Page 13 of Everest

As soon as I climb the steps behind the stage, the DJ plays “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry. The room is dark, aside from the low hue of strobe lights illuminating the stage. Taking a deep breath, I plaster on a fake, seductive smile and slowly step onto the stage. With each exaggerated sway of my hips, I draw the attention of every red-blooded man in the room. Running my palms up my body and along my breasts, I confidently approach center stage. Once I reach the pole, I hold onto it with my right hand and circle it.

Closing my eyes, I get lost in the music. With my back to the audience, I hook my leg around the pole, completing my first spin before swiftly transitioning into my next move, where I face the pole and then, with both hands, pull myself up. I end my transition with a fireman slide. Once my knees hit the stage, I throw my body back, thrusting my breasts toward the ceiling. Next, I make a show of running my palms against my belly before slowly removing the tiny scrap of material covering my breasts. The ringing in my ears and my heart pounding drown out the catcalls and whistles.

5

EVEREST

The humid air is thick with the scent of rain from the night before while I ride through the city. As I roll up to Creole Café, I ease off the throttle, the smell of coffee and fried dough cutting through the air. Mrs. Maggie has been running this place longer than I’ve been alive, and she treats every one of us Kings like we’re her blood. She’s got a heart bigger than this whole damn city.

Parking out front, I swing my leg over and stroll inside, the little bell above the door jingling. The café is already busy with locals getting their morning fix. Mrs. Maggie clocks me the second I step in.

“Hey, baby.” She smiles while pouring coffee for a customer.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Maggie.”

She reaches for a to-go box. “Want the usual?”

I smile, leaning against the counter. “Double order this time. Got work to do at the youth center, and Charlie ain’t a man who turns down a good meal.”

Mrs. Maggie laughs. “You’re right about that.” She starts putting together my order, moving with the practiced ease of someone feeding this city for decades. “Y'all are doin’ good overthere, Everest. The kids need strong men to show them the right path.”

I nod and appreciate her praise, though that’s not why I do it. “Just tryin’ to give them somethin’ solid, somewhere they belong.”

She slides the two stuffed containers across the counter. “And that is why I’ll always feed you for free, baby. Y'all are changing lives.”

Like always, I press a few bills into the tip jar, earning a side-eye from her before grabbing the food boxes. “I appreciate you, Mrs. Maggie.”

“Stay safe and give Charlie my best.” She waves me off, already turning to greet another customer.

I head back outside, securing the food before firing up my bike again. The ride to the youth center is short. I roll up to the old building we’ve been working on. When we got our hands on it, it was falling apart.

I park near the side entrance, kill the engine, grab the food, and head inside. I glance around, taking in the new mats, heavy bags, the ring, and weights. The space still smells of fresh paint and sawdust.

The Kings threw in a good chunk of money for the gym. The rest of our funding came from private donors who still give a damn about the city’s future. And it isn’t just the money that matters. The time, effort, and hands-on work make a difference.

I don’t do this for recognition. I do it because I know firsthand what it’s like to need an outlet, a place to put your anger, energy, and pain. Too many kids don’t have someone looking out for them. Some of them come from broken homes or the streets. Some need a safe place where they’re not being judged or written off.

“Everest,” a deep, weathered voice calls from the other side of the gym.

I see Charlie Ray Bradford approaching me, wiping his hands on a rag. He’s in his late sixties but still built like a brick wall despite his age, and his skin is dark and lined from years spent working under the Louisiana sun. Charlie has been a counselor in the community for decades. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t waste time on bullshit, just straight talk and hard lessons. He’s got the respect of every kid who’s ever walked through his doors, and he damn sure has mine.

“Brought breakfast,” I say.

Charlie grins. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He rubs his belly.

I follow him to a couple of folding chairs near the boxing ring and set the food on a stack of gym mats. We pop open the containers, and steam rises from inside, carrying the aroma of butter, spice, and deep-fried perfection. Mrs. Maggie didn’t skimp, not that she ever does. There’s a generous portion of shrimp and grits. Next to it is a flaky buttermilk biscuit the size of my damn fist slathered in cane syrup and butter. And a breakfast from Maggie wouldn’t be complete without a couple of fried pork chops sitting on top of a heaping pile of smothered potatoes and onions.

Charlie whistles as he grabs his biscuit. “Maggie outdone herself.” He takes a bite.

I grin, tearing into the pork chops. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Charlie chews for a moment. “This is the kind of meal that’ll make a man rethink his life.”

I chuckle, digging into some shrimp and grits.

Charlie gestures around the room. “This is all coming together. We should be able to open it to the community by next week.”

I nod. “I can’t wait. Too many kids out there needing an outlet to burn off what’s eatin’ them up inside.”

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