Crocodile Tears

One day, my cousin John and I were goofing around in the backseat of the car while our grandfather drove. I was ten years old, while John was a chubby eight. “Shut up!” Granddaddy suddenly barked, “And stop moving around back there!” I could tell that he was serious, but John giggled in mischief. “I said shut up!” Granddaddy warned once more, “Or I’ll give you a backhand knuckle-slap in the mouth!” John finally got the message and tried to behave. “Hmm,” I thought to myself, “I’ve never seen a backhand knuckle slap before.” Then I silently reached over and took some of John’s thigh between my index finger and thumb, pinching him as hard as I could, twisting and meanly digging my fingers into him. John tried to push my hand away, but I was too strong. Finally, he cried out; but before he could finish the first note, granddaddy -without looking- swung backwards and gave John a hard backhand-knuckle slap in the mouth. “I told you to shut up!” granddaddy yelled. John cried, holding his mouth as if he had lost a tooth, while I silently had a hard belly laugh, so hard that tears rolled down my cheeks.

Nemesis

From where rest I have sought, came rejection, “I shall teach ye suffering; not in words, but in deeds. All, and as bitter tea ye shall absorb.” Where I would resist, circumstances insist, “You will learn, one way or another; and that I no longer care; your past, your present, and your future; it matters not what ye do here.” Where I would beseech, deafness greets my charge, “Ye not swift of wit; how pathetic ye are.” Then shall I smile, be met with doubt, “What be ye grinning about?”

Sticks and Stones

A small detachment of Marines from my command deployed to the Philippines. They had authorization to setup their radars in the boondocks, where they found themselves surrounded by thick jungle. They were far from the party scenes, and scantily clad women that many of the younger Marines had envisioned.

Large black jungle monkeys were their company, as the monkeys would often sneak into the camp and steal whatever they could carry, particularly food. The Marines would chase the monkeys away with sticks and stones; but as days went by, the monkeys grew increasingly aggressive.

The Marines bout with the monkeys came to a climax one afternoon while the Marines were lounging in the shade. The jungle suddenly came alive with screams and frightened animals. The screams were coming from the monkeys, whom had gathered themselves into a large angry mass.

When the Marines looked towards the commotion, they saw the monkeys coming up the dirt road. Some of the monkeys were carrying sticks and stones, and throwing them in the direction of the camp. The sticks and stone would travel only a few feet, as the monkeys had poor technique. The frustrated monkeys would then move closer, pick up their weapons, and repeat the action. Each time, they drew closer to the camp, angrier, and louder.

The Marines, greatly outnumbers and without their weapons, knew that while the stick and stones were not a large threat, it was only a matter of time before the frustrated monkeys fell back on a more traditional attack, hitting and biting.

The Marines then retreated into their Radar Vans and watched through reinforced glass at the frantic monkeys destroyed everything they could get their hands on. When the monkeys finished, they quietly gathered what food they could carry and left. It was a much wilder party than anyone had envisioned.

The Mule

Last summer, while I was visiting through Fort Worth, I shared a drive with an old friend, whom I will call Leon. Leon and I had not spoken in years. While we caught up on old times, he shared an interesting story. In it, he described a car drive he had taken years earlier, and how in that drive, he had never driven so carefully. In that drive, he kept both hands on the steering wheel at all times, and followed the posted speed limits without exception. In that drive, he knew that had a police officer pull him over, it probably would have meant 20 years behind bars. Possibly even his life. Had a police officer opened the trunk of his car, he would have found it filled with bricks of cocaine – and Leon was operating on strict instructions, “If you get caught, you’re on your own.” Leon was one of the most ambitious men I have ever known. However, in his story, while he nervously drove that car years earlier, he was a mule and a crack-head. He was also a father, a husband, and a former Navy man.

Leon and I had known each other since high school. Back then, he had sought me out because he was interested in the martial arts. We began working out together and quickly became friends. There were four of us in that circle of friends, Leon, Ira, Tong, and me. Each of us had a talent that made us stand out: Leon, the former singer in a boy’s choir, photographer, school journalist, and martial artist; Tong, the elite gymnast from Taiwan and future assistant coach under Nadia Comaneci and Bart Conners, at their gym in Norman, Oklahoma; Ira, the future golf pro; and me.

