An exquisite yellow morning ascended onto Sacred Point Apartments. The Section-8 targeted habitat was once a clean and thriving community built on uplifting its neighbors confidence to get back on their feet, but the years turned and the new wave of residents’ reliance on the public assistance created a permanence never seen before. This new era was as inviting as addiction was to a ‘casual’ user.

Demetrius Freeman was a precocious eight-year-old black boy. Every morning he’d wake up and immediately run to the bathroom to give himself the ‘superhero’ pep talk. I’m Superman today. I’m saving the world today. Next, he shoot faster than a moving bullet to his baby sisters bedroom and carry the sleepy princess to the kitchen to heat her formula. Demetrius, for his age, was a good cook. He knew his way around the kitchen well enough that he could put together a decent breakfast: cereal, milk, and toast.

Next, he’d bath his sister, put a diaper on her, brush his teeth, and walk her to the baby sitters, Sheila, who lived near the front of the complex. Sheila was a useful member of the community, as her home daycare center was unlike any other business out there. She accepted the welfare mothers received, food stamps, trade in services, to care for the kids while the mothers worked or spent their time doing whatever they didn’t talk about.

Demetrius enjoyed the few blocks he had ahead of him. It was a nice way to bond with Keisha and help teach her to walk on her own. Also, he’d pass his best friend, Alex’s apartment, and talk to him while he ate breakfast on the front porch.

Each day, he’d see some of the neighborhood boys playing in the rusted playground that sat next to the renovated leasing office, across the street from his home. Behind the playground was a giant dumpster some of the white kids would play in. Demetrius liked playing Peter Pan with them, and didn’t mind getting dirty a little. The basketball court sat just behind the dumpster, and he and kids knew: off-limits. Beside the intense basketball games, others hung in groups and Demetrius had heard the horror stories that happened at night there. One night his mom’s friend was carrying her baby and one of the boys said something to her. She cursed them out and he flicked a lit cigarette into her hair, watching it light on fire and the baby suffer some burns. Demetrius knew the older boys and young men were nothing to mess with, so he kept a careful distance.

On his way back home, Alex jumped in his way.

“Let’s do something,” Alex said, backpedaling in his steps with Demetrius.

“Alright. I got a baseball we can throw, but I only got one glove,” Demetrius stated, shrugging his shoulders as he knew Alex didn’t mind catching bare handed. He was hardened in that way. Enough beatings and hard labor inside his home, catching a hard baseball meant pure joy.

Demetrius reaches his porch and finds his mom half wearing a robe, top chest exposed, and smoking on a cigarette. She flicks the cigarette and motions for Demetrius and Alex to get out of her view. Alex knew each night his mom worked from home and he knew better than to ask who the men were that came in and out of her room. Usually she’d be in the living room most mornings or stuck in the bathroom for long periods of time. Whenever she was on the porch smoking, she looked as if she was thinking or trying to find  a way to break the news to her young, but capable son.

“Your father’s back. Don’t know how long. Don’t ask. Go say hi,” she said, not once looking at her son or his fear washing over him. Demetrius looks back at Alex who knows to walk to the park and wait for him.

Demetrius stands in the skinny, fluorescent lit hallway. He hears nothing. Not a good sign. He walks to his mother’s room and shies away from the strong robust smell of something he knows all too well, the men, the cigarettes, and the green stuff his mother sells on the side. A laughter erupts from the living room.

Demetrius stands at the end of the steps staring at his father. He is in and out of his life so often, that Demetrius forgets that he has a father. He has heard the horrific stories of the man that he is. The drug slinging, thug life is one thing, but the violence his father has forced his young son to watch is another. Some years ago, he was trapped in a small bathroom with his father and a friend, as they cut a white powder and smoked in front of him. Demetrius was so dizzy that he stuck a spaghetti noodle in his ear to kill the ringing that wouldn’t go away. Another time, his father lectured him on respect and loyalty, and took him to a friend’s place where he threw a woman on a bed and watched his father terrorize her and then beat her. He remembered how his father didn’t look like his father, but like the wild dogs that roamed the streets; the kind that lurk around and seek weakness to destroy and impose its strength to kill or dominate.

His father doesn’t notice Demetrius, nor care to look his way. He sits and laughs at the t.v. show Martin. Demetrius feigns a weak Hi his way and his father just looks at him and nods his head: Wassup. 

