| |
––––––––
The first night of homelessness felt the longest. It was snowing and it was freezing outside. The air reeked of burning rubber and the musty male white workforce that made all the profits from it. The streets were desperate and dark; they seemed to whisper and watch me. My mind was filled with endless questions as I walked up and down the red-light district of South Main Street. I was afraid, relieved, confused, and curious all at the same time. Finally, I was free but free to do what was the million-dollar question.
Hours later, my entire body shivered, my feet became numb and bled from blisters. My exhausted calves were swollen tight and burning. My ankles were engulfed in snow and they ached awfully but I still didn’t want to sit down due to my ripped rectum. In fact, no matter what I did, my asshole ached. Hunger began to take an interest in me, but I didn’t have any interest in getting to know him any sooner than I had to. Hunger had a way of humbling a man, crumbling a man like a mere weakling.
Finally, I rested my bloody feet as I sat on a fire hydrant. Oddly, the cold iron afforded my rectum some comfort as I sat on it to cool the burning sensation. My stomach and feet were debating which one of them was in more distress: my stomach from being empty and my feet from being numb and nearly frost bit. Although I didn’t know much, I knew that I had to do something to stay alive, something to survive. I noticed a trash can laying on the ground so I grabbed it and emptied the snow and trash out. I then laid it down and slid as much of body as possible inside of it. I salvaged a few boxes and made a pillow out of them, I sat them next to the fire hydrant so that I could rest my head on it. Although I was cold, somehow I drifted off to sleep for a few restless hours as I lay by the fire hydrant.
When I awakened the next morning, I crawled out of my trash can then walked through down town pass O’Neil’s, Woolworths, Polksy’s, the Peanut Shop, and the luxurious Mayflower Hotel. Boy did those freshly baked peanuts smell so good and seeing all of the local politicians and dignitaries inspired me as I watched them through the glass as I stood inside the stores long enough to warm up. As a result of that inspiration, I tried to find work in these department stores, little shoe-stores, barbershops, laundromats, and various factories. I even stopped in Crest Bakery and Emidio’s Restaurant, in an old neighborhood to seek employment but one manager after another told me that they didn’t have any work available. As I noticed the self-sufficient Polish, German, and Italian communities, I realized just how separate and unequal black and white realities were.
Here I was in Akron, Ohio with three huge rubber plants, Good Year, Good Rich, and Firestone, but none of them wanted to hire some poor black kid. Blacks were lucky to even get a job as a janitor but many of the people from my neighborhood would rather sit by the mailbox month to month rather than sweep some white man’s floors for poor pay. I’m not sure that I blame them. After all, I just wanted to eat and to stay warm, so I was willing to do whatever—long as it didn’t involve sucking or satisfying some stiff dick.
Eventually, I embarked on one particular incident where a ‘Help Wanted’ sign was hanging on the window of Parasson’s, an Italian restaurant. I walked in and asked to if they still needed help, but the smug cashier whispered, “We don’t hire your kind as help.” She leaned in at me, “Take a look around, do you see any other coons in here.”
I snapped, “If that’s how you feel, why are you fucking whispering?” I slowly looked around and all these big Italian guys zoomed in on me. Why was I such a fool? I left, in a hurry.
Later on that very day, I tried to find work at a black mom and pop shop so that I could barter my services for food, but the owner, Chappie Johnson, said that business was too slow. “Please Mr. Johnson, Italian people help each other, why can’t we help each other? I’m hungry and I need some food. My mom overdosed and I have no one to turn to man.” Mr. Johnson nodded his head in agreement then he gave me a couple slices of bread and some hot chicken noodle soup then picked up his shabby broom and began sweeping. Chappie must have sensed how much I needed that food. I wonder if Chappie knew that he saved my life that day because I thought that I would freeze or starve to death. Mr. Chappie Johnson gave me a reason to keep trying, to keep pushing.
Chappie stopped sweeping the dusty floor. “Son, I’m sorry,” he grabbed me by the hand and pointed across the street. He explained, “Before so-called integration, all of those dilapidated buildings were black owned businesses. Somehow integration diluted the black man’s desire for ownership, self-sufficiency, black unity, and legacy. Jim Crow forced us to have our own, to work together just like the Italians, the Polish, the Germans, and the Asians do now.”
He dropped his head and sighed. “Look at what our black brothers have become—exploiters of their own people. The signs that used to say Whites and Blacks, might as well say Pimps and Whores. Instead of being separated by race, we are now separated by shame under the guise of gender. Our young black men are feeding on our young black women. After all that our forefathers suffered, how could any black man ever want to exploit his black sister?”
I looked across the street where Mr. Johnson was looking and I saw a smooth talking stud putting his arm around a beautiful young woman with one hand while putting her money in his pocket with the other hand. The woman wore a fancy mink coat and the guy wore a long leather trench coat. She was falling all over him and he just nodded his head with a slight smile. Her smile was wide and bright; she looked happy. If that’s what exploitation looks like—I’ll take it! In fact, both of them seemed to be so distant from the suffering so many of us law abiding blacks faced.
