YOUNG RANDOM & BLACK
XAVIER RICHARDSON
You are seventeen. It’s a time when it’s hard to keep still. Your fingers drum by themselves. Your foot taps and you don’t even know its tapping until someone gets annoyed and tells you to stop. Your face is always oily, no matter how many times you wash it, but that’s okay, because your told skin like yours will always look young, when all you want is to look older, be older, be treated like an adult, make your own money, follow your own rules, be anything except be still. You’re in constant motion, which is why you’re looking up at Ursa Major and Ursa Minor and all that’s bright in the night sky, while lesser mortals are cooped up in the house, watching TV and or staring at computer screens. They wouldn’t have come out just to get a bag of candy and a soda. You’re not even hungry. If you were you’d know better than to reach for candy. Candy makes you fidget even more than normal. This walk is more for something to do.
Tonight is really too warm for a hooded sweat jacket, but your stepmom would have had a fit if you left the house in just a t-shirt. She only conceded to let you go out because she gets tired of you always can’t keep still and the store is only four blocks away. Now you’ve got a TV commercial with your favorite basketball player stuck in your head, probably because Aisha, your girlfriend, asked if her new hairstyle makes her look like the actress the ballplayer is dating. You smile. You know what she was doing there. Over and over in your head you see that ballplayer getting knocked to the floor, getting up, again flying into the paint, taking it to the big boys, down he goes again, but not before he gets his shot off. The ball floats in slow motion towards the rim, swirling round and round on the lip of it, down it goes through the net. Or at least that’s how the commercial stays on your mind.
If you want to start varsity next year, Coach says you’ve got to work on your midrange jumper, learn how to play at more than one speed. See the floor better, make better decisions. If that doesn’t mean the man has plans for you, you don’t know what does. Pitter-patter you can’t stop your feet, you’re squared up against a mailbox with your bag of candy like a basketball in your hands, dipping your shoulder like you’re going left/toss the lob right, Ursa Minor snatches the rock and flushes the slam over Ursa Major, hanging on The Big Dipper and sagging it low.
That’s impossible.
You know you should be thinking about this book report you’ve got to write. But it’s not due until next week. You’ve already read the book. It was corny. What did you expect? You tap the stop sign with your bag of candy and you’re off the curb. Tilting your head at the right angle you can make the reflection of street lights dancing off the windshields of parked cars like what would be the best screensaver ever. Nobody is out. You keep down this block you know like the back of your hand. Sometimes you wish you had some kind of an infrared beam to shine on the street that would show up all of the footsteps you’ve taken through this neighborhood, like dance steps on a chart on the floor in the room where Aisha takes dance. Mom says you could daydream your life away. Dad wants you to use your imagination to visualize your goals. You can use it to makes Aisha smile. For now that’s all you care about.
At the next right there’s a magnolia in the middle of the block. You can smell petals on the ground, looking like somebody dipped them in strawberry milk. You’re almost where you can see down the hill to the three diamond window panels in your front door. You hear what sounds like an SUV slowing down. Instead of parking or going by it stays the same distance behind you. It’s him again. This guy, not even a rent-a-cop. But the way he tries to throw his weight around you would think he was Seal Team Six. Doesn’t he ever get tired? He’s always looking at you funny. Nobody likes him. He makes you feel weird. You’re glad you brought your jacket now. Your cell phone is in the pocket. You know how warm it is, but now you’ve got a chill. You zip up, pull the hood over your head and hit Aisha’s number, hoping she hasn’t gone to bed yet. She has to get up a lot earlier than you do to fix her hair.
“Is this the most beautiful girl in the world?”
“No, but this is Aisha, Shaun Majors.”
“Hey you!”
“Shaun, who is that?”
“This fake Seal Team six wannabe I was telling you about.”
“Hey, hey you. Yeah you. I know you’re not deaf.”
“Shaun run.”
“I’m not running from this clown.”
“What was that?”
“He just got out of his car.”
“Shaun this is serious. You need to run.”
“Stop! Boy, don’t you run from me.”
“Shaun! Shaun!”
You can’t answer.
