by Randy Alcorn
“You are eager to explore your world, little one,” the Carpenter said. “Go. Enjoy discovering its riches with your loved ones.”
Her eyes sparkled with delight. She remembered her brother’s words in the Shadowlands: “My dream is the same as it’s always been. A house in the country. Beautiful fields and flowers and horses and dogs, and peace and safety for my children. And if you’d come join us, for you too, Dani. That’s not such a bad dream, is it, Sis?”
Not a bad dream, Antsy. Just a short-sighted one.
Now this was a place worth dreaming of. It looked faintly familiar precisely because she had dreamed of it. This was the place for which she had been made. Her eyes said thank you again to the Carpenter as she felt the excited hands of family tugging her to come explore Dani’s world.
Clarence ransacked Ty’s room. He discovered a purplish blowpipe with a few seeds of unsmoked marijuana still in it. Under the mattress he found a little packet of white rock. He stared at it, his eyes burning, as if it were a living evil thing.
Clarence had seen almost daily the drug dealer who set up shop in his cherry red El Camino just four blocks away over on MLK, a block south of Jackson. Georgie—that was his name. Georgie was decked out in flashy jewelry, the gold rope around his neck, the beeper on his belt, the stylish clothes. He figured Ty must have gotten the dope from Georgie.
Clarence went out on the street and found Ty hanging with some buddies. He grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the house, under protest. Clarence showed Ty the blowpipe and the bag of rock, silencing his complaints.
“You and I are going to take a walk down the street, boy. And I’m going to tell that pusher he isn’t putting drugs in your hands ever again. And you’re going to tell him too. Got me?”
“No, Uncle Antsy. Please. I can’t.” Ty still had vivid memories of the humiliation of being forced to buff his tags off the walls.
“You can, and you will.” Clarence turned to walk. When Ty didn’t follow he grabbed him by the earlobe, as Obadiah had done to him to take him down to the schoolhouse when he’d put that mouse inside little Heather Brine’s desk.
“Ow! That hurts,” Ty said.
“So call the 800 number. You don’t want to get hurt? Then walk—you got the legs for it. You fall behind, and I’ll drag you by your big toe if I have to. Now get movin’, boy!”
They marched toward MLK to the parking lot of a run-down motel known for its porno videos and prostitution. There sat the red El Camino, with several cool dudes hanging around it. Georgie, the head dealer, serviced six different neighborhoods. Most kids could get crack in their own hood, but Georgie was a high volume distributor, like a big car dealer who can sell for less. Georgie was one of Gangster Cool’s best wholesale customers.
Georgie had converted hundreds of kids into users and dozens of the more promising ones into dealers. Clarence had been outraged to learn that as prominent as Georgie was, he’d never spent more than a couple months in jail.
Clarence eyeballed the man, the high roller himself, standing there plain as day in the same Ralph Laurens and Georgio Armanis, the gold jewelry dangling like oversized fishing tackle. Near Georgie stood three Rollin’ 60s bodyguards. They also served as fall guys who kept the drugs on themselves so the big fish wouldn’t get fingered if an undercover cop pulled a sting. These dudes were cool, their eyes giving the thousand-yard stare, telegraphing, “Don’t mess wid me.”
As Clarence and Ty approached the car, a teenage girl walked away. She looked as if she’d once been pretty. She had a short skirt and worn-out eyes. Only three weeks earlier she’d given birth to a seven-pound, eight-ounce drug addict.
Clarence grasped Ty by his wrist to assure he wouldn’t bail. He marched toward the El Camino. When he was fifteen feet away, he began shouting at Georgie.
“You been selling to this boy, scum. I’m here to tell you you’ll never do that again.”
The three bodyguards weren’t sure what to do. One reached in the weighted down brown paper bag he was carrying. Georgie held up his hand and shook his head at the soldier with the bag. He’d lasted this long because he was smart enough not to do his shootings in plain sight. If there was someone to be shot, it would be done in the dark.
“Easy, old head.” Georgie looked at Clarence’s front pockets while one of his guards checked around back. No bulges. The old head wasn’t packin’ a piece.
“Now, what be yo’ problem?” Georgie asked. “You trippin’, man?”
“It’s simple,” Clarence said. “This is my nephew, and you’re not going to sell him drugs ever again.”