Historical exploitation lessons of Grandma flooded my mind then the thought of hunger quickly sealed that mental leak. I replied, “What are they supposed to do starve Mr. Johnson? I’ve been begging for a job and no one will give me one. They say I’m too young or they are not hiring. And even the blacks that do get jobs, get the jobs that no one else wants and get paid less than whites. I may be young but I listen. You don’t have to have more than a third grade education to understand that we get hired last and fired first. Blacks are doing what they have to do.”
Meanwhile, I thought inwardly: pimps and pushers were the only people that had anything in the ghetto. Pimps had extravagant cars. Pimps had nice clothes and pretty women. In fact, seeing their flamboyant success silently fed my hunger to have any type of success be it moral or immoral, be it legal or illegal. It was time to rise at all cost.
Mr. Johnson fired back, “They are supposed to keep families together. Black men are supposed to make the streets safe for our elderly, our women, and our children! They are supposed to serve and protect our dearest resource—the black woman. Blacks are a special people, conflicted but special nonetheless. Blacks must have faith that God will pull us through son. We’ve lost our way because we’ve lost our faith in God.”
“God?” I yanked away. “There aint no God! Do you know how much I’ve suffered? Grandma died believing in this same ole God. My Grandma Betty is dead. She aint...”
Mr. Johnson looked at me before interrupting, “Son, do you really believe that there is no God?” Although his facial expression made it clear that bending was physically painful, he kneeled down on his knees so that he could make a plea to me. “We survived the worst crimes of humanity for over three hundred years of oppression and slavery. Our women were raped, our black bodies and bones were broken. Our language, labor, and even our religion was stolen. It was illegal for us to learn how to read, yet we have become literate within a few generations. Despite the horror of the African-Holocaust, we are still here. How could we accomplish that with no God son?”
“Slaves and slave masters both believed in the same God. Did God side with the slave masters? Would God let a helpless child suffer?” I clenched my fist. “Do you know what my foster father did to me? He made me bleed. He busted my backside open. Don’t tell that your powerful God would let that happen? Don’t tell me that your powerful God let our people be raped and enslaved for more than three hundred years!” My eyes were full of emotion and tears.
“Son, I’m so sorry, but once man sinned, we all were cursed by it.”
I interrupted, “But we all haven’t been face and butt fucked have we? You’re a liar Mr. Johnson, a liar.” I bolted in the opposite direction. I was at a loss for words and couldn’t conceive a god that would let children suffer because of some sin from centuries ago. Why was Mr. Johnson trying to feed me this bull? I needed work and food, not some lectures on a good god and mean men.
Even though I could barley read and had absolutely no job skills whatsoever, I had to find some way to support myself. Meanwhile, as I looked for work, I studied the city-scape and observed how the ghetto was infested with destruction. Working-women like my mother hopped in and out of vehicles. Hoods populated the corners. I noticed how flesh consumers and flesh peddlers alike anxiously awaited opportunity to reveal itself.
However, when darkness fell, the wickedness truly came alive. Hookers flooded the allies, and johns gravitated to them like dogs did bones. Pimps pushed big fancy automobiles and spoke loudly with lewd profanity. At night, the hunter and prey alike came out to play. Life was a cruel game of survival and people were doing anything to survive.
Sadly, I was part of the unspeakable sect—the homeless. Many were dirty panhandlers pressing the public for any contributions to ease their misery, to take some sting off from the hunger pangs and drug addiction. Homelessness and poverty are the worst possible diseases that any man could suffer, and since ghetto is plagued with so much of it, a cure must not be available. As the darkness fell so did the temperature, it became even colder, snow turned into packed ice.
All I was wearing was a thin cotton T-shirt and worn tennis shoes. The fire quickly fled up out of me and it felt as if I got tired all at once. Hunger followed shortly thereafter. I was exhausted, cold, and hungry with no place to go and no money whatsoever. To make things worse, today was my miserable birthday. What was a fourteen-year-old loner to do?
Nights were filled with lowest forms of life and the most expendable people of society: racists had a single word for these expendable people—niggers. This consisted of the loud mouthed prostitutes that no one noticed missing for months, the kleptomaniac junkies that overdosed in flophouses, and flamboyant pimps questionably shot in the back by some rogue police officers. All of my life, I had lived in the slums merely existing on the edge of homelessness.
I was a stranger among strangers, totally lost and at the fate of the predators that surrounded me. Addicts blatantly raced back and forth from dope houses and prostitutes popped in and out of cars, pimps popped up persistently and pressed the streetwalkers for money. Violence lit up every corner like streetlights. Cops were selective at which crimes they did and didn’t see or did or didn’t participate in for that matter.
As I further studied the nightlife, I carefully observed the nature of the urban jungle that I had suddenly become a part of. Cops, especially white cops, were constantly pressing young black brothers. Blacks had every reason to distrust cops better known as rogue referees. Many police officers wouldn’t even step into the concrete jungle unless they were two or three cruisers deep. Rogue referees would pass out back alley beatings and plant evidence on niggas, sometimes even kill niggas and say that they were unruly and resisting arrest. In a nutshell, few if any blacks in the ghetto had any love for referees.
