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Chapter 3 – DIVIDING PARADOXES
RASHON
A shotgun ringing out, cussing and screaming, the dead raccoon baking on the road, children services taking me away, my cousin Janice singing “I told you, I told you”, my mother’s cold last stare, a woman overdosing on cocaine, the squealing brakes and screaming as the grill of that van strikes.
The prison guard struck my cell door making me jump out of my reoccurring nightmare grumbling, “Stop yelling like a baby Turner, go back to sleep!” I ran my hand through my cornrows, rubbing the scar on my temple, remnant of when I ran like N.W.A.’s “100 Miles and Running” and being catapulted by that delivery truck. Then I cracked my neck before wiping the sweat and tears off my face; damn my nightmares make me look like a punk, I thought. I went over to the little sink and splashed my face, eyeing the unfinished tattoo of my mother, remembering 13 years ago when I was little, doing the same thing after my mother was murdered by my fake ass father and the dreams began. I pounded on the sink repeatedly, thinking I guess it was fate that brought me here at the ripe age of 21. This is what society expects of us young disenfranchised black men, young nigga like me should be finishing a college semester not a prison term, and then I thought – that’s that fucking bullshit.
I could hear the local transvestite Marilyn getting pounded in a nearby cell and I could smell burning tissue. I guess Roger was cooking him up a rat again, thought they were healthier than the government issued slop. I could feel the combined pain from all of us who resided here, the reasons for the fights, the radical behavior changes, and the reason to give up hope, even though we were all supposed to be here to be rehabilitated. I didn’t see shit except for those damn metal bars and concrete décor, what a fucking comfortable living space.
I laid back on my cot reminiscing over the last 13 years of my life that led me to this moment. From being rejected by my family after the murder of my mother, the revelation of my fake ass father, to being shipped around state to state, foster home to foster home until finding my obscure cousin Malcolm on my mother’s side. He settled me down proper, of all places in the South Bronx, New York City. I thought, what a fucking wake up call. From being a dirt-poor, southern kid from the country, thrust into being a rejected, motherless, dirt-poor kid living in the inner city ghetto of the big apple.
Malcolm was no saint, a gold-platted teeth balding loser in his late twenties who thought he was still a 19-year-old pimp, working part time as a custodian for swanky Manhattan shops. Enjoying the fringe benefits of stuffing his pockets with souvenirs, mapping the joint, then sent his peoples in later to rob them blind.
His main girlfriend was one of the neighborhood prostitutes named Veronana, or some bullshit, and his refrigerator was always stocked to the hilt with beer and cheese, what a dumbass combination. I loved what this asshole said to me on the first day I arrived, as he woke up from his nap on the floor half naked with Veronana, coke and booze spread everywhere he vomited and stared at me before grumbling “What’s up little shit, now go out in the street and get lost.” Before I could even lay my bags down this piece of shit had snorted some more coke and started to fuck Veronana, wow, what a nice joint. All he needed me for was to receive an extra check from the state. I didn’t receive any of that loot, and I was starving.
It was with my world-class older cuz that I learned about two essential things that kept me alive in this hell borough, slanging dope and hustling. They both go hand and hand but at least with hustling it didn’t matter if it was the latest craze to be snorted up into some fiend’s nose, or if I was selling condoms to idiot johns about to catch a parasite from the local zombie whores.
Around this time I invited the devil in for brunch and he came in and stayed awhile feasting easily on my distressed soul. We would play cards together, ball together, start fights together, smoke weed together. He was my little bud that always had my back and I could count on him to never snitch. When I was weary he carried me through a lot of bullshit. I had turned into that demon I feared when I was young.
Malcolm's peoples become my peoples, Ready Red, Que, Estevan, Dolo, Weed, Maxwell, and the leader of the clan, Big Worm. Big Worm took me in as family as soon as Malcolm brought me into their lair, a basement after-hours joint named Cascades which was invite only, well hidden in the grimy Bronx. The thugs, hustlers, players, pimps and high-class call girls from the hood all dwelled here at all hours of the day playing cards, dice, gambling and drinking high-end booze like Patron, Goose, and Moet, like bottled water. Pimps poured drinks over the naked call girls making them lap it up like bitches in heat. This is where Malcolm met his main squeeze.
