“Brother, I miss yuh,” she said, her island accent evident. “Yuh could call every once in a while, yuh know. Anyway, yuh little sis needs some money,”
“I thought you were working? And what about that no good boyfriend of yours, the one you love to death so much? What good is he to you?”
“Pleaseee, let’s not go there, brother. Jerome has got noth’n to do with yuh and me. Please, don’t give me no damn lecture. Can yuh just loan me a couple of hundreds? Ma children and I don’t have no food.”
“I don’t know. I’ve been informed that you’re still using, Trish.”
“Why does everybody tink I’m using?” She snapped. “I ain’t using a damn thing! Yuh’re just like da others, always judging me. And who da hell is informing yah of my personal business? Who?”
“That’s not important. Look Trish, I’m not here to judge you. I’m just making an observation. And I want to help you.”
With a heavy heart, he told her he would wire her some money in the morning. “Look, just make sure you use these funds for food, okay?” She swore she would.
After he hung up the phone he called Yvette to talk to her about his strained relationship with his sister and to tell her he was going up north for a few days to look into his sister’s state of affairs. Kurt made plane reservations over the internet then packed his clothes.
He flew coach to Trenton, New Jersey the following day to visit Patricia, who went by her nickname Trish. She was Kurt's beloved stepmother's only child, out of a failed marriage. Before baby Trish came along her mother Rafaela Santora was a beautiful and popular nightclub dancer in Kingston, Jamaica, in the Caribbean. Trish was around five years old when her mother encountered Kurt's father, a young and handsome man who happened to be there on company business. It wasn’t long before the two latched onto each other romantically. In time, he assisted his lover Rafaela in her move to the States where she became his second wife.
Though Trish initially grew up in the care of her paternal father, who was from the tropical island of Barbados, she was brought to the States to live with her mother, and Kurt's father, at age nine. The two children lived, played, and attended the public school system together and became as close as blood siblings. Somewhere along the way, she became involved with the wrong crowd during her high school years, and soon afterwards, it became evident on an emotional, behavior, and academic level.
It was during her junior year that she dropped out of school, after getting involved with an older boy who did not have her best of interest at heart. Pregnant by age sixteen, a chronic substance abuser by eighteen, and an unfit mother of four by age twenty-one, Trish was not the same carefree high-spirited most likely to succeed person Kurt remembered growing up with in Trenton. She was never a bad person, just a person with bad ways who got mixed up with the wrong people. Somehow, she had managed to transform herself into another urban lost soul.
Year after year she had received warnings by state social workers that her children could be taken away from her if she did not seek help. But whenever she felt squeezed by the state she would conveniently give the appearance that she was in the process of getting her act together, just long enough for her to get the state agencies off of her back. She was that good an actor. The one time she finally decided to commit herself to a drug rehab center, it was to no avail. Once returned to the streets she rejoined the same influential up-to-no-good friends and her same self-destructing ways.
Kurt had spent nearly twelve thousand dollars of his own personal money to try to get his sister help just the past year alone. He likened his efforts to pouring money down the drain. It did not seem to help at all. Several offers by Kurt to pay her way through college failed to entice her to get her life straighten out. As hard a pill it was to swallow, Kurt knew that if there were going to be any changes in Trish it would have to come from within. No amount of money could change a drug dependent person's heart or outlook on life. Few ever viewed the world in the same light as their sober counterparts, their drug dependent minds lost in a fog of chemical imbalance. Though frustrated by her chosen lifestyle and his failed efforts to assist her, he kept informed about her situation.
It was Earl, his lawyer and best friend, who sounded the alarm that Trish had quit the twenty-one thousand dollars a year clerical job Kurt had helped her to get, and had fallen two months behind on her mortgage and utility bills, for the umpteenth time, and had trashed the eighty-five thousand dollar home Kurt had co-signed and paid the twenty-percent down payment and closing cost for. Earl also confirmed that Trish's home life had become one endless party after another…one continuous drug fest. The news anguished Kurt deeply.