Two particular policemen were infamous for their shakedowns and ruthlessness: Officer Walker and Officer O’Conner. Often niggas ended up like doughnuts, boxed up with a hole in them. If you were among the lucky victims, police merely flashed bright lights in your face, tossed you on top of their hot hood, frisked you down, relieved you of any money or drugs, and roughed you up to let them know who was the boss and who was the bitch. Needless to say, Walker and O’Conner had a many of enemy.
On the other hand, brothers were pressing each other also. We fucked each other over real good. It surprised me how black men were quick to destroy each other but reluctant to stand up to the rogue referees that disrespected us all. Black brothers gambled on the sidewalks then stuck up the would-be winners as they attempted to exit through the dark allies. Sisters were selling horizontal excitement and old white men were reaping the pink skin-deep inner city rewards. Pimps would be on the hookers’ heels no sooner she got off her back. People were feeding off of people. I learned quickly that street people were dangerous people.
Meanwhile, there was the invisible populous: the homeless. It was hard for me to accept that I had become part of this invisible citizenry. Many were ostracized Vietnam Vets, some of which were effected with mental illness others were psychologically wounded or physically amputated veterans. Some of the homeless people were abandoned and abused mothers and children. Poverty forced us all to live in filth, both physically and morally. There was a lot of filth on the streets, but certainly not all filth was created equally.
My first up and close encounter with one of these creatures was anything but pleasant. This woman was agonizingly thin and her skin was a dark sickly discolor. Her painfully swollen feet were the size of footballs with open soars and chalky, thick, grossly infected, and malformed toenails. Thick green pus oozed out of her leg; her wound smelled like decaying flesh. Her breath reeked of mouth rot and the multiple layers of crusty dead skin on her lips both blistered and bled. The gut-wrenching stench burned inside of my stomach along with emptiness. She asked me one of the most incredible questions I ever heard, “Can you help me?”
Sorrow gripped my heart as reality confirmed my helplessness. A closer look revealed that the mumbling, bumping, and shouting of several homeless unfortunates were telltales of mental illness. It was at that moment that I realized both their minds and bodies were homeless, such a tragedy. Here I was in an emotionally blind world trying to see a way out—for us all.
This cold, punishing, blistering night seemed endless and my agreeable spirit soon deserted me. However, my discouraged eyes grew wide as I witnessed two white policemen violently clubbing this little black boy. Why would they do that to a kid? He was about my age maybe even younger, not to mention remarkably skinny. The officers were manhandling the fuck out of him.
One of the pale-faced officers had the baton wrapped tightly around the boy’s throat; the boy’s mouth hung open wide in agony as he gasped for oxygen. The kid attempted to pull the baton away from his throat, but the officer just jerked the baton tighter each time the boy tried to break free. It reminded me of Mr. Jenkins and how he had manhandled me not so long ago. The officer sneered, “So you want to steal huh? Well, little nigger, I’ll teach you not to ever steal again.”
Subsequently, the taller rogue referee smacked the kid a few times and laughed half-heartedly. The little boy was clearly outmanned but he didn’t even flinch. He just held on to the baton one blow at a time. I was touched by the strength the boy exhibited. He stood there and although he was clearly a child, he took it like a man. Once the cop relaxed his baton, the boy boldly replied, “Officer, you can take me jail if you like. I’d love to go because I haven’t eaten in four days and I’m hungry as hell. And at least, I’ll be able to wipe my ass when I take a shit.”
The baton-bearing stout cop tossed him onto the ground and kicked him. He yelled, “That’s not an excuse to fucking take shit that doesn’t belong to you. You niggers think just because you built this country that somebody actually owes you something. Trust me we wouldn’t have took it if we intended on giving it back.”
However, the other officer seemed to be touched. That officer placed his hand on his partner’s shoulder and pled, “Come on Bill—he’s just a poor hungry homeless kid. He’s not one of those smart ass, drug loving, anti-war hippies trying to make a point. He just trying to make a living.”
Suddenly, the stout officer exploded with anger, “Are you trying to check me rookie? I give the orders around this bitch, bitch. I suggest you watch as well as listen. You never know when one of these little homeless wanna- be Malcolm X niggers will get their hands on a pistol and have your green ass screaming for back up. I’ve worked these mean streets for ten years and you’re trying to tell me how to run shit! I know what he is. He’s a no good thieving ass nigger.”
Then he yanked the kid up by his shirt, then slung the helpless youngster into the rookie, which knocked the rookie over. The boy quickly grabbed the officer to brace himself while falling. The chubby officer screamed, “If you feel that sincere about it, you take care of him. Remember, there’s only one kind of good nigger—a dead one.”
All of sudden, the rookie cop stood up and dusted himself off then started to stutter, “I-I-I wah-wasn’t challenging yah-y-your authority sir.”
The sturdy officer turned away and the rookie followed in tow with his head down like a weakling.