Leon once stood amongst the four of us and declared aloud, “With all the talent in this room, one of us has got to make it! There has got to be at least a million dollars in this room right now!” At the time, we barely had two nickels to rub together, but we were all ambitious, with no noticeable vices. We also were equally prejudiced against the common obstacles, drugs, alcohol, and thuggish behavior.

While I listened to Leon’s story, more than twenty years has passed, and in that time he had transformed himself from the ambitious teenager I knew, into a disparate crack-head mule, and then finally into a successful self-employed photographer and journalist with one published book under his belt. I was intrigued; and I wanted to know how the proud Leon had ever allowed himself to fall to drugs. More importantly, I wanted to know how he so amazingly climbed back from where many fade away.

When I asked him, he told me about his time in the Navy, the trips to the Philippines, and throughout the Far East. He talked about life at sea, and the boredom. How boredom led him to smoke, and how smoking led him to drink. He also talked about his transition from alcohol to narcotics, how easy narcotics were to find in and around the foreign ports, and how he discharged from the Navy after 4 years.

By the time Leon arrived back in Fort Worth, crack cocaine had become very popular, and Leon saw it as a way to make easy money. He soon found himself connected to the local kingpin, another old schoolmate of mine, whom had grown into a brilliant but roofless man. Their union began Leon’s life as a mule, and in time, Leon gave in to sample the product. It was something he had promised never to do, and he quickly found himself utterly addicted.

His life became a living hell, in where he lost the respect of everyone around him. Crack entangled his soul and smothered out his character, leaving an untrustworthy thief whose only mission in life was to achieve his next hit. Traveling down that dark path, Leon eventually found his rock bottom. He says it is what all crack-heads must find, before they are able to change. For Leon, rock bottom was his own reflection in the mirror, holding a photo of his young son. “It was pride that made me realize I had to change,” he said, the FBI was closing in, and the kingpin had put a hit out on his life.

While he stared into the bloodshot eyes of his reflection, he reminisced, and saw how far he had fallen. In that moment, he decided to change his life. He surrendered himself to the FBI and turned states evidence against the men that hunted him. He then enrolled himself into a substance abuse rehabilitation center and recommitted himself to God and family. It was a long difficult journey, back from where he had gone, but he found his way back.

Leon finished his story just as we arrived at our destination, a church where I would listen to Leon give a presentation to the minister in the back office, promoting his book. Had Leon never told me about his time as a mule, I never would have guessed it; or his recipe: (1) hitting rock bottom, (2) making a decision to change, (3) seeking help (rehabilitation, council, and spiritual guidance), (4) committing to the change, and (5) fighting with all your might.

Night Air

My silhouette moves among them, stable cracks and shadows of the branches above, cased down by a full moon. They resemble a maze, or a spider’s web, illusions – and yet they capture my thoughts. We press onward; warm lungs and crisp night air, distance memories, and sorting things from care.

The Journey

In this dream, I drift slowly down the center of a narrow stream. My raft is small, and the mist that surrounds me is so heavy that I can hardly see beyond my reach. The same night sounds that once sang to my ancestors also sang to me. They link past to present, as my thoughts roam the crowded aisles of my imagination.

There are two companions at my side, not on my raft, but walking along the shores to my left and right. I can faintly see them, their ghostly silhouettes moving eerily at the pace of my raft. They rival each other, each trying to lure me to either side.

The figure to my right is aggressive. He offers me incentives to end what he calls my journey, and dock on his side. The figure to my left is quiet; and he has a calm demeanor. He cautions me; saying that once I dock on either side, I cannot reenter the stream. I remain on my raft, still drifting, and unsure of what will come.

In the distance, beyond the figure to my right, hillsides began to form. I gaze intently at them, and still my companions appear cloudy.

“Some of your relatives are beyond those hills,” the figure to my right announced, “You can visit with them after you dock.”

I focus harder on the background and realize that the figure to my right is not alone. There are shadows moving behind him. Creepy, and silently, they go about their business.

