Aight. Here it is. I told Becky I’m getting rid of the car. Deuces, Henry! I’m going to watch his whack taillights fade into the sunset while I get my priorities in check. Number one? Her—low-key, the best girlfriend I’ve ever had.
“You can do it, Beef Cake!” she said. “We can do it!”
Nah. It’s me who’s going to be doing it. It’s been me doing most of the changes ‘round here. But all for love, right?
She has been saying for a minute that she wants to go car-free. Seattle’s got them bike lanes now, plus pretty good buses. Without a car, we could take out fewer student loans to help her finish undergrad. And save some money for a house or to get married, whatever’s clever.
“And I can lose some weight,” she said.
“You don’t need to lose no weight,” I said. If she only knew. I like a little junk in the trunk. I ain’t your typical white guy.
“Shut up, you man-bimbo you. My mimbo,” she said, as she put her arms around my neck and I filled up my hands with the twin hams of her butt, giving them a lil’ squeeze.
I thought about putting a bug in her ear again to come to one of my shows. But why ruin the moment when I was riding high? Pretty sure the answer’d be N-O. Anyways, I had to hustle to my job at Target aka, Tarjay. We French it up for fun. And I can’t be late no more. I’m a manager on the receiving dock and got to be on my business and all that. Lugging my ride out of our pad’s basement bike locker, I got cranking up the hill, knowing Becky’s checking me out at least part of the way up.
I oughta hurry up and marry her. But we watched marriage fuck our parents up so bad, we’re taking things slow. Plus, I be broke. And I think she be all in her feelings about my car. And my music too.
There’s some things we just got to stomach, I guess. Like how Moms and Pop got to stomach me trying to be the next big thing in hip hop/R&B. Like how I had to stomach my Moms being a teacher’s assistant at my high school and Pop owning a junk yard and them getting divorced and me having to make nice with Moms’ square-ass boyfriend Stewart. And how I have to stomach Becky—my ride-or-die— not coming to any of my shows.
Becky’s only come to one. A rap battle. And that was three years ago when we first started dating. That shit was rough! I’m way better now! I don’t battle no more as I got more tracks of my own I’m trying to get out there instead of slinging half-cocked rhymes ‘round a bunch of fair-weather fans and tag-a-longs. I don’t even rap half as much in my songs as I used to, opting for more soul and R&B with guitar. Haters say I got lazy, but they just dissing on me cuz I’m a triple threat: an emcee, a singer, and guitar player. It’s hard for them to handle. Not that I’ve ever cared what they think. People want you to only be one thing, to stay in one lane. Like everybody else, they put me on blast for sounding Black but being white, calling me a “wigga” and a culture vulture. Yeah, okay, I’m a culture vulture. A scavenger. But when growing up in a cultural food desert and along comes hiphop, serving up sides of meat and produce in the form of fresh beats and juicy melodies, what was a goofy-assed white boy to do? Besides, all my friends were Black.
Now, Becky’s never made fun of how I talk or how I am. Never even commented on it, calling it “cute” like my exes. I think she just accepts it all as the Frankenstein story of me. At least, I used to think that. Now, I don’t know. Maybe she’s got thoughts she’s keeping close to the chest. Like a trump card she’s waiting to play till I’m too far in.
But nah, we got a connection! She’s deep. A prism! Makes me think about things in a different light. Plus, she’s got them high cheekbones, firm thigh muscles, wavy, chocolate-colored hair, and freckles sprinkling just the right amount of adorable into her sexy. I don’t care that she’s put on a couple of pounds. Girl’s in college, pounding those books! What do you expect? She’s a religious studies major at UW who goes to Shabatt Saturday evening because she’s half Jewish. Then on Sunday morning, she goes to a church at a refurbed Greek Row house. They got a pretty dope band, not going to lie. But Pop always says church is just another way they try to control people. I don’t think Becky is about controlling me, though. She don’t seem to care that I don’t go! Just so long as I listen to her tell me all about it. And I do. I could listen to her voice for days, sounding like sunshine and honey, even though I don’t understand everything she says about how we get to be in God’s family. When she looks at me, it’s like I’m the only man alive. She’s my soulmate. Pretty much perfect. Other than her steering clear of my shows. And wanting me to get rid of my wheels.