I asked myself, are blacks any less disposable than dirty diapers? Meanwhile, I rushed over to see if the kid was okay. “Man, them cops are some buttholes. Are you alright?”
He looked up at me with a busted lip and two swollen eyes. “Do I look alright? You saw what them pigs did to me.”
I looked at the bluish black kid and assumed that he was another evil urchin waiting to victimize the victim like so many ghetto children do, so I turned away in the other direction.
“Hey, man where are you going? I know you seen me. Don’t you want your cut?”
I turned around shocked, “My cut of what?”
No sooner I asked that question, the answer came running down toward us.
“You little cock-sucking coon! I’m going to break my white foot off in your filthy black ass! You stole my wallet,” screamed the rookie.
“Come on!” yelled the kid, “You know what they’ll do if they catch ya.”
I knew what the referees were capable of and I didn’t have time to ask any questions, so I followed him as fast as my wiry legs would propel me. We darted across moving traffic in several intersections, nearly got hit twice, hopped over stopped vehicles at the lights, and then dashed behind a gas station into a trail of bushes. There was an icy path due to frequent travel but after we got so far down the trail the boy pulled me over a heaping pile of snow. We were neatly tucked into a little manmade snow trench. It was painfully ice-cold being encased in snow. The boy signaled for me to not to say anything by putting his index finger up to his swollen lips. Lucky for us, a crowd of roaring teenagers came running from the opposite direction; both their noise and physical presence presented a perfect distraction for the officers in pursuit of us.
––––––––
Shortly after, we heard jingling keys and heavy footsteps reverberating through the trail. “Where did they go? Big Bill you were right. I should have let you do what you do best, de-nigger-ize them. I can’t believe that little nigger stole my wallet just like that,” replied the rookie.
“I told you, you simply can’t trust a breathing nigger,” Big Bill gave off a long sigh and some heavy breathing. He grabbed his side and bent over to catch his breath. After sucking in some oxygen, he managed to say, “They have to be around here somewhere. But their trail deadpanned due to all of the teenagers that use this path. Shit, there are tons of footprints, but they’re scattered everywhere. They could have run in any direction. Fuck!”
If only the cops knew that we were in ear shot, we would have been in so much trouble. My palms itched with fiery intensity. Sweat beads from the snow dripped down my forehead and gastric acids burned the back of my throat. After a moment, the cops became silent and moved very slowly. I think they were listening to see if they heard something, if they heard us.
The youngster lip mimed, “Don’t move...don’t breath.”
No shit, I thought. What had I got myself into? These two racist rogue referees were going to kill us if they found us or at least make us wish we were dead. Part of me wanted to jump up and say that I had no part of this bullshit; however, I had more reason to trust the little black kid than I did the racist flatfoots especially after hearing their comments about breathing niggers.
We waited for what seemed to be hours before the kid gave me the cue to come on out, but it probably was only fifteen minutes at the most. My joints were becoming stiff from sitting so still in snow and my stomach was bubbling with hunger. All of sudden, a cut of those wallet proceeds sounded real good.
Then the bluish-black kid said, “Thanks Yella. You weren’t going to blackmail me huh? I just knew you would tell the pigs I picked-pocket them,” he handed me a few dollars then patted me on the shoulder. “Come meet my mom; she’ll be so proud of you. You’ll like her too. She’s the greatest mom in the world.”
I took a hard reflection on what the word mom meant to me and the definition of greatest anything failed her. I didn’t have anywhere to go, so why deny the invitation? We took a twisted series of turns and finally we arrived at this huge condemned house. It looked like the remnants of an arson project. Most of the roof was collapsed; the paint was faded and pealing. The siding was stripped. Many windows were broken. However, a path had been cleared through the snow and I could see some flickering shadows through the makeshift curtains as if there was a fire stirring inside. It was their home by default. Once I stepped inside, my nose was bombarded with an alarming array of thick bodily funk, and my eyes clung to the mountainous piles of filthy clothes. Upon observation, I noticed movement, but I figured that it was mostly likely some rats in search of food and heat just like the rest of us.
Nonetheless, the neglected house kept off some of wicked wind because the winter weather was deadening. The crude skillet fire sat in front of this lady as she held her hands over the flames to keep warm. Luckily, the holes in the roof acted as a makeshift vent for her makeshift fireplace to release its smoke. She gradually looked up and smiled. Her teeth were so ruined and rotten that they barely kept root in her mouth. Then she stood up and asked, “What happened to your face honey?”
“Awe it’s nothing serious mom,” he reached inside of his pockets.
Once she seen that he was okay, she asked,” Any luck?”
The little black boy smiled full of pride and handed her the cop’s stolen wallet. He boasted, “Got this for you ma?”
She removed the highly needed money and tossed the wallet. “Thank you baby, you always make momma proud. If your daddy were still living, he’d be proud too. Let’s go get something to eat.” She stuffed the bills down into one of her many tattered bras then put on a shredded worn coat. At this point, I was watching the dark smoke climb into the sky through the huge opening in the ceiling.
