Even Sinners Still Have Souls

by Joy, E. n.

  Kemo stayed in L.A for about a week, mainly selling bootleg DVD’s in the ghettos of Los Angeles. When the time to go home came, he hoped that everything with the police and Jasmine had cooled down.

  When he arrived back in Robles, he went straight to his old apartment hoping to find Jasmine and Rain, but they weren’t there. So he decided to stay in a hotel until he and Jasmine could talk to smooth things over. He didn’t want her showing up clowning and causing an ugly scene.

  As soon as he got his room, he began work on the video that he had recorded in L.A. He wanted to make it as clean as possible. The next day, he drove to his old selling spot and asked the workers in the lunch truck if the cops had been around.

  “No, not for some time, I think it’s safe now.”

  That was music to Kemo’s ears. He immediately took the catalog book out and placed it on the truck. Hours later, the homeless man who was working for Kemo before, showed up with two other guys. “Hey what’s up, man? Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you. I passed by a little while ago and saw that you were back.”

  “I hear you, but I had to go out of town for a little while. Why? You ready to start working again?” said Kemo with a smile.

  “That’s what these guys wanted to talk to you about,” said the homeless man as he pointed to the other two guys who were there. “I told them that I had a job. They didn’t believe me though.”

  Kemo looked the men up and down. “What’s up?” asked Kemo.

  “He owes us some money. He said that he would pay us back whenever he saw you again and broke him off something. Well, we feel that since he works for you, you can go ahead and pay us and then you and him can work that out,” said one of the guys.

  Kemo couldn’t believe these dudes. They had to have thought he was some type of dummy. “What? Naw man, that’s his problem, not mine.” Kemo couldn’t even believe they were coming at him with that mess.

  “You sure about that?” asked the other guy standing there, in almost a threatening tone.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” Kemo wasn’t budging.

  “Alright,” said one of the guys and they both walked away, whispering back and forth to each other while every now and then looking back over their shoulder at Kemo.

  “Man, what kind of mess have you been getting into since I’ve been gone?” Kemo asked the homeless man.

  “I know-I know. I’m sorry to bring trouble your way,” the man apologized, but it’s all good. I’ll put in some work for you and take care of my debt with them.”

  “No problem,” Kemo said, ready to make some money. “Do you still have your book?”

  “Yeah. Not on me though.”

  “Well give it to me when you can. But for now I have an updated one.”He gave the new book to the homeless man, hoping he’d get back on the grind and get him business like he had before. “Go make some money so you can pay those clowns back. They seem a little loco. They must be in order for them to come at me like that.”

  The homeless man apologized yet again and got back on the grind.

  Later that night, as Kemo sat in his car listening to music while waiting on a customer to roll through, he noticed a man with a hoody over his head. The man was standing by a nearby bus stop while talking on a cell phone. Kemo then looked to his right and spotted another man under a tree wearing the same thing and talking on a cell phone as well.

  The entire lot was empty besides the lunch truck. Only a few passing cars could be heard as well as the music that Kemo was listening to. He kept his eyes on both men. Kemo had a gut feeling that they were communicating with each other for some reason. He then spotted them both simultaneously begin to jog towards him. They both lifted up their shirts and pulled out hand guns. Kemo instantly turned his car on and shifted the gear to reverse to begin backing away from the lot. As soon as the car began to move, they began firing at Kemo. Kemo ducked as the two gunmen continued firing. The guys inside the lunch truck quickly ducked for cover.

  Once the thunder stopped rolling, it was Kemo’s car that began rolling…all on it’s own. It came to a complete stop only after hitting a wall.

  The gunmen quickly ran towards the car and opened the driver’s door. One of them began searching Kemo’s pockets as the other acted as a look out. They could hear Kemo wheezing as he struggled for breath. Lightening had struck; that lightening being a couple bullets finding their destination in Kemo’s upper body. Blood and shattered glass was everywhere.

