by Mark Anthony
I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised to find out that such a tragic incident hadn’t appeared on the news. After all, who cared when blacks murdered each other? Even though it was a sextuplet execution style slaying, it still wasn’t worthy of making the news. To the world, black urban life wasn’t worth a dime! Why? Black, that’s why. If blacks were killed and it happened to be reported, it rarely was the lead story.
Just about all of the members who came to see me were visibly shaken. Dwight told me how they’d gone on a mission throughout Harlem on Saturday night. They went in search of the perpetrators who’d shot me. He told me how they randomly licked off gunshots at any and all drug dealers that they saw. But in reality, I knew in my heart that the crew wasn’t wild or brazen enough to really hunt down PI and the rest of Mob Style and shoot it out in an all-out war of revenge. Although we didn’t say it, we knew that the idea of seeking real revenge was probably water under the bridge.
The most shocking thing that Dwight told me was that Cory, the same Cory who killed Richie just before the start of the summer, had been released from jail. Yup, he was set scot-damn-free! With all of the eyewitnesses that were at the scene of the killing, I couldn’t believe it. Actually, I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to believe that the justice system would let him walk just like that.
Throwing salt on the wound, Dwight informed me that not only had Cory been released, but he had been released without ever having to post bail. Don’t ask me how, ’cause I don’t know. My first inclination, and probably the most accurate, was that Richie’s black life just didn’t mean anything to the system. The system probably just viewed him as some other worthless nigga.
Dwight also told me that on the same night the crew went out and shot whatever drug dealers they could find, Fourth Crew did a drive-by shooting and shot up Cory’s house. He informed me that they also threw a Molotov cocktail through the front window of Cory’s house, which set the place ablaze. And Randy talked about taking the law into his own hands.
“Yo, word is bond, if I see Cory on the street, I’ma kidnap and torture that nigga. I’ll straight up chop his fingers off one by one, then pour gasoline on him and set him on fire. I want that nigga to feel the same pain that I’m feeling right now!”
The crew was basically trying to lift my spirits as well as lift their own. Talking about how they’d gotten revenge or street justice was equivalent to a grandmother talking about how she’d received edification and encouragement from going to church and listening to the pastor preach.
Fourth Crew, well, I guess I’d only be justifying our mentality by saying, “You can’t blame the clay for what the potter has made.” We were products of our environment. We never benefited from a normal way of living; therefore, our actions manifested themselves in abnormal ways. Case in point, the system would never see to it that Cory did twenty-five years behind bars. The system would never catch and convict the guys who shot me and murdered my friends.
As a crew we knew that injustices like these would go on forever. That type of abnormal thinking became normal to us. So I guess it became abnormally normal for us to seek refuge in hideous acts of violence, violence in the form of violating Cory’s crib, trying to kill every “innocent” drug dealer in Harlem, and violence in the form of good ol’, down home, black on black crime.
My roommate, who was a mad cool cat, had been wheeled out of the room for surgery. It was a good thing because it meant that we didn’t have to worry about someone eavesdropping on our conversation. The crew stayed in my room for hours and we discussed a million and one things.
Despite all that had happened, we surprisingly decided that we would continue on with our drug crusade. But obviously we all realized that certain changes had to be made.
We were now going to pay someone to go on drug runs for us. We were also going to hire females to work for us. The females would take over the responsibility of preparing and bagging our drugs. As a crew, we were now going to be the bishops of an entire drug operation. We were gonna be like the head honchos on Wall Street. You know, they’re the ones who never do anything, never get dirty, but yet they call all of the shots and make the most money. So like Wall Street executives, our only job now was gonna be to collect our money. Latiefe still held that position.
After a big shooting incident like the one I lived through, we all agreed that those close to us were bound to think that it was drug related—those close to us, meaning our parents and the people who lived on our block.
“So what should we do?” I asked.
Well, to start, the eight of us that remained in the drug operation decided to get an apartment to share amongst ourselves. An apartment would be good because that way, when we all started driving our new cars and the big money that we were gonna continue to make started becoming evident, our new neighbors, not knowing our mediocre past, wouldn’t have reason to be suspicious. The apartment could also be used for our female workers.
Randy was the only one in the crew who stated that he would rather just stay on the block and live with Ma Dukes. None of us gave him a hard time about his decision. We just figured there would be more room in the apartment for the rest of us—seven instead of eight, so there was one less head to worry about.
Fourth Crew wasn’t my only steady visitors. My mother and father visited me every day. With each passing day, they were growing more and more skeptical as to why I had been shot.
“I don’t know the reason why I got shot!” I would always tell them very resoundingly. “Listen, I was in the apartment and two guys with masks and guns came in and shot us. They ordered us to get down on the floor and they shot us, and, Mom, that’s all that happened. I’m sayin’! Man, y’all act like I’m hiding something. Don’t y’all think I would tell y’all and the cops what happened or who did this if I knew? I mean, I do want the people who did this to get locked up! Besides, I’m just thankful that I’m all right. I’ll worry about everything else when I get home.”
Detectives, who were constantly in and out of my room, would continually ask me to recant what had happened.
