Missing scene. Episode detail here.
1.
Brandon couldn’t tell which was louder: the shouting match between Omar
and John Bailey, or the blood roar of his frantic heart. It started when they
were just a few blocks clear of the Franklin low-rises, John Bailey insisting
that he be let off at his girlfriend’s apartment downtown. Omar was yelling
that they were going to follow the plan. He was playing the stuck record. No
matter what Bailey said, Omar’s shouted response was that they would follow
the plan.
Brandon had fucked up.
That’s where the stress was coming from. Blurting out Omar’s name
in the middle of the stick-up. What the hell was he thinking? Exactly this:
that they’d gotten what they came for and it was time to get out. But Omar
always wanted more, he needed to add that little punctuation mark of fear after
the deed was done. He’d be hard for days thinking about the look on shorty’s
face. Omar the Terror. And it had irritated Brandon, because he thought that
he should be enough to keep Omar hard, and with that in mind, he’d said
what he’d said: Yo Omar, c’mon. Let’s go.
Omar had given him a look he’d never forget for the rest of his life.
Brandon read in that look: That’s it for you, you fucking piece of ass.
That’s all ya ever was to me, anyway. And now you my EX fucking piece of
ass.
But so far neither Omar nor John Bailey had said a word to him. They expended
their anxiety by taking it out on each other.
So the argument continued. Omar yelling that it was Bailey’s responsibility
to get the product ready for distribution by morning. That was why he got a
full third of the cut and dipping rights to as much of the dope as he wanted.
(Omar wasn’t about the bottom-line, he could care less if Bailey snorted
the profit margin.) That meant Bailey had to hole up in the projects, preferably
in their crib, spending some part of the night and morning doing inventory and
dividing up the vials among the corner kids who would do the actual selling
for a percentage.
That was Bailey’s job, and it had been for every single stash rip they’d
pulled off, going back to the days when Omar’s brother, Anthony, was in
charge. As far as Omar was concerned, it wasn’t going to change now. It
especially wasn’t going to change now.
Brandon put a finger against his throbbing neck to verify that his pulse was
indeed leaping clean out of his skin. He held his finger there, and steered
the huge speeding van through unlit junk-filled streets with one hand. When
he felt his heart skip a beat he nearly let go of the wheel, then over-corrected
taking a turn, pulled half the van onto a curb and hit the brake, immediately
regretting the deafening screech of rubber more than the near tip-over. It was
just compounding the stupidness of the whole endeavor, because if anything he
was an excellent getaway driver. Even John Bailey had to admit that. And up
until tonight, he’d been a damn good stick-up man, too. Nearly as fearless
as Omar, nearly as reckless and intuitive.
All that gone to shit in a slip of the tongue rooted in some sub-conscious fit
of possessiveness he would never be able to understand, much less cop to.
Bailey and Omar went crashing to the back of the van in a hail of obscenities
- very unlike Omar. Some of the vials of dope must have spilled loose. Even
with the hurricane up in his head, Brandon heard the tiny clinks as the glass
vials bounced against the van’s vast and unpadded interior.
If 5-oh caught the reckless driving, they’d be stone cold busted in a van
littered with heroin, a sawed-off shotgun and 4 (maybe more) hand-guns between
the 3 of them. And between the 3 of them, 2 of them had enough felonies to rack
up serious cage-time, as in forever. He had no doubt Omar and Bailey would have
shot it out. Brandon guessed that he would, too.
He sure as fuck didn’t want to die before telling them both how sorry he
was for getting them all killed.
Bailey shoved the side door open with a rusty screech that seemed even louder
than the van’s skidding stop. He jumped out and stomped to the front of
the van. Omar had followed Bailey and they stood in place, gesturing at each
other, bathed in the glare of the van’s powerful headlights. Bailey turned
away and Omar grabbed his arm. Bailey nearly swung at him, an act so unlikely
that Brandon felt bile rush up his esophagus. He clamped his hand over his mouth
to stop it, and somehow managed to settle it down. Then he killed the lights.
