Tyler Johnson Was Here

by Jay Coles

  “Don’t get the door,” Tyler says, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “Mama said not to open it.”

  Mama’s wise—a bit too wise when it comes to random police visits to the house. She’s become familiar with them over the years. I mean, it’s routine, the way they come banging up on your door in our neighborhood for literally anything. Crackhead found dead. Some white kid from Sojo High ran away. The car outside our house has a flat tire. Some white woman down the road says she saw a suspicious black man.

  And for Mama and Tyler and me, we worry more about police visits to our house than the gang-infested streets. And Mama has already started crafting a plan for how to get out of being pinched by the po-po just because of who my dad was, if that time ever comes, a time we all pray never does.

  The pounding goes on for a whole ten minutes, and I end up slipping out into the hallway, taking step after tiny step, making sure I’m not breathing too hard. But Mama is already standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, side-eyeing Tyler and me for being hardheaded and trying to go to the door anyway. It’s like we can’t ever get anything past her.

  She does one of her famous eye-rolls and then exhales in frustration before walking to the front.

  “What y’all want?” Mama yells to the police through the door, keeping her distance. She closes her bathrobe tightly, like she feels too exposed. “Stay away from the door,” Mama whispers to me.

  “Ma’am, we are here to talk about an incident that happened earlier tonight. Could we come in?”

  “No, I’m not dressed,” she shouts back, signaling me to get back. I step away, taking slow steps, feeling some of the iron burns in the carpet underneath my bare feet since Mama can’t afford an ironing board. Tyler sneaks up behind me, catching me off guard.

  “Please, ma’am, put clothes on. We’d like to speak with you about what happened.”

  “I don’t know nothing about what happened, and I got to go to work early tomorrow. Please leave! I ain’t asking y’all again.”

  “Ma’am, two boys died tonight.”

  “I said leave!”

  “Ma’am, please!” an officer begs, his voice deep and low.

  She sighs and then looks through the peephole. She opens the door a crack, letting some of the moonlight wash inside, and then all the way, filling big empty spaces in all of the dark corners with light. They walk in and Mama flips on the light switch.

  There are two cops, both of them black. One has hair; the other doesn’t. They nod at Tyler and me in a friendly manner, like they come in peace. Mama closes the door behind them.

  “What’s this about two boys dead?” Mama’s lips tremble a bit.

  “On the corner of Ninth Street and Elm, two boys were shot dead. One looks to be an accident. The other appears to be in self-defense, ma’am,” the officer with hair says.

  “Oh my Lord. God, help us all,” Mama says, shocked, holding her face. “What happened?”

  “There’ve been several robberies and reports of vandalism in the area. Tonight there was yet another incident where we had vandals running away from an armed store owner. The vandals were vaguely described. So, once our officer responded to the call, he apparently got the wrong guys.”

  I swallow hard, realizing that he’s talking about what happened to us.

  I give a glance to Tyler, and he wears anxiety like his do-rag, his chest heaving and his eyes bloodshot and wide—so wide.

  Mama looks back at us, concern on her face, like she’s unsure if she should tell them that her sons were the ones who were wrongly accused, but we’re alive.

  The other cop chimes in, putting a hand on his chest. “The scene ended with an accidental shot landing in the back of an African-American male graduate of Sojo High, killing him on impact, and a self-defense shot being fired into the chest of a Caucasian male whose name we’re still trying to figure out. Apparently, some others got away, unharmed, but might be suspects.”

  I feel a lump in my throat, and it gets so hard to breathe. My hands get clammy. I forget to blink.

  Tyler takes a step backward, his chest heaving harder.

  “Those kids can’t be suspects,” Mama says.

  “Well, why’s that, ma’am?” the bald officer asks.

  “Because…” She trails off, glancing at Tyler and me, like she’s about to tell them that we were those suspects who got away. “Because… they were just kids in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  The officers look at each other and then back at Mama, like they think she’s hiding something, but then they give her a nod.

