Death Interrupted - Part V

Looking down into the dark nothingness of a pistol barrel can make a philosopher of anyone. I also returned two boxes of shells, all accounted for. Now that I'm certain I'll never shoot myself, it may be a good idea to get an automatic military-grade rifle and a .45 to be prepared for any unforeseen militia uprising, although no one is going to start nor bring a revolution to where I live now (undisclosed).

Violence is a fact of life between species on the planet earth. I am not violent but I was drawn into fights growing up in rural Alabama, mostly when playing sports. I won some and lost just a couple--I ran from most of the bullies (five to 10 years my senior) before those got started. After I learned how to really fight while in the army, I never had to use those patent martial arts except in classes. But back in elementary school there was one guy constantly picking on me when I was age 10: Henry Lee Jones. My tough stepbrother Ron Gadson showed me how to jab and do some footwork after I told him Henry had been picking on me at the school bus stop.

The next day Henry slaps the back of my head right on schedule. I spin'roun' and without fear, thrust my right knee into his soft, unguarded belly, just above his privates, with all my might. He deflates like a toy balloon with a beautiful accompanying wheeze as I yell:

"Fight back, fight back punk! Where'yo'dukes iz at now sucker? Call yo'bald head momma ta come gitcho punk a**."

People are cheering as I do some prancing foot work, kicking up the reddish-brown Alabama dust. Nothing like backing off a bully. . .gotta man up, especially in a town of 6,000. Get beaten up and it becomes a legend that people remember you by. I want to try the jabs next. That'd be spectacular. Boom boom, bap. Straight in. But he saunters onto his bus and forever, leaves me alone. Sob. I did the same thing to a guy named Ralph. He didn't wheeze but left me alone after some people pulled us off each other. When girls picked on me I just had to take it. You don't hit girls. Those were love licks.

I'm much slower now and I am not in the best of shape, but the attitude, the illusion is still there. My old round-house kick still goes where I send it on the heavy bag. Unstoppable. The only defense is to duck, cut, or shoot me. Such are my musings living in the concrete jungle. So in essence, I am not afraid of any of these punks who have infested my old world, dropping their Burger King cups on the sidewalks, right in front of me, with their pants falling off. And the back-sidewards ball caps and 'do rags?'

We used to buy our hats at Wormser and Kicks&Lids,--all those fedoras and fine knits. Now everybody wears ball caps. I guess the long bib is phallic and the ball game, never ending. The ball caps are more affordable and so are the long white T's. I like the T's but I prefer more colors for myself, not just the white ones, which seem to bond and 'equalize' the block. Cést la vie. To each his own and I have learned how to switch the channel simply by living in a different place.

My wise grandfather, who use to walk these streets always kept a spare pocket for 'extortion change.' But back then, this kind of threat was not the norm, just periodic. I'm riding my bike down Ashby the other day and a guy hollers from the park:

"Hey dog, lemme hold dhat bike. Sho'you how ta ryde dhat b****." All his signifiers are standing 'roun hoping to witness some dramatic turn of events. I haul a**.

This shout comes from E. F. Herndon Park, across the street from the old E. R. Carter School where I went to kindergarten and first grade 55+ years ago. It's now a private middle school where upper class, well-to-do blacks send their kids. It has a high fence around it. When I was a boy, there were just tall hedges.

Herndon was an ex-slave who became a multi-millionaire by starting Atlanta Life Insurance Company and several other businesses. I read his book. Fascinating. His Herndon Home is a tourist attraction in Atlanta. The tramps, scamps, and thugs in his park are no tribute. This gathering is still just a good five blocks from Westmoor. If I stay much longer, I will have to perhaps pay tribute just to go to the store. Luckily I don't have that pistol anymore. False security. I would be artificial in my boldness knowing I have a trusty iron in my pocket.

We have several new tenants downstairs. They all give me the stink-eye, hardly speaking as we pass on the porch or in the yard, which they mark with beer cans, gum and tampon wrappers, spilt garbage, socks, discarded cigarette packs, and paper cups. Their laundry is displayed out front like flags in a used car lot. They hang those clothes on the front porch banisters and my bicycle just to get a social reaction from me and let the world know they indeed have clothes. They want me to move my bike. I shall.

I've overheard, through the floor, people mumbling about "the old man." That's me, because I bang a chair on the floor when the noise gets unbearable especially that AM station they tune to everyday, blasting from the bathroom where "My husband be cuttin' hair," as the main tenant down there told my roommate, a graduate of Morehouse (Martin Luther King's alma mater), who's also serving as temporary property manager.

He's usually not home anyway--at work with kids during the day and hitting the clubs by night with his chums. He plays video games too, but at a volume conducive to living with a square like me who listens to Mozart string quartets and practices quietly 'pon a nylon-stringed guitar. Otherwise, these folks love to shake the house down. I bang more than once in the course of a day. One night I tap on the floor while some of the people below me are playing Grand Theft Auto. It sounds like constant demolition and African drumming. I try to pretend it's thunder, which I love. That won't work and my trusty ear muffs are neutralized.

They play nightly from 9PM 'til 6 AM and their cheap reefer smoke seeps up through the cracks giving me an even cheaper buzz I don't really need anymore. I have a touch of Emphysema in my upper lungs and chronic bronchitis. I have to run from smoke of any kind. I manage. Shame...can't go back and do Amsterdam like the old days.

In one such response to my floor rapping, I hear a male participant shout: "Man leave!" Then they turn the volume up even more. They don't know that when you live in close proximity to someone you cannot be noisy. It is a universal no-no. I still decide not to call the cops. The sheriff has been down there already in regards to domestic violence. There is a timely bit of fussing and fighting down there-noise is nothing.

I'm editing this portion of my diary on July 8, 2010. The "Man leave" shout was in January of 2008. Now I'm living far, far away on one of the South Carolina barrier islands. The guy next door, who I've named 'Alfalfa,' also plays Grand Theft Auto. I know that sound. Some other tenants must have complained to the regime because Alfalfa is quiet now. I have a friend in Hawaii who is so mesmerized by that game, it is his daily reality. When I would ask him to come down to Chili's for ribs and beer, he'd say, "I' got a plane to catch," and boot up the game on his 52" screen.

Well, I do the same with my guitar, so to speak. It's all relative. But it does wonders for his ego to snatch someone from a car, beat them up and take a ride, ditch the car and catch a plane. I know. . .I don't get it. Anyone for Donkey Kong or Asteroids?

But here at Westmoor in February of 2009, there is something stealthy in my blood that has been incubating for a good year now, maybe longer, maybe for generations. They missed it at a naval hospital I won't mention. In April of 2008 my doctor said I had too many white blood cells and called me back in for another test and I've never heard from them. Any oncologist can tell you what that probably means. After hearing that, I looked it up on the web and determined that if I have too many white cells, I am in trouble--big trouble. . .several kinds of trouble. They ignored it and so did I but an underlying fear made its home in my subconscious.

Here at Westmoor, the jagged edge is near. The Grim Reaper, called up by all of this stress, edgy living, and being out of work, will appear in my imagination and escort me away from all this and after unimaginable suffering, will let me go and once again walk among mortals with my redemption in tow.

Stay tuned for Part VI -"As I lay down to die. . ."