Booker T: From Prison to Promise: Life Before the Squared Circle (4 page)

While I wondered where we were going or why we still had the cat, Lash and Brother climbed the embankment near the freeway. As cars whizzed by, the boys laughed and the cat battled. Then in a sudden thrust, my brother flung the bag as high as he could into the oncoming traffic.

Miraculously, instead of being hit by any of the speeding cars, the cat landed on the double yellow lines of the freeway, managed to crawl out of the bag, and sat there paralyzed with fear. When he suddenly made a break for it, an eighteen-wheeler hit him, crushing his tiny skull. His mouth was twisted and warped beyond recognition.

“Whopped Mouth,” my brother said in his heavy Texas drawl. Warped Mouth. I’m sad to say I knew exactly what he meant.

We used to race slot cars at a shop in Pasadena that had this huge track. Kids from all over came for tournaments. Lash was especially obsessed with that place and was there front and center every weekend.

What I remember most about the shop isn’t the racing at all. It’s an old worker. My brother had it in for this guy. Probably in his late sixties, the man had a hideously contorted face. His visage definitely wasn’t the most pleasant thing to look at, especially his mouth. He didn’t seem to have a trace of a jaw on the left side.

I tried not to pay any attention to this man, but Lash was obsessed with making fun of him. From the moment we headed out our door until we walked inside the hobby shop, during the slot car races, and all the way back home, Lash laughed about this guy and called him all kinds of names: The Elephant Man, Droopy, and his favorite—Whopped Mouth.

“Whopped Mouth,” he yelled. “That guy’s got a fuckin’ whopped mouth.”

And there it was. As hard as I tried to forget that cat, Lash sure would not let me. After that day at the freeway, every time we went to race slot cars and Lash started up the jokes, that cat would come to mind. Even if my brother didn’t say anything but I saw that guy at the shop, that poor cat was at the forefront of my thoughts. It was a terrible association, but once it was there, it was permanent.

That whole situation changed my perspective of Lash, but I forgave him and let it go. He was still my big brother and hero.

Lash and I always played together, using our imaginations to transform even rainstorms into opportunities for fun. We ran to the street where the rainwater flowed like a river down the curb to the drain about fifty yards away. We loved to race match-sticks. Lash gave me a burnt match, and I was the mysterious Racer X from the
Speed Racer
cartoon. With his clean match, he was Richard Petty, number forty-three, the NASCAR champ.

“Ready, set, go!” We put the matches in the water, and our race began. The only real rule was that if your match got stuck on the way, you could tap it with your finger to get it going into the current again.

To me it was just a fun game, and I don’t remember winning a single one of those races. But to Lash, everything was a serious competition. That was one big difference between us.

When he raced slot cars at the shop, Lash was a young man possessed. It was all so exciting to him, and it was impossible to get his attention when he was preparing his car for action. It was pretty cool to see these little plastic cars doing forty-five to fifty miles per hour on those big guided tracks filling up the room. All along the edges kids and grown men alike hollered while their cars were in hot pursuit.

Lash raced in tournaments for hours on the weekends, always imagining himself to be Richard Petty. I wondered why he didn’t go for Willy T. Ribbs, the black NASCAR driver, but the answer was pretty simple: Petty always won.

Being there made me happy, but I didn’t take that scene as seriously as my brother did. It was enough for me to race my little car on the smaller, less competitive tracks, avoiding Whopped Mouth at all costs.

When we weren’t at the race track or getting into trouble, we were with the family. At Thanksgiving, Don, Lash, Bonita, and I crammed into the Chevy Malibu for the long haul to Louisiana to see my grandparents. Our holidays together were boisterous. The real show came Christmas Day, when our older siblings, Danny, Carolyn, Gayle, and Billie Jean arrived bearing gifts and showing off their sense of seventies high fashion.

Gayle pulled up in her Cadillac Eldorado, stepped out like a movie star, and strolled to the front door as if she were on the red carpet for a Hollywood premiere. We oohed and ahhed over her grand entrance.

