Beyond Poetry

by Nathan Jarelle

  “Junior… C’mon, man!” She giggled. “I got shit to do. It’s almost six o’clock!”

  “I know, but the last ten minutes went too fast!” he said. “Yo, please? Last time, for real. Then you can go. Please… Casey? Besides, I wanted to ask you something. If you don’t mind?”

  Falling for his puppy-dog eyes, Casey took a seat next to him.

  “Boy, you better be lucky you’re like my little brother – what is it?”

  Searching for something meaningful to keep her around, Junior cycled through his brain.

  “The other night in the hospital, I heard you talking to my mother, and uh…it made me think about something Levy said to you in the hallway on the day I got in trouble. He called you an addict and some other things. I was just wondering…did something happen to you some time ago?”

  Lost for words, Casey exhaled and stared into the street lamp above them.

  “…Really can’t believe you asked me that right now, J.”

  Unsure of where to begin her story, she started from her childhood growing up as an albino kid in Newark to living in foster homes throughout the tri-state area. It took Casey an additional two hours beyond her ten-minute window to share her story. She choked at times, using a ball of napkins she found inside her coat to dry her eyes as she re-lived the horrors from her past.

  “Maaaan, I lived everywhere,” she explained to Junior. “New York. Boston. Philly. Jersey. Bridgeport. Providence, Rhode Island. The social services system just couldn’t get it right for a girl like me. I went through a lot, Junior. Tried suicide a bunch of times. Drugs. Man, I did it all.”

  Bundled beneath her wintry coat, a slight chill blew down Kennedy Street as Casey recalled her life before meeting Junior. Born an only child, Casey told Junior that her biological parents had abandoned her when she was just seven years old. Her earliest memories of her parents were being referred to as “the ugly white baby” by her father, and that her mother overdosed on heroin in the summer of 1974. Nearly twenty years to the day Junior’s brother was gunned down on a busy North Philadelphia street corner. Casey told him that she knew something was wrong when her father didn’t pick her up from school the next day.

  “I cried for like six days,” she laughed to shield her emotions. “Nope. He never came back.”

  In the middle of the precinct, she wailed upon learning that her mother wasn’t coming to get her, either. From there, Casey moved in with her aunt in Newark, New Jersey where she lived for the next three years. At school, she was picked on and beaten up by her classmates and called names like “fat”, “ugly”, and “little orange-haired white girl” because of her albinism. Her aunt Tyler had a boyfriend who was an alcoholic and he had groped her one day when they were alone together. When Casey tried to tell her aunt about the incident, her aunt slapped her across the face and gave her away to social services. Casey told Junior that night that from the time she was ten years old until her fifteenth birthday, she lived in thirteen different houses before finally moving to Providence, Rhode Island, where she met the Haughton family.

  “I’ve had every fuckin’ last name you can think of, Junior. I’ve been a Robinson.” She nudged his elbow. “Johnson. Smith. Williams. Thomas. Capies,” she went on. “But the best last name I ever had was Haughton. So, I changed it to that.”

  Casey said that along with her new name came her sister, Courtney.

  “She pretty?” asked Junior. “C’mon man, hook me up!”

  “Yeah, she’s thorough,” Casey laughed. “Rangy. Tall with long hair. Cute. You probably saw the picture on my desk? That’s her. I met the Haughtons when I lived on the west side before they moved to New York. I should’ve gone with them, but I ended up here in Philly. It was the worst mistake of my life…until I met you. Before that, I was a train wreck. My demons had caught up to me. I was afraid I’d screw it up. The Haughtons treated me like royalty. I took piano lessons. Culinary classes. I learned how to drive. The whole nine.”

  To Junior’s surprise, Casey removed her arm from her coat to show Junior a slew of old cut markings on her left wrist, buried beneath a “Laugh now, cry later” tattoo.

