Life Without Hope (11 page)

olution. Her eyes softened, maybe she saw potential in me. I damn

sure did, enough to want to sell bricks and buy a villa in Manila,

smoke trees while getting my dick sucked by one of them exotic-

looking bitches under a palm tree.

“
Life, there’s a book titled,

The Destruction of Black

Civilization

, written by a man named Chancellor Williams and

another book,

Miseducation of the Negro

.”

I could have won an award for best actor the way I feigned

interest. She went on to talk about some cat name Marcus Garvey.

Her faced beamed, like she really enjoyed the topic. Boring. I was

trying to remember how far the Black section of town was that we

passed. I knew it was called Frenchtown. I heard talk about it

while I was in the joint. I needed to know what size their dime

rocks were. I was making plans, like a general, about to mount an

attack, to take over them Tallahassee niggas tur f.

“
Life! Life! Boy, you ain’t heard a word I’ve said.” She got into

the car.

“
I heard ya.” I made a face, my best impression of don’t go.

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She reached in and placed each one of the bags that I bought

for her on the curb. “I’m sorry, but I cannot accept these. Call me

at the station tonight, we’ll make arrangements to pay for the car.”

As she pulled out, I shouted, “Bring the books when you come

back tomorrow.”

“
Come back?” she mouthed the words, looking at me strange-

ly. I thought to myself,

you’ll be back as soon as you find Jesus under

your front seat

.

I went to my room. It was nice and comfortable with a scenic

view and a king-sized bed. It even had a kitchen with a stove and

fridge. I counted out my cash, a little over eight grand. I cut a hole

in the mattress and stashed it there for safe keeping. I placed my

jewelr y under the pillow and changed clothes, a simple pair of

jeans and a large white T-shirt. I was about to make my first foray

into the Black section of town. There was a risk involved. I need-

ed to look as inconspicuous as possible. I easily concealed the .380

in my pocket and only took eighteen dollars and some loose

change with me.

I walked a mile or so taking in the sights. This city was alive.

The Florida State campus was huge. White broads walking

around, scantily clad, teaming with other vibrant ethnicities. I

blended right in, and even though it was hot as hell, I enjoyed the

sights and sounds. To me it was like being in a foreign land. I

passed a car lot, across the street was a Popeye’s Chicken, and

down the street from that was Nether world, better known as

Frenchtown. I’ve often wondered how the Black section of town

was always placed in the middle of white folks’ areas so that they

can conveniently drive by with their expensive cars, windows up,

doors locked and scorned expression on their faces at the shock of

the plight of Black life.

I was definitely approaching the Black section. I could tell

because the value of the land looked dilapidated. I strained my

eyes to the glare of the sun. I saw it up the street. To the casual eye

it would not have been detected. I spotted what looked like a

lookout man or woman. Any trap that is making any money has

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one. The best lookout in the world is a dope fiend. They stay para-

noid, on perpetual alert. That is, if they’re not getting high.

As I continued to scan the streets, I walked gingerly as I passed

a drugstore. Little kids were inside buying candy. Then a barber-

shop. On the corner where I stood was a soul food restaurant. My

pace slowed. Across the street was a pool hall, a sleazy tavern and

a liquor store all right next to each other. People were gathered out

front. It felt like a thousand pair of eyes stared at me as I waited

for the light to change. One thing was for sure, whenever you

make an excursion into someone else’s hood, they know that you

are not from there and that’s where the problem starts. Like walk-

ing into a lion’s den. I crossed the street. In the abandoned lot

there was a big commotion. A tall goofy-looking white boy was

walking backward, palms in the air. His eyes darted back and forth

and he wasn’t wearing a shir t. He kept wiping the dirty blond hair

from his face. His glasses were so thick that I wondered if he could

be legally blind without them. About ten teenagers had him sur-

rounded. They had baseball bats, two-by-fours and iron pipes.

“
Give me dat money, cracka,” one of them shouted. I watched

as all hell broke loose.

POW! CRACK!

They tore off into his ass

like he was responsible for slavery. One thing I can say about that

white boy, he never fell to the ground, nor did he give up that

money. He made the crucial mistake of coming to buy a rock

without the aid of a Black person he knew, a mistake that has

caused many a white man his life, trying to buy dope in a Black

neighborhood. Someone hit him in the back and the sound

exploded like a cannon. That white boy found a small crack of

daylight and took off like a racehorse. As he attempted to pass me

I stuck my foot out and tripped him. He fell flat on his face and

slid across the worn out concrete. His glasses went one way while

he went the other. I ain’t never liked a cracka. Never! Ever since

my stepmother told me the sad story about how they stole my

granddaddy’s land and killed him. That was one of the reasons

why my father lost most of his mind.