By then the argument had moved to behind the van. Brandon slid into the passenger
seat, rolled down the window and searched the dark for the two men. He could
hear them, hushed now but still angry. Omar was reiterating that he needed Bailey
to lay up in the crib, they needed to stick together, it was Bailey’s job
to get the stuff onto the corner ASAP - or else he could forget about the free
dip and his share of the money. Bailey said fuck that, he’d be back in
the morning, what the fuck difference did it make, he wasn’t gonna stay
up all night listening to the two of them fuck like dogs, and that shut Omar
up, but Omar quiet could be just as dangerous as Omar saying his piece. This
time he just snorted.
Brandon could hear footsteps walking away from the van, he assumed Bailey’s.
And then it sounded like another set of footsteps were following the first into
the night, away from Brandon. Walking away!
The nastiness bubbled back up his throat, taking him by surprise. He managed
to get the door open and one step clear of the van before puking. When the substantive
portion subsided, he stayed bent over, drained and light-headed, his hands pressed
into his thighs, barely supporting the weight of his upper body. He gagged reflexively
with dry heaves, on and on.
Omar had come around, tugged him away from the puddle between his feet. Brandon
was humiliated but mostly relieved. He let Omar prop him up against the side
of the van, and protested weakly as he lifted the sleeve of his own overcoat
to Brandon’s face, and wiped the muck off his lips.
Omar had to help him climb back into the driver’s side of the van.
”We ain’t gonna talk about this no more, Baby Boy,” he said,
and Brandon wondered what “this” was - Bailey? The fuck-up? The puke?
The near roll-over? The end of their love?
“Back to the plan,” Omar said. “Git goin’.”
Brandon drove to where the plates were stashed. Omar got out, switched the plates,
ditched the decoys, cleaned up the back as best he could without losing too
much product, and within an hour the van was parked and they were within a short
walking distance of the crib. Exactly as planned.
2.
He wasn’t scared.
But he sure was worried.
Not at all for himself. Back in the day, it was the panic-stricken uncertainty
after the dirty deed that made the deed itself its own reward. The moments of
pure adrenaline-fueled orgasm, yes, that’s what it was, that aftermath
of a rip-off, especially a particularly dangerous and foolhardy rip-off - a
straight-up sexual rush. Actually, until meeting Brandon, the ecstasy of a get-away
was better than any sensual pleasure he’d ever experienced.
Nah, that wasn’t fear.
More like the exact moment a roller coaster trolley shudders and there’s that split second of doubt wondering if it was supposed to do that.
But that was back in the day, when he only had to look after his own skin.
And that wasn’t the only reason things were a lot less worrisome back in
the day.
Back in the day, there were dozens of stick-up crews, some of them specialists,
some of them once-in-a-blue-moon opportunists, some of them stone cold professionals
like Omar and his older brother Anthony. And there’d been a lot more possibilities
- numerous dealers at all levels of the game, plenty of pickings to go around
for the crew willing to risk their life for what might amount to mcnuggets and
fries money all the way up to enough luchini to support a diamonds, furs and
luxury cars lifestyle.
During Omar’s recent stint in Jessup, followed shortly after by Anthony
(but that’s another story), Avon Barksdale had ascended his family’s
enterprising throne with a true over-achiever-with-something-to-prove ruthlessness
that resulted in a near-elimination of the competition in and around the West
Baltimore projects. By the time Omar emerged from prison, organized drug-dealing
was no longer an equal opportunity free-enterprise endeavor of supply and demand.
It was the corporatization of the drug trade in one of Omar's favorite stomping
grounds that put Barksdale, Inc. at the top of his list from the day he was
released from prison. He wasn't a Marxist, exactly, but he was no fan of Big
Business and gentrification. Robbing Avon Barksdale was not a choice, it was
an obligation.
Plus he loved thieving, in principle and deed.
A year ago the consequences of having a price on his head would have been part
of the booty, but he couldn’t have predicted he’d be in a relationship
that may as well have been a marriage. For the first time in his life Omar the
Terror was Omar the Family Man, with a responsibility to protect what was
his.
