Paper Chasers

by Mark Anthony

  “Mark, go somewhere and get out of my face,” my mother said, sounding very ticked off. “Boy, when they told me you got shot I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know if you were dead or alive, all I know is that my blood pressure shot up. But I don’t know if I feel worse right now hearing you talk like this. You’re making my pressure go up again! Boy, just go somewhere and leave me the hell alone! All this crazy nonsense you’re talking, just go somewhere.”

  As I walked up to my room I knew that it was imperative that I move out of my parents’ house as soon as possible.

  “Mark,” my father yelled as I walked away, “you better get your black behind back in college next semester. I mean that! A black man can’t make it today without a degree. You hear me?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said as I kept it moving.

  If only my parents knew that in the last two months I had drastically changed. I wasn’t the same Mark that they’d raised from the time I was a baby. I couldn’t believe that I was lying to my parents the way I was. Why didn’t I just tell them the truth and ask for help? I knew that they’d be more than willing to help me.

  If they only knew that I’d quit my job at the gas company a long time ago, the same job that I would have killed to get a year ago. But to hell with that job. They weren’t paying me no real money anyway.

  Well, it definitely was not my parent’s fault that my life was turning upside down. They had done their job in terms of raising me well. It was basically all on me now.

  Why did I desire to live such a jacked up life? The family element definitely hadn’t gone bad and caused my life to turn this way. I was surely at a big-time crossroad. I’d probably go the wrong way, but why? I hoped to have it figured out before it was too late. Maybe society had failed me. Maybe God was now shining his light in another direction. I didn’t know.

  The Wake

  “Mark, go see who’s at the door. I think I just

  heard the doorbell ring,” my sister yelled.

  “Who is it?” I asked as I approached the door.

  “It’s me,” Randy responded.

  “Yo, what’s up?” I greeted as I opened the door.

  “Holz, what’s the matter, kid? Ain’t you going to the wake?”

  “Yeah, I’m going.”

  “Dressed like that?”

  “Yeah, nigga! What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” I angrily asked. “Oh, I don’t have on a suit, is that it? Gotdamit, Randy, I’m tired of wearing that suit!”

  “OK, OK, Holz, calm down. Wear what you have on. But let’s hurry up and bounce ’cause we’re gonna be late. I’m driving my mother’s car, so we don’t have to worry about a cab.”

  “A’ight, let me just tell Paula that we’re bouncing. Yo, Paula! . . . Yo Paula! Come on, lets’ go. Randy’s driving us.”

  “Mark, what’s wrong with you? Have some respect. You can’t go to a wake with sneakers on,” my sister remarked as we climbed into Randy’s ride.

  “Paula, leave me the hell alone, a’ight!” I hollered. “I’m really not in the mood for no nonsense!”

  I was really starting to get heated. First of all, I hated the fact that I was going to a wake, a wake, which quite frankly, should have been my own. But to top it off, everyone was criticizing what I had on.

  “I’m going to a wake for my dead homies, so to hell with that suit and tie image. They wasn’t about that anyway. They were homeboys. Homeboys don’t wear hard shoes and all that. I gotta stay true to the game. I’m wearing my baggy jeans, sneakers, and a Polo shirt with my medallion. If people don’t like what I have on, well then, yo, that’s too bad, ’cause they know what they can kiss!” I yelled.

  “Calm down, Mark,” Paula and Randy pleaded.

  I was really feeling testy. It was Thursday, July 25, and I was going to Xavier, Earl, and Donnie’s wake—three of my closest friends. That was the main reason for all of my bitterness. Their wakes were being held simultaneously. They were all reposing at Gilmore’s Funeral Home, which is located in St. Albans, Queens. The wake was scheduled to start at six P.M.

  It was now about ten minutes to six, and we were just pulling up to the funeral home. As we parked and prepared to walk through the rain and into the funeral home, I could see tons of people, both young and old—some crying, others hugging. Most of the people formed little huddles. They jammed close together under umbrellas and they were talking. There was also a large police presence at the wake. Although I mostly saw uniformed police officers, I was sure that inside and outside the wake was littered with undercovers posing as mourners.

