CHAPTER EIGHT
The sun rose a violet and orange backdrop to his lakeside perch. Lott slept soundly beneath an apple tree, bone-weary, with the gentle laps of the lake providing all the lullaby he needed. He'd always found comfort at lakes. The heavy footfalls of an approaching brigade stirred him from slumber. A staggered caravan of four figures on horseback coalesced into view. Though quite a distance away, it became readily apparent that the parade consisted solely of women. Each wore a red cap, a beret of sorts, and slowed as she neared as if beckoning him to follow her. Few women crossed him. Fewer still drew his attention.
The first had a familiar bearing
as if she'd always been around the way, a presence in the
neighborhood he'd taken for granted. She drew back her long black
hair from her Asian-looking eyes. Her horse, black as death and
hate. Eyes reflecting ambition and power. Glaring at him, she found
him wanting. The horse snorted in disapproval, and she rode
on.
A commanding dark-skinned beauty
if one could see past the layers of clothes with which she
wrapped herself, Lady G rode second. Her horse a wild-eyed,
wildfire-red stallion, untamed and unfettered yet she rode him with
a practiced, graceful aplomb. An inviting flutter of her eyelashes
framed the sidelong glances of her slow-moving eyes. Her lips
curled with understanding. Romantic and ridiculous, she took peace
from him, her vicinity smashed right into his nature. His eyes
couldn't help but to follow her. Despite other horses coming into
view, he always went back to her.
The third horsewoman was Omarosa
astride an ashen horse with a grey, mottled mane. She carried a
great sword. Drawing up, she paused at the far side of the lake.
She dismounted from her horse and let it drink while she crouched
beside it to scoop water into her mouth. Her vanity held out for
conquest.
Lott wondered where Lady G had
ridden off to.
The fourth rider was unknown to
him. Atop a white horse, a bow slung around her and a crown atop
her head. She rode with the confidence of a conqueror. His heart
leapt at her approach, yet he allowed her to pass by also, too
preoccupied with tracking the movements of Lady G.
"The thing about women is that we
don't share. It's not in our nature," Omarosa said, her voice as
clear and close as though she stood next to him. Its waters clear
and deep, she glided across the surface of the lake. "I've spent a
lifetime listening to men who seek prostitutes. Some blamed their
wives for making them choose to spend their money to be with
another. Others wept with guilt and shame, though that didn't stop
them from having a head bob in their laps in car seat trysts.
Others, in fits of machismo to mask their childishness, spoke in
grandiose terms about their lives, bragged about themselves,
wanting to be praised. Or they even turned violent. All to satisfy
the demands of an ego to show they didn't actually need to pay for
it."
"I–"
"A fierce battle, a war, wages
within you. Greatness must be earned and not just by leaping to
rescue every queen that comes along your path. This queen rescues
herself." Omarosa turned on her heel, reducing the lake to little
more than her personal catwalk. "Be careful when you help the
women. Not all of them are damsels in distress. Most will take
advantage of a young handsome knight."
"What about you?"
"I'll devour you." Her skin,
slightly blue and puffy as if she'd been drowned, and long greenish
hair, damp and drawn like seaweed. "I'll drag you straight into my
underwater palace where my most prized knights await. And you,
above all knights, should lead them."
Lott sprang up from his pillow.
Disoriented, it took him a few minutes to recognize the confines of
his room. Then he fell back onto his pillow, knowing he wouldn't be
drifting back to sleep. So began Lott's daily work of beating back
the past, haunted by dreams. He'd managed to work out an
arrangement with the manager of the Speedway Lodge, formerly a
Howard Johnson's, where he stayed, offering onsite security now
that he worked second shift at FedEx. This filled his nights and
left the early hours of the morning for him to sleep. Or run around
with King. All the better knowing what waited for him in his
dreams.
The 1950s-era lampshades cast the
room with an orange pallor. All of his belongings fit into his
backpack or a drawer so he could pick up to leave with no notice
should life carry him elsewhere. His rootlessness matched his
restless spirit. The dream stirred up something else. Or perhaps
the fact that he slept in his brother's shirt stirred the
dream.