He’s not just some broke-ass old beater. He’s John Henry! He was a gift from my downtown Renton high school homies and Pop. My boyz and me came up out of the ghetto together, so we stayed tight even when I moved to Seattle to try to make it in music. Even with everything going on with the shows and the clubs and busting ass at Tarjay just to earn some bread, I’d still drive out to them to make beats and freestyle. And when that POS Pontiac’s transmission blew up on me, them and Pop scrounged up some cheddar and put me together John Henry—a restored ’96 Mazda Protégé with a new engine. It’s the faded gold of a hard-earned, well-loved little league trophy. Or a thirty-year-wedding band. It’s passenger door’s the wrong color—stainless steel—but the thing runs!
“This ol’ car’s just like everybody,” Pop said. “All our parts trying to make a whole.”
It was to be the car that was too legit to quit. I’d grown up with Pop playing guitar and singing me all the different versions of the John Henry story. “But can this car beat the steam drill though?” I asked.
“That’s for you to find out.”
Every time Becky hears the story, she touches my arm and tells me I’m sweet.
But she does bring up a good point that I don’t really hang with my old homies anymore. They’ve all given up the game. And there’s a bus from downtown that makes a B-line out to Pop’s in Skyway. So, I really don’t need a car right now.
“And wouldn’t your Dad and your friends want you to do what’s best for you now? I bet they’ve changed some too, right?”
Pops? Nah. He’s still the Junkyard Dog; part of why Moms left his ass so she could become a full-time teacher. But my homies? Yeah, they done changed. Most of the old crew has wives and jobs and don’t do music no more. All of them are still real, doing what they gotta do. But they make fun of me for biking. Have fun fucking around on your crotch rocket! Bet you like that banana hammock seat up yo ass! All that. But I still got my high school six pack, whereas all of them gone tubby in their middles. And they all have kid-and-wifey troubles that make mines seem bitty.
And back to Becky being right about Henry…. Dude’s a little punked out. Ghetto fab, for sure. I got in a fender bender a couple of years back, so I rigged a black bumper to his frame using zip ties. The mismatched bumper makes Henry look like a boxer with a fat lower lip. Plus, the silver door on his gold body makes him look like the inside of an old man’s mouth. All those fillings.
And anyways, what’s the point of having a car? I already bike to work every day, rain or shine. Becky usually biked with me, except on her “lazy daisy days” when she rode the bus. But this last year, with school kicking her behind so much, she’s been having more and more lazy daisy days on the bus. Not that I’m throwing shade.
Couldn’t she drive the car to school?
Too many bills for parking and she don’t drive stick.
“Besides, Mitch, by selling Henry, by going car-less, we’ll be taking a stand. Getting humanity off carbon one couple at a time.”
She’d talk about how Gaia needed our help to ease up on the fossil fuels, with me getting lost in her eyes. And she’d say, “The change can start with us.”
Then we’d usually smash, which was always fire! But then she’d ask about the car again and I’d say I’d think about it. She’d also ask if I wanted to try coming to church with her. Just once. Either one.
“Well, it’d have to be the Sunday one. Cuz I’m not Jewish.”
“Neither was Rahab or Ruth.”
“Who?”
“Just think about it,” she’d say. “It might just blow your mind.”
Then it would be time for me to go for a drive.
Sure, I could pound pavement in my sneaks. But I’m usually so tooled up from biking and hauling boxes around the Tarjay, that I don’t want to strain my hardware. Anyways, I love me some cruisin’ time. Time for some space, time to reset. Time to realign all my parts like how sit ups click my back bones back in place. I always come back to Becky freed up.