  As we walked toward the funeral home, I felt as though all eyes were glued on me, but I didn’t care. I put my dark shades on and I proceeded to B-bop my way into the funeral home. All of Fourth Crew surrounded me as we walked inside. Fourth Crew swarmed around me as if I was the president or a celebrity and they were Secret Service police, assigned to protect me.

  “Yeah, that’s him. He was with them when they got shot,” I heard someone say as I bopped into the funeral home. I turned and glanced at the person, but I didn’t comment.

  “Who?” I heard another lady ask.

  “Him, the one with his arm in a sling,” someone answered while pointing a finger toward me.

  Once inside the funeral home, I signed my name and address to an attendance book. I then took a seat on the aisle alongside Fourth Crew. As I sat and looked toward the front of the room, I saw the three coffins, but I wasn’t able to see the faces of those inside the coffins.

  Out of nowhere I had a quick flashback of the gruesome murder scene. Very clearly I saw everything. It was as if the bodies of Earl, Donnie, and Xavier were lying dead on the apartment floor in Harlem with their eyes wide open right in front of me.

  There was a short, quick memorial service, which was followed by many people who made comments as to what they remembered about the deceased, but mostly everyone came just to view the bodies.

  The funeral for X, Earl, and Donnie was scheduled for the following morning at ten o’clock.

  As we sat in the funeral home, I felt like bursting out into laughter. I guess I was feeling that way simply because I was so scared of looking at three more of my friends in caskets. Or maybe I wanted to laugh because I was afraid of what my future held. But my internal laughs were really those of insanity and insecurity.

  As I continued to sit, I kept asking myself what everybody was looking at. When were people gonna stop turning around and staring at me?

  I was surprised that I hadn’t truly been mentally affected by occurrences such as wakes and funerals, especially since I’d been to so many. I guess I was becoming numb to such experiences. Maybe I was mentally ill and just didn’t know it.

  As we all prepared to get out of our seats and go view the bodies, I remember thinking to myself, This ain’t like Richie’s funeral. I don’t even feel light-headed or numb. I feel perfectly fine.

  We walked past the three coffins, which were set up one in front of the other. I stopped at the head of each casket. I shook my head as one by one I stared at three potentially great human beings.

  “Man!” I said. “Damn!” With as much affection as I could muster up, I kissed each of my deceased friends on the forehead. “Peace,” I softly whispered to each one of them, while making the peace sign with my middle and index fingers. Although my back was to the rest of the mourners, I knew for a fact that every eye in that place was glued to my every move.

  Very calmly I turned around, stepped away from the caskets, and walked out of the funeral home. I didn’t want to sit back down. I had already seen enough to prove to myself that this was no dream. They were truly dead. I decided to just wait outside in the rain until the wake was over. I waited all alone with my thoughts.

  Holz, you’re already used to this, and you know that this is probably the worst that it can get, I thought as I stood and smiled by myself on the steps of the funeral home. Yeah, I had to smile, because who was I fooling? I mean I knew that it co
uld get worse, simply because next time it might be my corpse that everyone was coming to look at. A dead me—that was a concept that I didn’t think that I’d ever be able to get used to, but ironically I kinda knew that it was one that was inevitable.

  Yeah, I know, I answered to the voice inside of me that told me I should have been in one of those caskets lying stiff as a board. Yeah, I definitely know. As I continued to think, tears ran down my face. I stared into the sky, which was full of misty rain, and I proceeded to nod my head up and down in an effort to confirm my intuition. I knew my turn at death was lurking around the corner, yet I still couldn’t muster up the courage to live right.

  Later that night, well after the wake was over, all of our crew and many of our other close friends and associates gathered outside at the intersection of 234th Street and 135th Avenue. We gathered for our own little ghetto memorial service. I would say there was easily close to twenty of us huddled together in a circle. In an effort to ease the pain, we were all getting sloppy drunk. We must have drank close to one thousand ounces of malt liquor. We also smoked about a pound of bones. In our circle we reminisced about the fun times we all had with X, Donnie, and Earl.

