It Ain't That Bad

Prologue

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“I'm finna leave bout now...”
“You already done?”
“Nah – but I'm good for now.”
He grabbed the nearly empty plate away from her reluctantly grasping fingers, walking to the overfilled sink. He swatted the remains into the black bag sitting near his feet, then placed the plate gently underneath the tap. With a quick turn, the faucet ran a loose water stream as he began to scrub. In the dark twilight luminescence, he could barely make out what he was doing – but the kitchen had a few bulbs dangling from the roof, dimly but persistently shining.
“You don't have to do that,” he heard behind him. “I'll be good on that.”
“Nah,” he repeated simply, ignoring her. “Ain't you got a shift early mornin now?”
A distinct, annoyed thud. He heard her tall frame approach him in concern, swiveling him around to face her. He kept his grip on the half cleaned plate.
“Who told you?” she asked, long dark braids shaking as she snapped her head up – peering down at him with curiosity. “Leroy?”
He scoffed, smiling cockily. “Nah – that nigga been pushing 2 months at the pen...”
“That's why he ain't around anymore,” she observed, quickly regaining her usual interrogating gaze. “Hold up. You ain't answer my question.”
He scoffed once more. “What?”
“Quit playin,” she hastily rebuked. “I ain't gonna trip – I'm just inquiring – that's all.”
He grinned at her. “Inquiring? Man can you even spell that?”
“Fuck you,” she predictably responded. “You gonna tell me, or nah?”
“Imma take Option B,” he replied. “I know you gonna whoop his ass if I – “
“He?” she quickly caught on, as he realized the mistake. “I can narrow it down to bout six niggas now...”
He sighed, realizing it was pointless to continue. He blinked twice to get the fatigue off, then resumed cleaning the soiled plate.
And another forced turn of his torso.
“What?” he noted in exasperation. “You gonna let me finish, or keep fuckin with me?”
“I took the second shift cause I wanted that overtime,” she ended. “It's good money.”
“Don't care,” he fired back, idly swabbing at the now fully clean plate. He was careful not to make eye contact now, because her brown eyes would almost immediately sense deceit if he tried staring her down now. Instead, he attempted to place the clean plate back into the sink before beginning his exit.
“I gotta sleep Jada,” he weakly let out. “It's late – “
“James come on,” she slurred, resting her head gently on his. “Work with me here.”
He knew he ought to pull away at this point, but his body resisted. “We don't need no extra money. We doin just fine – and yo bitch ass go and take another shif – “
“Doing fine?” Jada repeated, wrapping her arms around his marginally shorter frame. “I see a kitchen with two weak ass bulbs, a dinner table with three legs – and you rubbin that plate with my damn shower towel...”
“I'm still good,” James noted. “It ain't that bad – could be worse...”
He was smiling a little now, despite himself. She took this positively, unwinding herself from him before placing a lone arm around James' shoulders, standing to his right.
“Don't trip, please,” she quietly begged, jolting him. “You know I can't stand it when you mad at me.”
“I know you can't,” he argued, returning a smirk. “That's why I do it.”
“Aw yeah I can see that...”
“Aiight promise me this,” he announced with new seriousness. “Don't take no extra shit unless you got to, okay?”
She kept smiling at him. “Yes sir.”
“I mean it,” James insisted, a bit frustrated that she still wasn't taking him seriously. “If that nigga Bobby see you workin a third shift and tell me, I'm bouta – “
He stopped suddenly, aware that he had made another mistake. She grinned impishly at him.
“You snitch quick boy,” Jada cracked in triumph, tightening her grip around his shoulders. “Yo black ass wouldn't survive on the Yard.”
“Whatchu mean – prison yard?”
“Nah the front yard nigga.“
“Oh you got jokes now huh? Okay...”
He chuckled for a few moments, looking at her before watching their surroundings with a bit of hesitation. As Jada said, none of it seemed particularly appealing. The table indeed only had three good legs, the kitchen was a mess – and the cracked window above let in almost all the moonlight on only one spot, while the two bulbs hanging did a merely okay job of illuminating the rest of the room. It wasn't exactly horrible and disgusting, but it was cramped, forced and a tiny bit boring.
Jada jerked forward awkwardly, squeezing him tightly with both arms. “Shit I almost forgot! Happy Birthday!”
“What?”
“Look at the clock!”
James struggled away from her hug, watching the device situated above his head and mounted near the open window. Both hands were on twelve.
“Bruh... you sixteen – like damn! Sweet sixteen... you know I gotchu...”
“Aw don't bring yo trash music into this house,” James scolded jokingly. “That ain't a mixtape that's like some lethal execution shit.”
“Boy please,” Jada returned. “You got plans for tomorrow?”
James shook his head. “Maybe hang with the homies – pass a blunt or two – “
“That ain't special,” Jada retorted, pinching his ear in boredom. “Tell you what. You bang out with me for the night.”
James laughed heartily, earning a frown from her. “Bang? With my sister? You out yo damn mind...”
“I'll make it fun, trust me,” Jada insisted, nudging him repeatedly. “You think fatass Bobby got a better idea?”
“Shit that man better have some good ideas,” James remarked, turning back and chuckling at her. “All I know is I ain't spending my birthday witchu.”
“Please?”
“Nah... I'm good.”
“Fine then,” Jada finished, grabbing the towel from him. “I'll just force you to do it.”
James felt taken aback, almost slightly intrigued. “Force me? How?”
Jada blinked at him, taking a plate subconsciously from the dirty sink before washing and rubbing at it. “You gonna learn.”
James instantaneously laughed. “You gonna learn today! You gonna learn what a long – “
But he couldn't get the rest of the quote out, flailing around the pair of them burst into bouts of raucous laughter. He thought back to the day he and Jada had seen that line via Bobby's (presumably stolen) Netflix account – their laughter had been even worse back then.
“Go to sleep baby,” Jada suggested, planting her lips briefly on his cheek before withdrawing to the dishes. “At least pretend to try to make it to school on time tomorrow.”
“I'm good right here,” James fought back. “You gonna let me help?”
“Nope,” Jada flatly refused. “Hell to the naw.”
“That's cool then,” James resisted still, leaning against the counter, watching her work. “I'll just sit here and make you feel guilty.”
Jada snorted. “Good luck.”
James grinned, taking another moment to observe the dining room – and with it the adjacent living room. Both felt genuinely fine to him – nothing popped or seemed out of place, but there was some strange disappointment here. This wasn't with the old furniture or cracked walls, it was more with the constant feeling of wanting that he couldn't quite repress. There was a wanting to be had – somewhere, somehow – leaving someplace.
“Ever think about moving out?” James asked suddenly. “Maybe to Philly or somewhere cold?”
“Out of Oakland? Not really,” Jada admitted. “Wouldn't mind it though. Need a reason to. I'm good here – for now.”
James rested his head casually on her bouncing shoulder, watching her superior technique and experience dispatch dishes at a far greater rate and accuracy than he could.
“I'm good here too,” James happily noted, digging his head further into her shoulder – which relaxed somewhat more now. He began letting another smile through.
And Jada smiled back, because she knew he wasn't talking about Oakland.
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A/N