Now that my body had warmed up a bit from the strenuous sprinting, I rubbed my hands together and enjoyed the new found heat. I took a moment to simply stare at the wonderful flames; I wanted to thank each one of them. Abruptly, the front door imploded with a loud thud. Boom! I turned my head toward the source of the sound. The door was partially unhinged. It can’t be. Oh shit, it is. The two officers stood in the threshold of the door; both were cherry-red with anger.
“Stupid niggers,” Big Bill barked while he waved his gun in our direction. His eyes narrowed in on the empty wallet. “Did you think that you would get away with this?”
Simultaneously, the slim officer dived and nose-tackled the dark youngster. He yelled, “That fucking belongs to me.”
The little black kid swarmed but failed to get loose. Within seconds, his mother leaped on the officer’s back and hollered, “Get off of my baby, you filthy pig.”
Then Big Bill ran over and clapped her wildly across the head with his gun, “I’d rather be a pig than a peasant. Who in the fuck are you calling filthy?” Bill put his hand over his nose to reduce the impact of her body stench. “I can smell that filthy infection you call a pussy!”
She collapsed in tremendous pain. Warm blood oozed between her fingers as she held her wounded head and rolled around on the floor screaming. I kept telling myself that if I didn’t say or do anything they wouldn’t bother me. I was wrong; Big Bill walked over and pressed his barrel hard up against my nose. He poked me in the face with his index finger and sneered, “The only thing that I hate worse than a full-blown nigger is a mixed milked down nigger mutt. You’re a product of race trading, nigger lovers. In fact, you’re that whore Joy’s son, aren’t you?” He leaned in and placed his nose against mine.
I gazed into the darks of his eyes; they were empty. I tried to control the terror that ravaged my body, so I explained, “Officer please. I didn’t do anything.” Hoping that my pleas would fall upon the ears of mercy but his empty eyes sparkled with evil as he slipped his revolver in between my shivering lips.
He whispered slowly in my ear, “You’re guilty of being born, guilty of being a half black mutt, guilty of ruining the pure white race, guilty of being a high yellow bitch. All of you yellow house niggers are bitches.”
By this time, the little black boy was forced to his knees with his hands cuffed behind him. The slim rookie was taunting him. “You took something from me ‘blackie’ and now I’m gone take something from you—your dignity.”
His mother was enraged as she slammed her bloody fist against the floor. “You aint gone do nothing to my baby; he’s all I got and you bet not touch a nappy hair on his head,” rasped his mom.
I admired her fire and resented the fact that I had so little of it.
The rookie smiled at Big Bill, “I’m not going do shit to him. He’s gonna sit and watch me to shit to you.” The rookie kicked the kid’s mother in the throat.
She buckled and gasped for air but he pulled her up by grabbing a fistful of her matted hair. He slammed her face into the wall for good measure then forced her down to her knees. Meanwhile, Big Bill jerked me up by my shirt and tossed me into the wall, hard. The rookie grabbed the black kid by the chin and demanded, “Watch this, you might learn something.” Big Bill laughed and his evil chuckles chipped away at what little hope we had. We knew that something terrible was about to take place.
In the meantime, the rookie pulled out a fully alert penis and dribbled it about the woman’s chafed lips as Big Bill made the horrible sight readily available for her son.
“Who says homeless niggers are good for nothing?” The cruel rookie pushed it in her mouth, “Open wide cock sucker.” He laughed even louder. The black little boy cried, and cried like I had never seen anyone cry over a loved one. Finally, the kid closed his eyes in effort to pull the curtain shut. Those big salty tears poured down his cheek like a ripple down a stream. How did it feel to watch your hero sit there and be humiliated? I didn’t know much, but I knew humiliation all too well.
She was his hero and from his heartfelt display of tears; I knew it hurt like hell. How did it feel to have a mom worth loving so much? Even though his mom wasn’t much to look at, she was worthy of his love. I certainly already knew how it felt to watch your mom engage in depravity, and worthy or unworthy, it wasn’t fun.
Yet the worst was yet to come. Big Bill turned his perverted stare on me. I had seen this sick glare once before by Mr. Jenkins. I got a knot the size of his shoe in my stomach. Big Bill devilishly asked, “I bet those young soft lips could suck a mean dick huh?”
Dear Lord not again.
At this point and time, the rookie was done with the mother and working on the son. “You stole my wallet and I’m gonna steal your manhood.” He busted the boy in the ear with his baton. The little black boy screamed in a mighty octave, but all I could do was cry. “Shut up and take it like man, monkey,” roared the rookie.
All of a sudden, the filthy pile of clothes began to move, again. At first I thought it was just some hungry ass rodents making a move until two scruffy homeless men bravely exploded towards the terrible tyrants. One of the homeless guys brandished a screwdriver. Big Bill quickly pulled his gun and fired, but the rookie froze with wet dick in hand. Soon as the two shots penetrated the first homeless man, I dashed desperately for the front door and when Big Bill turned my direction to shoot at me, the other homeless guy tackled him. His bullet whistled past my head, barely missed. Fate wasn’t as kind to the second homeless guy. When all was said and done, the two homeless heroes were dead.
