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Naturally, as a couple of more months passed by, I became a loner and a high school dropout. Sadly, the only thing I missed about school was the free hot lunches. Boy did I love them school lunches. I listened to other kids complaining about how nasty the school lunches were. If only they could compare no lunches to nasty lunches, they soon realize the luxury of eating a nasty one. Everyone sat by and watched me gulp food down; they all knew that I was dirt poor.
I grew tired of being made fun of. I wore the same old clothes every day. They may have been old, but I would hand wash them in the tub, so they were never dirty. I tried to make friends, but maybe I tried too hard, just as I had tried too hard to please mom. Trying to please people seemed to be senseless. I had no other choice but to keep to myself.
Girls said that I was awkward and goofy looking plus to make matters worse I had exploded into puberty with a face full of pink pregnant pimples. These were not just any ole’ pimples either; these were the big bright painful pimples that when they were popped, they damn near shattered the mirror that you stood in front of. Puberty was a lonely place to be in life, especially when all the popular guys were running in and out of all the pretty girls. Misery was the only one that knew my name.
I remember one girl in particular that I treasured silently. Call it puppy love if you like, but her name was Patrice and she was drop dead gorgeous. I died every time I seen her. Her beauty left me listless. I went out of my way to hold the door open for Patrice, but never had the courage to follow up with a conversation. I don’t think she ever even paid me the slightest attention. It just felt good being even the dirt in her world.
The boys made fun of me for a being a fool for her. I knew that I’d never have the slightest chance of winning her heart. I just wanted her to glance in my direction and be kind enough to toss me a smile, any attention; any attention at all from Patrice would have made my day; shit, I’m lying, it would have made my month. Maybe even my year.
Nonetheless, I mustered up the courage to write her a love letter and tell her how precious and pretty I thought she was. My heart must have stalled each step I took towards her desk to drop off the emotional lyrics I had set in motion that would hopefully convince her to let me in to her heart. She read it to my surprise and she even smiled. I looked back, half–heartedly, and fired back a smile.
Still smiling, Patrice walked over holding the letter in her hand. Once standing in front of me she said, “This is a really nice letter.” She bit on her bottom lip ever so sexily then continued, “For a nerdy pimple-faced box-frame like you.” She used her hands to draw an imaginary air box. “Look at you, stiff and square as a box spring. What can you offer a fine trophy like me? Nigga, you eat free lunches. Aren’t you on public assistance or something?”
Subsequently, she shredded the letter in slow motion. Standing over me, she let each piece fall onto my desk. My nervous heart fluttered. Patrice’s friends laughed out loud and their laughter chewed at my pride in remarkable ways. It was as each piece of paper was a piece of my heart being torn bit by bit.
Later that afternoon, I saw Patrice with her ultra-popular boyfriend. He was too fucking cool to even honor me as a potential threat. He was some big, black, burly, muscular football jock, and she was just a number to him. If she was lucky, maybe she was in his top ten. Why couldn’t she see that I had nothing but love for her? Why did she want to be his weekly number one when she could have been my long lasting only one? Why did she consider me a box-frame, an un-hip nobody? I felt dirty, cheap, and dejected as her boyfriend and his popular teammates picked fun at me. Not one person seemed to give a flying fuck, not one single person. The only friend I had was rejection, and I don’t think he was going anywhere anytime soon.
After long days spent alone crying, I found myself listening more and more to Grandma Betty’s radio. It was the only thing that I had to remember her by. For some reason, Stevie Wonder’s songs seemed to be playing nearly every time I turned on the radio. I enjoyed his soulful voice. He had song titled Yester Me, Yester You, Yester Day, which made me think of Grandma Betty even more. Although it has been several months, I still miss her as if she had died yesterday; some pain never goes away. I’d listen to that darn radio all day and carried it with me everywhere.
Music kept me constant company. Motown had some of the sweetest music known to humanity. Sweets songs coming from the likes of Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, The Supremes, and Smokey Robison and the Miracles. Music brought me joy and soon became my best friend. Music from Motown gave my meaningless life, meaning.