*Warning: Very long, but only for the first chapter/prologue.
First story! So I'm the TaciturnWatcher and hope you enjoyed that.
Basically what I want to do is an episodic look into “ghettoized” life in an unspecified area of “Deep East” Oakland, CA, United States. My main problem is this: too many depictions of “urban”/”hood”/”ghetto” areas do not do two things:
1. Give a faithful representation of how life is.
2. Give a balanced representation of how life is.
Essentially all the depictions I see just portray the “hood” as constantly bad, miserable, or over-dramatized. This piece serves me two purposes: to express my fascination with “urban” areas in general, and also look at African-American life, contrast that with “ghetto” life, contrast that with “suburban” life, and so on.
I want to make it clear that some of this fic is based on personal experience. Some is based on accounts. Some is based on research. It's a composite piece and I'm trying to make an accurate and honest portrayal of urban life as possible. But to do that, I occasionally have to use certain language epithets, mannerisms, and ways of speaking that may seem uncomfortable for certain individuals. Please believe me when I say that I'm neither trying to be racist nor stereotyping :)
I have no idea how ambitious I want this fic to be, how many themes I want to tackle (black family life, urbanism, success in the “hood”, financial stuff...), or even where the story will go. Rest assured though, that the center prism of which you see the story through – will always, always be Jada and James. I understand not much background info on characters or plot is out right now, but remember – I don't know anything yet.
Hopefully this stupidly (read: STUPIDLY LONG) long author's note isn't turning anyone off or making me seem pretentious. I'm just an excitable amateur writer who likes – um, writing. Arrogance and pretentiousness are for those who have the skills or the words – and I have neither. :)
I'd appreciate any support (review/favorite/follow/etc – ONLY IF YOU WANT TO) and thank you for the view. Forge on!
~TW
P.S: For international/other readers who have no idea what I'm taking about – google a quick documentary of Oakland/any other ghetto and you'll see what I'm taking about. Assuming most people have some experience with the “hood” though :)