Eastside (30 page)

Lil Fade shook his head. “That's not what I meant.”

Travon stared into Lil Fade's eyes, and upon realizing what he meant, shook his head and stepped back. “No.”

Lil Fade nodded. “Yes. You said it yourself, I'm a monster. And monsters need to be put to sleep.”

Travon's eyes flew wide and he shook his head again. “No.”

Lil Fade closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “Yes. If you ever thought you owed me anything, for the park, for the witness, for the motel, or for the car wash, then you'll help me. Please…” Tears streamed down Lil Fade's cheeks again.

“This is the easy way out,” Travon told him. He shifted his eyes toward the floor.

Lil Fade lifted his hand and pointed out of the hospital window. “If I go back out there, they'll shoot me dead anyway. Let me spare myself the humiliation!”

Travon lifted his head and stared into Lil Fade's eyes. “You weren't merciful to none of those people, and now you want mercy? You even dragged me down into your twisted little world and made me kill!”

“You didn't kill those people, I did! I did! And now it's eating me up inside.” Lil Fade began crying heavily again.

Travon shook his head, and his own tears cascaded down. “Even on your way out, you leave scars.”

Travon reached beneath his shirt and pulled out his brother's nine-millimeter Beretta. He pulled back the slide and chambered a round, knowing that Lil Fade would be too weak to do so. He laid the gun in the bed next to Lil Fade's hand, and took the sheets and rubbed them over the gun, removing his fingerprints. It would be the last time that this gun would kill.

“Thank you,” Lil Fade told him through tear-filled eyes. He lifted his hand, and Travon clasped it. Lil Fade shook his head. “I can't live like this. I don't wanna live like this. A one-legged albino?”

Travon laughed, and Lil Fade smiled.

“I'm scared, Tre. Can you believe that, I'm scared?”

Travon looked down. “I'm scared too,” he told him softly.

“Of what?” Lil Fade asked with a frown.

“Of tomorrow. Of the next day, and the day after. I'm scared of the rest of my life.”

Lil Fade closed his eyes and nodded. “I know. I'm more scared of living than I am of dying. I kinda feel sorry for you guys. At least for me it's over.” Lil Fade shook his head and smiled. “No more killing, no more banging, no more drive-bys, no more funerals, no more cases, no more courts, lawyers, jails. No more pain, or worries, or trouble. It's all over.”

Travon leaned forward and whispered into Lil Fade's ear, “BSV for life.”

Lil Fade shook his head and broke down into tears. “Don't say that. Don't say that.” He released Travon's hand. “Go now, just go.”

Travon patted Lil Fade's shoulder, turned, and headed for the door.

“Take care of Capone for me,” Lil Fade told him. “And I'll tell Too-Low…that you're gonna be all right.”

Travon paused and closed his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip in an effort to hold back his tears. He walked out of the room, gently closing the door behind himself.

Travon walked rapidly to the elevator, rode it down to the first floor, and strode out into the parking lot. About halfway to his car, he heard the faint sound of a gunshot. He arched his back and stared into the sky. He was released. Blood in, Blood out. Lil Fade had fulfilled the grim prophecy with his own blood.

Travon closed his eyes and bit down upon his lip again, but this time it did not work. The tears came. They streamed down his face, as he climbed into his car and drove away. Inside of his car he began to think hard about his life, about tomorrow, and about his future. He thought about his children, and his family. He thought about Justin, and Frog, and of how they used to play marbles and toy soldiers together while growing up in the Courts.

Travon thought of the football games, the playground, and the basketball court. He thought of his brother, and his death, and the first beating that he'd received at the hands of Quentin and Tech Nine. His mind jumped to his arrival in the Heights, and all of the people he had met, the things he had learned, and the things he had done. He thought of the little girl swinging in the park, just like he used to do when he was her age. He thought about Tamika, the twins, and her death. He thought of Poison, and the baby that they were going to have. He recalled all of the things that Mr. and Mrs. Chang had told him. He thought of the old lady, the crooked lawyer, the crooked police officers, the drug raids, and the juvenile.

Travon thought of Mrs. Davis, and the mothers of the other boys who died that day. He thought about the park shooting, the concert, and all of the deaths before, after, and in between. Lil Fade was right, there had to be one last death. Mr. Chang was right, there was another way. Taariq was right; they were just young brothers killing one another over nothing.

