It was the longest walk ever. I lost count at 758 steps, so I ran back to the last milestone, the place where the drab concrete sidewalk abruptly gave way to a morass of undulating and decaying bricks. I restarted my count from there at 700.
When the swirling patriotic pole in the distance came into focus, I knew the summer break that I had been counting on for the past 9 months would soon be over — before it even started.
For the life of me I couldn't quite understand it. Usually when she got mad it didn't matter who pulled the pin, her path of destruction included everything within her field of vision. And, because the woman had eyes in the back of her head, her blast radius was indiscriminate. This time, however, there wasn't any collateral damage. She had a laser lock on her intended target.
It wasn't my fault. I was justified. It was self-defense. Chance was always feeling himself like someone searching for their lost keys. It wasn't the 26-month difference in age, but the 6 inch height differential that led me to my weapon of choice in my epic battles with big bro — logic.
He was always trying to put me in my place. On our way home from school that day he went into his usual bag of tricks — once again he tried to relegate me to the rungs of the irrelevant, but this time he had an instrument — his brand new middle school graduation certificate.
"I'm in high school, now. Do you know what that means? Do you know what that means?"
For some odd reason, Moms and Pops thought that entering high school was some major milestone or rite of passage. I think it's because they first met as freshmen in high school. That's when they no doubt started screwing, so subconsciously they must think a 9th grader is somehow or another a grown-up.
Granny told me once that Moms used to run around the house talkin' about "You can't tell me what to do — I'm grown — I'm in high school." She was all of 14 at the time.
In our house, high school was the line of demarcation between being a boy and a young man. When you made that transition you could stay up as long as you wanted to and even stay out late, but you had to get yourself up in the morning. We could stay up as long as we wanted during summer months, weekends and holidays, but on school days we had to be in bed by 9:30PM.
Once in high school, you also started getting an allowance, but you had to work for it — more chores. The only downside of getting that allowance was that you now had to pay for things that Moms and Pops usually took care of. As far as money was concerned you were on your own. There were a couple of other perks, but those two were the ones Chance was holding over my head.
The irony of the situation was that Moms was in a good mood the night before. She said that Chance and I could stay up late, as long as we didn't give her any trouble getting out of bed for our last day of school. I stayed glued to the TV watching the tape-delayed broadcast of the NBA championships between the Seattle SuperSonics and the Washington Bullets.
Seattle was my favorite team. They lost to Washington the year before in the championship series, so I joined them in their quest for revenge. On the neighborhood hardtop, I used to alternate between pretending to be Gus Williams and "Downtown" Freddy Brown, depending on what the situation dictated I would choose accordingly. I liked Dennis Johnson too, but I couldn't bring myself to pretend to be a red headed brother with freckles — it just didn't feel right.
One thing was for sure. If there was a girl in sight, I was definitely going to be "Downtown" Freddy Brown because believe me — no girl wanted to hear you running down the court saying "And Gus Williams is driving to the hoop…". We had a wino in our neighborhood named Gus, plus Gus sounded like an old man's name. I reserved my Gus imitation and commentary for the cats who knew what the deal was — those who could truly appreciate what the moniker meant.
Since I couldn't even touch the backboard, the coolest thing that I could do to get the girls' attention was shoot from way outside. That's what I reserved my "Downtown" Freddy Brown imitation for. Girls couldn't resist the sweet sound of leather tickling the twine accompanied by the sound of my voice signifying and prophesying… "'Downtown' Freddy Brown for the win" — actually it was more like the Ghost of Christmas Past, rubber crashing through chains, but you get the point.
So sometime 'round midnight there was an altercation on the court. I don't remember who was involved, but I do remember the guy from the Bullets, out of nowhere, mean mugged the cat from the Supersonics. The Supersonic player shoved the guy back in retaliation. The ref intervened and gave the guy from the Supersonics a technical foul. He was just protecting himself, but unfortunately for him that's the only thing the ref saw. They didn't see the precipitating push. The coaches plead their case, but to no avail.
My eyes and the Supersonics both gave up at this point. I found out the next morning that they lost the game. Little did I know that this would be a harbinger.
Even though I didn't like the Bullets, my man Wes Unseld had the coolest and roundest afro in the world. While I may have modeled my game after the Supersonic backcourt, my afro aspirations and ambitions leaned towards our nation's capital.
I had been growing my hair out all year long. I politely rebuffed any and all attempts at grooming that even remotely involved hair removal. I even banished my favorite afro pick with the black fist. The teeth were too close together so it sometimes pulled some of my hair out when I picked my 'fro.
