The 'N' Word, Book 1 (43 page)

Rather than having to dodge those proverbial bullets designed by the bitterness of lost hope and dreams, it was like the red fucking sea had been parted, and he could walk right through without even getting wet…

No one bothered him at chow. No one said anything slick, demeaning, trying to get his goat. Nah, getting back into the real world had been almost, dare he admit it, pleasant. As he’d gathered his belongings in a bag on that final day, his curiosity begged him to inquire. The guard walked him slowly towards the exit of the prison, but instead of feeling total elation, a wave of confusion overcame him. Before he drowned in the damn thing, he paused, looked at Curtis in his too-tight uniform and asked, “Man, I have a question before I go.”

“Yeah, what is it?” They kept walking side by side, though their steps slowed a hair.

“Somebody pulled some strings for me or somethin’. I ain’t have no issues, and though I’m not prison material as y’all try to say, I know what was supposed to happen. I ain’t have none of that. Why?”

The guard smirked, then burst out laughing.

“You don’t know? You really don’t know why they ain’t give you a going-away-hard time, Marcus?”

“Know? Of course I don’t know. That’s my whole point for asking,” he asked in slight annoyance as the man’s cheeks grew rosy with mirth.

“You made a friend…” The man’s grin waned and he grew serious. “You make the right friends in here, you get what you need. You make the wrong enemies, you never leave…”

They continued to move about as Marcus worked the words over to the damn bone, still as confused as ever, though he’d eaten the clues in one gulp. He’d kept to himself just as he was ordered to do on a daily basis, but then he remembered…

As he held that drawing, like a sheet thrown off of the latest model, the truth was revealed.

Oh my God, that’s it!

He slumped down in a nearby lawn chair as the reality hit him like a rock at the temple.

There was one instance when he didn’t keep to himself and mind his own business. He’d done it all right; he’d stepped out of his comfort zone and entered into a land of potential hazard, trepidation, and pure craziness…

A tall man with dark brown buzzed hair, cut military style, slight facial hair and spit-shiny black combat boots had called him over with a curl of his finger and a whistle. The white-skinned demon, perched on his concrete stoop like some gratified gargoyle, had bright golden eyes that looked like Hell’s infernal blaze. His irises reminded him of ladies on fire, dancing in a world of hedonistic pleasure and unadulterated agony… On this particular day, Marcus was having a bout of depression – and leave it to Satan himself to take advantage of his weakened state. It was the kind of sorrow that you breathed in, didn’t dare exhale, for if you did, it would expose that you were cracking up, losing your mind, coming easily undone like baby shoelaces.

Word of such a thing simply couldn’t be shared. In Holman, you may as well have handed the other inmates an invitation that read:

You’re cordially invited to come fuck with me

Day: Right motherfuckin’ now

Time: For fucking ever or until you’ve had your fill

Instead of mailing out the party invitations for a guaranteed miserable time, he continued to listen to his music. The thumping beat fostered memories of good spells, forcing his reflections into simple fantasy. He was yanked out of his daydreams, unable to ignore that the notorious Pied Piper was staring at him, eyeing him down. Marcus had realized at that moment he had one of two choices. He could walk away, become instantly submissive by leaving the fucker’s sight, or he could hold his ground. If you walked away from a dare, you were soon turned into target practice. Didn’t matter if not one word was said; the wolf led the pack, and his name was Aaron Pike. Turn your back on him, he’d come for you. Face him like a man, and you just may live. Even in Marcus’ current confusion, he held his own, refused to waiver. And honestly, he had another scenario playing like a movie inside his skull.

A small, devious, self-destructive bud had sprouted – the kind given its due care from the likes of the crooked prison system. It didn’t grow blooms full of potential; Holman and all the places like it cultivated and fostered barbed-wired covered weeds. The misdeeds of the inhabitants coated the walls of the place as much as the spit and shit, and the walls recorded the pain and agony, echoing screams that he was certain would haunt him for the rest of his days.

On the fateful day on which he’d met Aaron, he’d contemplated an escape from his heartache. In a split second, he
wanted
Aaron to try and swing on him, get it goin’, bring the noise, knowing full well that method of answering the beast’s call would seal his fate. So he stood outside, afraid, angry, hating the world he lived in and himself for a job well done in butchering his piecemeal self-esteem. He listened to his music in an attempt to soothe something rotting inside and just then, the big son of a bitch with the type of reputation, aura and clout a man could only dream about had asked him to come over… Yeah, he’d whistled and motioned, but his wasn’t a simple request… and Marcus knew it.

A man such as Aaron Pike didn’t ask a mothafucka for
shit
. He
told
you, and either you did it or you didn’t, but either way, you better say something, and you better answer with your chin high and look that man in the eye. However, he soon discovered that all of that mental preparation had been completely unnecessary. Much to his surprise, this wasn’t a challenge after all. Aaron hadn’t called him over to turn him into an example, to start some shit for pure entertainment or to fight to the bitter death in an act of insanity driven revenge. No, it had been truly just to talk.

…Not to manipulate him.

…Not to pull one over.

…But to talk…

Just. Talk.

Marcus soon understood what had taken place in the weeks prior to his release. Despite the slight glimmer of concern in that man’s eyes, Aaron was running shit, and running
from
shit, all at once. Regardless, his fist was on the pulse of Holman; so much so, when he told someone to back the fuck off, more times than not, they did.

Sure, stories floated about like unflushed chunks of shit in a stinking toilet…

Aaron had killed. No ifs ands or buts about this.