  “Yo, that nigga Donnie was still in high school,” Randy said. “Yo! He was still wet behind the ears.”

  We all laughed and told jokes. The jokes were being told so that the mood would brighten just a little bit. I myself just wanted to get high like I’d never been high before. I was feeling schizophrenic or bipolar or something. At times I felt angry because of my friends’ deaths. Then in a split second my anger would revert back to unbridled happiness and laughter. I would laugh as though I was listening to Eddie Murphy tell jokes. Then before you knew it, my happiness would switch to sadness. I could only guess that, yes, now something was definitely mentally wrong with me. A screw or two definitely needed tightening.

  Earlier that evening, after the wake was over, and before we’d decided to get drunk, something came over me and I just felt obligated to personally speak to Xavier’s moms and pops. They had graciously invited my sinful soul into their home. While I was at their house, I stood alone in their basement. It was an eerie and spooky feeling. In fact, I was kind of scared to be there alone. I stared at a pair of Xavier’s old sneakers. The sneakers were right next to each other and facing a wall. It was so funny because I knew that I actually could see Xavier standing there in that pair of sneakers. I reached out my hand to touch him, but all I felt was thin air. I could still see him, though. A single tear rolled down his right cheek and he was talking to me, but I couldn’t make out his words. As he spoke, he had his hands lifted up toward the sky.

  He seemed as if he was desperately trying to tell me something.

  “X, what’s up, man?” I asked his spirit. “Speak to me. What’s up? Talk to me, dog . . .”

  Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Oh man!” I said, startled. Then I chuckled. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I told his parents.

  “That’s all right, Mark,” they said. They understood what I was going through.

  “Everyone is having a difficult time coping with this tragedy,” X’s mom told me.

  Xavier’s parents couldn’t figure out why such a bad thing had happened. They viewed all of us in Fourth Crew, including their son, as “All-American Boys.” They had no clue about our drug involvement.

  “Mark, do you have any idea why this happened?” his dad asked. I responded by looking X’s parents straight into their eyes and lying.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wright, first let me say that on one hand I know how fortunate I am to still be alive. But on the other hand, I wish that your son was still alive and that it was me who had passed on. It’s just so sad, and I can’t explain how or why my life was spared and Xavier’s wasn’t. But although I can’t explain what happened or why, if I did know the answers to that, I would do everything in my power to help the police catch who did this. I just don’t have any clues, tips, or information to give them. I honestly don’t have a clue as to why this happened—honestly. We just have to remember that this is New York and unexplainable things like this happen.”

  They asked me a few more probing questions, questions which I was able to shield off with smooth language. They told me that they were just trying to make sense out of the whole thing. They needed that feeling of closure. I continued to sympathize with them and they asked me if I would be attending the funeral in the morning.

  “Oh, sure. Of course I’ll be there.”

  In actuality I knew that I wasn’t going to nobody’s funeral. My mental was damn near crazy as it was, hallucinating and whatnot. Going to a funeral would have made me just short of needing to be fitted for a straight jacket.

  Maybe I should go to the funeral . . . Yeah go . . . Nah forget it, don’t go . . . Ah man, I just felt like screaming because I was jacked up on the inside. What is wrong with me? I violently screamed inside my head.

  As I walked out of Xavier’s yard, I saw his little blue Toyota and it was the sight of his car that basically answered the question about my funeral attendance.

  Nah, no way am I going to that funeral. There’s just no way.

  I thought about all of the people who were at the wake. I thought about how they had been crying, screaming, and carrying on. I thought about the multitudes of young lives that were in attendance and I knew that the response to a triple funeral service was sure to be overwhelming.

  Nah, I’m not going,” I decided.

  Well, the night went on, as did our ghetto memorial service. All of us got stupid-high. More jokes were told. Highlights from the lives of X, Donnie, and Earl continued to be replayed. Everyone took turns saying things that went to the effect of, “Yo, remember when that nigga Donnie did . . .” or “Oh, word! Yeah, remember when Donnie snuffed that punk nigga up on Merrick . . .” The memories and stories could go on for days, but after a while I grew tired of the whole service.

