you forget to look down.
A stumble will make you humble.
—LEONARD G. ROBINSON JR.
One
“What’d you say there, Junior?” Leonard Sr. greeted his son, Leonard Jr., at his bedroom door on a school night in August of ‘95. Sprawled atop his mattress, Junior’s headset blared as he wrote in his journal, unaware that his daddy was standing there. Playing in the deck of his Sony Walkman was “Escape” by Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth from their rap album, The Main Ingredient. The volume was so deafening, Senior could hear it from the door. On the wall next to Junior’s bedside was a huge Michael Jackson poster, and a picture of Whitney Houston (his crush) performing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at Superbowl XXV. As part of Junior’s nightly ritual, he’d resign to his room to write, play video games, or listen to his Walkman. When that got boring, he’d read a Stephen King book, a Marvel comic book, or stare out into the city.
Seeing no response, Senior greeted him again.
“What’d you say there, son?”
Junior wrote poetry most nights. Once in a while, a short story. Beneath his bed was an old suitcase where he kept his journals along with a Playboy magazine he’d bought from a kid at school for five dollars. If Junior’s parents found his magazine, they’d give him the blues. But it was his collection of journals from last year that Junior most worried about his parents finding.
He began his career as a writer the year before and had a book for every month since then. In his journal, he philosophized life through poetry. At fourteen, Junior was different than most of the boys in Philly. He was soft-spoken, quiet, and charming with a handsome gap-toothed smile. Whereas most of the boys in his neighborhood were boasting about sex or the latest pair of Michael Jordan sneakers, Junior kept to his journal. He spoke only when spoken to and seldom made eye contact. The students at Benjamin Franklin High, where Junior attended as a freshman, gave him hell. They teased him about his homemade haircut and made fun of his clothes. Not to mention, the boys there were much bigger than he was.
As Junior continued to write, still unaware that his daddy was standing there hovering over him, Senior became agitated.
“Aye nigga!” Senior shouted. In one swoop, he ripped off Junior’s Walkman and tossed it down onto the floor. Startled to see his father standing there, he began to tremor as Senior’s hot breath felt like summer heat. On the floor next to his daddy’s big boot was Junior’s Walkman. As he went to reach for it, Senior placed his foot onto the device. Junior looked down at his headset and slowly made his way up into the clouds where his father stood. Senior was a large man – larger than life. At six-foot-five and nearly two-hundred-forty pounds, Junior’s daddy was big enough to mean business. He had tree trunks for arms that seemed made for bending steel, with fists the size of hams. All the neighbors who lived on the Robinsons’ street were terrified of Senior, including Junior. Vicious dogs around Brooke’s Rowe turned white as a sheet when they passed by the Robinsons’ house. With their tails curled and ears peeled backward, they tip-toed by the house as if Senior was a rolling thunderstorm. He’d scowl at the dogs, daring them to shit on his bald lawn. Downtown, white folks stepped into traffic, giving Senior the sidewalk. He had thick, dark hands like a silverback gorilla and could yell so loud that the bass from his voice rattled the furniture in the house. His scornful glare was like a boxer staring at his opponent during the ring instructions. His ripping physique reminded Junior of a villain in one of his Marvel comics.
“Goddammit, Junior,” barked Senior. “You ain’t hear me callin’ for you?”
“I-I didn’t hear you,” stuttered Junior. “I-I ain’t mean t-to ignore you, Daddy.”
As Junior reached down for his Walkman again, Senior tightened his foot on the device, nearly clipping one of Junior’s fingers. He fussed and cussed, pounding his ginormous fist onto Junior’s nightstand so hard that a row of loose change did the macarena.
“You don’t pay no bills in this house to be ignorin’ me or your momma, boy! So, when I call, nigga, you better answer! I’ll bust your ass in this house! Now, what the hell you doin’?”
“J-j-just, writing, Daddy…that’s all.”
“Writin’ what?” asked Senior. “Give it here! Lemme see!”
As Junior went to hand over his journal, Senior snatched it from his hands. Fearful of what his father might find, Junior trembled again as Senior breezed through his sacred book. Days earlier, Junior had written that he had tried one of his daddy’s cigarettes and spilled some of his whiskey onto the basement floor after a short taste. The week before, he wrote about killing the motor to Senior’s lawnmower after accidentally pouring oil into the gas tank. If Senior were to find out, he’d murder Junior and toss his corpse into the Delaware River.