  Kemo slightly looked up when he felt someone digging in his pockets and instantly recognized the man who was doing it. At first Kemo thought it might have been one of the two men that had been with the homeless man earlier, but it wasn’t. It was the thin man he had met in jail the morning of his release. The man who had the gold teeth that spelled out EAST. The same man who had murdered his elderly neighbors. Could it just have been a random robbery-a bad coincidence for Kemo? But then again, he remembered his grandmother once telling him before she died that there was no such thing as a coincidence in life. That everything was God’s doing. If that was the case, then perhaps he should have gotten to know God a little better over the years-kinda got some cool points with Him. But it was too late for that. What was done was done.

  The men took all the money Kemo had made that night and ran off to the awaiting Caprice Classic a few blocks away. Kemo’s mind began racing as he laid down on his front seat bleeding. He wondered why this had happened to him. Why had those men shot him? Did the dope dealers find out about the counterfeit money he’d been given them? Did the homeless man set him up? Did his competitors send the men after him? Did the call girls do it? Was Jasmine involved somehow?

  He quickly wiped that last thought out of his mind. Jasmine betraying him to that degree would never happen. He knew she loved him. He knew that she was just temporarily angry with him and would eventually get over it. Everything would be okay. Him and his family would be alright.

  Kemo thought of every person who could possibly have a motive to take his life, except for the one who he almost killed himself the night of the shooting incident. The man Kemo shot that night was told by his friends that they knew where Kemo was. Kemo had unknowingly sold some movies to them one day. Kemo was slightly high and intoxicated the night of the shooting so he had forgotten exactly what they looked like, besides everything had happened so fast. The man Kemo shot had been looking for Kemo throughout the week while he’d been in L.A. Coincidence? Or had God orchestrated everything? Giving Kemo a little extra time here on earth?

  Kemo, feeling as though he’d take his last breath at any moment, stopped trying to figure out who was responsible for the ambush and just began praying to God for help. Surely, if his grandmother was right everything that happened in life was orchestrated by God, then God would have the answers to his prayers.

  God, please don’t take me yet. My family needs me. Let me give them a better life and then you can take me, please.

  The guys in the lunch truck ran out towards Kemo when they saw that the shooters were gone. “Kemo, we called 911. Don’t worry, friend; they’ll be here in a minute. Just hold on,” said one of the guys as they stood outside of Kemo’s shot up car.

  “Grandma,” Kemo whispered.

  “What, Kemo?” asked one of the guys when they couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  “Grandma,” Kemo whispered again before falling unconscious.

  Chapter Six

  Jasmine heard her phone ring in the living room. She picked it up and said, “Hello.”

  “May I speak with Jasmine please,” asked the voice of a man who Jasmine didn’t recognize.

  “This is her. Who may I ask is calling?”

  “My name is officer Richard Campbell, and I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your boyfriend was shot tonight…and I’m sorry, but he passed away.”

  Jasmine dropped the phone and began screaming hysterically. She fell to her knees and began crying on the floor. Rain then began to cry as well from the scare
of hearing and seeing her mother screaming in tears.

  The police were able to call Jasmine because after finding Kemo’s ID on him, they ran his name and discovered that he was in the system. From there they were able to come up with his last known address and phone number.

  Jasmine took the news hard. She hated that the last encounter she’d had with Kemo had been a negative one. She never got a chance to make amends with one of the only people in her life who accepted her for who she was.

  One month later, Jasmine received a phone call from a woman in Los Angeles. “Hello, may I please speak with Kemo?” asked the woman. Jasmine stood in silence for a few seconds, until the woman said, “Hello? You still there?”

  “He’s not here. I’m his girlfriend, who may I ask is calling?”

  “Well, he doesn’t know me, but I met him about a month ago on Hollywood Boulevard. He gave me a disk that contained a very good screenplay. I work for an agency in Beverly Hills. I showed it to a few people and they loved it. They have decided to green light it. I’m calling to make an offer. Congratulations,” said the woman with a sincere tone of joy.

