CONTENTS

a waste of TIME

Being locked up is no joke… I realize that now…

now that my future is a thing of the past… I think of all the civilians I harassed after being gassed/ by so-called friends I thought had my back but when I got caught hauled ass

niggas that I thought were my right hand took flight, man/ the long arm of the law can’t take ‘em light, fam or you’ll find yourself facing indictment

niggas I called brothers, Blood – but not really/ just a color, not Celie/ no purple just yellow/ down the spines of these cats whose hearts pump jell-o

when I was a young fellow sold me the dream of being down with a team/ but I had to plot and scheme on innocent people to get the cream

when I coulda just got a job – they schooled me on how to rob – now life ain’t worth 50 cent now that I’m sentenced

cuz y’all still chillin’ in the town while I’m rockin’ these browns/ y’all still knockin’ freaks down while I’m chillin’ wit clowns

asking me what I’m jacking – my freedom – and the life I want back and/ interaction with my real family shoulda given me satisfaction but I wanted a piece of the action

now I gotta throw hands over cookies, being called a rookie like jail is some kind of sport/ but none of these niggas is LeBron on the court

the only one I’ma see is Brooklyn Supreme/ my life in the hands of a judge named Rabin I coulda been chillin’ wit Raheem…

but I got the juice now, right?

Instead of hanging out nights I’m locked in at 10/ gotta be told where and when by CO’s in the pen

strip searched and told when to bend – and cough/ jacking my dick to get a nut off/ ain’t this a bitch get that slut off

this ain’t life but I’m facing it - if you were me you’d want a replacement/ it’s the concrete jungle and you ain’t built for the pavement…

on top of that I gotta go to school/ I ain’t go on the outside but here it’s the rule

I pity the fool who knock on my cell/ 6:30 in the morning I’ma set off the bells/ I’m thinking ‘bout bail, getting out of this hell

this I never envisioned/ I just had my girl in this position how I get in this position? I’m in jail but been in mental prison

can I blame it on no father? Why bother? My other homey had no dad graduated with honors

I blame being a follower I bust a rhyme for my leaders/ pitchin’ is a short stop no Jeter

no home cookin’ I’m missing food in the worst way/ can’t mess with turkey stew, chicken Sunday and Thursday

missing out on my birthday trying to get that cake/ thinking I’m keeping it real wit niggas that’s fake/ I get my hands on ‘em they’ll be planning a wake

my life’s at stake for swinging a hammer/ like a hood Thor my mind’s racing brain’s in a figure four

coulda been the first in my family to see college/ it ain’t a victory to have a degree in street knowledge

I ain’t trying to preach cuz I ain’t break the cycle/ don’t point to a priest don’t hand me a Bible/ cuz I’ll just use it for my phone numbers…

at least I ain’t in a mod still the stress is killing me/ cuz I keep to myself niggas is ice grilling me/ I ain’t wit all the talking trying to get a rep wit violence/ if these niggas know the streets real niggas move in silence

so I’ll lock in before 2:30 I’m reading before 9/ while niggas just starting to chef trying to get extra time/ talking bout they HKA but ain’t never swept the tier/ trying to be SPA but ain’t none certified here

I spend my days wisely run out to law library/ keep a fresh cut never miss commissary/

good looking out mom I know I made you mad/ I embarrassed the family made the neighbors gossip, my bad

but you still came through hopefully I can rise above/ get a second chance on the street so I can return the love

just a victim of bad choices you know most of us are/ showing off in front of the fellas don’t make you a star/ just a book and case number now I’m on the radar/ it’s like no matter how far away you go you can’t stray far

it’s like can I be mad now if I’m profiled and shit/ or pulled over in my ride for a stop and frisk/ I can’t let this jail mentality consume me/ I can’t let my failed reality ruin me

you know why? My lady came to see me I got a v-i-/ she ain’t a mule she ain’t bringing shit to get me high/ but she got me touching the sky cuz what she said to me lately/ I’m gonna be a father she expecting a baby…

Damn… I gotta get outta here, man…

From the moment he stepped foot in the intake area at the adolescent jail at Riker’s Island he knew he did not want to be there. Despite a turbulent childhood and checkered past of illegal street activity, this was the first time 18 year old Geoffrey Robinson had ever been incarcerated.