  “Well, if you get information about them or you hear anything, please don’t hesitate to give us a call. Okay? You may even win a reward of some kind.”

  “All right.” Mama sighs.

  “Thank you for your time,” the bald officer says, walking out the door.

  “Wait,” I call after them.

  “Yeah? What can I help you with, son?” the bald officer asks.

  “Did that cop get in trouble? Or is he hurt?”

  They look at each other again. “I’m afraid some are calling for his suspension. He did his job but didn’t do it carefully enough. He put innocent kids in some real danger.”

  “Could’ve killed more than just two,” I say, and then they’re gone.

  After I hear Mama lock the door, I breathe in and out for what feels like the first time.

  “Y’all don’t say nothing to nobody,” Mama says. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” we say in unison, looking each other in the eye.

  She walks around us toward her room. “Tell Ivy and G-mo what I said, too.”

  Finally, I’m able to make it back to my room and get a couple more hours of sleep before starting another day of my chaotic life, returning to Sojo High.

  Two weeks ago, I wrote my dad a letter:

  Dear Dad,

  Is today a good day for me to give up on life?

  Is right now in this very moment a good time to cry?

  Hey. Dad. How is it where you are?

  I miss you.

  So much love,

  Marvin

  I would kill to have him back, and this now occupies my mind as I listen to Tupac rap about his father, who was never really there.

  Nine years ago today, when I was just eight years old, my dad was sent to jail for a crime he did not commit. The memories are like scars on my brain. The police pounding on the door until the door fell inward. The screaming from Mama and Tyler. The hollering in my heart. And then blackness and arms everywhere, dragging my dad out like he was a monster to be sent back to hell. I erupted inward, feeling like I was falling apart. I screamed my eight-year-old lungs out, became a disaster, and then in a flash, I was hit over the head with one of those batons that the local Sterling Point police have. “For my own good,” they said.

  Writing to him helps me see past it, past the shame, even past his absence sometimes. That helps me stop crying, because one thing I still remember from him—one thing I still replay in my head—is that men don’t cry, and every day I try to remember that. But, man, sometimes that’s just too hard to live by.

  He’s five hours away, in a rusty, moldy building halfway across the state, a place that exists in the shadows and mist and ash of the world called Montgomery Correctional Facility, and I haven’t been able to visit him yet. Because Mama doesn’t want me to see him. And on top of that, we can’t even afford the trip. To Mama, the trip to Montgomery Correctional Facility is the distance of Sterling Point to, like, Russia or some shit because it’s a few hours away.

  He should be here with us. He didn’t do what they say he did. But because he hung around the men who did, he got the same fate.

  DATE: SEPTEMBER 19, 2018

  TO: MARVIN D. JOHNSON (MY SON)

  FROM: JAMAL P. JOHNSON

  PRISON NUMBER: 2076-14-5555

  MESSAGE:

  Son,

  Yo-yo-yo. It’s Daddy.

  I mi
ss you more than the stars miss hanging in the sky after nightfall. I hope this letter finds you in a good place, my boy. I take back what I told you about not crying. Crying can free you, son. Crying can make you see past it, past the pain that hurts your growing heart.

  The best time to cry is, weird enough, at nighttime—when all the lights are out, and it’s dark, when no one is around to see.

  I don’t like it where I am—duh. Haha! Every morning I wake, I’m shocked to be here and saddened that I’m not there… with you and Moms and Ty-Ty. But they say you get used to it by your ninth year. Maybe they’re right. I’ll be in here for at least ten more years, and I can’t wait to see your smile again, son.

  I won’t ever get used to the names, the words, the hitting, or the fact that they call me a bad man, a monster. I’ll stain this paper with a tear, so you’ll know I’m there with you, even when we can’t see each other.

  Keep writing to me, sonny.

  Daddy loves you. Always.