“Let me see them first,” I say, “Bring them closer.”

“No!” he said, “First you must dock. Then you’ll see everything.” His voice was agitated. Then he calms himself enough to offer me more incentives.

The figure to my left had been quiet, but then interrupts. “Look forward,” he said, “Notice that the river is becoming narrow. It will eventually end, and you must choose before then.”

I look forward, and indeed the river is growing narrow under the night skies. I cannot see where it ends – and while I have not yet decided, I continue to drift forward.

Bone Soup

I see soup; and how each ingredient is carefully added, one by one – a dash of love to form the base, and sometimes not. Perhaps a pinch of neglect; constantly stirred by the steady hands of time. Who shall taste of this soup? Now I see bones, once strong, but now for flavor; sprinkles of wind-swept dust and a smile on chapped lips. They may savor this soup, memories and things that cling, another dash of passion, and then some pain. The flames must be just right.

Plum Trees

One day, while plums were in season, and the middle schools were having a teacher’s conference, we had the day off, Richard, Tyron, and me. We also did not have anything constructive to do, so we set out on a quest to find unguarded plum trees. We searched up and down alleys and through crowded fields until we finally came to a young boy sitting in a backyard. A chain-link fence surrounded the yard, and three full plum trees surrounded the young boy, butterflies, and cool shade. We asked the boy if we could have some of his plums and began climbing the fence before he finished saying, yes. I chose the tree furthest from the alley, closest to the house, and began stuffing the large pockets of my baggy shorts. Richard and Tyron chose the other two trees. Not long after we began picking, did a large figure suddenly appear at the corner of my eye. It was moving towards me so fast, that I dared not pause to confirm what it was. With full pockets, I darted towards the alley, past Richard and Tyron, and with the large figure strongly barreling after me. Momentum, adrenalin, and the classes I had had in gymnastics vaulted me over the fence without breaking my stride, and I felt a breeze at the back of my legs. Something had missed me. Safely on the other side of the fence, I turned to see what had been chasing me. It was an elderly woman, the boy’s grandmother, wildly wielding a rigid switch, and furious that I had gotten away. She was a large black woman, amazingly quick for her size, and her gray hair was flying in all directions. She then spun around and went after Tyron. Richard was huddled underneath a tree, watching as Tyron tried to run past the woman. She was hitting at him the entire time, swatting and missing his back and legs. Tyron did not vault over the fence as I had done. Instead, he placed his back against the fence, faced the woman, and tried to take the switch from her hand. That made her even madder, as she spoke for the first time. “Oh! You gonna fight back, huh?” she growled and started swinging harder.

“He said we could have some,” Tyron yelled, referring to the young boy, as he continued grabbing at the woman’s stick. She landed another eight, or so slashes before Tyron finally spun around and jumped over the fence. From the alley, he and I then called for Richard to run. Richard was still huddled underneath a tree, looking like a frightened rabbit as the woman howled, “Come out of there you little crook!” She repeatedly swung at him, hitting limbs, and knocking down leaves and plums, until Richard finally darted out. Tyron and I cheered him on as he and the woman ran around the yard like a skit from the Benny Hill show. He then dashed for the fence – but not fast enough, for before he could jump from atop the fence into the alley, the woman landed a slashing blow across his back. “Y’all stay out of my yard!” she yelled, as Richard fell into the alley, nervously laughing. We all laughed, except for the woman and the young boy. We jogged away; and from the corner of the street, we looked back and saw the woman still chasing the young boy around the yard.

The Balance

In my dream, an angel appeared to my grandmother, Estella. It was a beautiful angel, steady in posture, flowing hair, silky garments, and a serious message.

“Your scale is balanced,” she said.

She then went on to explain the Scale of Life. That from the moment of birth, the scale records every thought conjured and deed committed. It holds good deeds on one side, and bad deeds on the other. The objective of the scale is to determine the fate of each soul that leaves this earth.

The angel then informed Estella that her time was near, and that because her scale was balanced, the deeds she performed from now on would be very important additions to the scale.

Hearing this, Estella became defensive and started naming some of the good deeds she had performed in her life. The angel countered each good deed by naming a bad deed she had also performed. This went on for minutes… until the angel hushed Estella.