Sometimes the rain even lets up long enough for me to roll the windows down.
Behind the wheel then, with the air flowing ‘round, I get some old school tunes bumpin’. A Tribe Called Quest. Digable Planets. Saul Williams. Mos Def; Talib Kweli. The Roots. Some Atmosphere, Common Market, and Citizen Cope to give this white boy hope. Real music. About shit. Not just getting crunk at the club which nobody real’s got the money for. Behind the wheel of John Henry, I zoom-zoom over the hills and the overpasses, singing and rapping and not giving much of a fuck about all that stuff Becky say ‘bout being in the family of God and all that— because behind the wheel, I’m alive and that’s ‘nuff said.
You want a laugh? Becky and me met because of my music. Three years ago, I was at UW, posted in Red Square pushing my demo and this shorty come over. Her eyes were low-key 24 karat! And I passed her a disc. Unlike most people, she took it.
“Thank you!”
“Yeah, uh…. Sure,” I said. College kids think everything’s for free. “For somebody as cute as you, you can take it. That one’s on the house.”
“Oh my god, I’m such a dumbass. I’m sorry. Of course you should be compensated. It’s… your work!”
By that point, she could have taken it all. I was in love!
“I… don’t have a lot of money. I’m a student.”
“Don’t even trip.”
“What?”
“I mean, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, how about…” and she bit her lower lip. “How about I take you out for coffee?”
“I was going to ask you out anyway,” she told me later. What she never told me though is whether she dug the tracks on the CD. Or if she even listened.
About a month ago, Henry had this epic meltdown. I’d just taken Becky on a spree at Northgate Mall for a pants suit to sport at some big presentation she’d be giving and we were heading back to our crib. It was dry July and peak Seattle heat: 99 degrees and each degree a problem for John Henry’s radiator. And by the time we crested this hill—more of a molehill by Seatown standards—Henry started smoking. Big, pluming tokes right out of his grill.
When she saw his dome going all Mt. St. Helen, Becky gave this little whimper. And I turned in time to see her shake. My hands came down on Henry’s steering wheel. You’re making her cry, dude! The fuck is wrong with you? A part of me felt like telling her to chill. But I didn’t want to say nothing.
I pulled onto the shoulder and killed the engine.
“You okay if I walk the rest of the way?” Becky asked. “I… could use some air.”
I got a jug of water from the corner store to cool off the car and drove it fine the rest of the way back to our apartment. But when I hustled up the stairs, I found the door open and Becky at the table with her hands in her lap.
After I sat down, she took my hand and said, “I know you love your car. And part of the reason I love you is because you love your car. But. Would you feel safe putting our baby in it?”
“Wait, wait. Hold up. Our what?”
“I’m not pregnant yet. But, I would like to be. One day. With you…”
And I realized that I lowkey wanted that too. More than anything. I missed my high school homies always having my back, even though I was white and they were all Black. I missed waking up to breakfast with Moms and playing with Pop in the junkyard. But those days were long gone. Maybe a way to remix those good times was to have a couple littles of my own.
So, I decided to shuffle things around. Sorry, John Henry. Gotta do what I gotta do. Hope it’ll be enough.
It’s not just Becky that’s itching for Henry to go. All the other emcees always be roasting me about my car. What you doin’ driving that POS, Mitch? Thang look like dookie on wheels! But I’m a salvager’s kid. A junkyard dog myself, at least inside. I’ve never been into the glam culture associated with rap. They all got this rabid mindset of “buy a new one.” Something breaks, buy a new one. The toaster oven goes out, buy a new one. Your Jordans get holes in ‘em, buy new ones. You wouldn’t treat your body like that. You wouldn’t treat somebody you love like that. So why treat your things like that? Why treat the earth like that? That attitude is why Pop’s still in business. That attitude is what’s shrinking the oceans. Soon each ocean will have a Texas-sized floating island of trash. My gut is always to try to fix something. Well, honestly? Pay somebody to fix it because I’m all thumbs in that department. But I can’t keep dumping money that we don’t have into John Henry. Especially when I’m not about to drive my babies around in that thing! Yeah, babies. I want at least three little Mini-Mes! We going to be running this block!
