Urban Diaries

by Jackson, Sexcee

  Cerise grabbed the scissors off the table and began snipping the extra hair that protruded from the individual braids that she had completed. Jayson looked at her, his eyes suddenly sadden. “Cause I know he won’t come here tripping”, he responded glumly.

  There was another knock at the door and Cerise apologized to her client as she walked over to answer it. She looked through the peephole and didn’t see anyone. She waited to hear more knocking, but she heard nothing. As she turned to walk back to her client, the door was kicked in and Sean appeared shotgun in hand. Jayson, too surprised and numb to run, began pleading with him to no avail.

  Sean aimed the barrel at Jayson’s head, pulled the trigger once as Cerise and her client screamed in horror. Evidence of Jayson’s untimely demise lay splattered all over Cerise’s kitchen as Sean Jr., Cerise and Sean’s three-year-old toddler came out of the bedroom, sleepy-eyed and juice cup in hand. Cerise ran over to the baby and tried to shield him from the horrific sight, but it was obviously too late. Jayson’s limp body lay sprawled out across a chair and his brains plastered all over the kitchen walls like red and pink-spackled decorum.

  Apt. A-304

  She heard the shot. Hell, everybody in the A-Building did, but she had no idea the heartache it would carry. Besides, gunshots were as normal as the sun shining everyday. It was almost as mandatory as day and night.

  She finished sucking her client off and just as he was about to climax, she took his penis from her mouth and finished him off with her hand. When he was done, they dressed in silence and he left. She grabbed the money off the nightstand and grabbed her backpack. She flipped up the inside torn flap and pulled out her wad of money. She counted it and was relieved that her mother didn’t take any. She added the $50 she just made to it and smiled at the thought of almost having enough money to leave the projects.

  A-304 was an apartment used by all prostitutes to turn their tricks. Lester was the man in charge, for he made sure that every girl was paid fairly and every client left satisfied. The knock on the door startled him as he was interrupted from tying a tourniquet around his arm for his daily fix.

  Lester walked to the door and welcomed in the client while describing to him every sexual fantasy a young man could imagine. When he noticed it was Sean, he laughed and said, “Hey man, your boy Jay Sweets was just here the other day. I fixed him up with a real nice honey. I’m sure you’ll enjoy her as well.”

  Sean was not looking for pussy; he was looking for an alibi. After running from Cerise’s place, this was the one apartment that he hoped the police would search thoroughly because many of them frequented A-304 to handle shady business of their own. Lester ushered him to one of the bedrooms, “Have a good time homeboy, Yo boy sure did!” he exclaimed.

  Sean did not want to be there but he had to wait until the police activity calmed down before he could leave. When the girl finally came in, she said softly, “I’m Gina. Money on the nightstand, please.”

  There was something oddly familiar about Gina’s voice but he couldn’t place it. When he finally looked into the girl’s eyes, his heart sank into his chest, his head began throbbing and words escaped him. Tamela dropped her backpack and they stared at each other, as sister and brother, in awkward silence wondering how in the hell did the other one end up there as the helicopter began blaring overhead and police sirens consumed all sound.

  CHAPTER 31 – SNAPSHOTS OF MY NEIGHBORHOOD

  Snapshots of My

  Neighborhood

  In Black & White

  “Spiced” Up

  Haikus in Pairs

  Broken antenna,

  Held close to her black lips

  As she flicks the flame.

  She puffs on it hard

  As her eyes roll back into

  Pure relaxation.

  Cinnamon

  Makes enough to eat

  By washing cars or waiting,

  Begging, to pump gas.

  Not old, but too young,

  Hustles anyway that he can,

  Going nowhere fast.

  Basil

  Why get rid of them?

  She has enough love for all.

  They just kept coming.

  Six, including her.

  Too many mouths to keep full,

  Not enough money.

  Rosemary

  Johnny Walker Red

  Or vodka, whatever. He’s

  Roaming and drinking.

  Loves to hear himself.

  Knowledge, ciphering, spills out

  During his drunken haze.

  Sage

  Tattered clothing, filth,

  Yet happier than most are.

  She smiles with teeth gone.

  Doesn’t mean no harm.

  Wanders all day answering

  The voices she hears.

  Hazel

  Way too much make-up

  Not enough to hide the shame.

  Walks streets endlessly.

  Pay first, then undress.

  Ejaculates inside her,

  Seizing self-esteem.

  Ginger

  Did as she was told

  Even though he didn’t care.

  She couldn’t fight back.

  Anger took over,

  Like thunder, he rolled on her.

  Wounded, inside and out.

  Dressed in his finest,

  While waiting for the next deal

  He contemplates life.

  Cocaine in rock form,

  Executing genocide

  To no avail. Damn...