Lott stripped off the shirt,
letting it catch on his shoulders, not admitting to not wanting to
let him go. His brother, Morris. The shirt was a connection, though
it had long lost any scent of him. It wasn't as if he had grown up
laying awake at night one day hoping to work for FedEx (though he
knew he couldn't be a UPS man in their shit-colored uniforms). In
another life, Lott dreamt of being a rapper. Music filled his head
and songs played in color. Rhythms and beats formed his skin, and
spat lyrics formed his palette. Pouring out his soul in his music,
it was easy to notice the laughter, if not the pain behind the
song; easy to be caught up in the dance, behind the beat, with the
anger which could be marketed. Exploited.
"Your
brother, now he was the smart one," Lott's mother
said, her voice as clear in his head now as it
had ever been any of the times she tore
into him. The pain of his mother's indifference lashed out in desperate ways; undealt with,
it ripped into those closest to him
before turning inward like a metastacized cancer. "Such a beautiful
child."
"All the
neighbors said so." Lott knew her soliloquy by heart and filled in the next bit, even matching the
cadence of her voice.
Her eyes
narrowed to slits, the only warning, before she sprang up and slapped him for the disrespect. If he
knew what was good for him, he would
allow her her time, her story, and her
way of telling and he'd listen to every word of it at her pace. The imprint of her hand stung his
cheek.
"He had
potential. Those fools he ran with… not two nickels' worth of sense between the lot of them. But they
were drawn to my baby. My baby
boy."
Morris was
fourteen months younger than him.
Lott touched
his face where the memory of pain lingered. He braced himself for his mother's next words. "You
and your music are a complete waste of
time, effort, energy, and resources.
What good did it do your brother? You let him down. You let the whole family down. You had one
simple job. One damn thing I wanted you
to do: look out for you brother. Guard
that spark. But… damn."
Now was that
precarious time. She either found her way into a bottle of something cheap to get her head up, or
she'd lash out, grabbing whatever was
handy – broom, bottle, one time the
cast-iron frying pan – and slam it into Lott. It wasn't
his fault. He tried, he'd once tried to defend
himself. That was the last time he
attempted to mount a defense. The frying pan slammed into him with the force of a hurled
brick. Though maybe she'd spend the
worst of this attack in her slap,
perhaps taking enough of the edge off so she wouldn't
explode. Knowing how not to catch the
predator's attention, Lott stirred from
his seated position, on the love seat – the threadbare material allowed the sharp corners of the
couch to scrape him – arms and legs
untangling not too quickly to draw
undue attention, but with furious intent.
Not that he
could point this out to his mother, but Morris was always half a fool himself. Always running
around playing gangsta. At the ripe age
of eleven…
… talking
shit about jacking fools up and giving paybacks. On one shoulder, a six-pointed star with the
letters B, G, D, and N in four of the
points; on the other, two crossed three-pronged pitchforks drawn in permanent marker.
They strolled through the parking
garage next to Market Square Arena. The
lot mostly deserted, they trolled about for hood
ornaments to take off. The parking lot wound
about, serpentine concrete walls little
more than waist high. They often spit
on those coming up the lower levels when more people
were around.
"I'm
straight up Black Gangsta Disciple." The words echoed with a boom with the strange acoustics of the
concrete structure. He didn't notice
the hard-faced diesel brothers up the
way behind him. Lott elbowed him in the side and ticked
his chin toward them, warning him to be easy.
But he would have none of it and didn't
care that, too late, he had their full
attention.
"Da fuck?
Say that shit again," a brickhouse of a brother said. Wide as he was tall, a poorly grown goatee outlined
lips, his mouth as big as Lott's
fist.
"He didn't
say nothing," Lott stepped between them and his brother.
"Wha? Nah,
for real, what did he say?" the second one said in a measured tone meant to convey calm and
complete reasonableness. Lott heard the
echo of a snake's rattle in the timbre
of his voice.
"Nothing," Lott
repeated.
"I ain't
scared," Morris said. "My boys got my back. Black
Gangsta Disciples."
"Oh yeah?
Spit your lit."
"What?"
Morris asked.
"A prayer
better come off your lips real soon, boy." The first man crowded Morris, the other barring him from
Lott.
"I
don't…"
The two men
caught each other's eyes and upended Morris over the side of the parking garage. They each held fast
to a foot.
"Say that
shit again," the first man demanded.
"Say it
again and I will end you," the second man dared.
Morris
thrashed about, the street loomed beneath him. Lott
punched at the two men. "Let him
go!"
"Say that
shit again. What set you claim?" the first asked
again, ignoring Lott's swats.
"Black
Gangsta Disciple."
Moments.