My game plan was to grow it out and then sometime during the first week of summer vacation, I would have my man Stan, the barber, sculpt me a perfectly round 'fro. I sure hoped that Stan did well in Geometry as a youngster, because in my mind he was going to have to know his way around a compass to get my natural as round as Brother Unseld's.
And, judging from the circumference of his belt, Stan was more than likely very familiar with pie, but I was hoping that he was just as familiar with the Greek letter that looked like the step stool he used to help little kids get up in his barber chair.
Still in a stupor from my lack of sleep, I went to the library at lunchtime to check out the latest copy of Sports Illustrated. On page 26, there was a perfect picture of Unseld and his circular coif. This was the model that Stan needed to transform me into the neighborhood Adonis. Upon eyeballing this, I was left with no choice. I couldn't leave Stan to his own devices — that outdated afro-style chart riddled with dart holes from customers with bad aim. I needed this exact picture. So my temporary emphysema kicked in and set an auditory pick for my thieving hands to go to work.
On the walk home from school, Chance and I passed Stan's barbershop, which reminded me of the contraband in my back pocket. I carefully unfolded my future and proudly showed Chance. While Chance was 6 inches taller than me, he was only 3 inches taller if you counted my afro. He may have won the birth order battle, but I grabbed the gold in the follicle Olympics.
Much to his chagrin, he couldn't grow an afro, so I knew that this was a sore spot with him.
"Check it out…this is gonna be me in about a week. All the honeys in the hood gonna be buzzing 'round my bush."
Before the words had even left my larynx, I knew I had to put the gloves up to withstand the verbal barrage that I was about to receive. My sad attempt at poetry was the equivalent of a failed haymaker that placed my head on a silver platter for Chance to use and abuse at his will.
"Bah, hah, hah, hah, hah. You dumb ass. The only honey that's going to be circling 'round your 'bush' is Punk Johnny."
"Man, forget you!"
The verbal sparring kept up all the way home and spilled into the living room. The slamming of the front door caused the chimes mounted on the wall to ring, indicating the start of round 2.
In the cool comforts of our crib, Chance chided, teased and reminded me that he had just crossed the threshold of manhood leaving me behind in Never Never Land.
"I'm in high school, now. Do you know what that means? Do you know what that means? I'm a man now and you're still a little punk."
I used what I deemed to be my superior skills of logic to point out to him a technicality that hopefully would throw a monkey wrench in his Declaration of Independence. Little did he know that these types of things were always left up to the interpretation of the courts.
"Technically, you're not in high school yet. You don't start until August. You got 9 ½ more weeks. So your new bedtime don't really mean nothing — we both get to stay up late this summer, but I bet you're not going to get your allowance until August especially after I talk to Moms and Pops."
It was widely known that I was the family lawyer. I was always making a federal case about anything that I could just for the sake of argument. I loved to argue. I was the youngest and smallest in the house, so I needed an edge — an equalizer. I had a good record in my arguments before the bench — the one in the kitchen where Pops usually read the Sports page and Moms clipped coupons.
Chance knew I had sway with the court, so he decided to resort to intimidation.
"Look here, little bastard, if you say anything to Moms or Pops about this, I'm going to kick your ass."
He had to have known that these types of tactics not only didn't scare me — they spurred me on.
"I ain't scared of you," I recoiled in my deepest, most sincere voice, hoping to starve his inner bully.
His reply genuinely shocked me, because it made perfect sense.
Chance leaned in and very calmly said, "Fear has never been a prerequisite for an ass whooping. As a matter of fact, I don't want you to be scared. Fear protects you. It makes your muscles tense up so the beating doesn't hurt as bad. I'd rather you be relaxed and feel as much pain as possible."
At that, I made a move towards the kitchen, where I knew Moms would be. Unbeknownst to me, she was following the sound of the fury. She was on her way to the living room in her striped apron, ready for her regular role as referee.
Seeing where I was headed, Chance punched me in the chest as hard as he could. The pain was excruciating. I couldn't imagine it being any worse. It's a good thing I was scared.
I lost it. I screamed as loud as I could and called him everything but a child of God. By the time that Moms got to the living room all she saw and heard was me attacking Chance and calling him every obscenity known to man and beast.
I tried my best to understand why she reacted the way she did. It wasn't outside of her character to flip her lid, but this was different. The only thing that I could come up with was that the sight of what she happened upon was just too much for her. Here it was the last day of school and the first day of 9 ½ weeks of all-kids-all-the-time and all hell was already breaking loose.
Her mind did the mental math and she projected forward to estimate what the next 2 ½ months would look like based upon this single data point. Her system must have overloaded. She just snapped and opted for swift judgment — the death penalty.