Billie Jean could be heard coming a mile away. When I heard her stereo blaring, I ran to the window and watched her slink out of the driver’s seat with a red dress so tight it looked painted on.

Carolyn, on the other hand, was way more casual with her clothing. She nonchalantly walked in with a green skirt and a nice button-down shirt. She was not fooling anyone, though. A fire burned behind those dark brown eyes.

Little did I realize how much my siblings’ lifestyles would influence me.

As I got older, I realized some of my siblings were true rogues of society. By observing them, I made fascinating discoveries about the world around me. One revelation came a month and a half after I turned eleven. I guess Mom saw me, her baby boy, growing into a little man and decided I should get my very first suit in time for Easter Sunday. Since Carolyn was around that weekend, Mom asked her to take me shopping while she prepared for everyone’s arrival.

Carolyn drove us to the department store. As soon as we got there, I made a beeline to the children’s section. I found my new outfit right away: a brown suit with pinstripes. Man, that getup reminded me of gangster movies. I went to a mirror and held it up, imagining how cool it would look on me.

“Did you find what you were looking for? Come on.” She looked at the ceiling and all around before grabbing my hand. “Let’s go try it on.”

I went into one of the stalls, took off all my clothes, and put on the suit. Perfect fit. I stepped out to show Carolyn.

She smiled. “Okay, Junior, now put your clothes on over the suit.”

What?
I didn’t get it, but within seconds we were both tugging on my jeans, shirt, and jacket until the suit was totally concealed. My clothes puffed out so much I looked like a World War II—era deep-sea diver. On top of that, I was itching like crazy.

All I could think was,
Whoa, my sister’s a booster.
Even though I was a little nervous, the idea of stealing the suit was somewhat exhilarating. Being so haphazardly thrown into Carolyn’s world made me feel grown-up and cool. Sure, it was wrong. Sure, my mother would have slapped me upside the head if she was there, but that was exactly what made it so great.

“Just keep cool and don’t act like anything’s wrong,” Carolyn said. “The last thing we want is to look suspicious and give ourselves away. Follow me to the front doors and walk straight to the car.”

Scared out of my mind, I made the long trek from the dressing area to the exit, my eyes glued to Carolyn’s back. I completely expected a security guard to grab my shoulder, and my heart practically pounded out of my chest. When we hit the doors and my feet touched the asphalt, I let out a sigh.

Carolyn didn’t say a word. During the ride home, though, as I slunk out of my street clothes to reveal my free suit, I saw a little smirk on her face.

Back at the house, Mom fawned over her little man and posed me for a picture.

I looked in the mirror and marveled.
Not bad. Booker T. Huffman, eleven-year-old master criminal.

Carolyn stood there grinning, and I could barely keep from bursting out laughing. My career had only begun.

After our little heist, apparently Carolyn knew I was cool and could keep a secret, so she let her guard down around me. Sometimes she helped Mom by taking my sister Bonita and me to her house. Anything could happen at her place anytime—and it usually did.

There was no denying the strength of Carolyn’s influence on me. The idea of taking what I wanted when I wanted it really appealed to me. It wasn’t long before I struck again, solo this time—or at least I tried to.

One weekend when Bonita and I visited her house, Carolyn needed to run some errands. She took us to the Laundromat and loaded the machine. After clinking in a couple of quarters, she suggested we go out for a bit. “My friend lives right across the street. You’ll have fun playing over there.”

Bonita and I just shrugged and followed, as always.

Almost immediately after we stepped into her friend’s house, Carolyn disappeared into some other room. Bonita and I ran around and made the best of things, like all kids do, losing track of time and having not a care in the world.

Eventually Carolyn came out with a strange expression and bloodshot eyes. She seemed a little disoriented.

I guess she’s just tired,
I thought.

“Let’s get our clothes and get back home,” she said, leading us out the front door and across the street.

Bonita and I played while Carolyn finished her load. It was getting dark out when she emerged with her basket of clothes. As we followed her to the car, she stumbled and spoke gibberish. I dismissed it and jumped into the backseat.