  Jamal D. Johnson

  Montgomery Correctional Facility

  Montgomery, AL

  I change into my I DIDN’T CHOOSE THE HOOD LIFE; THE HOOD LIFE CHOSE ME polo and some joggers, and I go to do my chores before it’s time for school. And, man, I’m just too excited to have heard from him to cry right now, but I know I will later. At nighttime.

  • 3 •

  Tyler is my somewhat troubled, somewhat gullible twin brother. We were born on June 16 (a day that broke the record as the hottest day of the year), just two minutes apart from each other—Tyler being first. It was a sticky and miserable Saturday, Mama tells us. Dad was there for Tyler’s birth, but he got sick and left before it was my turn. And sometimes, I think maybe that’s just a metaphor for my entire life.

  There are two types of twins in the world: identical and fraternal. Tyler and I are in the middle. We look alike in the face but are not identical. I’m slim; he’s not. I’m on the darker side of the spectrum; he’s not as dark. I look a lot like Dwayne Wayne from my favorite show, A Different World, except he had a box cut and I have a low fade, but I even own a replica of Dwayne’s sunglasses; Tyler does not. Tyler and I are synonyms and we go together like salt and pepper, but we’re not at all the same.

  Really, though, out of all the shades of black, I got one of the darkest of the family. Tyler got a medium-brown complexion, like Dad and G-mo. But everybody always says we look more like Mama. We got her long, curly eyelashes and her hair that always curls up after a shower. Only thing we got from our dad was his nose. It’s a curse that we used to make fun of each other about over Thanksgiving and other holiday dinners.

  Mama’s 1990 Volvo station wagon smells like a blend of cigarette ash, Tyler’s gym socks from intramural sports, and mildewy leather. The seats are ripped from years of wear and tear, holes coughing for oxygen in the roof. And the windows don’t even roll down. All of this and then some is why Tyler and I never look forward to rides from Mama. Especially not to Sojourner Truth High School. It sucks there’s no school bus that comes to our neighborhood.

  The ride is about fifteen minutes long, and we’re listening to a local radio station that plays a lot of R&B oldies—Mama’s favorite type of music—and she’s on the phone with her older sister, Auntie Nicola.

  Auntie Nicola lives all the way in Indiana, where she used to be a cop before becoming a stay-at-home mom. She was about to be recruited by the FBI, too. That’s how good of a cop she was in corn land. Auntie Nicola just goes to show that not every cop is bad, which can be hard to see sometimes. Mama says Auntie Nicola made enough money to quit and marry some rich black business owner, who’s supporting her and her kids—she real boujee like that.

  They change convos, and now they’re talking about the cops around Sterling Point and what happened to Tyler, G-mo, Ivy, and me on our way home from the store. Auntie Nicola is on speakerphone, so we hear everything. “You need to have ‘the talk’ with them again, girl,” she says.

  After she clicks off the phone, Mama goes, “When y’all get home today, I’m gonna need to talk to y’all. So best get ready.” And by the sound of her voice, I already know what she and Auntie Nicola are referring to. The talk is not gonna be about the Birds and the Bees. No. This talk is going to be THE talk. The talk that happens far too many times but somehow isn’t enough. The talk that all decent black mothers and fathers give to their children at least once a month. The You-Live-in-a-White-Man’s-World-So-Be-Careful talk. I know she wants to have this talk now more than ever because of what happened last night.

  She parks in the drop-off section and has to get out of the car to open the doors for us, since the handles on the inside are all broken, except for the driver’s. “Have a blessed day, you two,” she says, strangely detached. Her tone is serious, but her words are sweet.

  She kisses us both on the forehead and squeezes us real tight, like she has this feeling that at any given moment we’ll be taken away from her, sent into a black hole in outer space or something highly illogical like that. People don’t just get sucked away from the world. Or do they?

  Tyler and I rush to A-Quad, where our lockers are. They’re next to each other because they’re assigned in alphabetical order. Bloodred with silver scratches from decades of badass kids keying them up, brushing up against them during hard-core make-out sessions with shanks in their back pockets. The air smells like recently lit weed.

