Copyright © 2016 by Patrick Jones and Marshunna Clark
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The Cataloging-in-Publication Data for Duty or Desire is on file at the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-5124-0002-1 (lib. bdg.)
ISBN 978-1-5124-0089-2 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-1-5124-0090-8 (EB pdf)
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 – SB – 12/31/15
eISBN: 978-1-51240-090-8 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-51240-512-5 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-51240-510-1 (mobi)
Thanks to Billy Shakes for the idea —P.J.
Thank you Yahweh for the gift. A special thanks to my Mom and Dad and Tamiko. —M.L.C.
1
ALEJANDRO
“So Alejandro, how was your vacation up north?” Big Caesar snickers and smirks but there’s no smile on my face. I’m flinching like I was getting ready to take a blow to the skull.
“A’right,” I mumble, avoiding eye contact. Don’t engage, walk away, follow the plan, I say to myself, repeating my caseworker’s words religiously like I was Mom saying her rosary.
“Rested and ready?” Lorenzo asks.
They stopped me walking to the store. I could never know when they’re around since they do nothing but work a corner and party with thin profits. I’m not surprised I can predict their future, and mine, in that life. Jail. Prison. Coffin. Massive Mom tears. “I gotta go.”
Lorenzo grabs my arm, tight, skin on skin.
“We’re talking to you.” Big Caesar, who of course is a tiny five foot five, stands his twenty-year-old stump of meanness in front of me. “You think you get a pass ’cause you done time?”
“Country club, that’s what I heard about Woodland Hills,” Lorenzo adds. He wouldn’t know the first thing about it, but ain’t no sense telling him because they’re here to talk, not listen.
Lorenzo squeezes harder. He’s got sharp nails. “So, you going back to school or what?” He cares about his distribution, not my graduation.
“I gotta. Condition of my release.” Don’t engage, walk away, follow the plan.
“Whose world you living in, A? Theirs or ours?” Big Caesar’s in my face, as best he can at his height, but acting like he’s so much bigger even though he’s only three years older. Maybe he thinks that Glock he’s got stuck in his waistband makes him some kind of giant.
Cars, city buses, and trucks drive by, creating a city soundtrack to cover my heart beating so loud that it hurts my ears. I need to find the words of my case worker at Woodland Hills, my probation officer at the Juv Justice Center, but mostly Mom to cut through the clatter. I open my mouth, but even though we role-played yesterday, my last day in custody, no sounds emerge. Lorenzo’s in my face, nose to nose, so close I smell everything he ate, drank, and smoked today.
“It’s business time. Sun’s out. We need you,” Big C says.
“You owe us,” Lorenzo chimes in. Us means the 26ers, our—I mean their—gang.
“Don’t surprise me none that he’s got no sense of loyalty,” Big C says to Lorenzo, though he’s glaring at me. “I mean, look how he ditched my baby sis like she was garbage.”
“That’s over,” I say. I guess it was the stack of unanswered letters that Olishia sent me at Woodland that convinced her we were done. She was like her brother: demanding and controlling.
I pull my arm hard, breaking free of Lorenzo’s grip, and red blood trickles on my brown skin. Breaking free of the 26ers will be much harder than this, with even more blood. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“You’ll talk to us now.” Big C pushes hard against my chest. I take a step back.
“I got nothing to say.” I can’t take the steps forward I told Mom and the suits I’d make if I let these guys push me around using duty as a weapon.
“You think you’re better than us?” Lorenzo asks. Another push. He wants to shove me back to who I was before Woodland Hills. “You better say something.”
I step up. With my right hand, I push back my long black hair from my face. With my left index finger, I point to the scar on my forehead that’s never going away. “I said everything when I got beat by those cops ’cause you ran. I said everything when I said nothing, I didn’t snitch on you. You stayed on the streets. I did six months.”
They look at each other, then Big C nods at Lorenzo and they let me walk on, this time. I know there’ll be other times, other 26ers, other temptations, other obstacles. “Later A-hole,” Lorenzo says in the icy tone of a promise—or maybe a threat.
I walk head-down, staring at the gray sidewalk, thinking about their brown faces, remembering the feel of a black piece. I recall something somebody said to me in group up at Woodland: “Alejandro, you got green disease. You desire cash. You envy those with money, and you’ll do anything to get it.” I stare at the green ink of the 26ers tattoo on my right arm sprinkled with blood and say aloud, “Don’t engage, walk away, follow the plan.”
2
CHRISSIE
I’m a step in front of my friends, walking backwards, asking Angela about this fool guy at school. We’re telling stories on our way home, living in the moment.
“So I say to him, ‘why do you call females so many rude names?’” Angela says with sass in her voice. She’s got us—me, Lacy, and Robin—hanging on every word. “And he said, ‘I don’t know. That’s just what they are. Dang, why you ask so many questions?’”