Page after page, Senior turned through Junior’s book. Occasionally, he’d make a grunting noise or look up at Junior with contempt. Finding nothing, he tossed Junior’s journal down onto the bed.
“Go’on to bed,” he ordered. “Next time I call your name, you better answer. And don’t be wastin’ time readin’ them little damn comics, writin’ in those little diaries you buy or playin’ them goddamn video games, either. Plenty for you to do ‘round here, Junior. Plenty.”
“Yeah, but Daddy…”
“Junior.” Senior lifted his large hand to quiet him. “Why don’t you try to learn a trade or something useful instead of sittin’ in your room all day like some low-life, huh? Where your friends at? Don’t you got any?”
Junior then lowered his head. “You know how these kids are around here,” he said.
“Can’t be no worse than sittin’ in here all day. Little girls write in diaries, not boys!”
Tears welled inside of Junior’s eyes. Upon noticing he had hurt Junior’s feelings, Senior backpedaled, but by then it was too late. Less than a minute later, Sandy showed up at Junior’s bedroom door. Her eyes were as red as two hot fireball candies.
“He likes to write before bed – been doin’ it for a while now!” she growled at Senior, foaming at the mouth. “As long as you keep dumpin’ on him, Junior won’t have to worry about the other kids messin’ with him because you already do it for them!”
Sandy then entered Junior’s room, lifted his journal from the bed, placed it into her son’s hand, and left. Senior followed his wife back across the hall and closed Junior’s room door for the night, ending his tirade.
Across the hall, Junior’s parents argued that night over money, living in Philadelphia, and Junior’s trade as a writer. It was the only constant in their twenty-two-year marriage: disagreement. Senior and Sandy woke up fighting and went to bed fighting. “Fuck you,” one of them would say. “No, fuck you!” the other would shoot back. One night, Junior listened to his parents argue for two hours over an empty can of roach spray left under the sink in the kitchen.
For what Junior’s momma lacked in stature, she made up for it in rottweiler-like aggression. She was sweet, but not soft – she had to be to spend her whole life in Philly. Sandy was a short, heavyset, dark-skinned woman with short, beautiful black hair. If not for her city accent, neighbors might have mistaken her for being raised in the South. She cooked a mean pot of chitterlings and was one of few neighbors who still used a clothesline in 1995. Together with Senior, their most remarkable feat was their two boys, Junior and Lawrence. Once upon a time, they had been the proud parents of two living boys. It cut a nerve whenever the subject of Lawrence was brought up and what had happened to him the summer before.
Unable to sleep, Junior gazed from his bedroom window out into the warm city night, admiring the rows of tiny lights off in the distance. With his headset on, he listened to an old Miles Davis cassette tape Sandy had loaned him. The soothing jazz echoed throughout his ears as he cranked up the volume to drown out the heavyweight prizefight taking place across the hall in his parents’ bedroom. Outside his window was a dirty street lamp harassed by a stream of moths. Up above, a crescent moon sat gorgeously in the cor
ner of the city’s skyline. Before Junior knew what had hit him, he was sound asleep. In troubled dreams, images of Lawrence flickered through his mind…
Last Summer
The day before Lawrence died, the boys had gotten their tails whipped over eighty dollars that went walking from Senior’s nightstand. It wasn’t the money; it was the principle and the fact that either of them dared to steal from him. As the boys walked in from school, Senior and Sandy went at it over the money. Junior’s daddy had lost all his mind that afternoon. Pissed off and geeked on alcohol, he punched a hole in the wall the size of a basketball. It was the angriest Junior or Lawrence had ever seen their daddy. Spit flew from his mouth as he yelled, and his eyes were hazy and yellow. Unbeknownst to the boys, the Robinsons’ rent was due at the end of the week. They’d been late the last month and the month before that. Junior’s parents started upstairs, tearing apart their bedroom before searching through a pile of dirty laundry on the floor. They moved downstairs, tearing apart the sofa and closet, tossing clothes and couch cushions over their heads like cops looking for evidence on a search warrant. Eventually, Senior made his way to the boys and asked if they’d seen the money. Junior answered no, assuredly, and Lawrence said the same. The two brothers then watched as their parents ripped the basement apart.