The surreal
passage of time, life-changing instants occur with Lott frozen or with things moving so fast he
couldn't react. Lies clouded memories,
all dark whispers unchecked as guilt
and shame longed to take root. Perhaps he sensed his
mother's favoritism and wished it
extinguished. Perhaps the need to
finally be seen was born from wanting to see his
brother gone. Perhaps part of him resented his
brother. Perhaps any of that held him
to his spot.
The two
brutes released him then leaned over the concrete
balcony further to better study the piece of
street art they had just created.
Morris's cry unfroze Lott. He tore ass down the main stairs. By the time he reached the ground level, a
crowd had already gathered. Starlings
bobbed around it like curious children,
scattering at his approach. Morris's face was an
agonal mask, lips drawn upward. A
grotesque statue with his arms rested
at unnatural angles to the body. His jaws hinged.
The blood soaked his clothes black. Eyes open,
fixed on…
… him,
filled with rage and resentment. Nothing close to the
love one would expect from their move.
Accusing, blame-riddled.
Lott didn't
know what or how to feel.
Sadly, it wasn't even the worst
thing he'd seen in gangsta life. He studied the scars on his hands.
Remembering how Lady G held his hand, ran her hands along them, he
thought about how they matched. All their scars, they were a
patchwork.
Prez sought out craziness. His dreams were
all fat rolls of dollar bills, girls on each arm, and respect
accorded from the neighborhood when he came through. The drugs gave
him purpose and focus: get money, get high. Life was a simple
equation. Yet nothing fixed that torn-up sense within him, nothing
stitched together the fragments of himself he hadn't realized had
been rent asunder. The abandonment of his father. The shunning by
teachers. His mother's misplaced rage. The low value he placed on
himself. Knowing the whys didn't help.
Reduced to a collection of
emaciated bones shrinkwrapped with grayish skin, Prez writhed in
silent panic on the couch, the sheets kicked off and around his
ankles. Wide-eyed disorientation and mouth half-opened in an
unvoiced scream, he looked absolutely lost. Like he didn't know who
he was, where he was, or how he got there. His arms flailed in
sudden panic, attack, or defense landing weak punches. Then he
pissed himself. Lacking the strength to put his foot back under the
sheets, he never imagined himself sinking to such a point. Bitter.
Broken. Hurting, too bad to see who he was or how he could
live.
No different than King, really,
if King were truly honest with himself. Most of his days were like
this, even if he gave no indication of it on the outside. This was
his daily internal war.
Mouth twitching, eyes jumpy,
hands shaking, Prez was a ghost of the boy King had moved into Big
Momma's house so many months ago, barely recognizable. The boy's
feet drew King's attention. Both were ashy, but one was ragged and
raw as if it had been caught in a food processor. King felt
compelled to wash them. Getting a towel from his bathroom, he wiped
the excrement from Prez's feet. During the best of times, Prez
slept a lot during his detox. King had brought him back to his
place, explaining to Lady G that he owed it to Prez. He never quite
found the words to explain how he blamed himself for failing Prez
as a friend and as an example. As a leader. That perhaps he could
find redemption for them both if he could see Prez through this
dark time. Walk beside him through the worst of it, even if it
meant wiping shit from the boy's feet.
His sheets soaked through, his
pillow smelling of thick sweat and the bite of body odor, Prez's
lucid dreams bubbled up, little more than memory
fragments.
"How much
you make on a package?" Prez asked, slouched against the couch with warm butter
coursing through his
brain.
"Why? You
lookin'?" Naptown Red asked. He had once waved a gun around in a misunderstanding with his
live-in girlfriend not too long ago. By
all rights, po-po should've shot him on
the spot the way he was carrying on. Instead, the tale
growing with each re-telling, he found a
measure of a reputation as six officers
wrestled him to the ground. He was out in less than a day.
"Maybe."
"So you want
to get into dealing this nasty shit?" The two passed the pipe back and forth. "It's one thing to dabble
in this shit on the
side…"
"Recreational use and shit," Prez repeated from
previous schooling.
"Exactly.
It's a whole other deal getting in on the business
side of things. You sure about
it?"
Prez took
another hit from the pipe. "Yeah, money. Let's do this shit."
With Night
out of the picture, the crew dissolved into chaotic disarray, patches of crews working independently
and sometimes at odds with one another.
Prez was only the mildly ambitious
sort. While he branched out with his ill-fated ESG
– Eggs, Sausage, and Grits – venture with
Trevant, he didn't feel comfortable
striking out on his own. Security rested in working under someone like Night and Green.