Angela does great impersonations of the fool boys she attracts. With her hands making gestures as a guy would, she slows her speech; her lips twist and out of them comes a low tone similar to the guy she is talking about. I met him once at school, and he’s like most boys at Northwest: childish. They’re all filled with desire, but lacking any sense of respect.
“And I’m looking at this dude like . . . for real?!” Angela’s voice raises an octave. And now we’re all laughing too loud, sounding like kids ourselves.
“He sounds so stupid,” Robin says and then sighs big. “Ya’ll it’s such a beautiful day! Wish I had my video camera.” It’s the first nice day after a long Minnesota winter, so everybody’s outside.
“You would film ants on a sidewalk.” Angela chirps and laughs. Robin slaps her arm. Angela whines in mock pain. My friends are always fake fighting.
“Least I’m not out here talking about adventures with little boys every second!” Robin says. I want to agree with her, but figure it’s best if I just stay out of this mess.
“Robin, you can’t even take a joke once in a while. Are all wannabe filmmakers that serious?” Angela asks.
My cousin Lacy jumps in. “Angela, you know how sensitive Robin is. Leave her alone.” She turns to Robin. “Why don’t you use your cell phone to film something?”
“Angela, would you like it if someone to called you a wannabe ratchet girl? Stop putting Robin down, and apologize!” I say. Angela narrows her eyes at me, but I don’t care.
They make up, and everything’s right with the world or at least our little corner of it.
“Chrissie, can I talk to you for a minute?” Robin asks. She motions for me to follow.
We split from Lacy and Angela and walk down the street. We don’t talk until we cross at the light. Whatever Robin’s got to say must be a secret. “Is everything okay, hun?” I ask.
She’s looking down again, self-consciously picking fuzz off her form-fitting tank. “I hate it when Angela does that. I told her so the other day,” Robin confides.
“Good. I’m proud of you! Just don’t focus on what other people think, including your girls. Think for you.” I tell her.
Robin gives me a big smile. “Thanks Chrissie. You can put on your mom cap quick.”
I give her a hug and we walk back toward Lacy and Angela but stop for the “don’t walk” light at the intersection. As we wait, a car full of dudes approaches, going way too fast. One of them yells something rude at me. I just roll my eyes. They drive along, and we cross the street.
We’re almost back to our girls, walking slow since Robin’s telling me about the movie she wants to make, when I hear a car pull up and stop behind us. Not those dudes again, I hope. I don’t have time for this. We turn. Car doors open and then close as two cops approach us.
“Do you know who was in that vehicle?” one policeman asks. He’s Asian, maybe Hmong. His partner’s an older white guy with a scar and scowl. I can tell right away these guys are bad news. I know there’s good cops out there, but seems it’s guys like these that are always up in our faces for nothing.
“No.” The less I say, the better.
“Are you sure you don’t know anything?” The Asian cop walks right up to me, in my personal space.
“I do not know, sir.” I say the words slow, trying to stay calm. Angela and Lacy stand on the other curb across from us. Robin stays behind, but she’s got her cell phone in hand pointing it at me—filming this, I bet.
“I need to see your license, ma’am,” says the Asian guy. How old does he think I am?
I cross my arms across my chest. “No. I didn’t do anything.”
“When an officer tells you to do something, you do it!” the white cop barks at me.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble. Are we done here?” I ask, losing patience.
The white office chimes in, “We ask the questions around here. Not you.”
Instead of keeping my arms crossed, when I get upset my hands move fast and furious.
“I don’t need to show you my license because I didn’t do anything. Am I a suspect for a crime? You have no probable cause.” I hope Lacy hears me; she’ll be proud.
“Leave her alone!” Angela screams from across the street.
Robin says nothing, but Lacy yells at the cops, “I’m calling the police!”
“We are the police,” the white cop says with a half-amused smile that doesn’t fit the situation.
“Get their badge numbers! This is harassment!” Lacy says, coming on the scene. She’s fearless as she stares down the Hmong cop. “I called the non-crooked police.” Lacy grew up in the ’burbs, so she don’t know that around here, when you call 911 it’s 50-50 if you’re gonna get somebody to help you or somebody to hurt you.
“Step away from this. We have the situation under control,” white cop goes as he pushes by me and swats at Robin’s phone, knocking it to the ground. He kicks it away when Robin reaches for it.
“Just give me your license, and we’ll let you go home!” the other cop says to me.
“No. If I can’t get your name and badge number, you can’t get my license!” I take a step back, something I’m not used to doing.
The Asian officer yanks my arm so hard that air jolts out of my lungs. He starts to cuff my wrists, but I try to pull away. He gets me against the police car. All my friends are yelling, but I can’t hear ’em well ’cause the Hmong cop is saying, “You should’ve just done what we said.”
