The projects of Cherry Hill are hidden in the East Side of Baltimore and
deep in the comers of my mind. Surrounded by an air of permanence, my summer
memories rest free from decay or rot. An asphalt river flows through this
concrete jungle with the authority and ease of the Nile River. Looming
opposite our apartment is a steep and ominous hill, containing the only
grass within sight for miles. Its cracked sidewalk rolls mockingly from
its peak as a tongue stretching out daring anyone to challenge its majesty.
Atop this treacherous mountain sits an old, yellow school bus. Dirt clings
to its sides as if it has not been washed since its construction, appearing
to be the receptacle of all the earth's dirt and disease. Gutted of all
seats, it contains an old freezer, tons of candy, and assorted goods, and
now serves as a ghetto 7-11. People would pile greedily in line due to
its reduced prices. It became the hangout of boys who preyed upon younger
kids. I can still hear the boys' laughter piercing the night and the pride
of their vulnerable sacrifices, while devouring their goods like a pack
of savage hyenas. I grew familiar with this store by getting cigarettes
for my dad there. If I was lucky, I usually got candy out of the deal or
maybe a soda. If unlucky, I brought home my dad's Winston 100s, several
bruises, or a black eye. Mostly, I escaped unscathed through the well-practiced
art of running.
The majority of my days were filled with rock fights as the dry heat licked
dirt from my wounds. Unaffected by the pain, I watched my dad through the
blinding glare of the afternoon sun. Between hours of card playing, he
toiled over a grill relentlessly. A cigarette in the comer of his mouth
shifted recklessly as he talked amidst his guests. Ashes hanging desperately
over the grill, threatened to let go, but never did. While the smell
of mouthwatering barbecue danced through the air, my stomach churned to
its rhythm and I watched my fathers each and every move, as one watches
the motion of a ball in a tennis match.
From my apartment window, later that afternoon, I watched shadows walk
across the street as nightfall gradually made its approach. The territory
of the hill opposite me no longer possessed the smiling glow of the sun.
It had now become the horrifying playground of my ruthless fears. That
enormous hill represented endless episodes of battery and humiliation.
The recollection of which made each instant after dark a nightmare.
Overturned buckets, used as chairs, littered the stoop of our brownstone
apartment at night. Strange friends of my dads bickered, roared, and shouted
as if having been shot, or as though someone was trying to kill them. Unexpectedly,
they erupted in laughter, nearly toppling off of the buckets; moments later
they proceeded to play cards and drink beer as though nothing happened.
I watched my dad's easy smile spread effortlessly across his face. His
smile revealed to me that he was the omnipotent, all-knowing king of my
world and all around him.
Anticipating my dad's need for cigarettes, I hung out with the empty beer
cans near the edge of our porch. Eventually, he noticed his lack of nicotine,
or my presence, by whichever one became the most annoying. The moment he
gestured, I grabbed his money and bolted through our courtyard to the edge
of the street. I envisioned what I would devour with his leftover change.
Stopping dead in my tracks, I realized what towered before me. Fighting
to catch my breath, I little by little raised my eyes. Enveloped in a cloak
of darkness, the mountain and its treacherous terrain screamed for me to
retreat. The journey itself did not forbid me to go on. The conspiracy
lay between the pervasive bullies at the top and an arduous climb in pitch-black
darkness. The streetlight overhead was the only sanctuary between where
I now stood and that raggedy, old school bus. Reality, throwing back its
ugly head in a roar of laughter, was mocking me.
Measuring each step gingerly, my senses magnified to assess the territory
before me. Every sound was amplified to a violently deafening pitch causing
me to leap at the slightest noise. Gradually, the dim orange light peeking
from the interior of the bus began to seem more within my grasp. The path
finally ended, and my heartbeat decelerated as it did. Approaching the
makeshift store, my relief began to help bring back the feeling to my anesthetized
legs.
