“Hang on, Gramma. My shoe.” She holds up, I put a bare knee down on dirty concrete to tie my worn-out Keds, passed down from my brother. I’m tyin’ it and this slick ride pulls up. Mercedes Benz, G-wagon so fly, I stop what I’m doing just to look. I see my mouth hangin’ open in the shiny, black paint and snap it shut.
Dude gets out, he’s money. He’s wearing shades and a fade with razor lines cut in. He got on black Adidas track pants and a t-shirt so white it almost hurts my eyes. His kicks, man, they Air Jordans, but not like any I ever laid eyes on.
I squat there bug-eyed and he comes up on the sidewalk, sees me lookin’. He flashes me a gold-grill grin and goes into a building. I watch them flash Jordans as he goes past.
Gramma swats me upside the head with the paperback book in her hand. I scowl to match hers.
“Tie your shoe, fool,” she says.