Chapter excerpt from chapter titled "Blue" from memoir manuscript titled "Wildflower"

     I’ll never be able to explain where the strength came from to answer the door, but I managed. I hadn’t gone more than ten minutes without a needle. I knew Benny’s knock by heart, even over the blasting radio. It were as if some spirit had a handful of my hair and weeded me from the table. My hands pressed on the table as if to keep it from flying away. My feet dug in to the floor and pushed upward. My entire body flexed in a last attempt to live. The fifteen feet to the front door may as well have been a mile. Anything I looked at had a purple aura. My body tingled as if a stampede of roaches chose my body to cross over. Each step towards the door felt like I was playing a childhood game, like I was skipping around on a mattress, like I was an angel stepping through the thickest Heaven.

     My right hand reached for the door knob. When I gripped the cold metal, it felt perfect. With my left hand, I peeled the shade back slightly. At first, I saw the snow. It was deep, at least over a foot. It twinkled like some kind of starry cloud. Then I panned left to see Benny and his warm smile. He was rubbing his hands together and shuffling left to right in what I could only assume was a feeble attempt to keep from freezing in a denim jacket and hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Benny moved towards the door, reached for the knob. His smile told me he couldn’t wait to hug me. His eyes sighed in relief to be home.

     “John” Frankie demanded “Who is it?” I couldn’t speak. I took a deep breath and prepared to answer when the radio began to lower. Lori appeared on my right side, parted the shade wider, and looked at Benny. She didn’t even notice how high the snow.

     “Dammit!” Lori exclaimed.

     “What, Lori? Who the fuck is it?” Frankie was always paranoid. Everyone at the door was SWAT as far as he was concerned.

     “Hold On, Benny” Lori told him, then went into the kitchen to have some sort of whispering match with Frankie. Benny and I flashed smiles at each other, like his teeth missed my teeth. I know mine missed his. I stared at Benny’s face full of hardship; lesions, bruise under his left eye, a missing tooth.

     “John, can you open the door?” Benny asked and though I didn’t think it possible to smile wider, I did. My fingers managed to let go of the knob to turn the tiny lock in its center.

     “John!” Lori screamed my way. “Wait. Don’t open that door, yet.”

     “Nah” Frankie added. “Matter-fact, don’t open that door at all.”

     “But we can’t leave him out there, Frankie.” hissed Lori in the kitchen.

     “But it’s Benny, man” I managed to say, and again, tried my hand at turning a lock. The purple aura around Benny’s face was faded. I knew that mean I was coming down. I could feel the cold coming through the glass panes.

     “John! Don’t open that fucking door” thundered Frankie. I jerked back.

     “But it’s Benny.” I responded. My ears, still ringing loudly, could barely hear Benny bargaining.

     “John, please? C’mon, bro. John, yo, you gotta open this door, man. C’mon John.” and he slightly giggled “It’s fuckin’ cold, man” And Lori appeared again at my side. She placed her hand over my hand and whispered

     “John, c’mon over to the kitchen. You can’t open that door.” And I couldn’t believe what I heard, what strange lexicon that was to use against family.

     “But it’s Benny.”

     “I know, John, but he’s really sick.” I knew he was sick. I understood the hysteria. People were dropping without explanation. Junkies were dying just months after finding out. Hospitals were turning junkies away unless room was available in isolation. Reporters couldn’t find a single doctor to guarantee the virus wasn’t contagious in a cough, a touch, a smile.

      “But it’s Benny.” and I proceeded again to turn the lock. But Lori firmly took my hand and walked me away from the door, back to the kitchen.

     “He’s sick, John. He’ll get us sick. He’ll get you sick.” And Frankie buck shot the air with

     “Yeah, and Ma’ll never forgive us for you dying!”

     Benny continued to knock. Lori went back to the living room; the radio grew louder than usual. Frankie handed me a base-pipe while Lori returned and lifted a spoon from the table.

     Lighters flicked. Drugs cooked. A belt buckle jingled. Feet shuffled beneath the table. The sounds bounced off the stove and across the room, off one wall then another then the ceiling. Someone cleared their throat. Another whispered something and snickered to themselves about it. I shot glances at the front door; maybe the shade will move from the thrust of a loving knock. Plastic rumbled over the table. the clink of a base-pipe or a razorblade or a coin—used to scrape cocaine out of a spoon once it’s cooked and hardened for the pipe—could be heard landing. I gawked at the door.