Music set fire to my soul. I used to daydream of being famous and everyone would get up and be all excited to see me, but I couldn’t hold a note if they put handles it. Nonetheless, I would listen to music and music would listen to me. I would talk to that radio, and I believed that the radio and music both understood me, understood my bottomless pain, my enormous loneliness. Grandma’s radio was no longer just an item; it was like a real person. This radio meant more than gold to me.
However, not even music could spare me from yet another heart-stopping blow. One Tuesday afternoon, I had just stolen a can of tuna from the corner store and adjusted my radio when these older teenagers jovially walked over toward me. Once again, I was thrilled to have someone not making fun of me, so I welcomed their conversation. Then one politely asked if he could see my radio. Although I had some reservations against it, I let him listen to it. He took a good look underneath the flip-lid and turned it up side down so that he could see the bottom, then he smiled and said, “Yeah, I like this, in fact I love my radio.” Afterwards, he proceeded to walk away with my radio.
“Man, give me my radio back! It was given to me from my Grandma Betty. It’s all I got. She’s dead now,” I pleaded.
Suddenly, the calm kid turned around and roared, “And you’ll be dead too, if you don’t get the fuck out of my face punk yellow motherfucka!” Then he belted me hard in the stomach for good measure.
Refusing to just let him take my radio, I stood up, tossed my can of stolen tuna at him and yelled, “Give me my shit back!”
To my dismay, he turned around just in time to catch the can of tuna and tossed it back at me with a whole lot more vigor than I was capable of; the can exploded off my right eye. An explosion of green, black, red, and blue colors erupted before my eyes closed shut. I grabbed my eye and began to cry, “Give it to me, it’s mine. It mine dammit.”
“The only thing yours is this ass whipping! Tricked ya...trick-baby. Get your soft ass the fuck out of here,” scoffed his cohort as he served me double of boot stumping. They both just laughed at me. “How he gone get hit with his own can of tuna?” The bully just waved me off and started walking away with my radio. Well, his radio now.
Helplessness was a feeling that I was all too familiar with, but the pain of Grandma Betty’s radio being taken was too great for even me to bare. I slowly crawled up off the ground and dusted myself off. I wanted to die, to kill myself. I wanted to be with Grandma Betty in the place called heaven that she frequently talked about. Life was not worth living without her around. Who else cared? Why was I so poor and so awkward? Why couldn’t I even defend myself? What reason did I have to live?
Reluctantly, I tossed away my stolen tuna and decided to kill myself. Holding my right eye, I cried myself all the way home as kids in the neighborhood made fun of me, as usual. One of the fuckers hit me in the back of the head with a rock and that only fueled the fire of suicide more. I ran home and dashed into my room, slammed the door behind me and slowly slid down my door unto the floor. Suddenly, the tears burned salty trails down my long narrow face. Why not kill myself and get this massive misery over with? My Grandma and my radio was all that I had. My radio gave me music and that music gave me life. Samurai style death by self-infliction seemed like a nice alternative to life. However, I didn’t have a sword so I improvised with a 9” kitchen knife.
I knew that I had to act fast. I was afraid to die, but too scared to live. I didn’t want to think about heaven and hell; I just wanted to stop hurting, now. I mustered up every bit of courage that my meager mind could and finally I convinced myself that death was certainly the way out. I kneeled onto my knees, my face was contorted from crying then raised the dually palmed knife at my abdomen, but before I could initiate the momentum of death, my mom had kneed me in the center of back. Knocking both the knife out of my hand and the nearly the life out of me, again. Pain swelled in my spine.
“What kind of bitch shit do you think you’re pulling?” she puffed on her cigarette like cool broads did in newspapers advertisements. “Misery loves company and you’re my company little nigga. In this game of life—all is fair. Fuck this pity party. Stop being a little bitch. If you ever try to kill yourself again, I’ll kill ya!” she yelled as she bent over, blew a cloud of smoke in my face then removed the knife.
“Why did you stop me? Why momma, why? I can’t go on momma. Why did you stop me?” I tearfully asked, but she just walked away. Simple so I could live and suffer more. I was a king failure. I couldn’t even successfully kill myself. Was there anything that I could do right? Who in the hell ever said all is fair?
