"Paying Some Respect to Love"
from "Manchild on the Streets"
Throughout my life, I've learned a bunch a lessons. Some were fairly easy, some nearly tore me
to pieces, inside or out.
When my pop was killed so many things changed. I changed.
Everything in my life seemed raw and razor sharp. And I cried. God, how I cried. Ma said it was good for a man to cry - see, I guess somewhere
along the lines I had gone from just barely being a teenager to becoming a
man. Ma said that it was okay to show
how I felt, that it didn't make me any less of a man. But on the streets of New York some people take that kind of... I
don't know - sensitivity, I guess - and turn it into something hurtful or use
it like a weapon against ya. That was a
lesson I learned the hard way.
So I stopped showing those outward signs. Not the easy stuff - like being loyal to the
guys ya ran with or being gentle with a girl.
But when it came to really getting deep with the "feelings stuff",
it just became one more soapy scene like on those bad
daytime dramas with the cheap actors that were all fluff and
great hair. Tellin' yer buddies how much they meant to ya was just
another way to get yer butt kicked in a royal way. They
either shied away from ya because you were a sissy and couldn't be counted on
in a fight or worse - they thought you were queer.
After I grew up that was a hard lesson to unlearn, even
after I met Hutch. I've learned a lot
from ole Blondie, though I'd
probably never admit it to him. He coulda been a professor, he's so smart. Not just the book stuff, but about
life. And people.
Ya see, when I first met him, there was something different
about him. Not just his obvious
refinement. Here was a guy that had
some class. But there was an easy way
about him - the way he laughed, the way he smiled - how comfortable he was
around people. Squeezing a friend's
shoulder or slappin' them on the back came as easy to him as breathin'. It was just part of who he was - natural, ya
know? So after we started hangin' around together it was no big deal for him to
reach out for me when things were goin' good or when the pressure was on.
I have to admit, at first it made me uneasy. I mean, not that what he was doin' was
anything more than a gesture between friends, but the contact... I don't
know.... got in my "space" like. It's kinda like in the comics when
the superhero has a
protective energy shield around them, ya know? So here I am, Captain Marvel Supercop and
this blonde stranger just "whammo!" easy as punch, reaches right
through and gives my shoulder a grip.
Crap, how did that happen? I
think I even flinched the first coupla times he did that. But what was really weird was the fact that
after a bit, I never even blinked. Even found myself reaching out to him without
even realizing I was doin' it. At some
point, I guess my brain realized I didn't need an energy shield to keep him
out. Didn't want to either. It just
seemed right, like it was supposed be that way between friends. I realize now that it's the incredible amount
of love this guy has just kinda made up for what I had missed for so long.
Ya ever been out in the dessert? It gets so dry out there that the ground actually cracks. But when it rains, the earth can't get
enough of it. The
rain pours down and it makes everything come alive and turns it into something
spectacular. I think I know how that feels.
One of our first cases together was a hard one. A little kid was murdered involving a porno
ring. That was the first time I cried
in front of anybody since... well, since awhile after my pop died. I cried like I'd been storin' it all up for
fifteen years or
so. Maybe I
had. But instead of turnin' away from
me like I was half afraid he would, like all the friends I had had growin' up,
Hutch just gathered me up in his arms and cried along side
of me. I think that was when I knew -
really knew - that my life was different.
That I was different.
A test of this lesson came when Jackson was killed. He was a good man, Jackson Walters. What happened to him and his family shouldn't
have happened to a dog. Ya see Jackson
had a buddy that he carpooled with.
This dude's car had been snatched and used in a attempted 2-11, then
abandoned. So when Jackson's friend findshis
car again and picks him up for work, some patrolmen spot `em after IDing the
car. Jackson's buddy's not too bright
and splits and...well, what happens is that a trigger-happy bigot rookie named Andrews
shoots Jackson cold.
Me and Hutch had just been playin' a little two-on-two with Jackson
and Junior an hour or so earlier.
Things were fine until
Jackson discovered some drugs Junior had been given by some
of the guys he'd been hangin' with on the streets. I tried to
connect with him before he went tearin' off. We've got a lot more in common than I think
he realizes. The streets of Brooklyn
and alleys of L.A. ain't a whole lot different from where Junior was at.