After I knocked off the clock and came back home from Tarjay, I put Henry up on Craigslist for $650.
“That’s a little much, sweetie,” Becky said. “Maybe we could just donate it. Him. Sorry.”
“I’m not ready to do that. He’s John Henry. Too legit to quit! Besides, the used car market’s hot right now.”
In the ad, I wrote how he’s been driven by the same owner since 2008. That he’s in need of some love, but reliable with a good battery and alternator. I wrote how after his last breakdown, Pop and one of my Renton homies replaced the timing belt, water pump, thermostat, alternator belt, power steering belt, and flushed the cooling system, no charge. Well. Not exactly no charge. Pop said I could pay him in visits and six packs of Miller Hi-Life for life. As for my homie, I got his wifey backstage passes to Shabazz Palaces.
Anyways, after the ad goes live, I swallow my pride and ask Becky if she’ll come to my next show.
She bites her lip, normally my favorite expression of hers. But her eyes are turned down. “Mitch. Baby. We should talk…”
“Why don’t you want to come?”
“Please don’t be angry. I…”
“Is it because you’re white? I’m white!”
“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”
“Eminem is white. Macklemore is white. Slug from Atmosphere is white. Why do they get to rap but I can’t?”
“Exactly. I don’t know who decides this stuff. But…. Aren’t you even a little bit worried about cultural appropriation?”
I hadn’t been until lately. About a year ago I was outside Northgate Mall, selling CDs and wearing my Clarence Greenwood Recordings t-shirt and some Karen roll up on me saying Citizen Cope should be canceled for culturally appropriating and that I should be canceled too! Bad enough I got to dodge the mall rent-a-cops but I got to duck and cover from the PC police too! Now it looks like they got to Becky. Shoulda seen that one coming with all them books she be reading.
“I’m… uncomfortable with the whole hip hop scene. I don’t think it’s for me.”
“Do you like it?”
“Of course I like it. Who doesn’t like it?”
“Do you listen to Black people when they talk about The Struggle?”
“You know I do!”
“Then it’s for you. Why you got to complicate everything?”
“You’re mad at me.”
“I’m not mad! I just don’t know why you don’t support me.”
“I do support you! I love you. I want to be with you. Aren’t you more than your music? How about we separate your art from you for just a minute?”
“Can you separate body from soul?” I ask, knowing damn well she know the answer.
She stares at me.
“I’m giving up Henry for you! You want me to give up hip hop too? And make me go to church? Is this all some mission to remix me into Becky’s lil’ Ken Doll?”
And then my phone blows up with calls from people wanting to buy Henry. Becky goes for a walk to clear her head while I filter out the weirdos who just want the car as either a get-away whip or to sell as scrap to feed they crack habit. Where are you right now, bro?! I’ve got cash on me. Tell me! one guy barked. Yeah, nah. Deuces! Click. I’ll be doing the interviews at the coffee shop down the block.
I hear Becky’s voice in my head. Interviews? Hon. Do you think that’s necessary? You are just selling a car. I know it—he— has personhood to you, but….
I’m not going to pawn Henry off to just anybody. Sorry, Becky. I’ve got to make sure it’s a good owner who’ll treat him right. See through his rough edges to his real potential.
Looking at the list of caller names I’ve racked up, I don’t know who it’ll be. But I’m hoping when the time comes, I’ll just know. Kinda like love.
Becky comes back in. She’s soaked. It is Seattle. Damn! I towel her off and ask if she’s okay.
“I didn’t even realize it was raining.”
