Was it Worth it?

 

WAS IT WORTH IT?

By Dominic Brogsdale

 

Dedicated to my big cousin, Tony C. Byrd, Jr., this also goes out to all the felons and ex-cons who are striving to do better and be better out here. Keep grindin’, keep hustlin’, keep ya head up, stay on the right track, and STAY STRONG!

“Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead and everything unclean. In the same way, on the outside you appear to people as righteous but on the inside you are full of hypocrisy and wickedness.

                                                                   (Matthew 23:27-28)

A bad man is worse when he pretends to be a saint.

                                                                    (Sir Francis Bacon)

The devil can cite scripture for his purpose. An evil soul, producing holy witness, is like a villain with a smiling cheek: a goodly apple rotten at the heart.

                                                                  (William Shakespeare)

“It’s impossible to know exactly how many millions of dollars these ministries take in ever year, because they are not required to make financial disclosures of donations received. By the way, all of it is tax exempt.”

(News Anchor, retrieved from Inside Edition: “Why Do These Televangelists Need Expensive Jets?”

 

Twelve-year-old Justin sat on the porch, slurping on the sugary sweet, blue raspberry ice pop in his left hand. Juice ran down his hand as he petted with his right hand the potato bugs roaming the concrete. The tiny bugs scurried as fast as they could to get away.

“You’re not going anywhere, you’re not going anywhere,” the boy said, smiling and playing with the gray bugs. Their hard-yet-soft shells fascinated him.

A large shadow slid over him. Justin looked up, the plastic stick hanging from his mouth and blue syrup trickling down his chin.

CRUNCH, SCRAP, CRUNCH! His stepfather showed no mercy, stomping on the defenseless insects and using the sole of his rough leather shoe to scrape the bugs off the gray concrete porch. SMACK! He hit Justin in the back of his head and snapped, “Get the hell in the house and take out that damn trash.”

Justin frowned, his eyebrows caving inward on his face, the half-eaten Popsicle falling to the ground. His eyes started to water, but the tears didn't escape. Justin refused to get up. His stepfather bit down on his bottom lip and pulled him by his shirt.

“Didn't I say get the hell up?” he yelled. He opened the screen door and pushed Justin into the house. “Now take it out, dammit, and don't make me have to ask you again!”

Justin tried to maintain his composure. He balled his fist up and punched the wall.

“Oh, no, you ain't gonna be slamming your fist on my wall. What's yo problem?” Justin's mother said as she stirred green beans in a pot. The aroma of savory meat and spiced vegetables filled the air. 

“He hit me,” Justin mumbled.

“Who?” his mother blurted.

“Him.” Justin pointed outside.

“I told him to take out the trash. He didn't wanna listen, so I disciplined his ass,” his stepfather flared as he opened the refrigerator and grabbed a chilled can of beer.

“You need to listen to your father,” Justin's mother said.

“He's not my father,” Justin replied. Warm tears streamed down his cheeks as he picked up the smelly trash from the trash can.

SMACK! His stepfather slapped him in the back of the head again.

“Shut up bitchin and backtalking your mother and take the trash out,” his stepfather said as he cracked open the beer and tossed the bottle cap in the trash can.

“I hate you!” Justin blurted out, sniffling.

“Hate this.” SMACK! He hit the boy in the head again.

His mother started to giggle.

“Don't do that,” she said to her husband. Turning her attention back to her son, she said, “Do what your father asked of you.”

“Yeah, do what your step-daddy asked, boy,” his stepfather mocked. Swallowing his beer, he gave Justin a sideways look of menace.

Justin carried the trash bag to the front door. Walking in the opposite direction, his stepfather grabbed the broom and dustpan stashed next to the back door. He walked back through the house to the front porch, the screen door slamming closed behind him. He threw the now-empty beer bottle on the concrete. Glass exploded everywhere.

“Hate this ... now clean it up,” the man growled as he threw the broom at Justin’s head. It fell on the concrete.

Justin started to tremble. His teeth chattered as he snatched the broom and started sweeping up the glass. He opened the trash bag and poured the sharp shards into it, then dumped it into the trash can.

Justin shoved his hands into his pockets, grumbling and kicking the pebbles on the cracked concrete. He opened the screen door and walked to the phone. Pausing to make sure his stepfather wasn’t eavesdropping, he dialed his father’s number. The phone began to ring.

“Hello?” his father’s bass voice rumbled over the line.

“Dad, can I come live with you?” Justin asked with a wet sniffle.

“You still having problems with ya momma and her man?” he asked.

“Yeah, he keep putting his hands on me,” Justin said.

“Put him on the phone,” Justin’s father ordered.

Justin poked his head around the corner and looked nervously at his stepfather sitting on the couch. He swallowed a lump of dread and rasped, “My daddy want to talk to you.”

Justin's stepfather got up and snatched the phone from the boy’s hand. “Hello.”

The bass voice rumbled, “Listen here, I'ma be respectful as possible in saying this, because I'm a church man, but could you please keep your hands off my child? I'm asking you politely.”

“And I'm gonna ask you respectfully, could you please come and pick up your child, since he don’t like to listen to a word me and his mother ask him to do when we ask him to do it?” he shot back, voice dripping sarcasm.

“Let me speak to my son, please?” his father asked.

Justin’s stepfather handed the phone to Justin and plopped back onto the sofa.

“If I wasn't tryna be a man of God, son …” he began. Loud smacks of fists pounding together echoed across the line. “… yeah, get your stuff together. I'll be there to pick you up. Get ya momma on the phone.”

Justin called his mom from the living room. She rushed toward him and asked, “Boy, what's going on?”

“Daddy on the phone,” Justin answered calmly.

She put her hand on her chest. “Boy, don't be yelling like that. You scared me half to death.” She snatched the phone with her right hand, propping her left on her hip. “Hello?”

“I’ma come get my son and let him live with me,” Justin's father said.

“First of all, it's our son, and he's more my son than yours. I carried him for nine months, birthed him, and been taking care of him, so get that straight—” she said, waving her index finger in the air. “—and come get his ass. Maybe he'll listen to you, since he don't wanna listen to us. Maybe you can finally be a father to my son.”

Justin’s mother raised her eyebrows at him.

He sucked on his teeth, then grumbled, “I do listen.”

“Shut up while grown folks talking,” his stepfather yelled.

Justin stared at the television, more tears welling from his eyes.

“Here,” his mother said, forcefully handing the phone to Justin, “pack ya bags and get out of my house!”

She stormed back to the kitchen.

“Hello,” Justin said, putting the phone to his ear.

“I'ma come get you in about half an hour. You already have stuff here, so we’ll get the other stuff later. Make sure you pack things you need,” his father said.

“Okay ... I'll be ready,” Justin replied.

“All right, son, don't worry about him. He probably don’t want you there in the first place. That's why he treating you like that,” he said. A groan indicated his father had risen from wherever he sat. “Let me get up and get ready.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Justin said.

“See you soon,” his father replied.

“All right, bye,” Justin said and hung up the phone.

