Everyday People by Stewart O’Nan

“Ain’t peeped you in a while.” In his gray pinstripe and gators, he seemed smaller than Eugene remembered, not at all fat, barely even stocky. He gave Eugene the Trey handshake and took him in his arms.
    It was like a reflex. It made Eugene feel like he was lying, like he was being spied on. He could feel the steel under one of Fats’s arms.
    â€œLong’s it been,” Fats asked, “like two years and shit.”
    Nineteen months, eight days.
    â€œToo long,” Eugene agreed.
    â€œSerious,” Leon said. “I couln’t believe you got rolled up like that.”
    â€œHeard you was working,” Smooth said.
    â€œS’right,” Eugene said. “You know, s’one of the conditions.” It was strange; ten seconds with them and he was back on the corner talking shit like nothing happened, like he hadn’t been avoiding them. He noticed he was easing into his old homeboy slouch and straightened up.
    â€œHow’s Chris doin’?” Fats asked. “You know we’re all sorry about that.”
    â€œThat shit was hectic,” Leon said.
    â€œHe’s all right, he’s just layin’ up.”
    An older couple came hobbling across the street, and Smooth went over to help them with the curb. Trash blew around the parked cars—sheets of newspaper, fast-food wrappers—and Eugene wanted to run and catch it, start cleaning up the whole city. Nene. He couldn’t believe it.
    â€œSo what’s up with all this?” he asked.
    They looked to Fats.
    â€œShit’s fucked up,” Fats said. “You know I got mad love for Nene, but he was just gettin’ outta hand.”
    â€œStraight cluckhead,” Leon said. “Boy was gone.”
    â€œAll the way lost,” Fats said. “You know he was slangin’ the shit. Afterwhile I guess it just got good to him. You weregone, he started smokin’ up all his product. Got so he was stealin’ shit from his Granmoms.”
    â€œDude was wired up nonstop,” Smooth said. “Crazy as a bag of angel dust.”
    â€œHe was into his people for some green, so he started rippin’ people off, sellin’ nem wax, inside of Lemonheads, whatever. He got in a beef with this dude from B-Mo’s crew and went for the steel.”
    â€œThrew it right up in his face,” Smooth said.
    It was an old story, and Eugene didn’t need to hear the rest of it. In group, they did situations where someone pulled a gat. You were supposed to come up with a peaceful solution. The class went around and around, arguing over whether you had to use it once it was out. Darrin, their leader, wanted them to say no, but they all knew the answer was yes. Nene didn’t, so someone else did, cold smoked his ass.
    And they didn’t need to tell Eugene what Nene had turned into; he knew. Every day on his way to work he’d see him on the corner of Moreland, riding his bike in little circles, crew of shorties running for him. Stone jitterbug. Didn’t matter how cold it was. Sometimes he just stood there in the street, looking around and talking to himself, dancing, laughing at nothing like a crazy motherfucker. Pickup truck would slow down and he’d slide up to the window. “Any happ’nins here?” “Yo, what you need, man?” Nine in the morning or half past midnight. Raining, snowing. Big old nutroll of dollars in his pocket, wearing the same holey old sweatpants all week, that stupid ’fro half flat on one side cause he didn’t remember to look in the mirror, maybe hadn’t slept in a while. “Else you need, man? Got somecrazy-ass Indo, ain’t no janky weed neither. Jim Jones too, only three of them left. What you want, I got it. Crazy ill sherm, that nice ice, some of that Karachi. Buddha, moonrock, whatever you need. You know it’s
all
good.” Eugene knew the smell of money on his palms, the way when you were fiending your