Life Without Hope (3 page)

was dense. White folks in their cars gawked at me in horror. In the

distance behind me I could see an array of police cars–their lights

flashed as they all trailed behind me. It looked like a scene from

the O.J. Simpson chase. I turned a corner on two wheels, and

drove across the grass on 27

and Martin Luther King Park. I was

th

driving like a bat out of hell, looking for a place to get rid of the

car and run. I made another sharp right, then a left, driving in the

wrong direction on a one-way street, traveling over a hundred

miles an hour. I was not wearing a seat belt so I could make a

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quick exit. In most high speed chases the police are notorious for

causing wrecks that end in fatalities. I slowed the car down pulling

into a driveway of a house and shifted the car into park. I had lost

the police. With my hands on the steering wheel, I watched both

ends of the street. My hand was bleeding, but I could not feel a

thing. I was numb as my heart pumped ice water into my veins.

Running from the police has always been like dancing with the

devil. Getting away was like escaping from hell.

A dark cloud that hovered over me reverberating a mighty roar

shattered the lull of the morning silence. A police helicopter had

located me. I did not panic. In fact, I just sat there thinking,

there

is no way in hell I am going to out-run a police helicopter

. Then I

thought,

fuck ‘em!!!

I was facing a thousand years in prison! I

stepped on the gas and the car fishtailed out of the driveway hit-

ting a parked car. If I was going back to the joint, they were going

to have to catch me. It was on. This was some “ride or die shit”

and the gas tank was full. I headed back to Highway 301 with the

helicopter still on my ass. The wind wooshed around my ears as I

continued to disobey the speed limit. Fuck it! The Bradenton City

Limit was about five miles away and I knew there would be a

roadblock full of rednecks and trigger-happy police. I watched too

many episodes of “Cops” for this not to be true. I found a Pall

Mall cigarette butt in the ashtray, lit it and inhaled deeply. The

wind whooshed around my ears–I was driving at a hundred miles

an hour. Up ahead police cars were coming from the opposite

direction, on the other side of the highway. I zoomed past them.

They would have to turn around to follow me.

A sign up ahead read, “Bradenton County” and I saw the

famous roadblock. Hell, they were using eighteen-wheelers and

police cars. High-powered rifles were aimed at my tires. I stepped

on the brakes, the tires screamed and sent me sliding … sliding …

out of control near the steel spikes they placed in the road to bust

my tires. I made a ninety-degree turn and that old Caddy did the

unexpected and leaped over a ditch, plowed over the guardrail,

and up a steep hill. As I looked toward the sky, I squinted at the

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bright sun as sweat burned my eyes. I could see that damn heli-

copter was still on my ass.

I turned right on a mean thoroughfare. The traffic was heavy

but managed to part like the Red Sea for a Black man driving like

a maniac with a police helicopter on his ass. I could see some of

the expressions on them white folks’ faces as I zoomed in and out

of the traffic changing lanes like I was in the Indy 500. I turned,

entering the Bradenton Shopping Mall, nearly hitting an old lady

pushing a shopping cart. The damn helicopter was so low now

that it looked like it wanted to land on the car. I parked the car in

the lee of a car wash, hopped out and walked briskly toward the

mall’s entrance.

Inside, the cool air hit my face and I had to adjust my eyes

from the ardent sun. As I walked, no one appeared to be paying

much attention to me. I passed a jewelry store; next to it was an

ATM machine, and a Burger King restaurant. My mind was

churning.

Think fast! Think fast!

I told myself. I knew any minute

the mall was going to be flooded with irate cops that wanted to

beat my ass. Pedestrians traversed the halls; it was semi-crowded so

I blended in. Across from the movie theater was a clothing store

called The Gap. I got an idea and walked inside. I swore to God,

I had never been so happy to see another Black man in my entire

life. The brotha greeted me with a warm smile as his eyes held me,

giving me a once over. I looked like hell. There was blood on my

shirt and pants from where I cut my hand. I dug into my pocket,

pulling out two crumbled one hundred dollar bills.

“
I need a pair of size thirty-six pants and a large shirt. I’m in a

hurr y. Oh, and you can keep the change,” I told the sales clerk.

A few other people came into the store. I looked up, startled.

The clerk sensed my apprehension, but the money motivated him.

