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  What’s taking them so long? She pushed the huge, cheap, tinted sunglasses closer to her face. Lynn prayed no one would recognize her through the superdark lenses. Wow, I’m going to be late again! I hope they’re not out. I don’t have time to drive somewhere else for a blast probably the size of the rocks they normally have. Balling up the Outreach Ministries pamphlet on the type of services they offered, she rolled her eyes. Just thinking about the reverend practically shoving it through her open car window as she waited at the red light on the corner of his church she fumed at his random judgment. I don’t need help from him or his people. What I need is to get right. Why don’t those boys hurry up and get here?

  Not truly caring if she made it across town to greet her third-grade class when the first bell rang, Lynn wrung her hands together anticipating the strong package that Clay and his crew were infamous for having. She knew she was already on probation with the school board, pending termination for the amount of times she’d been late over the course of the year, but Lynn, once nominated as Detroit Teacher of the Year, ain’t give a damn. She was on a mission. And that was to get seriously high before dealing with a group of slow-minded, ill-mannered, “why in the hell didn’t you get it the first time and you wouldn’t have needed summer school” badass kids.

  “Oh my God—finally.” She looked over the top rim of her shades watching the Regal pull up. Exhaling, she checked her watch. “I need to hurry up, take care of my business, and leave. Someone should speak to them about being more prompt.” Lynn had the nerve to act like the runners she’d buy rocks from every morning were some of her third-graders who constantly needed reprimanding.

  Stepping out of the car, her short sleeve button-up blouse and perfectly ironed beige slacks made her stand out from the rest of the dirty addicts that started to gather no sooner than seeing Clay bend the corner. Paranoid, holding a crisp twenty-dollar bill she’d just taken out of the Bank of America ATM near her house, Lynn’s lower lip quivered, knowing she was just moments away from smoking. Having several degrees and a good-paying job didn’t matter to the runners who were serving customers. As far as they were concerned, she was no better than Ida or any other whore that tricked in the alley or a vacant house for their cop money. When she stepped up, Lynn was just another “head” in line with a few dollars to spend and would be treated as such.

  Practically snatching the plastic baggie from the teenage runner’s hand, Lynn recklessly bolted across the street.

  “Damn, girl. Slow ya roll.” She vaguely heard a voice shout out from the stoop after almost callously knocking down an elderly lady on a cane.

  Not offering a simple apology or at least a “my bad” to the woman, Lynn hopped into her car. Starting the engine, the educator noticed the gas light flashing, but could care less if she ran out of petro on the freeway. She’d just spent the last of her life savings on a rock. Oh yeah, this is a nice size just like I knew it would be, she marveled, keeping her new treasure clenched in her hand. I just hope it’s strong and can get me where I need to be before dealing with these kids.

  Knowing her habit was way out of control, and all her bills, including her mortgage, were beyond past due, McMichael Elementary third-grade teacher, Lynn Banks, fumbled with a homemade pipe and the red cigarette lighter she kept tucked in the side compartment of her bootleg designer purse. Ripping the baggie open with her clenched teeth, she spit the top down on the floor mat. Damn, I needed this. Adjusting the flame as high as it could go, Lynn blazed up the stone. Yesssssss! She inhaled, holding the smoke in, and then slowly exhaled. After a few more strong pulls, Lynn let the torch go out as her body collapsed in the seat. Letting the effects of the crack cocaine do what it often did, fuck up a Negro’s life, Lynn’s mind was cloudy. Oh my God! This is better than yesterday’s . . . way better! As Lynn took her first pull off the drug that she’d grown to worship, her mind flashed back to happier times before she was crack’s number one bottom bitch.

  * * *

  “We would like all of our graduates to please stand. Your instructors, the staff along with your family and friends, would like to congratulate you all on obtaining your degrees. Whereas some of you will opt to go even further in your education, others have already been offered positions in your desired field of study.”

