The Pool Hall: Youth, Blind Ambition, and Life

I crossed the railroad tracks one June evening and approached the cinder block building. I weaved my mom’s Cadillac Deville through the sparsely populated parking lot. Light from the fluorescent tubes inside the building seeped through the cracks of privacy covers on the windows.

Outside, people leaned against the cinder-block walls, smoking cigarettes and blunts, their silhouettes illuminated by faint porch lights. Inside, the freshly painted walls carried the faint scent of new beginnings.

Geometric shapes in bold primary colors decorated the walls, contrasting with the aged, scuffed linoleum floors. Along one wall stood a store counter and several tall coolers stocked with beer and malt liquor.

Five pool tables took up the space, two in each corner and one in the center. Mismatched leather couches lined the other wall. Mismatched leather couches, padded chairs and bar stools scattered the room.

A few nights each week, the mild-mannered owner, Mike—a soft-spoken African-American man in his early 30’s—opened the “pool hall.” Mike was a unique character. He was heavily invested in his wardrobe and owned several pairs of Jimmy Choo eye glasses.

On weeknights, the pool hall was mainly a place for young men to gather. We came from the neighborhoods of College Downs, Crawford Road and Wildcat Creek. We would gather and play pool, gamble, drink beer, and smoke.

The weekends were a different story altogether. In fact, Mike was a true entrepreneur. Specifically, he wisely ascertained the financial standings of the young men that gathered at his establishment. As a result, he then began to cater to us and expanded his offerings beyond just providing a place where we could socialize.

The Cool Kids

We were teenagers and young men in our 20’s. Consequently, we could all obtain the currency to get what we wanted. Specifically, some of us worked jobs, while others sold crack cocaine and marijuana. Moreover, some of us took whatever opportunities arose to obtain currency whenever an opportunity presented itself.

On weekends, we minors looked forward to the pool hall as the primary attraction. Mike hired exotic dancers, or “strippers,” to entertain us teenagers and young men.

He would tell a few older men about the strippers coming to the pool hall on these random weekends. This resulted in 30 to 40 males between the ages of 15 to 40 and around 10 strippers. 

The strippers would stay at Mike’s pool hall as long as the atmosphere was conducive to them making money. Furthermore, they had a keen sense of identifying the males that were more likely to freely spend money on them.

Additionally, we dressed in the latest styles of clothing, talked differently, and kept a blunt lit. In fact, some of the men there were old enough to be our dads. Moreover, it was more of us than it was of them. Consequently, the strippers found it amusing that the older men had to show us respect.

As I moved through the crowd of scattered males throughout the pool hall, I would identify the strippers that were appealing. Subsequently, I would then buy a beer from whomever Mike would have working behind the counter.

The strippers drew the focus of the males at the pool hall. Yet we adhered to a common-sense approach to socializing, keeping near the people we rolled with.

The Pool Hall

Five evenly spaced pool tables sprouted from the scuffed white linoleum flooring. They became cloth-covered stages for nubile strippers to exhibit themselves. The males were at various levels of inebriation. They blew cigarette, cigar, and weed smoke into the ever thickening cloud floating against the Styrofoam ceiling tiles.

The overly-excited patrons moved haphazardly among the covered pool tables. Their eyes glistened and glazed over. The sight of sweet smelling bare female flesh shellacked in scented lotion mesmerized them. 

Indistinguishable hues of low glowing luminescence replaced the bright overhead lighting. The invigorated bodies of the strippers seemed to generate radiance.

The high tempo, bass laden music emanated from the stand speakers positioned in three corners of the pool hall. The sound echoed throughout the space and created a foundation for the sexually charged ecosystem. Naked women, men with money, alcohol, weed, music, and low lighting fueled the debauchery.

“Light condensation accumulated on the layers of latex paint decorating the cinder block walls and, consequently, humidified the smoke-filled air. Meanwhile, a group of about 5 to 8 of us teenagers from College Downs would congregate. Afterward, we would then sequester a few of the leather couches against the back wall.”

This strategic positioning allowed us to have a full view of the festivities and to establish a base of operations. We could sit in this section to drink beer and smoke our weed without having to pass our blunts to outsiders.

This secluded approach to socialization also, incidentally, identified us as a power structure within this climate of controlled chaos. The strippers performed in pairs. While one would fully immerse herself in the exotic arts, the other would corral the trappings and identify big spenders.

