The 'N' Word, Book 1

by Tiana Laveen

  “’Cause they are gonna try to kill you, man… and they’ve already alienated me. It was Clyde’s orders after I confronted him about the bullshit he was pullin’. No one is allowed to talk to me anymore. Only Fred talks to me, ’cause Clyde knows Fred doesn’t give a fried chicken shit what that man says and he needs Fred more than Fred ever needed him.”

  “Fred’s a good man…” Aaron stated in almost a whisper.

  “Damn good, true blue. Other than him,” he said with a shrug, “I’m shunned. So, that’s all I’ve got for you, man. If I find out more, and you know that I will,” he winked at him before placing the cigarette back to his lips, “I will clue you in, but for now, your back is up against a wall and you’re marked for slaughter. Keep to yourself, Aaron. Be careful, be extra careful…” The man’s eyes grew smaller, even the droopy swampy moss colored one. “Your life is on the line, and you’re in the deep end… Try your hardest not to drown.”

  “Oh.” Aaron grinned as he peered upward into the sky once more. In the midst of all the chaos, he felt a sense of peace right then. He had no idea where it had rolled in from, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “I’m an excellent swimmer, Darryl. I’m Nathan Evans and Michael Phelps all rolled into one.”

  Darryl chuckled. “Yeah, you got medals and trophies, huh?”

  “Not yet.” He kept his eye on the sun. “But I’m goin’ for the gold…”

  Chapter Nineteen

  TWO DUSTY JARS of pickled pig feet sat on the kitchen island just as he’d remembered. Marcus slicked a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and enjoyed the momentary peace and quiet. The crowd had broken up, melted away and dispersed, leaving their after thoughts and remains behind. The air still stunk with dance-induced heated sweat, and it smelled oh so sweet. A few joints of marijuana, smoked down to the nub, lay in a nearby ashtray. Grabbing another trash bag, he cursed under his breath as he caught the digital time on the stove: 3:01 A.M.

  “Baby.” His wife yawned from the doorway, her tattered lime green robe with an ivory lace trim along the hem barely hanging on. “You comin’ to bed? Don’t worry about all this stuff from the party.” She waved her hand lazily in the air. “I’ll get it all cleaned up in a few hours when I cook breakfast.”

  “Naw, baby.” He moved sluggishly about the place, bumping into things along the way. The celebratory bottle of red wine he’d downed was swimming in his head, making him clumsy on his feet. “You done enough. I’ll get all this up. Promise I won’t be long.” He paused to smile at her, admiring her gorgeous oval, deep rich cocoa face, so blemish free. The woman barely looked real.

  “Well.” She tucked her hands under her arms. “Don’t stay up too long, sugar.” She winked at him and disappeared.

  He watched her walk away, wishing he could pull her back, make her just stand there in the doorway and continue to be subjected to his admiration. She made a glorious distraction, for he feared at any moment, he was going to break down like a damn hooptie with no engine coolant. He reached low and picked up barbecue-sauce-soiled napkins, empty red plastic cups, and crumbs of thick, red velvet cake. Each step became harder and harder, heavier and heavier, but he kept on, refusing to be still with the emotions…

  But then, in the end, they grabbed him.

  Letting out an exasperated sigh, he rocked into the kitchen island and the pickled pig feet jars shook. He glared at the damn things; pieces of reflection stared right back at him from the glass encasing the old, fermented flesh.

  You gonna have to be strong. What’s wrong with you, man?

  He kept moving, but it was no use. Snuffing out his cigarette, he tossed the remainder in the sink and ran water on the thing before throwing it in the trash bag. He’d been home for three days and though he’d gotten notification his release was coming faster than he’d ever anticipated, it still felt a bit surreal. He went from elation to misery in a nanosecond…

  What am I going to do? I ain’t figured out how to bring in any bread… Who is going to hire me, huh? I’ll have to get a new skill set… I’m good at masonry though. I could do that for a while I imagine… but I need to do something else. That’s hard work, intensive. I’m gettin’ too old for all of that. But, it’ll tide me over. Maybe I should go back to college. But for what? Even if I get another Associates Degree, or maybe this time, a Bachelors, who gon’ hire me? I could graduate at the top of my damn class, but me bein’ a get-away driver is all they gonna care about and I won’t get hired… My family will struggle, and I’d be to blame for it…