  Sesame

  Dill

  Shopping cart half full.

  Flesh against the cold concrete.

  The morning dew stings.

  Hunger takes over.

  He has nothing except time,

  Time to live each day

  Thyme

  CHAPTER 32 – SCATTERED

  Scattered

  S A T R D

  C T E E

  ALl 0vEr ThE page

  My psYche RUNNING wild

  Like @

  Banchee. Screaming

  At ThE TOP

  Of my lungs,

  FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART!

  NoWhere to RuuuN; nowhere to

  H I D E. Til dEaTh DO us pa rt. Sanity is relaTive

  wHen you’re a genie in A bottle

  My thoughts make me craZy. My only PROblem is my mind. But I

  don’t mind.

  I think t0o much

  And dream… 2... little.

  AFRAID of my own .

  F

  A Ll

  Ing over the E

  D

  G

  E

  DAMN! That was close.

  CHAPTER 33 – MY NAME IS AVERY BANCROFT

  My name is Avery Bancroft

  Damn! He walked out the glass double doors, looked up at the sky, and all he could do was smile. He knew that in 7 years of working at the paper that this was indeed the “one”. His grandfather had “one”, both his mom and his dad had “one” and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this “one” was his. Thinking about it had him stoked with paralysis. He couldn’t even walk to his car, so he just stood on the steps of the Augustus F. Hawkins Mental Health Facility with his hands in his pocket and just smiled. He couldn’t wait to get to work in the morning. He knew Clearihue was going to shit himself!

  The next morning, he marched straight into his boss Kerry Clearihue’s office and sat in the chair across from the massive, expensive, mahogany desk. Out of all the senior editors and all the newspapers he had worked for, Clearihue was the most organized, the most intelligent, and also the most hard-nosed. He required perfection and he didn’t care how passionate you were, who your sources were, or how many times you had to re-write a story, he would not approve anything unless he considered it to be 2 things: written error free and newsworthy. Error free wasn’t a problem, hell, we all in a room filled with English and Journalism majors, but what was newswort
hy was another story. He’s rejected a lot of pieces that writers thought were good. He’s rejected a lot of pieces that writers thought were full of passion. He’s rejected a lot of stories that writers thought people should hear about. Regardless of him being a hard ass, he always picked the right stories for print. With the internet practically putting newspapers out of business left and right, he had managed to sell papers when nobody else could, and that was all due to the selection of stories that he decided to print.

  He could hear Clearihue walking fast and talking on his cell phone as he entered into the office. He laughed his big hearty, laugh and then said, “I know, I know, but seriously, I don’t have time for this foolishness right now. Meet you at 1st King after work, my man?” He laughed at his own little joke and whover he was talking to could be heard laughing on the other end too. They said their goodbyes and then Clearihue looked at him puzzled and said, “Boy what you doing in here all cheesed up? This better be good.” He started smiling so hard he was about to burst. “KC, I did it. I got Avery Bancroft.”

  Clearihue nonchalantly kept thumbing threw the file in his hands and said, “Oh really”, just as dry. “How did you break her?”

  “I just flashed this perfect ass smile and she told me everything.”

  “Bullshit.”

  ` “No, REAL shit.”

  He handed the tape over to Clearihue who wasn’t the least bit amused. Clearihue shook his head and finally said, “You do know that every story that’s ever been written and reported about Avery Bancroft has been bullshit. That girl is just as crazy as a that damn mother who thought her husband was the Devil and stabbed his ass, what was it 12 times? 5150 all day long.”

  “That may be true, but some of it is an act. Listen to the tape.”

  “Young man…”

  “KC, sir, I usually respect whatever decision you make regarding my stories. I never come in here and bitch about how you butcher my shit up or have me re-write it 50 times. I admire that because it makes me want to be better, but you gotta listen to this tape. I’m telling you man, she’s not crazy…she got serious issues and needs a hellava lot of therapy in a REAL way but she’s not as crazy as she pretends. Seriously.”

  “You really think it’s an act kid?”

  “One listen KC and if you don’t think it’s worth writing, I’ll scrap it.”

  “Ok, kid. I’ll listen.”

  Clearihue lit up a Black & Mild, grabbed his favorite ashtray and sat on top of his desk. He pops in the tape in the recorder as he blows out smoke and says, “This better be good kid.”

  Royal Saunders reporting for the Los Angeles Community News. Today is Wednesday October 13th, 2010 and I’m sitting here at the Augustus F. Hawkins Mental Health Facility with the beautiful Ms. Avery Bancroft.

  Avery: Nigga, Avery dead. I’m not Avery.

  Royal: OK, Avery’s dead. So what would you like me to call you?

  Avery: Whatever. Just not Avery. That bitch dead. I hate her.

