Rent-A-Gang

“You don’t want my boys,” Alfred says.

He wants to call me “Man” and draw it out to tell me I’m crazy. He wants to say, “You don’t want nuthin’ to do with my niggas,” but can’t because I’m his English teacher.

I want someone to scare the shit out of my son. Larry gets into stupid trouble. The school police regularly detain him for saying fuck to teachers. He’s not an idiot and I’ve had him tested for autism, so I don’t know what his problem is. He started wanting to be a gangster rapper when he was eleven, while he still believed in Santa. He’s sixteen now. He has no talent for music. And I hate this, but no talent for much of anything. He’s tall, fat, and very white. I doubt he’s kissed a girl. His mother lives across town. None of us get along.

Larry wants to go by Pimp L. It kills me not to state the obvious, but his shrink says I should let him grow out of it. I teach college English to pretty-smart prisoners. Most of these guys didn’t grow out of it until they went to jail. Some won’t.

I lower my voice even though it’s just us in the classroom. “We could start a business for parents.”

“What, rent-a-gang?” Alfred’s look asks if I’m fucking kidding. “Mr. Jones, you alright, but you don’t know shit about gangs.”

Alfred’s here because of gangs. Pulling his file at work would’ve been unethical, but that stuff is all over the Internet. “I’m thinking we find five big hood-rats. Do you have friends who’re former gang bangers?”

“A shitload in Washington Cemetery.” He starts to turn.

I raise an eyebrow to remind him I’m still his professor. “They recruit Larry into Bloods, Crips, whatever. Make him shit his pants. I don’t care if he literally shits his pants.” I hope he shits his pants. He needs to figure out he’s a pussy like the rest of us.

“He into drugs?”

“No drugs. He doesn’t have friends.”

“Then why you care he dresses like Eminem?”

I raise my brow again.

He repeats, “Why do you care?” His face is turning red.

Verbs are verbs, even if it’s only an Associate’s degree. I tell him, “It’s the way he acts and spends my money. He’s blown his savings on bling.” I hate the word “bling.”

“I don’t know who’s in my neighborhood. I’m not there.”

Alfred is my best student, but I hear “ain’t” in what he didn’t say. “Larry’s shrink charges one-twenty an hour. I’d pay that much at least.” Larry as a pimp is beyond ridiculous. I wish he were the kind of guy who could be a legitimate pimp; that takes charisma.

“Your boy could get killed.” Alfred seems to be pleading. His rags are creased which means he has a trade going with someone in the laundry. “That what you want?”

My brain flashes a thousand options. Maybe this question is not rhetorical. It’s terrifying. I don’t know. Yes.

“I can’t help you with no gang.”

That is what I want.