“Can't wait till you leave,” his stepfather commented, giving him a menacing stare. 

“Me neither,” Justin whispered under his breath.

Justin's stepfather jumped up, as quick as a rabbit, grabbed Justin by the back of the neck. He lugged the boy to the couch and shoved his head into the cushions. Putting his mouth next to his ear, he whispered, spittle spraying from his lips, “I hate little muthafuckas like you, disobedient little shits that don't listen.”

“Momma!” Justin screamed into the couch, but his mother couldn't hear him.

“Shut up. The only person screaming is yo momma.” He smacked the boy again on the back of the head. “Fuck outta my house!”

He shoved Justin who stumbled towards the stairway. 

Justin’s bottom lip trembled and his teeth chattered. He felt helpless and powerless against a grown man, especially since his mother didn't stand up for him. He went upstairs, grabbed his Power Ranger suitcase, and started packing his clothes, action figures, two cans of orange pop stashed in his drawer, some coloring books, and crayons. He carried his bag downstairs and went on the porch to wait for his father. Justin tucked his knees and feet together and started using his fingernail to draw on his dark skin, making white lines.

After thirty minutes, his father arrived, honked the car horn and waved his hand, telling him it was time to leave. Justin got up. He looked at the screen door, only to see his mother and his stepfather cuddled on the sofa and eating steaming plates of food while they watched Martin Lawrence. His mother didn't bother to say goodbye: she was more wrapped up in her husband than her own child. One more tear fell from Justin's eye. 

HONK! HONK!

“Let's go, son! We got church in the morning and I’ve been working all day. I don't have all day,” Justin’s father called from the vehicle.

Justin grabbed his suitcase and zipped to his father’s brown Cadillac. Justin rode in silence: neither his father nor he spoke. He looked at traffic, watching cars pass by, pedestrians walking, and local businesses.

About 30 minutes later, Justin arrived at his father’s house. His father walked towards the front door, let out a deep sigh, and unlocked the door. He stepped inside and Justin followed.

“All right, son, you know the rules: make yourself at home, do good in school, don't do nothing stupid. Meat, bread, and cheese are in the fridge. Church on Sunday. I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning, son,” his father said as he moved to the cracked wooden staircase. He looked upstairs into the dark, gloomy hallway beyond.

“Yes, sir,” Justin replied. His eyes darted back and forth across the living room.

“One more thing,” his father said, looking up at the ceiling and raising his index finger in the air, “you'll be going to youth group with your Uncle Joel. He's the youth pastor. All right?”

“Yes, sir,” Justin replied with a straight face.

On Sunday, Justin and his father went to church. His father escorted him to the youth center, and they looked at the large gathering of youthful humanity.

“All right, son, go sit up there in the front row seat. Get that word in you, son. The word of God is a good thing,” his father said, lightly pushing his back.

 “Aw, come on, Dad, why I got to sit up in front of everybody?” Justin whined.

“Because the word says bring your children up in the instruction and training of the Lord,” his father said, still looking for an empty seat in the front row.

“Where’s it say that at?” Justin asked.

His father eyes darted left and right.

“Umm … somewhere in the back of the Bible, Galatians or Ephesians,” he said, still looking. He pointed with his index finger to two open seats. “There. You go right there.”

“Do I have to, Dad?” Justin groaned again.

“Boy ... get up there and don't make me tell you again.”

He tapped Justin on the butt twice. Justin frowned, trying to hold in a sigh.

“Don't let me come around here and catch you in the back row,” his father warned, waving four fingers at him three times. He whispered, “Go.”

Justin walked toward one of the two empty seats in the front row and plopped down. The chill from the cold metal surface seeped through his pants. He looked up at his Uncle Joel in the pulpit, overhead lights beaming down on him as he stood tall and lanky in front of the microphone. Joel’s wide smile revealed a mouthful of white teeth.

Smacking his hands on the podium three times to get his audience’s attention, Justin’s uncle said, “All right now, it's times for the offering. As it says in the good book, 2 Corinthians 9:7, “Each of you should give what you have decided in your heart to give, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.”

He raised his hand, displaying a wad of $500 in $100 bills, and shook it, exclaiming, “Amen, y’all!”

He dropped the cash into the small wooden collection basket and handed it to the young lady who served as an usher.

“Let the church say amen,” he shouted.

“Amen!” the crowd responded together.

He wiped his forehead with a silk cloth and patted his thick, shiny lips. He started to speak more smoothly, “It also says in Malachi, ‘Bring the full tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. And thereby put me to the test, says the Lord of hosts, if I will not open the windows of heaven for you and pour down for you a blessing until there is no more need.’”

He looked at the congregation and raised his eyebrows. “Can I get an amen?”

The crowd intoned together, “Amen.”

“Will man rob God? Yet you are robbing me. But you say, how have we robbed you? In your tithes and contributions?” He stared at the congregation, his gaze scanning back and forth for about ten seconds. He smacked his hand on the wooden podium. “Don't rob God, because God wouldn't rob you! Be good to God, and God will even bless you that much more!”

He bowed his head dramatically and closed his eyes. “I don't think y’all hear me.”

The man seated at the piano started to play upbeat music.

“Come on now, the Lord wants you to give generously into his church. Can I get an amen?” he shouted again, sweating.

Again, the congregation responded as one: “Amen!”

“All right now! Now give the Lord everything you got!” Justin’s uncle danced toward his chair. He sat and tapped his hand on the edge of the plush red seat.

Justin looked around himself and searched his pockets, only to find three partially melted Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and some lint. The collection basket came around to him and he placed one of the candies in with a sea of money. Justin shrugged his shoulders and murmured to himself, “It's all I got, Lord, hope I don't get punished or go to hell for not having any money for you.”

About ten minutes later, Uncle Joel returned to the podium. “Amen and amen!”

Justin’s attention floated off in his 12-year-old world of wonder, fantasizing about playing with his toys, running and acting like he was dunking basketballs, climbing on the monkey bars, or catching spiders putting them in a jar to watch them fight.

“Now,” his uncle boomed from the pulpit, jolting Justin out of his magical world of harmless, childlike fun, “Psalms 15 reads—” he cleared his throat and read from the gilded page of the open Bible:

A psalm of David

Lord, who may dwell in your sacred tent?
Who may live on your holy mountain?

The one whose walk is blameless,
who does what is righteous,
who speaks the truth from their heart;
whose tongue utters no slander,
who does no wrong to a neighbor,
and casts no slur on others;
who despises a vile person
but honors those who fear the Lord;
who keeps an oath even when it hurts,
and does not change their mind;
who lends money to the poor without interest;
who does not accept a bribe against the innocent.

Whoever does these things
will never be shaken.

Uncle Joel cleared his throat, drank the water next to him, and raised his index finger. “Now to fear the Lord and to live righteous is to practice the teaching of the word, not in word but in action. Can I get an amen?”

Again, the congregation cried out, “Amen!”

He looked at his notes, tucked his lips into his mouth, and pointed his index finger with each word. “That means don't lie, don't steal, don't cheat. And what does it say at the at the end of this verse?” His voice raised to a high pitch and his right index finger flared high. “It says whoever does these things will never be shaken ...”

