The mental image of slapping his teacher focused his mind just in time to see a half-buried stone stop his left foot dead, leaving the rest of him to hurl forward like a dummy in a crash test. Mid-flight, Chucky appeared out of nowhere, held out his arms as if to break the fall of the flying boy but instead jumped out of the way. Tim saw only Chucky’s S-shaped scar as he went down.
Face down in the mulch, he caught his breath and braced himself for the beating to come.
A musty green aroma filled his nostrils. Only the sound of a couple of crows crying overhead broke the rhythm of the crickets.
Tim felt the toe of a sneaker in his side. “So, bitch. Thought you was gonna get away, huh? Shiiieeet. Nah-nah, motherfucker, tonight’s your night. This here will be an ass-whipping you’ll remem—”
Chuck-keeee, Chuck-keee, pick-up swee-teee…
In the end, it wasn’t the ringtone that stopped Chucky midsentence, it was the feral cry of the boy on the ground that transfixed his ass—as he watched Tim pick up the half-buried rock and put all his natural born weight into landing it at his temple. Just before the punk blacked out, Chucky licked his lips and fingertips—intrigued at the coppery taste of his own blood.
The last thing the fool must have felt was the spray of hot spit on his face, the last thing he must have seen were Tim’s lips screaming what must have been the last thing he was going to hear in his short miserable life.
“Fucking ASSHOLE!”
A text beeped in—it was his dad:
Home now. Gonna cook some cabbage. Come on over.
DEALING WITH IT
It was ten o’clock at night and still hot as hell.
Tim sat on the concrete steps of his dad’s apartment building, stared at his phone and wondered how long it would be before some of the local gangbangers would take an interest. A couple hooded dudes had already passed by. It won’t be long, he guessed. Maybe I better get my ass inside. But then, he would have to talk—he wasn’t ready to talk—not yet, not to his dad. Yet he couldn’t think of anyone else he could speak with—that is, if he could explain it. At that moment, explaining it to himself was proving to be a serious problem. The harder he tried to piece together what just happened with everything else that went down over the summer, the more it all seemed a blur, as if he was being drawn down the center of a whirlpool of disappointing images.
Like the dejected sound of his uncle’s voice at the end of his freshman year, when it was confirmed that he was again in academic trouble. His mother was so crestfallen. It felt as if the kitchen was going to implode upon them. And that damned smirk on Sheila’s face didn’t help one bit when he tried to defend himself. Oddly, his only relief was his dad who was still in bed sleeping off a binge. He had hoped that this fact would provide some kind of morbid interference against the full force of his mother’s outrage and disillusionment.
When the hooded dudes appeared on the other side of the street for the second time, Tim stood up and paced back and forth on the concrete stoop. He thought of the time in sophomore English class when he’d stumbled on the word annihilate pronouncing it annihilatee. He groaned at the memory of his classmates giggling behind their books. Since then he’d searched the term online and found it a perfect description for what he’d managed to do to the countless chances that Mr. Jones, his self-appointed tutor, had given him. The more Jones tried, the angrier he had become. Jones’ attention felt like a criticism of him, his life and particularly of his father who could barely read the label on his vodka bottle.
Yes, he had given Jones a hard time, being the class clown most days and a general fuck-up on the others. Like the time when he’d shot ten or twelve spitballs through a plastic straw at Lucy who, like a mechanical target, moved back and forth just outside of the classroom window. Everybody loved it because it took at least ten minutes before Jones figured out what was going on. It was the only time that he’d sent Tim to the principal’s office.
Things got worse after he’d stopped showing up to Jones’ tutoring sessions. Like the time in study hall when someone hit him upside the head with a chalky eraser. Instead of retaliating, he rubbed the white stuff all over the dark skin of his face.
“Oh shit…what’see doin?” cried a boy in the class.