Though she had a beautiful suburban home, and a chance to live the American dream, she chose, instead, to live the lifestyle of an out-of-control vagabond. There were guys coming and going all of the time, the very worst of the lot. More than that, she had no food in the house to feed her four-year old twin boys. And news that the late model Pontiac Grand Prix he bought for her had been sold for drugs devastated him. Add to this, she was back on welfare.
Earl, who maintained a home in a neighboring area for family visits when he was not in Tampa, met Kurt at the busy airport. The two drove over to the rental car center to pick up Kurt's weekend rental. It was a cool and breezy April dusk and Kurt was glad he had brought along a blazer. A short while later Earl pulled his silver Benz into the driveway of his home away from home. The house was lavender, stucco-finished, and the roof wood-tiled. It was a one-story home, with three bedrooms, two and a half baths, a den, and a recreation room in the basement. In the upscale neighborhood it was located in it probably was worth $280,000, easily. Earl depressed the remote and the garage door opened up. Kurt followed in the rental, parking it alongside of Earl's car inside of the garage. Behind them the garage door slowly closed, shutting out a beautiful and starry autumn sky.
The two pals got right down to business discussing Trish's plight and Kurt's weekend itinerary. Earl was quick to remind Kurt how dangerous and violent the areas he planned on visiting had become. Walking over to his desk, he retrieved a small electronic device, returned, and handed it to Kurt, saying, "Look, I am not about to throw caution to the wind. It is hell out there Kurt. I must insist that you carry this on your person at all times."
“What is this?” Kurt asked, looking the device over.
“It is a mini-mobile satellite-tracking device,” he replied. “It features a panic button and miniature microphone that can be activated in the event of an emergency.”
“How’s that?”
“In the event of an emergency, just use the term bodyguard, and help would be there within minutes,” he told Kurt. He added that he had also hired a small security detail to protect him. "What!" Kurt chuckled incredulously, then added, "You mean you want me to be followed around by an entourage of bodyguards in my own hometown, in the very neighborhood I grew up in?"
Earl leveled his eyes on his friend with a seriousness seldom seen by Kurt, and said, "What's out there nowadays, is not what you grew up in, believe me. It's a different environment out there now," then more lightly, "Anyway, you’ll never see your security detail, as long as you stay out of harm's way, but if you do get into trouble, don't hesitate to use that panic button, and the code word Bodyguard, okay?"
Kurt gave a reluctant nodding of his head, then as if an afterthought, murmured, "A small security detail, huh. How many, may I ask?" Earl pushed his face close to Kurt's, smiled, and repeated, "Just a small detail, my friend. Okay, two at the most."
Getting an early start the following morning, he stopped off at Daisy’s Floral Shoppe and bought two beautiful floral arrangements. He made a solemn and long drive to the cemetery where his beloved mother now rested, to pay homage to her.
Afterwards, he visited his father's grave in a cemetery not far from his mother's. He placed flowers there, too. Looking around, he scanned the area to see if indeed he was being followed by a security detail. He could se
e no evidence of such.
Climbing into his rental he drove to his old neighborhood. Earl had been right all along. His neighborhood had gone down and considerably. The stench and sounds of the ghetto raped his nose, ears, and his eyes, and tore out his heart. Trash-filled lots, and litter-filled streets, dead animals, dilapidated homes, mixed in with burned out, gutted out homes, crack houses, groups of young men huddled at nearly every corner, looking about suspiciously, as though they were indulging in some illicit activity. That’s what it had come to. Sadly, this was not the same streets he remembered growing up in.
After making a few passes, he found a parking space a block away from his aunt's house, climbed out of the rental and locked it. It was early evening and still warm. He was just seconds into his walk when he approached a group of five who had been sitting on the stairs of an abandoned warehouse off to his right. As he neared them the five ruffians slowly stood up and intercepted him. They were all young, late teens and probably early twenties. Their thuggish mannerism appeared threatening. One guy, wearing a smirk across his face, whipped out a switchblade and held it low, at his side, menacingly.