He paused, then shouted, “Y’all don't hear me?”

A couple of people in the congregation called out, “Amen! Preach, Reverend!”

Justin went back into his magical world of fun, where the only words he heard were those he said to himself: “Can't wait to play with my Goku, Vegeta, Batman, and Superman when I get home.” In his imagination, a film unreeled of him fighting the action figures together. While lost in his mental play, Justin dozed off. 

Justin felt a rub on his greasy head. He woke up, blinking his eyes.

“What's up, nephew? Good to see you,” the preacher said, his smile stretching from ear to ear.

“What's up, Uncle Joel?” Justin said as he stretched out his arm.

“Come on in the back with me,” his uncle said.

Justin followed him to his office. Wooden baskets of money lay on a dresser. His uncle started looking underneath the baskets, saying, “So, what you been into, nephew?”

“Nothing much, started living with my dad,” he said.

“That's good, your father is good people. He'll guide you in the right direction,” Uncle Joel replied, still looking beneath the baskets.

“Yeah,” Justin said, observing him. He noticed his uncle looking at a red piece of tape at the bottom of one of the baskets.

His uncle shuffled through the money at the bottom of the basket and retrieved $500 in $100 bills. Setting the cash beside that basket, he repeated the procedure with the other baskets in turn, taking out $20 bills and setting them to the side of each basket. “That's good. Well, you know Uncle Joel been praying for you.”

“Thank you,” Justin said, wondering what was going on.

“Excuse me, Pastor Joel.” A young woman walked in, her eyes focusing on the basket of money. Pastor Joel noticed the direction of her gaze.

“Hello, Miss Grover,” Uncle Joel greeted with a wide smile baring white teeth.

“Yes, sir, your assistant was busy, and she told me to tell you about your four o’clock meeting with the other pastors,” she said.

“Oh, okay, thank you. And also, come here real fast.” Uncle Joel walked to his desk, opened the drawer, then slid $100 from his pocket and transferred it to the drawer. He shuffled through the files, murmuring, “Where do I put that?”

He shuffled through the drawer again. “Here it is!”

He walked to Miss. Grover with a balled-up $100 bill and put it in her hand.

Her eyes got bright and her lips parted in surprise. She looked confused as if she did not know what to think and said, “Thank you so much!”

Pastor Joel gave her a gentle smile and said, “You’re welcome. What did we talk about during tithes?”

“God loves a cheerful giver,” she said with glee.

“That's right.” He patted her shoulder. “I've been praying for you, Sister Grover.” He leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “If you don't mind, can you knock on the door next time?”

“Oh ... I'm so sorry,” she said.

“It's okay, sister,” he said with a smile. He gently put his hand behind her and escorted her out the door. He locked the door behind her and walked back towards the baskets. “Where were we?”

He looked in each basket and grabbed anything that would equal out into $40. He split the money up.

“Okay now, $100 for me,” he whispered to himself, “and here you go, nephew.”

He put $100 in Justin’s hands.

Justin's eyes got wide. He thought he was rich. He never had so much money in his hands in his life. “Shoot, thanks, Uncle Joel!”

He didn't really know what to say or think and wondered if it was wrong. At the same time, it was as much money he’d seen in his short life. 

Uncle Joel placed the collection baskets in drawers and locked them, saying, “Keep this between you and me now. Consider that a blessing from the Lord. Just help your uncle out when we need it and I'll pay you. We got a deal?”

“What you need me to do?” Justin asked.

“I'll let you know when the time comes. Just keep this between you and me and don't tell your father. Don't tell nobody, and the Lord and Uncle Joel will take care of you, all right?” Uncle Joel fixed the boy with his wide, bright smile and intent gaze.

“All right,” Justin replied, looking down at the plush red carpet, then at the polished wooden desk and dresser, the picture of his uncle’s wife and five kids on the wall. The fragrance of cedar filled the room.

The years passed. At 16 years old, Justin had been his uncle’s partner in crime for four years. Joel had him stealing chips and candy from the supermarket, tools from hardware stores, and jewelry from church members’ homes and reselling them. He stole money from the collection plate, and even four-wheelers. But one day the theft didn't go quite as planned. 

His uncle was in the car with him, looking at an ad for four-wheelers. He shook and shuffled the paper, squinting his eyes and zeroing in on what it said. “Here we go right here, nephew, the address and the spot I had you call earlier.”

“What's that?” Justin asked.

“We can make a pretty penny off this right here,” he said.

“How much?”

“Do I not pay you well?” Uncle Joel countered.

“Yeah,” Justin admitted.

“Just know that the Lord and I gonna take care of you,” he said in a joking manner with a wide smile. “You know what to do?”

“Yep. I'll meet you at your house,” Justin said as he jumped from the car. He walked up to the home where the all-terrain vehicles were being sold. A young white man in his late teens came to the door when he knocked.

“How you doing?” Justin extended his hand and gave him a sly salesman’s smile.

“How ya doing, my man? You here for the ATVs?” the young man replied. At Justin’s nod, he said, “Let me take you out back.”

Justin followed the young man to the back yard. Upon seeing the vehicle, he clapped his hands and started rubbing them together. “Whoo, this baby right here is nice. I like this!” He ran his fingers over the seat and the handles of the four-wheeler.

“You don't mind if I test drive it, do you” Justin asked.

The young teen pursed his lips, then said, “Ah hell, you look trustworthy. Here’s the key.”

The young teen handed him the key.

“Here you go,” Justin replied, handing him $200 in cash. The boy waved it off, but Justin insisted, “You said it was $1,200, so here's $200 to show good faith. I need my money as much as I need this four-wheeler.”

“I trust you,” the other boy said with a smile and crossed his arms. “Appreciate it, though.”

“No problem.” Justin revved up the engine and twisted the handle. It roared. Over the loud engine noise, he shouted, “Can I drive it on the highway?”

“Sure,” the man said, his arms still folded.

Justin drove away. He stopped at the end of the driveway, then pulled into the street with a slick smile as he headed to the highway. The wind blew in his face. He thought of Bart Simpson from The Simpsons and the same diabolical laugh burst from his mouth. He looked back and squinted and called out, “So long, sucker!”

Months passed. Justin’s uncle sold the four-wheeler and gave him $1,000. He kept $4,000.

One day there was a knock at his father’s door. Justin didn't bother to ask who it was. He looked through the peephole and opened the door. It was two policemen.

“Are you Justin Young?” one of the officers asked.

“Yeah, what's up?” he said.

The officers walked in. One of them grabbed Justin by the arm and read him his Miranda rights as the other officer cuffed him, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions. You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time.”

“What I do?” Justin demanded with his face planted against the wall, eyes narrowed.

“You’re under arrest for theft,” the offer replied.

“What do you mean?” Justin asked, eyebrows lowered.

“Did you take a four-wheeler, sell it to your uncle, which he then sold?” he said.

Justin said nothing. He wondered if his uncle was going to help him, because he couldn't believe his uncle set him up and lied.

