Soulacoaster Read online

  Just then, the woman caught sight of me. They stopped abruptly.

  “Little Robert, what you doing in here, boy?”

  I got scared and started running. She shouted out, “Come on back, it’s okay.”

  They were still in bed, both of them naked, when she said, “You can watch, but you better not say shit to nobody about this.”

  I knew the women in my house weren’t dressing or acting right. My mother or grandmother wouldn’t dream of parading around the house half-dressed. At the same time, I couldn’t snitch. In my house and growing up in the ‘hood, the number-one rule was don’t snitch, don’t tell. It was the same as learning 2 + 2=4. It was drilled into you, and if you didn’t know 2 + 2 = 4, you failed. In the 'hood if you snitched, you weren’t going to make it.

  Still, as I grew older, things began to change when I was around these women. When I was nine, they changed in a major way; I began to regret this code of silence.

  If my mother had known what was going on in the house, she probably would have burned the house down. She didn’t play that. I wanted to tell her but I had a hard time trying to figure out who would really be in trouble—me or them. At that age I didn’t really know how to handle it. I knew it wasn’t right but I just didn’t know how to say anything about it. Talking about it was strange, so I locked it away as my own little secret.

  At the time, Mom was going out with Lucious, the man she later married when I was still a kid. I wasn’t happy about it ‘cause I wanted her to stay home with me. But Lucious was okay. He was a nice man, nice to me, and most times nice to my mother. He liked to tell stories about his Army days. Since my real daddy was long gone, I liked listening to an older man talking ‘bout “back in the day.” I saw Lucious more like a big brother than a father.

  My mother and Lucious went out together often. Sometimes they left me with Uncle Doug. My brothers didn’t like Lucious, but my attitude was different from theirs. Anything that made Mom happy made me happy, too.

  One Saturday evening we were watching TV. “Don’t watch that television set all night,” Mom said before she and Lucious left the house.

  Me and my brothers liked horror movies. We were watching The Creature from the Black Lagoon when the TV crapped out. Picture went dead. I called up to Uncle Cary to fix it, but he was snoring loud enough to wake the dead. My brothers went off to bed, but I kept banging on the TV, hoping to get the picture back. When it did pop back on, the monster was rising out of the black lagoon. I was waiting to see what would happen next when—just like that—the damn picture crapped out again.

  Disgusted, I fell asleep on the couch. I was far away in some dream when I heard that same noise. Bedsprings squeaking.

  The guy yelling, “Tell me how much you like it, bitch!”

  The lady screaming back, “Give it to me! Gimme all you got!”

  I got up and looked around the house to make sure my mother wasn’t home yet. She was still out with Lucious.

  This time I knew what all the noise was about and, truth be told, I wanted to have another good look.

  I opened the door just enough to see them kicking it hard. I mean, they were deep into it. I stood there for a while, and just as I started to close the door, the woman spotted me. “Don’t move, Rob,” she said.

  I was scared. Didn’t know what to expect.

  “Come over here and get this camera,” she said. “Take a picture of us.”

  I was dumbfounded. Couldn’t say a word.

  “You do know how to use this thing, don’t you?”

  I was too stunned to talk. All I could do was shake my head no.

  “It’s easy,” she said. “Just aim this camera and snap a goddamn picture!”

  She gave me a Polaroid camera. The guy liked the idea as much as she did. They got into positions where I could see their private parts.

  I snapped the picture. When she showed me how it took only a minute to develop, I was amazed. The photographic technology impressed me more than the sex.

  She grabbed the photo and kept it for herself. I took the memory of them doing the dirty and stashed it inside my mind’s brick box.

  A couple of Saturday nights later, Mom was out again and I was sitting on the couch with Uncle Doug. We were watching TV. My favorite show was The Jeffersons. But on this particular night, we were looking at Three’s Company.

  Uncle Doug turned to me and asked, “N-n-now this h-h-here is every m-m-man’s d-d-dream. Every m-m-man d-d-dreams of living with t-t-two women. Which one d-d-do you 1-1-like?”