“You are wasting your time,” the angel said. The room grew silent, as Estella thought desperately to herself. Moments passed, and then her eyes opened wide.

“What if I build a dam?” Estella said, “Would that be enough to tip my scale towards the left?”

“Yes…” the angel replied.

The dream then took me to a hilltop, from where I looked down at a stream that flowed from left to right. I had taken Estella’s place in the dream and understood the task I had promised to the messenger. The stream was narrow towards its left and grew wider as it flowed to the right. I could still hear the messenger’s voice, whispering that the stream represents life and souls flowing through it. It was unbalanced… and I understood where I needed to build my dam.

I moved down from the hilltop and began building my dam in shallow water. It was a simple dam, made of sticks and stones, held together by clay. It did not require any special skills but it was very effective. The water to my left began to grow deep, while the water to my right narrowed to a trickle.

Suddenly an angry voice yelled out, “Get away from there!”

I looked to my right to see where the voice was coming from and noticed that the water to my right led into a dark cave. I could hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming from inside the cave, splashing in shallow waters.

“I said get away from there!” The angry voice repeated itself.

I stopped working, staring nervously at the opening of the cave as the footsteps got closer. My heart pounded with nervous curiosity, and I decided not to wait for the owner of the voice to arrive. I ran up to the hilltop, where I felt safe, and looked down at the cave opening.

From there a hulking figure appeared and looked up at me, tilting its head slightly to the right. Hatred clouded its eyes and shadowy dark features as it moved along the stream. It had broad shoulders, plated with muscles from head to toe, and a familiar face, though I was too far away to recognize him.

He stood over my dam, looking down at it in disgust. I expected him to destroy it, but he did not have the power to undo my work. He could only intimidate and discourage. He then looked up at me. “If you ever come down here again, I WILL take you with me,” he said. He looked at my work once more - then back at me, holding eye contact as he walked back into the cave.

I listened to his footsteps move further away, and I became curious about his face. I then moved down from the hilltop and into the cave. I could see his large hulking silhouette lumbering up ahead, moving towards a light at the other end. I followed him towards what I thought would be hell.

When I exited the cave on the other end, I did not find what I expected. There was no fire and brimstone. Instead, it was a typical cityscape, buildings, cars, and people moving about. I turned my attention back to the demon, which then had transformed himself into a man. I saw him climb into a car, and I moved as close as possible. When I peeked inside the far side window, I recognized the demon as one of my coworkers. I then moved away from him, ran back through the cave, and returned to the green hilltop.

The Descent

The other night, I fell partway down a flight of stairs. They were made of slippery oak and I was wearing socks of cotton white. I stepped onto the first step as I had done so many times before, but this time was different. In the blink of an eye, I was airborne. My feet went forward and upwards, and all my agility meant nothing. I knew exactly were I was, but before I could react, a baseball bat -as if swung by Barry Bonds- struck me hard across my back. It knocked out my wind; then a blow to the back of my head, my left elbow, and again across the center of my back. It was the sharp edges of the steps counting my descent, until I finally came to rest. Then there the reaper came to inspect, and insincere whispers reminding me of a fortune I once did not have, that I would one-day pass of natural causes. I took inventory at the bottom of my narrow escape and pondered whether it was unnatural to pass from a shove and the impact of bats.

The Horde

In unison, they flow like a herd of sheep, single-mindedly marching towards wherever. Others are wolfs, cloaked as sheepdogs. They keep the horde moving forward, barking and snapping at the heels of any sheep who dares to get out of line or raise its heads to see where they are going. The wolf then grins back for approval from the shepherd who watches from the shade.

Cherry Flavored Jell-O and the Grinch

My brother Richard was a carbon copy of our father, in both appearance and personality. So much so, that our sister Debra once referred to him as “the one Judas amongst us.”

Except for a few special occasions, Richard and I normally got along quite well. This night would be one of those special occasions.

It began with daddy telling me that he and my mother were going out, and that seven-year-old I was in charge of my three younger siblings.

“Bet not nobody go in the kitchen while we’re gone,” daddy warned me with piercing eyes, “Or that ass is mine.” He pointed at me.

