NO MAN’S LAND Graeme Carey
“Nah, man.” No Man said no—or rather, nah—to everything at first. He started every sentence in the negative even if he agreed with what someone had just said. “Yo, you love your mom?” “Nah, man. I love my mom.” “Yo, you think the Mets are gonna win the pennant?” “Nah, man. That shit’s a cakewalk.” “Please state your name for the record.” “Nah, man. Earl 'No Man' Wallace.” On this particular occasion, the question had been, “Yo, No Man. Can I get something from you real quick? I’ll pay you back tomorrow. You know I’m good like that.” And the answer had been a flat, “Nah, man,” and nothing more. No Man sat in the driver’s seat of the wheelless, black Pontiac Sunfire, with Pig in the passenger seat. Pig, at nearly six and a half feet tall, slouched forward in the chair, with his short afro squishing against the roof of the car so that it looked more like a flattop. One by one people would poke their heads into the window and say, “Yo, what’s good,” before handing No Man a ten-dollar bill. Pig, who was useful because of his giant, dark hands, which could be seen from a mile away, would then raise his arm out the window and flash the signal to the guy posting up against the wall down the block. The person who had given the money to No Man would then casually stroll down the street and, like a running back being handed the pigskin before taking off through the lane, receive a nifty little present from the guy waiting down the block.