Ahgottahandleonit

by Donovan Mixon

  Light came from the harsh glare of florescent tubes recessed in the ceiling behind metal grates. Another grate at the top of the rear wall covered a tiny ventilation duct. A dirty beige color dominated just about every surface except the faucet and door handles. The door, as Hanz explained to him, was of triple-steel construction. It featured a single vertical 24″ × 6″ window that had wire running through it. Another rectangular opening underneath was used for putting on and taking off handcuffs when necessary.

  The guards in the Juvenile Detention Center, armed with stun gun, pepper spray and clubs, were never more than ten to twenty feet away. He guessed that’s why the place was so quiet, except for when somebody freaked out and got their ass kicked, which was daily.

  He took stock of his stuff and wondered how he would fare as he waited for his detention hearing. Like every afternoon, the faces of the important people in his life—Sheila, Uncle Gentrale, his mom and dad, Les, Mr. Jones and Rene—came to him like a roll call of endearments. This time however, when his thoughts turned to Jones, he clicked on the recorder.

  Hanz was in the infirmary. He was alone.

  Dear Mr. Jones,

  It’s been about three weeks since the first day of school. I imagine you in study hall, sitting at that tiny desk, waiting like everybody else for the last bell of the day. You must miss me. No? Go ahead, admit it, it has to be boring without me.

  Well, it’s pretty boring here. As you probably heard, I’ve been in Juvie ever since my arrest that day.

  You didn’t see it, but after frog-walking me through the cafeteria exit, they had me on the floor face down, in the hall just outside of the doors. Dudes were standing on the backs of my legs as someone else handcuffed me behind my back. That shit hurt, man. Every time I tried to say something, the biggest dude would slap me on the back of the head and say shut the fuck up—or something like that. I kept trying to tell them that the gun in my backpack wasn’t mine and it wasn’t loaded. The dude only had to Tase me once, and I got the message. I thought that I would shake out of my skin. They all calmed down a little when they couldn’t find a clip anywhere. They carried me out of the building like I was some kind of livestock, bumping me into the walls and doors along the way. My sister followed behind and kept yelling at me to stay quiet, that I would be okay. I wasn’t convinced.

  I was a relieved when I didn’t see one of those police vans. You know what I mean? I’m really scared of those things. I didn’t want to arrive at the police station all broken up like many dudes I’ve known. Instead, they put me in the back of a squad car sandwiched between two fat cops. When I started to speak, one of them slapped me hard in the face a couple times and warned me to stay quiet. I did.

  They brought me to Juvie, took all my information. Someone who was acting like she was a lawyer told me that I would be there for a couple days, ’till I could have a detention hearing. I told them my mom was out of town, so they allowed my uncle to come there that day in her place. But she would have to come for the hearing. Man! Uncle Gentrale’s eyes bore a hole right through me. Neither one of us could barely speak. I was blubbering and snotting all over myself and I still had the handcuffs on. Gentrale got my mom on the phone and I was a fucking mess. She was hysterical.

  They put me in a cell with another dude named Hernandez. They call him Hanz. He’s alright—kinda angry, but alright, I guess. I stay out of his way mostly.

  Anyway, three days later at the hearing, the judge decided that I would have to stay in detention and wait for the pre-trial. I felt so bad, yo. My mom had just started this new job and now she had to take time off for my shit. On the outside, she didn’t seem to mind. But I’m sure she was worried as shit about that too.

  To make a long story short, after about ten days, at the pre-trial, I accepted the allegation of unintentional homicide of Chucky Black—or something like that. I was so fucked up, man, I couldn’t focus on all the legal stuff. My lawyer was cool though. She had everything straight, or so it seemed. I let myself trust her. They sent me back here in detention—for how long, who knows—to wait for something called a disposition hearing. That’s when I’ll find out what the consequences will be.

  Let me say here and now what I should’ve said last time I saw you, man. Thank you for your help. Or at least for trying to help me. Maybe you know it, maybe you don’t, but for a while, I had hooked up with Darryl Campbell at the library every day, working for that proficiency until—well, you can imagine. Anyway, over the summer I found out it’s true what you had been saying all along —what you say and do does matter. I guess that’s how I ended up in here.

  That day in the cafeteria, I wanted to say sorry for all the shit I put you through last year. I knew my problems weren’t your fault even though often I acted like they were. Truth be told, I was embarrassed to be two years behind and was tired of seeing loser in the eyes of my teachers who, for the most part, had given up on my ass. Except for you, which on one hand was real cool. But at the same time, it pissed me off. Your fucking confidence made me see that all of this life-shit was mostly my own fault and scared the hell out of me. So, in the cafeteria, when I saw the fear in your eyes—instead of telling you how sorry I was and shit, I kept my hand in that backpack, just to see what would happen. Ha! You looked like you was about to run out of the joint screaming! By now, you, everybody knows that all I was holding onto in that bag was that old baton of yours. With everything else I wanted to say to you, I’d planned on asking you to keep it for me.

