Enough with the Crap

CW: References to substance abuse and sexual violence against a minor.

Enough with the Crap

Taking Aiden out, saying we would do the grocery shopping, so I could get out of the house without raising Nedia’s suspicion was a bad move that would nearly break my spirit; it didn’t, but the awful, awful was where we ended up. Believing I was sober more than I was high, I had gone looking to score. Aiden was almost eight. In 1985, crack, aka the rock made something open up in me when I hit that pipe. I had been feeling sick in my stomach since I got up, and knew when I drew on that pipe I would instantly feel the vomit that was rising in my throat settle back down. Well almost down, which meant I would have to do a repeat soon to keep from gagging, and then repeat to keep the rising vomit down.

We went to the 19th Street house, right up the street from my parents’ home.

“We going to see Grandma?” he’d asked,

“Yeah, after this stop.”

As we passed through the unlocked, scarred door where junkies nodded on dirty mattresses on the floor, his eyes spread wide with fear that I tried not to notice. “You ain’t tell me who we gon’ see here.”

“We won’t be long. Wait here.” Letting go of his hand, I dashed to the back, searching for Richard. Holding out a five spot, I encountered Richard and begged for a rock. He bent his head to his shoulder, looking at me sideways, as if saying, ‘What else you got?’ I had promised myself to never trade sex for the rock. Not me. But promises then meant little to me, less to family.

Aiden stood scared in the front room while I sat on the dirty floor, closed my eyes and nodded in Aiden’s direction. It seemed hot as hell in that kitchen and sweat I didn’t know I had poured out of me. Richard tossed me a primo---joint laced with cocaine---and headed for the front room. I thought the small hit would wear off quickly and I’d need more.

For a short time, Richard’s folks ran a variety store, and most of his uncles did time. My mother had said Richard never stood a chance; an inch taller than me, at five-foot-eleven, Richard Boyd was lanky with skin the color of strong coffee. In the 1960s, smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze was our past time, and after high school I joined/was ordered to go in the service and Richard worked in the family’s business. Eight years later I met Nedia, joined the police force, and ran into Richard in an Erie Avenue bar. After several beers, I should have left it at that. His folks relocated down south leaving him their Philadelphia home that became an open door for junkies. I’d pass by looking for Richard and spot my mother at the end of the street; but I’d keep my head down, pretending not to see her.

On the floor, I wanted to light the coke-laced joint. Lost in thought, but misplaced intentions were overshadowed by a sense of hopelessness. Soon I could lose my job, then Nedia, then Aiden, if I hadn’t already. Does talk of the ‘rock’ ring true---one hit and that’s it?

Once, while sneaking a hit in my basement, through the slots of a jammed milk crate with belongings from my Air Force days, I see Davidson’s The Lost Cities of Africa. Its purpose to change how we view Africa/Africans seems indifferent to many Americans who don’t value truths Europeans hid from us, nor recognize that when white missionaries came to Africa, they had the Bible, and Blacks had the land. After prayer, we had the Bible, they the land.

Land acknowledgement is a way to respect indigenous peoples; in the land on which I live, I own anger and dread. So, I’d rather die. The pipe is slow death anyway. Gradual, but ‘not right now.’ Stepping over a junkie, I enter the front room. Aiden’s stare shook me. He sat on a dirty mattress; Richard stood over him zipping his pants. “You all right little man?” I said.

When I squeeze his hand to pull him up, I can’t help but feel fear pulsing through him. My throat works while I try to put into words all I am feeling. After finding work as driver for Mike’s Party Pooper, the apt expression, a load of crap has sunk in. Downhearted and confused, my thoughts swirl toward Nedia who would find the nerve to say enough.

Boldness was Nedia’s tonic for relief from being sad and solo after separating from Arthur. Things had become pretty bad between them, and that forced a move from Philadelphia to Oreland, Pennsylvania with her parents. After, she used her gift of persuasion to borrow a fancy new BMW for the weekend. Fire-water had caused Art to become indolent and disrespectful---calling Nedia names in front of Aiden and appearing loaded more times than sober---wearing a scornful look when nine year old Aiden and Nedia came home each day, acting like they were intruders rather than loved ones. He’d appear to have lounged all day and be unshaven. When asked about that, her questions were met with scoffs. When that escalated to physical threats, Nedia knew something had to be done. It was all she could do not to burst into tears at the lack of attention from Art and his apparent turn toward something with a greater pull than anything she could offer. So, Nedia packed up, got in her car, and left Art staring into his favorite companion, the idiot box. He didn’t even turn the volume down when Aiden attempted to say ‘Goodbye, Dad.’ Nedia wasn’t sure Art even knew they’d left.

In the space that Art’s absence granted, Nedia found herself longing for adventure but craving reconciliation. And as she prepared fried rice with the midweek leftover chicken, she peered out the bay window at the shiny new car. While she took a drive, Aiden could play board games, watch TV and eat ice cream after dinner with gramps; then crash out on the sofa or the family room floor, their favorite place, where he’d usually land most Friday nights.

“Guys,” Nedia called from the kitchen, “I’m going out for a little while.” She grabbed keys, purse, and then hesitantly, a paper cup with ice that she added a shot of bourbon to. In the shiny car, cup firmly in place, Nedia checked her mahogany face in the rearview and pulled out of the circular drive. A left onto Church Road took her in the direction of Arcadia University, toward Washington Lane that led into East Germantown. Where should I go? She thought. She made a left onto Green Street toward Wayne Junction. Suddenly, bright lights and a siren were behind her. She thought, oh God, I gotta put this cup somewhere.

Nedia pulled over; placed the cup under the front passenger seat. In her rearview she saw the officer with a bright light walk up. “Evening Miss. Let your window down please.” With her left hand shielding her eyes, Nedia peered out the driver’s window. On the passenger side, an even brighter light glowed through the window. She lowered her window about an inch.

“Down more, Miss,” he pointed his finger for emphasis.

Nedia’s heart began beating wildly like it was on the outside of her chest.

“Why’d you pull me over, officer?”

“Put your window down, Miss.”

Nedia took a deep breath. She said, “What’s the problem officer?”

“Your voice sounds slurred. Have you been drinking, Miss?” The officer was blonde, thin, and what would be called white.

“No sir,” Nedia lied, pointing her finger at her front teeth. “Braces affect my speech.” She pasted her license on the window.

“Put down your window, Miss.”

“You startled me. I’ve seen this type of thing on TV, and I’m afraid to put my window down further.”

The irritated, red-faced, officer repeated, “Have you been drinking? I believe I smell alcohol.”

“No Sir. Is this a scam?”

“No, lady.”

“Here’s my information on the window. I’m not feeling safe.”

“Whose car is this?”

“It belongs to a dealership, Sir. Can you check the plate?”

“Lower the window.”

Nedia stood, or rather sat her ground. “I can’t do that. Do what you must. Call your superior.” She stared straight ahead thinking: what if they find my cup? I’m in trouble. Both officers stepped away from her vehicle. Nedia watched them conversing, though she couldn’t hear what was said.

She gnawed at her bottom lip and waited. The other officer, a dark-haired shorter version of Mr. Blonde approached her vehicle. “We could let you go with a warning, make this your lucky night. He paused. “Drive safely Miss”

“Thank you officer,” stone-faced she put the car in gear, “I will.” She watched him walk away.

She drove pass Art’s favorite lounge; and for a fleeting moment, she thought about him just enough to forgive the wandering.