Life

by Sullivan, Leo

  It was Friday, about 8 o’clock in the morning and the traffic was dense. White folks in their cars gawked at me in horror. In the distance behind me I could see an array of police cars–their lights flashed as they all trailed behind me. It looked like a scene from the O.J. Simpson chase. I turned a corner on two wheels, and drove across the grass on 27th and Martin Luther King Park. I was driving like a bat out of hell, looking for a place to get rid of the car and run. I made another sharp right, then a left, driving in the wrong direction on a one-way street, traveling over a hundred miles an hour. I was not wearing a seat belt so I could make a quick exit. In most high speed chases the police are notorious for causing wrecks that end in fatalities. I slowed the car down pulling into a driveway of a house and shifted the car into park. I had lost the police. With my hands on the steering wheel, I watched both ends of the street. My hand was bleeding, but I could not feel a thing. I was numb as my heart pumped ice water into my veins. Running from the police has always been like dancing with the devil. Getting away was like escaping from hell.

  A dark cloud that hovered over me reverberating a mighty roar shattered the lull of the morning silence. A police helicopter had located me. I did not panic. In fact, I just sat there thinking, there is no way in hell I am going to out-run a police helicopter. Then I thought, fuck ‘em!!! I was facing a thousand years in prison! I stepped on the gas and the car fishtailed out of the driveway hitting a parked car. If I was going back to the joint, they were going to have to catch me. It was on. This was some “ride or die shit” and the gas tank was full. I headed back to Highway 301 with the helicopter still on my ass. The wind whooshed around my ears as I continued to disobey the speed limit. Fuck it! The Bradenton City Limit was about five miles away and I knew there would be a roadblock full of rednecks and trigger-happy police. I watched too many episodes of “Cops” for this not to be true. I found a Pall Mall cigarette butt in the ashtray, lit it and inhaled deeply. The wind whooshed around my ears–I was driving at a hundred miles an hour. Up ahead police cars were coming from the opposite direction, on the other side of the highway. I zoomed past them. They would have to turn around to follow me.

  A sign up ahead read, “Bradenton County” and I saw the famous roadblock. Hell, they were using eighteen-wheelers and police cars. High-powered rifles were aimed at my tires. I stepped on the brakes, the tires screamed and sent me sliding … sliding … out of control near the steel spikes they placed in the road to bust my tires. I made a ninety-degree turn and that old Caddy did the unexpected and leaped over a ditch, plowed over the guardrail, and up a steep hill. As I looked toward the sky, I squinted at the bright sun as sweat burned my eyes. I could see that damn helicopter was still on my ass.

  I turned right on a mean thoroughfare. The traffic was heavy but managed to part like the Red Sea for a Black man driving like a maniac with a police helicopter on his ass. I could see some of the expressions on them white folks’ faces as I zoomed in and out of the traffic changing lanes like I was in the Indy 500. I turned, entering the Bradenton Shopping Mall, nearly hitting an old lady pushing a shopping cart. The damn helicopter was so low now that it looked like it wanted to land on the car. I parked the car in the lee of a carwash, hopped out and walked briskly toward the mall’s entrance.

  Inside, the cool air hit my face and I had to adjust my eyes from the ardent sun. As I walked, no one appeared to be paying much attention to me. I passed a jewelry store; next to it was an ATM machine, and a Burger King restaurant. My mind was churning. Think fast! Think fast! I told myself. I knew any minute the mall was going to be flooded with irate cops that wanted to beat my ass. Pedestrians traversed the halls; it was semi-crowded so I blended in. Across from the movie theater was a clothing store called The Gap. I got an idea and walked inside. I swore to God, I had never been so happy to see another Black man in my entire life. The brotha greeted me with a warm smile as his eyes held me, giving me a once over. I looked like hell. There was blood on my shirt and pants from where I cut my hand. I dug into my pocket, pulling out two crumbled one hundred dollar bills.

  “I need a pair of size thirty-six pants and a large shirt. I’m in a hurry. Oh, and you can keep the change,” I told the sales clerk.