Later that night, when the missing money magically resurfaced on Senior’s nightstand, he went ballistic. He kicked open the boys’ bedroom door, picked up their fan, and slammed it to the floor. It sparked and sputtered, startling the boys as they backed into the wall as if Senior was a loose pit bull.
“So, y’all must think I’m a damn fool?” he asked. “Is your daddy dumb? Is he stupid?”
Petrified, Junior looked over at Lawrence, confused. Lawrence offered the same dumb look. When no one answered up, Sandy entered next.
“Who took the eighty off of your daddy’s nightstand?!” she asked.
Junior looked at his brother. Lawrence looked back at him. Neither said a word. Sandy then rolled her eyes and left, closing the door behind her, leaving the boys to deal with their lunatic father on their own. Some nights, Sandy saved the boys from getting beat but not that night. Senior then removed his belt from his pants and popped his leather strap, offering the boys one last chance to come clean before he slaughtered them. They cried instantaneously.
“Little crumb-snatchers!” he fussed to hell. “I’m gonna whoop the shit out of both of y’all if somebody don’t fess up! Now, who took the goddamn money?”
“I swear to God, Daddy!” Junior pleaded for his life. “I don’t know!”
“Me neither!” Lawrence sobbed.
Senior whooped Junior first and the longest. He was the oldest and knew better. Lawrence went next but got off easy. He called out for the Lord as he always did when faced with his daddy’s strap.
At the end of it, Senior asked again about the money. Junior looked over at Lawrence and his brother looked back at him. Neither said a word. Irritated, Senior promised to whoop the boys again the next day after school and every day thereafter if the culprit didn’t confess. As Senior left for the night, Junior went to bed convinced that he and his brother would get beat again the next day.
During the walk home from school the next afternoon, Lawrence finally confessed to Junior the truth about the money. He didn’t give a reason, however.
“I was going to put it back,” he cried. “I just forgot, Junior.”
“Are you crazy?! Why did you take it in the first place, Lawrence? Man, you know Daddy is out of his mind. You’re dead when he finds out. You might as well bury yourself in the backyard – cause I’m gonna tell him!”
Lawrence nearly fainted. “No! Junior you can’t!” he gasped. “I’ll die! Please!
“Better you than me!” Junior yelled back. “I ain’t gettin’ whooped for you no more!”
When the boys arrived at the house, Junior noticed his parents’ cars were not there. If only temporarily, the boys would get some relief. Lawrence used the free time to follow Junior around the house, pleading with his brother not to tell.
“Wait ‘til I tell Daddy,” said Junior. “You’re gonna get it!”
“C’mon on, man, don’t tell on me,” Lawrence cried again. “Please, Junior! Don’t!
“Nope! I hope he skins you alive!” teased Junior. “You’re a dummy!”
Lawrence then began swiping at Junior.
“Don’t call me that!” Lawrence flailed at him. “I ain’t no dummy!”
“Yes, you are!” Junior shoved him to the floor. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot. I hope Daddy whoops you for two whole days! You stupid dummy!”
“Well, fine! I’ll just leave!” Lawrence said.
Distraught, he emptied his school bag on the bed and packed it full of random clothes. Junior didn’t take his brother’s running away seriously. He laughed as he watched Lawrence stuff a pair of underwear and a winter coat into his bag. Junior then went trolling after his brother, mocking him as Lawrence stormed up Joseph Boulevard, pushing his bicycle, crying.
“Where you going now, dummy?” asked Junior. “Where you gonna eat? You still gotta go to school. You’ll never make it in Philly! You might as well take your whoopin’ like a man!”
Ignoring his brother, Lawrence hopped on his bicycle and pedaled off.
“Fine then! Go!” yelled Junior. “Stupid! You’re just gonna make Daddy even madder when I tell him what you did and you ain’t home! You dummy!”
“Don’t call me that!” Lawrence’s sobbing cries faded as he pedaled further up Joseph Boulevard and into the heart of Philly’s ghetto as Junior watched. When Lawrence’s scrawny figure disappeared into the city, Junior went back to the house to wait for Senior and Sandy.