Soon, Travon arrived at his destination. He stepped out of his car, closed the door, and peered up toward the sky. Those beautiful South Texas evenings were gone. Now, there was nothing but darkness and rain. The heavens opened, lightning illuminated the sky, and the loud awakening clap of thunder roared across the city. The thunder was deafening. It shook his soul and vibrated the very essence of his being. The lightning flashed again, and it illuminated all. It brought light to all of the dark hiding places within. It illuminated his mind, it illuminated his soul. And finally, finally the rains came.

The torrential waters flowed down upon him heavily, as he stood in the parking lot and extended his arms toward the heavens. He closed his hands, clenching them tightly. It was as though he were shaking the hands of God and forming a new covenant. The rains, they were purifying, drenching, and thoroughly cleansing. They washed away the blood upon his hands; they washed away the blood upon his soul. They mixed with the tears streaming down his face, washing them away as well.

Standing in the center of the parking lot, Travon shivered, as the tears and cool rains came falling down. Finally, he turned and slowly walked inside the mosque where Baby-Low would slowly die, and in his place would be born Shaheed. A man, a father, a SURVIVOR…

Travon Robinson
Travon went back to school and received his high school diploma from Competency Based High School. With Poison's help, he was able to enroll in a local college, graduate, and go on to law school. He and Poison are now married, and live together with their three children on the city's North side.

Poison
Whose real name is Camilla Jones, finished her last two years of college and went straight into her graduate studies. She recently graduated with a doctorate in computer science, and now works as a computer engineer at a local research center. Camilla adopted Travon's two sons and is now raising them as her own. She also volunteers religiously at the Eastside YWCA and is a Big Sister to several inner-city youths.

Darius
He went back to school, and then on to college. He is now a schoolteacher in the poor San Antonio Independent School District. He married Sheila, Frog's sister, and they now have two beautiful children.

Marcus
After Marcus rose to become head of the Blood Stone Villains, he then walked away from it all. He joined the Navy, served on an aircraft carrier during Operation Desert Storm, Kosovo, and Operation Enduring Freedom off the coast of Pakistan. He is now a Navy recruiter in Philadelphia.

Capone
Alexander aka Capone was serving a sixty-year state prison term, for killing a Blood in the Rigsby in retaliation for Lil Fade's shooting. His case was recently reaffirmed on appeal; however, it has recently been dropped to a twenty-year non-aggravated sentence.

Romeo
Jerome aka Romeo went on to college, but later dropped out. He is now married, and works for the city of San Francisco.

Chicken
She is now in her third year of residency at University Hospital. She was recently married to a doctor at the hospital where she previously worked.

Elmira
Travon's mother went on to finish school and become a registered nurse. She moved out of the Wheatley Courts and into a nice apartment complex on the city's Northeast side of town. She subsequently enrolled in a second work-study program, where she became a nurse anesthetist. She now drives a Lexus GS 450.

Vera
Still a registered nurse at the same hospital, Vera lives in the same two-story Victorian-style home in the Denver Heights.

LaTonya
Married a lieutenant who was stationed at Fort Sam Houston. She graduated from Incarnate Word College with a degree in biology. Today she and her husband live in Georgia where he is stationed. They have been blessed with a son.

Robert Jr.
A major drug dealer, Robert Jr. is still dealing drugs and using violence to expand his narcotics empire. His ruthlessness and entrepreneurial spirit have made him a millionaire several times over. He uses Bloods from the city to move his product, and has bodyguards for protection.

Charlie Brown
Was killed in a Los Angeles gang shootout shortly after Lil Fade's suicide. He was twenty-one.

Lil Bling
His real name is Roderick, and he is now serving a fifteen-year stretch in a federal penitentiary in Atlanta for conspiracy to distribute nine ounces of crack cocaine.

Big Pimpin
Melvin aka Big Pimpin is serving time in a federal penitentiary in Colorado. He received a twenty-year sentence for conspiracy to deliver eighteen ounces of crack cocaine.

Fro-Dog
His real name is Christopher, and he's serving time at a federal penitentiary in Illinois. He was sentenced to twenty years for possession of crack cocaine. After the landmark
Brady
case, he was able to give back five years for the gun.