“And what do the boy himself say?” Georgie looked at Ty, who shuffled his feet and peered into the sidewalk cracks, saying nothing. “Tyrone, isn’t it? GC’s little road dog. Whatcha say, Ty-man? You wanna keep buyin’? Or you wanna be a model citizen, a drug-free poster boy?” His friends snickered. “Whatchu gonna do when you go through the jonesing? Maybe take up Lipton tea?”
Clarence grabbed the thick gold chain around Georgie’s neck and yanked it violently. When Georgie’s head lurched forward, Clarence’s head was there to meet it. Georgie’s knees buckled under the crushing head butt. His glazed eyes now stared at Clarence’s belt buckle.
Clarence yanked him to his feet by the chain and peered down into his eyes. One man’s eyes were full of rage; the other’s, fear. Clarence glanced to his right and left and told the three soldiers, “You take one more step toward me or the boy, and I’ll break your main man’s little bird neck. Open your hand and take it outta that bag now,” he said to one of the henchmen, “or you’re gonna hear his neck snap before you pull the trigger.”
Georgie’s homeboys saw the fear in Georgie’s eyes. If this wasn’t enough to convince them, one look around them was. The sidewalk had crowded up. Already there were a dozen eyewitnesses, some of them old heads. They could probably trust the young ones not to break the hood’s honor code and talk to the police, but these older folks, the ones who hated gangs and drugs, they couldn’t be trusted. The boys could shoot this dude hassling Georgie, but with all these witnesses, they’d be doin’ hard time for sure.
“You’re kid killers,” Clarence said to Georgie, keeping alert to the three others. “There’s nothin’ worse. Well, we lose Ty and you’re gone, man. You’re history, you hear me? He turns into a cluckhead, and I’m coming after you. This is personal, Georgie, you hear me? I come for you, and you’re gonna wish you were never born. You understand what I’m saying, punk?”
Georgie nodded his head slightly. Clarence pulled tighter on the gold chain. “I said, you understand me?”
“Yeah.” His raspy voice was barely audible.
“And you tell all your dealer buddies the same. Anybody gets this boy drugs and I’ll get you first, then them. You got it?”
“Yeah. Got it.”
Clarence looked at Ty and said, “Now you tell these punks you’re not a druggie. Tell them you don’t want drugs ever again. Say it!”
Ty stared wildly. “Uh…I’s not a druggie. Don’t want no more crack.” Hard as it was, it was easier for him to say it to the weak-kneed, bleeding, overpowered Georgie than the strutting, on-top-of-the-world Georgie he’d always seen before.
“You heard him, didn’t you?” Clarence said. Georgie’s glazed eyes stared forward. “Didn’t you?” The gold chain was now a noose.
“Yeah,” Georgie managed to sputter.
Clarence released the chain, and Georgie dropped back to his knees. He swayed and fell sideways, head bouncing on the pavement. Clarence grabbed the gray beeper off Georgie’s belt. He dropped it on the ground and stomped on it as if it were a mechanical insect.
The homies gave Clarence dirty looks, then crouched down to help their main man regain his dignity.
Clarence grabbed Ty’s hand and turned to leave the parking lot. He was surprised to bump into the crowd of bystanders who now numbered over two dozen. The teenagers, some of them gangsters, stared at him, not sure what to think. The older folk lo
oked at him with respect, wishing they had the courage or the power— or maybe the temporary insanity—to do what Clarence had just done.
The kids under twelve looked at him wide eyed. It was the first time they’d seen Georgie get his comeuppance. Even when he was arrested, they’d watched him bad-mouth the cops, calling one of the black cops nigger. These children, especially the little boys, had come to believe the dealer was above consequences, that with his nice clothes and nice car and the jewelry and girls hanging off him, his was a life to be envied and emulated, a man who demanded respect. But not here. Not now.
Staggering to his feet, a humiliated Georgie swore and with a hoarse voice whispered, “Dat dude needs to chill.” Suddenly he turned and vomited on the ground. His friends backed away in disgust.
Gangsters and wannabes and children pointed at Clarence and whispered, “That’s Ty Abernathy’s uncle. He one crazy dude.” They’d watch out around this guy. He didn’t understand how the hood worked. After dissin’ Georgie like that, no way this dude was gonna live very long.