Carnal Interaction

The females perfected their craft and learned to use the momentary entrenchment in a state of bliss to charm one dollar bills en masse from the net worth of the males.

I was one of the males who were not interested in clamoring around a stage. The stage was a pool table in this particular instance.

The class of males that favored more intimate interactions would spend their currency more freely. Others dispensed one-dollar bills in exchange for permission to indulge in the fondling of foreign flesh.

Our clothing and reclusive behavior identified us as the former. The strippers withstood the first round of pool table top presentations. We then drew them to our exclusive section of the pool hall.

Coming To The Stage

The day had been ordinary and uneventful. I pulled up to the concrete stage and parked in front of the pay phone booth that sat in the far corner of the pool hall.

A group of about six young men stood outside, having a nondescript conversation. Meanwhile, the discourse fluctuated between scattered laughter and raised voices. I gave an obligatory head nod to them as I passed by and then entered the cavernous fluorescent space.

Initially, I took a beat upon entering and allowed my eyes to adjust so that I could make out the faces of my homeboys. Nails, my cousin, had developed into a bit of a sharp shooter. Specifically, he had placed a $5 wager on a game of pool against one of the older guys from College Downs.

The Homeboys

In addition, two other young men sat close by on bar stools in the front corner of the room and studied whomever would be the winner. Furthermore, my homeboys, Finn and Chase, nestled on the leather couches against the back wall. Typically, they would sit there when the strippers would visit.

They were both methodically rolling a blunt; raising their gaze periodically to survey the room. I moved past the table where Nails was standing back with his pool cue, studying the table, and watching his opponents next shot.

He broke concentration and looked at me as we gave mutual nods of acknowledgement. I continued toward the couches in the rear corner and greeted Finn and Chase. 

“What’s good? How long y’all been here?”  

Finn, smoothing the seal of his blunt with his index finger, answered “Shit, me and Chase just walked in here. Nails been in here.” 

Chase added. “Just twisted up, bout to burn this hydroponic.” 

He held up his rolled blunt between his thumb and index finger and displayed both sides of it close to his eyes. 

“Word! Y’all got the hydro? Who put y’all on that?” 

“Rock Star,” Finn replied as he dusted the weed crumbs from his Levi’s Silvertab jeans. 

“Bout to smoke good in the neighborhood,” Chase added. 

“That’s what it looks like,” I replied. “What y’all drinking on? It’s on me.” 

“I’m running with the bull,” Finn answered. 

“Chase rarely drank alcohol. Consequently, his head dropped and tilted, and, as a result, his facial expression shifted to a look of mild disgust. I knew that, ultimately, it was nothing personal. In fact, it was more comical than anything else.”

“No skunky brew on the hydro,” Chase replied. 

“I feel ya,” I replied.  

The Pool Shark

As I turned to make my way through the sparsely populated room, I looked over and made eye contact with Nails. I motioned to him asking if he wanted a beer.

He shook his head ‘yes’ and I continued to the store counter where I purchased two 32 ounce Schlitz Bull malt liquors and a 32 ounce King Cobra malt liquor from the cooler. 

Me, Finn, Nails, and Chase moved from the conspicuous environment of the illuminated pool hall and out onto the gravel beyond the concrete stage. The three of us opened our beers as Chase lit his blunt. 

 I broke the silence between the four of us after clearing my throat from the first sour sting of the cold malt liquor. 

“Cuz, you got ooh wopped off the table?” I said to Nails. 

Nails was chugging his malt liquor.  

I inferred that he had been bested at the pool table. He lowered the 32 ounce glass bottle mid swallow and cleared his esophagus. 

“Shiiit! Can’t nobody in there beat me. I bust Lee’s head for twenty, that game I just played, I had beat him for ten before that and ran it back for five. And then Mike’s cousin, me and him played for twenty earlier when he opened up.” 

“Look at Willie Mosconi.” Chase jokingly interjected. 

“Who that is?” I asked. 

“Pool Shark. I just saw this special on him. White dude, won 14 straight championships in pool.” Chase answered. 

“They call it ‘Billiards’.” Finn said in an exaggerated proper voice. 

“Minnesota Fats was that dude, though.” He added. 

This type of budding intellectual debate was common between Finn and Chase. 