I’m five-five, but with meat on my bones. I’m strong and fearless when I need to be, so I push him off me and get away, until the white cop comes at me with a club that smacks me in the face with the force of thunder. I fall to the concrete on my back. I see the clouds move by before my friends’ panicked voices grow silent. My body ceases movement as I feel myself escaping into the black that is my head.
3
ALEJANDRO
“Alex, time for dinner!” Ricardo taps me too hard on my left leg. He acts like he’s my stepdad, but he’s nothing until he mans up, does his duty, and puts a ring on Mom’s left finger.
“One second.” I’m five kills away from clearing out an enemy squad in Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare. Playing this game is all I’ve done since I got home. School’s tomorrow.
“Now.” There’s a war raging through the headphones, loud enough to drown the words in my head. Don’t engage, walk away, follow the plan. They teach you these skills inside to say no to your old life on the outs. Stand up for yourself, except with your case manager, probation officer, and parents, then stand in line, be a loyal solider, do your duty. “Alex, I said now!”
When I don’t move fast enough, he unplugs the Xbox. I leap to my feet, and Ricardo takes a step back. He’s shaped like a bowling pin and I look like a brown bowling ball. I’m about ready to throw a strike when Mom peeks her head in the door. She doesn’t need to say a word—she just breaks out that expression that says, “please, Alejandro, not again”: eyes down, thin lips turned south. And that’s how it makes me feel: down. I say nothing to Ricardo as I walk by him.
At the table, Mom’s got a big salad set out. I fill a bowl and take a deep breath. We talked in the car from Woodland, but this is the first family meal since I got home. Well, family that’s left. Maria moved to Chicago; Angel moved to Fresno; Hector moved to Iraq, Afghanistan, and now San Diego. Only Raymond stayed in-state. Oak Park Heights. We could visit if he’d ever get out of solitary. He’s got fifteen years left.
“So you’ll get enrolled back at school tomorrow,” Mom says.
“I guess.” I chew fast so I can get back to Call of Duty.
“You always did so well in school, it’s a shame that—” Mom cuts off. There’s no reason to relive it. Other than slinging and banging, I was a good student, when I showed up.
“Things will be different this time.” Ricardo announces, like he’s a part of my life.
“I wish you’d come to church with us,” Mom says. “It would do you so much good.”
I don’t answer so we don’t have this argument again, but she doubles down.
“They said at Woodland Hills that you went to church and spoke to the chaplain when—”
“I did that to get out of my room. Inside, everybody says what people want to hear.”
“Alex, we want you to be open to the love of Christ, to find meaning in your life . . . to be a responsible member of the family,” Ricardo says, trying to stay on Mom’s good side. He is good, not great, but better than the others. Mom’s got a magnetic personality—although mostly it attracts men who hurt her. But Ricardo doesn’t drink (like Mil) or hit her (like José) or both (like Dad), so there’s some good in him. “What your mother—”
“Seems to me all these people proclaiming to love some God just end up killing or getting killed.” My words echo out of my now empty bowl. “Just like banging, if you ask me.”
And that silences the table for a while. Over the rest of the meal, it’s a lot of talk about nothing
that matters, even though Ricardo keeps trying to talk Twins baseball, like I care.
I’m just about ready to head back to my room when the house phone rings. Ricardo rises, picks it up.
“Alex, it’s for you.” Ricardo says. Stop calling me Alex I want to say, but I let it go. Don’t engage, walk away, follow the plan. He hands me the phone. My cell’s dead and there’s been no talk of replacing it, so the landline is it. I look at the 612 number.
“You living in their world or ours?” Big C asks.
I hang up, but I’m not more than two steps away when it rings again. I recognize the number. Same seven numbers, same seven words when I pick up: “You living in their world or ours?” I answer the question by unplugging the phone from the wall. I want to hurl it across the room.
“What’s going on?” Ricardo asks. I direct my answer mostly to Mom. She and Ricardo talk about changing the number. Then Ricardo mentions calling the police, and I shut that down. Even the mention of the word police causes my head to throb and reopens the wound.
I head into my room, shut and lock the door. I dig into my closet until I find a beaten-up box labeled “baseball cards.” It’s like being eight years old and innocent again, looking at the names on the cards, except none of these guys wear Twins uniforms anymore. First chance they got, they left for big money.
I lay the cards on the closet floor. The smiling faces of millionaires with brown bats on their shoulders stare up at me as I hear Big C’s question ringing in my ears. You living in their world or ours? I pull the sleek black .45 from the box; I know there’s only one answer. I’ve got to protect myself however I can as I walk the hard line toward doing my duty, acting like a good man, resisting the temptation to behave like bad boy. “I’m living in my world.”
4
CHRISSIE
“Sweet . . .”
My cheeks rise up to my eyes, and I hear a faint voice.
Duty or Desire Page 1