The bandanna-cloaked leader stepped in front of Kurt, crossed his arms at his chest, and stared him down. Kurt glanced subtly in the direction of the street to see if he could spot the small security detail Earl assured him would be there to protect him. He saw no one. Not a living soul. "Hey, bro," the lead thug snarled, "What's your business here?"
"My business is not your business, bro," Kurt retorted, nonchalantly. “So step off.”
"Oh, we're got ourselves one of those smart-ass high society Negroes, Chris," the gangster with the switchblade leered. "Da man’s clean, too. Look at those 5th Avenue threads."
"Look, I grew up on these same streets as some of you have. And I’ve roamed these corners long before any of you became an afterthought of your parent’s youthful and misguided ways. Hell, I'm sure I hung out on these corners with some of your parents. Probably went to school with them, too. Sure, I thought I was bad too.
Yeah, I used to be a gang banger myself. I was young and foolish back then. But I came to my senses eventually and changed my ways. I'll tell you now, what you guys are about is not the way. Believe me, it’s not the way. But, if you still want to go ahead and make the biggest mistake of your life, then bring it on."
"Man, let's waste this sonavabitch!" the ugly barrel-bellied gang member cried.
"Yeah, let's waste the bastard," another cried out.
"All right," Kurt grimaced. "So it’s hardball you want to play. Fine with me. But I can assure you that two or three of you punks are going to visit your local hospital. Think about that."
But there was no thinking about it.
Slowly, the group stepped towards him as he retreated to the wall of the warehouse and then stood there, palms flattened, against the summer warmed bricks. The situation was becoming critical. If he had to he was going to take out as many as he could, as he had stated, starting with the ringleader, who had just produced a set of brass knuckles. "What! You guys are kidding me,” Kurt chuckled nervously.
It was time for the posse to make their charge. “Man, after I’m through with you, you’ll need a bodyguard to walk these streets again. So for the last time, I am advising you all to re-consider while you still have a chance," he said, after managing to depress the panic button on the small device at his side, in the midst of unsuspecting eyes. Okay Earl, he thought. I said it – bodyguard. Now let's see how long it takes the posse to arrive.
"Before I slice into your ass, homeey, I want to know who the hell do you think you are strolling in here with your pressed designer pants and designer shirt, all cool and suave. All fly, and talk’n that ole-school-back-in-the-day-rap while you’re looking like you’re finally liv’n the American Dream now. Who do you think you are, Mr. American Idol?” the hostile blade man demanded to know.
"The name's Kurt Douglass and I'm not your homeey," he replied, his fists now clenched at his side. He was about to ease into a gung-fu stance and kick the crap out of them but to his complete surprise, the ringleader suddenly froze, as if he had seen a ghost. "Wait a minute. Who did you say you were, man?"
Kurt eased up slightly and studied the young man before him. He looked extremely familiar now. "You know me, don't you, or heard of me? Who are you, son?"
"Shit man! What's your mother's name? Tell me, what's your mother's name?"
"Jocelyn Douglass." Kurt answered.
"Ahh shit, man! You're my father's cousin," the leader conveyed, his face now a mask of mixed-emotions.
Yes, it was indeed his cousin's son, Christopher, Jr.. That's why the lad appeared so familiar to Kurt. The resemblance was now unmistakable. His father Christopher, Sr. and Kurt had hung out together on these very same streets when the two were youngsters. Unfortunately, his cousin died, not far from here, sixteen years earlier while resisting a robbery attempt on himself and a friend. The last time Kurt had laid eyes on Christopher Jr. was at the wake. He was a kid then.
Obviously shaken up, the young family member was in the process of apologizing to Kurt when they were interrupted by the loud screeching sounds of four black sedans now converging on the scene, and from all directions. The posse had arrived.
