King

by Johnson, Tremayne

  He sniffed the substance into his nostrils. ''Yes! That’s the China white, Sincere!''

  My father walked to the front door and made sure the locks were secure. He then walked to the window and looked out to the front of the house. When he came back toward the sofa where I sat, I could see he wore a totally different expression on his face and it wasn’t a good look at all.

  ''Loyalty is more precious than any amount of money, gold or diamonds, Pasha.''

  Mr. Williams was taken by surprise by the comment. He seemed confused as he tried to fix his clothing. ''What do you mean by that, Rafi?''

  For the first time in a long time, I heard Mr. Williams call my father by his birth-given name. I knew something was wrong.

  My father put one finger up to his lips. ''Shhh'' he gestured, and reached into the front of his pants and came out with a pistol. He pointed it directly at Mr. Williams.

  ''Rafi, what has come over you?'' He pleaded, fear etched all over his face.

  As he moved silently across the room, my father kept the gun trained on Mr. Williams like he was out in the jungle hunting an animal. He reached out and ripped the buttons off Mr. Williams’ linen shirt exposing his bare chest. At second glance, Mr. Williams’ chest wasn’t bare at all. From where I sat on the sofa, I could see a black wire taped to his skin with a small round object attached to the end of it.

  ''Pasha, you’re a fucking traitor!'' My father hit him over the head with the butt end of the pistol.

  Mr. Williams grabbed his head and fell into my mother’s China cabinet where she stored antiques.

  ''Rafi, please don’t do this. They made me come here to set you up. They said they would kill my family if I don’t cooperate. I fear for my family’s well being. I hate that it had to come to this.''

  ''Pasha, I told you when we first became involved in this business that if you ever betrayed me, I would kill you! I guess you didn’t take me serious?''

  ''It’s not my fault, Rafi. You should have done what they asked of you and none of this would have happened. They feel you are becoming too big of an influence on the people.''

  My father put the barrel of the gun to Mr. Williams’ temple.

  ''People sometimes confuse power and influence, Pasha...this is power!''

  At the same time our front door came crashing down, my father squeezed the trigger and blew Mr. Williams’ brains out the back of his head and onto the freshly painted walls. Blood splattered the light, grey carpet and covered my face as I sat on the sofa screaming my lungs out.

  Two armed militiamen stormed our house and were met with a hail of bullets as they crossed the threshold. The earsplitting sounds coming from my father’s gun sounded exactly like those old war movies that he and I used to watch. When the gunfire ended, he snatched me from the sofa, grabbed the bag of money, the white powder and escaped through the back door. That was the last time I ever saw my father in the physical.

  Seven months later, my mother and I migrated to the United States in pursuit of what some call the American Dream.

  Chapter Two

  After witnessing my first homicide at age five it was impossible to remove the images of that day from my brain. For years I would relive the scene in my dreams. Waking up in cold sweats screaming like someone had been torturing me.

  The environment we moved into didn’t help one bit. Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, also known as Do or Die Bedstuy. Every night gunshots cleared the streets and yellow police tape littered the avenues. It never failed; every time my mother heard those shots she would run into my room to make sure I was safe. One time a stray bullet crashed through our window and ripped through the chair I had just been sitting in. Talk about being lucky.

  In the beginning, I hated the fact that we had to leave our country and come to the United States, only because Guyana is a beautiful place that’s full of beautiful people. It was originally a Dutch colony back in the 17th century, but by 1815 the British had seized it. In 1966 Guyana acquired independence from the UK and ever since, mostly socialist-oriented governments have ruled it.

  To me, people in America are rude and disrespectful, especially the people that lived on my block. On top of being an outsider, my look was not the most common in the area either. In fact, one glance at me, and you knew I didn’t belong. My short cut, curly, black hair and olive skin complexion gave people a reason to believe I was of Indian decent and although a large population of my country is of Indian origin, my mother and I are African-Guyanese. I hated when the other kids would make fun of me and call me names. They would also mock my slight accent and ask why I didn’t have a dot in the middle of my head. My reaction would always be the same. ''I’m not Indian, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.''

  I guess they never liked when I stood up for myself, because I got into numerous fights defending my culture. When I was young I was always much smaller then the rest of the children my age and that just meant that I had to prove myself even more.

  When I was eight years old in the third grade there was this kid named Butch ''The Bully'' Jones: the school bully. Butch was nine years old going on ten and was still in the third grade. I think he got left back two times. At 5ft he weighed at least 150 pounds. Talk about being big for your age.

  Lunchtime is when Butch harassed all the new kids that came to the school. I was no exception. On this one particular day I knew he was going to try and turn me into one of his many victims.

  I walked through the long lunch line as usual. Today was pizza day, one of my favorite days of the week. Everyday during lunch I would always sit at the same table with the same group of students since I had come to the school. Today was no different.

  I grabbed my juice box, my slice of pizza, and my two chocolate chip cookies and headed towards the table. Halfway there I was met by Butch and his cohort, Red.

  Red’s government name is Michael, but everyone called him Red because of the color of his hair. He always trailed behind Butch like he was his shadow. I had an understanding of the type of person Red was: a straight up follower. My father told me, ''never become a follower, always be a leader.''