Some of the guys were in there for robbery, roughing their old lady up, shit like that. But not Aaron… He was in there for beating a black man near to death, beyond recognition; and the freaky part was that this mud hole stomping took place in a matter of mere seconds. What would he have done with an entire minute? From the art on his body and his status, when he laid hands on a motherfucker, it wasn’t because his victim was standing in need of prayer…

Somehow, that man always seemed to escape his true fate, play a game and come out victorious. He was sly, witty, had a way about him. How could one know what and who he was, but still feel a sense of comfort when they sat next to him? Mr. Pike had managed to achieve just that – but you could never let your guard down around him. You could never get
too
comfortable, for if he turned on you and threatened you, he had a nasty habit of following through… and those weren’t rumors.

No.

Those were facts.

But how did he get the black inmates to leave me alone, too?! They don’t listen to none of them boys like him up in there! That’s the damn problem. Nobody listens, but everybody’s talkin’.

He hit the arm of the cheaply made chair in exasperation.

That’s why there’s so much damn fightin’ and killin’ in Holman in the first place!

…And then it hit him…

Aaron used the ‘trickle down’ effect, Reagan economics, prison style, only this shit actually worked.

This ploy and game of strategy was built upon the backs of a well-formed, albeit dysfunctional hierarchy. The top level was comprised of the head motherfuckers, the ones that ran shit – the top dogs, the shot callers. It only worked when you were a motherfucking King. Period. Point blank.

Tale in the Jail was that he had the warden so fucking stressed out, the man was making deals, negotiating with higher ups. Aaron was being given a piece of the pie, in an effort to ensure he
never
showed up in there again. Discussions with judges and the like were taking place as well; the man caused
that
much distress and trouble from his mere presence. He was a damn celebrity in his camp, and the news media coverage made it all the worse.

This caused a special circumstance, one in which the man could cause a hostile situation for everyone not affiliated with him or his hate-filled, racist group. Aaron had been placed in isolation, and people were still carrying out his orders to the goddamn letter like a test was soon to follow. He wasn’t no damn toy and for anyone who thought otherwise, they soon realized he was the wrong fucker to try and wind up and play with. This is why the trickle down trick worked, and it went a little something like
this
…

Aaron must’ve told someone important, perhaps someone of equal ranking as he or even an employee with influence, about his circumstances. They told another, someone who could pull special strings, get the puppets movin’ and talkin’ – and so it went, every step built upon the back of a promise. After the orders were carried out, said promise would be granted. The King had placed a ransom on his head, with the best of intentions, simple as that. To sweeten the deal, Aaron could guarantee perks and monetary gifts; everyone knew that the crazy, built-like-a-boulder redneck wasn’t the
least
bit broke.

Matter of fact, he had some good coin under careful guardianship, and in some ways, that made him the kind of guy you’d want to shoulder up and rub elbows with, but Aaron wouldn’t allow no damn cuddle time, so, people simply offered to do whatever the fuck he asked to be done.

Aaron must’ve done what Marcus thought, for no one looked in his direction or dared bother a hair on his damn head. And now, Aaron’s final words to him all made sense…

“When people do me right, I do them right, too…”

“Goddamn!” Marcus yelled as he leapt up from his seat, grabbed the plastic bag bursting with trash from the ground covered in sparse, and marched back inside like a walking storm.

“It was Aaron.” He shook his head, feeling a bit silly he hadn’t figured out the shit sooner. Twenty minutes later, he finished cleaning up the place and returned outside to get some fresh air. He glared out at all the trash piled up high in the plastic cans, some appearing to be on the verge of toppling over. The smell of the barbecue lingered in the air – a sweet and sticky scent with just a kiss of smokiness. It made him feel a bit of peace as his thoughts continued to drift around inside his head like a hamster on a wheel.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the drawing of the fleeing fella. Looking down at the legs of the running man once more, he leaned against the wall of the house, crossing his ankles, and fell under a prison-memory-induced spell…

Aaron, you like this runnin’ man on this paper, ain’t you? You runnin’ from yourself, just like in this picture. Funny how I think about you from time to time, ’cause you a curiosity, like something in a sideshow, some shit a person don’t see every day. Yeah, I see racists every day. I’m a black man in a white world, can’t be helped or avoided, but I don’t see guys quite like you, man. I don’t want to look at you, or think about you, but I can’t help it. I gotta see it, gotta cure the itch. You popped into my mind tonight again at my own party…S’posed to be havin’ a good time, but I wondered how you was doin’. Then, I think about you again ’cause I see a piece of you in this picture, and figure out what the guard Curtis was talkin’ about now. It was YOU, man…

You told them mothafuckas to leave me alone, not make things hard for me… You paid for my peace. You the King, and you promised them something in return. I don’t know what you promised them, but I thank you for it all the same… I pray you can stop runnin’, Aaron; stop bein’ afraid of yourself, to find out who you really are and supposed to be. I pray you can do for you, just like you did for me. That’s my prayer for you, man… ’cause that’s what you need and I truly believe that’s what you want, too.

In yo’ mind, you might call me a nigger. You ain’t say that shit to my face for whatever reason; you kept it to yourself. Why don’t you try out a different word that begins with, ‘N’, Aaron? Why don’t you try giving yourself a NEW start? A NEW day and a NEW way of life? Yeah, try that word out, Aaron… and try out bein’ a NEW man, too.

A
ARON WORKED THE
hard, sugary butterscotch candy around in his mouth until all that remained was a sliver of an orangey disc. The afternoon had been used as a disguise to appear aloof and uncaring. He soon discovered it wasn’t much of an act after all. He was on the case, observing people, keeping his lips sealed like the airtight lids of canned peaches as he tried to figure out who was internally responsible for his precarious predicament. In this quest, he’d never felt so alone in all of his life. Darryl had been placed so far away from him that he could only see him at chow and that was fleeting. The man may as well have been on the moon, and this put him at a serious disadvantage. Tony had been shipped away to another prison to complete his sentence. He only had Fred, and he could tell someone was working on him now, too.