So now I'm holdin' Jackson's hand while his life seeps onto
the pavement. We get him into the
ambulance and track down the
lizard that shot him.
When he said the witness was lying, called her a "nigger" -
that was it. I only slapped the little
bastard,
but if Hutch hadn't grabbed ahold of me, I swear I woulda
taken him out right then and there.
Later that night we're at the hospital waiting for word
before we tell his momma and Junior what happened. Hutch went down the hall to make some calls to the station and
track down some coffee. I didn't mean
to, but I fell asleep on the sofa. That
shouldn't surprise me.
Hutch says I can sleep anywhere if I'm tired enough. What's weird is that I started dreamin'
about my
Pop. Probably because Jackson got shot. But in my dream Pop and Nicky and me are
shootin' hoop in the school yard. The
ball gets hit out and so I go leggin' after it, catchin' it just before it
rolls through a hole in the fence. I
turn around to throw it to my dad, but he's lyin' on the pavement bleeding like
he'd been.... when he'd.... and Nicky.... Nicky just sits there next to him
crying his eyes out, sobbing like there's no tomorrow. Which there wasn't....
It's the sobs that wake me up. Only it's not Nicky, it's Sammi.
She doesn't have to say anything, I know. I know that
Jackson's dead.
Hutch comes back with the coffee, his eyes wide with dread when he sees
us sittin' there. For some reason I
still have to say the words "Jackson's dead." My eyes are filled withtears because I loved
my friend.
If you had told me five years ago that I'd be sitting in a hospital
hallway crying, I probably woulda busted ya one. But
I've learned from my partner that it's okay to cry. I don't have to think about it, worry about
it. Hutch's baby blues are filling
up, too. No thoughts
about being any less of a man - just have to worry about how we're going to
tell Mrs. W and Junior that
Jackson's gone. I
can hardly talk " I.... I think we'd better go home." There is no
shame in my reaching out to Hutch, a gentle
hold on the back of his neck, reminding him of our shared
grief, our shared bond. He'll start the leg work and I'll take Sammi
home. I know we'll
hook up later and really grieve for what's beenlost.
As we sit at Mrs. Walter's kitchen table I can't find the words. Something feels really, really weird - `deja
vu' almost - like I've sat here before.
Done this before. But I can't figure
it out, and don't have time or energy to waste on it. Right now I have to tell
this kind and gentle lady that her son's dead. My friend is dead. Shot by
one of my brothers in blue. I'm not at
all proud of being associated with such company right
now.
She's getting frantic with her unanswered questions. I know I've got to spit it out, however badly I mangle it.
"Jackson...." The realization hits me in that
moment. "Oh my God...." It's like months of my life were all crammed
into what could have only lasted an instant at that kitchen table. Another cop, years ago, sat at my family's
table talking to my mother, who only moments before had been wondering why Pops
had been so late in coming home from his shift. It was morning and I was just coming out of my bedroom. The other cop was there to tell her that my
father had been shot and killed.
Murdered. My heart imploded at
that moment and something within me was destroyed too.
Junior was just coming back from his paper route and
overheard me tell his grandmother that his father was dead. Just as I had overheard. I knew, I knew exactly what he was feeling -
exactly. I wish to God I didn't, but I
did. Still felt it as if it were
yesterday. I
knew. I ran after him as he tore
through his neighborhood trying to escape his grief, trying to escape the
horror
of it all, trying to escape the loss of what was left of childhood innocence. Deja vu still lingered as I remembered my
own flight into the New York streets being chased by the same demons.
Somewhere along the way I twisted my ankle, no idea how or
when, but the pain in my leg was nothing compared to the pain screaming through
my chest, my head, my heart. When he
finally stopped, Junior needed answers but I didn't have any. Nothing that would take away his pain,
anyway. But there was one thing I could
say that might make a difference.
"I think you can be the man your daddy wanted you to
be." I hoped that it would mean to
him what it had meant to me back then. Ya
see, I finally figured that if I could become that man that my father was
raising me to be, somehow I could stay close to him even though he was gone
forever. I missed him so much those
first few years I thought I couldn't stand it.
But by hanging on to who he was, holding on to his love for me,
respecting what he wanted for my life and trying to be that man - that kept me
from going down the wrong road time and time again. Yeah, I made some stupid
choices during those first few years.