Clarence and Geneva walked through the hood an hour before sunset, chatting with Frank and several other neighbors, swapping stories, laughing, and exchanging good news and bad. In these six weeks on Dani’s street, Clarence had already had as many conversations with some neighbors as in ten years out in the suburbs.
“Some nice people in this hood,” Clarence said.
“Real nice,” Geneva said, smiling. “I love to take walks with you. No problems, no issues, just a pleasant evening’s walk.”
Out on MLK they stopped to read a window-posted menu at a soul restaurant.
“There be a babe,” a voice called out from across the street. Standing with another young male, he looked like a dealer or a pimp.
“I’ll give you my beeper number, sweet sister,” the second man yelled to Geneva. “Call me day or night. Lady, you’d give eyesight to the blind.”
Clarence checked traffic, then charged across the street. As the two men ran off, one tripped momentarily over his unlaced sneakers. Clarence yelled, “Yeah, and I can qualify you for the Vienna Boys Choir faster than you can call for Mama.” He stopped chasing them and shouted, “She ever gets touched by anybody and I’m comin’ for you, hear me, boys? I’ll know where to find you!” He re-crossed the street, walked back to Geneva, and took her arm in his. He said nothing, waiting for his pulse rate to drop.
“Yep,” Geneva said to Clarence, with a sigh. “Mama always said, there’s nothin’ quite so nice as a pleasant evening’s walk.”
“Wanna see yo’ crib,” GC said to Ty. The boy felt privileged an OG wanted to spend time with him. He didn’t realize that like any gang general, GC wanted to check out all possibilities for hiding dope and arms. Every new recruit meant more resources, more possibilities, more dominion.
Ty and GC came over in mid-afternoon, Ty thinking his uncle would be at work. But Clarence had arrived home early. He watched them coming up the front walkway. GC’s swagger was smooth, well-established. It fit him like old jeans. Ty’s swagger, in contrast, seemed forced and self-conscious. Clarence eyed GC’s glistening jheri curls, early Michael Jackson.
“Hey, Ty,” Clarence said as he opened the front door, trying to be friendly but startling his nephew. “What are you doin?”
Ty shrugged his shoulders. “Jus’ hangin’.”
“Who you hangin’ with?” Clarence and Ty both looked at GC.
“We road dogs,” GC said smoothly.
“Road dogs?”
“Best friends,” GC said.
“Does my nephew’s best friend have a name?”
“Name’s GC,” Ty said.
“Hi, GC. Good to meet you.” Clarence extended his hand. GC passed his fingers lightly over Clarence’s. “What’s GC stand for?” Clarence asked him.
“Gangster Cool,” GC said, eyes not flinching.
“How’d you get that moniker? Choose it? Or earn it?”
“Earned it.”
“Well, if you’re going to hang with my nephew you better change your name. Gangsters aren’t welcome here.”
While Ty’s face contorted, GC just smiled, looking cool, as always.
“The gang’s got nothing but death for you,” Clarence said. “Today you’re GC, tomorrow you’re GD.”
“Say what?”
“Gangster Dead.”
GC glared at Clarence, testing him with the thousand-yard stare at a one-yard distance. He looked like a lion eyeing a zebra and trying to decide whether he’s hungry enough to bother. Clarence stared back, gaze boring hard into GC’s. The dynamic began to shift. For a moment, GC felt more like the zebra in the gaze of the lion.
“Never mind, Li’l GC,” the gangster said to Ty. “Let’s go.”
Clarence put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder, but Ty shrugged it off. Clarence wanted to hold him back. He wasn’t sure what this gangster had mumbled to Ty, but it sounded like he’d called him “Li’l GC.” Clarence’s heart sank as he watched the two walk down the sidewalk.
“Whassup, cuz?” GC called to two teen boys coming their way.
“Hey, cuzzins.” The two boys raised their fists high and signaled back something to GC and Ty. GC threw up a salute to his head with the cupped right hand that showed the Crip “C” and a clever turn of the left hand fingers that represented a six for 60s. Ty followed suit, flashing a more awkward Rollin’ 60s sign.
If he’d had any doubts remaining, as he looked at the boys now, Clarence knew with certainty he wasn’t watching three gangsters, but four.