“Damn, he was in on it with me, and he just gonna throw me under the bus like that?” Justin thought.

“What the hell is going on here?” Justin’s dad burst upon the scene.

“Your son is under arrest, sir, for theft,” one of the officers replied in a respectful manner.

“The hell,” his father fumed.

“It's cool, Dad, I got this,” Justin said.

The officers held his arms as they walked him to the police car. He did not resist when the cop pushed his head into the back of the car so he didn’t whack his forehead against the metal frame. When seated, he looked out the window to meet his father’s eyes. His father stared at him in disappointment. He shook his head and folded his arms. Justin put his head down in shame. Warm tears fell into the seat of the police car.

“Too late to cry now, kid. You should’ve thought about the consequences of your actions before you did it. Why would you think about doing something like that?” the officer asked, meeting his gaze through the review mirror. 

“My—” Justin was about to mention his uncle, but stopped himself because he didn't want to be a snitch. He didn't want to see his uncle get in trouble and expected his uncle to speak up for him and get him out of trouble. He shrugged his shoulders and said instead, “I dunno.”

More tears fell. Snot started to run from his nose. Justin looked at his father one more time. His father walked in the house and slammed the door. Justin sniffled as the police drove him to the juvenile detention center. 

The trial proceeded quickly. Justin’s uncle broke his word, because neither the Lord nor Uncle Joel took care of him. Two years passed and he served his time. Freed from juvenile detention at 18 years old, Justin moved to Columbus, Ohio to live with a girl he met online. He stayed with her for a couple of months, trying to find a job and a car. No one would hire him, which meant he could not afford to purchase a car. It was frustrating.

That urge to steal had settled in his bones, so he decided to take the car he wanted. He put on some black pants and a black hoodie. He stuffed a black ski mask in his back pocket. It was about 9:00 p.m., and Justin surveillanced the area as he passed through. He had his eye on a black Mercedes Benz.

Justin put on the balaclava and looked for any cameras or security in the lot. He saw an old white man whose bald scalp shined within a circle of thinning hair. He wore a wrinkled yellow shirt, brown pants, and scuffed black shoes. Justin ducked between the cars and waited for the old man to pull his keys out. Justin charged and shoved him from the back. The man stumbled to the asphalt.

“Give me your muthafuckin keys,” Justin yelled at him, snatching the keys.

“Please don't hurt me. I'm a just a professor here. Take whatever you like,” the man pleaded, holding his briefcase over his face.

Justin kicked him in the stomach. The man grunted and curled into himself, lowering the briefcase and wheezing. Justin kicked him in the face. Blood splattered and a tooth skittered across the concrete.

“Shut the fuck up!” Justin roared. He climbed into the Mercedes Benz and drove off.

Months passed. Justin rode around the city in a Mercedes Benz, thinking he got away scot-free. Yet again, things didn't go as he expected. One evening, Justin was watched Drive starring Ryan Gosling while eating buffalo wings, sipping on a frosty grape pop, and smoking a Newport cigarette.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“This is the police! Open up!” an officer shouted.

“Shit!” Justin bolted to the bathroom. The window was too small for him to crawl through, and police surrounded the area. He raced to the bedroom and hid underneath the bed. He heard a loud thump. He was shaking and sweating, trying to stay quiet and still. Peering from beneath the bed, he saw four big paws and heard the snuffle of a long, dark nose. A large brown and black German shepherd sniffed the floor, tongue lolling. Abruptly, the dog started barking, sharp white teeth flashing. The police pushed the bed over and pointed AK-47 assault rifles at him.

“Stay down,” several officers ordered.

Justin extended his arms and legs out, swallowing a ball of saliva. One of the officers grabbed him by the shirt and pulled his arms behind his back.

“What I do?” Justin asked with a straight face as the cop cuffed him.

“Well ... your little girlfriend crashed your car. She gave us your location. We ran the car and traced it to the professor who was assaulted some months ago. That’s what you did,” the officer replied.

“That wasn't me,” Justin protested.

“Okay, buddy … no license, we have the plates and numbers for the car, we have camera footage of you assaulting that man, and your girlfriend told us everything.” He looked Justin in the eye and raised his left eyebrow.

Justin did not meet the man’s gaze as the cop helped him to his feet. He said to himself, “Bitch snitched me out just like my uncle. I should have never let her use that car.”

The cop kept looking at him and said, “That's what I thought.”

A hand to the small of his back pushed Justin toward another cop who grabbed him by the arm and escorted him outside where a bunch of onlookers watched in confusion. Children gaped, some women held their hands over their open mouths, and some of the men stood with their arms folded.

“Punk-ass cop always fucking with a muthafucka!” a skinny, dark-skinned man yelled.

“Shut the hell up and get in the house,” one of the officers said.

“Fuck you, I know my rights.” The man took a puff from his cigarette, extended his neck, and exhaled a cloud of white smoke. “I'm a proud African, Indian, muthafuckin black Moor. You can't do shit to me!”

He gave them the middle finger.

Justin was put into the back of the patrol car. The man flicked his cigarette at one of the police officers. As two police officers took their seats in the front of the vehicle, Justin looked behind him as the man continued to shout his hatred. The powerful engine purred and the vehicle rolled away from the curb. As officers drove around the corner, the car’s occupants heard gunshots going off in the distance.

The officer driving looked in the rearview mirror and commented, “Always some shit going on Livingston Avenue.”

The officer sitting beside him added, “Mt. Vernon, James, Cleveland Avenue, the Short North, the Hilltop, the Bottoms—always some dumb shit going on.”

Justin exhaled a silent sigh through his nostrils, as he was taken to the station where he was summarily escorted to a jail cell to wait until his court trial. Found guilty of the charges against him, he proceeded to the state penitentiary.

Two weeks into his adult incarceration, the first inevitable conflict arose. It was dinnertime. His tray held stale bread and butter, mixed vegetables and hot dogs, and an 8-ounce Styrofoam® cup of tepid water. He cut up the beans, carrots, and peas and began eating. While Justin was eating, two men came over. One snatched his bread and the other put his hand in his beans and hot dogs.

The man who took his bread sniffed and taunted, “Fuck you gonna do about it, newbie?”

He dipped the semi-hard bread in the slimy beans and hot dogs.

“My muthafuckin bread,” he said and lowered his head to Justin’s ear to whisper, “and you gonna take my hotdog later, too, and be my bitch.”

Justin sat calmly. He picked up his cup of water, gulped it down, and burped. Next, his hands shot out to grab the tray of mushy beans and hot dogs and threw it in the other inmate’s face. Justin smacked him across the face with the bottom of the tray on the downswipe. He jumped up and threw his five-and-a-half-foot frame on him as they both tumbled to the ground. Justin lurched to his feet, tucked his lips in his mouth, and stomped on the other man’s face.

“Hey, stop!” one of the correctional officers ordered as he ran down the stairs.

Justin kicked the side of the inmate’s face, knocking his teeth out. Blood oozed across the slick concrete floor.

