Words.worth

Hearts of Men

I was forced to recollect this past weekend. Friday morning I made my customary bi-daily call to my line brother of five years and best friend of seven. My call was simply to discuss our pending living arrangement as future roommates and also to dialogue about a joint business venture in the local real estate market.

After breaking through proverbial barrier of small talk. He asked a question that is almost always followed by the type of news that engages the receivers buttocks to the nearest sitting vessel.

"Man, you didn't here what happened, he said."

"No. What happened?, I responded."

"Charles got shot three times by some dudes from New Orleans."

.........................................

Charles was a friend of mine back in undergraduate days of college. I was introduced to him through my two best friends, who happen to be brothers and also line brothers of mine as well. I fondly remember us getting together in the fall of 1999 and having our own makeshift John Madden football tournaments. Charles had a play called key corners that he repeatedly ran out of the single back formation. That damn play always worked. We would always complain that he only
ran one play. He would usually tell us that we can not stop it.


I also remember C-Murder, as we used to call him, for never using profane language. To the average person out there that may not appear to be that unique. After all, there are a lot of people walking this mortal plane that do not speak with a swearing tongue.

However, it was C-Murder's other side that presented his stance on foul language as an enigma. We did some illegal things. Nothing major though. Do not start thinking we were hardened criminals. We did the typical dude.from.the.block.that.was.broke.in.high.school but, learned.the.power.of.hustling.to.get.by.stuff. The only difference is we carried it over into college with us. I will allow you to cogitate about what exactly we did that was bound by the limits of this country's version of a legal Pentateuch.

We all reached that perpendicular angle where maturity and common-sense became bed fellows and found other ways to hustle. Other being the optimal word in that aforementioned sentence meaning less lucrative but, legal ways to get by.

Cutting hair, web design, security and soliciting donations for the school were my trade. My two best friends both found refuge in a little place called financial aid refund. It is amazing what those refund checks allowed us graham crackers to do.

C-Murder was different though. He was progressive and money making was at the forefront of his mental Stonehenge. He was hardheaded. We all have heard momma's and grandmomma's and even great- grandmomma's saying about hard heads. It makes for a soft backside. Especially for the youth. Especially for black youth. Especially for male black youth.

C eventually left school and took a job for a communications company in Texas. He was making close to 80k a year. Damn good for the then 24 year old. After working for the company for a year it folded like many of the businesses of the early 2000's. C was not going to go from making 80k, none of which he saved, to barely getting by. Too prideful to finish his degree at the 25, C made a decision. Back to the block.

Fast-forward to 2006. C was still on the grind. Doing work with some new patrons from the city formerly known as New Orleans. The jazz capital. The food capital. The Vegas of the south. However, on this night the deal goes wrong and he takes three shots at point blank range.

Shot one in the hip.

Shot two in the elbow.

Shot three in the chest.

.........................................

"Damn! What was he doing?"

"You already know what he was doing."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

........................................

At what point does a man lose himself trying so hard not to be what he was but, at the same time trying not to forget where he came from?

-True Story-

posted by Words.worth @ 12:56 PM