removed two large bottles of acrylic paint. He yanked the bag out of King’s hand and dumped them inside as if he were some trick or treater.
“What are you doing? You were in there stealing? Come on, Shane! Damn!” King peered in the bag and saw the bottles he’d been eyeing when they’d first entered the store. I could use them… but hell!
“King, you needed them, I got ’em. Everybody ain’t out here tryna be righteous. I’m Robin Hood up in this piece.”
“We’re not kids anymore. The slap on the wrist won’t happen. This isn’t some high school play or a movie—this is real. Why would you risk going to jail over two bottles of paint? This is complete bullshit.”
“Just take the shit and be quiet.” The man ran his hand over his face, his eyes clearly showing signs of lack of sleep.
“Don’t steal on my behalf again, please.”
“You’re welcome. Ungrateful fuckface. Hey.” He nonchalantly scratched behind his ear. “I almost forgot. You wanna meet up with Tyson and Jalal tonight? They’re going to The Metric Club. I heard they have the wall again. Maybe you can put a bid in and paint it? Get that cash jar flowin’.”
“That would be like lightning striking twice, but yeah, I’d like a stab at it.” A Toyota Camry rolled past, blasting DUCKWRTH’s, ‘Kiss U Right Now.’ Shane pulled his phone out while they waited at a crosswalk. It glowed with a new text message. King turned away, his thoughts drifting. Yeah, heading out to The Metric sounds good tonight. I haven’t been there in a while.
The Metric was a club that specialized in soul, indie, and Neo Soul music. Best of all, they’d offer a wall covered in a canvas sheet some nights for local artists to paint on while people danced and drank. The artist would get a tip jar, and people would drop some change as they watched them work from start to finish, or simply enjoyed the process as they danced on by. He’d done it once last year, gotten lucky, and brought home almost a grand.
“Jeremy definitely needs to come with us, too. You two can talk about White boy shit,” Shane joked.
White people simply didn’t hang around much in Harlem, but he and Jeremy were the exception. King was born and raised there, while Jeremy’s mother moved in with her Black best friend when he was around seven. Jeremy was a blue-eyed, blond-haired guy who played the saxophone like nobody’s business. They’d attended the same school and now he was Director of Marketing for some IT company after moving away from their old stomping grounds many years ago. He had a penthouse in Tribeca, Manhattan, an ugly divorce under his belt, and a six-year-old daughter who was the love of his life.
“Jeremy is back in town?” King asked, surprised.
“Yeah. He’s been back for a couple of days now.” Shane gave his low-cut faded scalp a good scratch. “It could be like old times. Shit, we may as well hook up the entire weekend. Make a stay-cation out of it. We ain’t been together in a minute. You know, the whole crew.”
“That sounds real good. Yeah, I’ll show up. Definitely call Jeremy.” King couldn’t help but smile. He hadn’t been with all of his old friends in a while. Jeremy had to keep going to Chicago for a work-related project. Tyson and Jalal stayed pretty busy, too. Everyone had grown up, their lives went in different directions, and Shane sometimes worked odd hours, too. The hustle never stopped.
“You got any gigs coming up?” King asked. Every now and again, Shane might catch a gig to be a background dancer for Jennifer Lopez or some other celebrity who needed an extra dancer for a concert, but he mostly worked in customer service, helped his cousin with his carpet cleaning service, and moonlighted as a delivery courier simply to make ends meet.
“Nah, not lately. Don’t nobody want a thirty-four-year-old dancer, man.” He chuckled dismally. King shot him a glance then slipped his EarPods out of his pocket, removing a tangle before inserting one into his ear. A beautiful woman caught his attention, making him do a double take as she walked past, her long, flowy red coat swaying to and fro. He loved the color red.
“If you still move like you’re twenty-five, that’s all that matters.” Shane nodded as if he agreed, as if perhaps those were words to ponder, but King knew better. The guy felt defeated.