“Look, look! Oh God!” screamed one of the cheerleaders, giggling hysterically as Tim pushed the eraser down his crotch and stalked around the room like a horny zombie singing I Will Survive, copping feels from the girls, who for the most part, squealed in fake protest.
After a while, it seemed that no matter what, Jones always found a way to not throw him out of the room. How could that dude be for real? He couldn’t have been all that worried ’bout me. I don’t believe it. Probably was looking out for some kind of extra credit or promotion or something. Yeah, something like that, he thought.
Then the memory of losing his job at the drug store came at him so fast that his body lurched to one side as if to jump out of the way of the recollection. When friends of his were caught shoplifting on his shift, he could never shake the suspicion of his boss. As for his mom, he’d made up some story, even though he was sure that his sister had heard about it but curiously hadn’t said a word.
One argument with his uncle Gentrale had stuck with him. It was one of those groggy mornings just before the beginning of the summer break when he couldn’t get out of bed in time for school. Wanting to avoid the old man’s bitching, he attempted to slip out the back door undetected. But his wise elder, on to him, laid in wait in the kitchen.
“Whew! You skipped your shower, didn’t you!” chided the old man pointing to a chair with his cane.
Totally surprised, Tim simply sat down. “I-I—wanted to get out of the house quick. Seemed like you was going to be a while in the bathroom. I di-didn’t want to r-rush you.”
“I wasn’t going to be that long. And what?” Gentrale took a step back. “You put on fresh clothes without bathing? You’re stinking of cigarettes, boy. Look, eat your food and then jump in the shower. I don’t want to see you ‘till later on this afternoon. Okay?”
Tim was ready with a quick answer. “Since when you can tell us what to do? You not my father! You his brother and…”
Gentrale cut him off with a stern look. “That’s right. I’m his brother, even if it’s hard to believe we came from the same place. That means you and I come from the same place. He’s not here now. He’s in trouble, like he’s been for most of his life. But I am here, and I told your mama that I’ll help her the best I can, and that’s what I’m doing. Now, after you eat, you are going to get out of my face, bathe properly and take your sorry butt to school.”
Thoroughly pissed off, Tim jumped from his chair to look his uncle in the eye. “Oh, s-so now I’m s-sorry, huh?” he said, his voice cracking on the last syllable.
The old farmer didn’t even blink. He used to wrestle hogs bigger and a lot scarier than his nephew. “Yes, you are indeed a sorry soul if you don’t start taking yourself more seriously, taking life more seriously. You’re no baby no more, Tim. The time is coming when you’ll have to take care of yourself.”
From the way his uncle had just stood there, staring at him, he remembered seeing in those ancient eyes—
A combination of pity and pain,
leaning heavily on a cane.
Mouth a little damp,
drooping to one side—
Bald head reflecting the light from the wall lamp.
For the moment, he could stop pacing. The dudes on the street had lost interest in him. Nevertheless, Tim crouched in the unlit corner of the stoop as he relived being shaken to the core by the doubt on his uncle’s face and hoped against hope that his dad would know what to do. Now he had to deal with his own set of insecurities: he was almost eighteen and just about two years behind in school, that is if he didn’t pass the proficiency two weeks from now.
At any rate, he had just killed somebody and probably wouldn’t have the chance.
He would be in jail soo
n.
AND THE REST OF THE WORLD ASPIRES TO THIS?
Baby boomers sending us to war,
Politics moved by bored TV stars.
The Christian right sees disorder
south of the border,
Maybe with a big enough fence
You could mask mass indifference.
After a big dip
The economy is startin’ to grow
Hardly noticed by some…The Haves and have Moz.
But unlike
jobs, jobs, jobs,
Their greed never seems to slow.
And the rest of the world aspires to this?
The poorer the community
The more churches and liquor stores.
Tools of inequity
Desensitize the ability
to criticize, and
blunt the hope for more.
So the ghetto be still
pumpin’ bumpin’ ‘n grindin’—out
Historical-
sterical misfits.
It’s hard to believe
Even to conceive, that
The rest of the world aspires to this.
