Street Metals

One problem with blood spatter is that it’s very predictable. Any forensic serologist worth their degrees and expertise could determine several factors about an assailant just from examining the drops of blood left on the walls or ceiling from a crime scene.

One cannot simply slip away from a hit with blood and other unfortunate matter splattered all over the fronts of the obnoxiously oversized, white shirts that became the staple uniform of whatever inner-city neighborhood young folks resided.

That hood uniformity was two-fold. If everyone on the block was dressed alike, the typical citizen would blend in with the common criminal and for all intents and purposes could easily evade apprehension if suspected of engaging in illegal activities.

No one could be identified if witnessed doin something criminal. Unless of course, there’s blood spatter and brain matter on one’s fresh, crisp white tee. That’s when the evolution happened. That’s when everything went black.

Literally.

Black t-shirts.

Black socks.

Do-rags replaced fitted caps unless you were going somewhere special to hang out and chill. But until then, you sported the uniform or reasonable facsimile.

If one went to the corner store, typically the black tees congregated out front like crows perched on the wiry, broom arms of a scarecrow in an Iowa cornfield and would shuffle and scatter away to let one by.

If they respected you.

Or feared you.

Fear, in spite, or maybe because of the redundant acronyms, can either benefit or beleaguer you.

As Malik locked the broom closet sized bathroom door of the 7-Eleven and slid the toothbrush he lifted out of his camp-shorts pocket to unwrap it, he looked at his expression in the cracked mirror over the tiny sink, and concurred that beleaguered was the expression his face was now wearing. That’s when he noticed it.

The brain matter on his shirt.

Malik sucked his teeth and then used the package of the toothbrush to flick the greyish pink blob into the sink.

“Fuck that’s nasty.” He whispered. Then he chuckled to himself because he whispered. Unconsciously unwrapping the tooth brush and unconsciously allowing the packaging to fall into the sink, he turned on the water and began to palm the metal plunger to release the soap out of it’s dated plastic dispenser. The soap had to have been a mixture of the industrial soap in elementary school bathrooms and Dawn dish liquid because that’s what it smelled like. When frothy and mixed with the blood under his nails, it smelled to all hell. So much so it made the typically stoic Malik gag. Nevertheless, he kept scrubbing until he removed any and all foreign matter from his person. He then, with extreme caution tilted his shoulders back so his backpack slid down just far enough that he could catch the straps with his elbows so it wouldn’t hit the floor. Using his thumb, he pulled the bag around his waist so that he could pull the drawstring open with his pinky finger and grab the plastic bag which contained a fresh white t-shirt. Malik placed the plastic the shirt came in on the floor of the tiny bathroom and stepped on it with both of his feet and out of an abundance of caution, he slipped out of his sneakers and changed into white socks as well. At last he sighed, grabbed any remaining trash and shoved it into the plastic bag, then the backpack. At long last he left the restroom and grabbed a couple of Slim Jims on the way out of the store unbeknownst to the cashier who was busy pointing to the rolls of scratch offs to a displeased patron who sucked her teeth as she now held Malik’s backpack in the crook of her elbow.

Malik got into Jasmine’s truck and chuckled at the post-it note on the dash.

Just make a left outta here and read the signs til you get home. Kiss the baby.~J

Malik then shook his head, started the truck and followed orders for the last time.