On Wednesday afternoon Clarence finished his Thursday column, packed up his briefcase, and left the Trib at one. He’d been there since five-thirty, and his bones ached for the country. He dropped by the house in North Portland, changed to his sweats, affixed his bike rack to the car, strapped on his mountain bike, and jumped in the Bonneville’s driver’s seat with spring in his step. He drove out toward Gresham. When he’d lived in the suburbs, he’d ridden the Springwater Corridor Trail three or four times a week. Now because of the driving time, that was down to just once a week, Wednesday afternoons. But it was a ritual he looked forward to, rain or shine. These days, it was one of the few oases in the desert of his life.
Thursday evening the violins, trombones, trumpets, french horns, drums, and cymbals permeated the living room at high volume. The two men sat next to each other, soaking in the music. In front of them were the rich blues, the deep reds, the black backdrop, and the white pinpoints of a distant part of the galaxy where their minds traveled, though their bodies sat in Jake’s apartment. It was the introduction to television’s Deep Space Nine. For the next hour they bantered through commercials and watched the show attentively right to the credits.
“DS Nine’s getting better,” Clarence said. “It’s nearly as good as Voyager now, maybe Next Generation.”
“It’s not that good,” Jake said.
“Well, Sisko’s the best captain.”
“Better than Kirk, sure. Better than Janeway? I don’t know. I really like her. But nobody’s better than Picard.”
“Picard? He’s a cold fish. Sisko’s my main man.”
“He kind of reminds me of you,” Jake said.
“Because he’s black and studly?”
“No. Because he’s cute and lovable.”
“Cute and what?” Clarence said. “Hey, Jake, you remember when Captain Kirk kissed Lieutenant Uhura in the original Star Trek? Did you know that was the first interracial kiss ever on television?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah,” Clarence smiled wistfully. “It was less than thirty years ago, and we were still watching it on our black-and-white TV, Harley and Ellis and I. Mama saw that white man and black woman kissing and got right up and turned off the TV. She said, ‘I don’t want you boys gettin’ no ideas.’ She said, ‘Don’t you forget Emmit Till,’ then she pulled out that old picture.”
“Who’s Emmit Till? What picture?”
Clarence l
ooked surprised Jake didn’t know. “A fourteen-year-old boy. He was visiting family in Mississippi. They say he made a friendly comment to some white woman in a store. They found him three days later in the Tallahatchie River, wired by his neck to a big old metal fan. He had a bullet in his skull, eye gouged out, head crushed. His mother insisted on an open casket so the whole world could see. Jet magazine printed a picture of his corpse. Mama cut it out. Even though we were just babies when it happened, a couple times a year she’d pull it out of a drawer and show it to us boys—to scare us into staying away from white girls.”
“Who killed him?”
“The woman’s husband and his brother, as I recall. There was an eyewitness who identified the two of them as dragging Emmit into their truck and driving off. The all-white jury deliberated one hour and found them not guilty.”
“No kidding? I didn’t remember that.” Jake felt tentative, wondering whether to step into it or not. “Can I ask you something, Clarence? You obviously think a lot about…racial issues. That’s fine, and you’ve helped me understand a lot of things. But sometimes I sense you’re…angry. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Harley says any black man who isn’t angry is either stupid or dead,” Clarence said. “Not that I agree with Harley. I usually don’t.” Jake noticed Clarence running his finger underneath his right ear.
“I guess I usually assume the anger is racial,” Jake said, “but I’m not sure. Sometimes you’re hard to read. I really do want to understand you better. We’re friends. We’re brothers. Talk to me. I want to know what’s going on inside you.”
Clarence sighed and sat silent for thirty seconds. “Where do I begin? Which of a thousand stories do I tell? How about this one? Once down in Mississippi I was with my cousin Rod and my aunt Charlene. A teenage white boy walks by and glares at us with these dagger eyes and growls under his breath, ‘Niggers.’ Aunt Charlene turns around and looks at him and a light goes on. She says, ‘That’s Jarod Smith. I used to take care of him. I raised him. I wiped that boy’s nose and his bottom, and I dried his tears. All so he could grow up and call me and mine nigger?’ She was mad as a wet wasp,” Clarence laughed. “Can you blame her?”