As he stepped through the metal door, hands still bound behind him in handcuffs, Geoffrey, or “G” as he is known in the street, couldn’t help but feel ill as he surveyed his surroundings: the pungent odor emanating from other inmates not much older than himself, either waiting to return to their housing area or be sent to another facility, who refuse to partake in simple acts of hygiene like taking a shower or brushing their teeth, the rats scurrying around for any form of sustenance, the dimly lit holding cells replete with a stained, lidless toilet positioned in plain view of anyone who cared to look, floors scuffed with the marks of continuous movement, and walls sullied by the passage of time, which would most likely be his temporary residence.

G is now part of the system. Another statistic. A book and case number. A product of the infamous C-74 jail facility mentioned in rap lyrics by Hip Hop luminaries like The Notorious B.I.G. and Jadakiss among others.

How could he ever turn his life around completely at this point? To compound matters, G is the father of a two year old boy who bears his name. Now he is just another footnote in the endless narrative of absentee fathers ripped from their child’s lives due to poor decision making. G would argue that he was different. That he actually gave a damn about Geoffrey Jr. That his progeny is the reason for his foray into the street life as a means to provide and care for his youngster.

The fact remains that G is no longer free. He is a detainee. Property of the city’s penal system until further notice. Forced to take orders from the very people he was deft at avoiding as a member of society. Resigned to think about life, where he is going and where he has been.

Partners

On a cool Saturday morning in the Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, New York, the rising sun colors the horizon an auburn hue. G and his best friend 18 year old Tamir Stern gaze at the galaxy’s biggest star while it is still safe enough as not to compromise their vision.

To these two the ascending fireball is a metaphor for what they hope to be: up and coming, hot in the street. As corny as that may sound, the mindset of the average teenager is not thinking bank portfolios, and retirement funds. They are, however, thinking investment. As in time invested in a lifestyle that they hope pays quick dividends.

G spends his days and nights as a street corner pharmacist (read: drug dealer). His frame is adorned with the latest fashions: designer jeans, white T-shirt, black leather jacket and a spotless, spanking new pair of black Air Jordan retro 3’s cover his feet. Forget the sun, the diamond chain hanging around G’s next can blind any spectator and the expensive watch wrapped around his left wrist is not only present to tell the time. G has worked hard and he is not afraid to exhibit the rewards of his trade.

Tamir is a little more toned down in his presentation yet he still holds his own in a red and white Sean John blazer and blue jeans. He too is wearing retro Air Jordan sneakers, but his is a pair of white number 5’s. The sneakers, that bear the name of basketball superstar, icon and legend Michael Jordan, are so popular that they have reissued pairs that Jordan first wore in the 1980s and 90s, thus the corresponding number after the “retro” title.

G and Tamir have lived in the same Brooklyn neighborhood for their entire lives, met as precocious five year old kids and have been inseparable ever since. The two attended the same elementary school, junior high school, and high school until G dropped out in his junior year. Tamir is set to graduate this year, an accomplishment that seemed in doubt after his partner in crime decided to ditch class for courses in street knowledge.

The two currently occupy the corner of Gates Ave and Grand Street with nothing but the sounds of birds filling the air with their songs of the morning to keep them company. Some days are like this. Empty. The game is not for the impatient and the lack of activity is enough to make a novice question the purpose of occupying a random corner.

“What are you trying to do with your life?” asks Tamir.

“I should be asking you that question,” G shoots back. “You know what I’m doing,” G continues while brushing the shoulders on his leather jacket. He also adjusts his chain around his neck for emphasis.