——————————————————————————————————————————–

Early evening, Alex has to get back home because his mother is under the watchful eye of child services, so she has to “pretend” to care about their whereabouts. Demetrius, sadly, watches him sink away. He knows he has to get back home and deal with him.

Sitting on the porch with a large beer and weed, Demetrius’s father takes all of his son in.

“Where you been boy?” his father asks.

“With my friend,” Demetrius replies.

“Get over here,” his father demands. Demetrius hangs his head and walks to sit next to his father. “Drink this,” he says to his young son. Demetrius only stares, he’s scared as to what it will do to him. He knows what it does to his parents.

“I don’t want to,” Demetrius responds. His father turns.

“Put hair on ya nuts boy,” his father says. “More for me then shit,” he says chuckling to himself. Demetrius’s friend, Corinthia, from next door walks over to him.

“Hi D,” Corinthia excitedly says.

“Hi Corinthia. How was camp?” Demetrius asks.

“I had fun. Too many bugs though. We got to jump off a diving board onto this big balloon thing that shot us in the air. It was scary, but fun,” Corinthia says as she motions with her hands on what that might look like to Demetrius.

“Where ya momma at?” Demetrius’s father says jumping in.

“Right here. Where yo ass been,” Corinthia’s mother says, surprising everyone.

“Hustlin baby,” he says, turning to her, licking his lips, looking her up and down.

“Hmm. Corinthia get in here. It’s late,” she says. Corinthia walks up the porch, but slips and falls. Demetrius’s father and reaches out and helps her up. He slips a hand between her legs while lifting her, causing Demetrius’s heart to drop and that sharp, red, pulsating feeling he only feels when something isn’t right. It’s the anger he doesn’t know how to sum up nor control. Without missing a beat, Corinthia’s mother burst onto the steps beating Demetrius’s father in the face with her shoe as she watched what he did to her daughter. She grabs Corinthia and rushes her inside. His father jumps up and bangs on their door. No response. He takes his large beer bottle and smashes it into their window and rushes inside his place.

Demetrius, stunned and confused, slowly gets up and walks back inside. He walks up the two steps to the skinny hallway and turns a corner and like getting hit with a bolt of lightning, everything turns black. He opens his eyes and finds himself laying on the floor with blood coming from his mouth. He hears his mother screaming and his father yelling behind a closed-door. Demetrius helps himself up and quietly slips into his room and shuts the door. He was used to being hit, but never had he been caught off guard the way his father got him.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

Demetrius awakes and lays in bed. He touches his face and he hesitates as it feels tender and puffy. He gets up, opens his door, and walks into the bathroom. No superhero speech today. He just looks back at himself and shakes his head.

Demetrius walks to Keisha’s room and she isn’t there. He turns around, alarmed. He darts forward and hears voices on the sidewalk. He opens the door and spots his mother holding his sister and Corinthia sitting on the steps eating cereal. It doesn’t feel right.

“Imma take her inside, but I’ll be right back girl. Come in if you want though,” his mother says to Corinthia as her gaze prolongs. She turns away and pushes Demetrius backward. His mother walks downstairs and Demetrius follows.

“What happened mama?” Demetrius asks, as he kisses his sister on the cheek in her high chair. His mother lights a cigarette at the small, crooked kitchen sink and turns to him.

“You won’t be seeing that no good bastard of a daddy again,” his mother says as she pulls a long drag from the cigarette and lets the smoke rise to the headache inducing lights. “Don’t tell nobody I told you this. He killed that girls mother and her boyfriend last night behind a grocery store. I dunno why they was there, but it happened. He got picked up early this morning. He did that shit,” his mother says as she puts out the half cigarette on the chipped kitchen counter. She opens the refrigerator and pulls out eggs, milk, and bacon.

“Sit down. I’m cooking today,” she says, sadly smiling at Demetrius and briefly, just briefly, feeling sorry for him as a son and what he may become as a man.

Demetrius, quietly and nervously, takes a seat and stares at the women in his life. What did it mean? What really happened to Corinthia’s mom and will Corinthia be okay? He just thinks and thinks to himself.

I wonder if Alex and Emily want to explore the woods today, cuz I do. 

