Ahgottahandleonit Read online

  Ahgottahandleonit is a work of fiction. While it is based on experience, all names, characters and incidents are either products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

  Ahgottahandleonit. Copyright © 2017 by Donovan Mixon. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations for reviews. For information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas, El Paso, TX 79901 or call at (915) 838-1625.

  First Edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Mixon, Donovan, author.

  Title: Ahgottahandleonit / by Donovan Mixon.

  Other titles: I got a handle on it

  Description: First edition. | El Paso, TX: Cinco Puntos Press, [2017] | Summary: “Tim’s a dyslexic black kid from the streets of Newark. He wants to do what is right, but anger boils deep inside him. Despite everything, Tim wants his life to matter”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016023652 | ISBN 978-1-941026-48-9 (e-book)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Anger—Fiction. | Dyslexia—Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Boys & Men. | JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Multigenerational. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Bullying. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Special Needs. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M634 Ah 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016023652

  Book & cover design by Anne M. Giangiulio

  I dedicate this work to my son

  OZAN BARRIE MIXON

  “We are all capable of evil, son. Don’t be fooled. All of us! But almost always the opportunity to own up to our mistakes comes around. With your kin especially, you should take advantage when it does, to do and say the right thing, take your part without any double talk. Your family’ll forgive you. Because when you forgive a family member, more than with people unrelated, you be forgiving yourself for your own misdeeds.”

  —GENTRALE THORNTON

  CONTENTS

  IT WAS A SIGN

  MARIA

  ON THE HOME FRONT

  DANGER, HOT…

  VOW OF VENGEANCE

  FUNKIER THAN A JAMES BROWN RECORD

  BRINGS THE WORD WITH HIM

  THIS IS THE TIME FOR US

  THE LAST STRAW

  WTF?

  ESCAPE

  PULLING BACK THE CURTAIN

  BULLY

  REGRET

  PROPOSITION

  LIKING IT

  BEST LAID PLANS

  RINGTONE

  VISIT WITH DADDY

  THE GLOVE

  THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING

  DEALING WITH IT

  AND THE REST OF THE WORLD ASPIRES TO THIS?

  AHGOTTAHANDLEONIT!

  PASSING DOWN THE PAIN

  THEY CAN’T TAKE THAT AWAY FROM YA

  WHERE’S TIM?

  STRESS

  SOME MEMORIES SUCK

  BUTT-CALL

  SUNFLOWER YELLOW

  PARANOIA

  SHEILA AND TIM TALK FAMILY

  THE KNIFE

  A WAY OUT?

  IT WAS HIM AFTER ALL

  R-E-S-P-E-C-T

  A LONG TIME TO WAIT FOR SOMEONE

  SUSPECT

  CONFESSION

  NUGGETS

  APOLOGY

  TEA PARTY

  STOP AND FRISK

  A SECRET NO MORE

  FRAYING AT THE SEAMS

  BERETTA F81

  GOOD EVENING, OFFICER

  WHERE IS HE?

  SWEET REVENGE

  DAY OF RECKONING

  CONTEMPLATION

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  IT WAS A SIGN

  It was the next-to-last day of school. From a block away, Tim could see his best friend Les hanging with Lucy and some others. It had become a sort of a ritual—a group of buds would gather for an early morning smoke to catch up on the latest gossip. But he wasn’t in the mood, having just remembered that today might be his last chance to catch up with Maria. He slipped under a fence that bordered Branchbrook Park, one of the few green spots left in Newark.

  It was remarkable that this place even existed. Only a couple feet in from the sidewalk, Tim forgot the sweat and grime of the street as his body surrendered to the cool and hush of tall oaks, ferns and birches. Birds chattered away and mosquitoes rallied at the scent of fresh human blood—his.

  Happy to be alone, Tim felt better as he moved deeper into the woods. He would never admit it, but he loved the scent of the flowers that seemed to be everywhere. The fragrance of wild jasmine kept tickling his nose, mysteriously bringing to mind his ex-girlfriend, Rene.

