon, motherfucker, let’s rock. Swang on me! Come on, motherfucker, swang on me!”
    A small crowd gathered around and someone said, “Willie, kick his ass!”
    Willie, ducking and weaving now, said, “I want him to swang on me. Swang, motherfucker! Swang!”
    I stepped forward, ready to swang , as he called it, the bottle at his head. But then a buncha what if’s stopped me: What if I missed? What if he kicked my ass? What if the crowd decided to offer a few licks while I was on the ground? I’d seen that happen once.
    Some guy stepped in between us, his back to me, both hands on Willie’s shoulder.
    “What you doing, Willie, all out in public?” he said, and pulled a wallet out of white silk pants. “Huh?” He gave Willie a five spot. “Go get you something to cool off.”
    Willie said, “Thanks, Fifty,” and started for the liquor store. He stopped at the door, looked at me. “Boy, you lucky, I was ’bout to beat you down.” The crowd dispersed.
    The guy Willie called Fifty turned and I remembered him from the party Friday night. “Why you fighting the locals?” he asked me.
    “A long story. Thanks for stepping in when you did. It was about to get bloody.”
    Fifty laughed and I noticed the gold chain under his white silk shirt. A Panama straw hat on his head.
    He indicated the bottle in my hand. “A shame to waste a ten-dollar bottle on a ten-cent nigger.”
    I got into the Caddy, started it up.
    He hunched down, said, “Ain’t in your business, but how come you ain’t at work?”
    “That’s another long story.”
    “Say, if you ain’t doin’ nothing special you can share a drink with me and my girl.” He pointed at a black convertible BMW parked on the side of the liquor store, the top up, the tint too dark to see inside. “I owe you that much for the other night.”
    Remembering the crack rock he’d given me, I said, “Nah, thanks but no thanks.”
    I started to drive off and he said, “Hold on a sec,” and waved at someone inside the BMW. A white girl in a black bodyslip got out. She looked like that girl on Seinfield, same hairstyle and features, but when she walked over I saw wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. “This my girl, Cindy,” Fifty said. “Cindy, say hi--what’s your name again?”
    “John.”
    “Yeah, John. Say hi to John.” She nodded. “Baby, ask him to have a drink with us.”
    “Come drink with us.” she said, no heart in it, simply repeating what Fifty said.
    I followed the BMW to a cream-colored stucco apartment complex on Markham Street, across from the Arkansas School for the Deaf and Blind, a few blocks away from the state capitol.
    To my surprise their apartment was clean, almost identical to Doke’s, the color of the furniture gray instead of white. Oil