  Jasmine’s eyes began to water and her throat knotted as she looked upward. She closed her eyes, and tears of several loving emotions slowly streamed down her pain stricken face.

  One year later, a now somewhat wealthy Jasmine and Rain walked down the main street of their old neighborhood. She looked up and stared at a billboard that was advertising the movie that her late lover had written. As she continued walking, she spotted a young man who slightly resembled Kemo selling merchandise on the side walk. She stopped and looked at what he was selling; they were movies. She looked up and stared at him for a while as he spoke to a customer. She then looked down once more and saw something she had just seen a few minutes ago. It was a pirated version of Kemo’s movie. She picked it up and smiled. She then looked up towards the sky and whispered, “You did it, baby.”

  Now that all Rain had was one parent, Jasmine knew she had to be the best she could be for her daughter. Kemo had died trying to make a better life for Jasmine and his daughter. She couldn’t allow his death to be in vain.

  Jasmine never tasted alcohol or did any type of drug ever again. She used the money from the screenplay to finally do what Kemo tried so hard to do; move to a better place, both physically and spiritually, as she and Rain had began attending the same church in which Kemo’s funeral was held. A place where hope was a genuine offer and not counterfeit.

  The End

  He’s With Me

  By Karen Williams

  Chapter One

  I rummaged through the shelves frantically. Each time a shelf opened, I muttered, “Where...” Each time a shelf closed I continued, “…is it?” It was one of those situations where I knew exactly where what I was looking for was and where it was the last time I saw it, but still I wanted to check every crevice I could, praying it showed up in a spot that I knew it wasn’t actually in. And now I wasn’t closing shelves, but slamming them so hard to the point where instead of closing, they ended up bouncing back wide open.

  Roaches were scattering about at my every move. I ignored them because my shoulders were shaking and I was breathing in and out deeply to stop my tears from coming. I could not go out there again and sleep with another man for rent money. God could forgive only so many of my sins.

  And of course I knew what had happened. He is what had happened. Yes, my husband was minimized to a pronoun in my eyes, ’cause he sure wasn’t a husband, a father, or a man at that. But my fear of getting stomped by him would never let me utter those words out loud, let alone to his face. And my love−Yes I still did feel that sentiment for him. I was surely a fool.

  “Mama, what’s wrong?”

  I turned to my ten-year old son. The deep breathing I was doing to calm myself down didn’t stop the tears; they started pouring down my face. I wiped them and stared at my son. He looked exactly like me; it was so funny. Whenever we went somewhere, people would say, “Girl, your husband ain’t had nothing to do with this boy. Looks like you spit him right on out.”

  Little Tricie, my seven-year old daughter, however, took exactly after her daddy. Little heffa didn’t look nothing like me. She had his creamy, milk chocolate complexion, a set of high model like cheek bones, and cat like eyes with wide framed lashes that looked like she put on mascara about five times a day. It was those same eyes that her papa got me with. One look my way and I was hooked. Man, they were so dreamy, like he was a movie star or something.

  “Mama,” my son repeated. “What’s wrong?”

  “I… I can’t find the rent money,” I stammered.

  I looked down at our dark carpet, not dark by choice or design, but dark with all the stains from 40’s spilled on it, dried up blood, piss, and vomit from over the years of my husband’s drama. The times he came in pissy, drunk and high. The times that he threw up and sometimes peed all over the place. Then there were the fights between him and his get high buddies where furniture was turned over and drinks were spilled. Not to mention the times the drug dealers chased him right into our living room and shed much of my husband’s blood for money he owed them. They wanted to convince him physically that it was in his best interest to go ahead and pay up. Yep, that’s where the dark in our carpet I cleaned with my bare hands weekly came from. Funny, no matter how much I cleaned it, it remained dark.