     “John” Lori said “Nobody’s there. Stop” I looked down at the table, at my palms; cuts from razorblades across fingertips, black residue pressed into every finger, smudged bloodstains the size of flies. I turned my hands over; coke-quivers, black residue beneath every fingernail, more blood. I shot a glance at the door “Stop, john” Lori didn’t even look up. She just knew. She knew. Maybe because she felt the same hurt. Perhaps the guilt of bending to Frankie’s will killed her as much as it did me, as much as we may have killed Benny. Where was he going to go? “Stop”

     “God! Lori, I know already”

     “Okay” she didn’t flinch.

     “Both of y’all shut the fuck up” Frankie screamed. “I can’t concentrate”. I put the pipe to my lips and pulled smoke. I felt the warm wash of smoke fill my mouth and the back of my throat. My lungs began to tingle. I held the pipe out over the center of the table for whoever was ready for another hit. Lori and Frankie both reached slowly for it. Frankie put his hand down in impatience.

     “I’m going outside” Neither of them responded.  I had more energy to raise up. I didn’t grab a hat or coat. My t-shirt and jeans would be fine. My sneakers would do. I opened the front door, hoping Benny would surprise me; maybe he was still shivering in place, sessile. He was gone. There were footprints. In the entire courtyard, there was only one set, a path leading out the back towards the parking lot. The wind was welcomed. Snow tapped my cheeks and vanished. I followed the footprints around the side of our apartment complex. I failed to notice the snow falling into my sneakers. I didn’t realize how wet my socks were getting or the fact that I no longer felt my own hands. I had had so much coke, my teeth kept banging together like a metronome. I stepped where Benny stepped, turned right towards parked cars. His footprints led me to the center of the lot. Then, as if by some magic, the footprints vanished. He was gone. I turned in place, in one direction, in the other. I heard the high pitch chorale whine of streetlights, felt my hair mat to my head as it dampened by snow. The night was on high alert. I knew better than to yell for Benny. Frankie would probably storm outside and drag me in. I knew Lori and Frankie were inside; pocketing coke to keep from sharing, possibly arguing over who gets to hit the pipe next, one ready to cook more, the other just wanting to snort. Benny was gone. I looked back to where I walked from. Maybe he backtracked and went another direction? I could hear everything; snowflakes thundering onto cars, the song of streetlights, the soft press—like ginger fingers on high noted piano keys—of snow splashing on top of snow. Benny was gone. Benny wouldn’t get into a hospital. Benny was a junkie. Benny had the virus at least six months by now. Benny was gone. Benny was gone. 

The Kid from the Castle (Excerpt from my memoir manuscript, "Wildflower")

     Robert Anderson evoked fear in us before our breakfast could settle. Our second-grade class feared Robert Anderson more than our teacher, especially when she left the room. It was then we all burrowed into ourselves, into our books, into the arms of guardian angels and available Gods. We prayed to be invisible. Robert Anderson rose from his desk, circled the entire classroom like a hawk, and announced “It’s time for somebody to get fucked up”. Whoever looked up, sniffed the dangerous air and quivered, got hit; gender, size, color—all irrelevant. Adam Smith was Robert’s favorite target. Adam was the only white kid in our class. He was gentle. He smiled often. It didn’t matter that Adam lived in the projects; he was white. Hence, Adam was wealthy. Adam looked up first. Adam looked up because he was Robert Anderson’s favorite victim. Adam expected the worse until our teacher returned. Robert Anderson circled poor Adam’s desk like a Great White. Adam sobbed. “Give me your money, white boy.”

     “I ain’t got money, Rob…” And Robert smacked him, hard, across the face. Adam wailed in pain and humiliation. The wailing fed Robert Anderson bloodied water. Robert took a handful of Adam’s hair. Holding Adam’s head still with one hand, Robert Anderson punched Adam’s face repeatedly with the other hand.

     “Fight back, Adam!” some kids commanded. We all wanted Adam to harden. We all hoped Adam would survive his plight; the only white kid in the projects.

     “Leave him alone” I said. Robert Anderson looked over at me while suspending Adams red and wet face with one hand.

     “Make me” Robert said.

     “Fine! But after school.”

     “Oh…” responded the entire class.

     “What’s that noise” echoed in a yell through the hall. Our teacher’s shoes clip-clopped towards our class. Before she entered, Robert Anderson was back in his seat, everyone was quiet, and Adam already wiped most of the blood from under his little nose and off his pink cheeks.

