BTRTG - BORN TO RETURN THE GIFT
That morning when she made her fast exit, she purchased a newspaper to check out jobs and apartments. Even though she had gone to see the room in East Oakland the night before, she couldn’t commit, pondering if that was really the best she could do. An advertisement for a big job fair scheduled in San Jose caught her eye. Maybe it was time to leave Oakland – she thought. She gassed up and before hitting the freeway, stopped at the storage facility to pick out a suit and a pair of shoes meant to impress. Planning to avoid traffic, she figured since she did not have a place to stay yet she could drive down and already be there to get to the fair first thing in the morning.
Like any best-laid plan, it backfired. The drive took longer due to pre-rush traffic she had not anticipated. KBLX kept her company and eased the earlier event at ‘We Care Best’ out of her mind as she sang to the music to relieve her stress. She located the address where the fair was being promoted, and from there looked for a motel. On a strip of motels nearby, she observed too many seemingly idle people loitering in close proximity. Intent on avoiding being caught up around drug/prostitution activities; she asked to see rooms before registering. Each time the proprietor studied her license and then treated her suspiciously for making such a request. And each time her inspection revealed numerous peepholes in walls, loose plaster, funky air, and burn stains everywhere so she refused to commit to being on their premises after dark.
After inspecting the third motel, she headed back in the direction she had come from. While sitting at a light she noticed a police cruiser speeding down the other side of the boulevard. She was even more alert when it crossed the meridian and stopped behind her. When the light turned green she proceeded forward and then immediately responded to the cruiser’s sudden flashing lights by pulling over, thinking they wanted her out of the way. To her amazement, the cruiser pulled over behind her and two officers jumped out of the vehicle brandishing their weapons as they approached both sides of her car with their guns drawn.
“Turn off the ignition and get out of the vehicle,” the officer demanded, as he shoved his gun in her face.
She turned the car off and intuitively anticipating a reaction, the officer warned, “Don’t say a word and get out of the vehicle with your hands up. NOW!”
Nyima complied, and with her hands in the air, the officer further instructed her to move to the rear of the vehicle as both officers put their guns back in their holsters, and the officer on the passenger side began searching her car.
“Let me see your license and registration,” the officer beside her demanded.
“The registration is in the flap on the visor,” she responded, as she retrieved her license from her purse. Knowing she was legal and hadn’t committed a moving violation, she asked, “Officer what’s going on,” as she handed him her license,
“Miss, I said no talking.”
Sensing that the situation could easily escalate into something serious, she kept her cool. Some young boys stopped and stood nearby watching with excitement. When the officer completed his search of her vehicle, he joined them and they took turns interrogating her.
“Is this you in this photograph?”
“When is your birthday?
“What are you doing in San Jose?”
“Why did you cut your hair?”
And so many more inane questions made her head spin as she wondered what they were hoping to discover with their probing.
They detained her for twenty or so minutes longer, until she let a lie slip through her lips about having a brother with the State Police. When the officer gave her back her license and registration, he told her she was free to move on and simultaneously the young witnesses trudged up the road kicking dirt.
“Why was I stopped,” she boldly asked.
“Your lamp over your license plate isn’t working.”
There was no reason for it to be on because it was not even near dusk, but she was careful not to appear argumentative. “And why was my car searched?”
“It’s our prerogative. It’s legally called probable cause.”
Overtaken by rage as she walked to her car, she turned the key and flicked the lights before walking back to the rear of her vehicle. The lamp over her license was lit up, along with her other lights. Sitting in their cruiser, she observed the officers laughing hilariously as she glared back at them. Suddenly nervous about her own pugnaciousness, she got in her car and feigned talking on an exhausted cell phone as they drove off.
Nyima was shaking as she pulled into traffic going the opposite direction, and kept driving until she reached Santa Clara. Dusk was settling in as she stopped at another motel. The East Indian proprietors did not mind escorting her to a room next to the office; and in her relief, Nyima shared her ordeal as she filled out a registration card. Genuinely concerned, they suggested she park her car behind theirs in the attached carport instead of leaving it in the open lot, which she gladly did.
It was the first time she had been in a bed in months and she slept peacefully and undisturbed, well past check-out time. That morning, deciding that her ordeal was an omen, instead of attending the job fair she headed back to Oakland.
EATBA - END ALL TO BE ALL
Before the sun could rise a storm of chaos made the peace that prevailed hours ago a distant memory. Voices boomed and rumbled, and feet and fists stomped and punched as bodies were thrown against bed rails that echoed its disruption against the walls. Rolling off his bunk like a soldier awakened in the trenches by surprise fire, Turk instinctively grabbed a bat and ran upstairs in leaps and bounds, pushing his way through the witnesses cramming to get a closer view while betting on the outcome. All eyes reverted to Turk as he rushed into the room brandishing the bat as if it were a sword. Cook rushed in right behind him with another, poised as if ready to slug somebody’s head off for a homer out of a park. The violence stalled as Michael emerged into the room seconds later to witness Victor, a new face in the house, dangling in the air. He was kicking furiously as Jamal exercised a one hand chokehold around his neck. Gerard and Melvin had Charles pinned down in a corner.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Turk’s demand to know what started the chaos evoked a tirade of voices.