They were deep in the projects, negotiating the short stretch from where they
parked the van to their red brick townhouse. Ordinarily Omar would be swaggering
under the moonlight with two hard-ons, his cock and the shotgun swinging against
his thigh. Any other night back from a successful rip, and he’d be joining
the chorus of barking dogs, crying babies and bickering couples with a blood-curdling
werewolf howl of his own, loud enough to let the whole damn project know there’d
be product on the corner in the morning - plus an easy 5 spot just for the asking.
Not tonight.
He’d gathered Brandon close to him and together they’d hotfooted it
like fugitives thru the shadows of the buildings, staying clear of open spaces.
But Omar wasn’t afraid. He was mad sick in love, and all he wanted to do
was get Brandon safe inside.
Not to hide, it wasn’t about that. It was about holding someone so close
that just the intention of keeping him safe would be enough to make it so. And
that’s what worried Omar the most, because realistically, all he had was
that intention. Everything else was out of his control.
As soon as they were inside, Brandon, tight-lipped the entire night, began a
mad rush of explaining, apologizing, cursing himself out for the gaffe, offering
his own flesh and bones to be duly punished in exchange for Omar’s forgiveness.
Omar kept shushing him, gentle and cooing at first like a mother comforting
a deeply regretful child. But it soon became clear that Brandon wasn't going
to let Omar push the shit as far away as possible, far enough that they could
both pretend it never happened. He had to make him shut up, so Omar did something
that he had never before done to Brandon, and knew immediately that he would
never do again. He grabbed Brandon’s shoulders, pulled him so roughly he
could feel his own fingernails ripping, then shoved him away hard. Brandon lost
his balance and fell against the staircase, scrubbing his elbows.
“I done told you,” Omar yelled, and that too was a first. "We’re
through talking about this shit. Over. Got it?”
Brandon took a deep, ragged breath, his whole face trembling - not with fear,
Omar hoped. Then he nodded, and Omar helped him to his feet.
Omar led him up the stairs to the bedroom, sat him down on the bed. He started
to unzip his coat, and Brandon brushed his hand away.
“Turn the heater on,” he said.
Omar went over to the corner and pulled the portable electric heater close to
the bed, switched it on, fussed with it until he was satisfied that Brandon
was getting the full benefit of what feeble warmth the appliance could muster.
He went back to the zipper on Brandon’s jacket only to be brushed away
again.
“I’m cold, Omar, hold on.”
“...sayin’, there's sick on your coat, man. I’ll put a blanket
on you.”
Brandon moaned in disgust.
Omar helped him shrug off the jacket. Brandon laughed weakly and pointed.
“You got blood on your coat.”
Omar looked down, saw tiny rust-colored spatters, barely more than dots, but
a profusion of them from waist-height down to the hem - blood spray from the
wanna-be hero back at the stash house.
He felt something wetly disgusting as he tugged at the sleeve of his overcoat
to get it off - looked at his fingers, sniffed: puke.
“Here, dis yours,” he said, and made as if to wipe it off on Brandon’s cheek. He ducked, fell sideways onto the bed, Omar tumbling after him. He hovered above him for a while, propping himself on his arms, not putting any weight on Brandon’s upper body, getting a good look at his face. He could never get enough of that face
.
“I love you Baby Boy,” Omar said.
Brandon responded in kind.
Omar got up and finished undressing. He was full of regret about the overcoat
- raggedy as it was, had for twenty bucks at an Army surplus store. It had survived
a hundred heists, including the ones involving bloodshed, without so much as
losing a button. He loved how it covered the shotgun strapped to his side, not
so long in the hem that it completely covered the barrel those times it was
necessary to let it show.
He threw it into the corner on top of Brandon’s stinking jacket. The room
was starting to heat up, and the close air of the little room was capturing
the smell of their adrenaline-fueled flop sweat. Ordinarily a welcoming funk
to some mad wild lovemaking, it was making wicked chemistry with the sickeningly
sweet fumes of Brandon’s vomit.
Definately not a turn-on, and Omar was determined to end this night deep inside
his boy - and one or the other of them would have to be in the mood for that
to happen.
