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  * * *

  The moving truck pulled up in front of the one-story dwelling. Backing up in the driveway, the young man full of life and hope looked over his shoulder. After making sure he wasn’t close to hitting one of the brick pillars, he proceeded to park. Killing the engine, he swung the driver’s door open and jumped out. A huge grin graced his face as he waved at his wife. She had been following closely behind with a carload of their belongings they hadn’t trusted to be in the truck.

  “This is it, baby, home sweet home.” He was ecstatic that he was able to purchase this fabulous home on his blue-collar factory salary. Standing on his feet night after night was hard work, but now, he was finally able to see the fruits of his labor pay off.

  “Oh my God, I know,” Mrs. Jessie answered, caught in her emotions. Taking her man’s left hand, she held it tight, locking fingers. Swinging their arms back and forth, the pair was content. This was a day they would never forget. Mr. and Mrs. Jessie felt like they had finally “made it.” Residing on this block was indeed a dream come true. Although the neighborhood was multicultural, all the residents appeared to get along, loving and respecting their community. Now, the newlyweds could concentrate on having a family and making their lives complete.

  * * *

  The annoying sound of his phone jerked the longtime resident of the block back from the days of the past and into harsh reality. His once beloved, admired, and cherished homestead had turned to hell on earth. Ignoring his telephone, Mr. Jessie protectively waited for Thelma to safely make it down the street without any more incidents. Being Block Club president was a job he took seriously. Even when the two main dope-slinging thugs waltzed past his house, acting like they didn’t have a care in the world, Mr. Jessie refused to back down, looking each in their eye. His own personal war on illegal substances and the crime that accompanies it was in his front yard.

  There’s no way in hell I’ma let these hooligans win this fight. No way in hell. This is my neighborhood. Vengefully, he shook his head as one youngster spit a glob of saliva directly on his property as if to say “Fuck you, old man! We do what we wanna do when we wanna do it!” Mr. Jessie, strong willed in spirit, held the broomstick tightly as if he was some sort of a warrior ready to do battle. I’ma get y’all one day. Ya think y’all so smart, but one day, the tables are gonna turn—they always do. And when that day comes, I’m gonna be standing in judgment. Then let’s see who has the last laugh.

  Chapter Three

  Clay

  “What’s wrong with you—you crazy psycho,” he called out to the same female, day after day, that acted entitled, like her shit didn’t stink. “The next time you do that foul garbage, your ass ain’t getting served! You hear me?”

  The rude preppy-dressed customer appeared not to pay her supplier any real attention, slamming her car door shut. Then, as usual, she pulled halfway down the block to get high.

  “I’m sorry for cursing, excuse me,” Clay addressed the old woman while picking up her cane. “But these heads don’t let nothing interfere with them getting ‘theirs.’”

  Noticing the disapproving expression on her face, Clay excused himself, returning to the stoop as the elderly woman regained her balance, slowly making her way wherever she was headed. No more words needed to be exchanged. It was not as if the two of them had anything in common. Thelma Gale was a nice old lady, but to Clay and his crew, she was just another casualty of the game. Without as much as a single word to even acknowledge Clay was alive, she took a minute a few houses down to, once again, catch her breath. Part of her wanted to sit down and really get herself together but knew from often peeking out her front window, a stray bullet or some other hood antic was liable to bring her harm. No time to be a crime statistic, Thelma soon disappeared off the block and out of Clay’s sight

  “Man, why do you even try to be nice to these fake motherfuckers around here?” Whip mean mugged the few residents outside trying to maintain some normalcy to their lives as drugs took over their community. “All they asses some snitches. They don’t care if we dead or alive,” he huffed, taking a twenty-dollar bag of purple out of his pocket. “Like him over there,” he arrogantly gestured to a man sweeping his front porch. “I know his faggot ass called the police last week! Shit, wasn’t no cops even coming on the block heavy until TimTim and Yuk beat that dopefiend down on his walkway and all them bodies started popping up!”