Big Mike
He was killed in the East Terrace by C-Low, who jacked him for all of his money and then shot him.

C-Low
His real name is Charles. He became a jacker and bank robber. Though no longer active these days, he still resides at the top of the federal authorities' most wanted lists.

Re-Re
Reginald aka Re-Re married Nikki and moved to Houston. Today they have two children, and Re-Re is the owner of a Jamaican restaurant and club.

Gary Kaufmann
Was passed over for his federal judgeship, but is now a United States Senator.

Judge Weitzer
Became a federal judge. He is constantly at odds with the federal legislature because of his judicial activism. He is a very vocal opponent of federal minimum mandatory sentences, and the sentencing disparity between crack and powder cocaine.

Lil Anthony
Now a major drug dealer, he took over the Courts and much of the Eastside's drug trade after Dejuan's death. He is currently engaged in a fierce turf battle for control of the project's lucrative drug trade.

Cooney
He is now serving a life sentence in federal prison.

Preto
He is now serving a twenty-year sentence in federal prison. He testified against Cooney and several other officers in exchange for a lesser sentence.

Mr. and Mrs. Chang
They still run the store in the Denver Heights, although they now own several others across the city as well.

The East Terrace
It was finally closed down and demolished. The area has been turned into a low-income, mixed-housing neighborhood, with the former tenants getting first choice to move back in. Gang members are slowly filtering back in.

The Wheatley Courts
The Courts still stand, although a fence has been added. Another generation is slowly taking the reins.

The Denver Heights
Another generation of Bloods is slowly taking over, as the younger kids join. Older people are dying, and their homes are being sold to younger couples with children.

The saga of the EASTSIDE will continue…

Eastside
was the first book I ever wrote. I wrote the book, tucked it away, and then went on to write
Two Thin Dimes
, and another novel, which eventually became an
Essence
bestseller. I sold a couple of novels to a famous author/publisher, and then wrote a couple of television pilots, several screenplays, five more novels, and even parts two and three to the bestseller. In the back of my head over all of those years, however, was my first novel, my first love,
Eastside
.

I dusted
Eastside
off, read it again, and consulted with several people whose opinions I trusted. It had been years since I wrote the novel, and I struggled with the question of its relevance. Was
Eastside
still relevant? I found myself questioning the book's relevance, because like so many others, over the years I had allowed myself to become so focused on the packaging, that I forgot what really mattered, which was the gem inside.

On the exterior,
Eastside
appears to be a coming-of-age story, amidst the gang violence of the inner city; on a deeper level,
Eastside
is so much more.
Eastside
is about the gang violence that has plagued our community; it is about the hopelessness, the poverty, the desolation, and the destruction that has beset our society.
Eastside
is my scream.

I used my ability to compose words to point an accusatory finger at all of those who comfortably lie under a veil of security, a comfortable blanket of feigned ignorance at the events and activities that take place in our inner-city communities.
Eastside
is my yell at those who sit idly by, unquestionably devoted to maintaining the shackles and limitations imposed upon them by others, while their brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, and children are dying in the streets. I shout at those who have not lifted their voices and screamed to the top of their lungs, and called attention to the destruction taking place within our communities.

When I originally wrote
Eastside
, it was my intention to take the readers on an exploratory journey into the socio-economic conditions that incubate and produce Lil Fades, Dejuans, Too-Lows, and Travons. It was my intention to illuminate the wanton violence, the homicides, the illicit drug trade, the debilitating poverty, and in general, the miasmic conditions that result in an infestation of gangs, and gang affiliation, which are often multi-generational afflictions in many urban communities.
Eastside
is an alarming beacon to us all.

There exists a perpetual pendulum of violence that swings from one generation to the next, and for the sake of our survival, we must discover why. Why do our children kill and destroy? What is it within their world that makes them capable of committing such atrocities? Why can one grandmother sit on her porch and safely watch the sun set, whilst another must live in fear behind a barricade of chains, locks, bolts, bars, and weapons? How can there exist two different worlds within one city, or even within a few minutes' driving distance from one another? Why is it that in this day and age, an African American grandmother feels lucky if she has only one grandchild in prison? What have we as a people descended to?