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” That’s how I repeatedly responded to the detectives’ persistent questioning. Each time the DTs visited my room, they would go through this big song and dance, telling me how they would never be able to find the people who shot me and my friends unless I cooperated with them.
Yeah right, I kept thinking. I knew that I would have to get justice on my own. See, I had a problem talking with detectives. Number one, I didn’t really care for the police. And number two, I wasn’t no damn rat! Even though it was my head that nearly got blown off, and even though my friends got killed, I knew that the code of the street had to be followed, which was to keep my mouth shut and under no circumstances should I or anyone else for that matter be talking to the cops. That would make me the biggest hypocrite in the world. Plus, the cops got a paycheck every week so they could solve crimes. So all they had to do was stop being lazy and earn their money. I’m sayin’, dust for fingerprints and then run those fingerprints, speak to people in the building and see what information they could get. And shouldn’t that apartment have already been on some kind of watch list? Heck no, I wasn’t gonna bail out the cops on this issue. They didn’t pay me a salary for that, and if I was dead, then what?
In reality, those detectives wanted information so that they could make their arrest and make themselves look good. Then a month later some judge would let the same guys that almost murdered me walk scot-free. Yeah, right! I didn’t think so! I knew that those cops could care less about me and my thug life. So why should I have cared about them? If they didn’t give a damn, then I didn’t give a damn!
“I don’t know!” I screamed at the detectives. “And even if I did know who shot me, I wouldn’t tell y’all anyway! Please, just leave me alone. I don’t know what happened! Now please, a’ight? I’m sayin’, I don’t like y’all anyway! Now outta here, beat it, scram, be out, get lost, BYE!”
/> Talk like that not only embarrassed my parents, but it really made them suspicious. All I knew was that I wasn’t gonna cooperate. Again, like I already said, I knew that I had come within a hair of being murdered, and that some of my closest friends had in fact already met God. Even though I did love them dearly, I have to reiterate that even that wasn’t enough to get me to cooperate with an unjust organization, an organization that was supposed to uphold justice in all communities equally.
Sabine was also one of my many visitors. She came to see me on Monday. And the moment she walked through the door of my room she began to cry. She gave me a kiss and a hug and very compassionately asked if I was all right. She was genuinely concerned as to how I was doing.
I had expected her to lash out at me with the third degree, along with the “I told you sos.” Astonishingly, she didn’t do that at all. Not once did she mention anything about my involvement with drugs. She didn’t even ask me to tell her what had happened. But I guess it wasn’t too hard for her to figure out.
As she sat down next to me on my bed, I wiped away her tears. As the day went along, we talked, joked, and watched television. Visiting hours quickly came to an end, and as Sabine prepared to leave, she promised to cook me many different Haitian dishes when I came home. Although I wasn’t Haitian like she was, I loved the food. I knew that some good home-cooked food would surely help me replace some of the weight that I had lost as a result of being in the hospital.
I hated for Sabine to see me all bandaged up. All I wanted was to be able to get up out of that bed and walk out of that hospital with Sabine. I knew that was very wishful thinking. I had brought this on myself, so now I had to deal with it.
Finally Wednesday came and I was well enough to leave the hospital. My left arm was in a sling. As for the rest of my body, considering what it had been through, it was in reasonably perfect condition. A person would never have been able to tell that I’d been shot, not unless I told them or they happened to have seen the two scars on my back. Despite my weight loss, I felt good. The doctor told me to expect some dizzy spells at times, but he told me not to get alarmed by them. He said something to the effect that the dizziness would be due to the bullet that had punctured one of my lungs before exiting my body.
My ride home from the hospital was very pleasant. I rode with my parents and my sister. It had been a long time since we all actually did something together as a family. On the way home we stopped at Burger King. I laughed to myself because it reminded me so much of the times when I was an innocent, carefree youngster. Every Sunday when I was a little kid, we as a family would always stop at Carvel or McDonald’s after church just to spend some quality family time together. My ride home from the hospital reminded me of those times. Deja vu, I guess.
After we left Burger King we got back in the car and didn’t stop until we were home. When I stepped foot into my house, I whispered real softly, “Thank you, Lord,” for I knew that it was the grace of God and his spirit living in me that had actually saved me.
God could have very easily and probably should have taken my life. After all, I had taken someone’s life earlier in the summer. I always said that there was a reason for everything. I knew that the reason Donnie, Earl, and Bunny had been killed was because of the Crew’s involvement in so much crime and negativity.
What I couldn’t understand was why Xavier had to die? I pondered that question over and over in my head. He wasn’t involved in our wrongdoings. Matter of fact, neither was Bunny. Donnie and Earl, yes they were intricately involved, but why then hadn’t I also reaped what I’d sown? Why was Dwight still alive? Why was Wiggie still breathing? I mean, it was the three of us who’d actually murdered innocent people.
I couldn’t figure it out. I concluded that the price we had to pay for those murders in which we’d committed, were paid by us losing four friends—one friend with a possible college degree and a bright future ahead of him, two other friends, victims or products of their environment, but yet with eternal good in their hearts and potential greatness in their minds. Still another friend, an innocent black female, full of good, one capable of bearing and being a leader, was also dead.