Less than an hour later, his parents arrived home. Like the nobler sibling, he waited on the porch like an obedient dog. Senior bypassed his son’s loyalty, ready to whoop him again if necessary. Junior looked at his daddy’s waistband at the belt holding his pants together. He wanted no part of any sequel from last night’s affair.
“I got something to tell y’all.” Junior hesitated. “Lawrence… is uh…not home.” He caught his breath. “He left his book at school. Doggone Lawrence! He’s something else.”
“I’ll say,” said Senior. “Now quit bullshittin’ around. What happened to the money? And I want to hear it from you, Junior. You’re the oldest! So, you ought to know better. Now, how did that eighty dollars find its way back on my nightstand? I was born at night – not last night.”
Junior took a deep breath as he prepared to speak. Before he could, gunfire erupted near the top of Joseph Boulevard as if it was Vietnam.
“Great, another shooting,” said Sandy. “Where the hell is Lawrence?”
Saying no more, Junior raced up Joseph Boulevard to where he’d last seen Lawrence. Both Senior and Sandy went running after him as residents along Joseph Boulevard hit the deck.
“Goddammit, get back here!” Senior shouted from behind, barely able to keep up. Age and years of cigarette smoking had depleted his tired lungs, reducing him to a coughing jog. Sandy, a mail carrier, used to carrying pepper spray and getting chased by wild dogs, had a bit more stamina to go around. At the top of Joseph Boulevard, a turf war was taking place between rival gangs. Opposing members traded rounds from automatic machine guns.
“Boy, get back here!” puffed Sandy as she started to slow. “Get back here, now!”
“Lawrence, Ma!” Junior yelled from a distance.
“What?” Both Sandy and Senior recuperated. “Lawrence?!”
Up ahead was Lawrence on his bicycle caught in the middle of it all. He laid on the ground, screaming and crying as bullets whisked above his head. Junior arrived behind a parked car about twenty yards from where Lawrence lay. The moment Lawrence saw him, Junior motioned for his brother to stay down, which Lawrence did. Both Sandy and Senior arrived next to Junior. Bullets crackled from one side of Joseph Boulevard to the other as neighbors young and old ducked behind cars or f
led in terror. Lucille, the candy lady on their block, was struck when a round ricocheted from a fire hydrant, went through a car window, and pierced her right shoulder. Nearby houses and businesses alike were plastered with bullet holes the size of nickels as gang members fired their weapons empty and stopped to reload. But there was one particular round that changed the Robinsons’ life forever. While ducked behind a car, a bullet penetrated a van window, sending a shard of glass into Sandy’s face, cutting her. As she yelped involuntarily, Lawrence became concerned for his mother’s safety and attempted to rescue her. He was hit immediately, struck in the back of his head.
Time slowed down as even the shooters noticed that among the dozens of shell casings covering the asphalt was a ten-year-old boy with a hole in the back of his head. One of the shooters, a man later identified as Gregory Johnson, nineteen, was vomiting blood after being hit with a twelve-gauge shotgun in the stomach. But that didn’t get nearly the attention as Lawrence, lying dead in the middle of the road with his bicycle over top of him. He jerked with shock as his soul departed. Sirens sounded from the distance as every city squad car rushed onto Joseph Boulevard; the hoodlums vanished in smoke. The shootout lasted less than two minutes.
On the scene, Junior watched alongside his parents as EMTs worked to save Lawrence’s life. Bystanders shared in the Robinsons’ grief, as paramedics covered his small face with oxygen, attempting to pump life into Lawrence’s frail body. Junior’s world went blank. He could barely hear Sandy crying out in agony asking God why. Junior looked down at the shell that once held his brother’s soul, unable to make sense of what had just occurred. Lawrence was gone.
But when the cops started asking questions, suddenly, no one saw a thing. The more questions the officers asked, the more the size of the crowd of onlookers began to diminish. For Sandy, it was the ultimate betrayal. She had lived in Crawford since she was a little girl and at one point was Vice President of Neighborhood Affairs long before Junior and Lawrence had come along. She had also been a mentor to black boys and girls who lived there. That day, Thursday, August 25, 1994, the city of Philadelphia turned its back on Junior’s family. Over the next year, he’d grow a callus over his severed heart.
Beyond Poetry Page 2
