Booker T: From Prison to Promise: Life Before the Squared Circle Read Online Free PDF Page B

into overdrive.
    Bonita was wedged like a doorstop into the space between the two front seats. I grabbed her and got her out. She was crying and nearly hyperventilating but was otherwise okay.
    I ran to the driver’s side. Carolyn had smashed her head into the steering wheel and was moaning. She pulled me in close. “Here, take this and put it away somewhere for me.” She placed a .38-caliber revolver in my hand.
    Without even thinking about it, I slid the gun into one of my cowboy boots, which I always wore back then, and stayed by Carolyn’s side.
    As a result of the huge commotion, all the locals started pouring out of their houses to see what was going on. It turned out Carolyn had hit a car parked at the curb.
    Soon the cops came speeding in, lights on and sirens blaring. I was scared my sister would get in big trouble and have to go to jail or something, but things back then were so much different.
Really different.
    Carolyn explained that she had looked away from the road for a split second and hadn’t seen the other car.
    And you know what? The cops did not suspect her of being intoxicated. They must have thought she was simply disoriented from the crash. They never searched her and didn’t even give her a ticket.
    By then, Carolyn’s friend from down the street had arrived and offered to drive us back to South Park.
    When I slipped my sister her .38, she smiled and winked.
    Just as we had with our little heist, we kept the whole thing secret and acted is if it had never happened.
    Secrecy began to saturate my way of thinking. It became a code to live by. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, the behavioral patterns of my siblings were taking hold and starting to weather and mature me. My paramount ideals were to never get caught for any kind of scheme and, if I did, to keep my mouth shut and deny everything.
    As my education continued to develop, I tested myself. I thought the more I risked, the greater the reward would prove to be. There was no guarantee things would work out. All I had was the blind faith that I would emerge on the other side still shining and maybe carrying a few extra bucks in my pocket.
    I soon had my first real opportunity to put my newfound philosophies into practice. Every other month, this white man came through my South Park neighborhood to peddle his own scheme. One afternoon he told me the deal. He employed young kids to sell flowers on the street corners in exchange for a tiny percentage of the profits. The arrangement was a five-dollar take for every fifty dollars sold.
    Man, a kid with five bucks was rich! I figured,
Why not?
Of course, this would have to be a secret Booker T adventure. I quickly meditated on my new mantra:
Say nothing to anyone; deny everything if caught.
Then I was on my way.
    The guy drove me about half an hour away. I was pretty damn scared. Sure, I tried to be mature and fearless, but under the facade I was still just a kid.
    Finally, the man dropped me off on a busy street corner in this all-white area called Bellaire and handed me a huge bundle of flowers. “I’ll be back in an hour or two to check on you, okay?”
    I nodded, and he sped off.
    With a stomach full of butterflies, I stood there questioning what in the world I was doing.
    The guy knew what he was talking about, though. Before long, I had sold all my stock. I guess the little downtrodden black boy and his bouquets of flowers pulled the heartstrings of all those upper-crust white folks driving by. Maybe they thought it was their good deed of charity for the year. Those suckers. It was the perfect ploy.
    True to his word, the salesman returned. “Holy shit, kid, you did great.” He speedily unloaded another pile of flowers on me and said he’d be back.
    I felt great. I was making my own way in a daring situation. I’d land in a boiling pot of trouble if my mother only knew. This held the excitement and danger of the adventures of boosting the suit and holding Carolyn’s .38 rolled