I believe the true tragedy of
Eastside
, is that it is a mirror image of many areas within urban America.
Eastside
is not a special set of circumstances, nor is it particular to a certain geographical area. The saga of
Eastside
is being played out all across America, in all of its epic violence, and destructive tragedy. Our children are being forced to survive in concrete jungles, where they are rapidly devolving into one of two things. They are becoming either predator or prey.

There are no easy answers, nor easy solutions for the conditions described within this novel. Midnight basketball games, gun buyback programs, three strikes laws, and federal minimum mandatory sentences will not solve our problems. Those are someone else's solutions to
our
problems, and it is our political marginalization that forces us to accept those impositions. Dead men and convicted felons do not count; dead men and convicted felons cannot vote.

For the majority of our youth, those that survive to experience the ripe old age of eighteen, an even more precarious monster is awaiting them, a prison industrial complex, that is truly a multi-headed hydra of despair. This hydra has evolved into a jobs program for rural communities hit hard by BRAC, the Base Realignment and Closure Committee. It is a multi-billion-dollar boon for an already wealthy corporate America; it is a population control monster that removes the men from our communities when they are at their most productive ages; it is a political control mechanism, as convicted felons no longer have the right to vote; and it is a socioeconomic control mechanism, as most employers will not hire convicted felons, thus limiting upward mobility, and ensuring the prison industrial complex of a plentiful supply of inner-city youths from the next generation. This prison industrial complex is a living organism, because the more it eats, the more it grows. The more young African Americans it ingest, the more prisons that it will need to build, and thus, it grows. Again, the answers will not come easy.

In bringing this novel to the forefront, I also encountered a contingent of people who questioned why I would want to publish something so negative and damaging to the global perception of African Americans. Why not use my talents to write something more positive, I was asked. It is to this contingent that I quote James Baldwin.

“The responsibility of a writer is to excavate the experience of the people who produced him.”

We, as a people, hail from a multitude of socioeconomic, educational, cultural, and geographical backgrounds. Our experiences are as numerous and varied as there are grains of sand in the Sahara. I chose to tell a story that would hopefully bring light to the debilitating conditions of one segment of my people. We do not all live in Prince George's County, or Montgomery County, Maryland; or in Stone Mountain, or Alpharetta, Georgia; just as we do not all live in the Fifth Ward, Marci, Pink House, The Magnolia, or Watts. I chose to tell a story so that we could hopefully examine ourselves, our conditions, and if not find solutions, then at least begin to ask the questions that would eventually lead to the solutions. Again, I wrote this novel to scream.

I also decided to publish this novel for one other reason: Those of us who survived have an obligation to tell the stories of those who did not. We have an obligation to shout, to bring attention to their lives, to bring some kind of meaning to their lives, and to try to reach out to future generations on their behalf. We have an obligation to their families to not forget. The living owe it to the dead to never forget.

Across this nation, tens of thousands of young African American men donned red bandannas and blue ones, and went to war with one another over absolutely nothing. We actually fought a civil war with one another, over nothing. There was something inside of me that refused to allow those deaths to go unnoticed, unspoken of, to be meaningless. If this book changes one child, just one, then it has done its job.

I close by pointing something out to you. I intentionally left out any African American fathers in this book. It was done to highlight their absence in our communities. If I were to have included one father, just one good and decent African American male in this novel, I would have had to cut down the violence in the book, by at least fifty percent. That's how much of a difference just one good Black man being a role model within his community can make. Just one could change the lives of numerous children. Black men, grab our sons and our daughters. The task is daunting, but not insurmountable. Their greatest heroes are not the ones they see carrying a ball on television, it's that one who walks through the door in the evening, with his hands dirty from doing a hard day's work.

Our children are dying. They are dying young, and they are dying in droves. Each year, the shooters and the victims are getting younger and younger. Our babies are being born, and sacrificed to the inner city. They are, in essence, being born to die. This is the true tragedy of
Eastside.
Let us commit ourselves to working hard and rebuilding our communities, so that we can end this tragedy within our generation. Ten years from now, let there exist no reason for another novel like
Eastside.
Let this subject matter become an alien concept to our posterity.

Thank you for listening, and may God bless you and keep you.

Sincerely,
Caleb Alexander