  “Even though I had Courtney and her family, I was still a wreck because of what I had gone through,” she explained. “I got married and divorced all in one year. Had a miscarriage. Got arrested a few times. I tried to kill myself by jumping in front of a train until my fat ass slipped on a sheet of ice and I broke my foot,” she laughed away her tears. “I tried slicing my wrist up with a razor. When that didn’t work, I tried drugs – all of this before I was twenty-two. Plus, I couldn’t keep a job. I was just in so much pain, Junior. I didn’t want to be here.”

  Junior hung on her every word. Their connection seemed divine as he attempted to process Casey’s past in comparison to his. Losing Lawrence was hard enough, but not nearly as bad as the hand Casey had been dealt since she was a little girl. Junior then hooked his arm through Casey’s and leaned his head on her shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she sighed before continuing. “So, eventually, I got myself together. I got help where I knew I could get it. My family. The Haughtons. They believed in me – even when I didn’t believe in myself. And Courtney? My sister?” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know where I’d be if she wasn’t around.”

  Looking down at her watch, they saw it was 7:51 p.m. Two hours had passed since Casey had promised to stay for her last ten minutes. As the two went to embrace, Casey inadvertently patted Junior on his coat pocket and noticed his bulge.

  “Yo, that better not be what I think it is, homeboy!”

  Concerned, she went to touch Junior’s coat pocket again, but he bladed himself away from her. Casey became angry.

  “Junior, get over here!” she ordered. “I ain’t playin’. Now, what is that?”

  Busted, Junior reached inside his coat and removed Senior’s .38 revolver, which he had been hiding since Casey first got there. Lost for words, she gasped and a look of guilt painted itself onto Junior’s face.

  “Yo, what the fuck are you doing?!” Casey ripped him. “Junior, are you crazy?”

  “Man, aren’t you tired of getting pushed around all the time?” he asked. “I am! I’m sick of this shit. Sick of always having to run. I ain’t runnin’ no more, Casey – been runnin’ my whole life. The next person that fucks with me,” he fingered his daddy’s gun, “I’m gonna blast ‘em. Not gonna be anybody’s bitch anymore.”

  “Stop talkin’ like that! You’re not!” She lunged for his coat pocket. “Now, gimmie the gun, Junior. I’m not gonna sit here and let you ruin your life!”

  “No!” Junior pulled away from her. “No more baby shit, man! I’m gonna start puttin’ niggas in body bags. Nobody is ever gonna jump me again!”

  “Shut up-shut-up-shut up!” Casey slapped him. “Oh my God! Look at what you made me do, Junior! I just hit you!”

  Frozen in time, Junior stared back at Casey in disbelief of himself and that she had just slapped the taste from his pitiful mug. Stunned, he took a seat on the porch and sagged his head. Neither Junior nor Casey said a word for five minutes. Within that time, an ambulance came flying down Kennedy Street, adding the perfect reference to Junior’s dilemma. The noisy siren seemed to revitalize him; he veered away from the raging, vengeful teenager he had become and returned to his former innocence. Somewhere in the center of the Robinsons’ yard was Casey, incredulous that she had slapped Junior.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Can you forgive me, Casey?”

  Pouting, Casey turned to look at Junior and looked away like an angry school girl who’d lost out on playing at recess. As Junior tried to sweet-talk his way back into being her brother again, Casey stuffed her hands inside her jacket and threw her hood over her head. As Junior tried to approach her, she turned away from him to hide the fact that she was crying. Before long, her worry for him came gushing out.

  “You’re scaring me!” Her lips started to quiver. “I don’t like all of this, J.!”<
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  As Casey began to cry, Junior slowly removed his daddy’s .38 revolver from his coat pocket and looked it over. When Casey saw the gun once again, she plopped down onto the steps in front of him and wept inside both her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Junior apologized again. “I promise, I’ll get rid of it. I’ll put it back where I got it, OK? Will that fix all of this, Casey?”

  Unable to catch her breath, Casey sniffled as she looked up at Junior with runny makeup streaming down her broken face.

  “Do…you…pro-promise?”

  “I promise!” Junior sat beside her as she leaned onto him. “I promise!”

  Still distraught, Casey sniveled onto him as they braved the night air together, thinking over what could’ve been their unfortunate end.