As even more shouting ensued, Cook smashed his bat against an iron bed rail to command silence.
“Dammit, you hoodlums better get in check before I slam this here bat upside a head or two,” he yelled.
“Jamal, let that asshole down before you choke him to death, but. get him down to the yard now,” Turk ordered.
On the other side of the room, Charles threw his arms up in the air to let Gerard and Melvin know he was cooperating. He led the way out of the room while Victor continued his attempt to scramble out of Jamal’s grip. Jamal effortlessly hauled him out the door, down the steps, and through the dining room and kitchen. Court was about to be in session and everyone was ready to bear witness, hoping to financially benefit from the outcome.
As soon as Jamal got Victor outside and let him loose Charles charged him, getting in a few good punches before Michael and Turk broke them up. Victor managed to slip out of Michael’s grip and ran for the stairs and Gerard ran after him. He caught him and they tumbled to the ground. Victor managed to roll over and knee Gerard in the stomach before Gerard grabbed him by his neck and pummeled a few good rights into his face. Everyone was quick to form a circle around them, still betting on who would prevail. Jamal took his time pushing through them, but when he did, he pushed Gerard off of Victor and then snatched Victor up off the ground like a piece of light weight trash. Turk maintained a firm grip on Charles’ arm, even though Charles made no attempt to get away.
“I caught that motherf~kin’ crack head in my shit,” Charles shouted at the top of his lungs, as Jamal approached holding Victor up so his feet barely touched the ground.
“You a goddamn lie! That mothaf~ka trippin’,” Victor yelled, in his own defense.
“He got my cig’retts,” Charles accused.
“Do not,” Victor shouted.
“Jamal search him,” Turk instructed.
Victor went wild but Jamal was not intimidated in the least by his paroxysmal shenanigans. Jamal slammed him on the ground and put a knee in his chest to hold him down as he checked his pockets. When he pulled a pant leg up, it exposed bulges in Victor’s sock. Turk slackened his grip and Charles was quick to stoop to recover the unopened packs of cigarettes.
“Them mine,” Victor protested, as Jamal took his knee out of his chest and pulled Victor up with him as he stood. Victor kept yelling that the cigarettes were his while frantically trying to get loose from Jamal’s grip.
“You ain’t had shit coming in. Been bumming since you got here punk,” Gerard spat out in Charles’ defense.
“He musta faked sleep whilst I checked my shit after lights out. When I come out the bathroom I found him messin’ in my crate.” Charles explained.
“Jamal go upstairs and get Victor’s crate,” Turk ordered.
By then, all the occupants of the house were outside and as Jamal was coming back down the steps, Antoine came rushing into the yard, the belt to his robe flapping in the breeze. The front of his tee shirt did little to disguise the imprint of protection he had stuck in the inside of his pajama pants in case the situation got out of hand.
“It’s three o’clock in the morning and you assholes waking up the whole damn neighborhood. Give me that shit,” Antoine demanded as he reached out for the crate. “Victor I warned you. I told you to walk a thin line. Man what the f~k is wrong with you? I’m trying to help your stupid ass and within two days you doing crazy shit.” He dumped the contents of the crate on the ground and told Victor, “You’re out of here, now get!”
“Man you know I ain’t got no place to go,” Victor whimpered.
“I told you what the deal was when I met up with you and my cousin at your momma’s. I love my cousin, but I can’t have your trifling ass interfering with my business. Get your ass out of here before you get hurt.”
Everyone watched as Victor skulked out the yard leaving his soap, deodorant and washcloth in the dirt. His new Good Will suit of clothes still hung in the closet.
“I’m gonna get you mothaf~kers! All ya’ll gonna be sorry,” Victor yelled as he disappeared out of view.
“Alright everybody, show’s over. Go on about your business. Jamal throw this shit in the trash,” Antoine said, kicking the reminder of Victor’s presence. A used needle along with two unused ones fell out of the folded wash cloth.
“I’ll be damned,” Antoine remarked, as he stooped to pick them up with the cloth. “You see here. That dumb motherf~ker had no intention of getting clean. I knew he was going to be trouble. I keep trying to tell my cousin her man is a lost cause, but she just won’t listen. I’m going to keep this so I can show her how he blew this opportunity to get clean,” he said, as he rewrapped the used needle in the cloth.
Turk wasn’t the only one to notice when Antoine slipped the unused needles into his pocket. Michael didn’t comprehend why he’d seen Antoine’s actions as if in slow motion, and was struck by the disapproval etched on Cook’s face before he walked away. Restraining his curiosity, he refrained from asking the question on the tip of his tongue as Antoine beckoned him and Turk to walk with him. They huddled in a far corner out of hearing range of those who still lingered in the yard.
Posts