  His frustration grew, setting up residence within him – making his ‘You’re fucked’ stance official. At that moment, he began to hate himself a bit more as each second passed, each piece of trash was tossed in the bag, and each memory of his better past pinched him, made him feel the sting of bygones being bygones…

  Gritting his teeth, he moved away from the kitchen and entered the small dining area. He got more of the same. The Big Lots store purchased table had been decked out with Grandma’s hand-me-downs. The room looked regal, despite the furniture being nice to look at, but far from sturdy and well made. His wife had a natural way of making things come together, and he loved their dining room, having Sunday meals in there after church, and talking and laughing with their daughter. Stacks of paper plates lined the table, and he reached for the piles, one after the other, until the bag in his hand was practically bursting, filled to capacity. He made his way towards the back of the small house and hit the light switch to shine bright on the back stoop.

  As he made to pick up another plastic cup someone left behind, he took note of a hand-made game scoring card a few of his boys had been playing. He lifted it from the table then waved his hand in annoyance as a mosquito buzzed towards his face, like a long lost friend seeking to reconnect. After a few moments, he took a glance at the thing. He cracked into a crooked grin when he realized that Greg, his favorite cousin, had won the game. Greg never won anything, and he was certain no matter how small the prize, the kid could use the cash. His car had just died, and he needed new transportation to get back and forth to work. Any little bit counted, and though he couldn’t spare anything, he was elated that, in an unrelated way, he’d assisted. Feeling a smidgen better from the good news, he continued to pick up pieces of odds and ends lying about until he saw yet another slightly balled up wad of white paper with some words written upon it.

  Figuring it was a part of the card game, too, he picked it up, but before he tossed it into the bag, he unfolded it and took a glance. He burst out laughing at someone’s drawing of a man running from another guy about to whoop his ass, figured more of his friends and family went about giving silly threats to one another as the liquor got them a bit looser and the music a bit happier, too. But then… his heart grew tight when an unforeseen memory took over, flashed before his eyes, and derailed his jovial moment in time.

  The legs of the running guy illustration were drawn in almost perfect right angles.

  …Thick.

  …Black.

  …Straight.

  It was as if the lower limbs were made of heavy metals and his knees of pins and needles. The shape reminded him of the Nazi symbols on Aaron Pike’s neck, the lower half at least. Typically, the guy had it covered up but the thing would peek out here and there, allowing him a view before the man pulled his collar and shirt just so, seemingly not wishing for it to be fully exposed. Maybe it was wishful thinking…

  That behavior was vastly different from how the man had acted when he’d first laid eyes on him. That time, Aaron had his tattoo in full fuckin’ view. But soon, the man seemed to change. He became more subtle, more careful and that tattoo looked just like the running legs on the cartoon…

  Half a man…

  Half hearted…

  One foot in, one foot out…

  Marcus paused, tasting a repeat of his wine rolling across his tongue and stinging his esophagus. He looked into the pitch-black sky, as if the answers to
these strange notions lay there.

  Man, Aaron, you’re crazy, you know that?

  He smirked as the plastic bag drifted slowly from his hand and landed across his feet.

  Marcus had thought about Aaron a lot after their conversation in Holman. He couldn’t shake him. The shit was unnerving, strange. He felt as if he’d had a dinner break with the Devil, but instead of feeling fearful when he got to his feet to leave, he’d experienced a sense of relief, as they both got a little something from the encounter.

  Aaron had left an impression on him, caused his dreams that night to be awkward and not make a damn bit of sense, but something in the man’s glowing, amber eyes told him that Aaron was a façade wrapped in the toughness of a brick wall. Inside, the guy was hurting real bad, looking for something, searching in the darkness, like a child who’d lost track of their parents along the way. Normally he wouldn’t have given a shit about all of that.