  A strange growth of wild mushrooms jutting from the base of a tree trunk distracted him from the nagging heartbreak of losing her and stopped him in his tracks—he wondered if it would feel as strange as it looked. Squatting, resisting the urge to touch it, he stared at the asymmetrical shape and rubbery appearance but after a couple minutes his attention began to wander. Too much nature, he thought, and then something in the bushes moved. He started, loose earth rolled from under his heels to send him flying backwards into the mud. He jumped up and ran towards his usual shortcut, a shallow spot of the stream where it was possible to cross. A few more minutes of roughing it through the brush over the familiar uneven terrain of moist grass and mud patches brought him to a giant fallen tree trunk. It forced him to make his way back up to the paved road.

  At the top of the hill, there was a large orange and white construction barrier. A sign read:

  DANGER HOT AS HALT

  He squatted, catching his breath, and stared at the sign. The first and second words were clear. His heart descended into a familiar despondency as it dawned on him that he was, once again, simply stuck. Shame gave way to anger when the laugh of a crow cut through the whispering trees overhead. Anger gave way to carelessness when he stood up to throw something at the bird. Carelessness must have given way to blindness, for he never saw the patch of black tar at the edge of the new road. His left sneaker found it though.

  That’s when Maurice Rice caught up with him.

  “Yo, look who we got here!” said Maurice, pointing a fat index finger like a gun held sideways. “Tim, right?” He grinned, a gold front tooth reflecting light in all directions.

  Tim struggled to free his sneaker from the goop. “Yeah, that’s right.” He didn’t have to turn his head to know who it was, but he did anyway. And yes, it was that fool Maurice with the out-sized tattoos and the huge gold ear stud. Tim had never liked him. The bad dude took a step in.

  “Yo man, I heard you be looking for me,” the thug said, shooting spit into the air.

  Focusing his attention on his sneaker, Tim thought about how he could outrun them if he were to get loose. “Nah man, I-I ain’t been lo-looking for nobody. I don’t even kn-know you,” he said slowly, trying to decide whether to abandon his sneaker or hang in. He was pissed that his stutter was kicking in too.

  Tim watched as Maurice took a step back to talk with his boys, to justify what was about to happen. He had on some seriously low-hung jeans—on top, only a leather vest, dark shades, a gold neck chain in the style of a dog collar and several rings. The other three boys wore oversized white tee-shirts and jeans. One guy, hanging on the side, silently watching, had a single fingerless leather glove on his right hand.

  “Ha! You know me all right,” Maurice sneered as he took account of Tim’s disappearing sneaker and muddy pants. “Yo’ sister said”—pausing, smirking—“that you was gonna kick my ass for messin’ with her the other day.”

  Tim
’s foot was almost completely outside of his shoe as he tried to free himself. He didn’t want to use his hands because he would have to bend over and take his eyes off the boy. “Nah, Mau-Maurice. I don’t remember saying nothing li-like that to nobod—”

  Before he could even finish his sentence, Maurice slapped him hard across the mouth. The metal from his rings drew blood immediately. Tim lost his balance but instead of falling back into the barrier and the tar, he lurched forward like a drunk, straight into Maurice’s arms, leaving his shoe behind. The bully pushed him away into the arms of his friends. They caught him, pulled him up straight and held his arms behind his back so that their leader could have his way with him.

  And he did.

  Tim caught a short, hard jab a hair above his right eye. Maurice grinned and moved in close. Tim brought both feet up and kicked the thug in the forehead. Fear hit him like a brick in the chest when he heard the dude say, “Now Tim, or whatever the fuck your name is, you done really pissed me off!” As if on cue, they dead-dropped him to the ground. Tim rolled over to run, but there was no escape. Surrounded, he heard Maurice yell, “Pick his ass up!” When they reached for him, Tim grabbed the smaller dude by the neck, kicking at the other with his sneaker-less foot. His struggle was useless. Soon enough, he again faced his nemesis, arms held behind his back. Maurice, grinning like a shark, said nothing this time as he punched him once, hard in the gut. Tim gasped and they let him collapse to the ground. Someone kicked him. Someone else mocked him in a whisper. “Hey…psst, taking a nap, Timmy boy?” Eyes still closed, he lay there listening to their laughter as if in a bad dream.

