At the Crossroads (18 page)

“What’s up, Mr. Banks?” Dee said to a tall bald-headed guy who looked to be in his late thirties or early forties. “When you gonna bring me a new book?”

“As soon as you learn how to speak proper English. Besides, you haven’t read the last one I gave you,” Mr. Banks said.

“Yes, I did,” Dee said.
“Black Boy
by Richard Wright? Come on, man. I been read that.”

“Okay,” Mr. Banks said. “We’ll be discussing it at book club tonight. I hope you’re telling the truth, because if you’re lying, I’m kicking you out of the club for a week.”

“When have you ever known me to lie?” Dee said.

“Ah,” Mr. Banks said, scratching his head. “Every time you open your mouth.”

“Stop flexing,” Dee said. “You know my word is my bond. Never met anybody I cared enough about to lie. I don’t care what nobody think, so why would I lie?”

“Y’all got a book club in here?” Franky asked.

“Yeah,” Dee said. “Mr. Banks is a writer—he has like ten books out. He started the book club in here, donated a bunch of books to the library and everything. Before he did that, we had all these books donated by white churches and stuff.
Gone with the Wind
and stuff like that. Man, I need to read some Jihad, Eric Jerome Dickey, some Shannon Holmes or something.”

“That’s what’s up,” Franky said.

“Yeah, Mr. Banks is a real dude. He said if I stay out of trouble, he’ll pay for me to go to college. Ain’t that crazy? My own daddy never told me that, and he has big money. Mr. Banks is the first man I ever met who’s ever took the time to teach me anything. That’s real talk right there, player,” Dee said.

“How much longer you got in here?”

“About three more and then I’m out,” Dee said. “I got a lil petty theft charge, but it’s like my tenth offense, so the judge gave me six months. Bad thing about it is I’ll be back. I’ve been locked up thirty something times, bro.”

Franky felt sorry for him because he seemed like such a cool guy. If he only had a little guidance, there was no telling what he could be.

“You can stay out if you want to, man,” Franky said.

“That’s what Mr. Banks says, but I’ll be leaving here going right back to my hood. And trust me when I tell you that ain’t nuttin’ there but trouble. I live in the Bluff. You ever heard of it?”

Franky had heard about the Bluff, and it was rough. Lots of bad things happened over there because the people lived far below the poverty level.

“You said your dad has big dough,” Franky asked. “Why y’all live in the Bluff?”

“Because that fool don’t want nothing to do with me or my sister. I hear he’s one of these NBA dudes. That’s what my grandma told me, but it don’t matter. He ain’t ever spent one second of his time with us, so forget him.”

“Maybe you can see if Mr. Banks is as real as you think he is. Tell him you don’t wanna go back over there and see if he can help you,” Franky said.

“Yeah,” Dee said as if he had never thought of that. “I’ma do that. I’m tired of coming to jail, but crazy as it sounds, it’s better in here than it is at my house. At least in here I get three hots and a cot. At home, it’s everybody for themselves.”

“Yeah,” Franky said, because he certainly could relate.

They walked into the class, where an old white woman sat at her desk. She had to be at least seventy-five years old, and Franky wondered what she would do to defend herself if one of the kids tried to do something. He got his answer when a mammoth-sized security officer, stepped into the class.

“Man,” Franky said, looking up to the guy.

“That’s Scales. He’s cool,” Dee said. “Nuttin’ but a big old teddy bear.”

The boys filed into the classroom and took their seats. As soon as Franky sat down, he saw someone come running at him. He jumped up just as Tyrone’s fist came flying at him. He dodged his nemesis and pushed his back so that Tyrone’s momentum sent him flying face-first into thecinder-block wall. There was a loud thud, and Franky was on him. He turned the boy around so that he was facing him and punched him as hard as he could in the face. Tyrone’s face frowned up from the impact of the punch. Franky hit him again and again and again. Tyrone staggered but raised his hands into a southpaw stance and threw a weak jab that missed Franky by a mile. Franky sidestepped him and landed another punch to Tyrone’s jaw that dropped him. Franky pounced on him, straddling his chest and hitting him with every ounce of strength he had. He punched Tyrone for every wrong that ever came his way. Tyrone’s face was the target for all the pain and anguish he’d felt since his family was destroyed. He hit him for Khadija and for ruining the most precious friendship he’d ever had. Then he grabbed both Tyrone’s ears and lifted his head off the ground to bang it on the hard tile floor.

