Life Without Hope Page 4

  crumbs around his mouth but I resisted the urge to wipe it off.

  “Hope … I like that name, it’s beautiful, like maybe you can

  be trusted …”

  “Mr. Anonymous, I’m glad that you mentioned that,” I said,

  placing my chicken breast down looking at him intensely. The

  atmosphere changed to a mental standoff between man and

  woman.

  “You never did tell me your name.”

  He looked at me as if to say,

  I had no intention of doing so

  , so

  I continued in a Black woman’s threat, talking with my hands in

  the air.

  “Since I am aiding and abetting a fugitive, and the fact that

  you’re driving my car, it would be mutual respect if I at least knew

  who you are.”

  He had the nerve to smirk at me with those shimmering

  brown eyes. I could tell he was thinking if he should tell me his

  name. Finally he sighed, exhaling deeply, the way people do after

  weighing their thoughts.

  “My friends call me ‘L’. I was born in Chicago. My dad and

  step mom moved to Sarasota, Florida when I was about a year

  old.”

  I watched as he took a big swig of his Coke. I took the oppor-

  tunity to pr y further.

  “You still have not told me your name.”

  He smiled at me, shaking his head with a sly expression that I

  had seen many times before, acknowledging my wits. I resisted the

  urge to smile back. It was important I knew ever ything I could

  about this man.

  “OK, my real name is Life Thugstin. Everyone calls me ‘L’ for

  short, and before you ask, my father named me Life because my

  mother died while giving me life. It was a painful death of child-

  birth.”

  When he said that, something deep within me tugged at my

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  heartstrings. My mother died while I was a small child, at least I

  did have fond memories of her. Life had none. Right then, in my

  own strange way, I bonded with him.

  “My father is the famous preacher, Reverend Freddy Thugstin.

  You heard of him?”

  I was completely speechless. Damn right I heard of him, and

  just about everybody in America has heard of him, at one time or

  another. The man had a radio show and his own television show

  on cable. This brotha was truly puzzling me now. Most children

  were forced into a life of crime due to economic and poor family

  structure. If what I was hearing was true, Life’s family was doing

  pretty well financially. I could not help it, I delved deeper.

  “Your father is the Reverend Thugstin? I’ve seen his service on

  television many times on Sunday mornings … what happened to

  you?”

  “What do you mean, what happened to me?” He made a face

  that would have scared a small child.

  “Your dad has that big old church with all those people

  attending.” I wanted to say all that money too, but I didn’t

  because it would not have sounded appropriate since his father

  was a religious man.

  “My dad is full of shit, a pussy-ass nigga. He could drop dead

  as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Don’t say that!” I said scornfully.

  “You only see what the lights and cameras show you. I got so

  many bastard brothers and sisters, I can’t even keep count of all of

  ‘em. That church for him is nothing but a harem.”

  I decided not to pry any further; it was clear that Life and his

  father had major issues. Now that I looked at him, he was the spit-

  ting image of his dad, with the same handsome features. You could

  tell they made beautiful babies. Tactfully, he changed the subject,

  or so he thought.

  “So you’re studying African studies?” he inquired as he turned

  to look out of the window. I could sense that his mind was some-

  where else, probably at his daddy’s church in Sarasota. A woman

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  L i f e

  has to be careful with digging up old wounds, the hurt was still

  there.

  “Yea, I’m taking a course in African Studies. I’m majoring in

  Criminology, Sociology and some more ologies. I’m going to be a

  lawyer.” With that, I held my chin up, those were like magic

  words to ‘em. Hell, I was halfway to achieving my dreams. I

  thought about my brother in prison, heard his remark every time

  I said I was going to be a lawyer he would joke and say, “And get

  you big bro out of prison.” The only thing was, I knew it wasn’t a

  joke.

  The car was quiet, like too many thoughts being churned out

  at the same time. I did the woman thing, and began to clean the

  mess up that we made. I got out of the car with bags of chicken

  bones. Somehow I felt that Life could use the solace of being alone

  with whatever it was that was troubling his mind. The old bat in

  the camper rolled her eyes at me. As I approached the trashcan a

  mangy dog sat about three feet away licking his chops like he had

  been expecting me. I tore open the bag and threw him a bone. He

  just cocked his head sideways like maybe he was debating if I

  could be an undercover lady dogcatcher. As I walked back to the

  car, I noticed the chill in the air. Night was falling, turning the sky

  a beautiful shade of blue.

  When I got back to the car, Life was inhaling deeply on a

  Newport cigarette. I don’t know what white folks are putting in

  them smokes, but I swear sometimes people look like they are

  making a television commercial when they are inhaling them.

  Normally I don’t let people smoke in my car, and I have been

  cursed out a lot for that, considering how ragedy my car is but

  there is always that one exception.

