Preface
While living in the city I had friends die, guns shoot, and drugs sold all around me, but this is not always considered a negative. Many people that live in the city never get out, they get sucked into the black hole that engulfs their life forever, but for the people that do leave, the lessons they learned while there will follow them forever. So when I am given a chance to talk about the city, I defend it. My family was able to be a part of the small few that do get out, but before we crossed over to our new world, we were able to learn from many experiences that many never have.
When formulating this story, I first though Kaysen would be my mentor, as she was able to tell many stories in a short amount of time. My original plan was to talk about two or three stories, and I felt her writing structure allow me to formulate this best. Once I began to write, I realized that I had more to say about the events in my life then I though. As I wrote my story, I would find myself reflecting on an event for a large amount of time because it meant so much to me. Watching my story unfold, I found that just one of the three I planned to write took up seven pages, reminding me so much of Black Ice. Cary would reflect upon a scene for pages in her novel because they had so much meaning and depth to her. That is how I felt when writing my story, there was almost a need to dig deeper into what this event truly did to my life. Although some moments while writing this I became sick, it was worth it. In the end I was about to learn more about myself and the influences this event had on my life.
The Goal
Throughout his entire life my father had one goal in mind, to get out of the city. Now, this phase is commonly used and means nothing to the people that live out of the Baltimore lines, but for the people that live inside the boarders, this is a common dream among many. For example, in reality Baltimore is just one big piece of land that holds over 636,000 people, but for the people inside the lines the term Baltimore City and Baltimore County mean a lot. When traveling down the pot hole filled roads of Baltimore, there is a particular spot that you will pass when it is just understood that you have left the city. Now, this spot is not marked, it is an invisible line that is seen by only the people who live there.
My father tried more than half his life to cross that line and he did, when I was twelve years old, but this story isn’t about going off into the sunlight once we crossed that line. It isn’t even about what happened to me after I crossed that line. My story is about the events that led up to the November when I walked into a world completely different from my own, seeing and meeting people that would never truly understand me.
Pulp Fiction
I love Quentin Tarantino. He is an inventive director and writer that amazes me with ever movie he puts on the big screen, but out of all his movies I would have to say Pulp Fiction is my favorite. As the scenes jump from character to character a story is unwound before the viewer’s eyes, given them pieces to a story they can put together, but there is always one piece of the puzzle that is too hard to watch. When Marsellus Wallace’s wife overdoses on heroin, I always fine myself leaving the room, a thirst suddenly comes over me, the need to use the bathroom, or, in some cases, something on the wall peaks my interested, drawling my eyes away from the television screen. Anything becomes more bearable then watching the adrenalin shot pierce Mai Wallace’s skin.
∙ ∙ ∙
“He is dead,” the woman said.
I was eating pineapple out of a can, talking to my dad’s friend Sturgill, just five minutes before the woman at my door said these three words. It was summer time and school had just ended, anything was possible. There was no bed time, no homework, no nothing. The world was at my fingertips, the freedom was palpable. List upon list of actives were flying through my head: I can wait to go to Ocean City and Florida ,swim ,hang out with Jennifer ,go camping ,see the pony swim ,ride bikes ,play tag all ,go over my best friend’s house ,watch movies all night, the list was endless. I had three months to plan out my adventures before fifth grade started in the fall, and this is how it started. With all the endless possibilities, I was got stuck with this woman tell me some guy was dead.
“What!”
“I said he is dead you need to call 911”
Standing in the kitchen, my door as well as my mouth was open, as the woman walked down my front steps, through the yard, and down the alley. What was I suppose to do and more importantly, who was that woman. She looked as if she has not showered in weeks, her hair was matted down with so much grease making it hard to detect the color, and her clothes had a brownish tint to the fabric; almost as if she rolled around in on the ground, caking the grains of dirt to the fabric. She became my main focus; I did not notice Sturgill talking to my parents, or even them calling 911. Instead my focus was on this woman, all images of summer flushed from my mind, as she walked down the V shaped alley, getting smaller and smaller with ever step she took.