Big Worm made me his special project, teaching me the ropes of the game, running numbers and drugs for the dealers, how to rob and not get caught, how to spot undercover narcs, the proper techniques of the drug game, and all of this before I was the tender age of 13. I was that little nigga you saw cruising past you in a new whip on gold 22's. I was that little nigga with his boys talking loud and shining bright, scaring the fuck out of you and made you walk meekly to the other side of the street. I was that little nigga who cursed, acted a fool, showing a wad of money and flossing jewels to get a bitch that made you shake your head in disgust. I was that little nigga with that ‘I don't give a fuck attitude’, that talked shit to pigs, kicking they ass and not caring if I had to be sent to juvenile detention, or stay on house arrest.
I got so close to Big Worm even some of the crew questioned it, but definitely not to his face. It was as if Worm had taken me in as his son. Something about him did bother me which bugged me some nights; the way he would gaze at me with his one eye, his other behind a Slick Rick patch as he took long puffs of his chronic, his pats on my back that seemed to last way too long, his questioning me a bit too much about my family. I didn't tell him shit besides the obvious, as he was a brilliant criminologist but too obsessed with my well-being which made me skittish. I didn't trust him fully but I played the game, wouldn't let it play me. And no, I figured out quick the brother wasn't a homo or anything. He had a wife and son almost as old as me, and the son became jealous as hell of the way Worm favored me.
I was 15 when I saw my first corpse besides my mother. He was a fiend, on back pay of a couple hundred to the crew for weeks and Big Worm wasn't having it. Weed had let this fiend slide several times, not cashing him out because he was family to him, a second cousin twice-removed or something like that. No matter, last I saw him he was shooting up behind the projects. Worm and Dolo went to pay the fiend a visit, next time we saw him he was curled up in a ball inside a trash bin laying in his own vomit.
Weed had had his first warning; his natty dreads were scalped old school style. After he got out of the hospital with his head bandaged up he never let anyone I.O.U. him again. Was funny, I thought back to that roadkill from my youth and figured that rodent had had a more respectful outcome.
The state wouldn't let Malcolm slide on getting his monthly check without me attending school. I attended a charter school with a special scholarship in science for disadvantaged youth. I hammed it up, clowning around the school getting into mad trouble every other day. I made connections, hustled lunch money and had a new set of buyers: rich kids.
My so-called former family that had exiled me, that immoralist family even took an odd interest in my progress opening up the lines of communications with a few calls and e-mails, keeping me in touch with Jack, Janice and Jaymon. I did appreciate the contact with my old family but like my ex-uncle had said; things would never be the same.
Jaymon even trekked up to the big city once, was awkward seeing him after 5 years, we were cordial – always brothers, but we were moving in way different directions. Jay was doing well in football, leaving his drawing days behind him. He was living in North Carolina with his Uncle Joe after the divorce from Aunt Duwanna. Jaymon was looking stocky, but he was no match for my wild out crew. Over a game of Madden, Steelers over the Cowboys, beer, pussy and mad blunts, Jaymon took it way too serious when Ready Red kicked his ass in the game. Jaymon had finished up with this trick Nadia that hung with my crew. He demanded the video game back like he was top jock or something. He stood up like he was ready to box and got punked out by my crew, and hey, I thought it was funny. I was too busy coughing and gagging over my own magical fruit high. Jay wasn't hurt too bad but he quickly ran back to small town North Carolina with his tail between his legs. The big city I now embraced was too much for the country rat. No second-guessing here, I was the epitome of my true self.
To make matters worse, whatever minuscule part I had savored with my past life, I completely alienated my former family in the summer before my senior year. I fucked up majorly. On top of the world, nothing could rip me away from my high. I had triumphed over adversity, was 17 and making mad untouchable loot, had a ride, jewels, all the latest gadgets, and of course all the crazy bitches. Maxwell and Ready Red were throwing a going back to school party uptown. We provided food, refreshments, and the drugs; you brought your own booze and pussy.