“Franky, ”
Franky Sr. said in a very calm voice.

Franky looked up and saw his father standing over him. He wasn’t there as some ghost or vision; he was really there. He had on the same clothes, and his shoes were still glowing. He paused and looked at his father.

“Do you think you’ve proved your point?”

No, Dad,
Franky thought.
He gotta pay. Do you know what he did?

“Of course I know what he did. He’ll be in jail for the next three years for it. So what else do you want?”

“I want his life,” Franky whispered out loud.

“That’s not smart.”

“Maybe I’m just not smart anymore.”

“Franky, my son. If you hit that boy’s head on that floor, he will have permanent brain damage. He won’thave any memory of his incarceration. Therefore, he won’t really be punished for what he did.”

“I don’t care what he has,” Franky said.

“Yes, you do. You don’t care now because you are angry at the world, but you are a good person.”

“I used to be.”

“You still are, but if you slam his head on that floor, you will never see us again nor will we be able to see you. There is a price to pay for your actions. There is life after this, Franky. But if you slam his head on that floor, you will spend the rest of your life as a street person who never maximized his potential. You will always be in and out of prison and never find happiness. The choice is yours. You’re at the crossroads.”

Franky still had Tyron’s head in his hands. His anger had a stranglehold on him as he lifted the boy’s head high, growled, and with all of his force slammed Tyrone’s head down. But the head wouldn’t hit the floor. It landed softly on the glowing shoes his father was wearing.

Franky looked up into the eyes of his father. Franky Sr. looked at his son, shook his head in disappointment, and vanished.

F
ranky sat alone in his room. He had his back against the wall with his arms hugging his knees. He couldn’t shake seeing the look of disappointment on his dad’s face. Now he was really feeling bad and couldn’t believe how foolish he was for allowing his anger to consume him like that. But was that really his dad or had he been hallucinating? He seemed so real, but why now? After all of these years, why was he showing up now? These questions racked his brain as his door to his room swung open.

“Good Lord, cuz,” Dee said. “You’re an animal. That boy had to be shipped out to the emergency room. Serves the loudmouth right, though.”

Franky exhaled and looked straight ahead.

“But get this,” Dee said. “The only thing they’re gonna do to you is send you to cool down because everybody saw him attack you. It’s self-defense, cuz. And old big Scales didn’t like him either—you see him taking his time coming over there to pull you off of him?”

Franky didn’t respond. His mind was still on his dad.

“I still need to get my honey bun because I threw in an extra lie and said he came at you with a pencil,” Dee said. “That made it sound a little better. Plus, it added to his charge and made it aggravated.”

Franky finally looked up at his roommate, then around the room and took a deep breath. He stood up and started pacing back and forth without saying anything.

Dee stepped back and stared at Franky like something was wrong with him.

“I need to get out of here,” Franky said now that he had taken care of what he had come here to do.

Dee relaxed and propped his leg up on the stainless-steel toilet seat. He had seen this many times before in his numerous stays in juvie hall. Some folks could go days before they realized that they were trapped and then snap, then there were some who crack right away. But everybody snapped at some point.

A guard appeared at the door and gave Franky a menacing look. “Bourgeois?” he asked, looking at a clipboard.

“Yes,” Franky said.

“Look here,” the guard said. “We have you down here as not having made your phone call. What’s your problem? Do you have anybody you can call? Because they can come and sign you out. If you don’t, we’re calling DFCS.”

That was all he had to say. He didn’t want any part of the Division of Family and Children Services.

“I can call my family,” Franky said.

“Good,” the guard said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you young boys. If I was locked up, I would be running to a phone so somebody could comeand get me. Not y’all. Y’all think this is Six Flags or something.”

Franky listened without responding. He couldn’t care less about too much of anything right now.

“You need to make a phone call before six o’clock this evening, or I’m putting you down as a runaway and calling DFCS. Anybody around here will let you use the phone, and make sure they document it,” the guard said, walking off.