Prelude To A Drink

 “That’s $50 dollars right there.” Nails said, as he cut into their exchange. 

“But you just got knocked off the table, right?” I replied. 

“So that’s forty-five.” Finn stated. 

“Man, I let that nigga win. Y’all was rollin’ up, so I knew what time it was.” Nails said. 

“So you let the nigga win so you could smoke? You losing money, though.” Finn said. 

“I let the nigga win so they’ll keep playin’ me. But they know what I do on that table.” Nails said matter-of-factly. 

“So yeah. You a Minnesota Fats type of nigga.” Said Chase as he passed the blunt he had been stoking with deep inhalations. 

I had been taking large gulps of my King Cobra malt liquor in an attempt to ‘chop the head off the snake.’ Specifically, this meant to drink the entire 32 ounce malt liquor before, ultimately, it became too warm and started to taste unbearably sour.

I was handed the blunt for a second time. My beer was halfway finished. The headlights and brake lights illuminated the grey dust from the parking lot as it rose and floated in the distance. 

Various makes and models of cars and SUV’s periodically pulled up and departed from the stage. 

We positioned ourselves between my mother’s Cadillac and the next closest car to disguise our activities from approaching vehicles. 

Drunk Man

Nails had drank his malt liquor until, finally, there was only suds. Before he turned the bottle upside down, he let the remaining liquid dribble out. Moreover, he held up the amber-colored glass bottle to his ear and, at the same time, gripped it tightly, as if it were a football.

“I’m sending this one all the way to Adams.” 

“Oh, nigga you all the way drunk, huh?” I replied. 

Me, Finn, and Chase laughed. 

Nails patted the bottle with his left hand and he steadied his feet in the gravel. 

“Twenty dollars. All the way to Adams. Put up or shut up.” Nails said. 

“You gone throw your whole goddamn right side out.” Chase laughed. 

“Uh Unh, he gone bust his ass in these rocks.” Finn added with a laugh.

Warren Moon

Adams’s store was 170 yards away; however, we all knew he had a strong arm. Meanwhile, Nails was running with the Bull. Consequently, he downed a 32-ounce malt liquor in less than 15 minutes and, as a result, became officially drunk.

After hearing all of us accept his $20 bet, he reneged. 

“Nah, fuck that. Y’all trying to rail road me.” Nails said. 

He shifted the large glass bottle around to where his fingers gripped the glass instead of the label; then, he took a hop step and, subsequently, launched the bottle from just beyond the stage all the way to the incline leading up to the railroad crossing.

The empty malt liquor bottle had traveled about 65 yards and exploded in the street with the sound of a muffled .22 caliber pistol. The three of us fell against the cars and each other, laughing, as Nails walked back over to us, rubbing and rotating his right shoulder. 

“He think he Warren Moon.” Chase said laughingly. 

“Nigga gone need Tommy John surgery doing that shit.” Finn laughed. 

“Let me hit that blunt man.” Nails said to me as he stretched his arms across his chest. 

A blue early model convertible BMW 325i with tinted windows had pulled up moments before. Meanwhile, Slim, a wiry, quick-tempered hustler of about 21 or 22 years old, hopped out of his car and walked directly to the pay phone. Notably, he did so without speaking to or acknowledging anyone.

He had gotten a page and was eager to return the call. Slim and his younger brother by a year and a half, Fat Boy, had moved back to College Downs three years earlier. Previously, they lived there with their mother and their little sister during their time in elementary school.

Rashad and Slim

15 year old Rashad stood against the wall beside the phone booth. Slim walked up to make his call. Rashad stood there; in fact, he was no more than 3 feet away from Slim for the duration of the call.

The confrontation between Rashad and Slim seemed to arise out of thin air. 

Slim stood within arm’s reach of Rashad. Rashad exchanged words with the tall, Ralph Lauren Polo clad man. 

“Aight lil fuck nigga. You gone let ya mouth get ya in trouble.” Said Slim 

“How come it’s gone get me in trouble? You ain’t nobody.” Rashad replied. 

“Oh! I ain’t nobody?” Slim shot back. 

Rashad was nervous and took a drag from his lit Newport to make himself look less threatening. 

 “I’m saying. I’m standing here minding my business. You jump on the phone then talk crazy to me. I was standing right here before you even pulled tha fuck up.” 