Shit was smoking, hotties were dropping it on the floor, booze was flowing, highs were escalating, and then reality struck: my weakly trying ex-family dropped the bomb on my cell phone - a simple text saying I was not related to them anymore, do not call, do not visit, rejected again. They didn’t appreciate what my brother Jaymon went through while here, go figure; these were the same people that didn’t give a rat’s ass about us in the first place. Ironically this was all on the anniversary of my mother’s death, how could I be so stupid to forget? The night became hazy, the partiers were blurry, I couldn't focus, and I stumbled like I had drunk myself into an idiotic stupor. Maxwell was rattling on about some political shit that went in one ear and out the other; I needed to escape.
Zelia, a trick I sold crank to, was fucking with my high. I had escaped to a back room with a sack of blow ready to wipe out the pain. Zelia was trippin on something, rubbing over me saying she wanted it to snow, begging me, bugging me. Zelia wasn't any prize but she was sexy in an odd way, a glamour alternative chick and admitted lesbian, but tonight that didn't matter. She wanted snow and wasn't going anywhere until I produced. I was a sucker for hot pussy and Zelia provided it. I found the snow and let it fall. We got into it good and heavy, I was fucking the dogshit out of her from the rear as she snorted. Zelia was a fiend, the coke dripping all over her face; she rubbed it and inhaled so much she looked like whiteface, totally engrossed in it. Zelia did too much, I felt her tighten around me and I assumed wrong that she was cumming, but alas she made an ass out of me. She spent her last minutes gagging before passing out permanently, overdosing on the white I provided while I got my kicks off - not good. Not fucking good at all.
A flood of lights, and shouting and cussing, awakened me. Police were pulling me off the couch we were on and medics were trying to revive Zelia. I blinked madly in my post high phase, like a deer caught in headlights, disoriented, attempting to figure out what was happening. Zelia’s lover Camry had found us and was throwing a fucking fit. Reality struck when they were handcuffing me and reading me my rights while I watched them zip Zelia up in a bag. Damn.
The prosecution attempted to try me for manslaughter but it didn’t stick with spotty evidence, but no matter, the jury didn’t like me, convinced I was public enemy number one. I tried to avoid the stares from Zelia’s family and Camry, whose eyes bore through me like fire. None of my family came, wrote, or had anything to do with the trial. Malcolm’s dumbass was there in the adjoining courtroom with his own court case. With a kid fresh from college, court appointed attorney, the cocaine charges stuck and I received 10 years for my first major offense with a chance for parole in 7 years. A freaking afterthought, I still owed Big Worm for that Coke. Damn, all I thought about was that I am now an official statistic and my pathetic excuse for a life was over.
So here I was, 3 years, 8 months, 2 ½ weeks later, I had miraculously made early parole for good behavior. At least that’s what I knew and I was making that walk, that long walk to freedom. Damn, I wish I knew what the fuck I was going to do now.
I packed up the few things I had accumulated in lockup, twisted my rows up tight and slipped on my old clothes. I walked the final walk bigging up my acquaintances and flicking off the enemies I had made in these years: fuck ‘em, I didn’t ever plan to return.
As I was given my items back I stared at them as if through a time warp, the shiny Rolex, jewel’s, cell phone. I guess I was ‘The Man’. I slipped them into my pocket and then noticed an old inmate mopping the floor. Curiously, I had never seen him before. He gave me a look and snickered, “So young blood you going to be back to stay with us again?”
I shook my head and laughed, “Don’t think so old man, it’s a screwed up place to visit but I don’t ever want to stay here again!”
He stopped mopping and gave me a deadpan look asking me, “So, what’s your game plan young blood?”
Guess my silence told him what he needed as he chuckled, “See you real soon, son.” Without missing a beat he kept mopping. Damn, that was humbling.
I stood outside the prison, looking back again and shook my head. I looked to the left up the road, then to the right down the road. Nobody here, nobody waiting, nobody missing me, nobody even thinking of me. Keep it moving, I thought, and started my descent back into the pit of hell. A few bucks in my jacket did guarantee me a cab ride. As he pulled off I watched in the rearview mirror as my home of the last few years merged into the horizon.