“Come on … in the hole with you,” one of the officers said as he grabbed Justin by one arm and another guard grabbed him by the other arm.

“But I—” Justin caught his words. He knew the code of the street was not to tell on anyone: to tattle, snitch, or rat could be a sentence for death.

The other inmates noticed he didn't say anything. Some nodded their approval, one man saluted him, and another man with one eye and a scar across his face commented as the correctional officers dragged him away, “You have my respect, young sir.”

Justin was put into solitary confinement. To pass the time, he did push-ups and sit-ups. He boxed, thinking about the all-time greats—Jack Johnson, Joe Louis, Muhammad Ali, Mike Tyson, Floyd Mayweather, Sugar Ray Robinson, Sugar Ray Leonard, George Foreman, Joe Frazier, Evander Holyfield, Larry Holmes, Thomas Hearns, Marvelous Marvin Hagler, Floyd Patterson, Sonny Liston, Roy Jones, Jr., Bernard Hopkins, Archie Moore, Jersey Joe Walcott, Ken Norton, Pernell Whitaker, Shane Mosely, Michael Spinks, Henry Armstrong, James Toney, Leon Spinks, Ezzard Charles, Aaron Pryor, Deontay Wilder, and Buster Douglas—and going against them in his mind.

In fantasy, he fought against them all and won. He walked around in the black hole, raising both hands in the air, fists balled, yelling and screaming like a roaring crowd. He started playing the role of announcer: “At five feet and six inches, 150 pounds of diamond black muscle, he's won all these fights against all these great fighters—499 wins and never lost a fight—Justin Young!”

Justin jogged around the hole, yelling and pretending he was the crowd. After a while, he wound down. He went to the corner of the cement cube and sat against the wall. He stared into the darkness, which brought him back to childhood when his stepfather used to throw him in the closet. A slow film ran through his mind, a montage of him playing with action figures under the cover of dark and his deep fascination and magical wonderment with outer space.

He thought of Mae C. Jemison, Ronald McNair, and Michael P. Anderson: people he’d learned about in school. He always wondered what it would be like in space, on the rocky white moon, if aliens existed, and what else was out there. That then made him think about God, if there was a God, and, if so, whether God loved him as his uncle and father said he did. He remembered some scriptures his uncle taught him in church and when they were together: “… and to bring to light what is administration of mystery which for ages has been hidden in God who created all things.”

He thought of another one as he tucked his knees into his chest. The words went across his mind, “God thunders wondrously with his voice; he does great things that we cannot comprehend.” Another scripture rippled through his thoughts, one his uncle would recite when he told the congregation how big God was and how they needed to obey or suffer in enteral hellfire of damnation. He whispered to himself as he stared into the dark, “I am the Lord, and there is no other; beside me there is no God but Me. I equip you for battle, though you do not know Me, so that all may know, from the rising of the sun and from the west, that there is none but Me; I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form light and create darkness; I make well-being and create calamity; I am the Lord, who does all these things.”

He couldn't remember which books they came from, he just remembered the scriptures from his uncle reciting them all the time and remembered him preaching from the pulpit. He looked into the bleak darkness again, and another wave of scripture ran through his mind, recalling his uncle talking about how the universe was vast and God was even vaster. He remembered his uncle speaking from the pulpit: 

Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades?
    Can you loosen Orion’s belt?

 Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons
    or lead out the Bear with its cubs? 

Do you know the laws of the heavens?
    Can you set up God’s dominion over the earth?

He stared into the empty darkness before him and sighed, puffing his cheeks out. He tucked his head in his thighs and closed his eyes.

“I'll try to pray,” he said to himself. He sighed again, making noise with his lips. “Here we go.” He paused. “Shit, what that one prayer where Jesus says to pray?” He lifted his head, eyes darting back and forth in the hazy darkness and whispered: 

Our Father who art in heaven,
hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come,
your will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us today our daily bread.
 And forgive us our debts,
 as we also have forgiven our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil

For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.

Amen.

He tucked his head back into his thighs, “God, why did my stepfather abuse me, and my mother did nothing? Why did you give me an uncle that used me? I stole for him; he’s living free and happy with his wife and kids in a big mansion with a pool and a private jet, while I'm locked in here like a caged animal. Why, if you love me as your Bible says, did you never rescue me or take care of me as a child?”

As he whispered, his heart turned volcanic. His eyes narrowed. He jumped to his feet and went to the center of the cold dark cell.

“Why?” he cried out, his chest heaving. He screamed again, “Do you even exist?”

Breathing heavily, he put his hands in the air, fists tightly balled.

“WHERE THE FUCK YOU AT?” he bellowed from the pit of his stomach.

His vision blurred.

“Fuck you, bro,” he said in a calm manner. He crawled back into his corner. A river of salty tears slipped down his brown cheeks, and mucus ran from his nose into his mouth. “You don't love me,” he whispered. “Don't nobody love me.”

Justin sobbed. He rehashed his thoughts and reflected on his actions in the past years.

“Shit … I can’t blame God. Then again, maybe I can for him giving me to a shitty family. Maybe my uncle is the devil,” he muttered. “I didn’t know any better when I was with my uncle. I was just following him and getting caught up with the money.”

He thought about his uncle again and how the man had manipulated him. Justin nodded, eyes narrowed. “Now that I think about it, he set me up and had a way of doing it without him looking guilty. I was so blinded by the money, I didn’t see it; but I was also young and naive.”

He then thought about the robbery that sent him to prison. He smiled at his foolishness, rocking back in forth on the cold cement floor, and whispered into the darkness, “Now that’s my fault. I got out the first time, and now I’m back.” He chuckled, a bitter sound. “I’m a fool, man, I’m a fool.”

After six months in solitary confinement, he was finally allowed to go back outside to the yard and to socialize with the other inmates. Sitting on a bench, hands folded, eyes squinted, he basked in the rays of sunshine hitting his body and said to himself, “Damn, I miss the sun. Never know how much you appreciate something till it’s gone.”

 “’Sup, man?” a skinny white man with long, shaggy hair named Larry greeted.

“’Sup,” Justin replied with a stony expression, still looking skyward.

“’Sup, bro man,” his deeply religious friend, Paul joined them. He eased his tall, heavy bulk onto the bench beside Justin.

“’What up, P.?” Justin replied with no change of expression.

“How you feeling after being in the hole of death for six months,” Larry asked with a rough, harsh laugh afterwards that showed one rotten brown tooth. 

Justin shrugged his shoulders, still gazing into the sun. “Shit ... reflecting.” To change the conversation, he looked at Larry and Paul. “Man, one of y’all got a smoke?”

Justin’s eyes narrowed.

“It's gonna cost ya,” Larry said with a wide-toothed smile, his brown tooth showing.

“How much?” Justin asked.

“Entrée at suppertime,” he said.

“Damn, you a cheapskate,” Justin fumed.

Larry extracted a cigarette from his pocket and put it in Justin’s mouth. He looked around for the correctional officers, pulled a match from his sock, snapped it on the concrete, and lit the cigarette.