  “The blonde,” I said. “Chrissy.”

  “11-1-like b-b-both them b-b-bitches,” Uncle Doug said. “Ain’t 'b-b-bout to k-k-kick either one outta m-m-my b-b-bed.”

  Halfway through the show, the TV went dead. Again.

  “C-C-Cary!” Uncle Doug shouted. “Where’s that m-m-mothafuckin’ lame-ass repairman when we n-n-need him?”

  “Gone out with Grandma,” I said.

  Uncle Doug let out a big sigh. “Oh well, we p-p-probably b-b-better off. If he start f-f-fooling with the T-T-TV, the fuckin’ thing will b-b-blow up and b-b-burn the house d-d-down. B-b-boy, I’ve had enough for one d-d-day. I’m g-g-going to b-b-bed.”

  “Goodnight, Uncle Doug.”

  “G-g-goodnight, Rob.”

  I stayed on the couch, staring at the dark TV, thinking what it might be like to have a dad like George Jefferson, someone with enough money to move us all into a fancy high-rise in the sky. I started thinking of Jack Tripper, the guy in Three’s Company, and the cool but confusing situation that he was in.

  I drifted off to sleep and fell into a crazy dream about Three’s Company when a strange feeling in my body woke me up. The “feeling” was down below my belt. I opened my eyes and saw that a female was playing with me. She was at least ten years older than me. I was eight.

  “What’re you doing?” I asked.

  “You’ll like it,” she said. “It’ll feel good. Look what happens when I rub it.”

  She kept rubbing until I got hard. I didn’t say anything. Then she put it in her mouth and started sucking.

  At first I was scared she was going to do something crazy like bite me. I tried to push her away, but she wouldn’t stop until she was finished. When she was, she said, “You better not say shit to no one or else you gonna get a terrible whupping,” she threatened.

  I knew she meant business. I knew to keep quiet. Every time she did it—and she did it repeatedly for years—she warned me about what would happen to me if I snitched. No matter how many times it happened, I knew I could never tell anyone. I was too afraid and too ashamed. All I could do was stash the secret—and hide it in my imaginary brick box.

  SUNDAY MORNING

  My belief in God has been with me since I was a little boy, and I still believe in God now. I believe in the grace and mercy of Jesus. That belief got seeded in me when I was just a kid. No matter how many other crazy things jumped off in my life, God was always there; my mother made sure of that.

  On Sundays, I would put on my freshly ironed best—black trousers, clean white shirt, little clip-on bow tie—and follow Mom to the little storefront church where we went to sing and pray. I had to get myself ready for a long day: Church went on for three, sometimes four hours.

  The church didn’t hold more than 25 people. It was no bigger than a liquor store or pizza joint. Our pastor was Mother Nance. She had these big, frightening eyes but was a sweet lady who was all about the Lord. She preached her sermons like songs, singing the lessons she hoped to impart to us.

  A small band backed Mother Nance. The beats came from a drummer banging on nothing but a snare. He worked it hard, and the groove he laid down made me happy. The broken-down organ had a bunch of missing keys. From where I sat, I could see the woman at the old instrument and—don’t ask me how—when she hit a key that didn’t work, I could fill in the missing note in my mind. It was a game I liked to play. I could hear the whole composition. Everyone else in the room had the m
usic in 2-D; I could hear it in 3-D.

  When my mother got up, faced the congregation, and started in on “Amazing Grace,” she became a star. She sang so hard until everyone was standing and waving, shouting God’s name. They loved my mother’s singing. When the saints heard I could sing, they wanted me to do a solo, but I was too shy. Besides, I figured Mom sang good enough for the two of us.

  Later in the service, when I got a little bored with the songs, I’d change the words around. When everyone was singing, “Jesus is on the main line, tell him what you want,” I sang, “That girl in the choir is so fine, gonna tell her what I want”—and my lyrics went right along with the song. Once, Aunt Rose, sitting right behind me, heard me and slapped me upside the head. “Boy” she said, “you better sing the right lyrics or I’m telling your mama.”

