“Look at that.”
My wife points across my body as I slow to pull into the driveway. Her arm irritates me, but her tone lets me know not to address it. I squint into the midday sun and follow her finger. The port-a-potty the contractors have set up in front of our new home is tagged. Big block black letters cover almost the entire side. It says “DB Lebo”. At least I think so. I ease the car forward and she starts. “Really? What kind of neighborhood is this? We’re fine at my parents. Why did we rush into this?”
I put the car in park and try to gather my thoughts. We are not fine. Another month with her parents and I might just kill one of them. And this neighborhood’s good, gentrifying. “Just some stupid kid probably. I’ll ask Paul,” I say. “Come on. I’m dying to see the kitchen counters.”
Paul lives three blocks away, a plus for me about this move, but after our pick-up basketball game, we sit at a bar in an adjacent and hipper neighborhood. I tell him about the tag.
“That’s fucked up. I hate that,” he says.
“You sound like Sharilyn,” I say. “It’s no big deal, just some punk kid I bet.”
“It is a big deal. I thought the hood was done with that crap. But you’re right about the kid,” he says.
“You know who did it?”
“There are some apartments a few blocks down. Every evening, these kids hang out. Wannabe cholos. Little shits can’t be more than fourteen.”
“Cholos?”
“You know, the Mexican version of gang-bangers.”
I stare at my longtime friend. “That sounds racist.”
“Whatever. Probably a gang tag. Could you read it?”
“DB something, didn’t make sense. Googled it - nothing.”
Paul contemplates his beer. “You got some time?”
It’s not dark yet, but I know Sharilyn will be getting in bed soon. Midway through the third trimester, she’s tired all the time. From Paul’s house, we walk in the opposite direction from our place. A couple blocks down, I notice more of the houses have chain fences, with the occasional candy wrapper or plastic bag stuck between their edges and the dirt. Sharilyn would disapprove. Across the street at the end of the block, I see a small apartment complex. A boy jumps his skateboard on and off the sidewalk while another sits on some concrete steps.
“That’s them,” Paul says.
“Wait,” I say.
But he’s into the street and I pick up the pace to keep up. The skateboard kid has straight dark hair and milk chocolate skin. He wears baggy jeans, an oversized t-shirt with a familiar logo that I can’t place, and black Vans. As a teenager, I’d worn the same outfit. The kid sitting has a lighter skin tone and kinky hair. It looks like he could grow an afro if he wanted. I guess that he’s biracial. We stand by the curb in front of them and neither acknowledges our presence.
“Hey,” Paul says.
The biracial kid looks up. He’s got a pimple on his nose and I flash back to similar issues. He doesn’t speak. The other kid kicks up his skateboard and catches it in his right hand, stopping close to me. I smell a mix of sugar and sweat.
“There’s a house about six blocks away. Corner house, light blue with green shutters – know it?” The boys shrug.
“Paul.” I touch his arm. He pulls it back and looks from one boy to the other.
“What do you know about a certain tag near the house?”
I visualize the port-a-potty, feel ridiculous, and want to leave. The boy with the skateboard speaks, looking up at Paul. “You accusin’?” He’s trying to be hard but his free hand twitches against his thigh.
“I got this,” the seated boy says, looking at me rather than Paul. “You buy that house?”
“Yes,” I say.
“What’s it to you?” Paul says.
As a response, the boy pulls out his phone and snaps two pictures in our direction.
“What the fuck?” Paul says.
“I know that house,” the boy says. “I’ll ask my mom to look it up. She works at the courthouse. Course maybe a reverse image search will find both of you first.” He looks at his phone. Paul’s face has gone red and I hear a laugh from the skateboard boy. The seated boy stands. “Forgot to mention, my mom’s dating a civil rights lawyer. He could probably use another case about now.” He slides the phone in the pocket of his baggy jeans and looks at his friend. “Let’s bounce. We’re mama’s boys, can’t be out here too late.”
I hear the skateboard hit the ground then the sound of the wheels on pavement. The boys leave. I glare at Paul who looks stunned.
Back home, I’m grateful that my in-laws are watching a movie so no conversation is required. I pour a full glass of red wine and remember some emails I need to answer. Instead, I Google civil rights laws and defamatory speech. I drink more wine and pee three times before crawling into bed.
I spoon Sharilyn and place my hand on her taut belly. The baby – my son – kicks right away. Sharilyn gives a low moan. My son kicks again and Sharilyn shudders. She pushes my hand away. “You’re riling him up, he wants to play,” she says. I pull my arm off her. “How’d it go with Paul?”
“He’s turning into kind of an asshole.”
“Hmm,” she says.
I’m grateful she says no more. I know she shares that opinion. We lie there, her breathing deepens and I think she may have gone back to sleep. I have to pee again.
“I might have overreacted earlier,” she says. “You know with the porta toilet thing.”
I squeeze her leg. “The counters look great. It’s turning into a beautiful home,” she says.
I lean forward, kiss the back of her neck, and hoist myself up to go to the bathroom.
An almost full moon brightens the room as I lie awake, awaiting dawn and a reasonable time to get up. Sharilyn snores lightly beside me.
I consider the symmetry of ages. In fourteen years, my son will be the age of those boys, and they’ll be my age. Men. And I’ll have been a father for fourteen years.
A good one, I hope. But I’m not sure.