Life Without Hope

by Leo Sullivan

  lege to become a criminal lawyer. And one day, I planned to pres-

  ent my case to the United Nations just like Malcom X wanted to

  do.

  Police raced past me with police dogs. I tried to shrug the sight

  from my mind, but even as a little girl growing up in the ghetto,

  ever since I saw the movie

  Roots

  , white men in blue suits, chasing

  Black boys–well to me they always look like slave catchers. It was

  pure pandemonium as I walked. The police were ever ywhere. It

  unner ved me. I stepped inside of a clothing store, more for men-

  tal refuge than to shop, and that was when I saw him again. The

  fear in his eyes sent shivers through me. He changed clothes. His

  handsome face was angular with dimples. He was frightened and

  his desperation was palpable. I was only a few feet away from him

  now, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I walked right up close to

  him, and then all hell broke loose. The police stormed in and

  headed straight for him. He looked at me with my brother’s eyes

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  … the police neared … he grabbed me. I screamed like I was his

  damn hostage and although he laughed in a mock show of affec-

  tion, I let him hold me. In fact, I sunk right into his arms like they

  were the waters to my bath. He whispered into my ear, his lips

  brushed across my earlobe, I felt the two day old stubble of his

  beard to my cheek. His raw masculinity seeped inside my soul.

  “Please, Shorty, help me!” he pleaded.

  I was sure the police were about to arrest him. They walked

  right up to us and the clerk was startled, like he was watching a

  horror movie. When one of the officers asked him something, I

  wasn’t paying attention to what was being said, I just kept hearing

  my oldest brother’s voice,

  you never helped me

  . Somehow these

  words shattered my resistance. As I watched the police walk out of

  the store, I was suddenly filled with trepidation. What if I was

  helping a maniac, some hardened criminal on the loose from some

  insane asylum … with a gun! I turned and walked away. I had

  done some stupid things in my times but this took the cake. God,

  the man could be a murderer or a rapist with those damn sexy

  eyes.

  Finally I made it to my car but to my utter shock, he was still

  behind me. Unable to believe he actually followed me out of the

  mall, I turned toward him and in a brusque manner, I yelled,

  “Go!”

  He cringed. The mere sound of my own voice emboldened

  me. I fumbled with my purse removing my key chain with the can

  of mase attached to it. We were starting to attract attention.

  Darkness temporarily shielded me from the sun. I looked up and

  saw two helicopters in the sky.

  “Shorty! I swear to God I have not done anything wrong, you

  gotta believe me.”

  One of the helicopters lowered, it looked like it was taking a

  picture of us. It was damn sure filming the mall. I panicked and

  quickly walked around to the passenger’s door because my old car,

  which I had named Betty, only cooperated with me when she

  wanted to. The man must have thought I was opening the door

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  for him because he sure as hell hopped his ass in, and to this day,

  I don’t know why I let him get in. I walked around to the driver’s

  side and he opened the door for me. He reclined all the way back

  in the seat. I prayed old Betty would start. This became a ritual, I

  turned the ignition, pumped the gas and she coughed and sput-

  tered to life. I drove out of the parking lot scared to death. Once

  I hit the highway, I turned to him.

  “You can get up now.”

  The wind tossed my hair. He popped his seat up shielding his

  eyes from the sun with his hand.

  “Thanks Shouty,” he said with too much hubris for my liking.

  “My name is Hope Evans. Please don’t refer to me as ‘Shor ty’

  or ‘Shouty’ or whatever it is. You can call me Ms. Evans. Now

  where do you want me to drop you off?” I was trying to sound

  stern and unafraid. I felt the corners of my mouth saccade. Hell,

  he had a gun. He could take whatever he wanted. I felt his eyes

  roaming, leering at me. I wasn’t wearing a bra for the long trip. I

  wanted to be as comfortable as possible. Every time I hit a bump

  my breasts would bounce; I could feel him looking at them. I was

  wearing a FAMU T-shirt. Fur tively, I looked down at my breasts

  and noticed that my nipples were protruding. I tried to hide them

  by rubbing my feet thereby placing my arm to obstruct his view.

  And then my worst fears came tr ue. He pulled out, not one but

  two guns, and pointed them right at me. I almost pissed in my

  panties as my entire life flashed before me.

  “Where can I put these?” he asked.

  My mouth moved, but my tongue refused to oblige. I point-

  ed to the glove compartment. I swore to God, one of those guns

  was so big it wouldn’t fit so he placed it underneath the seat.

  “Where ya headed?” he continued, trying to make conversa-

  tion.

  “Tallahassee.” The word came out of my mouth strained. I

  hoped that he didn’t notice. “I am a Senior at FAMU.”

  “You in one of them crazy sororities?”