Conversely, the rookie was freaking out, “Oh shit Bill, what are we going to do?” His eyes batted as he quickly zipped up his pants. “Raping niggers is one thing but killing homeless people is another matter.”
Big Bill stepped over and slapped the ruddy-faced rookie, “Oh so you consider these white nigger lovers people huh? Calm down, we’ll think of something but first we have to find that little high yellow fucker.”
The panic-stricken rookie stepped back, “We? Fuck that. All of this crazy shit was your idea. I’m out of this; you shot them vagrants, not me. Your bullets are in those dead bodies, not mine.”
Big Bill hung his head down in disappointment and then quickly raised his firearm to his partner’s face, “And I’ll be damned if I won’t shoot your weak ass too.”
The fear filled rookie hesitated briefly then daringly grabbed Big Bill’s arm; they scuffled over the gun. Big Bill tossed the featherweight rookie; the rookie tripped over a corpse and inadvertently knocked over the skillet of fire. The wood, dirty clothes, and various forms of waste swiftly fed the fire. Fire and smoke quickly engulfed the room.
My hasty exit had left the front door swinging and gave the black kid an opportunity to bail out the front door while the two officers scuffled. Shortly after the kid cleared the house, another shot fired off; echoes of agony followed. As he ran out of the front door, he screamed, “Fire, fire! Somebody help me.”
His voice was somewhat faint and I had already trekked a decent distance, something turned me around. What? I can’t tell you. Maybe it was the humane thing to do. The closer I came to the abandoned house, the worse I realized things were as the smoke burned my eyes. The homeless boy was hand cuffed on his knees in front of the house but the house was now totally ablaze.
“What happened?” I scanned the area. Shit was bad. “Where’s your mom?” I asked as I helped him stand up.
He just shook his head remorsefully. “Inside, help her man. She’s still inside,” he sniveled. “My hands are tied please help her man.”
“It’s too late man. Damn, it’s too late,” I looked up at the massive bright flames; these hot blazes seemed to hypnotize me. The massive colorful flames seemed to be reaching for the sky, reaching for God. The same God that was too far away and too busy to hear them, to hear them give Him their burnt offerings. Contrarily, the smell of human flesh burned my nostrils and flooded my emotions. “We have to go,” I paused as I placed my hand on his back. “Where are those crooked cops?” I inquired.
Still, weeping he said, “They died with momma. Yella, it’s just me and you now.” Since he was bluish black, I gave him a nickname as well, “Just me and you Blue.”
Within minutes, the fire was an inferno and sirens wailed from afar. I wondered how the fire department or police could even tell the difference from this type of smoke from the factory smoke that pours into our precious blues skies. Meanwhile, Blue was flexible enough to force his legs in between his arms so that his cuffs would be in front of him and that he could run faster. We fled back through those woods that led us there in the first place, but Blue had a problem—the cuffs. Any movement only made them tighter and now they were extremely tight. They were soon cutting off the circulation of his hands. His fingers were swelling and turning colors at this point, and that was saying something because the nigga was already so black he looked blue.
I didn’t have a clue on what to do. “Do you want to go the police so that they can take it off?” I asked.
“We can’t Yella, those police are dead back there. Plus aint no white man, especially a cop, ever gone help us. We can never trust any cop because we can’t tell the good ones from the bad ones. You witnessed what they did to me,” his eyes watered and bottom lip quivered. “What they did to my mom.”
He was right, but I didn’t have a clue on what to do. We continued to panic and continued to run blindly through the woods until we came upon some train tracks and Blue buckled. His hands were cyanotic and the circulation had all but stopped. His hands were painfully swollen. If we didn’t get these cuffs off soon, he could end up losing his hands. Frustrated I bit on my finger nails and ran my hands through my curly hair. “I don’t know what the fuck to do Blue,” I sighed frantically.
“Help me Yella, you got help me; it hurts like hell man,” he sobbed.
His face was colored in spectacular pain. My heart bled with shades of idiocy. I reached in my empty pockets and all I pulled out was lent. The more I struggled for ideas the less I came up with. This impossible helplessness was a feeling that I couldn’t submit to. While I was rubbing my chin in a frustrating frenzy, I noticed something that might help. I bent down, “Look Blue.”
He looked up at me in agony. “What the hell is that?”
“Help I hope.”
It was a huge iron nail, a train spike, which must have come loose from constant vibration of the train. I wanted to hammer the cuff with the spike, but the cuffs were too close to Blue’s wrists and if I missed, I could hurt him bad. If I could just get something to pound on it like a nail, maybe it could cut off the cuffs, but even that idea had a flaw. Pound it with what?
By this time, Blue was whining like a wolf and time just zipped by. Finally, I noticed a huge rock and ran to pick it up. “Lay the cuff against the track and let me see if I can snap it,” I urged. He did just as I asked but when I hammered the spike with the rock I quickly discovered that it was sandstone and it crumbled over the spike.
