The Long Walk Home

September, 2007

We got dropped off by Travis’s parents at the Citgo next to Memorial on a warm fall Friday night. I got out of the van and saw the floodlights above Mansfield, and heard the crowd, and the voice of the announcer over the loudspeaker. Travis went in to grab swishers, I stood outside and lit a Newport.

Two black guys walked up, big and athletic looking—like they could have easily been out on the field that night. One of them went inside. The other, bigger one, standing to my left said, “Hey man, those Newports?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I get one?”

I pulled the pack out and handed him one.

“Shit, I need a light too, my guy,” he said with a chuckle.

I handed him the lighter, we talked for a minute, then Travis came out the door and it dinged.

“What’s good,” he said, looking at him, then me.

“Shit, my boy and me just up from Chicago, might check out this lil game tonight. We tryin’ to find a bag though.”

“OK. OK.” Travis said as he rubbed his hands together. “We might be able to help you with that.”

“Aight, bet,” he said.

His friend came out the door.

“Walk this way,” Travis said. We walked out through the parking lot to the neighborhood behind the gas station and heard the crowd roar as the game kicked off.

“I’m Dante. This my cousin Ed,” the bigger one said.

Travis and me introduced ourselves and we all dapped up.

“We need a dime,” Dante said.

Travis looked at me. I had an ounce in my pocket. I hesitated. We were walking into a dark quiet neighborhood with two tough looking black dudes, both bigger than us, but I didn’t see a way out.

I fell back a bit as everyone kept walking, and pulled the bag out from my pocket. Up ahead, under a streetlight, Ed pulled out a bottle of something. He took a swig and offered it to Travis. Travis, the germophobe, tilted his head back, poured it down his throat and grimaced. I pulled the cellophane off my Newports and eyed out a dime, then walked up and handed it to Dante. He handed me a ten.

“Ya’ll wanna match?” He said.

“Why not,” I said.

Travis pulled out a swisher, split it open with his thumbs and dumped the tobacco on the grass. I turned to my left to conceal the bag, I could feel their eyes on me. I took out a small nugget and handed it to Travis. Dante handed him a piece from his bag. Travis held the empty swisher in his left hand and broke down the weed into it with his right. Then he sealed it with his mouth and dried it with a lighter.

Ed offered me the bottle—a pint of Hennessy, half-gone. I took a drink.

“What brings you up here for the game?” I asked.

“My lil cousin playin’.”

“Who’s your cousin?” Travis asked.

“Man, y’all ask a lotta questions. Are y’all the feds?” Ed said with a smile.

We all laughed.

We kept walking—slowly winding through the dimly lit neighborhood, passing the blunt and Hennessy around. Mansfield to our left, separated by a row of houses and the practice field. We could hear the murmur of the crowd, the voice of the announcer, and every now and then, a whistle.

We stopped under a streetlight. The blunt was almost gone. Dante started freestyling, then Travis chimed in.

“Ok, Sam, spit something!” Travis said, when he ran out of bars.

“Haha nope. Let’s walk back before we miss the whole game,” I said.

I turned around and started walking—just as I did, I heard a loud thud. Then something smashed into my head just behind my left ear, again, and again. The world slowed down. My vision went blurry, but I knew I had to run. I didn’t think, I just ran—up the sidewalk, into the street.

I could hear Ed right behind me.

“What the fuck! What the fuck!” I heard Travis yell, and at the same time felt Ed grab me. I threw my arm back to get him off and my elbow hit his chin. I tried to slip away and keep running, but he had a hold of my shirt.

“Let the fuck go! What are you doing!”

I heard it rip and kept running.

Again, I heard his footsteps pounding the pavement behind me. He got a hand on me. Our feet tangled and we both went down hard—onto our backs, him underneath me. I was able to get up again and ran as fast as I could.

I knew what he was after.

Up ahead, about twenty yards, I saw a woman walking her dog.

I turned around and saw Dante and Ed walking slowly toward me. I did not see Travis.

Where the hell did he go?

They were fifteen yards away. They looked calm. I was surprised they weren’t running at me. I crossed the street and they walked past on the other side without a glance at me. I didn’t understand.

I thought for sure I was going to be down an ounce of weed, but the woman walking her dog saved the day for me. My shirt was ripped clean through on the back. My ear was ringing and had a big lump behind it.

All I could do was walk home. It was a long, lonely walk. When I was almost there I saw a car full of kids my age drive by and turn onto Richland. I recognized some of them, and I hoped they hadn’t seen me, “what the hell is Sam doing walking down the street by himself with a ripped shirt?” They might say.

Luke Marino lived on Richland, he was a year older than me and had parties all the time. I was never invited.

I should be going to that damn party, I thought. Instead I just walked an hour with a ripped shirt and now I’m going home early on a Friday night. Maybe I’m doing something wrong. At least I still have my weed.

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