“Standing on the corner at damn near 6 o’clock in the morning is not my idea of doing something,” Tamir reasons.

“You don’t have to be out here, brah,” says G checking his sneakers for scuff marks. “As a matter of fact I’m the one who told you not to come out here.”

“I’m a grown ass man you can’t tell me where I should be,” says Tamir.

“Does your mama know you out here?”

Tamir’s face tightens and his brow furrows at the audacity of G to ask such a question.

“What am I 12? I don’t have to check in with my mom…”

“That’s a no,” G quickly interjects with a laugh.

Tamir is becoming increasingly annoyed.

“I don’t have to answer to my mom,” he offers.

G’s eyes widen. “Oh really? What’s your last name?”

Tamir thinks for a moment unsure of the reason for the question. “Stern.”

“Stern,” G intones. “Do you know what stern means?”

“I know what stern means,” Tamir says in a defiant tone.

“Look up stern in the dictionary and there would be a picture of your momma with a ruler in her hand.”

G lets out a belly laugh at the thought. Tamir cannot mask his displeasure any longer.

“At least my mom cares where I am.”

G stops laughing. “Oh you gonna go there?” he opines. Tamir looks away to his left. G leans in closer. “That’s what we doing early in the morning?”

“No,” Tamir mumbles in a barely audible monotone.

“You too fucking sensitive, my dude,” G barks. “Be thankful you have family that look out for you.” He looks around before continuing. “I don’t want you around this shit, but if you gonna be stubborn and do what you want I rather you be wit me so I can keep an eye on your thick-headed ass.”

Tamir has yet to turn and face G but it is evident from his changing facial expression that the words are sinking in.

“This shit is not for the weak. We the same age but I’m like ten years older than you out here, bro,” G offers.

“Alright,” Tamir mutters through gritted teeth.

“Alright, what?” G snaps back cracking a smile as he nudges Tamir with his left arm.

Tamir’s face remains coarse.

“What, you wanna fight?” G prods. He senses Tamir is apologetic and throws his left arm over Tamir’s shoulder and pulls him into a half a hug. Tamir allows himself to relax into the embrace but he remains silent perhaps embarrassed that he brought up G’s mom.

“You of all people know my situation,” G says. “If it was anybody else I woulda bust they ass.”

Tamir remains silent.

“If you ain’t gonna speak the rest of the day let me know now so I can leave yo’ ass out here.”

Tamir manages to smirk.

“Yeah, I know. Can’t shut you up for long,” says G smiling. “I accept your apology.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Family has been a foreign concept for G most of his teenage life. His father has been out of the picture virtually from the beginning of his life. One evening G came home from school during his sophomore year of high school to find his mother was gone. She had been raising him as a single parent his entire life while working extended hours as a nurse to make ends meet. G would come home many an evening to the sounds of his mother crying. He would be startled out of his sleep at night by his mother’s angry screams. Her yelling was a soundtrack to his late nights. There was no one else in the house. Her ire was always aimed at someone on the other end of the phone.

One night G got tired of the yelling, sick of the anguish in his mother’s countenance, fed up with the air of defeat in her gait. He pulled himself out of bed, walked out of his room and entered his mother’s room unbeknownst to her. She had her back to him, her voice hoarse from screaming, her bed littered with crumpled tissue. G’s mother was at a loss for words, resolved to communicating through gut wrenching sobs. She wasn’t talking so G decided to speak for her. He yanked the phone out of her hand and put it to his ear.

“Who is this?” he exclaimed.

“Hello?” a grizzled voice uttered back.

“What the hell are you doing to my mama?” G shouted.

“Geoffrey, what are you doing?” G’s mother remarked as she frantically reached for the receiver.

After ripping the phone away from G, she quickly put it back to her ear. “Hello… Hello?”

She repeated the greeting at least ten more times before the piercing sound of the busy signal blaring out of the phone for the past three seconds finally registered. The person on the other end hung up a long time ago.