  Who cared if Aaron had some damn pain? He sure as hell administered his own – an iron hand of self righteousness, arrogance and evil, hate-filled justice served to those that didn’t look like him or shared his same beliefs. It served that racist punk right to land in prison, being what the hell he was for doing what he’d done. But something strange had happened to Marcus right before it was announced he was getting out; something that now sat back at the forefront of his mind…

  When a man was about to grasp hold to freedom, demons crawled and oozed from the inner workings of the prison system. Everyone knew the code, regardless of whether they played the game right or not. The closer liberty came, the more others tried to ensure it eluded you. Release date? Cat and mouse… That was the time when the other inmates tested you like your name was Algebra, made life hard as if you were addicted to rocks, tried to fuck up your release and your life, and like Jesus – give you a second coming.

  Rather than having to dodge those proverbial bullets designed by the bitterness of lost hope and dreams, it was like the red fucking sea had been parted, and he could walk right through without even getting wet…

  No one bothered him at chow. No one said anything slick, demeaning, trying to get his goat. Nah, getting back into the real world had been almost, dare he admit it, pleasant. As he’d gathered his belongings in a bag on that final day, his curiosity begged him to inquire. The guard walked him slowly towards the exit of the prison, but instead of feeling total elation, a wave of confusion overcame him. Before he drowned in the damn thing, he paused, looked at Curtis in his too-tight uniform and asked, “Man, I have a question before I go.”

  “Yeah, what is it?” They kept walking side by side, though their steps slowed a hair.

  “Somebody pulled some strings for me or somethin’. I ain’t have no issues, and though I’m not prison material as y’all try to say, I know what was supposed to happen. I ain’t have none of that. Why?”

  The guard smirked, then burst out laughing.

  “You don’t know? You really don’t know why they ain’t give you a going-away-hard time, Marcus?”

  “Know? Of course I don’t know. That’s my whole point for asking,” he asked in slight annoyance as the man’s cheeks grew rosy with mirth.

  “You made a friend…” The man’s grin waned and he grew serious. “You make the right friends in here, you get what you need. You make the wrong enemies, you never leave…”

  They continued to move about as Marcus worked the words over to the damn bone, still as confused as ever, though he’d eaten the clues in one gulp. He’d kept to himself just as he was ordered to do on a daily basis, but then he remembered…

  As he held that drawing, like a sheet thrown off of the latest model, the truth was revealed.

  Oh my God, that’s it!

  He slumped down in a nearby lawn chair as the reality hit him like a rock at the temple.

  There was one instance when he didn’t keep to himself and mind his own business. He’d done it all right; he’d stepped out of his comfort zone and entered into a land of potential hazard, trepidation, and pure craziness…

  A tall man with dark brown buzzed hair, cut military style, slight facial hair and spit-shiny black combat boots had called him over with a curl of his finger and a whistle. The white-skinned demon, perched on his concrete stoop like some gratified gargoyle, had bright golden eyes that looked like Hell’s infernal blaze. His irises reminded him of ladies on fire, dancing in a world of hedonistic pleasure and unadulterated agony… On this particular day, Marcus was having a bout of depression – and leave it to Satan himself to take advantage of his weakened state. It was the kind of sorrow that you breathed in, didn’t dare exhale, for if you did, it would expose that you were cracking up, losing your mind, coming easily undone like baby shoelaces.

  Word of such a thing simply couldn’t be shared. In Holman, you may as well have handed the other inmates an invitation that read:

  You’re cordially invited to come fuck with me

  Day: Right motherfuckin’ now

  Time: For fucking ever or until you’ve had your fill

  Instead of mailing out the party invitations for a guaranteed miserable time, he continued to listen to his music. The thumping beat fostered memories of good spells, forcing his reflections into simple fantasy. He was yanked out of his daydreams, unable to ignore that the notorious Pied Piper was staring at him, eyeing him down. Marcus had realized at that moment he had one of two choices. He could walk away, become instantly submissive by leaving the fucker’s sight, or he could hold his ground. If you walked away from a dare, you were soon turned into target practice. Didn’t matter if not one word was said; the wolf led the pack, and his name was Aaron Pike. Turn your back on him, he’d come for you. Face him like a man, and you just may live. Even in Marcus’ current confusion, he held his own, refused to waiver. And honestly, he had another scenario playing like a movie inside his skull.

