“No.”
This ain’t no little lot. A four-story house used to be on it. And people do all kinds of things in it. Shoot up. Throw up. Pee it up. Junk it up. There’s rats in there. Cockroaches too, I bet.
Ain’t no expression on my dad’s face, so you can’t tell if he’s sad, glad, or mad. “You think you a man, huh?” He pulls my arm. My feet spread and press to the floor like I’m on a roller coaster headed down. I wrap my arms around the back of my seat. He yanks me by the arms like the chain on a stopper in a drain. I fly out my seat. Fall out the car. Stare up at him from the ground. Then I jump up swinging.
A punch heads for my stomach—but it don’t land on me. Fists go to my head, my chest, and my face, but they all pass by me. That pisses me off, ’cause I know what my dad is trying to say: Anytime I want, I can take you outta here.
He looks at me. “Pick a spot. Any spot.”
I got one picked out right on the side of his mouth where his bad tooth acts up sometimes. “Don’t think I won’t hit you.” I swing and miss. Back up. Bounce on my toes like he taught me. I bob, swing, and hit him in the side of his head as hard as I can. “Yeah!”
A left hook, and I’m down on the ground and can’t get up. A few minutes later, I’m doing what he told me in the first place, and he’s headed for the truck. “Dopeheads live in this kind of filth all the time,” he says, throwing a box of trash bags at my head. “You wanna do dope, might as well start now living like they do.”
I look at him and try to figure out how he knows I been smoking weed. He gets in the jeep. Tells me to stop being soft and clean up the lot. “Otherwise you gonna be here all night long.”
My dad is super hard on me because he thinks he was too soft on me and Jason before. He says that most boys in our neighborhood are used to life being hard. When trouble comes, they knock it out the way. “Or at least run from it.” Jason just stood there— wetting himself. “Too many hugs,” my father says now. “Not enough butt-kickings.” My mother says that ain’t so. My father disagrees. “The hard knots don’t die. They kill and survive. The ones that have been hugged and kissed and loved too much—they being picked off like cotton from a pod. They soft. Momma’s boys,” he says. “And ain’t no more momma’s boys coming out my house.”
People watch. They shake their heads and say it’s a shame what my father’s doing. But nobody calls the police or gives me a drink or says for him to stop. And four hours later—after I worked two whole hours in the dark—my dad says I can quit. There’s ten garbage bags on the ground. “Load ’em,” he says, sitting in the truck, eating chips, and holding on to the book Cousin gave him.
I pick up the bags and dump them into the back of the truck. My dad says I stink, so he don’t let me ride up front. I’m sitting in back with the trash, holding on tight with one hand, dropping bags in the street with the other. When we get to the dump, I unload the rest of the bags. My father listens to the radio. When we get home, I’m too tired to climb out the truck.
He hollers. My mother cries. I can’t move. And finally, my father helps me in the house. “Boy,” he says, pulling my dirty shirt over my head when we get upstairs, taking down my pants, and throwing my underwear in the trash. He walks me to the shower and stands me under the warm water. “Boy,” he whispers in my ear, “I can’t lose no more . . .”
The water stings like alcohol when it hits the cuts on my fingers and legs. I open my mouth and drink it down like warm tea.
My dad squeezes soap over my shoulders and cleans under my nails. “Boy, I can’t bury no more sons.”
Chapter 12
I SMELL NOW THAT Idon’tgotoschool. I stink, really. My mother asks how come that is. “You shower every morning. I hear the water.”
I go in and sit down on the john and smoke weed out the window. But I don’t
This ain’t no little lot. A four-story house used to be on it. And people do all kinds of things in it. Shoot up. Throw up. Pee it up. Junk it up. There’s rats in there. Cockroaches too, I bet.
Ain’t no expression on my dad’s face, so you can’t tell if he’s sad, glad, or mad. “You think you a man, huh?” He pulls my arm. My feet spread and press to the floor like I’m on a roller coaster headed down. I wrap my arms around the back of my seat. He yanks me by the arms like the chain on a stopper in a drain. I fly out my seat. Fall out the car. Stare up at him from the ground. Then I jump up swinging.
A punch heads for my stomach—but it don’t land on me. Fists go to my head, my chest, and my face, but they all pass by me. That pisses me off, ’cause I know what my dad is trying to say: Anytime I want, I can take you outta here.
He looks at me. “Pick a spot. Any spot.”
I got one picked out right on the side of his mouth where his bad tooth acts up sometimes. “Don’t think I won’t hit you.” I swing and miss. Back up. Bounce on my toes like he taught me. I bob, swing, and hit him in the side of his head as hard as I can. “Yeah!”
A left hook, and I’m down on the ground and can’t get up. A few minutes later, I’m doing what he told me in the first place, and he’s headed for the truck. “Dopeheads live in this kind of filth all the time,” he says, throwing a box of trash bags at my head. “You wanna do dope, might as well start now living like they do.”
I look at him and try to figure out how he knows I been smoking weed. He gets in the jeep. Tells me to stop being soft and clean up the lot. “Otherwise you gonna be here all night long.”
My dad is super hard on me because he thinks he was too soft on me and Jason before. He says that most boys in our neighborhood are used to life being hard. When trouble comes, they knock it out the way. “Or at least run from it.” Jason just stood there— wetting himself. “Too many hugs,” my father says now. “Not enough butt-kickings.” My mother says that ain’t so. My father disagrees. “The hard knots don’t die. They kill and survive. The ones that have been hugged and kissed and loved too much—they being picked off like cotton from a pod. They soft. Momma’s boys,” he says. “And ain’t no more momma’s boys coming out my house.”
People watch. They shake their heads and say it’s a shame what my father’s doing. But nobody calls the police or gives me a drink or says for him to stop. And four hours later—after I worked two whole hours in the dark—my dad says I can quit. There’s ten garbage bags on the ground. “Load ’em,” he says, sitting in the truck, eating chips, and holding on to the book Cousin gave him.
I pick up the bags and dump them into the back of the truck. My dad says I stink, so he don’t let me ride up front. I’m sitting in back with the trash, holding on tight with one hand, dropping bags in the street with the other. When we get to the dump, I unload the rest of the bags. My father listens to the radio. When we get home, I’m too tired to climb out the truck.
He hollers. My mother cries. I can’t move. And finally, my father helps me in the house. “Boy,” he says, pulling my dirty shirt over my head when we get upstairs, taking down my pants, and throwing my underwear in the trash. He walks me to the shower and stands me under the warm water. “Boy,” he whispers in my ear, “I can’t lose no more . . .”
The water stings like alcohol when it hits the cuts on my fingers and legs. I open my mouth and drink it down like warm tea.
My dad squeezes soap over my shoulders and cleans under my nails. “Boy, I can’t bury no more sons.”
Chapter 12
I SMELL NOW THAT Idon’tgotoschool. I stink, really. My mother asks how come that is. “You shower every morning. I hear the water.”
I go in and sit down on the john and smoke weed out the window. But I don’t
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