Or Red.
Red wandered
back in from the bedroom, closing his cell phone as he flopped back down. Prez offered him the
pipe again, but Red waved him
off.
"Folks'll be
by in a few." He took a tone of sudden seriousness. "I give you my connect, it's my ass on the
line. I have to vouch for
you."
"I'm
straight. No need to talk to me like I'm some
fish."
"School's in
session now, boy. If we gonna do this, you need to be able to handle your business. Never let the
other guy get up on you. Never trust
anyone. Never do your own product.
Never do anything out of charity. Out here, in life,
it's all about business."
"Are there
any always?" Prez leaned forward to appear intent, but didn't know where to put his arms. He almost
tottered over.
"Always be
strapped." Red snapped open a baggy and filled it about half an inch deep. "Typical customer,
here's what you give
them."
"The baggy
looks kinda pale."
"The more on
the hook they are, the smaller the baggies you give them."
"That's
cold, man."
"That's
business. It's all about that dollar, son."
The dream memories churned in
fits and spurts. First steps, twelfth steps, whatever step it was
that put Prez on the path to this couch, trembling like an errant
leaf in a fall breeze. Maybe the step came earlier, with his
hollowed-out self. The hunger was pure, elemental, and he knew how
to sate it. This he could control; fix the outside and the insides
would take care of themselves. Stumbling through back alleys,
searching for ground scores hoping that food, maybe a burger, might
be found discarded but still edible. He missed the days when
McDonald's had their Beanie Babies and whole meals went to waste in
bags as patrons bought Happy Meals just for the toy prize.
His head seemed too big for his
gaunt frame, giving the illusion that his thin neck was unable to
support its weight. His cheekbones stood out above washedout and
cracked lips. Splotches dotted his skin. How much time had passed?
Hours? Days? Weak and still shivering in bed, sleep eluded him. He
clawed at his skin as if wanting to scrape it off. Nothing eased
the suffering. It seemed cruel, a punishment too harsh for his
crime. He was guilty of only wanting to feel better, of wanting to
feel complete. Happy. Wanting the hurt to stop. Ashamed and
terrified, King was the only person he could trust.
"Let me out of here," Prez said
to the shadowed form he glimpsed through tear-blurred, half-open
eyes.
"I can't do it, Prez. And you
don't want me to."
King daubed the perspiration
sheen from the boy's forehead, a little too sternly, definitely
lacking a mother's tender touch.
Breathing through his open mouth,
Prez's thrashes grew weaker. The smell of him filled the room, his
sweat soaked through his shirt and sheets, a mildewed stink. Prez
told himself over and over that he was going to leave all this
behind him, all the thugging and gangsta posing. Even before that
last deal went so wrong.
"What the fuck?" Red put
fire to the blunt, drew in its smoke,
closed his eyes to let it do its work, and blew out a
thick stream of smoke.
"What's up?"
Prez turned from the television, a rerun of some cop show on TNT. Naptown Red hunched over a
table, stacks of bills in front of him
and a few scattered tester packets.
More than a couple he had sampled himself.
"We short.
Nearly a G." The patches of his face seemed to swirl, a Rorschach in varying shades of brown. He ran
his hand through his dry, straightened
hair.
"What you
mean?"
"You stupid,
motherfucker? Fathead done shorted us. Trying to punk us out." Fathead Wallace was one of their
new distributors. Red was uncertain
about putting him on, but Prez vouched
for him, saying they went back years, both having squat in the same places off and on.
"Let's go
talk to him. I bet we can straighten things out."
"Talk? What
did I tell you? 'Never let the other guy get up on you.' Anyone who tries, we got to fuck up or else we
the ones who look
weak."
"But there
might be a simple mistake."
"You got a
few hundred in your pockets you forgot to give me?" Red slipped his Taurus into his dip.
"No."
"You got a
few more ounces have gone unsold?"
"No." Yes.
Actually, they got smoked up behind that old burned-out church. Violating Red's other rule, "never
do your own product." But, as much as
Fathead was his boy and all, he wasn't
about to admit to stealing from Red. Might as well cut off his own hands.
"You up for
fucking someone up or are you one of them all-talk niggas?"