  I don’t know about crazy, but I am a Delta.” With that, I

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  glanced over at him, I was curious as to why he asked me that. He

  smiled sheepishly answering my curiosity.

  “I saw the bumper sticker on your car.”

  I took advantage of his laxity. “Why are all those police look-

  ing for you?” Silence, in the form of a pregnant pause filled the air,

  and I instantly regretted asking. He turned to me, his words slow,

  deliberate, his brow crest and eyes distant.

  “This morning when I awoke, I was seriously thinking about

  getting out of the game, stop selling dope, no more hustling …

  then this nigga and his supposed-to-be-cousin came by my hotel,

  dude and him were looking for some hard …”

  “Hard?” I interrupted.

  “Crack cocaine!” he said, giving me a look, somewhat

  annoyed.

  “Uh huh.” I nodded my head like I got it.

  “This dude owed me money, and I’m figuring if I take what

  belongs to me really ain’t a crime, besides who he gonna tell? And

  if he don’t like it he can get it like Drac!”

  “Who?” I couldn’t understand his lingo.

  “Drac, Count Dracula, the vampire got his in blood.”

  “Uh huh.” I nodded my head. Just then an eighteen-wheeler

  flew past us.

  “I hate them damn trucks. My hair flies everywhere,” I said

  out loud.

  “I took my money from dude and his cousin. Come to find

  out his cousin was really an undercover cop. After I realized that I

  was being set up, I jumped out a window, stole a car and here I

  am.” He gestured by waving his arms.

  More silence–the kind that comes when two strangers are con-

  sidering each other. I hon
estly felt that he was being sincere, even

  though he was in big trouble, it could have been worse. He could

  have been a killer or coochie-taker. I felt somewhat relieved. Now

  all I had to do was get his ass out of my car.

  “Where do I drop you off?” I tried to sound nonchalant.

  “Tallahassee.”

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  “Talahasseeeeee?” I quipped.

  “The same place where you headed.” He tried to say it with a

  straight face but then added, “Don’t worry Shouty, as soon as we

  get there, you can drop a nigga off at the mot.”

  He meant motel. I watched as he primed his lips with his

  tongue. His eyelashes were long like a girl’s and pretty, too. I

  couldn’t help thinking, so handsome, yet he was so damn dumb.

  He was just wasting his life, headed in the same direction as my

  brother, and his language was foolish. He actually thought he was

  sounding pimpish, tr ying to impress me, but there was something

  about him, his character and its aloofness. He wore his thugness

  like a black panther; it was all a natural part of his aura. I could,

  for the first time, see how a sister could be attracted to a thug. Not

  me, of course, or so I thought. I thought that he was the same

  kind of brotha that hung out on the street corners drinking out of

  brown paper bags, saying slick flirtatious remarks about girls’ asses

  when they passed to go to school.

  I knew that I was on fragile ground, but I had to take control.

  “Listen,” I said with more venom than I actually had. He turned

  and stared at me with those big old pretty eyes. I almost drove off

  the road.

  “The name ‘Hope’ has a special meaning for me. My mother

  named me that and she almost died while giving birth to me. She

  passed away later, when I was a small child.” I heard my voice

  crack. “And another thing, I would appreciate it if you would not

  use that word ‘nigger’, ever in my presence. Too many of our

  ancestors have died and sacrificed their lives just to be treated as

  human beings. The word ‘nigger’ ser ves no other purpose but to

  dehumanize and degrade Black folks.” I turned to look in his

  direction and noticed that his mouth had formed in an O like

  shape, like I had just berated him or something. “And another

  thing –” I was on a roll and felt like getting ever ything out of my

  system. “What I did back there was wrong, and you were wrong,

  regardless of how we try to sugar-coat it. You have issues that I

  cannot be involved with. Where do you want me to drop you off

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  and boy, don’t say Tallahassee!”

  I was winded like I just delivered a speech. He dug into his

  pocket removing a large roll of cash, peeled off some bills and

  placed them in the ashtray I used for loose change. I spied the

  money, hundred dollar bills.

  “Dig Shouty, I mean Hope.” He minced his words miserably.

  His voice was pungent, pleading with sympathy. “Hope, you gotta

  help me! I gotta get out of this town, please.”

  As I drove through the country roads listening to this brotha’s

  voice, sounding like a melancholic song, the woes of Black men

  confiding in a sister, asking them to help them get away, I won-

  dered if men use the word “help” on women knowing that, by

  nature, we are often powerless to turn them down because it tugs

  into our God-given maternal instincts. He must have seen some-

  thing in my eyes, or my demeanor, because the cadence in his

  voice perked up as he said.