  Service went on so long I usually couldn’t help but nod off. One time, I don’t know how long I’d been snoozing when a scream woke me up. It was my mother: Joann Kelly had caught the Holy Ghost and was shaking and shivering like she had some terrible fever. She was yelling out, “Ain’t gonna smoke no more! Jesus God, ain’t gonna have another cigarette long as I live!” Tears were streaming down her face. She was crying and talking in tongues, reaching into her purse, grabbing her pack of cigarettes, and throwing them in the aisle. “No more!” she was yelling, “Ain’t gonna touch ’nother one of these cancer sticks for the rest of my life! Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Lord!”

  After church we went home for a big Sunday dinner, which was always delicious. We were all filled up and satisfied. My mother was drinking her coffee when she leaned over and whispered to me, “Run over to Mr. Ikenberg’s and get me a pack of Winstons.”

  “But Mom …” I started to say.

  “You heard me, boy. Now go.”

  When I got back, my mother was waiting for me at the door. She took her Winstons, went to the bathroom, locked the door behind her, and lit up. When she was through, she sprayed the smell away with a can of aerosol. She didn’t want anyone to know.

  But I knew. I knew more than I should have about the things that happened in our house.

  I was there the Sunday that Grandma came back from church and announced that she got saved.

  “That mean you ain’t drinking no more of that Old Grand-Dad whiskey?” Mom asked.

  “Not a drop,” said Grandma.

  “And what about your Pall Malls?” Mom wanted to know.

  “Quit smoking, quit cursing. Just living for the Lord.”

  I was surprised. Grandma and Uncle Cary loved their Old Grand-Dad. And when they fought, they loved cussin’ up a storm.

  “What about Cary? He get saved along with you?” asked Mom.

  “Yes, he did,” said Grandma. Cary was standing next to her. The man was all smiles.

  “Well, well,” my mother muttered. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “Yes, He do,” said my grandmother. “He sure-enough do.”

  From that point on, Grandma’s moods were more talking down to you than screaming at Uncle Cary. In fact, we referred to Grandma and Uncle Cary, who lived on the upper floor, as the “Uppities.” After Grandma got saved and indulged her uppity attitude, she and my mother would get into heavy arguments. For example, Grandma didn’t like my mother playing bingo.

  “You going against God,” Grandma told her.

  “Why you say that?”

  “I don’t. The Bible does.”

  “Where in the Bible does it tell you not to play bingo? Back then, they didn’t have no bingo.”

  “Proverbs 13:11. ‘Dishonest money dwindles away, but he who gathers money little by little makes it grow.’”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” my mother said. “I’m making my little money grow. Besides, nothing dishonest about bingo.”

  “You play the numbers,” said Grandma.

  “Everyone plays the numbers.”

  “Look here,” Grandma explained, opening her Bible. “Ecclesiastes 5:10: ‘Whoever loves money never has money enough; whoever loves wealth is never satisfied.’”

  “I didn’t say I love money. I just said I need money. We need money. You need money.”

  “We need God.”

  “We got God,” her daughter said. “But to keep from getting kicked out of this here house, we got to pay rent. And you telling me that if I hit the number and collect a few thousand, you won’t be following me to a nicer house?”

  “I’m following Jesus to wherever He leads.”

  “Well, I believe Jesus is leading me to the numbers man because this week I got a good hunch. But if my number do come in, I won’t bother telling you. I don’t want my Bible-believing mother covered in my sin.”

  With that, my mother walked out of the room. Grandma gave me a look as if to say, “Boy, you better not smile.”

  I didn’t.

  SCHOOL DAYS

  When I was at church, I learned to sing the words from memory, but at school, when it came time to open the book and read silently or out loud, I couldn’t focus on the words. I didn’t even see words.

  Every time my teacher called on me to read, my heart sank. I choked up. I stammered and stuttered. It was terrible because the other kids would start giggling. I felt like a cripple and an alien. Here were my schoolmates, learning like nobody's business, building up their vocabularies, reading all these stories. I wanted to read so bad I could taste it. I wanted to do what everyone else was doing. But the more I tried, the worse it became.