The global economy
Seems to make fun of me,
My work,
My time
My energy.
Waistlines grow as does
the nation’s po’
Student debt gone crazy
Along with endless war
Somebody scream!
It’s hard to believe
Even to conceive, that
The rest of the world aspires to this.
It’s another week…
Blue on black murder.
hardly time to speak,
or surrender—
Hands up, don’t shoot…
Broken windows
No child left behind
Stop and Frisk, uh oh…
Was that a gang sign?
Livin’ in the shadows
of those who think they ain’t your kind,
Think they are white,
Think they are better.
Entitled
Privileged,
Who think a black life don’t matter
Bleeding out on the street is a drama so blasé—
Bleeding out on the street is a drama so blasé—
Bleeding out on the street is a drama so blasé—
Bleeding out on the street is a drama so blasé—
It’s hard to believe
Even to conceive, that
The rest of the world aspires—
It’s hard to believe
Even to conceive, that
The rest of the world aspires—
It’s hard to believe
Even to conceive, that
The rest of the world aspires—
It’s hard to believe
Even to conceive, that
The rest of the world aspires to this?
Do you?
AHGOTTAHANDLEONIT!
Tim hated the dilapidated apartment building where his dad lived, with its giant metal door, graffiti, and stink. He especially hated how the cyclone fence surrounding the joint stood perfectly erect, as if the trash and garbage in plain view needed to be protected. Staring at his dad’s name next to the buzzer made him think maybe his old man was finally happy. After having lived for so long in precarious situations at the whim and mercy of others, Victor Thornton had become very particular about his name being displayed on his place of residence.
The dudes across the street had suddenly come back and were looking at him. He pushed the button.
“Yeah?” rasped an old voice over rowdy laughter in the background.
“Uh, is my dad there? Tell him it’s Tim,” he announced, the crack in his voice matching that of the intercom.
“Yo, Vic! It’s yo’ boy Tim at the door!” yelled the voice into the apartment. Even through the cheap system, Tim could hear the grin in it.
“Well, fool, buzz him in,” his father hollered back.
With a dull metallic click, the heavy magnetic lock disengaged. Leaning on the door, Tim pushed into the dark hallway—an airborne cocktail of cleaning agents, urine and boiled cabbage hit him in the face. The swathe of light coming in from the street lamp quickly became a wedge and finally a sliver. The door shut behind him with the sound of a vault. This place is like a crypt, he thought. As he watched the outline of his shadow disappear, a loud scream shot through from the rear of the building. He tripped over something metallic in the darkness, but managed to catch hold of the banister to the spiral staircase leading to the basement.
He waited and listened. Nothing. No one opened a door and more importantly, there were no more screams. Still holding onto the railing, he made his way down to his dad’s apartment, pausing on each stair, feeling along the dank wall with his other hand. When he tripped the light sensor, a hundred-watt bulb, shooting its load into every crack and crevice of the tiny space, blinded him momentarily. Comically, the solitary door at the bottom of the stairs swung open really fast. In the doorway stood Baggy, childhood friend of his dad. Grey dreadlocks gone fuzzy a long time ago, matching well-groomed beard, hi-top sneakers, red shorts and T-shirt—he could have been a refugee from a Rastafarian geezer basketball league. His broad smile revealed at least six missing teeth.
“Hey hey hey! Who we got here?” he sang. “That you, Tim? Man! I must be gettin’ old! How you doin’, boy? Uh—what’s that in your ear?” He seemed genuinely curious.
“Uh, hi Baggy. I’m fine. It’s uh—an ear stud, you know. How are you? I didn’t know you was here. Hey, Dad!”
Victor stood on the other side of the room wiping his hands with a kitchen towel. “Hello, son. What took you so long? It’s pretty late and you’re a mess! Somethin’ happened? Baggy, what were you gonna do, chat him up in the hallway? Let him in!”