  “Hope, I promise you as soon as we reach Tally, I’ll buy you

  anything you want.” With that, he leaned the seat all the way back

  and closed his eyes. I watched him thinking it couldn’t hurt much

  having him along for the drive, and I can’t lie, the three hundred

  dollars he placed in my ashtray I could really use.

  After crossing a scary-ass bridge in Tampa Bay, I notice the red

  emergency light in my car come on, which was not normal. I

  reached my favorite landmark, the toll booth. I had been driving

  for over six hours and was tired. Moments later I pulled into a

  Shell gas station to fill up and stretch my legs.

  “Hope.” He called my name like it was a tester to see how it

  would sound rolling off his lips.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Let me pay for the gas, you look tired. I’ll get us something

  to eat and you can get some rest. Let me drive the rest of the way.”

  He smiled, exuding a charm that I am sure he knew made women

  weak, or at least it did me. His dimples were so deep I could sink

  my baby finger in them. I watched him walk off looking like any

  average male student on FAMU. Too bad he was a thug.

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  I went to the restroom to pee. Afterward, I checked myself in

  the mirror. I looked like shit, I had dark circles under my eyes and

  my hair was a mess. As I fixed my hair in the mirror, I reflected on

  my life. Between going to college and working full time, life was

  extremely hard. There were times I thought about just giving up.

  I stayed broke all the time. I had just over one hundred dollars to

  my name, besides what was in the ashtray, and I was going to send

  my brother most of that. For tunately, I lived on campus. After col-

  lege, to help me get through law school, I was going to get a job

  at a law firm as a clerk and get some hands-on experience.

  I returned to the car pretending not to watch him as he came

  back with some food. Fried chicken, french fries, corn on the cob

  and a side dish of hot apple pie. My taste buds were doing the

  “bomb” thing with that delicious aroma which made my mouth

  water. As he ducked in the car, placing the food in the seat, I began

  to notice that he never really paid me much attention the way men

  normally do. I sat back in the seat, munching on fries, watching

  him do the manly thing, checking under the hood of my car,

  checking the oil, adding water and inspecting the motor. At that

  moment, I couldn’t help but be thankful for having the brotha

  with me. Lord knows a woman needs a man around to do those

  kinds of things.

  He returned with a grim expression on his face like he wanted

  to charge me with vehicular homicide, for the attempted murder

  of my own car.

  “Your radiator has a hole in it the size of 95 South and it’s leak-

  ing.”

  The man was telling me nothing I did not know. At the time

  I just did not have the money to have it fixed.

  “I was told as long as I keep antifreeze in it, it would hold up.”

  “How long ago were you told that?” he asked, eyebrows knot-

  ted up together like he had an attitude.

  A yellow school bus pulled up beside us in the next lane. Kids

  screaming and just having a jolly time. I played dumb and

  shrugged my shoulders. I answered his question carefully because

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  I did not want to incriminate myself.

  “I don’t know, maybe a year, or so.” Actually, the mechani
c

  told me that it would cost over three hundred to get it fixed, hell,

  my car didn’t cost that much.

  “Scoot over!” he said curtly.

  I looked up at him as if to say,

  I know you ain’t talking to me

  with that tone in your voice.

  I could tell he was a brotha that knew

  how to take charge and for some reason I let him. I slid over to the

  passenger’s side and watched, feeling like a scolded child as he got

  into my car with his oily, filthy hands on my steering wheel.

  “There is no way we can make it to Tallahassee unless we drive

  real careful and not let the car overheat.” As he drove off he point-

  ed to the red light on the dashboard.

  “See this light right here, how long has it been lit up like that?”

  His tone was like my father’s and I was not liking it.

  “I never paid it much attention,” I answered nonchantly. I just

  wanted to piss him off some more.

  We rode in silence for a while. The food was starting to get

  cold and Betty started to act up, nothing bad, I just knew the

  sounds of my car. That was one thing I knew better than he did.

  Moments later we pulled into a rest station. Dusk was starting to

  set and the air felt cool on my skin. We parked next to a huge

  camper with a boat hitched to it. White folks with money, vaca-

  tioning because they could. I admired their vehicle and waved at

  the old lady inside. She took one look at me with disdain and

  closed her window like I was contaminating the air.

  He returned to the car, looking under the hood. I watched as

  he added water and did some more things. Occasionally, he would

  glance at me and shake his head, like he could not believe how

  dumb I was. And now that I think about it, it was kind of dumb

  of me. In a way in knew I appreciated having him with me. Just

  thinking about being out here all alone with my car broke down

  gave me the creeps.

  He returned after he washed his hands and we tore into our

  food. Picnic on wheels. I sat sideways with my back on the door

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  facing him. In between bites he stopped eating and stared at me.

  It was the first time he really looked at me. He had oily chicken