Prez never
wanted to be thought of as weak. Not that he wanted to be one of those hollow-eyed brothers, like Green
or Junie, folks so ate up by the
streets they had nothing left inside. He didn't need to be hard like that or have his name ring
out like that. He was no gangsta by any
means, but he was no punk neither.
Played out as weak, he might as well not show his face around as everyone would be seeking to get over
on him. So all the way over to
Fathead's place, Prez talked about how
he was going to fuck up Fathead. Punched his own hand
in a pantomime of a beat-down. Made the noises
of someone taking a punch then pleading
for them to stop. Talking all kinds of
shit about "naw nigga, you shouldn't have played us.
You earned this. You better let everyone know
not to cross us."
Naptown Red
listened patiently. He'd sparked up before they left, getting his head right before going off on a
mission. Tooled up, his mind was
definitely intent on getting either his money, his product, or someone's ass.
"This the
right place?" They stood in front of a white
shotgun house, which stood out on the
block from the other more Arts and
Crafts era-inspired houses.
"Yeah."
Red tamped
out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long pull. Leaving the cigarette dangling from his lip, he stepped
back and kicked the door
in.
Two brothers
reclined on a couch, jumping to attention at Red and Prez's entrance. A skinny white kid missing one
eye, struggled to find his sea legs. He
knocked over an opened pizza box with
only a quarter of a pie left. A half-dozen empty soldiers of Blatz toppled along the table, which
Prez remembered Fathead once calling
"the Muskatel of beer."
"Which one
of you motherfuckers is Fathead?" Red asked, as if more than one of them was missing an eye. No
one spoke up. Red glanced back at Prez,
then traced his eye line to the skinny
boy. Prez sheepishly turned away. Fathead curled up his slip at the sting of betrayal. "You got the
rest of my money,
bitch?"
"What money?
We straight," Fathead said. Fine scars framed his fake eye. He'd seen a movie where some dude
kept having different glass eyes, like
one was a yellow smiley face. Fathead
wanted to draw a skull and crossbones on his. That
would be some tripped out
shit.
"Naw,
motherfucker, we far from straight. We about a grand from straight."
"You better
take that up with your boy," Fathead said, hands
raised and in plain sight. "Came over here, I
told him the package looked a little
light. His eyes all fucked up, I knew he'd been hitting it. I ain't tryin' to rip nobody off. I'm just out
to earn. And I can't earn if I burn my
connect straight out the gate."
Red
calculated the P/F, profits to fiending, ratio. Fathead
might have been up on pizza and cheap beer,
maybe a blunt or two, but that was it.
Prez itched his forearm, eyes swimming
in his head. In a whirl, Red grabbed the neck of one of
the bottles and smashed it against Prez's
skull.
"Ho shit!"
Fathead skittered up the back of his couch, not taking his eyes from the scene.
Prez
clutched his head and called out to the Lord,
apparently now on a first-name basis
with him. Naptown Red snapped his knife
to life, poised to carve out his missing money from Prez's narrow behind when the sound of a
high grinding metal whine pierced the
room.
A seam of
light split the air. Red and Fathead pushed past
him, tumbling out the door. The poor fool,
Prez, turned back and received a claw
across his face for his troubles. Blood. So much blood. A small creature pulled its lips back to
reveal teeth like a shark's. It removed
its cap to daub the stain of blood left
by Prez. That was the last image he remembered –
the row of sharpened teeth – before King found
him.
Prez knew all about the
twelve-step programs. He tried them as a condition of getting food
from churches. He hated the fact that churches always made him
listen to their spiel before doing anything for him. They couldn't
just give him a free meal, couldn't just take one look at him and
see that he was in need. He always got stuck on that third step of
the program. They always talked about a higher power, but prayer
struck him as rather desperate. Crying out to an invisible friend
who obviously didn't give two shits about him because if He were
any kind of friend, He'd have never let him get as low as He
did.
The image of Fathead's "what the
fuck?" grimace as if betrayed flashed in his head.
"I don't know what to say. Even
if I believe in Him," Prez said.
"Then tell Him that. And what you
want," King said.
"God, I don't believe in you, but
I need help. I can't keep going like this. I need help." Broken,
wondering when he'd feel whole again, faith was the only thread
left to carry him through. And hopefully not unravel the tapestry
of his life. He didn't think he'd have the strength to fight
through the difficult moments without the faith that things would
get better.
King nodded for him to
continue.
"Dad, please." And he didn't know
if he were talking to God or his own father. "Please help me. Why
won't you talk to me?"