They say that the death penalty is not a deterrent. My mother didn't believe that. She found out what was most important to us and held it over our heads as the ultimate punishment for bad behavior. My most coveted possession was my hair. It's all I talked about. So to keep me in line Moms would threaten me from time to time with a "slick" — a haircut where they cut all of your hair off. I didn't pay too much attention to the threats.
You'd hear her from time to time say stuff like,
"Boy if you don't take the garbage out I'm gonna make you go to Stan's and get a slick."
"Boy if you don't clean your room, I'm gonna make you get a slick."
I knew that a delinquent garbage detail or a messy room wasn't grounds for capital punishment, mere misdemeanors at best. I also knew that the chief justice — Pops — wasn't going to allow the biggest afro in the house to get sentenced to the chair.
Unfortunately for me, Pops wasn't home when Justice Moms handed down her sentence.
"Boy get off of Chance… What in the sam hell is wrong with you. And you know I don't allow that kind of language in this house."
"But Moms, he hit me first," I shouted with righteous indignation.
"Don't you raise your voice to me. You done lost your ever loving mind. I've had it up to here with you boys. I'm not going to take this crap from you all summer. If you think that I am, then you got another thing coming. You know what, I'm going to nip this in the bud. Mr. Filthy Mouth, since you wanna cuss like a sailor, you might as well look like one too. Take your black butt down to Stan's and get a slick and you better not come home with any hair on your head or I'll send you right back."
I could tell by her steely stare, her firm stance and the perfect right angle that her outstretched arm and extended index finger made with her torso that this was the real deal — no appeals, no last meals.
"Take your nappy head right out that door and get down to Stan's right now! Go!!!"
Stan's barbershop was on the same street as our house, a block and a half away. The death march from the living room, out the front door, down the porch, onto the sidewalk was devastating. The only thing that I could do to keep from crying and making a fool of myself in front of the whole neighborhood was to count my steps.
926 steps later I was at the executioner's door. Stan already had someone in the chair. It looked like I was next. I didn't say anything to him or anybody else in the shop. I just walked in and sat in one of the waiting chairs with my head down.
After what felt like 15 seconds, but was really more like 15 minutes, Stan snapped the barber cape and motioned for me to take my last steps to the chair.
As I slowly climbed in, he asked, "What'll it be young man?"
I didn't realize that I had taken out the picture of Wes Unseld. It was still in my clutches.
"What's that you got there? Oh Brother Unseld. That's a nice afro he's sporting there. Is that the look you're after?"
I didn't answer. I just hung my head.
"I can't hear you boy, speak up."
"No sir, a slick," I groaned.
"A slick, really? After all this time growing out that 'fro you wanna slick?"
To disabuse him of the notion that I was certifiable, I said "Moms is making me."
"What'd you do? You know what, never mind. I ain't trying to get in your business."
Stan turned around and reached for the big clippers. He took the guard off and brushed it clean. I could hear every bristle of his brush on those clippers. My senses were so keen, that I could even hear remnants of hair shaken loose by the brush hit the ground. It sounded like someone had opened a bag of ball bearings and poured them out on the tile floor.
Stan flipped on the clippers and the whirling and humming of the motor sounded exactly like how I'd imagined an electric chair would sound when the executioner pulled the switch.
"Are you sure?" asked Stan as he moved the buzzing clippers to the middle of my forehead.
A solitary tear ran from my right eye down my cheek and made a splash onto the bright red arm of the barber chair. It sounded like a water balloon dropped from a 5 story building onto a slab of marble.
Hearing no response, Stan prepared his hands to execute Moms' orders.
Suddenly, the bell on the front door rang violently as it flew open. Gasping to catch his breath at the door was Chance.
"Stop!! Stop!! Moms said you didn't have to get a slick."
"It's too late now," said Stan.
He had already dug the clippers into the front of my afro like a combine whirling through a field of wheat on the first day of harvest. The initial harvest wasn't very plentiful, but it was enough to ensure that the field would have to be completely cleared.
As the door slowly closed behind him, Chance walked towards Stan and me. Looking past me, at Stan, Chance mumbled, "Sorry bro." He opened his right hand to reveal a crisp new five dollar bill.
"This is for his haircut. I'll be back next week when I get my allowance to get a shape up."
Stan took the money and folded it into his pocket.
"Thank you young man. Tell your folks I said hello."
Before he turned back towards the door Chance's eyes locked onto mine. They then moved up about 2 inches to pay their respects to the dearly departed, and then back down again to my eyes. His countenance was regretful, his lips were pursed, but his eyes were dancing in exuberant jubilation.
His breathing was unusually calm, not what you would expect from someone who supposedly had just run a block and a half as fast as he could with a pardon in his hand.