Bruthas (Buddy And Charles)

From day one

From the day we moved in

They told us they were bruthas.

We were legitimently poor artists
That had just moved into the rough neighborhood.

517 Saint Mary’s Street
Across from the old seminary.

The projects were one block away
Surrounding us
Wrapped around Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard
Like tall ash grey cemetary markers.

It was depressing
Just to look at them
Standing there soulless in the city’s hot sweat.

But we could afford this place.

A whole brick house
With iron grates over the first floor windows
And enough room
For a studio
On the third floor.

All for $575 a month.

Our families tried to convince us
That we didn’t know what we were getting into.

It was a diamond in the rough.
A diamond set into the gold ghetto grill.

We were the only white people
In the neighborhood
And it was immediately apparent
That the odds were against us
As soon as we pulled up
In a U-haul
Like the circus had come to town.

They were our new neighbors.

Our front steps just a few feet away.

“I’m Buddy...and this is Charles.”
“We’re bruthas.”

I could smell THAT one out
A mile away.

I’ve been around.

I shook their hands
Smiling
Looking up into curious big yellow eyes.

I smiled.

“Glad to meet you both”.
“I guess we’re neighbors then!”

“I’m Theo and this is my girlfriend...”
“She swears like a sailor and snores like a Chevy engine badly in need of a tune-up!”

I found out then
That Charles could break into laughter
For a good five minutes at a time
Doubling over
With his hands in movement
Like that mechanical furry monkey toy
That would clash the symbols together.

No...
Really.

They didn’t even look remotely alike
Physically.

They were both black and in their sixties
But that was the end.

Buddy was small and thin...

More flamboyant.
Delicate and happy.

Besides a few missing teeth
He was a pretty boy.
His appearance was thought out
In a thrift store hand me down kind of way.

Charles was the opposite.
A big strong man.
Loud.
Educated in the streets instead of school.

His skin was rough and broken
Like his leather shoes
That were cut away
In the front
So his powdered white black toes were poking out.
Homemade city tar sandals.

They were our next door neighbors
For several years
Until we left Baltimore.

We became very close.

They would cook soul food for us
Bringing over homemade fried chicken
Collard greens with ham hocks
Chicken livers
Greasy biscuits

“Buddy made those...”

Chitterlings...

Kale and turnip.

Food that we would never eat
Because we were vegetarians.

Everything was cooked in lard.

And we would give it away
Because we never had the heart to tell them.

We could see the pleasure it gave them
To cook for us.
It was a connection for them,
So we never gave that up.

We were invited into their home
On a more than regular basis
Smoking cigarettes with Charles
In the living room
On furniture rescued
From sidewalks
And church sales.

“Brothas”
They would tell us
As Charles pulled on a filterless.

It broke my heart
That they felt like they had to tell us this lie.

I wanted to tell them
That it was okay...
That we were cool.
That we loved them both
Very much.

That we were sympathetic to their situation.

That we knew that they had to live like that
Out of fear and safety...
That they had lived like that for many years.
Out of necessity
And we got it.

But I never did.
It would have made everything different.

Those two men were really beautiful together.

There was evidence of love
And hardship
Comfort
Longevity
And accomplishments.

We’d sit on our front steps
And shoot the shit.

Our laughter would sing through
The neighborhood.

It wasn’t until years later...

We had moved
A long time ago.

I was in Baltimore
And decided to look them up.

The neighborhood hadn’t changed a bit.

I knocked on their door.

After a few minutes of knocking
Charles opened the door.

As soon as he saw me
He broke down in tears.

I mean sobbing tears.

“Oh my God! How have you been? We missed you so much after you left.”

He was a lot older
But he was still
Toothless
Motherfucking
Charles
With his toes hanging out.

But he wasn’t laughing

And he told me Buddy had recently died
And that he missed him and loved him.

And I held beautiful black Charles
In the same living room
From long ago
As he talked to me
Tears falling down his face
As he told me for the first time
That Buddy was not his brutha.

And I cried with him.

Just the two of us.