Everyday People by Stewart O’Nan Page A

brain kept reminding you it was time to smoke up before it really was time, the way that belly habit ate away at you, made you hold yourself like someone gutshot in the movies. It was the life he was trying to forget, to clean out of his own head, so he didn’t go over to see Nene, just kept walking, thinking about work and the hours piling up on his time card, maybe church later. He didn’t have time for that shit anymore, the same way he didn’t have time for Fats and his old homies, and fuck them if they didn’t understand. He couldn’t afford it. Like Darrin said, he was making a concentrated effort. He wasn’t that person anymore.
    The rented limousine with Nene’s Granmoms pulled up, and they all stood at attention, an honor guard. The driver opened the back door and helped her out. She had gloves on, and a veil over her thick glasses. She was a big woman all around, gap-toothed, down-home. Nene did an impression of her looking for her glasses after a shower that used to make Fats fall out laughing. “Godzilla titty one way,” Nene said, and knocked the TV over. They were drinking Eight-ball in the park, sitting on a picnic table and passing a blunt, Nene just buck whylin. “Godzilla titty the other way,” and—
boosh
—there went the lamp. Fats cackled and dropped off the table. “Turn around—oh Lord, run for the border, here come that nasty Godzilla butt.” He stuck his own out, and Fats slapped the grass like Mr. Fuji surrenderingto Andre the Giant, tears squeezing down his chubby cheeks.
    Now he bowed, their ambassador. “Mrs. Jenkins.”
    The look she gave the four of them was half thanks and half warning; today, please, she wasn’t putting up with any trouble.
    Fats nodded; they’d make sure.
    Little Nene was with her, in a suit Eugene recognized as Nene’s, the cuffs at his wrists. He wasn’t a shortie anymore. Sixteen? Seventeen? And stone crazy, always had been. Eugene had forgotten how much he looked like his brother. What was his real name? Eugene didn’t even remember, and he’d known it like his own. That would be hard—he’d always be Little Nene.
    That’s what Fats called him, solemnly offering his hand.
    Little Nene threw the Trey sign, three fingers jabbed at his heart, and glared at Fats as if he’d killed his brother, as if he’d let him down.
    Fats flashed the sign back, and they shook hands, Fats patting his shoulder.
    â€œYou see that little critter?” Leon said when the party had gone inside.
    â€œHe better chill that shit right the fuck out,” Smooth said.
    â€œI don’t know,” Fats said, looking up at the white sky, and Eugene could see he was thinking. He came to a decision and measured them one by one, throwing the same hard face Little Nene had, letting each of them know. “We got to handle our business. Square business, know what I’m sayin’?”
    Eugene didn’t say he wasn’t down with that, that legally he couldn’t afford to be around any kind of drama. He didn’t remind them that none of them had come to see him, only his Moms and Pops. He couldn’t say, “But I’m doing so good.” In group Darrin made it sound easy, like all you had to do was make your case and the life would just stop and let you off. Put that negativity behind you. Give yourself an alternative. It was easy when you weren’t in it, when it wasn’t where you’d come from, who you were.
    It didn’t get easier when he went up to see Nene in his casket. It had been a shotgun, and he’d taken some pellets in the face. The holes were plugged with something and painted over with makeup, but the light was bright and you could see everything. The organ was going on and on, wandering through some tune. His Granmoms had bought him a new suit, with cuff links even. Little Nene had laid his black belt across his hands. Eugene