  Kind of sappy, huh? Yeah, but the feel of that f18 (even if I had thrown the clip in a dumpster)—the feel of it on the back of my hand gave me the courage to hold out a while longer like that—watching you sweat. I would’ve stood there forever if it wasn’t for my sister and her big mouth, bringing in the cops and shit. I mean, didn’t she know they could’ve shot me? But then, maybe her scream was just the warning I needed—maybe it actually saved my ass. And then, there was that fool Fidel! Damn, that was some close shit! I never heard what happened with that dude. I wonder if they got him too, since it was his gun in my bag.

  Anyway, you didn’t deserve all that shit I know. I know. And I’m sorry.

  And—I-I didn’t mean for Chucky to die, Mr. Jones, really! I just got mad. And my lawyer thinks the judge believed me. She says I’ll have to do time for sure, but she thinks it may not be as bad as it could be. The fact that I fessed up to the deed and that I didn’t have a record helped a lot.

  I also wanted to tell you that last term, the day before you jumped on me, I woke up in a sweat, wondering if life was even worth living.

  I was having a hard time even imagining myself a grown man. I didn’t see no point in it since everybody around me was so fucking miserable. You know the deal, stop and frisk, people being shot or getting fucked up on the street for standing on a corner, running a red light, talking shit to or looking cross-eyed at a cop, drugs everywhere, dudes coming up on you wanting to take your shit at gunpoint. Man, it was crazy!

  Well, I can tell you, things are different now. I’m going to knock out that GED while I’m in here. Darryl keeps saying he’s going to send me books and study materials even though I told him that I’m in school every day here and won’t need them. My uncle Gentrale visits often just to check on me. My mom and Sheila call every couple days from Chicago—someplace called Skokie. While my mom will have to come for the hearing, whenever that happens, my sister promises to come see me at the first school break.

  And Mr. Jones, I’ll see you when I get out—word on that.

  So, let me leave you this. I know it ain’t perfect and all that, but I like it. At least it gets across the message that I got me some hope on.

  Now Old man—try to give me a beat! LOL…

  I wanna get old.

  With the passage of time and living a true life,

  comes, wisdom, patience and the gift of hindsight.

  I wanna get old.

  My friends try to say

  I’m afraid of the p
resent,

  afraid of the times

  with all the murder, mayhem, injustice

  and crime.

  The shit on the street

  Is enough to defeat

  the will to live,

  the will to fight

  to survive another night – or day.

  But to them, I say,

  In spite of all the mess,

  Living is still about acceptance

  doin’ your best,

  taking your lumps, without excuses

  and the rest.

  Yeah, I wanna get old,

  and so should we all.

  To those who don’t agree,

  It’s you, not me

  who are the cowards.

  Peace—Out,

  TIMOTHY THORNTON

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  One of the things that racism in America robs black men of is the opportunity of being ordinary.

  In Ahgottahandleonit, I wanted to show Tim—a black teen from the inner city—as possessing a full life. He is trying to make sense of, to learn his part and role in, what looks to be a dysfunctional and discouraging world. I wanted the themes of this book to combat how we too often see such black boys in the news media, literature and film—as two-dimensional characters or ‘super predators,’ prone to violence and crime. The proliferation of recently documented police killings of unarmed black men and their immediate criminalization in the media has contributed to this perception in the American psyche.

  The reasons for this reality are many and deep. Since America has yet to own up fully to its twin birth crimes of genocide and chattel slavery, I suspect this crude depiction of black males will continue for some time. However, the rapidly changing demographics of our country give me hope.

  In many ways, Tim is an average teenager. He has a father, mother, sister, teachers, friends, aunts and uncles—and they care about him deeply. Like the rest of us, he also has choices in his life and choices in how he reacts to what happens to him from moment to moment.

  His life over the summer manifests in a series of decisions that, to his immature mind, appear to be rational, but in reality they are self-destructive and related to the pathology of his social-economic status in America. For many reasons way beyond his ability to fully comprehend, he finds himself in the tragic circumstance of living in a state of crisis.

  Sometimes, to quote a friend, making bad choices is how you find your way.

  I grew up in an environment much like Tim’s. However, my folks worked hard for me to be one of the ‘good boys’ in the neighborhood (lucky me). I worked hard to walk that line of being down or cool and at the same time, studious. Later, I realized that my white counterparts I met in college were unconcerned with such things. They were free to be themselves, were socially and financially secure, had loads of positive models around them and didn’t have to be an exception.

  In Ahgottahandleonit, I try to show the ordinariness of Tim, a young black man born into a social history that has, through oppression, murder and exclusion shaped his and his family’s perception of their lives. One of the things that racism in America robs black men of is the opportunity of being ordinary or average. We are either thugs or the exception. Tim is neither. He’s a boy in a situation where kids think that exaggerated machismo will gird them against the systemic forces lined up against their lives, will define them as men. Without models and for as long as he lives in an oppressed environment, Tim has to put on the mask to survive.

  So, yes, the jive talk and mannerisms are superficial—always have been. The story is in the hearts, decisions and circumstances of the characters.

  —Donovan Mixon

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A heartfelt thank you to my wife Diana, my family and friends.

  A special thank you to Lisa S. and the crew at Cinco Puntos Press: Lee, Bobby, John, Jessica and Mary.

  And to the Floating House crew: Craig, Sheila and Candace.

  Much gratitude to my precious writing groups in Istanbul, Turkey and Evanston, Illinois.