  A few other people came into the store. I looked up, startled. The clerk sensed my apprehension, but the money motivated him. The brotha gave me a shirt and a pair of pants. I turned and saw the police through the window. The clerk did, too. I ducked inside the dressing room. They arrived in full force. I thought about a shootout as I took the guns out of my pants while changing. I felt my heart pounding in my chest so hard it felt like it was going to come out. The dressing room was about the size of a small closet with one of them partial doors with slants. I watched as a Black girl entered, she was tall and regal in splendor. I needed a way out from the store. As soon as I stepped out of the dressing room and placed the bloody clothes in a trashcan, the police rushed in. The girl was about two feet away from me. A honey toned sister with hazel eyes and long silky brown hair. She watched me intensely as if she knew me or something. The police headed straight for me. Something dawned on her, it registered in her eyes and I could see it on her face. Her delicate lips formed a tight, thin line across perfect ivory teeth with her jaw clinched in a contemptuous Black woman’s scowl. To this day, I don’t know what made me do it; fear and desperation will make a man do strange things. I grabbed her. She screamed, I laughed and played it off as if I knew her. I whispered in her ear, “Please, please Shorty help me!” I just knew that she felt the gun in my pants.

  Surprisingly, this Black woman that I did not know embraced me tightly. Her euphonic laughter was the barrier that shielded me. Four heavily armed police officers with bulletproof shields and helmets walked right up to us. The clerk in the store looked as if he were going to shit in his pants. I could hear dogs barking like they were on to my scent, but through the crowd that had gathered, their barks went unnoticed.

  “Have you seen a Black man wearing black pants and a gray shirt?” the police questioned as they looked around the store.

  The clerk looked at me as if he were weighing his thoughts between the money I had given him or telling the officers I was right up under their noses.

  “No sir,” he finally answered.

  I felt the girl shake in my arms as the cop in the front of the store announced, “He ain’t in here.” They stormed out of the store. I realized that I had been holding my breath. The woman untangled herself from me and took a step back. It felt like her piercing hazel eyes bore right through my soul, and then somberly, she closed her eyes and shook her head. The expression on her face said I can’t believe what I have just done.

  A customer asked the clerk for help, causing him to snap out of his daze of watching us, two complete strangers and the upheaval of the police. The girl turned and walked away. I could sense that she was troubled by her actions. I followed behind her like a lost puppy. On my way out of the store, I grabbed a Lakers hat and a pair of dark shades.

  All hell broke loose in the shopping mall. The woman was walking fast and the place was crowded. The police scurried about, in what looked like a mad frenzy, searching for me. Outside the sun was bright and there was not one helicopter in the sky now, but two. The other one had ABC News 40 stenciled on it. The mall parking lot had taken on a festive atmosphere with hundreds standing around gawking at the herd of police. I was able to blend right in as I followed the woman. She walked to the raggediest car in the lot, a rusted old Ford Mustang. Abruptly, she turned on her heels doing a half pirouette.

  “Go!” she pointed. “I’ve helped you enough.” She couldn’t look me in my eyes. *****

  Chapter Two

  “A Black Woman’s Love”

  – Hope –

  I sat in my car reading the letter for what seemed like the umpteenth time. It was a letter from my brother, Bryant, on the lockdown. In the letter, he stated that he was a Muslim now and that he changed his name to Malik. Painfully,
I thought, how was being a Muslim going to get the life sentence off of him? My eyes started to water as I fought back the tears. In his letter, he vented his frustration, blaming it on the white man. As usual he went off on Black women, saying they were never there when a brotha needed them. He said I abandoned him when he needed me the most–when he was going through a severe drug addiction. In some ways he was right and his maudlin words hurt me to my core. Between going to college and working a full time job I neglected him. His poignant words, you never helped me, would forever be embedded in my mind. The white folks gave my brother a life sentence for eighteen rocks of cocaine. I have another brother, Marvin. He was on the run from the law at the same time. My father was in mourning. Daddy, he’s a good man, who has been working for the post office for as long as I can remember. My mother passed away from cancer when I was 6 years old.