  Clay surveyed the block as his boy complained about the police’s occasional, unwanted visits. “Damn, Dorie,” he laughed, watching a group of children wait for the school bus. “This guy Whip out here acting like this thang we doing is legal. Like we got a license to slang. We in the game—they ain’t. We got a job to do selling this shit and not get caught, and they got a job to do calling the punk-ass police. That’s the rules of the game we playing. They just doing what they supposed to do. And they shouldn’t care if we live or die.”

  Whip ripped opened the bag of weed, taking a long whiff of the potent smell. “I know what you saying, but fools like his snitching ass over there, judging people for trying to survive, be killing me.”

  Clay could once again tell that Whip was caught up in his feelings. Oftentimes when Whip got like that, Clay would give him a minute to come back down to planet Earth. That’s what made Clay a good leader. He knew how to make each member on his team feel like they were the captain.

  “Yo, Dorie, why don’t you go around the corner and check on the other spot real quick? Make sure them li’l dudes stay on they toes.” Clay stood to his feet, picking a tiny piece of lint off his white T-shirt. “Me and Whip gonna run up to the store so he can grab an orange juice or something to cool his hotheaded ass off!”

  Dorie laughed, leaving Clay and Whip heading in one direction while he headed in the other. When Clay passed the man on his porch sweeping, he nodded his head, knowing the man meant nothing to him. No one could stop his grind was his overall mentality. Whip, on the other hand, made sure to spit on the man’s sidewalk as they locked eyes.

  “Dawg, leave that old dude the fuck alone,” Clay demanded, already fed up with Whip’s early-morning bad attitude. “He ain’t stopping our shine. He can’t.” Clay threw his arms up victoriously. “Look around. Ain’t nobody out here rolling with him.”

  Whip did as he was told, leaving the silly madness alone before Clay got heated. “You right, you right.”

  “I know I am.”

  Minutes later, they bent the corner, disappearing into the Arab-owned store, not noticing Reverend Richards, who was greeting a few “unfortunate souls,” watching them out of the corner of his eye.

  Abdul Silah

  Leaving the four-family dwelling he called home, fifteen-year-old Abdul Silah, and his little sister did as they always did every morning on their way to school. It was somewhat a ritual to the young man. No sooner than his feet touched the front sidewalk of his house, Abdul wanted to turn around and climb back into his bed. Most kids felt that way about school, so that was considered normal. Unfortunately, it was the other circumstances he was dealing with that made his situation worse.

  Prior to the ill-fated 9/11 attack on America, things were bad enough for the awkward, pimpled-faced teenager. Now, after the Twin Towers had come suddenly crumbling down into ruins—it was almost unbearable. He and his family being Muslim meant constantly being ridiculed, disrespected, and threatened. Their chosen faith was proving to be no more than a sharp thorn in young Abdul’s side. One he couldn’t seem to avoid. If life in the neighborhood wasn’t bad enough, he and his sister, by his father’s strictly enforced demands, dressed in traditional Muslim garb resulting in not a moment’s peace from judgment.

  “Dad, please.”

  “Son, what part of no don’t you understand? I know wearing these things make you as well as your little sister feel as if you don’t fit in at times—but so be it.”

  “I know but—”

  “But nothing,” the elder stared his seed in the eye letting him know he mean
t business with the teenager. “Life is what it is. And at times, it’s not meant to be easy. Allah puts us through many things to test our devotion to him, our loyalty. Following Islam is not just a passing fad to us; this is our way of living. My father followed the rules that were revealed to Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. And God willing, I will do my duty as a Muslim and make sure my children follow those rules as well. Now, if you chose to believe in any other religion, or none at all after you come of age, then, it is, of course, your choice.”

  “I understand, Dad. It’s just whenever we go outside somewhere, even school, the mall, or the park, people stare. They tease us and act like we got bombs stashed in our back pockets.”

  “Look, son, sometimes going against the grain takes strength. And if you don’t have that type of strength to withstand a few people mocking you for submitting to the will of Allah, then you must not be of my bloodline. Now, go get your stuff for school together while your little sister is getting her hair combed. I don’t want you two to be late again to first hour. I’m tired of getting calls from the office about that. You both definitely leave this house in enough time.”