“Ugh...Ahhh,” he screamed powerfully; muscles aligning his jaw line tensed. “Please Yella...it hurts—damn it fucking hurts. Pleeeese, get ‘em off Yella!”
I swiftly ran and searched for another rock that was harder. After sifting through several, I found a solid rock that was smaller and denser but seemed to be much harder. I frantically began to hammer away on the spike against the cuff, but to no avail the rock was too little and light to break the cuffs. I wanted to give up but Blue was in so much pain that I couldn’t. At that point, I tried everything, every rock.
Finally I found a rectangular steel plate with spike holes in it. It was rusty and looked like it was made of the metal as the train spike, plus it was pretty heavy; it had to weigh at least five or six pounds. After several powerful slugs, lots of Blue’s moans, and several sparks later, the cuff gave way but we still had to get the other cuff off his other wrist. Subsequently, he placed the cuffed wrist on the track and I repeated the procedure so we could remove his skintight cuff. I had to meticulously place the spike millimeters away from his wrist, but still keep the spike on the cuff then forcibly hammer it.
Seconds later, a train roared along the track that we were operating on so we had to finish and fast. I banged away until I prevailed. We rolled to the safe side of the tracks. He thankfully rubbed his wrists and worshipped his renewed freedom as the loud locomotive rolled by. He said, “Thanks Yella.” At last, Blue was free and it seemed as if my heart could relax again. He looked up at me and asked, “What’s your real name anyway?”
As I parted my lips to answer, the impossible was quickly approaching. I rapidly tapped him on his shoulder and pointed, “All shit Blue.”
He spun around as his eyes jumped about an inch out of his head. “Run over toward the trees Yella,” he warned. “We have to get up a tree.”
I pushed myself beyond impossible means, but Blue proved to have the natural talent in sprinting as he led the way- waaay -ahead of me. Blue sprang up the slanted tree like a leopard but as I attempted to tread the bark, I lost my footing and dropped the spike. Those precious few seconds couldn’t have been lost at a worse time because no sooner I got up these two vicious wild dogs were at me.
One of them bit through my jeans and tore into my leg. I squalled like a sick pig and tried to wave my hands frantically to prevent them from mauling my face, but they rapidly snagged their jagged teeth into my thin shirt and thick skin. They ripped my shirt to shreds. Every bite emitted frost from their mouths. Their teeth were like little razors searing through my flesh with ease. I shivered from extreme cold and severe fear as I thought of what miserable death I would suffer. Yet, I still tried to fight them off because a slim chance of survival was far better than no chance of survival.
However, out of the closet of heaven came a potent German Shepard that shot for one of the mutt’s throat and locked his powerful jaws around the opponent’s neck and quickly overpowered the slightly smaller dog. Those dogs were viscous as they fought to a furious end. At this point, the other mutt was still mauling me, but I took a chance to grab the spike off the ground.
Meanwhile, the vicious dog bit into my free arm but I fed the bite and pushed my arm far back in the dog’s mouth as I could. Hell, he was already snacking on me anyway. Then I slammed the spike repeatedly against his hard head with my other hand. The harder I hit him, the harder he bit down into my arm. His will was pitted against mine.
A surge of something ungodly shot into me. Determined to break free, I swung him wildly against the tree. After the powerful thump, he fell limp and lay lifeless. His right eye and many of his teeth were missing. My spike had did quite a job on him; he was a bloody mess. Meanwhile, the other dog retreated immediately after defeat from the friendly German Shepard. The German Shepard just sat there wagging his tail and breathing heavily. He just sat there as if he was my dog and as if I was his master or something.
Blue came down carefully and asked, “Damn Yella. Why didn’t you tell me that you had a dog?”
––––––––
I looked puzzled, “This isn’t my dog.” Suddenly, the German Shepard stopped wagging his tail and started to growl. “Well, unless he wants to be,” I added urgently. The German Shepard limped over to me and gently brushed his head up against me. At that point, I noticed that his leg had been injured; I reluctantly petted him on this head. In spite of his injury, he seemed to be so at peace. However, I was not an animal lover so that act of kindness from this random dog deeply puzzled me.
Rubbing his sore wrists, Blue smiled, “This is a message from the heavens. God’s mercy has smiled upon us.”
I dropped my head and placed my hands over some of my fresh wounds. “Really Blue?” I huffed, “My Grandma and your momma are dead. We’re homeless and hungry, is that mercy?”
Suddenly, sadness filled his eyes. He said, “Mom used to say, The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” Blue turned away then remained silent.
“I’m sorry Blue...I...” I looked over at the German Shepard that sat there so docile. I hesitantly hugged him, then took a closer look at his wounds. They were minor cuts. I told him. “Thanks, since you handled that mutt so brutally. I’m gone call you Brutus.” Even though he continued to limp on his left hind leg, Brutus seemed to be happy wagging his tail as he sat with his long tongue hanging out.