Slim abruptly threw a left hook that landed on the right side of Rashad’s face. Consequently, sparks from the cherry on Rashad’s cigarette leaped over his head, and he stumbled two steps to his left, landing in the corner formed by the cinder block wall and the outside of the pay phone housing.

Then a straight right followed by a left hook. Slim planted his left foot forward, cutting off Rashad’s escape route.

At this point, Rashad looked as if he was drowning. His feet were slipping from the momentum of the steady barrage of punches. Moreover, his arms were flailing as he attempted to swing in the direction of Slim, but it was of no use. Ultimately, Rashad withstood about eight direct blows to the face and chest before the spectators began to yell, “whoa, whoa, whoa!”

The Aftermath

“Lil fuck nigga!” Slim exclaimed as heeded the call of surrender we submitted on Rashad’s behalf. 

Slim walked to his car just as purposefully and swiftly as he had walked to the pay phone. Moreover, he stirred up more dust than the previous patrons as he sped across the gravel and accelerated up Ogden Road. He was not heading back to College Downs; in fact, this was a good thing.

Meanwhile, Rashad leaned against the building and blinked his eyes rapidly as he shook his head in disbelief. Consequently, he dug in his pocket for a fresh cigarette as two other young men came out of the pool hall. Notably, Rashad was from Crawford Road, and the two men that came out of the pool hall were also from Crawford Road.

Furthermore, the two young men felt anger and confusion over what had happened to one of their own. They stood only a few feet away while Slim pummeled him. In particular, Slim beat Rashad lopsidedly, and that was enough for one of the older teens to hear.

“Let’s go tell Vee,” the older teen said emphatically to Rashad as he waved him towards their car. The three teens left the pool hall in an early model Honda Accord and headed towards Crawford Road via the railroad crossing.

Ardipithecus

Once they had pulled off, the actors took to the stage and recreated the dramatic event between ‘Slim and Rashad’ as a comedy. 

“Nigga got pummeled by an Ardipithecus,” said Finn. 

“A what?” I replied in a high pitched voice. 

“I swear!” Chase added. 

 “Ardipithecus, man. Ardipithecus. It’s an extinct primate from five million years ago.” Finn replied. 

“That’s the hydro talking.” Chase said. 

“This nigga done went back to the future.” I said laughing. 

“That’s Biff.” Nails added as he leaned back on the Cadillac with his hand under his shirt as he tried to calm his belly. 

“Y’all niggas just don’t pay attention in school. That nigga Slim built just like an Ardipithecus.” Finn reinforced his argument. 

“Man, I don’t know what the hell that is.” I replied. 

“Drink the rest of that beer, O.” Nails interjected. 

“Man, go head! I’m fucked up already. I’m not drinking the rest of this shit.” 

I stepped from between the cars and began to pour the remaining 3/8ths of the warm malt liquor out onto the gravel. 

“You gone throw this one?” I said to Nails as I reached the empty clear glass bottle towards him. 

He was still leaning back against the Cadillac with his hand up his shirt on his belly. His eyes were closed and his head was skyward. Nails slowly inhaled through his nose and out of his mouth. He shifted his head to the side to demonstrate his annoyance with my question. 

“He bout to call Earl.” Chase added. 

Me, Finn, and Chase looked at Nails and laughed at the notion that he had drank the malt liquor too fast and might have to vomit in order to remain cognizant. 

“Nails!” Finn barked. “You gone hit this blunt, man?” 

Unfulfilled Retribution

Finn removed the unlit blunt from behind his ear and searched his pocket for a lighter. 

“Hell no!” Nails replied. His eyes were still closed. 

I walked over to the large plastic garbage can that sat near the door of the pool hall and threw the bottle in. Meanwhile, on my way back to the car where we were standing, the Honda Accord that Rashad and the two other teens had departed in was turning into the gravel parking lot.

As the car approached slowly, it stopped well before it reached the stage to park. Subsequently, a man in his early to mid twenties with a medium build got out of the front passenger side and took a few purposeful steps beyond the front of the Honda Accord.

“Slim ain’t come back over here?” the man asked aloud. 

“Naah.” Someone answered. 

“Anybody see him, tell him Vee looking for him.” The man retorted. 