  Knowing he had no win in the one-sided conversation, Abdul did as he was told. Walking by his mother and younger sibling, he knew it wise to keep his anger and sarcasm to himself. I don’t know why she’s combing her hair anyhow. She just gonna cover it up with her hijab.

  Ten minutes later, they were out the door taking in the ghetto sights and sounds. Dang, why me? I wish we were just like everybody else around here. It’s not fair. Science book in hand, Abdul navigated their way through the busy block. Met by disapproving stares for the way they were clothed, along with insults from regular hardworking folk and bums alike, had become a regular occurrence. Some days were better than others, but this was not one of those days. People seemed to be out tenfold heading toward the church. Abdul and his sister were in search of a temporary reprieve from the mockery and ducked into the corner store for refuge. Having to keep a constant look over his shoulder, he made sure no one was behind them. Hate crimes against Muslims was at an all-time high, and he didn’t want them to fall victim. Not paying attention to what was in front of him as he pushed the door open, the teen stumbled.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Excuse me, my mistake,” Abdul quickly said to one of the dope dealers he’d recognized from the block as their shoulders bumped. “I do apologize. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Not a problem, young brother; you good,” the guy causally replied as he continued talking to his partner.

  Exhaling, Abdul was glad that the guy accepted his apology. He knew from firsthand experience that something as minor as bumping into someone or stepping on a person’s shoe could go left really quickly in Detroit, Muslim or not. Heading back to the cooler, he walked by three different glass doors before seeing what he wanted. Going over in his head some of the cruel things a passenger in a car driving by had just yelled, Abdul shook his head as removed a small plastic container of papaya juice. I’m so tired of people around here not understanding that me and my family are not terrorists. We don’t get up every morning trying to figure out how to do harm to America. I mean, dang, could halfway see if we were Middle Eastern; but we black just like them. Not even African black but nigga black.

  Before the troubled teen could pick out a juice for his sister, loud voices from the front of the store immediately snatched his attention. Momentarily pausing, he took a few deep breaths. Abdul saw a small group of boys he easily recognized had entered through the door. Not again. Not now. The day just started, and now I gotta deal with these idiots. Feeling the coldness of the bottle in his left hand and clutching his school textbook in the right, Abdul began to sweat. He looked at his innocent sister whose eyes were now twice the size as his. Each got prepared for what foolishness they knew was sure to follow. Running into them had become a “thing” that Abdul didn’t want to become an ongoing habit. Yet, on the regular, the excessively rowdy gang horse playing near the counter seemed to make it their life’s ambition to torment Abdul for his faith. He prayed they would not be in the immature state of mind they were normally in, but Abdul would have no such luck today. When the childish group started ridiculing the Middle Eastern store owner for the traditional head scarf wrap he was wearing, the nervous teen knew, without a doubt, he and his sister were next. Standing as still as he possibly could, the teenager did his best to not be seen or heard. Using the potato chip rack as a makeshift shield between him and his sister and his tormentors, Abdul tried to scrunch down.

  Watching several customers come in and out the door, he wanted to seize the moment. Wanting desperately to avoid confrontation, Abdul saw an opportunity for them to slip out unnoticed. He didn’t want any trouble today—or any day, for that matter. All he wanted was for the two of them to go to school in peace, but the chances of that, especially now, were growing slim to none. Slowly creeping toward the doorway, he and his sister were, unfortunately, spotted by one of the guys and loudly called out.

  “What up, doe? Ain’t this about nothing this damn morning. If it ain’t that dress-wearing, swami-ass Ali Baba Negro and his ninja sidekick. What’s up, mop head in a dress?” The main leader of the small mob of boys mocked Abdul and his sister’s traditional clothing. “What you doing up so early? You must be getting supplies to blow up the school with a bomb later; maybe at lunchtime? Ain’t that what y’all do? Or is you sneaking eating a pork sandwich—one of them good Honey Baked Hams with extra glaze?”