You can’t answer, but that won’t stop the questions that will be asked about the content of your character. As if something you could have done last night, last week, last year, means you deserve what’s coming to you. Your chickens have just come home to roost. That’s all.
The story will be told that you, unarmed, run for your life until the security guard, armed with a gun he isn’t afraid to use, fears for his life. It will be argued that a voice calling for help on the security guard’s 911 tape, is not that of you the hunted, but of the hunter, warned by the 911 dispatcher not to pursue you, he chases you, chases you down, he has chased you down, you resist attack, he draws his weapon, you see a dark blur in his hand moving toward you, he squeezes the trigger: POP! Heat spreads out white hot and wet from your chest until even your hair is on fire. You can’t breathe. You’re bleeding. Blood is coming out of you. It feels like sweating, damp beneath you on the sidewalk where you lay.
Your heart is beating wild. What did Coach tell you? Try not to get too excited. Relax. Breathe. Don’t get too far ahead of yourself out here. Remember it’s five-on-five. Rely on your teammates. See the whole floor. Let the game come to Aisha. The beautiful Aisha. Where is she? Weren’t you supposed to be at her dance recital an hour ago? Calm down. Let the game come to you, is what Coach said. Aisha had nothing to do with it. It’s getting hard to think straight.
You remember being six or seven. Your dad took you camping. That was the last time you laid on your back and looked up at the stars like this. Look, his finger rose it is the security guard’s weapon waving across the face of the night, tracing out Ursa Major and Ursa Minor and the look on mom’s face the second time you got suspended. She was willing to defend you that first time. She made every excuse for you.
But she can’t call herself being on your side by taking your side when she knows you’re wrong.
Aisha Major, Aisha Minor. You love the way she moves. You can dance, but not like Aisha. Seems like the stars were a lot brighter a second ago. When did they get so dim? It’s not cloudy. There aren’t any clouds. Where did the stars go? You’re gone. When you open your eyes again you can see so many, some of them girls and women, still to be brought down, streets full of protesters waving picket signs, grieving friends and families and no matter the evidence against them, defiant killers will go free, until the day that what cannot be overcome through legislation, will no longer find hearts where it can survive unwritten within them and race will be studied no more. You are seventeen. Your whole life is supposed to be ahead of you.
Tonight is really too warm for a hooded sweat jacket, but your stepmom would have had a fit if you left the house in just a t-shirt. She only conceded to let you go out because she gets tired of you always can’t keep still and the store is only four blocks away. Now you’ve got a TV commercial with your favorite basketball player stuck in your head, probably because Aisha, your girlfriend, asked if her new hairstyle makes her look like the actress the ballplayer is dating. You smile. You know what she was doing there. Over and over in your head you see that ballplayer getting knocked to the floor, getting up, again flying into the paint, taking it to the big boys, down he goes again, but not before he gets his shot off. The ball floats in slow motion towards the rim, swirling round and round on the lip of it, down it goes through the net. Or at least that’s how the commercial stays on your mind.
If you want to start varsity next year, Coach says you’ve got to work on your midrange jumper, learn how to play at more than one speed. See the floor better, make better decisions. If that doesn’t mean the man has plans for you, you don’t know what does. Pitter-patter you can’t stop your feet, you’re squared up against a mailbox with your bag of candy like a basketball in your hands, dipping your shoulder like you’re going left/toss the lob right, Ursa Minor snatches the rock and flushes the slam over Ursa Major, hanging on The Big Dipper and sagging it low.
That’s impossible.
You know you should be thinking about this book report you’ve got to write. But it’s not due until next week. You’ve already read the book. It was corny. What did you expect? You tap the stop sign with your bag of candy and you’re off the curb. Tilting your head at the right angle you can make the reflection of street lights dancing off the windshields of parked cars like what would be the best screensaver ever. Nobody is out. You keep down this block you know like the back of your hand. Sometimes you wish you had some kind of an infrared beam to shine on the street that would show up all of the footsteps you’ve taken through this neighborhood, like dance steps on a chart on the floor in the room where Aisha takes dance. Mom says you could daydream your life away. Dad wants you to use your imagination to visualize your goals. You can use it to makes Aisha smile. For now that’s all you care about.