     For the rest of the class, at random moments, I gazed in Robert Anderson’s direction to discover my greatest fear. He was looking at me. Whenever I looked his way, I was greeted with a slowly shaking fist, his gritted teeth and the hiss of

     “I’m’a fuck you up.” His lips forming the sentence slow as ambulance rescue in our neighborhood slow as the projects shaving hope from Adam’s life. The clock, however moved fast as the red streams from Adam’s nose. Each moment I looked at the clock, I noticed a half-hour was gone! after what seemed like seconds, it was already lunch time. Robert smiled at me. Kids shot scared glances my way. Everyone knew this fight wasn’t going to wait until the end of school. High-noon would be my demise. We lined up for lunch. I stood in the back of the line. A sliver of hope lived in me, suggesting the possibility that Robert Anderson forgot all about my protest to his brutality; that is, until he leaned out from the center of the live to remind me once again how fucked up I was going to be. I asked the universe for a miracle.    

     I forewent lunch. I walked through the cafeteria and exited the school. I ran to the park. I surrendered to the idea that I would be beaten up. But I was going to get my time on a swing beforehand. While all the other kids ate lunch, I took off for the park.

     Even the seats of the swings in our park were hard. They were constructed of thick steel. Out of the six swings, only four were usable. One was missing a chain. Evidently, someone cut some of the chain—most likely one of the gangs secured it to make weapons. The other unusable swing had been wrapped around the top of the steel structure so tight, one would have to climb the twenty feet and unroll the chain. I wasn’t doing it.

     By the time I picked a swing and began to ride, another boy showed up. I didn’t know him.

     “Hi”

     “Hi” I responded with a touch of depression. Seeing anyone was only a reminder that more kids would come, more than usual, to bear witness to my bloody humiliation.

     “I’m Marcus” He didn’t smile. He grabbed the swing next to me. “Wha’s your name?”

     “I’m John”

     “I’ll race you?” Swing racing was common. Kids held their swings while their feet were on the floor. When someone yelled Go, racers would get a running start then jump on their swings. Once the swing broke the horizontal plain of the steel structure, you were high enough to jump out the swing. The first to land on their feet won.

     “Okay!” If I was going to die, I was going to die after taking flight. Marcus and I lined up. I screamed “Go!” and we took off running. He ran just as fast as me. We leaped into our swings at the same time. We both placed our feet on our swings and stood on them at the same time. We bent our knees and pushed towards the sky at the same time. We broke the plain and lifted out feet off our swings at the same time. We loosened our grips to allow our hands to slide down the chain links and our bodies to slam into seated positions simultaneously. We began to laugh. And once we were where we needed to be, we jumped the twenty feet. We landed at the exact same moment and screamed with excitement.

     “Oh snap! That was close”

     “Hell yeah! Yo, I almost had you” Marcus said.

     “Man, you crazy!” and the smile I lost in class returned. “You go to PS97?”

     “Yeah”

     “How come I don’t see you after school?”

     “Cause my mom makes me go straight home to watch my little sister”

     “Which building you live at?”

     “I live in the Castle.” And I couldn’t think of another word to say. Where Marcus lived wasn’t considered Baruch even though his building was in our neighborhood. While all the other project buildings were brown brick and thirteen stories high on average, his building appeared to be made of smooth cement. It was a one-of-a-kind; old and more dilapidated than any of the other structures. It was white with strange architectural designs throughout; roaring lion-heads and open-winged angels on every corner and over all of the three entrances. The building Marcus lived in was The Castle. Kids who lived in the Castle were dubbed Castle Kids. Kids from Baruch were afraid of Castle Kids. The Castle had cops there every day and night. There was someone constantly being arrested. Sometimes groups of teenage boys would be rounded up and handcuffed. There were regular stabbings there. Blood stained the concrete around the Castle. Castle Kids were considered the roughest kids.
     “My mother told me I’m not allowed to play with Castle Kids.”

     “Don’t worry. We cool.” And my smile was back again.

     “Gi’me five” and we slapped hands. We were friends.

     It was forbidden for Baruch kids and Castle kids to be seen together, but Marcus and I were too close already to care.

     “Aw man, here come all those other kids” I looked into the stampede. There was Robert Anderson in the mix, walking with clenched fists as kids ran to catch up.

     “Here we go” I mumbled.