The prison guard struck my cell door making me jump out of my reoccurring nightmare grumbling, “Stop yelling like a baby Turner, go back to sleep!” I ran my hand through my cornrows, rubbing the scar on my temple, remnant of when I ran like N.W.A.’s “100 Miles and Running” and being catapulted by that delivery truck. Then I cracked my neck before wiping the sweat and tears off my face; damn my nightmares make me look like a punk, I thought. I went over to the little sink and splashed my face, eyeing the unfinished tattoo of my mother, remembering 13 years ago when I was little, doing the same thing after my mother was murdered by my fake ass father and the dreams began. I pounded on the sink repeatedly, thinking I guess it was fate that brought me here at the ripe age of 21. This is what society expects of us young disenfranchised black men, young nigga like me should be finishing a college semester not a prison term, and then I thought – that’s that fucking bullshit.
I could hear the local transvestite Marilyn getting pounded in a nearby cell and I could smell burning tissue. I guess Roger was cooking him up a rat again, thought they were healthier than the government issued slop. I could feel the combined pain from all of us who resided here, the reasons for the fights, the radical behavior changes, and the reason to give up hope, even though we were all supposed to be here to be rehabilitated. I didn’t see shit except for those damn metal bars and concrete décor, what a fucking comfortable living space.
I laid back on my cot reminiscing over the last 13 years of my life that led me to this moment. From being rejected by my family after the murder of my mother, the revelation of my fake ass father, to being shipped around state to state, foster home to foster home until finding my obscure cousin Malcolm on my mother’s side. He settled me down proper, of all places in the South Bronx, New York City. I thought, what a fucking wake up call. From being a dirt-poor, southern kid from the country, thrust into being a rejected, motherless, dirt-poor kid living in the inner city ghetto of the big apple.
Malcolm was no saint, a gold-platted teeth balding loser in his late twenties who thought he was still a 19-year-old pimp, working part time as a custodian for swanky Manhattan shops. Enjoying the fringe benefits of stuffing his pockets with souvenirs, mapping the joint, then sent his peoples in later to rob them blind.
His main girlfriend was one of the neighborhood prostitutes named Veronana, or some bullshit, and his refrigerator was always stocked to the hilt with beer and cheese, what a dumbass combination. I loved what this asshole said to me on the first day I arrived, as he woke up from his nap on the floor half naked with Veronana, coke and booze spread everywhere he vomited and stared at me before grumbling “What’s up little shit, now go out in the street and get lost.” Before I could even lay my bags down this piece of shit had snorted some more coke and started to fuck Veronana, wow, what a nice joint. All he needed me for was to receive an extra check from the state. I didn’t receive any of that loot, and I was starving.
It was with my world-class older cuz that I learned about two essential things that kept me alive in this hell borough, slanging dope and hustling. They both go hand and hand but at least with hustling it didn’t matter if it was the latest craze to be snorted up into some fiend’s nose, or if I was selling condoms to idiot johns about to catch a parasite from the local zombie whores.
Around this time I invited the devil in for brunch and he came in and stayed awhile feasting easily on my distressed soul. We would play cards together, ball together, start fights together, smoke weed together. He was my little bud that always had my back and I could count on him to never snitch. When I was weary he carried me through a lot of bullshit. I had turned into that demon I feared when I was young.
Malcolm's peoples become my peoples, Ready Red, Que, Estevan, Dolo, Weed, Maxwell, and the leader of the clan, Big Worm. Big Worm took me in as family as soon as Malcolm brought me into their lair, a basement after-hours joint named Cascades which was invite only, well hidden in the grimy Bronx. The thugs, hustlers, players, pimps and high-class call girls from the hood all dwelled here at all hours of the day playing cards, dice, gambling and drinking high-end booze like Patron, Goose, and Moet, like bottled water. Pimps poured drinks over the naked call girls making them lap it up like bitches in heat. This is where Malcolm met his main squeeze.