Mutilating my temporary quiet, the guttural moan of his voice emerged before
he did. It was Erin. Towering two feet taller than 1, he terrified me by
unveiling an insidious grin teeming with gold teeth. His filthy troll-like
digits stretched out in anticipation of my dad's money. Ordinarily I deposited
my change into his huge fists, but possessing only a solitary five-dollar
bill, I hesitated. Seconds later, his blow flung me to the ground. Erin
evoked a fear in me that left me dumb. A shred of me pleaded to spin and
attack, but my only course of action was to evacuate.
My feet jarred more dust than the Roadrunner as I took off. Attempting
to escape from my chest, my heart leaped and crashed with ferocity as streams
of sweat and tears deposited themselves into my eyes. In one fluid motion,
I bolted past my dad and his partygoers, clobbering the door behind me
with authority. Pacing the stronghold of my
apartment like a caged beast, I was safe at last. However, this time was
unlike the others before because I had not gotten my dad's cigarettes.
My dad entered directly after me. Uneasiness plagued his face as he examined
me. A tall tale would not suffice this time. I had abandoned his money
and leaving it in the care of a thug, along with my courage. Praying that
my dad would understand, I tried to explain. Instead of consolation, I
was overcome with dread as he ordered me back outside.
"Don't ever let me catch you running away from anyone again, or I will
beat your ass myself Try to walk away if you can, but if you can't, pick
up the closet thing to you and hit whoever is trying to hurt you. If you
run away now, you will be running for the s rest of your life." Either
he had one beer too many or he had not had enough. This was completely
unreal. Stunned, I stared blankly into space. Oceans of time passed before
the silence between us was broken. Looking at me thoughtfully, he casually
adjusted his glasses. He handed me another five-dollar bill, and I knew
that I was to get more cigarettes and not to return until I had done so.
Winking, he turned callously like a Nazi soldier, exiting with no further
words. The porch had grown quiet and upon his return, it regained its normal
fervor.
As one condemned to death, I embraced my fate. With every step closer to
the hill, I would turn and look back in the direction of my father, praying
that he would change his mind. Nothing. He never looked up, not even once.
I could see him and his friends, their heads thrown back or doubled over
in laughter, but I could not hear a sound. Everything around me was quiet
and still. Although I tried to slow tirne, it rushed past, placing me at
the top of the hill in seconds.
Looking around, every muscle tense, I stepped onto the bus and got my dads
cigarettes, lemon heads, a couple of atomic fireballs, and a Pepsi. While
leaving, Erin's stare met me with the force of an impending wall. Why was
this happening to me? Thinking of my dad's words, I tried to walk past
Erin with no success. He slapped me; violently, I was driven into the pavement.
Standing over me with clenched fists, he taunted me, kicking me as he laughed.
I was now becoming an example of his tyranny, as onlookers swarmed to witness
my public execution. In desperation, I hunted for an escape but to no avail.
A swelling mob now encircled me, chanting for Erin and I to fight.
Sweat oozed from the Styrofoam label of the Pepsi bottle in my grip. Erin,
intoxicated with the cheers of the crowd, neglected to realize that I was
now standing. With eyes shut tightly, I hurled the bottle with as much
force as I could, striking him square in the face. Staggering for a moment,
his massive body collapsed with a deafening crash. Exhausted, I shrunk
to the ground in tears as the roar of the crowd floated above me. Collecting
my dad's cigarettes and myself, I marched home for the first time, free
from the intellectual Vietnam that was Erin.
In the courtyard of my apartment, the dull sounds of the men's laughter
were again animated. They seemed more alive than ever, and the pungent
odor of barbecue repeated its assault on my nostrils. Proudly displaying
my bloody nose and fat lip, I handed my dad his cigarettes. Pausing, he
glanced at me with a treasured grin, and I returned his gesture with a
smile of equal force. Casually lighting a cigarette, he returned to his
card game and the confused looks of his friends. During our silence, simple
mannerisms took the place of words; within that silence, we both understood.
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