The man knew that it was unlikely that anyone would deliver this message, but he had to stand up for the younger guys from Crawford Road. 

“Crawford Road! Roll out!” the man announced. 

Four teens left the pool hall in two separate cars after this command. Meanwhile, Finn handed his blunt to Chase as he took a sip out of his beer. He hadn’t been in a rush to drink the beer, like Nails and myself; consequently, he was holding up better than the both of us.

I received the blunt from Chase as the other guys stood around and murmured about why Slim had beaten Rashad. Thus, I passed the blunt back to Finn and decided that it was a good idea to vacate the area.

Wrecked Out

Eventually, the Cadillac set off down Squire Road, immersing me in the music while the familiar green glow of the digital display shone on my face. The low hum of the car’s V8 engine grew louder. Moreover, the digits on the display quickly increased to reflect the ’45 MPH’ speed I had reached.

I had just reached the beginning of the 130 degree curve at the mobile homes where, indeed, the subsequent generations of trailer dogs still patrolled the road. Meanwhile, the Cadillac seemed to float as it entered the left veering curve.

However, I was supposed to be in control of the car instead of being a passenger. Furthermore, the green glow reminded me of this fact. Consequently, I became aware of my negligence just as the front right tire exited the road. As a result, the tire made contact with the grass at the beginning of the McCullough property.

In that moment, time stood still as I attempted to steer the Cadillac back onto Squire Road. Therefore, I pressed the brake pedal in an effort to slow down enough to safely gain control of the car, but, unfortunately, it was already too late.

“I performed two and a half clockwise barrel rolls in response to the Cadillac’s forward momentum and my attempt to regain control. Meanwhile, red dirt from the McCullough’s front yard flooded through the open windows of the Cadillac.

Consequently, the contents of the glove compartment, ashtray, back seat, and loose change floated in the cabin, suspended as if in a time standstill. Despite the chaos, I remained seated and held onto the steering wheel. Eventually, the car tumbled and came to a halt with the driver’s side on the ground. In contrast, the passenger side faced upward toward the starry June sky.

God’s Hand

Interestingly, the Cadillac had a hard plastic centerpiece where an air bag would have been in a later model. Ultimately, I was not wearing my seat belt.

I was sitting in the midst of a $3,600 pound vehicle. Meanwhile, the Cadillac was being destroyed around me. Additionally, the green glow of the digital display brought to life the red airborne dust.

Afterward, I turned the still running engine off and then stood on the driver side door panel as I pulled myself up and out through the opened passenger side window. Consequently, the roadway was left unblocked. Moreover, the undercarriage was facing oncoming traffic. Notably, the majority of the car was resting over the drainage ditch that ran under the McCullough’s driveway.

I stood out in the dark road with the headlights still on because I had left my keys in the ignition. At that moment, my adrenaline had spiked and I was now completely sober.

Furthermore, I examined myself and found that I was uninjured and pain-free. Specifically, my clothes – a pair of Levi’s Silvertab jeans, a red, white, and black Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, and a new pair of red, black, and white Jordan Jumpman Pro’s – were caked in red dirt.

As I was taking into account what this disaster would mean for me in the immediate future, I noticed, surprisingly, a vehicle approaching from the direction I was heading. The vehicle approached cautiously and, consequently, stopped when it reached me.

Moreover, the driver of the small, early model two-door Nissan pickup truck was an African American man in his late 20s. Notably, a woman on his mobile phone held his attention. Therefore, I took a few steps away from the overturned Cadillac and moved over to his driver side window.

The Ride Home

“You need some help, man?” The man asked me as he still held the phone up to his ear. 

“Yeah, I live right here in Squire Estates. You can give me a ride?” I replied. 

“Oh, nah. I’m talking to my man right here.” He said to the person on the phone. 

He motioned to me to go over to the passenger side and get in. 

I got into the small cabin of the two door truck. It was dark, in contrast to the Cadillac, and smelled heavily of baby powder scented car air freshener. 

“You was in there, man?” 

The man asked me as he shifted the gears of the manual transmission truck and executed a three point turn with his right hand. He held his mobile phone in his left hand as his elbow rested on the open window sill. 

“Yep.” I replied lowly. 

 “Nah, I’m taking my man to his house. He just wrecked his car.” He told the person on the phone. 

“So what you want to eat? I’ll be heading that way in bout ten minutes.” The man told the person on the phone. 