Big Worm made me his special project, teaching me the ropes of the game, running numbers and drugs for the dealers, how to rob and not get caught, how to spot undercover narcs, the proper techniques of the drug game, and all of this before I was the tender age of 13. I was that little nigga you saw cruising past you in a new whip on gold 22's. I was that little nigga with his boys talking loud and shining bright, scaring the fuck out of you and made you walk meekly to the other side of the street. I was that little nigga who cursed, acted a fool, showing a wad of money and flossing jewels to get a bitch that made you shake your head in disgust. I was that little nigga with that ‘I don't give a fuck attitude’, that talked shit to pigs, kicking they ass and not caring if I had to be sent to juvenile detention, or stay on house arrest.
I got so close to Big Worm even some of the crew questioned it, but definitely not to his face. It was as if Worm had taken me in as his son. Something about him did bother me which bugged me some nights; the way he would gaze at me with his one eye, his other behind a Slick Rick patch as he took long puffs of his chronic, his pats on my back that seemed to last way too long, his questioning me a bit too much about my family. I didn't tell him shit besides the obvious, as he was a brilliant criminologist but too obsessed with my well-being which made me skittish. I didn't trust him fully but I played the game, wouldn't let it play me. And no, I figured out quick the brother wasn't a homo or anything. He had a wife and son almost as old as me, and the son became jealous as hell of the way Worm favored me.
I was 15 when I saw my first corpse besides my mother. He was a fiend, on back pay of a couple hundred to the crew for weeks and Big Worm wasn't having it. Weed had let this fiend slide several times, not cashing him out because he was family to him, a second cousin twice-removed or something like that. No matter, last I saw him he was shooting up behind the projects. Worm and Dolo went to pay the fiend a visit, next time we saw him he was curled up in a ball inside a trash bin laying in his own vomit.
Weed had had his first warning; his natty dreads were scalped old school style. After he got out of the hospital with his head bandaged up he never let anyone I.O.U. him again. Was funny, I thought back to that roadkill from my youth and figured that rodent had had a more respectful outcome.
The state wouldn't let Malcolm slide on getting his monthly check without me attending school. I attended a charter school with a special scholarship in science for disadvantaged youth. I hammed it up, clowning around the school getting into mad trouble every other day. I made connections, hustled lunch money and had a new set of buyers: rich kids.
My so-called former family that had exiled me, that immoralist family even took an odd interest in my progress opening up the lines of communications with a few calls and e-mails, keeping me in touch with Jack, Janice and Jaymon. I did appreciate the contact with my old family but like my ex-uncle had said; things would never be the same.
Jaymon even trekked up to the big city once, was awkward seeing him after 5 years, we were cordial – always brothers, but we were moving in way different directions. Jay was doing well in football, leaving his drawing days behind him. He was living in North Carolina with his Uncle Joe after the divorce from Aunt Duwanna. Jaymon was looking stocky, but he was no match for my wild out crew. Over a game of Madden, Steelers over the Cowboys, beer, pussy and mad blunts, Jaymon took it way too serious when Ready Red kicked his ass in the game. Jaymon had finished up with this trick Nadia that hung with my crew. He demanded the video game back like he was top jock or something. He stood up like he was ready to box and got punked out by my crew, and hey, I thought it was funny. I was too busy coughing and gagging over my own magical fruit high. Jay wasn't hurt too bad but he quickly ran back to small town North Carolina with his tail between his legs. The big city I now embraced was too much for the country rat. No second-guessing here, I was the epitome of my true self.
To make matters worse, whatever minuscule part I had savored with my past life, I completely alienated my former family in the summer before my senior year. I fucked up majorly. On top of the world, nothing could rip me away from my high. I had triumphed over adversity, was 17 and making mad untouchable loot, had a ride, jewels, all the latest gadgets, and of course all the crazy bitches. Maxwell and Ready Red were throwing a going back to school party uptown. We provided food, refreshments, and the drugs; you brought your own booze and pussy.
Shit was smoking, hotties were dropping it on the floor, booze was flowing, highs were escalating, and then reality struck: my weakly trying ex-family dropped the bomb on my cell phone - a simple text saying I was not related to them anymore, do not call, do not visit, rejected again. They didn’t appreciate what my brother Jaymon went through while here, go figure; these were the same people that didn’t give a rat’s ass about us in the first place. Ironically this was all on the anniversary of my mother’s death, how could I be so stupid to forget? The night became hazy, the partiers were blurry, I couldn't focus, and I stumbled like I had drunk myself into an idiotic stupor. Maxwell was rattling on about some political shit that went in one ear and out the other; I needed to escape.