  *****

  23

  Chapter Thr

  ee

  Chapter Thr

  ee

  “Flirting with Death”

  – Hope –

  After about two hours of driving we were just about two hours

  outside of Tallahassee. I don’t know why ever ything always looks

  so spooky on the highway at night when you are traveling across

  the country.

  I was listening to my tunes. Anita Baker was crooning about

  sweet love and the heat felt good on my feet. The whole time Life

  was quiet, the way men are when they have something on their

  mind. I cannot stand an overly sensitive man, but I did kind of

  want his conversation. He showed me nothing less of that of a

  gentleman. I still was not sleeping on him.

  Betty suddenly started to show her ass. The car lost power, the

  lights dimmed and the motor cut off. Life slammed his hand into

  my dashboard, like he had lost his damn mind, scaring the shit out

  of me. The car coasted. I sat up in my seat, eyes bulging out of

  their sockets. Life got out, slamming the door behind him. It was

  so dark outside I could barely see my hand in front of my face, and

  once again I was thankful I was not alone.

  Life got back in the car and tried to start the motor. Nothing.

  “We are going to have to let the engine cool off,” he said, frus-

  trated. Still, I
was happy to have him with me. And then he added,

  “If that doesn’t work, we’ll just have to walk.”

  “Walk?” I repeated like I was just learning to speak English.

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  L i f e

  After an hour my feet were cold and I sat balled up in the car

  shaking. Occasionally, Life would dash out of the car and try to

  wave down a car for help, flailing his arms. After a while I was

  beginning to think it was a waste of energy. A Black man at 10

  o’clock at night, waving at cars, must have looked like a robbery

  about to happen to white folks. I knew one thing for sure, every

  time he opened the door, he let out the little warm air our bodies

  produced. My feet felt like icicles.

  “I’m cold,” I said more to myself, as I changed positions from

  one side of my buttocks to the other. “My feet are freezing.” I was

  trying to give him a hint to keep the other door closed.

  “Give them here,” he said as he rubbed his hands together.

  “What?”

  “Give me your feet.”

  I lingered on that thought a moment or two. I thought it was

  a cute gesture, but it would be inappropriate with this brotha,

  besides my ashy feet looked like I had been kickboxing with Bruce

  Lee. To my utter surprise, this man reached over and grabbed my

  feet. I figured what the hell, so I let him. He placed my feet on his

  lap removing my sandals. His big hands were so gentle and warm,

  they felt like hot butter caressing my skin. Skillfully he r ubbed the

  arch of my foot carefully placing pressure at all the right points.

  The feeling was completely tantalizing. I moaned out loud. I

  swear to God it felt like he was massaging my clitoris. I closed my

  eyes, “hmmmm yeah.” I went to thinking that this is feeling too

  damn good, too intimate. I wiggled my toes.

  “Ok therapy man, where did you learn that?” I asked playful-

  ly. He stopped and placed my feet under his shirt. This man was

  really trying to keep my feet warm.

  “My stepmother, Brenda. She raised me after my mother died.

  She taught me a lot.”

  I learned there is always a Black woman in a man’s life some-

  where at some time, even if it is only her prayers, and from the

  smoldering look in Life’s eyes, I could tell this was the woman.

  I wiggled my feet on his washboard abs. His belly rumbled in

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  L i f e

  an attempt to suppress a laugh. I had to admit, homeboy got

  major points for being a complete gentleman. Once again though,

  I had the feeling he was treating me like his little sister, not a

  woman. That was cool with me. After all, he was a thug.

  We both fell asleep to the murmur of crickets and an occa-

  sional passing car, the sounds of the night.

  I awoke with a startle to the cataclysmic sound of what I

  thought was an earthquake. I couldn’t get my bearings straight.

  Lights blared in my face and the police had the car surrounded.

  Someone was pounding on my window so hard I was sure they

  would break it. This was it. My stupidity had caught up with me.

  Everything I gained would be lost. Here I was about to go to

  prison and possibly get shot in the process.

  Oh-lawd!

  I thought. I

  had a loaded gun under the seat.

  I watched as Life rolled down the window in what looked like

  slow surreal motion. A gun was pointed at his head. On my side,

  I could see little beady eyes staring at me. A face smeared the win-

  dow with breaths of sinister fog, as a bright light continued to

  shine in my face. I was shaking so bad I did not know what to do.

  I heard a formidable voice bark out in a southern drawl.

  “Boy, wha ya think ya doing herah?”

  I could smell the faint scent of alcohol. I knew at that moment

  that something was drastically wrong! I peered out of my passen-

  ger window. There were now two pairs of eyes, fiendishly staring

  back at me.

  “Jimbo, derra niggrus in dis herah car,” the ominous voice

  announced.

