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| Chapter One: Reflections Are Murder My cell is 6 X 12. Concrete. Hard. Cold. Reality! With Wax-Shiny floors. A shiny-floored coffin really -- the mausoleum type . . . you know what I'm talking about? Those used to stack the dead; one on top of the other. Yea, that's right, there's two of us in here . . . me an' the other number. . . entombed . . . alive . . . or are we? Why don't you step in and ponder this question while I tell you about these wax-shiny floors: I often find myself doing that, staring at the floor, that is . . . especially when the sounds of the living dead bounce off the steel and concrete walls of my tomb. Know what I'm talking about? Nothing "in here" absorbs the pain and anger-sweat of thy brow . . . just we, the incarcerated. We're just reflections on reflections of reflections; your own echoes of humanity in a sea of humiliation, perpetuation, aggravation, desperation, degradation and all the other 'tions that connote evil. Once dispensers of injustice, we are now sentenced by justice: unto the tomb of memories. Clearly most of us belong here, paying for the crime, doin' the time. But alas, these shiny floors tell of something else: Torment and Desire. Now, that is what you wanted, right? To Torment with Desire. . . ('another two sure-fire reasons to long for the cool 'n' soft breeze of a lazy summer's afternoon, sitting on the porch, sipping an ice-tea -- the kind momma used to make: cool and sweet . . . Yea, maybe sitting on a couch in a "real-world" house, surfing the channels or watching a game--not one of the many mind-games played to the tune of anger, remorse, needs or creeds, but a real football game, the Play-off type that. . .') . . . Oh, sorry. Yea, the floor. No, I didn't forget . . . one never forgets in here--prison has an uncanny ability to restore the memory, clear and sharp as ice; memories you clean-clear-forgot. Yea, stare at the floor and a reflection stares back: 51 years of hard road . . . excuse me, 51 years and counting. The reason this concrete floor reflects so much is the 51 coats of phenol based wax; polished and buffed to a brilliant shine; worn tight and smooth by the sweat and traversing of the tomb-full inhabitants. Yea, those reflections: 51 years of travel; a place to arrive from a dream of arrival . . . to somewhere else. . . ('For I see wrinkles; those stamped crow's feet complete with toes that signal the eve rather than the dawn! But I am not fooled by the dark! OH NO! This reflection is only the outer shell of my being. . . You see? You cannot fool me! I can see past these bifocals; I can feel that 14 year old trapped in this disposable covering. Like a butterflies beginnings, I wish to shed this cocoon and bloom once more: To fly away') . . . Oh, I almost forgot, these shiny floors,sorry about that, I was explaining the importance of the wax-shining floor--or was I? Anyway, as I stare at the floor I can see the concrete through the layers of hard wax. A swirling finish that emphasizes color. Seems there are as many different shades of brown to dark gray as there are layers of wax; each layer adding a depth of color to the next; each trapped by the next. You know that 14 year old I was thinking about? The one trapped in this shell? I can visually peel back those layers of wax and reveal his journey for you. For, like those layers of wax, pressed one on top of the other with the fervent expectation of brilliance, layered were the choices prescribed to that youth of fourteen--with the same expectation of brilliance. Yea, those colors merge just as his choices had; for they remain frozen, suspended, each a thin, revealing, integral part of the whole. Looking deep into his being, my life, like this concrete floor, reflects all it has endured; all it desired, all it perpetuated. . . ('Reflections within reflections within the mirrors of those orbs surrounded by those crow's feet who refuse to iron-out the weathering of my soul') . . .I know, I know, we were speaking of colors, tombs and choices--though not necessarily in that order. Well, when you enter this six by twelve foot cell you immediately notice something different: a light, almost tan spot surrounded by those swirls of many shades of color. They are like the memories of those choices that delivered me to my predicament; swirling around that trapped fourteen year old. . . ('Yes, deep within the recesses of my mind, I am but a light-tan spot in the middle of a hurricane of swirling memories') . . .Yea, that wax-shiny floor I'm telling ya about? Been staring at it for 12 years with 10 to go. That's 22 years by all accounting. Seemed general--the crime that is: Drug Trafficking--but then it don' take much. Back then a lot of folks were usin' an' doin' what I was doin' an' usin'. Yea, I knew the consequences--but who ever thinks of falling when they are up and running: fast! Never planned for it to happen. But how many in here ever really planned anything . . . let alone their lives! Cost me a life time. But the murder charge. . . now . . . that was something else. . .  