G’s mom let out an agonizing howl as she slammed the receiver onto the base of the phone and buried her head in her hands. G felt horrible. He moved towards his mother in an attempt to console her.

“Mom?” he offered gently. “Are you alright?”

G’s mom quickly lifted her head, her swollen face soaked with streams of fresh tears covering the traces of white lines leftover from the dried saltwater of an earlier emotional breakdown. The whites of her eyes a canvas for the thin streaks of red lines splashed across her optics like an abstract painting. Her bottom lip shivering as she attempts to respond to her distraught child.

“Why did you do that?”

G wears a look of bewilderment.

“Do what?” he asks.

“How dare you snatch the phone like that,” his mother growls moving closer to him.

G begins to step back, but not fast enough as he receives the wrath of his mother’s right hand to the left side of his face. The blows come fast and furious. G can barely get his arms up to block his face as he continues to backtrack out of his mother’s room.

“You stay out of big people’s conversation, you hear me?!” shrieked his mother with a ferocity she could not muster on the phone.

G kept his arms over his face swatting away hands and fists of fury. He must have thought his mother was an octopus. Before he knew it he was safely in his room behind a closed door thanking the piece of wood that was separating him from the monster that was beating on the other side.

“Open this damn door, do you hear me?!”

G kept his back to the door until the banging subsided and the muffled hollering dissolved into guttural moans and weeping again. G hated the man on the other end of the phone. He was going to find out who was making his mother go through so much pain.

The memory still stings G, but now there was no crying just silence.

“Ma!” G yelled through the house. His voice echoed through the hollow halls. G raced into his mother’s room to find it empty. G began to panic. For one fleeting moment he thought maybe his mother may have been kidnapped until he noticed the door to the closet was open. His mother was nowhere to be found and the room that housed so many beautiful dresses and shoes was stripped bare.

G searched the entire room and found no sign of any of his mother’s belongings. There’s no way she could just walk out and leave him he thought. He was her only child. You’re supposed to love your child. The prospect of another parent walking out angered G. There were a few scraps of paper left in one of the drawer.

Looking through the pile for any clues of his mother’s whereabouts he discovered a picture of a man and a little boy. The image was taken vertically so both subjects can be seen in the frame from head to toe. The man was tall in stature and slightly built. He was handsome with a broad face. His mouth was surrounded by a neatly trimmed goatee. G stared at the picture, gazing intently into the eyes of the man as if the man reminded him of someone. The little boy in the picture was not him. The boy was smiling as he held the hand of the man next to him. They looked happy to be together. G tucked the picture safely away in his pocket. He could only dream of being that happy, especially now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun has climbed high enough to share a decent amount of light over the city. The same singing birds have been joined by pigeons on the pavement searching for discarded scraps of food. Suddenly, jackpot! A half-eaten sandwich in the middle of the sidewalk attracts gray, black and white pigeons from all the rooftops in the vicinity. Little brown birds soon join the fray trying to get a piece of the action.

Just like that a small strip of St. James street in Brooklyn looks like a pack of morning commuters trying to push onto a subway train, or the stock market floor on Wall Street. It is survival of the fittest. The early bird gets the worm, or in this case the fat part of the sandwich. Yep, the bird in the middle of that pile is eating good.

“Stop!” a voice yells out in the not-so-far distance.

Footsteps can be heard moving ever so closer to these famished, feathered creatures. The lure of food is too great at the moment and the beaks are moving more rapidly than the clawed feet. A couple birds crane their neck around and take off for higher ground. The footsteps are quick. Someone is running directly at the birds. It is a point of no return, the moment where good judgment must take over or risk getting stomped on.

In an instant feathers are flapping at a furious pace. A mad dash in every direction as a young man invades their dining space. The young man has to shield his eyes from all the calamity as he cuts through. His feet inadvertently kick the sandwich to another location.