I felt like I was at a crossroad in my life. I should have been dead, but I wasn’t. What was the reason behind me still living? The real question was, what was I gonna do with my spared life? The only reason that I could come up with as to why God had saved me, was that maybe through me, if I was willing, then I could help better the world.
My hospital episode was now behind me. One thing that I could say was that at least my stint in the hospital had afforded me a lot of free time. And I used that free time to finish writing about two more elements. I was almost there.
After having reached home, I settled in nice and comfortably upstairs in my bedroom. Unfortunately, as soon as I was good and relaxed, my father called me downstairs.
“Man! Can’t a brotha get some rest in this place?” I said under my breath.
I made my way to the kitchen where I saw both my father and my mother. They had that “sitting down at the table” look about them, which had to mean that they were waiting to discuss something with me. I didn’t know what the three of us were about to talk about, but I knew that it was bound to be serious. See, whenever I or any of my siblings were called to the kitchen table, it was always for a serious reason.
“Mark, sit down,” my father said. “Your mother and I want to talk to you.”
After I’d taken my seat, my father continued.
“Mark, as your parents we’re concerned about you. Since we’ve been living here you have been the ideal child. You were always very smart in school. Never once did you get into any trouble. We’ve never had a problem with you. As parents, and stop me if I’m wrong, we have always given you, your brother, and your sister whatever it was that you all wanted. We have never abused you, nor have we neglected you. Mark, you know that you’ve always been able to come to me or your mother whenever you’re having a problem, because we’re always here for you, the both of us. Am I right?”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“Now, Mark, I know you’ve never been involved in any kind of trouble before, but when you tell me you were in an apartment and someone walked in and nearly blew you away for absolutely no reason at all, Mark, I find that very hard to believe, but if that’s what you say happened, I’ll believe you. You’ve never lied to me, so why would you be lying to me now? Plus, based on your past record, as far as behavior is concerned, I don’t see why I shouldn’t believe you.”
“Mom and Dad, I’m telling y’all, I don’t know who shot me or why they shot me. I’m not making up a story when I tell y’all that.” I lied and said, and right then at that moment was when I knew that I had become a different person.
“Mark, this whole incident couldn’t be connected with drugs in any way, could it?” my mother asked.
“No! Of course not, Ma. What makes you think that?” I was starting to feel a little pressured.
“Well, because Mark,” she said, “Your sister told us that you, Randy, and the rest of your friends, Fourth Crew or whatever y’all call yourselves, had started dealing drugs, or had people selling drugs for y’all, or something to that effect. Is that true, Mark?” I had to think real quickly.
“Well, yes and no. No, I’m not involved with any drugs, and yes, some of my friends did get mixed up in the drug game, but it doesn’t have anything to do with this.” Like a boxer I was trying hard to fight my way off the ropes.
“Mark, I can’t control your life,” my father said. “But as your father I’m supposed to give you positive advice and proper guidance. I’m asking you to please stay away from your friends that are into that drug crap. Drugs are a two way street. One direction is headed for jail and the other direction is headed for death. Now, I believe what you told me. However, Mark, if you do decide to get caught up in that drug game, you better not let me find out about it. ’cause you’ll be out of this house. I mean that! ’c
ause the next thing you know, people will be after your mother and I, trying to kill us over something that you did. Don’t get involved with that, Mark, and don’t bring it around here if you do. Believe me when I tell you that if I find out that you’re involved in that, I’ll kill you my damn self! I’ll make sure that I do it before someone out there on the street does.”
“Daddy, don’t worry. I’m not into anything negative, OK?” I continued to lie. As I got up from the table, I decided now would be as good a time as any to tell my parents about my upcoming move.
“Um, Mom and Dad, I know that this might sound off the wall or from left field somewhere, but I might as well tell y’all now that I think I’m gonna move out.”
“What!” my mother screamed. “What are you talking about, and where are you planning on moving to?”
“Well, I don’t know where I’m moving to yet, but me and some of my friends have already discussed getting an apartment together.”
“Mark, you have a probationary job with the utility company,” my father said to me. “Now suppose they lay you off. Then what?” He had no idea that I had long left that job when I started making real dough.
“Daddy, I’ll manage. I think y’all are forgetting that I’m a man.”
“A man? See, that’s the problem with young people today, they want to grow up too quick. They want things too fast,” my dad explained. “Be patient, Mark. Patience sometimes means having to deal with long term suffering and sacrifice. It takes time to get an apartment and things like that. But, Mark, those things aren’t going anywhere. They’ll be there for you when you’re ready for them. You’ll learn, Mark. If you wanna move out, I’m not going to stop you, but you’re gonna learn the hard way. It’s rough out there Mark. Believe me when I tell you. Listen to experience when it talks to you.”
“Daddy, I’m tired of being patient! I already know it’s rough out there. I got shot, didn’t I? It doesn’t get any rougher than that. Remember one thing, though, and that’s that I didn’t die. And you know why I didn’t die? I know how to survive. That’s why.”