“Make this right.” I told the man after we crossed the bridge that ran over Wildcat Creek. 

The man shifted the phone to the crook of his neck as he used his left hand to make a right turn. 

“Then make another right.” I told him as he approached my street. “The last house right there with the black Mercedes,” I added. 

Titus’s Domain

Our Rottweiler, Titus, was tethered to a 20 foot long chain/
in the back yard. The truck had an unfamiliar sound and scent. Titus barked wildly until I opened the truck door and announced myself. 

“Titus!” I called to him in an authoritative voice like my dad would do. 

“Alright, I’m headed to you now.” He told the person on the phone as I continued to slide out of the truck’s cabin. 

“I ‘preciate it, man.” I told the man as I reached across my body to dap him with my right hand. 

 “You be safe, bruh.” The man told me as he shifted his attention to me momentarily and gave me dap.

I closed the door to the truck and, consequently, made my way to the back door where my mother had the porch light on. Meanwhile, a mass of moths and other flying insects swarmed the back door. In fact, the bugs resembled a kamikaze squadron as they circled the yellow 60-watt bulb posted next to it.

As I realized that I would have to knock on the door, I remembered that I had left my keys in the ignition of the careened Cadillac. Thus, the back porch provided respite as I waited for my mother to answer my knocks. Moreover, I had the opportunity to get a faint reflection of myself in the glass screen door.

Notably, a layer of red dust covered me. Subsequently, my mother’s footsteps echoed off the solid wooden door as she made contact with the tiled kitchen floor. Importantly, she was home alone. She knew that immediate family all had keys and, therefore, were the only ones that could approach the back door.

The 3rd Degree

My mom, who was 40 years old, looked at me inquisitively through the glass door, replacing my faint reflection with her 5’5″ frame. As a result, she squinted her eyes to look at me while I swatted at the dive-bombing insects around the porch light.

The film of red dust covering my face and hair prompted her line of questioning: 

 “Omar! Where is my car?” “Omar! What happened?” “Tell me where my car is.” 

“I wrecked it,” I replied. 

“You wrecked it?” 

“Yeah. Something ran out in front of me.” 

“Something ran out in front of you?” 

“Right there in front of the McCullough’s house. Something ran out in front of me and I swerved.” 

I had had time to concoct this lie on the ride home in the man’s truck. Moreover, he hadn’t asked me anything about the accident, so I had time to figure out what I was going to say to explain the crash.

In fact, I knew very well that I couldn’t say that I had stopped at the pool hall on the corner, drank a 32 ounce malt liquor, as a 16 year old, and smoked a blunt and a half of hydroponic weed.

Consequently, I had been sobered up by the spike of adrenaline. However, the smell of weed and malt liquor, possibly from my breath, remained. Ultimately, no one had a reason to believe anything other than what I would tell them about the overturned Cadillac.

“So my car is up the road and it’s wrecked?” my mother asked. 

 “Ma, something ran out in front of me, and I tried to swerve to keep from hitting it and the car flipped.” 

“It FLIPPED?” 

What Just Happened?

I took a deep breath as I became annoyed that it seemed as if she was asking me the same questions repeatedly and hadn’t asked if I was okay yet. 

“Well, we gotta call the police and go back up there,” she said as she moved to the side to allow me to move further into the house. 

“Ok, let me use the bathroom first.” 

“Are you okay?” She finally asked. 

“Yeah, I’m okay” 

“You might be in shock.” 

I shrugged my shoulders and made my way through the den, into the hall and to the bathroom. 

Once in the bathroom, I took a leak, swished some water around in my mouth, and then, subsequently, washed the dirt from my face and forearms. Additionally, my clothes smelled of the red clay dirt from the lot across from the McCullough property. Furthermore, the scent of geosmin triggered memories.

As I stood there staring into my own eyes, just as I had done as a 3 or 4-year-old, I consequently had flashbacks to my earlier years when I was a boy riding my bicycle to College Downs. Moreover, I thought about the years when I used to battle the McCullough and trailer dogs. Then, later, I found myself zooming past both sets of dogs on my moped, as if they had never presented a threat.

At that moment, I was weeks away from my 17th birthday and had come close to losing my life on that very stretch of road. Nevertheless, I still didn’t know what an ‘Omar’ was.

