Portray

Fees on Taxes

The car ride was silent, aside from the low melody of Jazz playing. The tunes somewhat sooth the tension Tray was feeling. Yet, below the surface, his emotions were in a tug of war. Like a wave of water rushing back to shore. The anticipation of receiving his check was replaced with resentment. His mind lucid with thoughts.

Resting his head against the headrest, he massages his temples once more. Twenty minutes later, they pull into a liquor store. This was where Don cashed his weekly check. Inside, the air was thick with a mixture of stale cigarettes and coffee. Don designates them to the line where several people await to turn in their lottery numbers. As expected, the first two people ahead of them were particular about their numbers. For seasoned gamblers, it was apparent, since they kept a mini notepad glued to their person with at least two fresh papers full of numbers at the ready.

Ugh damn gamblers, Tray curses in his head. Gamblers were the recipe for a long line. Their government checks were present in their bank accounts for a short few hours before it returns back to Uncle Sam. Chasing unattainable fortunes. He turns back at a couple joining behind them in the line. Something catches his attention, "Damn, the quarter bags done went up." He blurts out.

"Where you been?" Don sucks his teeth, "supply and demand ain't no joke. They see you buying something back to back, they definitely gone raise the value on them joints."

They shake their heads in unison. Right then the clerk motions them over.

"What's up, boss?" The clerk greets them but his direct attention was more on Don.

"Aye, what's good, Huss?" Don stretches out his fist for a pound, "check it, this my boy Tray. He tryna cash his lil' check." he says, shooting straight to the point.

Tray's eyebrow raises, quickly catching the shade Don threw.

"Let me see your I.D." the clerk demands with a thick middle eastern accent.

He looks over the paper check quickly and then at Tray's I.D. With a nod of the head, he places the check onto the edge of the counter with a pen on top of it, "To cash this, the charge will be eighteen dollars."

Tray's face twists up, "Eighteen, to get my own money?"

"We get a charge from the banks to cash these," Huss explains, "you know what they say, 'takes money to make money'." the clerk quotes.
Don leans up on the counter on his elbows, "Yo, that's not even what you charge me." he interjects.

"Because you've come to me for more than a year," Huss replies, "plus, you know, we have history."

"So you make the prices as you go.." Don inquires.

The clerks eyes scans the store nervously, "Come on, Donnie. No need to make this into something. And I have an up-charge for those cashing their checks here for the first time."

Don makes a face that conveys Huss was feeding him a load of shit, "So you not gone have a problem with me raising the prices of the merch I bring you..." Don declares.

The sudden surprised expression plastered on the clerk's face was telling. They knew they had him. For several seconds, the old middle Eastern man wrecks his brain. He runs his fingers through his graying wool beard, then says, "Look, since you're good friends with Donnie, it seems.. I'll work with you." He seems to still be thinking to himself.

"I'll knock nine dollars from the charge." Huss bargains.

"We definitely appreciate it. Cus you already know Uncle Sam be taking half a brotha's check."

Huss nods and forces a smile, "Sign here." he says.

Shortly after, Tray was handed his money. Stuffing the cash in his hoodie, he cautiously watches over his shoulder for any potential lurkers. Don then tosses his check onto the counter. The clerk didn't bother to request I.D. While he counted out the money, Don ran to the back to the fridges.

"Aye, T, what you drinkin'?" Don yells from the back.

"Nah, I'm straight."

After a minute, Don returns to the counter holding two cranberry juices with a half empty bottle of sprite stuffed in his pants pocket.

"Huss, lemme get the usual." Don says, removing the top from his Sprite and chugs 'til it was empty.

Huss turns around, facing the liquor shelf and retrieves two pints of Don Julio silver. He places the liquor in a brown paper bag. Tray exits the store leaving Don to converse with Huss for a minute. He retrieves a pack of Newports from his back pocket and lights a square. In his peripheral, he sees a figure approaching.

"What up doe?" A scruffy individual greets him, "I got that kush on lock."

"Nah, don't smoke weed no mo'." Tray shuts him down.

"Shit, there comes a time old habits come callin'. Take my number down my baby." the man persists, rubbing his hands vigorously.

Right as Tray was to decline further, the door to the store swings open. Out steps Don.

"Yeah nihga! We gettin' turn't tonight!" he says, smile beaming while brandishing his liquor.

"What's the word, D?" the man greets Don with a devilish grin.

In an instant, Don's smile diminishes and a look of disdain takes form. Tray takes notice of this and turns to the stranger . Don scuffs and brushes past the strange man, "Come on T, we out." he says, directing his attention toward the truck.

The man appears to take no offense to the diss, instead he remains as cool as a cucumber. As if they were friends from school. Back in the truck, the energy with Don was off. Tray occasionally looks at his homeboy, who stares straight ahead through the windshield.

"What was up with ole boy?" Tray asks, cutting through the thick tension.

Don remains silent for awhile longer than Tray is comfortable with. Instead he retrieves a pack of swishers from the glove compartment, lighting a pre-rolled blunt. Taking a strong pull of the blunt, he says, "He ain't 'bout shit. Ho ass nihga run with some wannabe bangers 'round the way."

Don outstretches his hand over toward Tray, offering the blunt. Tray waves his hand away.

"Alright, so where you fit in this story?"

"I used to shoot craps with they big homie, nihga got knocked and was sent up to the pen," Don breaks into a choking spell. He catches his breath after a few thumps to the chest, "anyway, I'd still kick it with 'em here n there. 'Till they started tweakin' and bitchin' about losing money, knowing what time they be on, I stopped fuckin' with em'."

Tray heard of this type of situation so many times, it was no point to speak on it further.

"But fuck all that, it's Friday! We off tomorrow, we going out tonight and getting shit poppin' for real!" Don smacks the steering wheel.

"What you got going on tonight?" Don says after seeing Tray was quiet.

"What you mean?" Tray said, looking at his boy quizzically. "You saw my check foo', I'm on oodles and noodles 'til next week."

"Shit, you ain't see my check though. Plus I've been meaning to welcome yo' ass back properly!"

"Nah, man you ain't--

"Hold on now... you won't let a nihga put some bread in them raggedy ass pockets of yours, best believe yo' tired ass getting fucked up tonight!" Don proposes, slapping Tray across the shoulder.