  The noise from the helicopter disturbed my reverie. I looked up to see it hovering over the parking lot like some evil vulture about to pounce on its prey. That’s when I saw a car come to a screeching halt inside the car wash and this fine chocolate brotha came walking out. I swear to God he looked identical to my oldest brother. I just had to do a second take. The resemblance was uncanny. Nervously, he looked up at the helicopter and entered the mall. For some reason, tears spilled over the brim of my eyes like a dam that suddenly burst. I was propelled into another time, another place. Black men being lynched and killed. They took my brother’s life for eighteen rocks of cocaine. It seemed like from the beginning, or as far back as I could remember when I was a young girl, Black men were always running. Running from life and running from their responsibilities. I exited my car in a daze and then the police showed up in throngs. Too many white faces, all of them police, lawd-have-mercy. It hurt a sister to her heart to see so many Black men locked up. Six percent of the population, 90 percent of all incarcerated. Until this day no one could convince me that this was not genocide, especially when the majority of the people that commit crimes are white. In my heart I really thought I could change the world. Maybe it was because I was young and naïve, just 21 years old. Anyway, that was why I was going to college to become a criminal lawyer. And one day, I planned to present my case to the United Nations just like Malcolm X wanted to do.

  Police raced past me with police dogs. I tried to shrug the sight from my mind, but even as a little girl growing up in the ghetto, ever since I saw the movie Roots, white men in blue suits, chasing Black boys–well to me they always look like slave catchers. It was pure pandemonium as I walked. The police were everywhere. It unnerved me. I stepped inside of a clothing store, more for mennv1tal refuge than to shop, and that was when I saw him again. The fear in his eyes sent shivers through me. He changed clothes. His handsome face was angular with dimples. He was frightened and his desperation was palpable. I was only a few feet away from him now, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I walked right up close to him, and then all hell broke loose. The police stormed in and headed straight for him. He looked at me with my brother’s eyes … the police neared … he grabbed me. I screamed like I was his damn hostage and although he laughed in a mock show of affection, I let him hold me. In fact, I sunk right into his arms like they were the waters to my bath. He whispered into my ear, his lips brushed across my earlobe, I felt the two day old stubble of his beard to my cheek. His raw masculinity seeped inside my soul.

  “Please, Shorty, help me!” he pleaded.

  I was sure the police were about to arrest him. They walked right up to us and the clerk was startled, like he was watching a horror movie. When one of the officers asked him something, I wasn’t paying attention to what was being said, I just kept hearing my oldest brother’s voice, you never helped me. Somehow these words shattered my resistance. As I watched the police walk out of the store, I was suddenly filled with trepidation. What if I was helping a maniac, some hardened criminal on the loose from some insane asylum … with a gun! I turned and walked away. I had done some stupid things in my times but this took the cake. God, the man could be a murderer or a rapist with those damn sexy eyes.

  Finally I made it to my car but to my utter shock, he was still behind me. Unable to believe he actually followed me out of the mall, I turned toward him and in a brusque manner, I yelled, “Go!”

  He cringed. The mere sound of my own voice emboldened me. I fumbled with my purse removing my key chain with the can of mase attached to it. We were starting to attract attention. Darkness temporarily shielded me from the sun. I looked up and saw two helicopters in the sky.

  “Shorty! I swear to God I have not done anything wrong, you gotta believe me.”

  One of the helicopters lowered, it looked like it was taking a picture of us. It was damn sure filming the mall. I panicked and quickly walked around to the passenger’s door because my old car, which I had named Betty, only cooperated with me when she wanted to. The man must have thought I was opening the door for him because he sure as hell hopped his ass in, and to this day, I don’t know why I let him get in. I walked around to the driver’s side and he opened the door for me. He reclined all the way back in the seat. I prayed old Betty would start. This became a ritual, I turned the ignition, pumped the gas and she coughed and sputtered to life. I drove out of the parking lot scared to death. Once I hit the highway, I turned to him.