“You alright in there?” my mom asked through the bathroom door. 

I snapped out of the trance and opened the bathroom door, “I’m ready.” 

The Scene Of The Crime

The chill of the leather seats in my dad’s 1992 S500 Mercedes was even more sobering. Moreover, the smell of the leather conditioner he applied to the interior and the dark, foreboding cabin induced thoughts of authoritarianism in itself; in fact, I rarely rode in this car.

As soon as we reached the stop sign before turning onto Squire Road, we could see the flashing lights of the Sheriff patrol car and an ambulance.

My mom drove the Mercedes, while my dad drove his 1980 Chevy Silverado. I had been driving the Cadillac ever since the previous autumn, when, unexpectedly, an elderly white woman ran into me and Finn while I was driving the 1974 Volkswagen Beetle my dad had handed down to me.

“Boy, you got everybody out here, don’t you?” my mom said as we slowly rolled up to the scene. 

My mom never seemed to know what to say. Consequently, the words didn’t seem to be the right ones when she tried to improve a situation, despite her skill with them.

Moreover, my mom had positioned my side of the passenger side in the high grass. Therefore, I didn’t reply as I got out and high-stepped my way onto the blacktop.

As a result, I waited for my mother to get to the front of the Mercedes so that we could approach the sheriff’s deputies. Meanwhile, Finn, Chase, and Nails, along with most of the guys from the pool hall, made their way down to the crash site. They, in turn, positioned themselves on the opposite side of the Sheriff patrol cars and the ambulance.

“There he go!” Finn said loudly as he recognized me and my mother among the flashing lights of the Sheriff and ambulance. 

It Was A Deer

One of the deputies, a tall, middle-aged white man with a thinning buzz cut, walked in our direction from the side of the road opposite where the Cadillac rested. 

Before he could get a word out, my mother spoke, “That’s my car. This is my son. He was driving.” 

 “You were in there?” The deputy asked surprised. 

“Yes sir.” I replied. 

“What happened?” The deputy asked. 

An EMT walked over to us with a first aid bag. 

“A deer ran out in front of me and I swerved.” 

“A deer ran out? Which way did it go?”  

My mother began talking to me with her eyes. She realized that I was now saying a that deer ran out in front of me. Before, I had said ‘something’ ran out in front of me. 

I pointed towards the red clay dirt lot, “It came from this side and went that way.” 

“Well, I didn’t see any tracks over there.” the deputy replied. 

“Really? Tracks?” my mother interjected. “Well, this is the country. We do have deer that roam around here…on this road.” She added. 

The deputy saw that my mother was an intelligent woman and decided to acquiesce. The EMT stood off to the side waiting for the deputy to finish his line of questioning. 

“You were the only person in the car? He asked as he got closer to me. 

“Yeah, it was just me.” 

“Are you alright? You know sometimes the adrenaline will mask an injury.” He replied. 

“Do you mind if I check you out?” He added. 

You’re Lucky, Kid

I nodded my head in agreement. He took a pen light from his shirt pocket and examined my eyes as the deputy and my mother stood by in silence. The guys from the pool hall murmured in hushed tones as they inched closer to the Cadillac to examine the scene.

A few of them got back into their cars and left once they saw that I was okay and had heard the story that a deer had ran out in front of me and I had swerved to avoid hitting it. 

“You look okay. I don’t see any signs of injury or shock.” The EMT said. 

“I can still give him a ride to the hospital if you’d like.” He said to my mother. 

“That’s okay, thank you. I can take him up there if he needs to go.” She replied. 

“I’m going to go ahead and head out if everything is good here. Hey, if anything changes man, let your mom know, get right up to the hospital.” said the EMT. 

The deputy seemed to be satisfied with the results of the EMT’s examination and took on a different tone. 

“You’re lucky you weren’t thrown from the vehicle. That’s usually what happens in roll overs.” He told me. 

A flatbed tow truck was approaching the scene slowly with its own set of flashing lights disrupting the cover of darkness. The guys from the pool hall became indistinguishable as they continued to flow back into cars and out of the way of the passing vehicle. 

“I just sat there.” I told the deputy. 

 “That seat belt saved your life. I don’t see a deployed airbag.” He replied 

“There’s no airbag.” My mother told him. 