  All the teens laughed, including a few ill-mannered customers. Abdul didn’t bother to answer his classmate’s ridiculous insults with a response. He knew if he did, it would only add fuel to the fire. Still holding the juice in his hand he had yet to pay for, he tried stepping around the hostile group that was now surrounding him and his sister.

  “Maybe he didn’t hear you,” another commented blocking Abdul’s path while yanking at his sister’s hijab, causing her neck to snap backward. “He might need Allah to help him answer the motherfucking question. Or maybe this little ninja can hear better if we uncover her ears.”

  “Hey, leave us alone. Don’t touch my sister like that. We didn’t do anything to you guys.” Abdul was terrified of yet another beat down but opted to at least stand his ground for his sister’s sake. “I don’t want any problems with you all. Please just let us leave.” Not knowing what to say or do next, he stood in deep thought. Caught in the moment, he blamed his father for making him and his sister be different, not the out of control teens.

  “Hey, you troublemakers, you leave my store right now,” the shopkeeper ordered, waving the cordless phone from behind the bulletproof glass. “I’m not playing. I’ll call the police on you. Leave now. I’m tired of the same thing every day. Now go and leave them alone.”

  The leader of the pack didn’t care about the threat of the police who never showed up on time anyway. Not used to giving two rotten shits about authority, he spit on the floor of the store, daring the man to place the call. “You funny as hell, immigrant-ass motherfucker. I tell your sand-nigga-ass what; call them and see do I care. Matter of fact—call ’em now, and I bet I’ll burn this store to the ground before they show up.” Turning his attention back to his intended victims, he wasn’t done with them yet. Raising his hand, he slapped the bottle of juice out of Abdul’s hand, causing it to shatter on the already dirty floor. Closing his fist tightly, the out of control teenager drew back. Without further warning, he sucker punched the Muslim youth dead in his jaw. Arms flinging, he fell back into a display of can goods. Abdul, obviously dazed, was a soldier and shook the unprovoked hit off. Scrambling to his feet, he grabbed his sobbing sister in hopes of shielding her from any more of the group’s attacks that had now shifted from verbal to physical.

  Fortunately for Abdul and his sister, there was a reprieve. Before any other blows could be delivered, one of the dealers from the block stepped in.

  “Yo, hold up. What the fuck is wrong with y’all li
’l kids these days?” he shoved the one who had all the mouth. Immediately after, he then cuffed up the apparent wannabe leader. “He ain’t did nothing to y’all trying-to-be-tough idiots. I’m tired of y’all little assholes making it hot around here just the fuck because. Y’all need to fall the fuck all the way back.”

  “So damn what!” the boy quickly fired back with his chest stuck out. Also raised by the streets, he remained defiant, trying to save face in front of his crew. “He always be walking around here thinking he better than everybody, wearing that gay sissified dress. And look at that little terrorist in training trying to hide that nappy-ass hair of hers. They ain’t fooling no-damn-body.”

  “So what, little nigga? Damn! Is him or this little girl hurting you? Huh? Well—is they? And watch your mouth when you talking to me. I ain’t one of these pint-size lames you run with. I’ll beat all y’all asses half to death like it ain’t shit,” Clay angrily proclaimed, pushing the now-silent bully and his cohorts toward the door. “It’s too early in the a.m. for this bull. I don’t know if y’all done popped some pills or smoked some Kush, but whatever the fuck it is, I’m the one to get y’all little ill-bred youngsters all the way together!”

  “Damn, OG, it’s like that?” one tried arguing back like he was an even match for Clay.

  “Yeah, bitch-made nigga, it’s just the fuck like that!”

  “But—” he still tried going toe-to-toe.

  “Look . . .” Clay had just about enough of the childish word games. He felt his temperature rise. His hand was asking to slap the fuck outta a nigga. Clay knew if he didn’t get out of this zone, the worst-case scenario would happen. He grunted and decided to put a final end to it. “Y’all best bet is to just get the fuck on and take y’all badasses to school before I really get pissed and beat the breakfast cereal outta one of y’all. You feel me? You better ask around if you don’t know. Y’all must be new to this area, but I’ll fuck around and evict you and your ole girl after I have her suck my dick.”