A Losing Game

"Exiting Cell #256C"

            "Shit, you damn near westside," Roderick said while climbing out of the car. "How you afford to live this close to downtown? You slangin'?"

            Deven gave him a stern look and said, "Boy, you know I don't fuck around with that shit. And you better not ever again either. You hear me?"

            "Oh, you my pops now? That's good to know."

            "Look, I know you on some shit right now but you need to keep in mind that I'm your last chance. You fuck this up and they will take your ass to grown man prison, nigga. And even if they put you in the same cellblock as dad, he won't be able to protect you every second."

            "Bruh, save all that shit you talkin'. I'm gonna walk to my old spot and get my stuff to bring back here. I'll be back in like an hour or some shit."

            "Rod, your stuff is already in my guest room upstairs."

            "All of it?"

            "Yes."

            "What about my money?"

            "Money? What money?"

            "Deven, I had like five stacks under the floorboard in my closet."

            "Your caseworker and them cops didn't find any money."

            "Then they stole my shit!"

            "Rod, you need to chill."

            "Nah, that's fucked up! They stole my shit and you let them! I can't count on you for nothin', man."

            "You can't count on me? Listen here, your black ass would've been doin' hard time if it wasn't for me! You're eighteen, nigga! Ain't no more foster care! You wanna act all bold and shit now that I done signed ya ass out of fuckin' juvie; meanwhile, I'm tryin' to do right by you."

            "Save that bullshit for somebody who cares, man. How much they payin' you to let me stay with you? Huh? They must be payin' for this townhouse because I know you ain't got shit."

            "Shows how much you know. I got my own business, Roderick. I went to community college and did somethin' with my life. I didn't play gangster and get caught up on some fuckin' charge. This is my townhouse and that's my car and can't nobody take that away from me." His voice began to shake and tears began to build in his eyes as he continued, "And you're my brother...and right now, you need to get your ass inside before I lose my composure and show you why I'm gonna be in charge."

            Realizing that he'd gone too far, Roderick backed down and reluctantly followed Deven into the townhouse. The home was nothing like any of the places Roderick had lived in before. Located in the recently revitalized neighborhood formerly known as Little Poland; the home had three stories, a small entry-level with nothing but the front door and a coatrack to hang coats, a mid-level where the kitchen and living room were, and an upper-level where the bedrooms and bathrooms were. It was a far cry from the two-bedroom apartment Roderick and Deven once shared with their erratic father and heroin-addicted mother in the Stacey-Brooks Housing Project, known as The Bottoms.

            "At least the stairs ain't concrete," Roderick said under his breath while following Deven up the second flight to the upper-level of the townhouse.

            "Alright," said Deven as they entered a bedroom. "This is all you. Your bathroom is right across the hall. My bedroom is around the corner and has its own bathroom and balcony."