  Next thing my son and I knew, there was someone not knocking, but banging on the apartment door.

  “Shortcake, I know you’re in there.”

  That was my name. In fact my mama had named me that because I was the only black woman she knew with light skin, red freckles and red hair. I had red hair that to this day, no matter what the new style was, I still wore a feather tucked in it. I don’t know-it just seemed to fit me. It was like my little trade mark or something.

  I grew up in Nickerson Gardens. I was raised by my mother. I never met my father, and if I brought him up to my mother she would go berserk. So over time, I learned to keep my inquiring mind about who my father was, what he looked like and where he was all my life to myself. She said he ran out on her one day and never came back. My mother had been on drugs all of my life so I pretty much took care of myself. I never had any friends because girls in the projects always wanted to fight me or just my luck, jump me. My mom said it was because I was so pretty. I do think that had something to do with it. I also think because my mother was a known drug addict, it gave them something to talk about and tease me about. Everybody had to have a scapegoat. To those girls who terrorized me, that’s what I was. Going through all of that made me more of a loner than anything.

  I had my first run-in with the law when I was sixteen. It was actually because of my mother who made me take a counterfeit fifty-dollar bill to a corner store to buy a bag of chips with it so I could get the change back and give it to her. I ended up doing a six-month camp program at Central Juvenile Hall, which actually helped me. My probation officer found out who and what my mother was, because she was arrested right in front of me at the camp during visitation. Shockingly enough, my mother took a mini-break and went into the restroom to get high. When she came back, she was so high that she forgot to put the pipe away and instead stuck it behind her ear as if it were a flower or cigarette. Nothing felt so low as seeing them take her out during my visit in handcuffs. I was teased for weeks after that.

  Once I successfully finished my camp program, I was taken from my mother and enrolled in a Transitional Housing Program. The program gave me a place to stay in San Pedro, job training and a job eventually working as a secretary at the Docks in San Pedro. My mother, from the point of me getting arrested and on, never really cared enough to see what happened to me. I only saw her when I went around the Nickerson’s to see her. If I didn’t go see her, we would have never seen each other.

  When she died, I was eighteen. The thing was, I was not surprised when I found out. She had been on dope since I was a kid, and I was more disappo
inted than hurt. So I did not grieve after she died. To me, she always felt more like a distant relative than my mother. All my life dope had her. I had always vowed to be a much different and better mother to my kids, and I was. My mother was always in and out of my life. I was always there for my kids in every aspect. My mother always raged at me because she couldn’t get her dope. I showed my kids patience and love no matter what.

  The banging on my door continued.

  I turned to my son. “Jo Jo, get Tricie and go to Valerie’s house, and don’t come back until I come and get you.”

  “Yes, Mama.” He jogged down the hall to Tricie’s room.

  After one too many knocks unanswered, our manager came storming into the living room of our home. He stood in front of me and looked his beady eyes down on me like I was beneath him. To him, I was. He owned the building, and on a daily basis he reminded us all that he was doing us a favor.

  Both my kids rushed past him and out of the house. Once they left, he split his two legs shoulder-width apart as if he was getting ready for a battle. He then pulled his arms behind his back. “Shortcake, you know what today is, so don’t give me no mess, girl.”

  He was a slick, white apartment manager. He wasn’t but five feet-four inches tall, but he was still taller than me. He had thinning gray hair and saggy, wrinkled up skin. Glasses covered his red and tired looking blue eyes. He looked like a shorter bootleg version of Mr. Roper from Three’s Company.

  Dude was always on me about my rent.

  I licked my dry lips. “I just need a little more time, Mr. Baker.”

  “Girl, I’ve given you two weeks. I ain’t got no more time to give you.” I knew what was next. His doggone “You People” speech. “I don’t think you people realize how fortunate you should feel to be here. Years ago this was considered a cash cow. You know how much I was renting one of these apartments out for?”