“Here, I'ma stand in front so they don't see you,” Larry said. He waved Paul over, “Paul, get your ass over here, so they don't catch ’um.”

“Good looking out,” Justin said, sucking on the cigarette and savoring the heat and harsh, smoky taste. Looking at the bright red tip of his cigarette turning into ash, he commented, “I need this right here.”

“You better hold on to your deal,” Larry said with his arms folded.

Justin smiled slightly and gave him a fist bump. “You know I got you.”

“You said you was reflecting; what was you reflecting on?” Paul asked, nervously pacing back and forth.

“Shit, man, childhood, the universe, life, deep shit, God.” He put the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled, and exhaled. “Bitches.”

Justin smiled and nodded. Larry and Paul laughed.

“Hell, yeah!” Larry tapped him on his shoulder. “I was beating my meat in that mutherfucker to pass the time.”

Larry tapped Justin on the shoulder. Justin rapidly blinked his eyes while Larry kept tapping his shoulder.

“So, what you reflect on about God?” Paul asked.

“Shit ... in that bitch yelling and screaming at him.” Justin took a puff on his cigarette and blew the white smoke into the air. “That muthafucka ain't did shit for me.”

With his arms folded, Larry asked, “What God did to you?”

“What you mean? He didn't do shit, that's what he didn't do. He got me here, he tell me he love me—” he flopped both hands out, “—fuck, I don't see the love. Where he at?”

“Aw, hell, have you tried opening your Bible?” Larry asked.

Justin sucked on the cigarette and exhaled white smoke. “Man, fuck that Bible. That's the white man's religion; Christianity is the white man's religion. I'm not tryna hear that shit.”

Justin took another puff from his cigarette.

“Oh, so you a racist?” Larry reached over in a playful grab for the cigarette as he paced erratically. Laughing, he said, “Give me my shit back, you racist mutherfucker you.”

Justin moved the cigarette and waved his hand away. “Nah, man, look it up. When I first got here, I was watching this documentary in the library called The Bible and the Gun, and it talked about how the white man used the Bible to manipulate my people and enslave them.” 

Larry stared at him in disbelief, “Aw, hell, you can’t be serious?”

“Dead serious,” Justin said, focusing his gaze on a gathering crowd on the basketball court. He looked back at Larry, inhaled tobacco smoke, blew it out into the gloomy air, and started coughing. He raised his fist and held up his right pointer finger. “It talks about the negative effect on Africa as a whole and the slave trade.” He raised his middle finger. “Secondly, it talks about the exploitation of Africans by the white man.” He raised his ring finger and pinky. “And third and fourth, all in one, it talks about how the missionary role that took place in African change and development and the muthafuckin’ exploitation of African resources by the white—or should I say European—powers that be.”

Justin lowered his hand. The left side of his lips curled upward. He widened his eyes and tilted his head.

Paul put his fist over his mouth, then retorted on a silent chuckle, “You cold, brutha, you cold.”

Larry just stared at Justin and Justin stared back.

“Well, damn, I learned something today,” Larry said and laughed, showing off his one brown tooth. “Listen, man, I had nothing to do with that. I grew up poor white trash in the trailers around the beaners and Blacks. They were some of the coolest muthafuckas I ever met.”

Larry held his palms out towards Justin. Justin tapped his cigarette, letting his ashes float into the cool wind.

“You cool. It ain't you, it's some of you that choose to be that way or choose to be ignorant.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And some were just born into that mindset, never being around the culture, you know?” Justin squinted his eyes at Larry and took another puff. “Another reason I want nothing to do with the Bible is because of my punk-ass uncle.”

“What he do?” Larry asked.

Justin and Paul tilted their heads and squinted their eyes.

Justin’s voice dripped contempt as he replied, “Fool, didn't I just say my uncle got me involved in jackin’, robbin’, and stealin’, but was up front preaching against it. He was using me and set me up and got me locked up.”

Larry squinted his eyes and looked at the dry, patchy brown grass beyond the fence. “Oh, yeah.”

He started laughing, body undulating like an inflatable tube man, again showing off his brown tooth. 

Justin squinted and took another puff of his cigarette. “You a goofy dude, man.” He shook his head and looked at Paul and said, “You cool, though.”

“You ever thought about Islam, brutha?” Paul asked.

Justin stared at the small crowd which milled about as if a commotion was brewing. “Hm, nah, well, I mean yes and no. I’m up and down with God right now, like the Israelites’ or all them kings after Solomon, you know?”

“I can show you some suras sometime,” Paul offered.

“Suras?” Justin looked at Paul.

“Yes, suras are chapters in the Holy Quran.” He flashed his index finger. “So, there's 114 suras in the Quran—” he stuck his hand out flat and waved it up and down “—and they’re each divided into ayahs or, in other words, verses.”

Justin poked his lip out as he gave a small nod of understanding. “I'm down, I guess, if that’s what Malcolm X read. Didn't he?”

“He read both the Bible and the Quran,” Paul answered.

Justin stuck his lips out again. “He can keep that Bible, but I like that Malcolm X.” He took a puff from his cigarette and exhaled through his mouth. He took a couple more puffs, trying to finish the cigarette before the correctional officers caught him. “Because of him, I'll check it out. He seemed very intelligent and upright and had integrity—more so than that Dr. King.”

“Aw, hell, here you go again. What's wrong with King?” Larry asked.

“Shit, he just like my damn uncle, used that same Bible to talk shit, because he was smoking, drinking, cussing like a sailor, cheating on his wife. That man was a hypocrite,” Justin said, fuming.

“I like King. Shoot, my grandpappy marched with him back in the day,” Larry said.

“Oh, for real?” Justin asked in surprise.

“Yup. He was gettin' bricks thrown and gunshots fired at him, too,” Larry said with his hands clasped behind his back.

“We can't judge, brother. We don't know what demons he was facing,” Paul said.

Justin tapped his cigarette, dropping the ashes onto the ground.

“Well, fuck my uncle and King, I'm judgin’,” Justin said with bitter memories of his uncle’s actions going through his mind. He looked up. The crowd getting bigger. “What’s going on over there?” 

He took one last puff and flicked the cigarette butt away, then got up to kick some dirt over it.

“Can't let ’em see this,” Justin said to himself, looking back and forth.

Justin, Paul, and Larry skittled over towards the basketball court where there was an opening offering escape if the correctional officer came over.

 “’Sup, old muthafucka? I heard you killed one of mine in the streets,” said a skinny, brown-skinned man, walking back and forth and glaring at an old Latino man with long black hair and a potbelly.

“What's going on here?” Justin asked a Latino inmate standing next to him.

“Supposedly, his gang killed one of his gang members on the street. I guess they were related or something. Word got out and now this,” he said, folding his arms across his chest as his gaze zoomed in on the altercation taking place. 

 “’Sup, tacohead, tonk?” the skinny, brown-skinned inmate greeted the old Latino.