The humid, shotgun apartment was only partially underground. When his dad had just moved in, Tim thought the two windows high up on the wall, just beneath the ceiling, looked like a couple of closed gray eyelids. Yeah…no wonder they ain’t open. Some places you should see before you die, but this here feels like a place you go to die.
It had been three weeks since Tim’s last visit. He never imagined that things could get worse. But they had.
His dad was drinking again.
“Come on in, boy! What you waiting for?” slurred Victor.
“Maybe a formal invitation?” chimed in Baggy, stepping aside from the doorway.
Victor moved a folding chair away from the card table. “Don’t mind him, Tim. He’s a little, you know…WEIRD! Now sit down and relax.”
“Aw man, Dad. Don’t bust on Baggy, he’s cool,” Tim offered, trying to get in on the joke. He turned the chair to sit on it backwards.
“Get him straight, boy,” Baggy chuckled through old mucus.
In the corner, his dad’s old TV still sat on top of a couple of milk crates. An unknown beefy guy, who seemed to have hopelessly lost something up his nose, sat at the card table in the middle of the room. Next to his other hand, a shot glass of something brown lay in wait. Instead of speaking, he eyed Tim suspiciously. Tim eyed him back. The nose finger took a break to pull on his ear as he glanced at Baggy, who nodded with a little smile on his lips.
A huge bottle of whiskey sat next to a rocking chair that faced the television. The air smelled of cooked cabbage. Someone was snoring, but Tim couldn’t figure out who it could be. The mountain of furniture in the adjoining room hadn’t changed—piled up willy-nilly since the move-in three months prior. Only a rat-sized space along the wall allowed a person to move from the sitting room to the rest of the apartment.
Almost immediately, his dad disappeared through the opening to check on the cabbage that was cooking, leaving him alone with Baggy and the mute thug. The snoring was getting louder.
“So, you be ’bout seventeen now, huh?” asked the old man with the dark puffy circles under his eyes.
“Yeah, that’s rig
ht,” Tim said, trying to take in the whole room and figure out where someone could be sleeping.
“Nice earring,” said the beefy guy, taking a swig of his drink. He and Baggy looked at Tim’s dirty clothes and then at each other.
“Oh uh, th-thanks. It’s an ear stud, yo!” Tim responded, surprised to hear the guy speak up, not sure if he was teasing him or not.
“Must be about finished with school. That true?” asked Baggy.
“Nah. Not yet,” Tim said, shifting in his seat. “Got the proficiencies and another year before…whoa! What the fuck?”
In a flash, Tim was squatting with both feet on his chair shaking and pointing at a blanket in the corner. Baggy and the beefy guy didn’t seem to notice anything. Tim’s voice broke as he screamed, “Hey, something moved over there, under that blanket!”
The blanket spoke in a growling crescendo.
“You guys gotta keep it the fuck DOWN! I’m trying to SLEEP OVER HERE!”
Tim fell backwards off his chair. As his legs lurched up towards the ceiling, his saggy-baggy jeans lagged behind, exposing way more boxer short than was ever planned. The blanket sprouted a wooly head and arms as it rose and stood to face the wall before turning around to see Tim scrambling up from the floor.
“Damn, you guys! That was cold blooded! Aw, man!” Tim couldn’t even hear his own voice for the hoots, hollers and high fives exchanged in rapid fire from one drunk to the next. When his dad called from the kitchen, he had the perfect reason to run out of the room.
“What’s goin’ on in there?” barked Victor over his shoulder. He was at the stove.
Tim stood in the doorway and hunched his shoulders. “Aw, nothin’, just Baggy and them having some fun with me.”
Victor pushed by Tim, leaned into the hall and spoke to himself, “I think it’s time for those motherfuckers to go now.”
Somebody’s phone rang. Victor turned suddenly and looked at his son. “Hey, I think that’s you. You gotta a new ringtone? Sounds like singing or something?”
Ahgottahandleonit Page 9