  The faces on my side of the car hooted in a kind of laughter

  that wasn’t filled with the pleasure of kindness. It made my flesh

  crawl. I realized then that they couldn’t be the police. This was

  worse, much worse!

  “Boy, yea know yous in Steam Hatch,” the redneck said, press-

  ing the gun against Life’s temple. It was then that my vision

  cleared and my brain snapped into overdrive. The lights that I

  mistook for police lights were actually shinning from a large four-

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  wheel truck that looked like it was two stories high. Its fog lights

  shined bright like the morning sun.

  Oh God! I felt Life’s hand trying to reach underneath my seat

  for the gun. I was paralyzed with fear.

  “Boy, wha yea doin?”

  “N-N-N-Nothing sir,” Life stammered.

  “Place yo hands where I can see ‘em!”

  “Elmo, go to dah truck and get dah rope and crowbar, we’s

  fixin to hav-ow-selfs some fun.”

  I felt Life nudging me to pass him the gun. I did what white

  people usually do in them scary movies, stand motionless when

  they were in danger. I literally just sat there unable to move while

  the white man had that gun to Life’s head.

  “Hope! Hope! Hope!” Life whispered my name like sips of a

  dying man’s last breath. Lawd have mercy, I was afraid to move.

  The car door flung open and a malodorous smell of unwashed

  bodies and whisky filled the air. A glumy face with rotten teeth

  and manes of dirty blond hair and blue eyes stared at me with the

  look of the devil. The other face was hulkish, with a large bulbous

  nose and a shaggy beard. Their lupine laughter echoed in the night

  like crazed hyenas on a frenzy for the hunt about to kill. A white

  man’s sport.

  “You sho’ll is purdy,” the white man with the blond hair said

  as he tried to caress my hair. I moved my head.

  “Elmo, lookahera. She’s a purdy black gurl. Nah all we wanna

  do missy is tie ya’ll up and have ourselves a lil fun,” he snickered

  and scratched his privates.

  Life’s hand was under the seat now and I really thought he was

  going to be foolish and grab the gun.

  “Put yo hands up and get out da car. Jumbo, tie the gurl up

  first.”

  “Hold up! I have money. Lots of it, just don’t hurt the girl.”

  “Huh?” The gunman peered closer to Life as if he were exam-

  ining some fine specimen of a nigger. The word money had his

  attention.

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  L i f e

  As I looked on, to my horror in what looked like blazing

  speed, Life grabbed the gun. A tussle ensued and the gun fired. I

  screamed, shattering the lull of the night. Life hung onto the old

  man with a death grip. The old white man must have been as

  strong as a bear, because he pulled Life through the window like

  he was a little rag doll. The other two men ran to the other side of

  the car to help their partner. Vaguely, I thought I heard Life yell

  for me to get the gun, but I was sca
red to death. I couldn’t move.

  Though blinded by the high beam lights, I watched the sil-

  houette of bodies ensconced in the throes of death’s struggle, as

  Life Thugstin fought for his life. The other two men were now

  pummeling him with blows and somehow, amazingly with the

  brute strength of determination, he held on to the gun. I watched

  as one of the white men drew back hitting Life with an iron crow-

  bar. He cried out in pain. To me, at that moment, at that time, his

  cries sounded like the vociferous shrieks of a million dying Black

  men being tortured. They were going to kill Life, just as sure as I

  sat there in the car doing nothing, just as sure as the moon and the

  stars would bear witness once again to the senseless atrocities

  waged against a human life.

  In the torrid passion of insurmountable fears, something

  loomed in me that I have never felt before, it seized my body,

  pushing me forward. Rage! The kind of rage that made me lash

  out without caring. I grabbed the gun from inside the glove com-

  partment. It was heavy. I staggered out of the car into the dreary

  night. Something possessed me. The white man that tried to

  touch my hair was about to wack Life in the back with the crow-

  bar once again. I fired the gun. The sound was deafening. A blast

  of orange exploded around my head. I was nearly knocked to the

  ground but somehow I managed to keep my balance.

  “Muthafucka, get the fuck off of him! Now bitch, or I’ll blow

  your muthafuckin brains out!” I yelled as spittle dribbled off my

  lips like a deranged maniac on drugs. My hands trembled as I

  aimed the gun. Tears streaked my cheeks. They all backed up off

  of Life, leaving his lifeless body lying in a heap in the weeds and

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  dirt. I called his name, “Life … Life!” He did not move. One of

  the men was holding a knife in his hand. Oh my God! My eyes

  darted to the knife and back to Life. A lone car passed. Three pairs

  of eyes stared at me.

  The leader spoke as he inched toward me. “Naw, Missy give

  me dat dere gu–”

  Pow!

  I fired the gun at his head.

  “Get on the ground now!” I heard the crowbar hit the ground.

  They all tried to get as flat as the dirt.