Both arms waving and eyes narrowed as he walked back and forth, the old Latino glared at him and came to a halt, watching him like prey. Swiftly, the skinny, brown man rushed him and took a swing. The old man moved his head back, avoiding the strike. The young man took another swing with his left hand, lost balance, then grabbed the old man. They both grabbed each other by the neck and started hitting each other in the neck. 

Justin looked back. Some of the correctional officers watched the fight. He knew they were looking through their sunglasses.

“Man, they just don't give a fuck,” Justin said to himself. He looked back at the fight. The skinny black man was giving way, going limp, his eyes rolling back. The old Latino didn't stop punching him. His teeth showed as he punched as fast as he could, holding his opponent’s head with the left hand and punching with the right. The skinny brown man sagged. The old Latino kicked him in the head, scattering white teeth across the cracked pavement. Then he walked off as if nothing happened. The other inmates walked off as well. Justin, Paul, and Larry went back to the bench. 

“Damn ... shanked his ass,” Justin said.

“Yup, quick, fast, and in a hurry,” Larry said, looking at the man leaking blood on the basketball court.

“Sleeve ’em and leave ’em,” Paul said.

Larry looked over at another inmate and nodded his head. “Ol’ boy over there killed old Tuna last week, and the COs don't know nothing,” Larry said.

“What happened?” Justin asked, picking the dirt from his nails.

“He kicked his pitbull,” Larry said, referring to the prison’s dog training program for shelter pets.

“Damn,” Justin said. He looked up at the sky, estimating the time. “I'm ’bout to head in: dinnertime and then the library.” He yawned, extending his arms. “Ah, shit—” he looked at Paul “—you tryna meet up later and drop some of that old man knowledge on me?”

Justin stuck his tongue out. 

“Let's meet after dinner,” Paul said with a smile.

“You owe me the entrée” Larry reminded.

“I know, I know,” Justin said.

Justin got off the concrete bench and looked back at the now-soulless body still lying on the basketball court.

“Damn, his ass still leakin’. The COs still haven't bothered to get him,” he said to himself. He turned towards the doors and never looked back. 

Justin went to dinner, gave Larry his entrée as promised, and met Paul in the library during free time. Justin started looking through the books.

“Let’s see here,” he said to himself, standing on his tiptoe as he shuffled through the books.

“The Abolitionist: or Record of the New England Anti-Slavery Society, Soul of Black Folk by W. E. B Du Bois,” he murmured and looked at another section. “Story of Civilization by Will and Ariel Durant, Basic Writing by Immanuel Kant, Journal of Residence on a Georgian Plantation 1838-1839.”

He balled his fist and put it over his mouth as he scanned the titles on the shelf. “Damn, I can't find that book.”

“What you looking for, brutha?” Paul asked.

“Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet—” he tucked his lips in trying to remember the author’s name. “Damn, I forgot.”

He walked over toward Paul who was sitting down, taking notes, and reading.

“What you reading?” he asked.

“The Holy Quran; that’s we talked about earlier,” Paul said.

Justin snatched the book and slid it across the wooden dusty table. He narrowed his gaze on the text and turned his lip up. “Who is this Allah?”

“Do not speak so disrespectfully about the most gracious and the most merciful creator. Allah means God in Arabic,” Paul said with a stony expression.

“I wasn’t tryna be disrespectful, I'm just tryna understand who he is.” Justin looked at the top of the page, “The cow …” he looked at Paul “… the cow ... really, this book some type of joke?”

“Don't be ignorant, brother. Read and think for yourself,” Paul said, eyes flashing behind his glasses.

Justin looked down and started skimming. He whispered aloud, “Surely those who believe, and those who are Jews, and the Christians, and the Sabians, whoever believes in Allah and the Last day and does good, they shall have their reward from their Lord, and there is no fear for them, nor shall they grieve.” He looked at Paul and looked back at the book and kept reading. He whispered, “And the Jews say: The Christians do not follow anything (good) and the Christians say: The Jews do not follow anything (good) while they recite the (same) Book. Even thus say those who have no knowledge, like to what they say; so Allah shall judge between them on the day of resurrection in what they differ.”

“Interesting, interesting,” Justin said with a nod. He continued reading aloud, “And the Jews will not be pleased with you, nor the Christians until you follow their religion. Say: Surely Allah's guidance, that is the (true) guidance. And if you follow their desires after the knowledge that has come to you, you shall have no guardian from Allah, nor any helper.” He paused to take a breath, then continued reading in a soft voice, “And they say: Be Jews or Christians, you will be on the right course. Say: Nay! (we follow) the religion of Ibrahim, the Hanif, and he was not one of the polytheists.”

Justin closed the book and flipped through the pages. He turned the book up and down and said with a smile, “Okay, I like this. It's different from what I grew up with. Anything that's against Christianity, I'm with it.”

“That's not what it's about. It's about justice, peace, love, and brotherhood,” Paul corrected.

“Shit ... that ain't what I read. Looks like to me they was speaking against Christians and Jews,” Justin said with raised eyebrows.

“I think you should go back and read it with an open mind and open heart and try to think for yourself, brutha,” Paul said, adjusting his glasses.

“Yeah, whatever ... I guess I’ll check it out later and see what it's talking about. Seems interesting, though, different, but I like it so far. I'm only reading it because I like that Malcolm X,” Justin said, with another smile and an index finger in the air.

“Fair enough,” Paul said with a smile. He cleared his throat and his eyes sparkled. “I think you’ll like the brotherhood of Islam, brutha.”

“Yeah, I'll see, man. I had my fair share of religion, man. I dunno, my uncle was like the Pharisees and the Sadducees, an outright hypocrite,” Justin said, leaning back in his chair. 

Paul started to laugh. “I think you need to study the difference between the Sadducees and the Pharisees, young brutha.”

Justin, not really paying attention, looked at the old German clock on the wall and ran his hand over the untidy growth of hair springing from his scalp. He said, “I'm go get this cut and talk to you later.”

Justin went to the barber. He walked up to Ed who had tattoos all over his face. White and sporting a short buzz cut, Ed extended his hand and tapped his fist to Justin’s.

“What up, E.?” Justin greeted.

“Hey,” Ed said with a gritty voice, eyes narrowed, his expression inscrutable. “Same.”

“Same,” Justin responded without rancor.

Ed was a man of few words, who was serving a triple life sentence. Justin observed his surroundings and the other barbers cutting hair.

“Is it easy cutting hair, E.?” Justin asked as he sat in the barber’s chair.

“Yeah,” Ed replied in his usual terse manner, lining up his customer’s head.

“I'm thinking about doing it when I get out the joint here,” Justin said.

“Do it,” Ed simply said.

Justin narrowed his eyes. “What you in here for, if you don't mind me asking, E.?”

“Robbery, murder, conspiracy to commit murder, apostasy, terrorism, rape, espionage, drug dealing, drug trafficking, drug possession,” Ed listed his crimes without expression as he trimmed the hair behind Justin’s ear.

“Damn,” Justin thought, trying to comprehend what kind of life Ed had before prison. Instead of giving voice to his thoughts, he asked, “Can you make good money cutting hair?”

“Twenty, thirty dollars a pop. Lots of clients, good money,” Ed said with his lip turned up.

