Free Out of the Madness by Jerrold Ladd Page A

and fingerprints. They dragged Scott downtown, too; but,
     after these incidents, he would just move to another city, until he was busted again. The white people sicced their dogs on
     us. One of them had bitten a young boy real bad. Scott did nothing.
    Scott sometimes took us to his pleasant apartment, where his wife and son lived with him. He would do his books and other
     paperwork. He also would worship his scroll, a piece of paper in a box that he kneeled and prayed to for money and riches.
     He invited us to see the ritual one day. While down there on his knees, he chanted strange words in his off-key voice for
     about five minutes.
    On another day, his wife asked me to stay home with her while Scott and the others went to the candy warehouse. I guess he
     thought she had plans to, say, make me take out the trash or a similar service. But she wanted something else.
    She was a sweet, blonde-haired woman. As soon as Scott and the crew left, she put on a gown and we sat on the couch. She wasn’t
     wearing a bra, and her blue panties were showing.
    “Jerrold, you seem like a real special boy, different from the rest. I like the way you ask questions and keep quiet.”
    That woman really wanted to give me something for being special. She propped her legs up on the couch and opened them up on
     purpose. “Have you ever been with a woman, Jerrold?”
    “No, I haven’t.”
    “Do you want to try it, then, Jerrold? It’s a wonderful experience.”
    Up to this point in my life, no concept of sex ever had entered my mind. My experience with Gloria had been far from sexual.
     So I just sat there, scared, saying nothing. After I didn’t respond, Scott’s wife changed her clothes and went on about her
     chores. She never asked me not to tell or anything, as though she didn’t care if Scott knew or not.
    When I told them later, all my friends who also worked for Scott laughed at me because I refused to go to bed with his wife.
     Surprisingly, they all claimed to have known what she wanted when she asked me to stay. They all said they would have done
     it.
    By 1982 the candy man came less, then stopped coming altogether. I sat in my room one evening soon after. Right outside, an
     eerie, empty project unit reflected sunlight from its broken windows. Glass and trash, more than usual, littered the barren
     ground close by. Unusual sounds were coming from outside. I looked out my front door, trying to locate the amplified voice
     I was hearing bouncing off the project buildings. The voice was full of energy and shouted strange words. Excitement, unlike
     anything I previously had heard in the projects, was close. What was causing all the noise? I walked toward the voices onto
     Fishtrap Street to find out.
    On a small patch of dirt in a resident’s yard, a small group of people had gathered. Their faces were dry, stern, and serious.
     The women were wearing dresses, the men suits and neckties. They all held tambourines, which they patted against their hands
     while they stomped their feet to the rhythm. A lady held a microphone and sang: “Watcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when the
     world’s on fire?”
    We gathered around to observe the singing and clapping. I remembered visiting several churches when we had lived somewhere
     with my father, but not since moving into Hades. And these people, they were not confined in a church but had brought their
     passion right outdoors, smack in the middle of the projects. As I watched them, I was glad that the dope dealers were being
     tolerant.
    After the healthy woman finished singing, an elderly, set-faced man stepped forward to speak: “The Lord can bring ah change
     in your life. If you’re hungry and worried, if you have bills to pay, if you’re on drugs, whatevah the problem, the Lord can
     make a change.” This elderly man spellbound me when he went on and talked about the God Who loved me and could make my life
     happy. He said that Jesus had died on the cross for my sins,