Chapter Two: Memories are color. . . Yea, vague colors of thought: First red-lipped kiss--under a large, sweeping tree in the front yard. Colors: A black snake--one I stepped on at the chicken coop out back. Real heart racing stuff. Like a monster coming from the depths of hell . . . and me, yet a toddler, trying desperately to get away. Yea, colors, colors, swirling: Found a brown baby bird. Fell from its nest. Took it to our screened front porch. Mamma bird attacking the screen. She's after ME!!! Trying to run. In circles-I am-heart racing . . . it's a giant condor . . . an ancient, toddler-eating-prehistoric-flying-reptile . . . RODAN . . . Mama rescues me: "What's the matter Bob?" Oh! Those Colors: Dad, squirting the right side windshield of his '39 Chevy with a green water hose. He sees me, redirects the hose-I flee . . . hysteria . . . run . . . run. . . . wet my pants. Memories evolving around situations: Scary! Frightening! That is, until 3001 Pangborn Road, Decatur, Georgia . . . 3001 Pangborn Road and Bo-pee . . . that's 6 year old me! Bo-pee!! Don't know why I was called that; someone must have thought it was cute 'cause it was liken to peanut butter: sweet and sticky. It was '52. I remember 'cause Pop had a '52 Olds. Blue. Wide White-Walls. Radio and Heater. Remember that 'cause Pops made a big show of that car; him bein' a GM-Democrat-Roosevelt-Man through and through. Yea, a Democrat man! Democracy, Roosevelt and The Union (the labor kind!) provided the means for Pop to acquire our house. Yep, he worked all the time. Sometimes into the wee hours of the dawn. Yep, when he wasn't working at "The Plant" building GM cars, he worked in the garage behind our two bedroom, wood-frame house. Paved direct, two concrete paths paralleled their way to that garage. Yep, Pop was forever drawn to that meager contraption; one with a rose bush out front . . . sometimes, I'd wonder if it was them roses beckoning him rather than the vehicles he was forever working on, some lost, exotic fantasy or something. You know, a kind of lost love or something. But, believe me, it was them cars Pop loved, the roses were just something mom put there to soften the greasy-black-rusted-dented-steel of his perpetual projects. Yes sir, a quaint (I say so 'cause it sounds so romantic) two bedroom wood frame, with kitchen, bath, basement (more like a large crawl space) and garage -- with rose bush -- on three acres leading to a creek bottom. I know it sounds like a great real estate add for the 1990's, but you know that three acres that I'm talking about? Well. When pops wasn't working at the plant, or in the garage, he was planting! Yep. On that there three acres! And you know what I had to do . . . I had to . . . Um. . . (. . .'OK! I know what your thinking: 12 in and 10 to go--murder, Crystal-Meth, cocaine, intrigue. Yea, I see you! You want the facts, yea, you want the facts! I'd like to assure you that the memories get better! But I just gotta rememba some background!'. . .) * * * I'm leaving for school. Jeans and a black and white shirt--one mom bought. Black satin in the back, white cotton front . . . I hated it! You know what I'm saying 'cause it happened to you, right? Most youth can recall this situation: a mom proudly demonstrating her good taste and frugality all at the same time? . . . (. . .'Wait a minute, are you thinking. . . No, this was not the 'cause of my predicament--I'm not putting that one over. Just telling a memory, you know') . . . so, as I was saying, I'm leaving for school . . . after a small, up-hill climb to the street, I grasp my books firmly under my right arm and begin to trudge my way through the crisp, cool September morning when I hear a shout: "Hold up!" It's Tommy Bug. He's the neighborhood Big Boy. Not bully, just Big Boy. Everyone looked up to Tommy. He and his brother Samuel are my heroes; their mother is den-mother of our local Boy Scout Troop; their father races midgets--the automobile kind--at the Peach Bowl Speedway in Atlanta. Everyone was into speed in them days--carried lots of weight with the kids you know. So now it was me an' Tommy heading up Pangborn towards our destination, past the house where two newly-weds--whom no one knows or cares to know--fight continuously and up to the Nelson's place. Our routine perfected, Dean is on time. He bounds through the front door, all 130 pounds of him--you see, now this guy is the neighborhood bully! With Troy--whom seems the most aggressive of the bunch--tagging up at the corner, it makes four of us when we pass the Johnston's home; set with perfection down a small slope with manicured lawn and gravel drive. Soon Willy and Jerry Johnstone make it six as we start up towards Frazier road. And, as we turn onto Frazier, Troy pulls a pack of Newport's and offers each of the gang one. Choices. That's what I'm talking about. Choices. Sometimes ours, sometimes theirs: the commercials glorify cigarettes; both of Troy's folks smoke; and Dean's; my Dad; Tommy's folks. . . it must be OK? It's hard to light my smoke: the match keeps blowing out. "You got ta inhale, dummy!" shouts Troy. "What's inhale mean Troy?" "Pull the air deep like . . . breath for gosh sakes!" Troy replies as he lights a third match. I pull deeply . . . chain reaction: Cough! Choice! Cough! Choice! . . . After an uneventful day at school, we, the gang an' I, make our way home. And, as usual, I have connived twenty cents of the quarter mom gave me for paper: fooled the nearly blind lady who runs the store/gas station on Sinclair by stacking five nickel stacks of notebook of paper to look like one! 'How many you have?" She inquires. 'Just one!' I lie! Choices you know . . . twenty cents to spend on candy . . . and I love candy . . . so does the Bully! . . . "Give me some candy!" Dean demands. "I ain't got any!' I reply. He grabs me and turns my pockets inside out . . . takes the twenty cents! . . .I arrive home crying. "Why are you crying, son." Dad inquires. "Nothing!' "Well, nothing don't make you cry! Has Dean been picking on you again? Look, I'm tired of this: you either fight him or I'll whip you after he does!" 