We Thought You Were Dead

The deputy gave me a look of amazement when my mother said this. He was wondering how I had gotten out of this seemingly unscathed. He would have been even more perplexed if he had known that I wasn’t wearing a seat belt during the crash. 

 “I’m going to go to my car and get some paperwork started. Do you have your insurance information with you?” The deputy said to my mother. 

“And I’m going to need his drivers license.” He added. 

My mother and I gave the deputy the information he asked for and he went to his car. My mother made her way over to her Cadillac and waited for the tow truck driver to get started.

A few of the guys from the pool hall made their way over to where I was standing between the Cadillac and Mercedes. 

“Man! O! Damn man! Man, we thought you was gone man!” Finn exclaimed. 

“Soon as I heard it, I said, “Damn!”” That’s O.” Nails added. 

“Y’all heard it up there?” I asked. 

“Man! That shit sounded like a train wreck!” Finn replied. 

Chase’s eyes glazed over as he looked around and shook his head in disbelief. 

“How you got out?” Nails asked. 

“I had to climb out through the top.” I answered. 

 “Damn. You ain’t hit your head or nothing? You alright?” Finn asked. 

“Shit, I think so, hell. Dude came down the road right when I climbed out and gave me a ride home.” I said. 

“Man, we thought you was in the woods or something.” Chase broke his silence. 

“We was here before the police, we was calling your name and everything.” Nails said. 

Cadillac Graveyard

The deputy made his way over to the Cadillac where my mother was talking to the tow truck driver. He handed her the insurance card and my drivers license along with the accident report.

The deputy then walked back to his patrol car and left the scene. He was seemingly disappointed that he didn’t have anyone to confine in the back of his car. 

My mom inquired about her options for having the car towed to a different location. The last thing she desired was another bill.

“Ma’am, I can tow it anywhere you want it towed to. It’s not involved in an investigation or anything like that so it’s all yours.” He told my mother. 

My mom briskly walked past me, her nephew, Nails, and Chase and Finn, whom she had known their whole lives. 

 “Boy, y’all know how to get into something, don’t you?” my mom said as she passed us. 

My mom called my dad from the Mercedes and told him about the accident. She assured him that I was alright and asked him if the car should be towed to a salvage yard.

My father advised her to have the car towed back to our house and to have it sit beside the garage at the bottom of our yard. We all stood around as the tow truck driver pulled the Cadillac back onto its four wheels and loaded it up onto the flatbed.

The Memories

I felt so remorseful for what I had done to the Cadillac. That car was becoming a part of me. Me, Chase, Nails, Finn, and on occasion, one of the older guys or a friend from school would be with us as we would wind up the windows, listen to Outkast, Wu-Tang, DMX, Mobb-Deep, or any other lyrical rap artist that we discovered. 

On top of having this monumental event happen to me so suddenly, I wouldn’t even be sleeping in my own room that night. Years ago, my mom purchased newer bunk beds. My sister and I slept on them when my mom separated from my dad and moved into an apartment.

My parents took apart, and removed the beds from my room. They took the beds to my sister’s apartment in Boyd Hill. Later, she placed them in my 2-year-old niece’s room.

Meanwhile, my sister had taken her bedroom set from our parents’ house to her new apartment. As a result, her old room at our house had been made into a guest room. Consequently, this left my bedroom empty of furniture, as the bunk beds that I had slept on since I was a child were then moved into my sister’s old room.

In contrast, I never liked my sister’s room. The other rooms in the house always seemed warmer than her space during the winter. Furthermore, she had this picture of Raggedy Ann and Andy on her wall that used to give me the creeps.

When I was younger, the movies ‘Gremlins,’ ‘Critters,’ ‘C.H.U.D.’ and ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’ would disturb me so badly that I would begrudgingly ask to sleep in the room with my sister.

Such Is Life

Losing my means of transportation and having to sleep in my sister’s old room were, indeed, all steps in the wrong direction for me. Furthermore, life was sounding an imperceptible alarm that my inexperience and a false sense of invincibility—afforded to me by youth—would not allow me to heed.

Consequently, I had almost lost my young life as a result of decisions I had made in a drunken, weed-induced haze. After showering, I then lay on my back on the stiff single mattress of the bunk bed and stared into the darkness.

 I thought to myself: “Now I gotta hear dad’s shit.” 

Such Is Life.