  Soon it was quiet again. If you had been the blackbird sitting on a branch of the hundred-year-old oak overhead, you would have seen the gang of four leave a crumpled, dirty heap—in the form of a teenager—on the ground next to a orange and white construction barrier. You would have watched the halo of mosquitoes—levitating an inch above his head—work in shifts. You would have probably contemplated flying down for the bright orange and black ladybug crawling along his pantleg. To you, the almost skinny kid would appear to be sleeping. You couldn’t have known that he was faking it, waiting for his assaulters to get bored and leave. You would have been completely oblivious to the fact that in spite of everything, Tim wondered if, on this next-to-last day of school, he would make it to school on time. He also wondered what his teacher Mr. Jones would say about all of this.

  The sudden squeal of the phone in his pocket would have frightened you, sending you away in a flutter of indifference.

  MARIA

  Miraculously, Tim arrived to first period just one minute after the bell. The teacher took a curious look at him but said nothing. With one more day before summer break, Tim imagined she wasn’t up for another confrontation with a student.

  It took seven periods of classes for the hurt in his side to become a dull throb—a painful reminder of the ass-kicking Maurice and his boys gave him that morning. Tim sat alone in the back of his eighth-period class trying to ignore people as he had done all day: “Hey…what-up, Tim? What happened, bro? What’s that shit on yo’ sneaker?” Instead of reading the English evaluation on his desk, he opted to just sit and stare out the window. He knew what it said: he would have to repeat sophomore English if he were unable to pass the last-chance proficiency in September. Everybody warned him, even Mr. Jones, his self-appointed tutor, but he wouldn’t listen. He’d been cutting Jones’ study hall lately. However, this morning he awakened with a strong feeling to see him and had planned to attend the next period, just to touch base before the term was up. Besides, he thought, Maria would be there. The sly smile that crept across his lips caused him to wince with pain as he watched a wasp dumbly inch its way over the surface of the glass.

  Maria was from Guatemala. And though he had no idea where exactly that was, he knew that it was warm. He’d thought many times about going there one day—with her, of course. Curiously it never occurred to him to look up Guatemala on the net. For him, it didn’t matter. As long as she was speaking to him, nothing else seemed important. It’s seriously dope, man, the way she says my name—like she puts a bunch of ‘e’s’ in the middle of it…Teeeeeiiim.

  The girl was fucking gorgeous, beautiful in a completely different way from his so-called former girlfriend Rene or Boo, his nickname for her. Also the Guatemalan, unlike Rene, was no athlete, but, ohhh, she could really move on the dance floor.

  Tim leaned his cheek hard into the palm of his hand and imagined the touch of her hair. While he still loved Rene’s short curly cut, the flow and shine of Maria’s captivated him as well. He wondered how it would feel to his hands. She had very wide-set eyes similar to his, but her skin, unlike his, had a pecan brown tint to it. He was quite the chocolate boy as Rene used to call him.

  Just the thought of Rene made his heart sag heavily in his chest.

  Since he’d been cutting study hall, he had been seeing Maria only in passing the last couple weeks. He wondered what her large expressive eyes would say to him next period. At the bell, he skipped over to the stairwell that let out to the parking lot exit for a quick smoke before heading to see Jones. The hard surfaces of the empty stairway sang with a soft echo from his footsteps. Opening the heavy door, he paused—one foot outside, the other inside—fished a butt from his back pocket and smiled at the stark light of summer. The door squeaked softly as he leaned his weight into it.

  He thought of the long hazy days to come and how after tomorrow, there would be plenty of time to kick it with Spank and Les. Tim closed his eyes with each pull on the cigarette, enjoying the shade and cool of the corner area.