  Trying to learn how to read and spell in school for me was like throwing a brick on top of the Sears Tower. That’s how hard it was for me. I really tried hard because, if for no other reason, I didn’t want the other kids calling me “a dummy.”

  I’d look around at every other kid, and they were reading and writing and spelling and doing math. They were going forth with their books and their studies. But when it came to me being able to study, I just couldn’t do it, I couldn’t make sense of the words on the page. I desperately wanted to learn how to read, so I made a hell of an effort. But the more I tried to study, my mouth would get dry; I’d get sleepy and start yawning the minute I even tried to read a book or study spelling words.

  I wanted to do my homework and get all A’s. I wanted to prove myself and make my mother proud. But every time I made up my mind to conquer the problem and start reading, every time I opened a book, my mind would turn off. Time and again, I’d make a mess out of this whole reading business and I’d wish that the ground would open and swallow me whole.

  I didn’t know what to think about myself. Was I sick? Was I really a dummy? What was wrong with me? Those thoughts scared me to death, but I was too afraid to say anything to anybody.

  “You got genius,” my mother told me after a day at school where kids were laughing at me 'cause I couldn’t read. I wanted to believe my mother, but it was hard. To me as a kid, if you were a good reader, it meant you had a good brain. If you were a bad reader, it meant you had no brain. Bad reading meant you were obviously a dummy.

  It wasn’t until I was an adult that an educator told me about dyslexia. She said dyslexia is where kids have trouble learning to read or interpret words. She also said it’s got nothing to do with your intelligence. Steve Jobs, Walt Disney, and even Leonardo da Vinci all had some form of dyslexia. But my disability is something more than dyslexia. They still don’t know what caused my problem. I’ll never know if it was possibly “brain damage,” as one specialist diagnosed, or an accident of Spirit—God’s way of making sure that I fulfilled my destiny.

  Another crazy thing about my reading problem is that I’ve always loved words. Still do. I love stories about faraway places and different kinds of people. I wanted to be able to read those stories like everyone else. I always loved listening to how different people—my mother, my aunts, Uncle Doug, Lucious—told stories each in their own special way. I instinctively understood the power of language and the magic of storytelling from a very young age.

  Word
s had a spirit that got all over me. Depending on how they were used, words could scare me, comfort me, encourage me, make me happy, or make me sad. It broke my heart that I found it so hard—in fact, downright impossible—to read words on the page.

  Outside of school, I spent a good amount of time with my brothers, Bruce and Cary. My mother wanted all her kids to get along. “Y’all are blood,” she would remind us. “Y’all need to be there for each other.” Sometimes that was easy—especially if it involved kung fu. Me and my brothers were deep into Bruce Lee. We’d go to the Met movie theater on King Drive down the street from where we lived and sit in there, hypnotized by films like Enter the Dragon and Fist of Fury.

  Bruce Lee was our man—from his lightnin'-fast nunchucks to his awesome sword work to the way he downed a dozen opponents without breaking a sweat. He had that cut-up 12-pack body, that attitude, that look in his eyes that said, “I don’t know the meaning of fear.”

  When we left the theater, we were out of our minds with Bruce Lee cockiness. We were worked up and ready to roll against anyone who even looked at us funny. We’d come out of that movie kicking like we actually knew what we were doing. You better not try to challenge us after a Bruce Lee flick.

  Big Bro Bruce and li’l Bro Killer—we called Cary “Killer” after a Flip Wilson character Grandma loved—came charging out of a Bruce Lee film high on the action we’d just seen. Man, we were flying on that Bruce Lee energy. We got home, playing like we were actually in the movie, when I landed a roundabout kick on Killer that sent him through our living room window. He got a little cut up and felt some pain, but it was nothing like the pain we’d feel when Mom got home. We knew that if we didn’t think of something quick, Mom would give us the worst whipping of our lives.