  Anyway, I tried to turn and walk in the opposite direction but Butch’s size nine just so happened to be sticking out, and I tripped over his foot dropping my lunch tray and landing on it in front of the entire cafeteria. Dark tomato sauce stained my only good sweatshirt and I could hear the whole lunchroom breakout in laughter.

  ''Next time you better watch where you’re going...punk!'' Butch said standing over me with a stupid smirk spread across his face.

  My first instinct was to jump up and charge at him swinging a bunch of wild blows. Rethinking, I scratched that thought from my mind. I had to be smart if I was going to attack. I realized if I acted out of frustration I was clearly outnumbered two to one. I knew for sure he and Red would jump me. I knew all too well about the infamous beat downs they were known to dish out and I was not about to become their next victim.

  I stood up, brushed the tomato sauce off my shirt and the embarrassment from my face, sat down and ate what was left of my lunch. It was time to strategize a plan for my revenge.

  A few days later after school let out this kid named Jayson approached me as I walked home.

  ''Yo, shorty...wait up!'' He yelled out jogging to catch up to me.

  I recognized him from the neighborhood, but up until this point we had never said a word to each other. He was two years older than I was and in the fifth grade. I would always see him hanging out in front of my building with some of the older kids. He was definitely one of the many that my mother despised and warned me never to hang around.

  ''Are you talking to me?'' I questioned, pointing at myself, looking around confused.

  ''Yeah, I’m talking to you. Your name is Deon right? Don’t you live in that building on Jefferson Avenue?''

  ''Yeah, how do know my name?'' I inquired.

  ''Don’t worry about all that kid. You walking home?''

  I shrugged
my shoulders, ''Yeah, I guess.''

  ''Well, I’m goin’ that way so I’ll walk with you.''

  On our short walk to Jefferson Avenue I learned a lot about Jayson and he learned a few things about me. He told me that everyone calls him Jay-Roc. I asked him how he got that name and he said, Jay was short for Jayson and the Roc part had something to do with his job. I didn’t know what he meant by that. I figured he collected rocks or something.

  Jay-Roc made jokes about my thrift store clothing and told me that if I wanted any chance of surviving in the Stuy that I had better get some new ones fast. I took a quick survey of what he was wearing and noticed that everything he had on looked brand new. He wore an oversized brown coat with fur around the hood, his blue denim jeans were loose fitting and sagging halfway off his butt, and his crispy, tan colored boots had a little tree at the back heel.

  At the time I wasn’t too concerned about how I looked as opposed to how my stomach felt on a daily basis. Since the move from Guyana my mother was in a constant struggle to provide the proper nutrition a kid my age needs, so there were plenty of days I went without breakfast or dinner. The main reason I went to school was because I got free lunch.

  Being hungry ain’t a joke. I know first hand. Most nights I tried sleeping the pain away only to wake up in the morning feeling worse than I did the night before. When I was fortunate enough to get a mayonnaise sandwich or a few pieces of cheese, I treated it like a five star meal.

  I tried to hide my malnourishment from the world, but I knew that everyone could see how small I was. It was just something that I really couldn’t do too much about at the time.

  Jay-Roc told me that he had heard about my run-in with Butch ''The Bully''. He said Butch was a coward for doing that to me and he had never liked him because he bullied those who were smaller than he was or those who he thought he could beat up.

  Together Jay-Roc and I came up with a plan to get revenge on Butch and he promised me he would make sure he never bullied anyone again.

  The next day at school I was kind of nervous because we were going to execute our plan to get back at Butch. I was hoping Jay-Roc didn’t show up for school, but to my surprise there he was standing at his locker giving me a head nod. That meant it was time to put the plan in motion.

  The hallway was filled with third, fourth, and fifth graders on their way to the cafeteria. I took a deep breath when I saw Butch standing off to the side not too far from where I was. I clutched the straps of my knapsack that hung from my back and stepped through the crowded corridor. As soon as I got to where Butch was, I poked my chest out, walked up to him, and bumped him hard with my right shoulder. I took off running in the direction of the restrooms. Just as we figured, Butch was right on my heels. When I turned the corner I busted through the bathroom door to find Jay-Roc and two of his cronies. Jay-Roc ushered me to stand by the urinals. I was scared as hell, but anxious to see how the situation was going to play out.

  Butch came crashing through the door his nostrils flared up like a fire-breathing dragon. His fists were balled up ready to pummel the first person he saw. The rage on his face quickly turned to fear when he noticed Jay-Roc and his two goons.

  ''What’s up, Butch?'' Jay-Roc asked rubbing his hands together ready to do some damage. ''Didn’t I tell you stop bullying people smaller than you and pick on someone your own size?''

  Butch looked at me, and then back at Jay-Roc. He tried to make a run for the door, but one of Jay-Roc’s goons was on him. During my time here in America I watched more than a few WWF wrestling matches on television. The move this guy did to Butch looked exactly like one a professional wrestler would do in the ring. All I saw were Butch’s feet go up in the air and his back hit the floor, before I could even blink. Jay-Roc and his boys surrounded Butch while he was down and took turns kicking him in the stomach and punching him in the face. I grimaced as I tried to imagine how much pain Butch was in lying on that cold bathroom floor.