None of us wore seat belts as we cruised through the neighborhood. Lost in thought, I stared at the passing houses.

Out of nowhere I heard a crunch and nose-dived into the back of the passenger seat. I didn’t know what had happened, but my instincts kicked into overdrive.

Bonita was wedged like a doorstop into the space between the two front seats. I grabbed her and got her out. She was crying and nearly hyperventilating but was otherwise okay.

I ran to the driver’s side. Carolyn had smashed her head into the steering wheel and was moaning. She pulled me in close. “Here, take this and put it away somewhere for me.” She placed a .38-caliber revolver in my hand.

Without even thinking about it, I slid the gun into one of my cowboy boots, which I always wore back then, and stayed by Carolyn’s side.

As a result of the huge commotion, all the locals started pouring out of their houses to see what was going on. It turned out Carolyn had hit a car parked at the curb.

Soon the cops came speeding in, lights on and sirens blaring. I was scared my sister would get in big trouble and have to go to jail or something, but things back then were so much different.
Really different.

Carolyn explained that she had looked away from the road for a split second and hadn’t seen the other car.

And you know what? The cops did not suspect her of being intoxicated. They must have thought she was simply disoriented from the crash. They never searched her and didn’t even give her a ticket.

By then, Carolyn’s friend from down the street had arrived and offered to drive us back to South Park.

When I slipped my sister her .38, she smiled and winked.

Just as we had with our little heist, we kept the whole thing secret and acted is if it had never happened.

Secrecy began to saturate my way of thinking. It became a code to live by. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, the behavioral patterns of my siblings were taking hold and starting to weather and mature me. My paramount ideals were to never get caught for any kind of scheme and, if I did, to keep my mouth shut and deny everything.

As my education continued to develop, I tested myself. I thought the more I risked, the greater the reward would prove to be. There was no guarantee things would work out. All I had was the blind faith that I would emerge on the other side still shining and maybe carrying a few extra bucks in my pocket.

I soon had my first real opportunity to put my newfound philosophies into practice. Every other month, this white man came through my South Park neighborhood to peddle his own scheme. One afternoon he told me the deal. He employed young kids to sell flowers on the street corners in exchange for a tiny percentage of the profits. The arrangement was a five-dollar take for every fifty dollars sold.

Man, a kid with five bucks was rich! I figured,
Why not?
Of course, this would have to be a secret Booker T adventure. I quickly meditated on my new mantra:
Say nothing to anyone; deny everything if caught.
Then I was on my way.

The guy drove me about half an hour away. I was pretty damn scared. Sure, I tried to be mature and fearless, but under the facade I was still just a kid.

Finally, the man dropped me off on a busy street corner in this all-white area called Bellaire and handed me a huge bundle of flowers. “I’ll be back in an hour or two to check on you, okay?”

I nodded, and he sped off.

With a stomach full of butterflies, I stood there questioning what in the world I was doing.

The guy knew what he was talking about, though. Before long, I had sold all my stock. I guess the little downtrodden black boy and his bouquets of flowers pulled the heartstrings of all those upper-crust white folks driving by. Maybe they thought it was their good deed of charity for the year. Those suckers. It was the perfect ploy.

True to his word, the salesman returned. “Holy shit, kid, you did great.” He speedily unloaded another pile of flowers on me and said he’d be back.

I felt great. I was making my own way in a daring situation. I’d land in a boiling pot of trouble if my mother only knew. This held the excitement and danger of the adventures of boosting the suit and holding Carolyn’s .38 rolled into one.

Eventually I ran out of flowers again, but this time the dude did not return as scheduled. As evening fell, panic set in. I knew my mother was probably wondering where I was, and I just wanted to get home as soon as possible. I waited and hoped the salesman would show up and drive me home to South Park. Surely he would make good, especially since I had all his money.

Finally I started thinking of how to help myself instead of waiting around. Maybe a stranger would be willing to help. I ran to the gas station across the street to see if someone would give me a ride or let me use the phone. Even though I had a pocketful of about eighty dollars from the flower sales, I was too scared to use it. What if the guy came back and got mad?