  Just after 9 p.m., Sandy blinked the lights to the front porch, indicating that Junior and Casey’s visit had come to an end. Casey took one last breath before they hugged one final time. Junior apologized about a dozen times for hurting her as she took responsibility for slapping him. Together, they decided that the story of Senior’s .38 revolver would be their secret.

  “You know what to do?” she asked him.

  “I do now,” Junior replied.

  Casey took a deep breath, fired up the engine to her car, and drove off into the night.

  As soon as Junior entered the house, he bypassed Senior and Sandy watching TV in the living room. The moment Junior entered the foyer, Senior scowled at him, forcing Junior to rub the bulge inside his coat. Without warning, his daddy got up from his chair and glared at Junior. Believing he’d been caught, Junior melted instantly.

  “Come here,” Senior called him over.

  Unsure of what to expect, Junior slow-walked to his daddy as Sandy turned to observe whatever her husband had up his sleeve. As Junior stood in front of him, Senior leaned inward.

  “The next time… you leave your room light on with nobody in there, I’m gonna remove the light from your wall, and your head from your shoulders. You got me? Electricity is expensive!”

  “My bad, Daddy.” He smiled.

  The second Senior turned his back, Junior raced up the staircase to his parents’ bedroom where he returned his daddy’s .38 to the nightstand.

  I’m a story with no ending.

  I am a poem with debatable clarity.

  I am asleep but conscious

  behind my own wheel.

  I am dead to everyone, including myself.

  I am a loss for words. I am speechless.

  I am beyond repair.

  I am a life taken for granted.

  —LEONARD G. ROBINSON JR.

  Nine

  While Junior played video games inside his room late on a Sunday, attempting to forget about Senior’s .38, Sandy interrupted his game. Her stance on Medgar had changed; she reiterated her goal to see Junior walk as the first man in the family to graduate high school. Without word or notice, she cracked open his bedroom door and began to speak. Her tone was commanding, yet delicate and organic.

  “If I keep you out, that’s another year here in Brooke’s Rowe,” she told him. “School leads to opportunities, and opportunities lead to better choices in life. It’s selfish,” she explained. “Your daddy is gonna drive you to school tomorrow.”

  As Sandy went to close his room door, Junior placed his game stick down on the floor and met his mother by the door.

  “Thank you.” He placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder before she left.

  Anticipating his return to Medgar, Junior rummaged through his closet for something to wear. In the bathroom sink, he used an old toothbrush to clean his sneakers and asked Senior to touch up his hair with Wahl trimmers. Laughing, joking, Junior’s daddy seemed nothing like his typical self that night or any other night. He winked and smiled, showing all his teeth, and even allowed Junior a taste of his precious fireball scotch from his minibar to celebrate his return. Junior took a shot Senior poured for him in an old mason jar. The second the hot whiskey touched his juvenile tongue, he darted into the bathroom and spit it into the sink. Roaring, Senior clapped Junior across the back and invited him back into the barber’s chair.

  Later that evening before bed, Junior returned to his room to write, penning about his inevitable return. Unable to sleep, his artistry which had avoided him over the past week, finally returned.

  Early the next morning, Senior’s rusty truck rolled in front of Medgar for Junior’s triumphant return. As Junior went to get out, Senior reached his wide hand out for Junior to shake. “I think you’re gonna be good.” He extended his hand. As Junior went to shake Senior’s hand, thanking him, his daddy jerked him back inside the truck and closed the door. With all his might, he clamped down onto Junior’s hand like the jaws of a vice. Helpless and imprisoned, Senior began slapping him across the back of his head and checked Junior with a shot to the ribs.

  “You little crab motherfucka!” Senior pressed harder. “You think I’m stupid?! You think I don’t know you been inside my nightstand fuckin’ with that .38? Huh?”

  Senior squeezed onto Junior’s hand so hard that his son’s nailbeds turned purple.

  “Arghhh-arghhh! No, sir!” Junior screeched in agony as his daddy cranked up his torment. Unable to defend himself, Senior pulled out every trick to pay Junior back for touching his gun. He plucked him across the ears, back of the head, and used his knuckle to poke Junior in the ribs. Occasionally, Senior popped him across the back of his head for good measure as Junior yelped in agony, begging him to stop.