  “Yeah, whateva man! We gotta forget about X, Donnie, and Earl!” I yelled out of nowhere. “Them niggas is dead and they ain’t coming back! Look how stupid we look. We all getting high and drunk ’cause we can’t cope with death. We should be used to this by now! This is the life we live! We live like vultures, so why all of a sudden we catching feelings? Man, y’all niggas is soft. Every last one of y’all! Word!”

  Everyone glared at me as if I’d lost my mind, and for a split second they were brought down from their highs as a result of my piercing, reckless words. I screamed out.

  “What? What are y’all looking at? Y’all know I’m right! Y’all know it! Look at y’all niggas, eyes welling up like y’all wanna cry or something. Man, but yo, you know what? Fourth Crew and everybody else that’s out on this corner right now are a bunch of soft, faggot niggas! Word!” As I shrugged my shoulders I continued.

  “I’m sayin’! They’re dead! So what’s the sense in us getting all worked up and all that?” No one in the group was willing to bend and see things my way, so I just shook my head and threw my hands up into the air. “Man, I don’t know . . . I mean look at y’all niggas! I see why X, Donnie, and Earl got bodied. They got bodied because they were part of the same soft-faggot crew as y’all cats. How the hell could they let themselves die? I took mad shots and I’m still walking. What!? Tell me how them niggas let themselves die. Tell me how! All of y’all dumb, black, ignorant . . . Man, whateva! Y’all can stay out on this corner until the sun comes up and be hung over in the morning if y’all want to. But I’m out . . . And yo, nobody, and I mean nobody, better come get me in the morning to go to no gotdamn funeral, ’cause I ain’t going!”

  Even after saying all of that, I still had more frustration and anger to vent as I slammed my bottle of malt liquor onto the street, breaking the bottle and spilling its contents everywhere. Then I turned around and jogged off to my crib.

  When I reached my house I stormed up to my bedroom. I was madder than the devil.

  “Mark, what’s the matter?” my sister
asked out of concern.

  “Leave me alone!” I barked at her.

  My mother and father also wanted to know what was wrong with me.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I yelled as I paced back and forth in my dark room with the door locked.

  My father banged on my bedroom door and yelled for me to unlock the door. They could hear me punching walls, crying, screaming, groaning, and slamming things around. I even threw my picture of Jesus Christ against the wall, shattering the glass frame. After doing that, I felt as if I was in a trance. I didn’t know if I was starting to calm down or what. What I did know was that I lay on my bed breathing real hard and heavy. As I hyperventilated, I had a chrome .357 Magnum to my temple.

  Pull the trigger, Holz, a sympathetic sounding voice inside of me whispered. It’s OK. Pull the trigger.

  I was a split second from ending all the drama.

  I didn’t have the guts to do it.

  “Mark, are you all right?” my sister asked through the door. “Mark, answer me!” she pleaded.

  I just lay on my bed with the gun to my head, staring into space.

  July 26, 1991—one of the worst days in my life. I didn’t wake up until 12:30 P.M. I wondered if my parents or my sister had tried to wake me to go to the funeral. I definitely knew that none of my friends had come to get me, or maybe they had. If they had, it was way too late now. I had already missed it. It’s not that I was trying to disrespect my deceased homies, but I just wouldn’t have been able to live through three eulogies.

  A triple funeral with three open caskets was scheduled. I tried to block out the thought of the funerals. I knew that everyone would want to know what had happened to me, but hey, I’d just tell them that I bugged out, and that it would have been too much for a brotha to deal with.

  I proceeded to the bathroom to take a shower and get dressed. After I was dressed I decided to go get a forty to help take away the guilt of not going to the funeral. As I walked in the rain to the corner candy store, I remembered that Bunny’s wake was scheduled for later on in the afternoon. Her funeral was to be held the following day.