Zelia, a trick I sold crank to, was fucking with my high. I had escaped to a back room with a sack of blow ready to wipe out the pain. Zelia was trippin on something, rubbing over me saying she wanted it to snow, begging me, bugging me. Zelia wasn't any prize but she was sexy in an odd way, a glamour alternative chick and admitted lesbian, but tonight that didn't matter. She wanted snow and wasn't going anywhere until I produced. I was a sucker for hot pussy and Zelia provided it. I found the snow and let it fall. We got into it good and heavy, I was fucking the dogshit out of her from the rear as she snorted. Zelia was a fiend, the coke dripping all over her face; she rubbed it and inhaled so much she looked like whiteface, totally engrossed in it. Zelia did too much, I felt her tighten around me and I assumed wrong that she was cumming, but alas she made an ass out of me. She spent her last minutes gagging before passing out permanently, overdosing on the white I provided while I got my kicks off - not good. Not fucking good at all.
A flood of lights, and shouting and cussing, awakened me. Police were pulling me off the couch we were on and medics were trying to revive Zelia. I blinked madly in my post high phase, like a deer caught in headlights, disoriented, attempting to figure out what was happening. Zelia’s lover Camry had found us and was throwing a fucking fit. Reality struck when they were handcuffing me and reading me my rights while I watched them zip Zelia up in a bag. Damn.
The prosecution attempted to try me for manslaughter but it didn’t stick with spotty evidence, but no matter, the jury didn’t like me, convinced I was public enemy number one. I tried to avoid the stares from Zelia’s family and Camry, whose eyes bore through me like fire. None of my family came, wrote, or had anything to do with the trial. Malcolm’s dumbass was there in the adjoining courtroom with his own court case. With a kid fresh from college, court appointed attorney, the cocaine charges stuck and I received 10 years for my first major offense with a chance for parole in 7 years. A freaking afterthought, I still owed Big Worm for that Coke. Damn, all I thought about was that I am now an official statistic and my pathetic excuse for a life was over.
So here I was, 3 years, 8 months, 2 ½ weeks later, I had miraculously made early parole for good behavior. At least that’s what I knew and I was making that walk, that long walk to freedom. Damn, I wish I knew what the fuck I was going to do now.
I packed up the few things I had accumulated in lockup, twisted my rows up tight and slipped on my old clothes. I walked the final walk bigging up my acquaintances and flicking off the enemies I had made in these years: fuck ‘em, I didn’t ever plan to return.
As I was given my items back I stared at them as if through a time warp, the shiny Rolex, jewel’s, cell phone. I guess I was ‘The Man’. I slipped them into my pocket and then noticed an old inmate mopping the floor. Curiously, I had never seen him before. He gave me a look and snickered, “So young blood you going to be back to stay with us again?”
I shook my head and laughed, “Don’t think so old man, it’s a screwed up place to visit but I don’t ever want to stay here again!”
He stopped mopping and gave me a deadpan look asking me, “So, what’s your game plan young blood?”
Guess my silence told him what he needed as he chuckled, “See you real soon, son.” Without missing a beat he kept mopping. Damn, that was humbling.
I stood outside the prison, looking back again and shook my head. I looked to the left up the road, then to the right down the road. Nobody here, nobody waiting, nobody missing me, nobody even thinking of me. Keep it moving, I thought, and started my descent back into the pit of hell. A few bucks in my jacket did guarantee me a cab ride. As he pulled off I watched in the rearview mirror as my home of the last few years merged into the horizon.
About the Author:
A label of love since 1995, fashioned for the hot urban gangsta literature market, CJX presents “Roadkill”. Christopher Joseph aka CJX has a background in media and marketing and after diving into screenplays, hoping to stumble on that big score, CJX realized the pratfalls of the elite film industry, but did discover how easily stories flowed onto paper!
Check out his website here!
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