The young man occasionally looks over his shoulder to find he is still being pursued by another man brandishing a shiny black 9 millimeter pistol. The gold badge affixed to his jacket glistens as the wind whips it around. Detective Rick Stern is only 27 years old, but is already a six year veteran of the New York Police Department (NYPD). Judging from his attire, he has been assigned to patrol the neighborhood in plain clothes looking for any suspicious activity. More often than not Officer Stern’s discoveries lead to high speed chases whether in a vehicle or on foot. On this early morning, he is earning his money.

“Stop! Police!” shouts Rick.

“Leave me alone,” screams the terrified young man, his hurried breaths visible in the crisp air.

“I just wanna talk to you!” screams Rick.

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Then stop running!”

The frantic young man pulls down a set of garbage cans behind him hoping to impede the path of Rick. Rick is able to sidestep one can, but stumbles over the other.

“Dammit,” a disgusted Rick shouts. He pulls out his radio.

“This is Officer Stern. I need backup. In pursuit of a Black male, about 5’10”, slim build, heading south on St. James Place toward Fulton street.”

Rick has regained his footing and continues in pursuit of his perpetrator. He holsters his weapon and runs into the street. The young man, still running on the sidewalk, takes another look over his shoulder and does not immediately see Rick. He double takes and momentarily slows down. As he turns to look in front of him again, Rick leaps off of the top of a car in the direction of the young man, striking and tackling him into a pile of trash cans.

Rick gathers himself and positions himself on top of the young man keeping him on the ground.

“What is your name?!” yells Rick, his hands tightly gripping the collar of the young man.

“G-Gary,” stutters the young man.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop running?” screams Rick gasping for breath. “You think I’m Usain Bolt? I should whip yo’ ass!”

“Come on let me go, man. I ain’t do nothing,” pleads Gary.

Rick keeps a grip on Gary’s collar with his left hand and uses his right hand to shirt Gary’s pockets.

“Do you have any needles or sharp objects in your pockets?”

“What? I ain’t no junkie. Lemme go!”

Rick pulls out several vials of crack with multi-colored caps from Gary’s pants pockets.

“You have something else though,” Rick says.

Gary sees the drugs and his eyes widen.

“Yo, that ain’t mine!” he exclaims.

“Is it ever?” Rick asks as he continues to check Gary’s pants which have several pockets on the side. Rick pulls out four baggies of marijuana. Gary sees the contraband being lifted from his person and begins to shift his weight. Rick tightens his grip on Gary’s collar and shifts him back to his previous position.

“You have a lot of stuff that’s not yours, huh?” Rick questions sarcastically.

“That weed is my personal shit,” informs Gary intimating he would like to keep it.

This comment enrages Rick. His left hand moves from Gary’s collar to around his neck. Rick drops the contraband and in one motion draws his weapon with his right hand and presses it against Gary’s left temple.

“You think this shit is a joke?” Rick declares through gritted teeth. He is seething. The look in his eyes immediately strikes fear in Gary.

“Yo get off me! Help! Get him off me!” Gary yells.

Rick continues to apply the pressure to Gary’s neck limiting his speech.

“You choking me, you… fucking… pig…” gasps Gary.

“It’s motherfuckers like you that drive me up the wall,” Rick says through gritted teeth.

The siren of a police car can be heard approaching the scene. Rick is oblivious to anything around him at this moment. His anger seems to go beyond what is necessary for the situation. Gary can sense this as well and is becoming increasingly desperate.

“Somebody heelll…,” his voice trails off as Rick continues to squeeze his throat. A jet black unmarked cruiser turns left onto Saint James Place from Fulton Street, the wrong way and speeds to a stop at the scene. A crowd of onlookers begins to form. A white officer opens up the driver’s side door and steps out. Chris Ross, Rick’s partner slides between two parked cars on his way to the sidewalk.

“Rick! Jesus!” Chris calls out as he gets a clear look at what is taking place.

“Get him off me,” gasps Gary turning his head slightly to the right acknowledging the voice.