“You were in the zone,” Becky says. She’s seen me there before, bent over my drum machine or synching up beats to vocals or laying down a sick bass track. I’m an arranger too, dog! Why promoters ain’t lining up outside my door be beyond me!
“I’m sorry I was harshing on you,” I say to the staccato of the rain dumping outside.
She sighs. I don’t like the sound of it. Like telltale winds of a hurricane. She tosses her curtain of wet hair out of her face and adjusts her bra. Its pink, lacy fabric smiles at me from underneath her tank top.
“Mitchell. I’m not pretty enough to be a rapper’s wife. I’m just not. I’m not even pretty enough to go to those shows! I’m just not a ‘hot’ girl. I’m sorry.”
“You should see some of the fugly skanks that be up in there.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“You are a hot girl! That’s all I mean.”
“Even if I was the type—which I’m not—I can’t appropriate Black culture. Not after Elvis. Not after The Rolling Stones. Not after Vanilla Ice. Not after Iggy Azalea. I can’t even just mindlessly consume it. And I don’t think you should either.”
That’s what she thinks I been doing? I feel like hurling up my guts right there. I have to sit down. I’m reeling. Dark clouds are closing in.
“There. I said it,” she says, as if they were just words and not a category 5 storm crashing down on my life. My whole life. As if all my music hasn’t really been me. Just an act I been putting on. Why hadn’t she said anything before? How long has she been holding this in?
“You are more than your music,” Becky holds both my hands now. “You’re a great guy. A guy I want to spend my life with.”
I shake my head, feeling the big hot wet ones coming out my eyes. Don’t be a bitch, don’t be a bitch, I say to myself just like the thug rappers say, but it don’t work. And I hate that shit anyways because of how nasty they are to women. I’ve been trying to make a whole with all my parts. But she don’t want, like, half those parts! How am I going to be whole then? What’s going to be left?
“I know we can get past this, Mitch.” she says. “People change. They can change together.”
Going through the motions, a little zombie-ish, I pawn Henry off for $600 to a couple a little younger than us who work on cars together. They’re biracial: she’s Black and he’s white. Which I got mad respect for.
“All our parts trying to make a whole,” I say as I’m signing away the title, wishing I could feel something. I just can’t get what Becky said out my head.
“Good job, Beef Cake,” she says when I get back. “I know that was hard for you.”
That night, I’m laying there. Her arms are around me. I think of how I was wanting to name our baby after him—the car—if we have a boy. But now I think it’s a little basic. And I don’t think I’m solid enough to take another N-O from her.
It’s Sunday. When I wake up, she’s gone. Out for a walk or something. On her side of the bed, there’s a copy of So You Want to Talk About Race, the chapter on culture-vultures dog-earned just for me. I read it and guess she wants it to be some kind of death blow to my dreams. I done sold Henry, now she wants me to sell them off too.
But when she gets back, she’s all smiles and sweet. She gets me to cycle over to the frat-house-turned-House-of-God. I tell her I’m going to bike across the 520 Bridge to catch some rays and get my heart pumping. But I’ll be back in time to bike home with her.
She plants her lips on my face before heading in and takes a seat in one of the front pews. But the strut her hips make is lost on me, knowing that inside that banging body is a distaste for something that’s made up such a big part of me for so many years. Plus, there’s a lot of pretty boys up in there. The Hallelujah from the band wells up like somebody’s stoked the fires of some big ass machine till it about to blow. If I don’t come back, Becky can just get herself a new boy toy. A new one to wind up and make go like how she want.
One of the greeters—or bouncers—is a line-backer-sized black dude with big ol’ genie earrings. He waves me on in, all lazy-like. And I know he don’t really care if I come in or not. They got enough bodies in there already.
And like that, I’m on my bike, pedaling across the 520. One side of the lake’s crazy, the waves like a flash mob thrashing. The other side’s Patrón smooth. And in the middle, there’s me.