(Painting by Michael Lang “Containing Chaos”) 

The alarm clock screeches loud, waking Michael from the sleep of death as he stretches his long arms to smash the snooze button, to not wake his comatose girlfriend. He detaches the phone from the charger hooked into the wall and rolls over onto his back, permanently turning off the alarm and staring at the time: 6:23 AM. Michael, now frantic with stress to not be late for ANOTHER 7 AM shift, jumps from bed and silently maneuvers through the mess that is called a bedroom. Once in the kitchen, he tosses out yesterdays old coffee, rinses out the pot and pours another four ounces of water. He empties yesterdays contents from his to-go coffee mug and rinses that out too. He opens the refrigerator to pull out the Folgers Colombian mix he swears by- empty. ‘Figures’, he thinks. Checks the time again:  6:27 AM. ‘What the hell is up with the time this morning?’ Michael rushes to his bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror. The lack of sleep has made the skin under his eyes darker than usual. He frowns at the crows feet forming on each side of his eyes. His eyes look redder and contain more red veins. What the hell. The alarm clock blares out loudly: 6:30 AM. 

Michael is at his desk/cubicle typing as fast as can, albeit making constant mistakes. He looks up at the weary and nervous family of four that sits across from him, hoping all goes well as the fate of where they call home next rests in Michael’s hands. He feels more tired and uncomfortable now that the morning is settling in. The to-go coffee mug of cold water just doesn’t do the same trick as that caffeine pop. He knows that he and them sit in two different positions in life. He’s a lowly intern trying to show his worth; they are in belief he is in a position of power that can change their life fortune. And there it is. Their profile shows that they aren’t eligible. The father and mother were arrested for criminal activity within the last 3 years and that will hold them out for assistance for another 2 years, at least. With limited knowledge and emotional comfort to explain a denial for housing assistance, he dives right in.

Later on, Michael sits in his boss’s office knowing what this meeting is about. Helen works intently, leaving Michael to feel as if she has even forgotten that he sits just a foot or so away from her. She picks up the phone and makes a phone call. Michael looks around and offers a nonverbal cue, ‘I could be at my desk doing the same thing’. Helen quickly hangs up and gives a portion of her valued attention to Michael. Here he learned that he made a grave misstep when having to break the heart and increase the all-to-familiar state of despair for the desperate family of four: he apologized. It was the policy of the organization not to offer an apology, because nothing was done wrong. He had heard one time too many that he was too forgiving, too nice, put too much heart into it the people would sense it and take advantage. To Michael, it was simple, homelessness was nothing to keep it moving, rather, it deserved a moment of compassion and some sort of understanding for both parts. He also learned what he knew: attendance was grave. Showing up at 7:00 am on the nose was late. He had to be at work ready to work at 7:00 am. He never quite agreed, but agreed nevertheless.

The lunch room was supposed to be the best part of his day. This is where I can eat my lunch, breathe, and catch a few minutes of sleep. Michael checked the fridge and that slow upward creeping, alarming river of panic set in: I forgot my lunch when I was rushing for work. As Michael leaves the lunch room to stand outside on the patio for a breather, he checks his phone to see a timely message from his love: Have a good day babe! I love you and will check in with you later. P.S. You forgot your lunch! Don’t worry, now you have something for tomorrow 🙂 

Michael, now donning black slacks, white iron pressed-buttoned up shirt, a black vest and tie, stands behind his bar at the fine dining establishment he works at part-time in addition to his internship, and polishes glasses and silverware. This moment in a day full of perturbation, is a nice break from the world. Here, he can effortlessly do a menial task and allow his mind to drift to inner passion and possibly reset itself to tolerate the evening ahead. This time allows him to breathe and think some things over whereas the entire morning and afternoon, he stays in his head trying to get ahead in his internship but just can’t seem to hit the right buttons with management, although his coworkers enjoy him very much. Michael’s manager turns the corner and watches Michael work silently. She engages him in conversation and surprises him with a quick meal for his hard work and dedication, tonight’s dinner special: spicy arrabiata w/ medium well flank steak. Yum.

The night starts off slow, as it is projected to be. There are no events taking place in the casino, according to the casino ledger, so Michael banks on letting the night slide by and allow him to end the week as smoothly as can. He has done some thing right, but can’t help but harp on the things that haven’t gone the way he would have liked, dread on the things he wishes he could take back or redo- then it happens. He watches a crowd of madness descend down the stairs and up to the hostess booth. His manager rushes from the booth and directs the food servers and bussers to create large tables for the large parties coming their way. Turns out upper management forgot to include in the ledger a workers retreat from out-of-town for his restaurant’s ledger. The staff was down to minimal, because of the projected crowd, and now everyone had to wake up and prepare for what was about to happen.