  That morning, he had argued with his uncle Gentrale. In spite of himself, he was impressed at the old man’s determination to help him and his sister and his mom. His mom had recently been ‘born again.’ It made him sigh just thinking about it. He blew air through his lips. How could she be so sure about what’s going to happen when we die? Why is everybody getting so worked up about things, worried about getting an education, passing tests, getting a job and shit, if one day we all will end up hard and brittle like one of those dead street cats? And what’s all this positive hopey-dopey shit Jones is always talking about? How can he be so sure that everything will be all right?

  Tim wondered again, as he’d done every day for the past year—if life, school, everything, anything was even worth the trouble.

  At the sound of the warning bell, he took a long last drag and looked for Jones’ old Ford. It wasn’t in its regular space or in anyone else’s spot. He must not be here today. Shit, I might as well go home. The chump probably had to play a gig or something. I’ll see him tomorrow.

  A text beeped in from his dad:

  Sorry son, I can’t make it today, gotta work late.

  Damn! I figured he’d pull some bullshit like this.

  The metal door banged shut like a missile silo. Fighting a pain in his hip, Tim ran through the parking lot towards the street.

  ON THE HOME FRONT

  The six steps from the sidewalk to the front porch of the three-flat where Tim lived felt like a mountain with a handrail. Pausing midway, he leaned onto the metal bar and peered up and down the block. With still plenty of time before sunset, sweaty kids played in the street ignoring the waves of heat rising from the black top. People on the night shift were leaving for work, jaws set with determination. A bus rumbled by, followed by a car with darkened windows and a thousand-watt stereo vomiting the lyrics of the latest slap-a-bitch hit.

  As he climbed the stairs, Tim felt nothing of his usual urge to complain about the noise. Or about the fact that the outside door of their apartment opened directly into their tiny living room like a FEMA trailer. Not even the whine and bang of the screen bothered him. He even cracked a smile when Scruffy, their old parrot, jumped in surprise as if it was the first time she’d ever heard the creaky thing. His weary eyes ignored the dirty coffee cups and circular stains that decorated almost every horizontal surface in the ro
om. He almost nodded at the pencils, pens and Post-its that were everywhere–a consequence of his mom’s habit of writing to-do lists and then forgetting about them. Tim found himself strangely pleased to see the pictureless walls of the drab room that shunned natural light from the bay windows as if it were a nosey neighbor.

  He didn’t even have to turn his head to take in the entire room. In his mind’s eye, he could see the two upholstered chairs, well past their prime, nursing huge dust balls like fat grey hens. The sofa struggled to hold up Gentrale, who sat too close to the TV because he could barely hear—or see for that matter, his coke-bottle specs being of little use.

  Seeing this older and skinnier version of his dad rendered him speechless and reminded him of the pitiful details, the suffocating hopelessness of their situation—his mom and dad had split for good this time. Gentrale watched him as he skulked through the room like a wounded animal, hoping that for once the old codger would let him pass by in peace.

  “Damn, boy. What happened to you?” exclaimed the crusty wise-ass, waving a wrinkled hand and holding his nose. “Whew, get your butt in the bathroom, quick! I told you to take a shower this morning. You be funkier than a James Brown record! Julia! Hey, Julia! Get in here, somethin’ done happened to Tim.”

  Tim picked up his pace through the room but was again unable to resist a smile, breaking open a fresh seal of dried blood on his lower lip. He had to get away from the old man. If his uncle got a good look at him, he would surely guess all that had happened, all that he wasn’t ready to talk about.

  Finally alone in the bathroom, the crescendo of his mother’s footsteps running up to the door told him that peace was not his just yet. The pounding began.

  “Tim, Tim! Are you okay? Open this door. Now!” she screamed, slapping the thin wood with her palm.

  Instead, Tim opened the spigot. “I’m okay, Mom. I’ll be out after my shower,” he said as casually as he could. Even with the water running, he could follow the conversation on the other side of the door.