The thugs displayed a look of deep concern as nine or more well-dressed, shotgun toting, men filed out of the four sedans looking like Nation of Islam Leader Minister Louis Farrakhan's personal bodyguards, the Fruit of Islam. One of the security men approached Kurt. "Is everything alright, Mr. Douglass?"
Kurt took a step away from the wall, exhaled, and looked at his distant cousin, then returned his gaze to the security guy. "Yes, everything's cool now. It’s hard to believe, but I've just been re-introduced to a very lost and troubled family member."
The lead security man was soft-spoken but direct and to the point. "Listen, and listen well, my young brothers. Everyone single one of you. Mr. Douglass is a very important client of ours. He is here on important family business and he will be allowed to continue on unimpeded. Make his stay here pleasant, for your own sake, I advise. Gentlemen, I hope I have made myself very clear. Have a good day."
Chris instructed his homeboys to back down and disperse, that he'd hook up with them later. At that point, the security force returned to their vehicles and, after one final look, drove off.
Small security detail, Kurt mused. It was more like a goddamned commando force. Kurt made a mental note to thank Earl for looking out for his best of interest.
Turning to Chris, he asked if his grandmother was home. Chris responded in the affirmative, asking afterwards, “Hey, what’s up with the Muslim Nation? What the hell was that all about?”
Kurt replied, quite frankly. “Their job is to protect my ass while I’m here, that’s all.”
With an incredulous gaze, Chris uttered, “Hell, just who are you? Damned Secretary of State or something?” Then as an afterthought, said, “Wait a minute! Hey, aren’t you’re the family member who won all of that damn money from the lottery? You are, aren’t you?”
Kurt nodded.
“Damn! I’m talking to a real live millionaire. Hell, even better, I’m related to him,” Chris bellowed as he hopped around in circles.
When Chris settled down, the two walked towards Kurt’s aunt's house. Along the way, he gently admonished his blood relative for what had just taken place, and what could have taken place, and for not doing something positive with his life that would have made his father proud of him.
After a warm homecoming visit and home cooked meal, Chris escorted Kurt to the rental car, saying that he had learned a lot the past two hours, and promised to call Kurt once he returned to Florida. His older and wiser family member had given him some options to think about. Offering his cousin a warm-hearted farewell Kurt climbed into the rental then drove off to visit his distraught sister.
Chapter 24
Kurt parked the rental and climbed out and inhaled the refreshing suburban New Jersey a
ir. Closing the car door he walked slowly towards the unassuming two-story home. There was litter and children's toys sprawled across the lawn, which looked as though it had not seen a lawn mower in months. The grass was at least nine inches tall. He plowed slowly forward.
The house was totally trashed out, he discovered upon passing through the unlocked door. There were soiled children's clothing lying about, opened food cans, month old magazines and newspapers, broken toys, crushed beer cans and cigarette butts littered throughout the place. There were several cockroaches meandering about feverishly on top of a half-eaten roast beef sandwich on the lamp table, their antennae waving about wildly above them. He even saw a tiny mouse run behind some furniture. Sickening, he thought, as he walked into the dining room area. If he hated anything it was rats and roaches.
Looking about he focused his gaze on the dining room table, which was littered with needles and other drug paraphernalia, more cigarette butts, more beer cans, and a large whiskey bottle. Seated at the table were two counter-cultural looking people shot-gunning each other with a joint stick, both apparently as stoned as they come. The two had not even noticed Kurt's entry. Pressing onward he entered into the kitchen. The sink was dirty and cluttered with unwashed dishes, bowls and utensils. It looked like several days' worth of mess.
Walking back to the front of the house, where the staircase was located, he climbed it slowly and deliberately until he had ascended to the second floor. There were no children to be found. Kurt did not know it but the children had been taken out of the home several days before by state authorities.
Peering into one room he observed a young white tattoo laden woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, on her knees having oral sex with a black biker type; denim clothing, biker's boots, shades over the eyes, trousers down to his ankles. Her blouse was unbuttoned and her breasts exposed. Neither one seem to notice Kurt's visual intrusion. Either that or they just did not care.
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