  I open my THUG LIFE backpack to put in the books I need for the day, and I notice Tyler frowning hard, shoving all the wrong books into his bag.

  He slams his locker shut and turns his back to me.

  “Wait, Tyler,” I say, catching his elbow. I pause, meeting his gaze. “You okay?”

  He rolls his eyes and licks his lips, which Mama says makes him look like he’s been sucking on cherries since he was born. “I’m a’ight.” A damn lie. I know it.

  In my mind, I flip through all the things it could be. I can tell something is on his chest.

  “It’s about a girl, isn’t it?” I say, fake smiling.

  He fake laughs, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and slips a hand in his right pocket. His gaze falls down to my feet.

  There’s a short pause between us, people coming and going in the hallways, minding their own business for once.

  “If it’s about last night, with the officer and that boy—”

  “It’s not,” he says a bit too calmly, cutting me off.

  I nod and take the hint. He doesn’t want to talk. And besides, I don’t really know what to say to make him, so I don’t press anything. Still, I can’t help but feel like he’s been more distant lately, and that kind of stings.

  I watch him wiggle his foot.

  “I’m heading to class now,” he says. “I’ve got a quiz later. Gotta get the answers from a friend before the bell rings.”

  He leaves me standing there in the hallway, trying to figure things out. I look up at the ceiling for a moment, just at brown leak spots. Then I head to class, too.

  Ms. Tanner’s high-ability English class is whack as shit. We don’t learn about anything worth knowing, and today’s been just the same old dead white people and white poems that she forces us to write on white pages. And now she tells me that Shakespeare was the world’s first rapper.

  I know that’s just a load of BS. Ms. Tanner probably knows it, too.

  Her class is one reading after another, one project after another—pointless shit that’s meant for the white kids. You see, this school—this classroom—wasn’t meant for me. It was meant for the white folks, as Mama always reminds me. Ms. Tanner’s class is for white folks, even though it’s an honors class and we’re supposed to do honors-level stuff, like learn about culture, learn about heritage, learn about truth, learn about the hate the world gives to people who look like me. Brown people. Black people. Some people, no matter what, will just hate forever.

  I look back, and in the last row, Tyler is dead-ass asleep. That means he’s going to be asking me for hom
ework help—no, more like for the answers. And that’s all right, because all this stuff is shit I already know anyway. Shakespeare invented iambic pentameter, and he wrote Sonnet 18 for a man, allegedly. A past participle is a verb, typically ending in ed. Ethos, pathos, and logos are the conjoined triplets of persuasion. Blah, blah, blah.

  I’ve become a pro at daydreaming and pretend-listening, blocking out the white noise coming from Ms. Tanner’s mouth. And yes, sometimes it helps that I have memorized episodes of A Different World to replay in my drifting thoughts.

  And suddenly, I hear G-mo’s voice. He whispers, “Yo. She’s talking to you, dude?” And then fingers poke me in the back.

  I look up, wiping at my eyes. I shake my head. “YES?!” I nearly jump out of my seat, my hands clammy and warm, like a fuse just lit inside me.

  “The expression draw a blank is an example of what, Mr. Johnson?” says an irritated Ms. Tanner.

  She glares at me, and within seconds I’m having hot flashes.

  “How to load a gun?” I answer her.

  She stares harder, and the entire class combusts in laughter. “An idiom,” she shoots back at me. The class’s laughter gets louder, and I look back and see Tyler jolting awake.

  I promise I’m actually sensible. I know what an idiom is. I promise. It’s just—I was caught off guard and so I didn’t really know how to answer her, and I stumbled over the words in my head.

  As she turns her attention back toward the Smart Board, I float away again inside my mind, far, far away from this place.

  Pretty much, if you’re in the hood, you’ve got a street name. No matter what. We nobodies don’t get AKAs that are threatening and dangerous, like Big Killa or Lil Death. They give us stupid names like Dawg, Fruitcup, or Squeaky if your voice is too high, or maybe straight-up Silent for extra dramatic effect.