I recognized that look and knew that he meant exactly what he said. Richard and the girls were also familiar with that look, so they understood my situation. Daddy gave me one last gaze before closing the door behind him, and we soon heard his car pulling out of the graveled driveway.

It was a perfect opportunity to get into trouble, or show that I was responsible. I tried to keep everyone in my sight, and away from the kitchen. We watched TV in the living room, where everyone but Richard was content. He kept complaining that he needed to go to the bathroom.

“Can’t you wait?” I said, “They’ll be back soon.”

“No! I need to go now!”

I reminded him that no one could go into the kitchen, and he promised that he would not. The kitchen was in the opposite direction from the bathroom, which was down the hallway, so I finally gave in.

“Just hurry up,” I said... and he swaggered down the dark hallway, out of my sight.

While Richard was away, my attention shifted back and forth between the TV and the hallway. It never occurred to me that he would climb out the bathroom window, and in through the kitchen window, all for the sake of mischief. He then retraced his steps to rejoin my sisters and me in the living room.

Daddy had placed a trap on the refrigerator door, a small piece of paper at the door’s upper corner. Upon opening the door, the paper would fall unnoticed. Inside the refrigerator, daddy was chilling a bowl of cherry flavored jell-o. It was the reason he wanted no one inside the kitchen – and I had no idea that Richard had devilishly taken a huge gouge from the center of the jell-o.

I was relieved when daddy returned home, and proud that I had accomplished my task. The first thing he asked was had anyone been inside the kitchen.

“No daddy,” I said, watching him as he walked through the room and into the kitchen.

When I could no longer see him, I listened for any comments that he might make, while my eyes shafted back to the TV, where we were watching Sesame Street.

“Get your ass in here!” daddy suddenly yelled.

I knew that he was talking to me, so I sprang to my feet and dashed two steps toward the kitchen before stopping. “Wait!” I thought to myself, “What is he mad about?” There was no time to think. My thoughts were scrambled, and I knew I had better not keep him waiting.

He met me at the door.

“I told you not to let anybody in the kitchen!” He grabbed my left arm and jerked me forward.

“Daddy, nobody came in here,” I said, pleadingly and puzzled. He then snatched me stumbling towards the refrigerator.

“Then who in the fuck did that?” he yelled, yanking the refrigerator open and pointing. I stared, but nothing made sense until I saw the gouge. I took a mental snapshot of it, just before he threw me to the floor.

“I’m-ma teach your ass!” he promised and stormed from the room. I stayed on the floor, waiting for him to return, furious and afraid.

“He’s crazy,” I thought, “He set me up.” I believed that he had taken the gouge from the jell-o himself, just for an opportunity to beat me – but it made no sense. There was not much time to think about it. Moments later, daddy stormed back into the kitchen and snatched me up.

I dangled at the end of his grip, airborne between the strikes of his heavy leather belt, as he cursed me the entire time. I had never been so angry with him – and when he finished, he told me to take my “ass to bed.”

Richard followed me like a shadow, studying me as I went to the bedroom, crying and rubbing my stinging arms and legs. I sat on the floor with my back against the wall, while Richard sat across from me on the bed. The lights were off, but I could make out the curious expression on his face.

I soon stopped crying and began recalling the chain of events. “Why would daddy go through so much trouble to set me up?” I thought, “Why is Richard acting so strange?” “Why does he look so sinister?” Then I recalled that Richard was the only person to leave my sight while daddy was away.

Then it hit me.

“You did it; didn’t you?” I said - hoarse, looking across the room at him. Even in the shadows, I could see his lips curl into a devilish Mr. Grinch-like smile.

“Yes…” he whispered, now sporting a full grin. I was still rubbing the welts on my stinging legs.

For a brief moment, I felt relieved, thinking that I could tell daddy. “Maybe he wouldn’t be mad at me anymore,” I thought. Then I considered that he probably would not believe me. That he might even beat me again. “Why did you do that?” I said, “You don’t even like jell-o.”

There was an awkward silence before he answered.

“To get you in trouble,” he gloated for another moment and then left the room.