When your daddy dies, it's awful hard to see straight. But I loved my Pop. Respected him. So I held on to the things he taught me and that kept me from
self-destructing. And later in my life
it was a certain blonde partner that not only kept me from going off the deep
end a time or two, but retaught me one of the most important lessons of my
life: that love is something to
cherished, that love holds no room for shame, and that love is to be
respected.
That night I found Hutch crashed out at my place, waiting for me. Without a word I claimed a portion of the couch next to him and we simply sat there, neither one of us saying anything for awhile. We didn't need to. Tears came later and so did a brotherly arm across my shoulders when the grief turned to weeping.
The next day I found myself back with Jackson's momma,
sitting around the kitchen table picking at what was left of the blueberry pie. I listened while she told me stories of a
younger Jackson, stories that made both of us smile and cry a little. I listened while she told me about her fears
for Junior, how this might be the final push that sends him over the edge. He hadn't been home since the day before,
and she was afraid that he'd miss his daddy's funeral and worse. As she walked me to my car I promised that I
do what I could, but would she be alright? She assured me that "God don't
give us more than we can handle."
I wonder sometimes if God thinks we're stronger than we really are. I didn't want the opportunity to find out.
Later a little simple detective work made us realize what
Junior and Maurice were up to. Like I
said, it was pretty simple: when your daddy dies, it's awful hard to see
straight. We only had one hairy
moment in the hospital when Maurice decides to grandstand by threatening
Sammi. I can't tell ya what went
through my head when Junior picked up the bag of stolen drugs at Maurice's goading.
Or how relieved I was when Junior
nailed him up side the head with it.
There were only loose ends to tie up. Thankfully the hospital wasn't pressing
charges. Andrews was on unpaid leave
for 90
days, then his case would be reviewed. Like the Cap'n said, it's an imperfect
system. Junior said it was jive. I think it's a load
of crap myself, but I'm still gonna be one of the jackasses pulling
the cart because I know the system does work most of the time. Besides, there's still time to even the
score with a certain bigotedlittle SOB.
I ain't through with him yet.
But there was still the jumble going on inside of Junior's head. Probably nothing I could say or do at that moment would amount to a hill of beans against what he was feelin' and thinkin'. But sometimes you have to push that aside and do what's right for the one who loved you. I can read the emotions that flash across his face - it's like changing the channels on your TV real fast - rage, hurt, resentment, desperation, regret.
The hardest of those feelings to deal with is the anger -
anger he had for his father. That's
right, for his father. Even though
Jackson was the victim - he certainly didn't ask to be
gunned down - Junior was still mad at him for dying, feeling betrayed because he's
not there when he was needed the most.
In some irrational part of your mind you think if he had just loved you
enough he wouldn't have died. It sounds
stupid, but I've been there, and that's where I think Junior was too.
I remember the battle I fought with myself as my own
father's funeral approached. I didn't
want to go, couldn't bear to
see the honor guard hand my mother the flag that had adorned
his casket,couldn't bear to see him slowly lowered into the grave, couldn't
bear to say Kaddish. Of all the raw
emotion I was experiencing, shame was the worst. I couldn't remember the last time I had told my father that I had
loved him and that ate away at me like a cancer. Surely he had known, but he left without a clear memory of the
words having been said. That loss, that
shame, was too much too bear. But love
was stronger and I respected the bond between us too much to not say
goodbye. Even if goodbye started my life
on a lonely journey - lonely until a man closer than a brother rekindled the
love in me that I thought was extinguished forever.
"Junior, Hutch and I are going to your father's
funeral, because we loved him. He loved
you too. That's what funerals
are about: paying
some respect to love. Now, are you
coming, or aren't ya?" My heart
swelled as Junior stood, answering the call of a father's bond to his son -
paying respect to love.
And later today, after the funeral and we spend time with
the Walters, I'm gonna set my blonde teacher down and say out loud
what is in my heart.
Tell him how I was reminded again how short life is. Tell him how grateful I am to have him as my
partner, my friend, my brother. Tell
him that I love him. Even after all the
lessons I've learned from him about showing love - a touch, a grip, an embrace
- saying these things out loud won't be easy for me. But love is something
precious, something to be treasured, something to be respected. It deserves the respect to be said out loud
so that it leaves no room for doubt.
~Brit
7/13/00