Excerpt from Ghetto Cowboy by G. Neri:


The first time I ever laid eyes on that horse, I knew he were trouble. He had a crazy look in his eyes, and his hair stood up every which way—like he had just woke up from a nightmare or something terrible. He was spooked from the start, which is why I named him Boo, ‘cause everytime something moved, he jumped like someone just dropped a spider on his back.

Since he was on his way to becoming dog food, my daddy got him for a fair price. Daddy saw something in him, said we was made for each other. I don’t know if that was a insult or a compliment, but I didn’t want nuthin’ to do with that scrawny horse. Daddy put me to work though, made me clean him up and make him respectable. Shoot, whoever thought bein’ a cowboy was glamorous never had to clean up after a smelly old horse.

Boo seemed like a country horse, ‘cause when we walked him around the neighborhood, he were on edge. I don’t think he was used to seeing so many black folk, even though he was black too. Nah, I don’t imagine he’d seen a ghetto cowboy where he came from, wherever that was. My pops calls me a ghetto cowboy, ‘cause we ain’t on the plains of Texas or the rolling hills of Montana. We in the Northside of Philly, a place called Strawberry Mansion. Now before you go getting any ideas, this ain’t no rich neighborhood. Used to be that way. Nowadays, its just rundown houses all scrunched together and guys with nothing better to do than shoot each other every night.  Not a good place for a stable, which is probably why we the last one around here. Hopefully, the Health Department will shut us down soon, and I can live a normal life like everyone else.

I’m tired of being called Tex or Cowboy Bob or country trash. I ain’t neither, just plain ol’ Harper or Harp as mama used to call me. My daddy, he’s the cowboy. He’s the one who runs the stable on Fletcher Street. He’s the one keeping the “tradition” alive. He says I’m a cowboy by birth. Man, who ever heard of a ghetto cowboy? I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of them hats the old timers wear.

I could see Boo didn’t like being here neither. Boo didn’t like sleeping in the stable ‘cause of all them noises at night. The helicopters and boom blasters kept him up till all hours. In the morning, when I fed him before school, he looked nervous and ragged out. I snuck him some sweets and things he shouldn’t eat, but hey, if I like ‘em, I figure he do, too. That made him relax a bit. When I let Boo sip from my Cherry Coke, he got a crooked grin on his ugly face and I thought, well, at least he has good taste.

Daddy said we should take him into the corral and break him in, so he get used to me ridin’ him.

"I ain’t gonna ride that skanky pony!" I said.

But daddy stared at me, hard. He had different ideas. Said if I didn’t help him, that Gameboy I been dreaming about would never come for Christmas. Blackmail, that’s what that is. My daddy’s blackmailing me now.

The corral is just an empty lot across the street that we use to stretch the horses out. There’s an old pipe sticking out in the middle and daddy cleared out all weeds till there was a open circle for a horse to ride around. Well, I tried walking ol’ Boo out to the corral after school. I kept feeding him M&Ms to get him to cross the street. Boo was the runt of his pack, only 12 hands high and maybe 800 lbs, and when I trotted him out of the stables, Steadroy Williams and his friend from the Speedway were riding by and couldn’t resist layin' into me.

“Yo, Harper! Where you find that stray? That one of them minature ponies?” Steadroy liked to crack up at his own jokes.

I tried to act cool. “Nah, Steadroy. This here is a race horse.” I pulled on Boo, but he had stopped in the middle of the street.

“Ohh, looks like your thoroughbred got stuck in traffic. What’cha name him?”

Now, I knew to be a true race horse around here you needed a name fit for a champion. Like Greased Lightning or Speed Racer or Fly Boy or something fast. So I knew by telling Steadroy, I was just asking for it.

I tugged Boo hard till his shoes started skidding on the wet asphalt. “His name's Boo, and he’s gonna scare the hell out of your pony.”

That cracked him up. “Boo! Oh, man! You hear that, Melo? He got a horse named Boo!”

Carmelo Daniels was Steadroy’s right hand chump, a squirmy beanpole of a dude, who spit out his words to act tough like Steadroy. “Boo- hoo is more like it! He gonna be crying if he ever shows his face at the Speedway!” Carmelo and Steadroy high-fived each other and could barely speak from laughing so hard.

“Shut your face,” I snapped. “He’s gonna beat your pony all right—” I looked at his brown stud, almost 5 hands taller than Boo. “—What’s his name, Satan?” I pulled hard on Boo’s reign, who finally gave way and started walking again.

“Sargent,” he said patting his horse on the neck. Sargent just stared at me, and I swear, he shook his head like we was a waste of his time. “And he gonna give your boy a hell of a boot camp, BOO!” Steadroy yelled in Boo’s face, sending my horse skidding back a few steps.

I pulled Boo’s reign in tight, and stared at his eye. “Don’t you mind him, Boo. He just regular street trash like all the other trash around here.”

Steadroy was about to get up in my face when Daddy came out with a saddle and his whip. He gave one good look at Steadroy and cracked the whip in the air. Boo scuttled into the corral, but Steadroy stood his ground.

“Don’t you boys have to be gettin’ home?” Daddy declared.

He cracked the whip again, and Steadroy blinked. Carmelo started trotting away.

“Why don’t ya join your friend?” asked Daddy quietly.

Steadroy smirked. “What, and miss the show? It’s a free country, ain’t it?”

Daddy stared him down. “Who ever told you that, son? Ain’t nothing free about being a black man in this country.” Daddy stood there till Steadroy scowled and slunk off.

Great. Now everyone in school is gonna know about Boo. Like I ain’t got enough problems.