  ''Get up chump!'' Jay-Roc yelled out.

  His boys lifted Butch from the floor and held him between the two of them. Jay-Roc glanced over in my direction. In his eyes, I saw fire. The same fire my father had in his eyes years ago when he killed Mr. Williams and shot those two militiamen. Jay-Roc whipped a shiny object from his coat pocket and jabbed it into Butch’s abdomen several times. His two boys who were holding him let him fall back to the floor and that’s when I saw the blood seep from under his body. Right then I knew it had gone too far.

  ''Deon, c’mon we gotta go!'' Jay-Roc screamed.

  I tried to move, but my legs felt like they weighed one hundred pounds each. I was stuck in shock.

  ''Deon, let’s go!'' He barked and grabbed me by the front of my shirt and yanked me from my trance.

  We raced through the halls like the boogieman was chasing us. It wasn’t until we got all the way back to Jefferson Avenue when we stopped. It seemed like we were running forever. Once we reached the block no one mentioned a word about what just took place. Everyone just went their separate ways.

  Jay-Roc put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to him. ''You all right, Deon?'' He asked, looking me directly in my eyes.

  My father always told me if you want to know the truth you look a person directly in their eyes. He would say, ''The eyes are the window to the soul.''

  I looked back into Jay-Roc’s eyes, but I didn’t answer. It was something about his stare that puzzled me.

  He spoke, ''It’s cool, Deon...you don’t have to worry about Butch anymore.''

  He gave me a pound and told me that he would see me tomorrow and we departed. I’ll never forget that day because that day stained my memory in a way I will never forget.

  Chapter Three

  The next day a loud knock at my front door awoke me from my sleep. I could hear my mother’s voice in the living room, but couldn’t hear who she was talking to. Two minutes later my room door came open and my mother stood in the doorway with two police officers by her side.

  ''Deon, get up!'' She yelled.

  I tried to play like I was asleep, but she wasn’t having it. ''Deon, get your ass up. I know you’re not sleep.''

  I rolled over and wiped the crust from my eyes. ''Yes ma?'' I answered.

  ''Don’t yes ma me boy. What happened at school yesterday?''

  I knew by the question she asked the police officers already had known what took place. I decided to act like I didn’t know what was going on.

  I could feel the policemen eyeing me. ''Nothing,'' I said. It was as if they could see right through my lies.

  ''That’s not what these two officers tell me. Get up and put some clothes on and come to the living room.''

  All sorts of things ran through my mind. I snatched a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt to put on. I tried to take my time getting out to the living room, but my mother’s booming voice ricocheted off the walls.

  ''Hurry your ass up!'' She screamed, followed by a few curse words in Creole. I knew she was really mad when that happened.

  When I finally made it out to the living room the two cops were sitting on the sofa waiting. My mother stood by the kitchen with a lit cigarette and a steaming cup of coffee.

  The first thing I noticed about the policemen was that they were both white. I couldn’t understand why I never saw any black policemen in my neighborhood. It was always white cops arresting Black’s and Latino’s.

  My heart beat a million times per minute as I stood there staring at the two cops. If the truth is written on your face, then I was as guilty as they come. Seconds later the interrogation began.

  They bombarded me with question after question trying to get me to paint the scenario for them. I stood my ground and told them nothing. Ever since I was a baby my father told me to keep my mouth shut. He would always say, ''Never be a tattle teller, Deon. Keep your mouth shut and you’ll make it further in life.'' A lot of my father’s lessons were instilled in me at a very young age, so whatever situation I was in there was always somet
hing he taught me to help me get through it.

  After about an hour of questioning, I just knew they were going to put those shiny silver bracelets around my wrists and lock me away in one of those cells I saw on television. Then it dawned on me; if what they claim is true, and they know for a fact that I was involved, then why all the questions? Every other question they asked me had something to do with Jayson. I told them that I didn’t know anybody by that name. One of the police officers started to get real mad. His face turned beet red and his breathing got really heavy.

  He began pointing at me sayings things like, ''If I find out you had anything to do with this, you better believe you’ll never see the light of day again.''

  I was waiting for my mother to say something the whole time, but she kept silent until the angry cop poked me in my chest with his index finger.

  ''Wait one goddamn minute!'' She protested. ''If my son says he didn’t have anything to do with it, then that’s what it is.''

  The angry cop snarled at my mother. They stared at each other with mean faces for a few seconds, and then my mother opened the front door.

  ''It’s time for you two men to be leaving my house. My son has answered all of your questions.'' She said, plucking a long ash from her Virginia Slim cigarette. She held the front door open as the two cops left our house. She slammed the door behind them.

  When the cops left, to my surprise my mother never said a word about the incident, but for some reason I knew that she knew that I knew more than what I was telling those policemen.

  It was all over the newspapers that morning. The headline read: Nine year old boy stabbed in school bathroom.