Free Life Without Hope by Leo Sullivan

dope fiend. They stay para-
    noid, on perpetual alert. That is, if they’re not getting high.
    As I continued to scan the streets, I walked gingerly as I passed
    a drugstore. Little kids were inside buying candy. Then a barber-
    shop. On the corner where I stood was a soul food restaurant. My
    pace slowed. Across the street was a pool hall, a sleazy tavern and
    a liquor store all right next to each other. People were gathered out
    front. It felt like a thousand pair of eyes stared at me as I waited
    for the light to change. One thing was for sure, whenever you
    make an excursion into someone else’s hood, they know that you
    are not from there and that’s where the problem starts. Like walk-
    ing into a lion’s den. I crossed the street. In the abandoned lot
    there was a big commotion. A tall goofy-looking white boy was
    walking backward, palms in the air. His eyes darted back and forth
    and he wasn’t wearing a shir t. He kept wiping the dirty blond hair
    from his face. His glasses were so thick that I wondered if he could
    be legally blind without them. About ten teenagers had him sur-
    rounded. They had baseball bats, two-by-fours and iron pipes.
    “ Give me dat money, cracka,” one of them shouted. I watched
    as all hell broke loose.
    POW! CRACK!
    They tore off into his ass
    like he was responsible for slavery. One thing I can say about that
    white boy, he never fell to the ground, nor did he give up that
    money. He made the crucial mistake of coming to buy a rock
    without the aid of a Black person he knew, a mistake that has
    caused many a white man his life, trying to buy dope in a Black
    neighborhood. Someone hit him in the back and the sound
    exploded like a cannon. That white boy found a small crack of
    daylight and took off like a racehorse. As he attempted to pass me
    I stuck my foot out and tripped him. He fell flat on his face and
    slid across the worn out concrete. His glasses went one way while
    he went the other. I ain’t never liked a cracka. Never! Ever since
    my stepmother told me the sad story about how they stole my
    granddaddy’s land and killed him. That was one of the reasons
    why my father lost most of his mind.
    The crowd of youngsters moved on him again. This was pure
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    recreation for them. Black boys have so much pent up energy, for
    them this was almost a daily occurrence, and it wasn’t just white
    boys asses they whipped either. They didn’t discriminate. I know
    just as sure that if they knew I was from out of town they would
    have rat packed my ass too.
    They continued to kick his ass. This was all done in broad
    daylight. White people passed in their cars with the look of hor-
    ror on their pink faces. Talk about the natives being restless, this
    was turning into some kind of sport. One thing was for sure, it
    was going to draw a lot of heat.
    Whoever’s trip this is, they’re not
    doing a good job of managing it
    , I thought.
    I watched as this woman ran into the melee, arms flailing,
    screaming and pushing, shoving people off the white boy.
    “ Ya’ll leave ‘em alone! Leave ‘em alone!” she screamed. For
    some reason they obeyed her. She helped the white boy up and
    brushed off his pants. Someone threw a bottle that whistled past
    his head. Punched, drunk and bleeding, he staggered around like
    he just went a round with Mike Tyson and miraculously survived.
    The woman found his glasses and gave them to him. They had
    been stomped on and were badly cracked. Staggering, he placed
    them on upside down. He went into his mouth and took out a wet
    and bloody twenty dollar bill. “Here, Nina Brown, all I wanted
    was a rock,” he whined. Crackheads never cease to amaze me. This
    white man risked his life just for a rock, and now he acted like it
    was just another day in the death defying life of a rock star. The
    lady dug into her bosom, retrieving a matchbox, and gave him a
    small rock. His tongue moved around his cheek like it was search-
    ing for something,