At the next right there’s a magnolia in the middle of the block. You can smell petals on the ground, looking like somebody dipped them in strawberry milk. You’re almost where you can see down the hill to the three diamond window panels in your front door. You hear what sounds like an SUV slowing down. Instead of parking or going by it stays the same distance behind you. It’s him again. This guy, not even a rent-a-cop. But the way he tries to throw his weight around you would think he was Seal Team Six. Doesn’t he ever get tired? He’s always looking at you funny. Nobody likes him. He makes you feel weird. You’re glad you brought your jacket now. Your cell phone is in the pocket. You know how warm it is, but now you’ve got a chill. You zip up, pull the hood over your head and hit Aisha’s number, hoping she hasn’t gone to bed yet. She has to get up a lot earlier than you do to fix her hair.
“Is this the most beautiful girl in the world?”
“No, but this is Aisha, Shaun Majors.”
“Hey you!”
“Shaun, who is that?”
“This fake Seal Team six wannabe I was telling you about.”
“Hey, hey you. Yeah you. I know you’re not deaf.”
“Shaun run.”
“I’m not running from this clown.”
“What was that?”
“He just got out of his car.”
“Shaun this is serious. You need to run.”
“Stop! Boy, don’t you run from me.”
“Shaun! Shaun!”
You can’t answer.
You can’t answer, but that won’t stop the questions that will be asked about the content of your character. As if something you could have done last night, last week, last year, means you deserve what’s coming to you. Your chickens have just come home to roost. That’s all.
The story will be told that you, unarmed, run for your life until the security guard, armed with a gun he isn’t afraid to use, fears for his life. It will be argued that a voice calling for help on the security guard’s 911 tape, is not that of you the hunted, but of the hunter, warned by the 911 dispatcher not to pursue you, he chases you, chases you down, he has chased you down, you resist attack, he draws his weapon, you see a dark blur in his hand moving toward you, he squeezes the trigger: POP! Heat spreads out white hot and wet from your chest until even your hair is on fire. You can’t breathe. You’re bleeding. Blood is coming out of you. It feels like sweating, damp beneath you on the sidewalk where you lay.
Your heart is beating wild. What did Coach tell you? Try not to get too excited. Relax. Breathe. Don’t get too far ahead of yourself out here. Remember it’s five-on-five. Rely on your teammates. See the whole floor. Let the game come to Aisha. The beautiful Aisha. Where is she? Weren’t you supposed to be at her dance recital an hour ago? Calm down. Let the game come to you, is what Coach said. Aisha had nothing to do with it. It’s getting hard to think straight.
You remember being six or seven. Your dad took you camping. That was the last time you laid on your back and looked up at the stars like this. Look, his finger rose it is the security guard’s weapon waving across the face of the night, tracing out Ursa Major and Ursa Minor and the look on mom’s face the second time you got suspended. She was willing to defend you that first time. She made every excuse for you.
But she can’t call herself being on your side by taking your side when she knows you’re wrong.
Aisha Major, Aisha Minor. You love the way she moves. You can dance, but not like Aisha. Seems like the stars were a lot brighter a second ago. When did they get so dim? It’s not cloudy. There aren’t any clouds. Where did the stars go? You’re gone. When you open your eyes again you can see so many, some of them girls and women, still to be brought down, streets full of protesters waving picket signs, grieving friends and families and no matter the evidence against them, defiant killers will go free, until the day that what cannot be overcome through legislation, will no longer find hearts where it can survive unwritten within them and race will be studied no more. You are seventeen. Your whole life is supposed to be ahead of you.
XAVIER J. RICHARDSON is a Pennsylvania Council on the Arts Fellow. He have also won a Judith Stark Award for fiction. His fiction appears in Apiary, Black Arts Quarterly, the anthologies Philly Fiction, South Philly Fiction, and For Women–A Tribute to Nina Simone. It is forthcoming in Mandela Journal. His poetry has appeared in The Philadelphia Tribune.