  Lynn was ecstatic as she did as requested by the master of ceremonies. As she stood shoulder to shoulder with her classmates, a strong sense of pride overcame her. Growing up was never a true hardship as most of the youth in Detroit had encountered, but nevertheless, she had obstacles to endure. Born with a speech impediment, Lynn was oftentimes teased. When excited or unsure of a situation, the only child would stutter. In an attempt to help their child flourish, Lynn’s parents took her to see all sorts of specialists. But none could help. Thankfully, after a few years, she grew out of her handicap, but not before she was left with mental scars. Deciding to immerse herself into reading books and her studies, Lynn became somewhat of a social recluse. After finally finding the courage to move out of her aging parents’ home, she got an apartment on campus. It was there that she was befriended by dorm mates who were likeminded. It was her affiliation with them that gave Lynn Banks her first taste of illegal substances.

  “Come on, Lynn, try it. I’m telling you, it will have you feeling so freaking good.”

  Hesitant, Lynn pushed his hand away. She’d never taken more than an extra strength aspirin before, so smoking weed was, and had been, taboo. “No, thank you. I’m good.”

  “Come on, girl,” her other friend urged after taking her turn at lip locking the homegrown bud.

  Despite the increasing peer pressure from both, Lynn remained firm in saying no to drugs. She stood strong in her conviction . . . until late one night. Nearing three o’clock, she was awakened by the repeated sound of her cell phone ringing. Without opening her eyes, Lynn extended her arm from beneath the thick beige-colored blanket. As her hand searched around the nightstand for her phone, there was a knock at the door. Still half asleep and confused, Lynn jumped out of the bed. Thinking it was just another student goofing around, she flung the door open ready to do verbal battle for disturbing her rest. Immediately, she realized it was the dorm director. Minutes later, Lynn Banks’s calm, drug-free world was turned upside down. Her first cousin had been trying to get in touch with her. The parents who had loved her since birth, took care of her and gave her everything they had—were gone. Just like that. She had just spoken to her mother earlier and her father a few days prior. Now, thanks to a drunk driver that had struck the couple’s car when coming back from Bible Study, Lynn was out here by her lonesome.

  For days after the heart wrenching double funeral, she was out of it. She couldn’t be consoled. Her two best friends finally took matters into their own hands and demanded that she smoke some weed to calm her nerves. Not in the mood or having the strength to fight off their suggestion again, Lynn gave in. Soon, the gateway drug became her escape from the pain of her reality. Refocused and determined to stay in school, she studied and smoked; smoked and studied. When the now-orphaned female obtained one degree, she decided to get another; this one in teaching.

  Only months into her first teaching assignment, Lynn was blessed to find a man interested in her. Her life and their life were as complete and as happy as anyone could hope for. Tragically, as life would have it, Lynn’s fairy tale was cut short. The love of her life was snatched away. She once again fought depression, but this time around, weed was not strong enough.

  Reaching out to her old college roommates for comfort, they turned her on and out on their new drug of choice: crack cocaine. Still trying to maintain a job and keep a roof over her head, Lynn had become a certified closet smoker. One day the teacher would seek out help, but unfortunately for her students that depended on her for guidance and an education, today was definitely not that day. For now, Lynn Banks and her conscience were the only ones that knew her true shame. When she finally drove off, high as three kites, she purposely ignored th
e hard stares of Reverend Richards who was still passing out literature and food boxes to the needy.

  Thelma Gale

  Feeling the harsh reality of her age, Thelma Gale, who always joked that she was seventy-five years young, struggled to get out of the thin mattress bed. In between her chronic arthritis and excruciating back spasms, Thelma tried to stay positive as she started her day. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed for her cane. Her legs were definitely not what they used to be, so needing that had become a necessity. With a small bit of struggle, she was now standing up. Shuffling her feet, the old woman, a mother of five grown children, made it to the bathroom. Reaching up in the medicine cabinet, Thelma removed her dentures out of the plastic blue cup where she placed them every evening. After washing her face, the grey-haired Thelma then headed into the kitchen area of her small one-bedroom apartment in hopes to prepare herself breakfast.