“Who can I ask to make a phone call?” Franky asked Jay.

“Well, normally all you had to do was ask to use the phone, but since you’re in what they call ‘cool down,’ you can’t leave the room until tomorrow. Twenty-four hours, bro. And that’s from the time you get busted, but since he just came up here trippin', I guess you can catch one of the guards around here.”

“I gotta stay in this room for twenty-four hours?”

“Yep,” Dee said. “Unless your people come and get you. Then you can go home. We need to exchange numbers, man. You good peoples.”

“Yeah, we can do that.”

“Cool. You don’t seem like a street dude, but you fight like one,” Dee said, then pulled up his sleeve, displaying an arm full of tattoos.

“I’m not a street dude, and I don’t like fighting, but I had to get him. He crossed the line,” Franky said.

“Well, you got him.”

“How many tattoos do you have, whoadie?”

“I don’t know. I lost count a long time ago. I got my first one when I was twelve. I started doing them myself at thirteen. You want one? I’m the best in the business, bro. And I will let you pay me later.”

“Nah,” Franky said. “I don’t do tattoos.”

“Why not? Take a look at my work,” Dee said, walking over to a stack of books and tablets that were piled on the steel desk. He handed a tablet to Franky. “I can draw anything, but those are some originals I came up with. When I get some money, I’ma start me my own tat shop and call it Dee-toos.”

“How do you do tattoos in here?”

“Where there is a will there is a way, brother man. I got all the needles you need to get the job done. They’re not electric like the ones I’ma have when I open up Dee-toos, but they’re clean and sanitary.” Dee opened a little case that was about the size of a pencil box.

“How did you get all that stuff?”

“Man,” Dee said with a smile, “I’ve been coming in here since I was eleven years old. The guards are like my big brothers, so they hook me up. Plus, I give them a cut of the money I make, so they bring me what I need.”

Franky flipped through the pages and had to admit, Dee had some major skills. He could draw a picture of a person that looked just like a Kodak shot. The more he flipped through the pages, the more he started to change his mind. Ten minutes later, he had changed his mind and was sitting on the edge of his bed while Dee used his arm as a canvas. Forty-five minutes later, Franky had a tattoo that covered most of his skinny arm.

“This is nice,” Franky said once Dee had finished. He looked at his arm in the mirror, which was really a steel slab hanging over the toilet and sink combo, and couldn’t help but smile.

“You need to use the phone, bro. Old boy wasn’t playing; these folks will have you sitting in a group home before you know it,” Dee said as he put away his supplies.

“Yeah,” Franky said, still admiring the fantastic-looking crossbones and New Orleans Saints emblem.

“There’s Mr. Banks. He’ll let you use his cell. Mr. Banks,” he called out.

“What’s up?” Mr. Banks said, walking over to their room. “What can I do you gentleman out of?”

“My man here needs to use your phone,” Dee said, nodding at Franky. “Officer Hammond said they’re about to call DFCS on him. Ain’t tryna see the homie up in some group home.”

“Does your homie have a name?”

“His name is Franky,” Dee said with a wide smile.

“Well, what did I tell you about introducing people like that?” Mr. Banks asked.

“Franky, this is Mr. Banks. Mr. Banks, this is Franky,” Dee said.

“Very proper, DeMarco,” Mr. Banks said, nodding. “You’ve come a long way from ‘dis my potna nem,’ and ‘ya know wha I’m saying shorty, doe.’ ”

“Aww, man,” Dee said, showing a room-brightening smile. “You know you understood everything I said. You know you’re hood, too.”

“Correction, my tattoo-faced friend. I’m from the hood, but make no mistake about it—there is nothing hood about me,” Mr. Banks said. “Is this the young man who was fighting?”

“Yep,” Dee said, shadow boxing. “He’s a beast. You know I don’t roll with no lames. Gotta be able to get down with the get-down if you gonna be on my team, homie.”

“Bye, DeMarco,” Mr. Banks said as he walked into the room. “Go hang out in the dayroom for a minute.”

“No problem,” Dee said. “You homie, he’s cool. You can keep it real with him.”

Mr. Banks handed Franky his cell phone.