  “You can get up now.”

  The wind tossed my hair. He popped his seat up shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.

  “Thanks Shouty,” he said with too much hubris for my liking.

  “My name is Hope Evans. Please don’t refer to me as ‘Shorty’ or ‘Shouty’ or whatever it is. You can call me Ms. Evans. Now where do you want me to drop you off?” I was trying to sound stern and unafraid. I felt the corners of my mouth saccade. Hell, he had a gun. He could take whatever he wanted. I felt his eyes roaming, leering at me. I wasn’t wearing a bra for the long trip. I wanted to be as comfortable as possible. Every time I hit a bump my breasts would bounce; I could feel him looking at them. I was wearing a FAMU T-shirt. Furtively, I looked down at my breasts and noticed that my nipples were protruding. I tried to hide them by rubbing my feet thereby placing my arm to obstruct his view. And then my worst fears came true. He pulled out, not one but two guns, and pointed them right at me. I almost pissed in my panties as my entire life flashed before me.

  “Where can I put these?” he asked.

  My mouth moved, but my tongue refused to oblige. I pointed to the glove compartment. I swore to God, one of those guns was so big it wouldn’t fit so he placed it underneath the seat.

  “Where ya headed?” he continued, trying to make conversation.

  “Tallahassee.” The word came out of my mouth strained. I hoped that he didn’t notice. “I am a senior at FAMU.”

  “You in one of them crazy sororities?”

  I don’t know about crazy, but I am a Delta.” With that, I glanced over at him, I was curious as to why he asked me that. He smiled sheepishly answering my curiosity.

  “I saw the bumper sticker on your car.”

  I took advantage of his laxity. “Why are all those police looking for you?” Silence, in the form of a pregnant pause filled the air, and I instantly regretted asking. He turned to me, his words slow, deliberate, his brow crest and eyes distant.

  “This morning when I awoke, I was seriously thinking about getting out of the game, stop selling dope, no more hustling … then this nigga and his supposed-to-be-cousin came by my hotel, dude and him were looking for some hard …”

  “Hard?” I interrupted.

  “Crack cocaine!” he said, giving me a look, somewhat annoyed.

  “Uh huh.” I nodded my head like I got it.

  “This dude owed me money, and I’m figuring if I take what belongs to me really ain’t a crime, besides who he gonna tell? And if he don’t like it he can get it like Drac!”

  “Who?” I couldn’t understand his lingo.

  “Drac, Count Dracula, the vampire got his in blood.”

/>   “Uh huh.” I nodded my head. Just then an eighteen-wheeler flew past us.

  “I hate them damn trucks. My hair flies everywhere,” I said out loud.

  “I took my money from dude and his cousin. Come to find out his cousin was really an undercover cop. After I realized that I was being set up, I jumped out a window, stole a car and here I am.” He gestured by waving his arms.

  More silence–the kind that comes when two strangers are considering each other. I honestly felt that he was being sincere, even though he was in big trouble, it could have been worse. He could have been a killer or coochie-taker. I felt somewhat relieved. Now all I had to do was get his ass out of my car.

  “Where do I drop you off?” I tried to sound nonchalant.

  “Tallahassee.”

  “Talahasseeeeee?” I quipped.

  “The same place where you headed.” He tried to say it with a straight face but then added, “Don’t worry Shouty, as soon as we get there, you can drop a nigga off at the mot.”

  He meant motel. I watched as he primed his lips with his tongue. His eyelashes were long like a girl’s and pretty, too. I couldn’t help thinking, so handsome, yet he was so damn dumb. He was just wasting his life, headed in the same direction as my brother, and his language was foolish. He actually thought he was sounding pimpish, trying to impress me, but there was something about him, his character and its aloofness. He wore his thugness like a black panther; it was all a natural part of his aura. I could, for the first time, see how a sister could be attracted to a thug. Not me, of course, or so I thought. I thought that he was the same kind of brotha that hung out on the street corners drinking out of brown paper bags, saying slick flirtatious remarks about girls’ asses when they passed to go to school.