For the next four and a half hours, large parties and small groups entered the restaurant, ate at a leisurely pace and marveled at the mesmerizing and enthralling paintings that hung around. The staff worked hard and tried to pick their mood up, as there was nothing worse than being caught off guard in the restaurant industry. Low staff, orders still needing to be filled, food and alcohol running out, created an uneasy tension between the staff at a time when swords needed to be put away. Michael works the bar and works it hard. He moves as fast as can, impressively turning his mind off and not thinking about it. He knows that if you work yourself up and pay this situation thought, then you end up sending the wrong vibe to the crowd and it gets in the way of the work and most importantly: the money. Michael’s bar clears up a bit and rushes to wipe it down with his diluted bleach rag, when the very upper management who “conveniently” forgot to include the incoming retreat on the restaurants’ business ledger, jump in front of the waiting guests and take their seats. They stare at Michael and non-verbally demand menus and exude an elitist aura. The food and beverage manager refuses to peel his eyes from Michael and makes a quip about a 5 O’Clock Shadow and that it is not to his liking. The managers make stale comments regarding the menu, as one by one decide on the same thing: tonight’s special. After awhile their food arrives and the management team can’t help but complain about wait time, causing Michael to remark it is a surprisingly busy evening and the kitchen is working as hard as they. This doesn’t sit well. The team eats in silence, and one by one, they finish and get up to leave. The food and beverage manager, stuck with the bill, pays and offers the golden statement of the evening I’ll come back and tip you later, you did an okay job. At this moment, Michael felt the red rush his chest, his face, his eyes, his thoughts- the audacity of privilege to look down on him- not taking into account of how hard he works and what his day-to-day life is like. All he could do was nod and keep it moving, the manager walked away with a triumphant shuffle. Michael couldn’t stand the thought of losing.

Michael walks to his car in silence. He can’t help it. His mind is flushed. Their isn’t anything there. Going home is all he can stand to do. It’s like he could leave his keys in the door and take off running; running from what he feels are unfair circumstances, running from the pressure and standards he puts on himself, running from the problems he brings to himself, running from the societal pressures of what success is supposed to mean and those who try to wield their false power, running from a life he didn’t think he would ever have to live.. But he opens his car door, turns the car on, and drives off to his sanctuary at least.

Michael parks in his parking spot at home. It dawns on him he hasn’t checked his phone since lunch. Would be hard to believe, but he wanted to stay away from what he thought is noise. Getting bad news in his emails from the jobs he applies to, reading the wretched news and the melancholy that welcomes him, just didn’t seem all that important on this day. He sees he has missed a gang of text messages from his girlfriend. One after another, expressing her love to him and to keep his head up. He smiles, the first time today he thinks.

Michael walks into his home and is engulfed with a smell he has been missing since the morning, home. To better put it, dinner. He looks at the time and it’s 11:45 PM. His girlfriend whips around the corner.

“Sit down babe. I thought you’d be out at this time, cause you usually are so I made dinner,” she says with excitement bursting from every ounce of her being. Michael takes a seat and is speechless.

“Thanks babe. What did you make?” he asks as he gets comfortable. His girlfriend comes from the kitchen holding a plate that makes Michael smile, laugh, and practically want to cry. She sets it down in front of him and they embrace. His girlfriend took the night off from her hosting position to stay home and make Michael comfortable. She believes that he forgets to treat himself, so she wants to show him he deserves someone to help lessen his load.

“Here is my money from tonight,” Michael says as he hands her a wad of cash.

“Cool! We’re so close to our twenty thousand dollar mark,” she says feverishly. She walks off to add the money to their collection to deposit.

Michael digs into his plate and notices the cold, sweating beer and can’t help, but feel like the day was worth it. From the moment he woke up, he had felt the stress building and adding up inside of him. He thought the pressure was going to make him collapse. He thought moment after moment after moment, when do I get a break? He realized in this moment what was really adding up, was how much he just wanted to get home to his best friend and their home and cherish each other and the hard work they are putting in now to set up themselves to have the life they want to live. He realized the work is going to be hard and so is the situations that are going to come his way, but it all adds up to coming home to peace and a happy home that allows him to reset and do it all over again.

 

*Please enjoy. I am jumping back into writing short stories in preparation for writing my first novel. I am kicking off the rust as I go. Leave a comment and let me know what you think!