  “C’mon Daddy, let me go!” he pleaded. “Man, you hurtin’ my hand!”

  The more Junior complained, the harder Senior clutched. He then rolled Junior’s knuckles together like marbles as his son winced and patted his foot against the floorboard in pain. Then, just before Junior began to cry, Senior released him – but not before slapping Junior across the back of his head one last time.

  Ripping his hand away, Junior stuffed his hand inside his chest pocket and doubled over. Senior then took an ice cube from his soda resting in the center console and dropped it down Junior’s back. Just to fuck with him, Senior sped off in his truck, whipping around the block with Junior unbelted in the passenger seat. Just before he arrived back in front of Medgar, he stomped on the brake, sending Junior rocking forward in his seat.

  “Boy, if I ever catch you with my .38 again,” he threatened, “they’re gonna have to do a full autopsy on your ass so that they can remove my foot from it! You hear me talkin’ to you?” he whacked Junior in the chest. “Stay the fuck out of my nightstand!”

  “Yes, sir,” Junior grimaced.

  “Good.” Senior straightened Junior’s coat for him. “Have a good day.”

  Slowly, Junior crawled out of Senior’s truck and limped toward the staircase of his school. Halfway up the stairs, Junior headed back to Senior’s truck. He stood at the passenger door, holding his neck, stomach, and head. His hand still throbbed from Senior’s anaconda-like grip. As Junior stood there waiting for his father to acknowledge him, Senior cracked the window.

  “How’d you know?” Junior asked.

  Senior looked at Junior glaringly as he exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  “Do you think your daddy is stupid, Junior?”

  “No sir.”

  “Yes, you do. You think I’m a goddamn fool.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Junior. “I don’t think that at all.”

  Junior’s daddy looked him up and down. Soon after, he reached over to open the door to his truck, allowing Junior to sit inside. Afraid that Senior would hit him again, Junior sat as close to the door as he could in case he needed to escape. Senior put out his cigarette in the ashtray and fanned away the smoke.

  “So, why’d you take it?” he asked. “And if you lie to me, I’ll break every bone inside your tiny little body, nigga. Now, why’d you touch that gun, Junior?”

  Knowing his father was capable, Junior thought long and hard before he answered. He decided he neede
d his bones to get up the staircase to Medgar to see Casey once again. Junior also didn’t know just how much his daddy knew about him taking his .38. He elected to play it safe, sparing his life.

  “I guess I got tired of feelin’… like a bitch,” Junior cussed, raising Senior’s eyebrow. “Man, so much is expected of me all the time but so little of everyone else. Those kids jumped me over nothin’. I wanted to get even. I wanted to feel like for once, I could give back all that I’d been given. But I can’t ‘cause that’s not who I am. So, I put it back…where it belongs.”

  Pleased with his honesty, Senior nodded his head.

  “I killed a man when I was nineteen years old,” Senior blurted. “Never told your mother about it. Police said it was self-defense, but it wasn’t. I could’ve walked away. I could’ve not gone there in the first place. I haven’t slept in twenty-seven years, Junior…Maybe one day I will.”

  Junior sat staring into his daddy’s face as Senior glared at his reflection through the windshield. As father and son sat in awkward silence, the bell to Medgar rang, signaling a start to first period. Fearing Mrs. Hawkins would get on him, Junior reached for his backpack on the floor.

  “You got a better path than the one I had,” Senior said. “Don’t go that road, Junior.”

  “You’re not gonna tell Mom about this, right?” asked Junior.

  “Yeah, I am,” said Senior. “One day, though… just not today. Go’on, get out.”

  Junior scooted out of his daddy’s truck and hurried up the stairs into Medgar.

  You and I,

  we’re beyond poetry.

  Beyond words. Beyond blood.

  Beyond Brooke’s Rowe or any part of Philly.

  We’re two souls brought together in tragic harmony.

  LEONARD G. ROBINSON JR.