The brotha gave me a shirt and a pair of pants. I turned and saw

the police through the window. The clerk did, too. I ducked inside

the dressing room. They arrived in full force. I thought about a

shootout as I took the guns out of my pants while changing. I felt

my heart pounding in my chest so hard it felt like it was going to

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come out. The dressing room was about the size of a small closet

with one of them partial doors with slants. I watched as a Black

girl entered, she was tall and regal in splendor. I needed a way out

from the store. As soon as I stepped out of the dressing room and

placed the bloody clothes in a trashcan, the police rushed in. The

girl was about two feet away from me. A honey toned sister with

hazel eyes and long silky brown hair. She watched me intensely as

if she knew me or something. The police headed straight for me.

Something dawned on her, it registered in her eyes and I could see

it on her face. Her delicate lips formed a tight, thin line across per-

fect ivory teeth with her jaw clinched in a contemptuous Black

woman’s scowl. To this day, I don’t know what made me do it; fear

and desperation will make a man do strange things. I grabbed her.

She screamed, I laughed and played it off as if I knew her. I whis-

pered in her ear, “Please, please Shorty help me!” I just knew that

she felt the gun in my pants.

Surprisingly, this Black woman that I did not know, embraced

me tightly. Her euphonic laughter was the barrier that shielded

me. Four heavily armed police officers with bulletproof shields

and helmets walked right up to us. The clerk in the store looked

as if he were going to shit in his pants. I could hear dogs barking

like they were on to my scent, but through the crowd that had

gathered, their barks went unnoticed.

“
Have you seen a Black man wearing black pants and a gray

shirt?” the police questioned as they looked around the store.

The clerk looked at me as if he were weighing his thoughts

between the money I had given him or telling the officers I was

right up under their noses.

“
No sir,” he finally answered.

I felt the girl shake in my arms as the cop in the front of the

store announced, “He ain’t in here.” They stormed out of the

store. I realized that I had been holding my breath. The woman

untangled herself from me and took a step back. It felt like her

piercing hazel eyes bore right through my soul, and then somber-

ly, she closed her eyes and shook her head. The expression on her

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face said I can’t believe what I have just done.

A customer asked the clerk for help, causing him to snap out

of his daze of watching us, two complete strangers and the

upheaval of the police. The girl turned and walked away. I could

sense that she was troubled by her actions. I followed behind her

like a lost puppy. On my way out of the store, I grabbed a Lakers

hat and a pair of dark shades.

All hell broke loose in the shopping mall. The woman was

walking fast and the place was crowded. The police scurried about,

in what looked like a mad frenzy, searching for me. Outside the

sun was bright and there was not one helicopter in the sky now,

but two. The other one had ABC News 40 stenciled on it. The

mall parking lot had taken on a festive atmosphere with hundreds

standing around gawking at the herd of police. I was able to blend

right in as I followed the woman. She walked to the raggediest car

in the lot, a rusted old Ford Mustang. Abruptly, she turned on her

heels doing a half pirouette.

“
Go!” she pointed. “I’ve helped you enough.” She couldn’t

look me in my eyes.

*****

11

Chapter T

wo

Chapter T

wo

“
A Black Woman’s Love”

–
Hope –

I sat in my car reading the letter for what seemed like the

umpteenth time. It was a letter from my brother, Br yant, on the

lockdown. In the letter, he stated that he was a Muslim now and

that he changed his name to Malik. Painfully, I thought,

how was

being a Muslim going to get the life sentence off of him?

My eyes start-

ed to water as I fought back the tears. In his letter, he vented his

fr ustration, blaming it on the white man. As usual he went off on

Black women, saying they were never there when a brotha needed

them. He said I abandoned him when he needed me the

most–when he was going through a severe drug addiction. In

some ways he was right and his maudlin words hurt me to my

core. Between going to college and working a full time job I neg-

lected him. His poignant words,

you never helped me,

would for-

ever be embedded in my mind. The white folks gave my brother

a life sentence for eighteen rocks of cocaine. I have another broth-

er, Marvin. He was on the run from the law at the same time. My

father was in mourning. Daddy, he’s a good man, who has been

working for the post office for as long as I can remember. My

mother passed away from cancer when I was 6 years old.

The noise from the helicopter disturbed my reverie. I looked

up to see it hovering over the parking lot like some evil vulture

about to pounce on its prey. That’s when I saw a car come to a

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screeching halt inside the car wash and this fine chocolate brotha

came walking out. I swear to God he looked identical to my old-

est brother. I just had to do a second take. The resemblance was

uncanny. Nervously, he looked up at the helicopter and entered

the mall. For some reason, tears spilled over the brim of my eyes