  A small, devious, self-destructive bud had sprouted – the kind given its due care from the likes of the crooked prison system. It didn’t grow blooms full of potential; Holman and all the places like it cultivated and fostered barbed-wired covered weeds. The misdeeds of the inhabitants coated the walls of the place as much as the spit and shit, and the walls recorded the pain and agony, echoing screams that he was certain would haunt him for the rest of his days.

  On the fateful day on which he’d met Aaron, he’d contemplated an escape from his heartache. In a split second, he wanted Aaron to try and swing on him, get it goin’, bring the noise, knowing full well that method of answering the beast’s call would seal his fate. So he stood outside, afraid, angry, hating the world he lived in and himself for a job well done in butchering his piecemeal self-esteem. He listened to his music in an attempt to soothe something rotting inside and just then, the big son of a bitch with the type of reputation, aura and clout a man could only dream about had asked him to come over… Yeah, he’d whistled and motioned, but his wasn’t a simple request… and Marcus knew it.

  A man such as Aaron Pike didn’t ask a mothafucka for shit. He told you, and either you did it or you didn’t, but either way, you better say something, and you better answer with your chin high and look that man in the eye. However, he soon discovered that all of that mental preparation had been completely unnecessary. Much to his surprise, this wasn’t a challenge after all. Aaron hadn’t called him over to turn him into an example, to start some shit for pure entertainment or to fight to the bitter death in an act of insanity driven revenge. No, it had been truly just to talk.

  …Not to manipulate him.

  …Not to pull one over.

  …But to talk…

  Just. Talk.

  Marcus soon understood what had taken place in the weeks prior to his release. Despite the slight glimmer of concern in that man’s eyes, Aaron was running shit, and running from shit, all at once. Regardless, his fist was on the pulse of Holman; so much so, when he told someone to back the fuck off, more times than not, they did.

  Sure, stories floate
d about like unflushed chunks of shit in a stinking toilet…

  Aaron had killed. No ifs ands or buts about this.

  Some of the guys were in there for robbery, roughing their old lady up, shit like that. But not Aaron… He was in there for beating a black man near to death, beyond recognition; and the freaky part was that this mud hole stomping took place in a matter of mere seconds. What would he have done with an entire minute? From the art on his body and his status, when he laid hands on a motherfucker, it wasn’t because his victim was standing in need of prayer…

  Somehow, that man always seemed to escape his true fate, play a game and come out victorious. He was sly, witty, had a way about him. How could one know what and who he was, but still feel a sense of comfort when they sat next to him? Mr. Pike had managed to achieve just that – but you could never let your guard down around him. You could never get too comfortable, for if he turned on you and threatened you, he had a nasty habit of following through… and those weren’t rumors.

  No.

  Those were facts.

  But how did he get the black inmates to leave me alone, too?! They don’t listen to none of them boys like him up in there! That’s the damn problem. Nobody listens, but everybody’s talkin’.

  He hit the arm of the cheaply made chair in exasperation.

  That’s why there’s so much damn fightin’ and killin’ in Holman in the first place!

  …And then it hit him…

  Aaron used the ‘trickle down’ effect, Reagan economics, prison style, only this shit actually worked.

  This ploy and game of strategy was built upon the backs of a well-formed, albeit dysfunctional hierarchy. The top level was comprised of the head motherfuckers, the ones that ran shit – the top dogs, the shot callers. It only worked when you were a motherfucking King. Period. Point blank.

  Tale in the Jail was that he had the warden so fucking stressed out, the man was making deals, negotiating with higher ups. Aaron was being given a piece of the pie, in an effort to ensure he never showed up in there again. Discussions with judges and the like were taking place as well; the man caused that much distress and trouble from his mere presence. He was a damn celebrity in his camp, and the news media coverage made it all the worse.