'He's serious', I think as I ease out the back door and down the steps into the yard . . . where guess who is waiting . . . Yep, its him: Dean! Standing by the rose bush in front of the garage, motioning for me to come over! I am in fear of my life . . . more of dad then him! Yest, there he stood--all 130 pounds. He is saying something but it does not register. My mind you know; spinning with thought--I am on a mission! "COME HERE!" demands Dean as I strike a swift, sly, rattlers blow with both hands into his chest. He loses balance and sprawls backwards . . . he's bawling away! Dean is smack in the garden of exotic mystery: the rose bush--the one mom planted . . . for my benefit! Yep, I know now that it stands as a reminder of the treachery of its beauty! Yep, big, bad, bully Dean, in the rose bush--and its tendrils of clutching thorns: raking the bully off the boy!!! Yea, choice upon choice. . . (. . .'Adrenaline rush! Epinephrine coursing through my veins. A runners high! Flight or fight; inherent in all creatures--big and small! Feeling soooo gooooood! Dwayne is in pain and I feel soooo goooood! No fear here . . . Bullet Proofing at its best.'. . . ) * * * As you stand in the cell door, directly in front of the bare, stainless steel commode, to your right and my left, is a series of blood-red spots. See? The concrete carries the marks of it's lifetime just as I carry the marks of my choices. Yea, them there choices. Now, I know you're thinking that my choice was not hard. You are thinking that it's of minor consequence . . . what occurred, that is. If I had turned the other cheek, then what? No twelve and ten to go? But would I be a man? Could I call myself a man? Does a man have to fight to be a man . . . (. . .'Tell me Oh light spot. So hypnotic; beckoning my youth of fourteen . . . Yea, turn the other cheek! "Jesus loves all the little children of the world, be they yellow, black or white! They are precious in His sight!"'. . .) . . . well, maybe. But feel good or turn the other cheek! A choice! Yea, we'll touch on that later 'cause the concrete, you know, it beckons once more. Swirling in temptation to journey back in time. Yes, of minor consequences the reflections shout. . . * * * After you pass B. Honea's Dairy on Lawrenceville Hwy., north, towards Tucker, Georgia, you arrive at Rehobeth Baptist Church. Philip's father is pastor and Philip and I attend Sunday school together. Around the side of the church lies an asphalt path leading up a slight grade and through the woods to the Little League Field where we play ball on the Rehobeth Ball Team. Proud do I stand: a member of The Team! I go to Sunday school every Sunday: proud! Have the pin to prove it--signifies I attended every Sunday for an entire year. . . (. . .'Imagine that, an entire year. Boy, now that is a long time!'. . .) . . . and proudly precious is our team record! Not a game lost! What a team; complete with buckets of tar we use in imitation of chewing tobacco! Big wads of tar and Little League uniforms--Indians emblazoned in red across them--and we feel like the pros! Yes, pros complete with cleats! . . . Something is wrong today. Our regular pitcher, Ronnie Rakestraw, is not here! It's close to game time and I have already been to the tar cart! Yea, close to game time an' warming up at third base as I work that tar. I'm pretty good at third. But, for some reason, a thought begins in my mind that I am pretty good at anything I do, but not really good at nothing at all. . . (. . .'Who planted that thought!?'. . .) . . . It's my turn to bat. Fifteen minutes to game time and Coach wants me to hit three grounders and three fly-balls: over the outfield fence goes a fly-ball! "Three grounders and three to fly," yells Coach, "I want three fly-balls not two and a run!". . . . . . It's game time and still no pitcher! "Rogers! Warm up!" "But Coach, I ain't never pitched!" "Don't matter none--warm up!" . . . . . . Visiting team up first. I wind up. A fast ball zips fast towards the mound and nearly creams the kid up first. Next pitch the ball hits the bat . . . while it's resting on the kids shoulder. I begin my wind-up. . . The entire visiting team is crunching down in their dugout. . . . 'OH! Lord!' . . . I let loose . . . . . . a strike! And another! And another! ZIP . . . ZIP . . .ZIP . . . Whoopee! eleven strike-outs in a row. Yep! Was I high! . . . . . . The bottom of the third with only two more to go: five innings does a Little League game make. I need one more strike . . . still going great . . . I'm concentrating . . . read the signs . . . ready to STRIKE . . . READY! . . . "TIME, ROGERS. . .!" Coach suddenly calls time, comes to the mound, and relieves me an' sends me to third . . . waves in second! 'Wait a minute, something's wrong here!' . . . 'I WILL NOT' . . . Well, you know, Yep, I wonder why an' listen-up and go to third . . . . . . 'but a new and ominous feeling tears through my soul. RAGE! And it feels gooooood! Yep, an easy way out of my sorrow! Like Wayne and the bush . . . thorny and clutching.'. . . I never found out the why 'cause I immediately quit the team; the Church. 
"Peach Brandy" it's called! And it's soul is sweet!
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| [Introduction] [Part One] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Epilogue] |