It is hard to say why this woman had all my attention, as my parents ran through the house franticly. Maybe it was a form of shock, maybe I thought she was going to come back, saying it was a joke, or maybe it was all a dream; maybe, maybe, maybe. Now, when reexamining this moment in my head, I prefer to think about this scene as a form of asking why, why me. At this time there would be no way for me to understand what this woman did , how it shaped apart of the person I am today, but every time I think of this story it is hard not to say the word why. Why couldn’t you have told an adult, why did you tell me, why couldn’t you call the police, why did you have to run away? Or maybe I am just giving her too much credit. She was just a junky, only caring about herself and no one else.
She was gone when the ambulance and police arrived, and by this time my parents had figured out who this dead man was. It was Greg, Greg Fisher, my dad’s childhood friend. We lived in a row house in the middle of Baltimore City at the time, and Fisher lived below us in our basement. Our landlord decided it would be best to divide our house into two, allowing him to make more money, while the four members of my family shared two rooms. I wonder how he felt about a dead man in his basement.
The police officer walked up to my parents, asking the typical questions a police officer asks. What happened? Do you know the woman? Where did she go? Is there any way to contact her? After the debriefing, my parents, the police officers, the EMT, and Sturgill all left my house and began walking to Fisher’s door, which was located in the backyard. I began to follow them, feeling as if it was my right; I was the one who answered the door, and my curiosity got the better of me. My mother did not agree.
“Go back in the house right now, and make sure your sister does not come outside.”
My mother then left me to go join the others in the basement, as I stood in my door way feel as if I was being cheated. Everyone else was going to be able to see, so I was too. Disobeying my mother, I went into the backyard and followed the path to the basement door. Each step toward my goal was breathtaking, filled with excitement, nervousness, and wonder.
Everyone was inside the basement when I reached the door, no one had noticed me. As I peeked my head around the doorframe, six people stood in the kitchen, two were working anxiously arranging what looked to be a needle. My eyes rotated around the room, looking at the back of every person’s head, until final they fell to the floor. I saw his shoes first, and then moving slowly up his torso until his arms came into view. They were discolored in such a way it was as if his body was bruised. The once pink skin had turned blue. A blue that was so sickly and unnatural, there was no doubt in my mind that this man was dead. A needle stuck out from his left arm, liquid was still inside the cylinder; his blood was mixed with the contents.
“Okay, I’m ready”, said one of the men that had been pulling something together on the countertop, “unbutton his shirt.
My father leaned down to unbutton his suit , exposing more of his zombie life flesh. It almost looked like he was rotting. I could not draw my eyes away from his chest, still shocked that a human could be that color. During my trance, I did not notice the EMT talking, stating what he was going to do, or the countdown, my parents later told me he did. The only thing that was in my view was Fisher’s chest and the needle that was stabbed through it seconds later.
∙ ∙ ∙
Movies are not always the best way to relate true occurrence with, as many events are exaggerated or completely made up. Pulp Fiction is not one of those movies. After Mia Wallace reserves a shot of adrenalin, she awakes almost instantly, moving and talk as if the over dose never occurred. When watching this film flick across my television screen it is as if I am watching a memory of mine projected on the screen.
As soon as the plunger of the needle was pressed Greg opened his eyes. He sat up, needle still in his arm, and looked around the room, confusion was written on his face. His skin was still blue, but would slowly become pink in time. By this time I had been noticed in the door way, my mother was yelling at me. Grabbing me by the arm, she pulled me through the yard and back into our house. She said many things to me that I cannot recollect, it was not important. After, her angry tantrum, she left me in the living room, returning back to the excitement. I sat on the couch confused, not knowing what to think.
The Lesson
This occurrence had many negative effects on my life, preventing me form watching movies, television shows, and even pictures depicting the injection of drugs. When seeing anything that may draw on this memory, I become sick to my stomach, it becomes hard to breath, and I sometimes I being to panic. The memory is too strong and vivid, but I am glad I have it.
Seeing an event or something similar to it is common in the city, while in the county this is very rare. While in the classroom with my new class mates, hearing them take about drugs, not taking health class seriously, I always become happy that I was able to witness Grey’s resurrection. In my case I took this event as a lesson, as it taught me more than any teacher or video ever could, leading me no never do or try a drug. The sad fact is that only about 2% of the people living in the city learn from the lessons their environment gives them. Most of my friends I had during this part in my life have died, have children, or are on drugs. I am just happy I was able to live and learn from once in a life time experiences that not many get to have. Although many stories that I have are horrible, it is up to the person to decide what to do with what they saw, and it takes a strong person to learn and flourish from them.