He gathered up the coats, took them out into the hallway and tossed them over
the stair bannister. Then he closed the bedroom door.
The stink remained.
Brandon was still laying on his back on the bed. Omar checked to see that he
was awake, and he was, looking up at the cieling, mouthing something to himself
as he sometimes did.
Omar knelt down at Brandon’s feet and unlaced his ruined Tims, pulled one
off and then the other, took them outside and threw them over the bannister,
too.
Back in the room, he closed the door, took a cautious whiff, and shrugged, resigned
that it was never going to be completely free of funk. They were both sloppy
- left their pants where they dropped, stuck smelly shirts back in the dresser
drawers, tossed dirty socks into all four corners, piled damp towels on the
blankets, kicked their underwear under the bed.
And they made love every day in that bed, and every night, too, and sometimes
in the afternoon. And until one of them just couldn’t stand it anymore
and got a doper to do their laundry, they slept, fooled around, ate extra-hot
cheetos, counted loot, clipped their toenails, Indian-wrestled, drank Pepsis,
smoked cigarettes, played cards, and jerked off in the same sheets for weeks
at a time.
“Take a shower with me, Boo,” Omar said, shedding the last of his
clothes. “Ya stink.”
A protesting moan came from the bed. Omar decided not to push it.
He left the bedroom, closing the door to keep the heat in, and walked naked
to the bathroom down the hall. He stepped into the uncurtained tub and turned
on the shower without waiting for the water to warm up. He shivered violently,
but gritted his teeth and took it. Looking down at his feet, he noticed pinkish
water swirling around the drain, and suddenly felt annoyed and depressed. He
shouldn't have gotten blood on him, he should have been more careful. He shouldn't
have pulled the trigger. He grabbed up some soap and scrubbed it roughly in
his face, getting it into his eyes. It stung like hell, and he hauled out of
the tub angrily, barely keeping his balance, and felt around for a towel.
Like magic, one appeared in his hands. He wiped at his face and looked up to
find Brandon holding the towel. He was still in his shirt, pants and socks.
“C’mon Baby Boy, get in the water with me.”
He reached for him, glad that Brandon didn’t resist as he pulled his shirt
over his head. Wished he would help. He unbuckled the belt and pulled it loose,
the baggy pants immediately dropping around Brandon’s ankles. Seeing that
he wasn’t wearing underwear made Omar’s dick perk up for the first
time since they’d left for the heist a mere 2 hours ago. He took Brandon’s
hand and brushed it against his thickening hard-on, just so’s he’d
know. That woke him up enough to step out of his pants without further assistance.
He used his toes to peel his socks off, putting a hand on Omar’s shoulder
for balance. Omar felt the bad shit sloughing away as they slipped into a familiarly
exciting routine. He hoped Brandon was feeling it, too.
Though it had grown pleasantly warm and steamy in the bathroom, Brandon’s
chest, shoulders and arms were covered in goosebumps. Omar took him by the elbows
and lifted his arms high over his head, then buried his face in a choice armpit.
He smooched noisily at the soft auburn fuzz until Brandon began to convulse,
stifling a giggle.
That made Omar think maybe they wouldn’t need a shower just yet. He nudged
Brandon back into the bedroom, their naked bodies choreographed and close in
an oft-repeated dance.
“We’ll lose the hot water, “ Brandon said as he was pressed backwards
onto the bed by Omar’s forward movement.
“Don’t matter,” Omar muttered.
He covered Brandon with the full weight of his body, still wet from the shower. Brandon was taller than he by inches, and though they were both thin, Omar was mostly muscle and thick bones. Brandon was a teenager, still growing into his body, his biceps developed from lifting weights but his belly curved, accentuating the tightly stretched, almost fleshless appearance of his rib-cage and pelvis. That part of his skeleton jutted, giving him an almost fragile appearance. Omar knew Brandon was a rock, a tough kid who’d take on anybody and refused to lose a fight. He thought back to how Brandon had handled the look-out tonight. Between the two of them, Brandon was the fiercer nigger. Omar knew that even if he hadn’t had the gun odds were good Brandon could still subdue the look-out, if for no other reason than that the other dude would underestimate his beautiful kid.