  Losing her husband at an early age, Thelma still continued to do whatever she had to do to ensure her kids, as ungrateful yet successful as they turned out to be, had decent, carefree lives. Now, despite their achievements and nice-size bank accounts, none of the five came back to the neighborhood to see about Thelma, let alone considered moving her in with them after the family home burnt down. Now, sadly, every morning, as if on schedule, Thelma would try to call each one of her kids and pray one would answer and bless her with at least a minute or two of conversation.

  “Hey, baby,” Thelma’s hand trembled when her eldest picked up . . . undoubtedly by mistake. “I’m so glad you’re not busy.”

  “Oh, Mama, it’s you.” Rebecca rolled her eyes to the top of the ceiling, mad she hadn’t checked her caller ID. “I thought you were the man from the construction company. I’m expecting his call!”

  Thelma placed her hot cup of coffee on the table so she could hold the phone with both hands. “Sorry to bother you, Becky, it’s just I haven’t heard from you in so long. How are the girls doing?”

  “Mama, stop calling me Becky. No one calls me that anymore. It sounds so uncouth. Please call me Rebecca,” she argued. “Why would you even name me that if you were going to call me something else?”

  Apologetic for angering her rude child, Thelma once again asked about her granddaughters. “Well, what about the girls?”

  Rebecca, ashamed of where she came from, had her own issues she was battling and could care less if her mother’s personal needs were met. That included simple information about her family. “I’ll try to call you next week and let them speak to you,” she cut the conversation short. “Now, I have got to go!”

  Before Thelma could say good-bye or tell Rebecca to kiss the girls for her, the telephone line went dead.

  I guess she has a lot to do. Thelma wanted to believe that, even though she knew better. The only thing she could do was shake her head and think back to better days.

  * * *

  “Come on, y’all children, wake up. Wake up now; y’all hear me?” Thelma stood in the doorway insisting the kids get up and get their day started. “Becky, you go in the bathroom first and get yourself together. Then the rest of y’all take turns behind her, and hurry up. Breakfast is almost ready, and you know that oatmeal ain’t right when it sits. I done made both bacon and ham, so like I said, hurry up.”

  “Okay, Mommy,” Becky answered, fighting to fully open both eyes. “And don’t forget about my presentation today at school. That’s why I have to wear my good dress and my matching ribbons.”

  “Shut up, dummy. Mommy ain’t gonna forget about that stupid program. That’s all you been talking about all week; dang,” Thelma’s son interjected, letting his true feelings be known.

  “You shut up, dummy dumb dumb. You just jealous and ugly.”

  Already tired of all the back-and-forth between the children, she quickly shut it down. “Look-a here now. Stop with all that bickering. I’m just glad y’all’s daddy already done left for work because he would give y’all a spanking for that language. Now get up and get ready, like I said.”

  The kids all did as they were told. Soon, the big hearty breakfast she would prepare daily for her family was consumed and they were out the door. Thelma stood in the doorway watching her offspring walk down a perfectly manicured lawn and flower-lined block, joined by their classmates also heading to school. Throwing her hand up to greet a few neighbors on their way to work, Thelma smiled, content with her life.

  * * *

  Still in denial how things had ultimately turned out, the sickly grandmother opened her kitchen cabinets wanting nothing more than maybe a hot bowl of grits or some oatmeal to soothe her hunger pains. Yet, knowing it was nearing the end of the month, Thelma’s shelves were bare. She had to make the decision to buy food for the entire month or pay for her much-needed medications. The small amount of extras the low-income woman did have, she shared with those in her building that were even less fortunate than her. As she stood there, a look of sorrow graced her face. Squinting her eyes, it was easy to focus on the back of the cabinet wall. What should have been full of can goods, coffee, and other items the elderly woman desired . . . was not. Her stomach often would growl, but she had lived through many hard times growing up and drank hot tea to soothe the hunger pains. Well, as part of her would love to live high on the hog, she not once regretted the decision she was often forced to make. Although food was high on her list, the pills she consumed daily kept her alive. Some of the medicines had to be consumed with food, so a pack of noodles were often split to serve as two meals. Given the choice, Thelma chose life, living how she had to.