By now it was even colder; I had no shirt and one shoe on. My teeth rattled and goose bumps dashed up and down my wiry arms. My right arm ached from the wounds. The recent series of events had short-circuited my thought process. Blue, Brutus, and I were somehow meshed together. We were a gang and together we would conquer this condition of homelessness. The first thing for me to do was to get some type of clothing. My nipples were rock hard and stinging from the bitter weather. My teeth chattered relentlessly and frost emitted from my mouth like steam from a tea pot. Blue was freezing too.
Blue said, “Yella, we have to find some type of shelter, it looks like a blizzard in coming our way.”
My wounds and fingertips were stinging so were my toes. Brutus seemed to be the only one equipped for the weather. However, his leg was injured so he had a hard time keeping us with us. As we traveled a little further, Brutus walked slower and slower, not to mention Blue was getting winded.
“Keep pressing Blue we can’t stop, it’s you and I against the world man.”
He looked at me sadly, “I miss her so much Yella.”
I sighed and rested my hand on his shoulder, “Damn Blue, I know you do.”
Finally, we came across a house with boarded up windows. It should at least cut this buffet of bitter winds from our paths. We rejoiced as we attempted to run into the condemned house but we were simply too weak to have any vigor in our strides. Although we were inside, it was still really windy because the two windows were busted out and not boarded shut.
Blue’s eyes were riddled with panic. He confessed, “Yella, it’s too cold; I can’t take it.”
He was right but our options were limited, so I suggested that we go check and see if the house at least had a basement or even a crawl space for that matter, anywhere that would shield us from the brutal winds. We lucked up; there were some rickety steps that led down to the basement. The basement wasn’t much warmer but at least there wasn’t cold air and snow blowing back and forth across the room. There were some scattered articles and tons of rubbish tossed about, nearly everything was black and moldy. Nevertheless, we used everything that we possibly could to help keep us warm.
For starters, I found some garments to wrap up my injured right arm. Afterwards, I took this filthy shirt and put it on. Although the cruddy garments were initially damp and cold, eventually they helped fight off the icy sting better than wearing nothing. Consequently, I pushed this pissy mattress against the wall up in the corner. It had a series of soiled circles saturated in it and it smelled tremendously foul. We sorted through the clothes and tossed some of the less soiled garments across the mattress to use as a makeshift barrier between us and the filthy mattress.
After that I took some of the other scattered clothes and built an insulating barrier between the wall and us. It was simply too cold not to be as creative as possible. Blue did bundle up as much as I did. He stared into space, shivered, and rubbed his relieved wrists. His heart was beyond broken and I knew exactly how he was feeling; I remembered that pain, that feeling of just wanting to die because of how much I loved and missed my Grandma Betty. I learned early in life that the truth hurts like hell.
Meanwhile, I took a few more of the frayed garments and tossed them over myself. My upper body seemed to be pretty warm, but my feet were completely numb. They were so cold that they burned, and my ankles were lifeless. I tossed any and everything on top of my feet, but nothing warmed them. I looked at my toes and believe that some of them were almost frostbitten.
Blue smiled wryly and said, “Just me and you Yella, against the world.” After that he quickly turned over, cover up, and put his back to me. Before I knew it, he was sound asleep.
On the other hand, I couldn’t be so lucky. I kept tossing and turning until finally Brutus limped over and lay right beneath my feet. Although his fur was wet, he was incredibly warm underneath his coat. I looked down at this wonderful canine wagging his tail. He was genuine and he didn’t want anything from me but a little attention. I loved this dog. Here was a stray dog that treated me better than my very own mother.
Dear God could you tell me why was momma so malicious? What would Grandma Betty do if she were me? What does tomorrow have in store?
Eventually I dosed off, but I awakened abruptly because Blue was pressed up all against me. “Damn, Blue I know it’s cold, but get your cold ass off of me,” I snapped. Undisturbed by my griping, he just laid there sound asleep. I tried not to complain too much because I knew that he was worn out, not only physically but also emotionally. We both had been through a lot so I just sucked up the inconvenience.
Although I tried not to bitch, I just couldn’t get comfortable being pinned up in the corner like I was. “Blue, move over man,” I fussed as I went to push him away. I mean this dude could sleep. He was totally out of it. For some odd reason, he was so cold, heavy, and stiff. “Blue,” I nudged him harder. “Get up Blue.” Still nothing. I pulled him over; the life was nearly sucked out of me as I recognized that it was death registered clearly upon his face. “Noooooo! Blue, just you and me man! Blue, Blue, Blue! Don’t do this shit Blue, not you too Blue. Don’t leave me. What am I gonna do Blue?”
Although it was still very cold, the hot tears rolled down my face onto his. Now, I was all alone—again, at least I still had Brutus, or did I? When I looked down at my ice cold feet, he was gone too. Life was a vapor and like gas my new friends had been sifted away. Fear had all but crippled me, and the only lesson I seem to learn was that I can’t afford to get close to people because when I do, they die. Brutus had left just as quickly as he had come. I remembered what Blue said, “God has smiled upon us. I hope so Blue, I hope so.” I took his shirt and shoes, wrapped him up neatly, and said a brief prayer then moved on. What else could I do? What do I have to do to make it? God if you are listening, why didn’t you take me too?