Justin nodded, adding up the clients and money he could make cutting hair when he got out.

“Can't get a job in the outside world, especially if your face is all fucked up like Ed over there,” one of the barbers joked. A couple of other inmates laughed, too. 

Ed started shaking. Justin turned around so Ed wouldn't mess up his hair. He tried to calm the enraged man, “Be cool, Ed, you got a good job here cutting hair,”

Ed stared at the inmate, his eyes going black.

“Da fuck,” Justin thought. “I hear serial killers like Ted Bundy's eyes go black, but I didn't think it was real” Aloud, he asked, “You cool, E.?”

Ed calmed and looked Justin in the eye, his stony face showing no emotion. “I'm fine. I'll kill them later.”

Justin sat back in the chair, his eyes darted back and forth as Ed dragged the razor blade over his neck, cutting his hair in the middle. Justin looked at the other inmates snickering and laughing. 

“Done,” Ed said.

“Good looking out, E.,” Justin replied and rose from the chair.

Ed sat down in the barber chair. He crossed his right leg over his left and stared at the inmates who made fun of him. Justin watched the tableau through the reflection in the mirror and shuddered as Ed's eyes turned black again. The man didn't blink and he didn't move.

“Rumors are true: this muthafucka Ed is really crazy, and I thought other muthafuckas was crazy in here,” Justin said to himself.

Justin left before things got heated.

“The fuck you looking at, you ink-faced muthafucker?” Justin overheard the inmate say to Ed as he walked away.  

Justin served ten years in Ross Correctional Penitentiary. He stayed out of trouble, he spent time reading, he practiced cutting hair, developed a deep friendship with Paul, and converted to Islam while in prison. After his release, Justin moved in with his cousin, Ron, who stayed in touch with him in prison and offered him a place to stay if Justin promised to stay out of trouble. He applied for jobs around the city. One day, he got a call from Burger King.

He was in the office talking to Miss Baldwin who had long purple, black, and pink hair. She was at her desk typing. Her long, purple fingernails clacked and clapped across the keyboard as she chewed gum loudly. Justin leaned forward in a chair, twiddling his thumbs and chewing on his bottom lip. He was nervous, hoping he could get the job despite his felony conviction. His gaze shifted between the floor and Miss Baldwin.

“Man, I hope I get this job,” he said to himself. Sweat dripped down his back beneath his shirt. He looked at Miss Baldwin's unbuttoned collar. “Damn them titties is big. It's been awhile, too. I’d su—”

He cut himself off when she started talking.

“Okay, Justin.” Justin turned his eyes away as Miss Baldwin stared at her computer, still typing. She paused in chewing her gum and smacked her lips. “So, it says here you had a felony conviction for assault and you just got out.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Justin said, clearing his throat, still twiddling his thumbs.

“Just a second,” she said, cracking her gum, typing, and scratching her scalp with her right index fingernail. She sighed then asked, “Okay, when can you start?”

Justin raised his eyes to hers in shock. “Whenever. I need a job now. I'll do whatever you ask.”

“Shit,” she muttered in frustration. “Can you start tomorrow? Toni will train you, because muthafuckas don't wanna come in and—”

Miss Baldwin’s words were cut off by an employee who walked in, a short and stubby young girl with a ponytail.

“Umm, yo ex-boyfriend here again, yelling and screaming and cussing everybody out, demanding to see you,” the girl said.

Miss Baldwin smacked her hands on the table.

“Oh, this muthafucka is trippin’.” She looked at her hand. “Fuck, I done broke my nail.” She pushed her seat out with her huge buttock and looked at Justin. “Come here tomorrow at twelve. I need to take care of this.”

She stormed from the office. Justin’s eyes shifted back and forth. Everything was happening so fast. As he grabbed his jacket and left, he overheard Miss Baldwin yell, “The fuck is yo muthafuckin’ problem, coming to my muthafuckin’ job and, shit, while I'm working!”

Leaving through the side door, he overheard a man yelling, “Bitch, I want to know ...” 

The door shut, closing off the sound. Justin put his hand in his pockets and said to himself, “Well, at least I have a job. It's a start, even if it is ’hood.”

He returned to his Cousin Ron’s house, got on the computer, and checked his email. He opened a message and saw that he’d been accepted into the Ohio State Barber College. He balled both of his fists, shook them, closed his eyes, and tucked his lips in his mouth.

“Thank you, Allah,” he whispered.

EPILOGUE

Justin started working at Burger King, paid Ron money for rent, and saved as much money as he could. As promised, Toni trained him at Burger King. They got close and developed a relationship. Justin moved in with her and her two daughters. He graduated from barber college and earned his license to practice.

They now have a baby on the way. Today, Justin works part-time at Burger King. He’s also works as a part-time barber and takes care of his growing family.

 

 

 

 

  The stickup is a variation on the code of the street, and often at issue are two elements that give the code its meaning and resonance: respect and alienation. The common street mugging involves a pro­found degree of alienation, but also requires a certain commitment to criminality, nerve, cunning, and even what young men of the street call heart. As a victim, a person with "street knowledge" may have a certain edge on one who lacks it. The edge here is simply the poten­tial ability to behave or act ad lib in accordance with the demands and emergent expectations of the stickup man. In effect, such knowl­edge may provide the victim with the background knowledge of "how to get robbed"; it may even allow him or her the presence of mind to assist the assailant in his task, thus defusing a dangerous situation.

  Stickups are particularly feared by law-abiding people in the ghetto, decent or street. They may occur in one manner in areas of concentrated poverty but in another in middle-class or "changing" neighborhoods. Perhaps the crucial difference is whether the victim is willing and able to defer or is bound by his or her own socialization to respond in kind. It may be that a stickup between peers requires a model different from the one for a stickup between culturally dif­ferent parties. But wherever they occur, stickups have two major ele­ments in common. The first is a radical redefinition of the situation­ of who has the power-for everyone concerned, especially if a gun is involved. A drawn gun is a blunt display of power. The victim immediately realizes that he must give something up or, as the corner boys say, "pay some dues," because otherwise the perpetrator will hurt him. The second is social exchange-"your money or your life."

  The code holds that might makes right and that if qualified, a person who needs anything may be moved simply to take it by force or stealth. Only the strongest, the wiliest, the most streetwise will survive, and so when people see an opportunity, they go for it. A generalized belief in the inner-city ghetto is that perpetrators choose their victims according to certain known factors and that it is therefore up to the individual to avoid placing him or herself in a vulnerable position. There is some truth to this notion, although in reality many people often find themselves at the wrong end of a stickup no matter what precautions they take. But if inner-city resi­dents accepted the notion that assaults are utterly random, they would feel they had little control and would likely become too over­whelmed by fear to go out at all. So the belief that they can avoid stickups is an important defensive mechanism for people who are besieged by violence on a daily basis; this belief allows them to salvage a sense of freedom in a seemingly inexorable environment.

 

Code of the Street: Decency, Violence, Moral Life of the Inner City by Elijah Anderson (p. 124-125)

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