Chris attempts to grab Rick’s left arm. “Take it easy, bro,” reasons Chris as Rick loosens his grip.

“I’m cool,” Rick says she starts to step back from Gary who is still lying on his back.

Rick quickly holsters his weapon. Gary moves his hands toward his neck to massage his throat. As soon as Gary starts to move Rick quickly grabs him with both hands, pulls him up by the jacket, yanks his arms behind his back and slams him face down on a parked car. The steel frame of the stationary vehicle vibrates as Gary’s face meets its cold exterior with a loud thud.

“Yo, what’s wrong with you?” Gary screams in pain as Rick starts to cuff his hands behind him.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be used against you in the court of law…”

“This is police brutality! I’m gonna report this,” Gary says as he looks over his right shoulder, left cheek still pressed against the hood of the car. He sees some of the gathered crowd of onlookers. “Yall see this right?”

“That’s enough out of you,” Chris says as he turns to the gathered throng. “Break it up, ain’t nothing to see here.”

The crowd begins to disperse with some curious spectators continuing to look towards the scene as they walk away. There are a couple of people who refuse to move in case they see something worthy of recording with their camera phone.

“That includes you two,” an agitated Rick barks at the stragglers.

“You in our hood, pig. You break it up,” one man shoots back.

“Hey! What did I say?” Chris shouts.

Rick and the men exchange icy glares as they reluctantly start to walk away. Once they disappear from view Chris turns to Rick.

“Friends of yours?”

“Must be a familiar scene for them.”

Chris opens the back door of the unmarked car and Rick shoves Gary down into the vehicle. Chris closes the door.

“You need to relax.” Chris offers.

“Relax?” Rick says confused at the suggestion.

“You get way too angry. You coulda killed that guy if I didn’t show up,” says Chris in a measured tone just above a whisper.

“I wasn’t gonna kill him,” Rick states turning his head and waving at Chris.

Rick looks off into the distance to his left and sees two more onlookers. He squints his eyes for clarity.

“You need to cool it with that temper dude,” Chris continues. “A lot of perps have been complaining about how you rough ‘em up while in custody.”

Rick continues to stare off at the two males.

“Tamir?”

The two males immediately turn and start to walk off in the opposite direction.

“Tamir!”

The two males continue walking away without looking back.

“Are you hearing me?” asks Chris. “You’re this close to desk duty.”

“I think that was my brother.”

“Are you sure? Out here at this time?” wonders Chris.

“Now you see why I get so upset with these knuckleheads out here,” Rick reasons.

“Go ahead, bro. You been up all night. I’ll take care of this guy,” Chris says.

Rick has already started a slow jog in the direction of the two males he saw.

Chris looks down at the ground and begins to retrieve the drugs found on Gary from the ground.

Rick continues picks up his pace until his jog turns into a sprint down the long Brooklyn street. Once he gets o the corner, he makes a quick left onto Gates Avenue. He stops short a he sees G. Rick looks past G and sees that he is alone. He turns to his right to find no one in the vicinity. Rick turns his attention back to G.

“Where’s Tamir?” he asks angrily.

“I’m not Tamir’s keeper,” G says slyly.

“I saw him.”

“Are you sure?” G questions. “You seemed pretty busy.”

Rick moves in closer to G.

“And how would you know?”

“The history we have together? I know what you do when you around here,” G says.

Rick suddenly grabs G by the collar and pulls him in close, his steely glare could burn a hole through G.

“Stay the fuck away from Tamir.”

G is unflappable. He reciprocates the stare down without blinking. “Tamir is a big boy.”

“Where is he?!” Rick yells.

“What are you gonna do? Throw me down like you did Gary just now?”

Rick pushes G away. G readjusts his clothing.

“C’mon, Rick. That’s how you treat a brother?”

This comment burns Rick and he starts for G again, but thinks better of it.

“Go home,” G calmly suggests.

Rick storms off. G watches him walk away until he disappears from view.