Omar started every lovemaking session with the tenderest kisses. Brandon's breath
tasted faintly of vomit, so he moved his lips onto his jawbone, found a sweet
spot there and began to mark it with a bruising, suctioning kiss. Omar wanted
to work his way back to that beautiful mouth, but he needed to get into the
zone where any consideration of funk was transformed into something heavenly
tasting. Brandon must have sensed Omar's initial hesitation because no sooner
had Omar left his mouth than he began to wriggle out from under him.
"Wait wait wait," Omar said, sliding his hand under Brandon's knees
so he could pull the younger man's legs around his bottom. He held his face
still, and kissed him properly, his tongue in his mouth, gentle and patient
as always, on a familiar mission to possess. Brandon began to respond - he couldn't
resist Omar's kisses.
Brandon gripped Omar's body with his thighs, flexing his rear so there was enough
room for Omar to slip his hands underneath. He pressed Brandon up and pushed
him back down, jamming him, rubbing against him, all the while his fingers massaging,
opening, probing.
He moved his mouth along the curve of Brandon's cheek, slipping his tongue into
his ear along the way, finally ending up at his forehead, where he planted a
dozen loud kisses.
"Omar?"
"Baby Boy, baby, sweet..."
"Is Bailey coming back?"
"Huh?"
Omar lifted his head.
"Is Bailey coming back?"
"Hell, yeah. Betcha a million dollahs he be here in the morning get the
shit on the street for we even wake up."
"For sure?"
"Baby Boy." He kissed him, kissed him again. Took his flaccid dick
in his hand and pumped it. Brandon squirmed away, got out of bed.
"Gonna brush my teeth," he said.
He stayed in the bathroom a long time. By the time he'd come back to bed, Omar
had turned off the light and pulled the covers over himself. He waited for Brandon
to get under the covers, then turned to him, pulled him in close, and held him
like that until he fell asleep.
Omar stayed awake all night, holding his boy in his arms, sometimes pressing
his finger lightly against Brandon's pulse points, his groin, the side of his
neck, the inside of his wrist, counting each time: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,
10, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8...
At some point the room began to lighten. Omar heard the front door open and
close, heavy footsteps, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. Then
music from the stereo went on.
Bailey had let himself in.
Omar carefully pulled his numbed arm out from under Brandon, molded himself
against his lover's body, and within a few minutes fell asleep.
-end-
return to lovesexeros
Warning: I have selective memory. You can send me your corrections to the following synopsis at: rattkinski@yahoo.com
Episode 3, "The Buys"
Omar and the stick-up crew (Brandon and John Bailey) have been meticulously staking out Avon Barksdale's drug dealing operation in the Low Rises. From their mobile headquarters, the white cargo van, they have been observing the deals and the "re-ups" - when the supply is replenished in increments of "g-packs" (each pack containing about $10K worth of heroin, packaged in capped glass vials). Once they've determined where the drugs are being stored, the three of them rob the stash house armed with handguns and Omar's ever-present sawed off shotgun. During the course of the robbery, Omar shoots one of the guards in the leg to get him to reveal where in the apartment the stash is hidden. After Brandon retrieves the drugs in a brown paper bag (2 G-packs) Omar tries to find out from the dealers if there is more hidden somewhere. For whatever reason, never made clear, Brandon runs up to Omar and says "Yo, Omar, let's go!". Omar gives him a look of almost apoplectic anger, and spits out a word that sounds like "stupid" (be still, Brandon-lovers, the two patch things up). The stick-up crew gets out of the stash-house and speeds away in the van. The next day, we find the crew sitting on the stoop of the project apartment Omar and Brandon share. They are counting the money they have made so far from selling the stolen drugs. As Bailey says, "It's a sweet score."
After The Heist is a missing scene, my version of what happened after the heist and before the scene on the doorstoop.
The offiial HBO/Wire episodes guide is at: http://www.hbo.com/thewire/episode_guide/index.html
There is a website in progress of transcripts from the episodes. Check here often and I will post the link as soon as it's available.