  Royal: Why? Avery is a pretty name for a pretty girl. You don’t like the name?

  Avery: Naw. I never liked that name. You think I’m pretty? Wow. That’s funny.

  Royal: Yeah, I do. And I’m not trying to be funny, I’m serious. Come on, you’ve must have heard it a million times by now, girl.

  Avery: A million in one, thanks to you. Pretty? Almost “too” pretty and I honestly don’t see what everybody else sees. Know what? When I looked in the mirror this morning, I saw a supposed addict, a true drunk and I just felt ugly, ashamed, and embarrassed. I saw that my dark, curly, hair was now thinning and pulled back neatly away from my golden, pale, complexion. I turn 18 in a few days but man have I aged and my permanent drunken stooper won’t let me remember how or when it happened, but it did. I saw crow’s feet starting to form in the corners of my sad, hazel eyes and one tiny wrinkle on my chin. Shit, I have always been very modest about my looks even though I had been told all my life how pretty I am.

  Royal: Well that’s not what I see…I don’t see any of that.

  Avery: That’s cause you can’t see my pain. You can’t see my suffering. You don’t know my story.

  Royal: Well then, tell me.

  Avery: Gimmie a square. What you wanna know?

  Royal: I wanna know why you hate your name?

  Avery: Cause I fucking hate this existence, this shell of who I used to be or what I could have become had my life been different. I was conditioned by my mother to hate being pretty because being fucking “pretty” had ruined my life. Pretty killed Avery Bancroft.

  Royal: Pretty killed her? Wow!

  Avery: Yep, she dead

  (Knocking on the door) Counselor: Avery it’s time for Group

  Avery: Whoomp Whoomp Whoomp!

  Royal: You don’t like Group?

  Avery: Fuck no! All I can hear is those losers and users go a round the room telling their sob stories. I bet I can make these assholes send me back to my room real quick, just watch. Come on, let’s go.

  Steps walking briskly and then silence.

  Avery: Can I have everyone’s attention please. Yeah, my name used to be Avery Bancroft and FUCK ALL YALL MUTHAFUCKAS & FUCK MY MAMA for fucking up my life!! Period. Dot. The End. Roll Credits bitches.

  Counselor: Avery I’m not going to tolerate that kind of behavior. Please leave and don’t come back until you’re ready to act like an adult.

  Avery: Why thank you Charlene.

  Royal: (laughing) Why did you do that?

  Avery: HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! I told you they would kick me out of group today. PAY THE LADY, PAY THE LADY, PAY THE LADY! HA HA!! I can’t fucking believe I’m here, smoking on these stale ass cigarettes wishing I was blowing on some Pretendo or some Purp so I can smoke away all the bad shit that ever happened to me. Who the fuck gets sent to a mental rehab for weed? And to top it off, these dumb fucks want me to sit in a group and discuss my life? They got me fucked up in a real way! This is some straight up bullshit that’s got my mama’s bible thumping ass written all over it. Her and her bible work my nerves! I wonder if she thinks she can keep hiding behind that bible as a murderer? It ain’t gonna work Mrs. Bancroft cause I know what you did. Yes I do and I can see through yo yellow ass like Flavor Flav at a Klan rally.

  Royal: (laughing) Pretty and you got jokes. Nice! But Whoa Baby Girl. Did you say yo moms, Mrs. Bancroft? She sent you here?

  Avery: I sho did. In case you haven’t guessed it by now, my mother is not one of my favorite people. She’s a real hater and sometimes she can’t help it. She suffers from schizophrenia and many people think that she has a drug problem because one minute she’s fine, but the next minute she’ll give you a blank stare and swear that you are filled with the Devil’s spirit and she needs to exorcize the demons in your soul before they invade your hair.

  Royal: No shit?

  Avery: No bullshit but I’m the one locked down.

  Royal: Why don’t you like her? What happened?

  Avery: I was born. That’s what happened. She never wanted me. In fact, she’s told me so on several occasions and she has the police, incident, and psychological reports to prove it.

  Royal: So I’ve read, but Avery, I mean, what did you want me to call you?

  Avery: Just call me Ashanti.

  Royal: Like the singer?

  Avery: Naw, like the African tribe in Ghana working the gold coast to make a living.

  Royal: Impressive.

  Avery: I dig history, particularly people.

  Royal: Ok, Ashanti. I’ve read all the reports about your mom’s illness and some of that shit is just too ridiculous to repeat. So why don’t you tell me which ones really happened?

  Avery: Ok, let’s see when she was pregnant with me, she stabbed herself in the stomach and missed my head by 3 inches. That shit is true. But that story about her painting me all red and taking me to JcPenny’s to take pictures is a lie. That shit never happened. She did however, dress me up in a white towel, drop me off at a church, and told the pastor I
was baby Jesus.