  Trying not to be a burden to her grown, well-to-do children and ask for help, Thelma got dressed, heading out to see if she could get a charity box of canned goods before going to her doctor’s appointment. It was the only way she’d be able to make it through to the following month without starving. Barely making it down the stairs, Thelma narrowly missed getting practically run over by one of the many fiends that predatorily lined her block every morning waiting to get high.

  “Damn, girl. Slow ya roll,” a voice forcefully yelled out as Thelma’s cane was knocked out of her hand.

  Grabbing ahold of the steel handrail just before falling to the ground herself, Thelma’s blood pressure quickly soared. Suddenly, she was blessed when one of the young dope dealers, seemingly the leader, at least had enough common courtesy and compassion to try to control their almost always disrespectful customers. Even though she opted not to tell him, she was thankful for his act of kindness. Slowly, the grandmother made her way toward the end of the block where she saw Reverend Richards doing what he did best—talk to people about their many problems and hardships. Good God, I pray he still has food boxes left. I really could use one this week.

  Mr. Jessie

  Standing on his front porch, longtime West Side resident and Block Club President Mr. Jessie shook his head while he pretended to sweep. Rubbing his salt-and-pepper-colored beard, he could only think back to the good old days. The ones when his neighborhood, in particular, his own block, was filled with well maintained homes and other hardworking homeowners like himself. Now, sadly, thirty years after slaving midnight shifts at Chrysler to purchase him and his then new bride’s dream house, Mr. Jessie lived across the street from a virtual war zone. Much like the battles overseas that heartbreakingly took his only son’s life, the very same war that left his wife bitter against all people of Middle Eastern descent.

  The repeated sounds of random gunshots echoed off the barely standing walls of the many vacant buildings. Kids had no respect for their elders, desperate addicts would rob you blind in broad daylight, and lastly, dope dealers behaved like they were doing the economically stressed Detroit some huge favor by employing a few street runners. Uncut grass, debris-filled lots, discarded broken beer bottles, and glaring lights of scarcely seen ambulances were the homeowner’s world.

  Exhausted by the state of his reality, Mr. Jessie decided to become somewhat of a one-man army. Taking matters in his own hands, he meant busi
ness. He felt it was the only way he and his wife could beat the escalating problem. Patrolling the neighborhood after dark, keeping a detailed activity log for the police, and even joining forces with one of the local ministers, Mr. Jessie was hell-bent on making a change in his lost community.

  Well, would you look at that, he continued to move the broom as he watched the day begin. That same woman that comes over here every morning buying that stuff almost knocked poor Thelma down. It don’t make no kind’a sense. “Hey, there, Thelma,” Mr. Jessie angrily spoke out with concern. “Are you okay? Do you need some help?”

  Seeing Thelma was being assisted by one of the young men he was watching like a hawk and blamed for most, if not all, of the chaos that happened on the block, he frowned. Mr. Jessie didn’t try to ask his sometimes hard-of-hearing neighbor once more after she didn’t respond. Instead, he went on with the charade of him cleaning his front porch in hopes to gain some more information. Then, as Mr. Jessie would do every late afternoon, give the information to Reverend Richards, the preacher, who assured him he was working hand in hand with Detroit’s newly formed Narcotics Task Force to bring a quick halt to inner-city open-air drug transactions. Mr. Jessie believed in the hope that in between the police, the good reverend, and himself, there could, and would, soon be change. As he stood there, his mind drifted back to the day when he and his new bride first moved into the practically Caucasian-inhabited neighborhood.