The crowd of youngsters moved on him again. This was pure

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recreation for them. Black boys have so much pent up energy, for

them this was almost a daily occurrence, and it wasn’t just white

boys asses they whipped either. They didn’t discriminate. I know

just as sure that if they knew I was from out of town they would

have rat packed my ass too.

They continued to kick his ass. This was all done in broad

daylight. White people passed in their cars with the look of hor-

ror on their pink faces. Talk about the natives being restless, this

was turning into some kind of sport. One thing was for sure, it

was going to draw a lot of heat.

Whoever’s trip this is, they’re not

doing a good job of managing it

, I thought.

I watched as this woman ran into the melee, arms flailing,

screaming and pushing, shoving people off the white boy.

“
Ya’ll leave ‘em alone! Leave ‘em alone!” she screamed. For

some reason they obeyed her. She helped the white boy up and

brushed off his pants. Someone threw a bottle that whistled past

his head. Punched, drunk and bleeding, he staggered around like

he just went a round with Mike Tyson and miraculously survived.

The woman found his glasses and gave them to him. They had

been stomped on and were badly cracked. Staggering, he placed

them on upside down. He went into his mouth and took out a wet

and bloody twenty dollar bill. “Here, Nina Brown, all I wanted

was a rock,” he whined. Crackheads never cease to amaze me. This

white man risked his life just for a rock, and now he acted like it

was just another day in the death defying life of a rock star. The

lady dug into her bosom, retrieving a matchbox, and gave him a

small rock. His tongue moved around his cheek like it was search-

ing for something, then he spit out a tooth, smiled gleefully

through swollen lips and took off into a trot, only the trot resem-

bled a hobble like he had just been hit by an eighteen wheeler.

I recognized the woman they called Nina Brown. The other

cats were checking me out now, especially them youngsters. I

played it off and called Nina Brown’s name like I knew her all my

life. “Yo Nina! I got eighteen dollars.” I patted my pockets.

“
Where can I get a dime bag of weed at?” Actually, I was letting

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niggas know, I ain’t got no money. As Nina entered the store she

shot me a look like she was trying to figure out where she knew

me from. The air conditioning in the old run down place felt cool

on my face. My shirt was sticking to my back. The tile floor

cracked under my feet. I noticed a nice looking pecan woman

with breasts so large they made me smile. She was older than me.

Something about her hair reminded me of a straightening comb,

it shined like the little girls’ hair that I used to see when I was in

grade school. I requested a quart of beer, Olde English 800 and a

pack of Newport cigarettes.

Nina Brown counted her money and watched me. She had a

Bulls cap on her head cocked to the side. Her skin was dark. I

guessed her age to be anywhere between twenty-nine and forty-

nine. As hot as it was, she had on a black jacket with what looked

like a hundred zippers on it. She walked right up to me, smelling

like a small mountain goat. From the look of her weary, blood

cracked eyes, she had been up for days, possibly weeks. She craned

her neck at me, popped her lips, a prologue to speak. For some

strange reason almost all rock stars do this.

“
Whoisyou?” she asked, frowning at me. I took a step back

and tried not to smile. Rock stars have this thing they do with

their necks. It’s sort of like a curious rooster.

“
They call me L,” I said as I smirked at her.

“
How did you know my name?” she asked, placing some

crumbled bills in her worn out jeans.

“
Hi, Nina Brown,” the cashier said, passing me my change.

“
Hi, Ms. Atkins,” Nina Brown responded politely.

The bell above the door chimed, as a runt of a woman walked

in. She looked to be about 22 years old or so. She wore a hair

weave that looked like she had cut it off of some poor poodle dog,

and red lipstick that would have shamed a clown. The woman

looked like a misfit, which is something ver y hard to do in the

ghetto.

She walked right up to Nina and star ted whispering in con-

spiratorial tones. I eavesdropped.

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The girl’s name was Shannon. She was known in the hood as

what is called a Regulator. They are hustlers that can skillfully

break down a cocaine rock to its lowest form if need be, to make

a profit. They hang around junkies religiously, like a vulture that

waits on its dying prey. No matter how much dope you give them

they’ll find a way to go bad. Get them in the back of a police car,

and somebody is going to jail, and it won’t be them.

“
Ain’t nobody got none,” Shannon was saying, panic stricken,

like she was going to cry. Nina thought for a minute at whatever