     “What’s wrong” asked Marcus.

     “I have to fight Robert Anderson”

     “Why?”

     “Cause” and I told the shortest version I could muster as adrenaline rushed through my face “He was picking on Adam Smith and I stuck up for Adam.”

     “Adam? You mean the white boy? Why?”

     “Cause man, he’s little ‘n’ shit. Robert always picks on us nice kids.”

     “Yeah, be seein’ that.” and Marcus nodded and looked out at the herd. “You ready to fight him?”

     “No. I don’t fight. It pisses my mother off, but I don’t like fighting. Makes my sister mad too.” And Marcus laughed loudly.

     “Aw man, why you so scared?” and continued laughing.

     “I ain’t scared man. I just don’t like getting hit!”

     “Robert ain’t gonna hit you man. He a pussy. He’s just picking on you cause he thinks you won’t fight him back. Just hit his ass once and it’ll be done.” He may have been right, but I hated it. I hated seeing the fists fly. I saw enough fights in my house. I just wanted to swing towards the sky. I just wanted to sit in a classroom without seeing other kids violently struggle to endure a day at school. It just shouldn’t have to be that way was all I could think.

     Everyone on our planet knew two kids had to fight it out. It had to be done to finish whatever was unresolved. Fighting was therapeutic. Fighting was resolution. Boys who hated each other would eventually remove their shirts, get to swinging arms, and finish as friends.

     Weak kids were forced to fight due to a combination of desire by the masses to make the meek stronger and a disdain for weakness. The weak were surrounded by the crowd and shoved towards the center to stay in the situation until they either crumbled in the fetal position to be kicked or stood up for themselves. This was Baruch survival 101. The rule was if you let one kid pick on you, they all will! Even if I just fought back and lost, I would receive more respect than my refusal to fight. Kids who didn’t fight could not be trusted to have friend’s back in aggressive situations. The peaceful were pariah.

     All I knew was I was half white, and by that measure, Adam was half-kin. No one was ever going to stand up for Adam. He was the only white boy anyone ever knew except for Greg, Peter and Bobby Brady. Someone had to have Adam’s back. I had to do something. Besides, being half-white meant when Robert Anderson was done picking on Adam, the inevitable consequence would mean I was next; having been the only other white boy in everyone’s eyes.

     I began to cry. I flashed back to the time my mother beat my sister in the hallway of our apartment and how much pain Lori was in. I didn’t want all that pain. But Marcus was right; I had to. I walked towards Robert Anderson amidst shouts of Aw shit yo and kick his ass and fuck him up man. A hand was suddenly on my shoulder. Marcus was right behind me.

     “You scared?” I nodded. Marcus smiled.

     “I got this nigga, man.”

    

     Robert walked up to me, but before he could say anything “Yo! You.”

     “Me?” Robert asked.

     “Yeah, nigga, you bitch!” Marcus walked towards Robert. “I’m talkin’ to you motherfucka!”

     “What you want?”

     “Shut the fuck up, punk!. Marcus changed. I didn’t see it in him, but then I remembered; he was a Castle Kid. “You fuckin’ wit’ my nigga John, right? Well, that means you gotta fuck with me. So le’s go.” Marcus removed his t-shirt. His back looked like some sort of map. There was pock marks and long lines, almost pink, in his deep black flesh. There were blotches like that of a cow. His shoulders had circular raised lumps like burns.

     “Where you from? I don’t even know you, man.” Said Robert. Marcus, standing between Robert and I, looked back at me and smiled as if to suggest watch this and said

     “I live in the Castle nigga” and kids ran like midnight roaches when lights were turned on. Robert Anderson let loose one tear. It streamed off the outside of his left eye. I gave him credit. He didn’t move until all the other kids ran off, until the silence was too much, until Marcus said “Why the fuck you still standing here, motherfucker?”

     And there we were, Marcus and I. Marcus picked his t-shirt up from the ground and shook out the debris of broken glass and gravel. As he put his head through his shirt, I noticed bruises on his ribs.

     “Damn, you fight a lot, man!.” Marcus looked down at his torso.

     “This?” He sucked his teeth “That ain’t from fighting. I think my mother hates me. Yo! You wanna race again?”

     “Hells yeah. This time I’m’a beat yo ass, man.”

     “Nigga, you crazy. Ain’t gonna beat me!” It was the first time a Black boy called me Nigga. I smiled a prideful smile as we ran back to the swings.