FREEDOM
I still remember the very moment that I tasted freedom again. Five years locked away up north in the bowels of New York’s prison system, so far from home, had made me numb. I was desensitized. My days were spent working out in the yard doing a hundred push-ups at a time, reading ghetto love stories, and trying not to think about what I was missing. But, the morning I heard the guard call out my name—“Tarzan Brixton, it’s time!”—I started to feel alive again. As I walked down my cell block for the last time, my heart beat faster than usual. The sun seemed to shine brighter than it ever had before. I had to squint my eyes as I stepped outside the gates for the last time. I felt momentarily blinded by the light. By the joy I felt at being free for the first time in so many years.
I had suffered through a five-year bid, locked down in the belly of the beast over some light work. Armed robbery charges and resisting arrest. I ran up in a store on Linden Boulevard and stuck up the clerk at gunpoint. Of course there was a fucking off-duty cop in the store buying lotto tickets. He tried to be a hero, pulled out his badge, yelled out “Freeze!” and all that dramatic shit. I shot out of there like a bullet, flying down the block like Usain Bolt. The part that hurt the most was that I almost got away. But, I was running too fast, and I tripped over my own feet when I tried to turn a corner at the last second. It gave the cop enough time to catch up to me, and before I knew it I was on my way to jail. It pissed me off because it was my own fault. Not just because I was the one who had committed the crime. But because it was my own clumsiness that got me caught. I was usually so light on my feet, a skill I used to my benefit in my life of crime. I had been in countless chases like that one before, and each time I had gotten away. But life has a way of catching up with you.
It wasn’t even a major jux. Just a quick way to get my hands on some cash because my mama was in a desperate situation. Sounds typical, I know. But, there’s nothing typical about me. My mother made sure of that when she named me Tarzan, after the legendary king of the jungle. Ironic that I found myself caged in a place with some of the most vicious animals imaginable. I survived because I was strong, raised by one of the toughest women on God’s green earth. My mama, Loretta Brixton. It was to her home that I returned immediately after being released from prison. I needed to see her, to hug her, see her smile again. But, I wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted me when I stepped across the threshold of our apartment in the Brooklyn projects that we had called home my whole life.
The place wasn’t as spotless as it normally was. The living room looked a little messy, and there were dishes piled up in the sink. Leftover food sat on top of the stove, and as I looked around I could sense that Mama wasn’t her usual self. My mother had been sick for a long time. It was one of the reasons I had robbed that store. She had suffered from diabetes since I was a kid. It was something she had always struggled with. But, then her kidneys had failed one after the other in the years before I went away. The doctors placed her on dialysis several times a week, and put her on medication. But with each hospitalization, the bills piled higher and things got thick. I needed the money I was going after in that robbery to set things right again. For a little while, at least.
I’m not trying to say that I was a saint. Far from it. My motives weren’t all pure. I wanted to flex a little. Grab enough cash to get Mama straight and get a few nice things for myself. Stunt in the hood for a change. Times had been hard for a long time. I felt that I was overdue for my turn in the spotlight. Still, selfish motives aside, my main focus was on getting the money Mama needed for all the hospital stays, holistic treatments, and medication it took to treat her kidney failure and diabetes.
Growing up in the tough streets of Brooklyn with no pops was tough. Mama had her hands full with me. I had always been a live wire and a magnet for trouble. That’s probably the reason why Mama chain-smokes Newports like there’s no tomorrow. She ain’t afraid of a little dark liquor, either. Growing up, all of my boys were afraid of my mother. But, I never was. Mama was sweet. Underneath that tough, unsmiling exterior was a heart of pure gold.
I walked into her bedroom and found her lying in bed. She seemed to be asleep, but I couldn’t be sure. Her breathing was steady, and the room was dead silent. It felt kinda spooky. I looked at all the pill bottles scattered on the nightstand. Gauze, bandages, and needles for her insulin injections. Her Bible was there, too. Just like it always was. That made me smile.
I cleared my throat, announcing my presence. “Hello, Mama. Your prodigal son has returned.”
She opened her eyes and saw me there. Slowly, she sat up in the bed, and leaned forward. Her eyes welled up with tears.
“Aww, Mama, don’t cry.”
She shook her head at me, the tears streaming down her face now. She snatched a tissue from the box at her bedside. “Little boy, if you don’t get over here!”
I rushed over and hugged her tighter than I ever had before. I felt like a kid happy to see their mama after a tough day at school. I had been to the school all right. The school of hard knocks. And it had been one hell of a lesson to learn.
Mama reached over to her nightstand and grabbed a cigarette.
I protested. “I thought the doctor told you to quit smoking.”
“Child, hush!” She lit it and took a long pull. “Cigarettes keep my stress level down. Unlike you.”
That hurt.
She wasn’t done. “Five years away and now you want to come back into my house and tell me what to do?” She sucked her teeth hard, her Jamaican way. She had been born on that picturesque tropical island in the West Indies. But she immigrated to Brooklyn in her youth. She had always been a trailblazer that way. Brave. All of her family was back home. But she had come to America hoping to get her shot at the dream. Sadly, it wasn’t going well.
“Ma, I made some mistakes. I admit it. But, you know I love you.”
She grunted.
I sat there in silence watching her smoke. The guilt that had gnawed at me like a ravenous dog for the past five years was back again. I had let my family down.
I never set out to be the bad guy. Nobody grows up aspiring to be a troublemaker. The problem was that I couldn’t do the things that usually get dudes like me out of the hood. I couldn’t rap. Couldn’t play basketball. But, what I could do was get money by any means. The hustle came naturally to me. It was as much a part of my DNA as the blood that ran through my veins.
“You love me. Okay. But, were you thinking about me when you were doing all that mess out there in the streets? Lawyer fees, bail money, all of that on top of the bills that already litter the area! Did you care about my health then, boy?”
“Yeah.” It was the truth. I had never stopped caring. True, I had let her down. I had spent the past five years dealing with that. But, I was just a boy trying to learn how to be a man. It was obvious that Mama didn’t understand that at all.
I heard someone walk in behind me, and I turned to see my little brother Trent standing there. He looked like my twin. Our resemblance was unmistakable. He wore a McDonald’s uniform, a baseball cap, and a scowl.
He looked me up and down. “They finally let you out, huh?”
I stared at him for a minute. “That’s how you greet your brother? You ain’t happy to see me?”
“Thrilled.” His expression told me the opposite.
Trent was nineteen years old, with the maturity of a man twice his age. Our four-year age difference made it hard enough to connect with each other. But being in two very different places for the past five years had made things even more awkward between us. Trent was smart. Not just smart, but really brilliant. He could have gone to Harvard or Yale if he’d had the opportunity. But, that wasn’t possible. Not with our mother sick, me locked up, and money scarce. He had enrolled in a local college, but dropped out in order to work full-time and help make ends meet. I could hardly look at him without feeling guilty. I knew that my time away had made it even harder on him.
“Why you ain’t never write me?” I knew the answer when I asked it. But, I had to say something to fill the awkward silence.
“Write you to say what? How I’m out here working double shifts at McDonald’s when I should be in college? How you’ve got our mother literally worried sick over your dumb ass?”
His words stung, but I didn’t react.
“Trenton!” Mama checked him.
Copyright © 2018 by Nick Cannon
