Part 11 (1/2)
”-and hollered something and began shooting.”
”What was it that the shooter hollered out, do you remember?”
”No, sir. But I think it was some sort of gang language.”
”Do you g.a.n.g.b.a.n.g, Kody?”
As if he had just committed blasphemy in front of the Almighty, I said, ”No!” with a look of are-you-crazy? Mom rolled her eyes to the ceiling and turned her head.
”Why do you think they wanted to shoot you?”
”I don't know.”
”What kind of car was it?”
”A brown Monte Carlo.”
”What year, do you know?”
”Seventy-four or seventy-five, I think.”
”Any distinguis.h.i.+ng marks, dents, primer, paint defects?”
”Yeah, now that I think of it, there was a huge, gray primer spot on-”
”The quarter panel?” said Donut Cup excitedly.
”Yeah, yeah, that's it.” f.u.c.k it, I thought, may as well send Donut Cup all the way out into left field.
”Oh my G.o.d,” said Donut Cup to Clipboard, ”Jimbo's out.”
Mom was shaking her head as if to say ”unbelievable.”
When the soldier-cops had completed their report and were walking toward the door, I decided to use one of my old acting skits, which I had seen on an old TV show.
”Officer, officer,” I said faintly, my voice barely audible.
”Yes, son?” answered Clipboard.
”You . . . you will get them, won't you, sir?”
And then just like in the movies Clipboard solemnly said, ”Yes, son, we'll get them,” and they left the room. s.h.i.+t, that little episode threw me for a loop. Mom began right in on me.
”Boy, why you lie to them police like that? Don't you know they gonna find out that you were lying?”
”Mom, I ain't hardly worried about the police looking for me for lying. Besides, if I had told them the truth I would be going to jail for attempted robbery. a.s.sault, and possession of a gun. So I had to lie.”
”I don't understand you kids today. Guns, robberies, and g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ging. Where is it leading to? You don't even know, do you? You are just a blind pa.s.senger being driven wherever the gang takes you. Kody, I don't even know you anymore. You're not the fine little guy that I used to know. I just don't know what to do with you. You got Shaun into this s.h.i.+t, now he's locked up for the rest of his young life. When are you going to realize that you are killing me? Kody?”
I was faking like I was asleep so she would not see how effective her talk was. I was the same old person she used to know, wasn't I? Yeah, sure I was, I tried to convince myself. But if I were still that fine little guy, why didn't she smile at me anymore? Or laugh and joke like days of old? It wasn't me who changed, I wanted to say. It was the times, the circ.u.mstances dictating my rite of pa.s.sage to manhood. All this was crucial to my development. I became, without ever knowing when, a product of the street and a stranger at home. Life sure was a trip.
”Mrs. Scott?” an American nurse said.
”Yes.”
”You may as well go home and get some sleep, because the doctor wants to keep Kody here for observation tonight.”
”Oh, thank you, but if it's all the same I'd like to stay with my son.”
”Okay, that's fine. Would you like a blanket or anything?”
”No, actually I'm fine, thank you.”
”All right, the doctor should be in any minute.”
Mom looked at me and saw my eyes flutter.
”Boy, I sure hope you got on clean underwear.”
Good ol' Mom, she never changed. Of course she had changed, I was just too preoccupied with my own little perverted existence to take in anything outside the gang world. The world could have been crumbling around me, but if it didn't affect the set, it didn't affect me.
When the doctor returned he explained that, miraculously, the bullet-apparently a hollow point-had exploded on impact. But instead of doing its job of ripping up my internal organs, it had simply stopped, and now there were thirteen small, detectable fragments throughout my upper back. He added that during his observation of the X-ray chart he noticed another bullet lodged in my abdominal cavity. I told him of my previous brush with death and he asked if I was a gang member. I said no. I was instructed to stay the night for further observation.
During the night I regained feeling and movement in my arm. The pain subsided under a stiff dosage of something shot into my hip. The next day, under the warm rays of the Southern California sun, Mom and I tooled out of the hospital parking lot. The radio blared with Stevie Wonder's new hit, ”Hotter than July.” It was July 2, 1981.
Once I got home and was safe behind the locked door of Mission Control-my bedroom-I called up Diamond to inform him of my clean bill of health. His grandmother said he wasn't there, so I phoned Tray Stone, who answered on the third ring.
”h.e.l.lo?”
”What that gangsta like, n.i.g.g.a?” I said into the receiver, recognizing Stone's voice.
”West Side, the best side,” Stone shot back.
”Naw, if it ain't North you short, fool.”
”What's up, homie? You all right? What they say? Did the police come up there? What Mom say?”
”Wait, wait. G.o.dd.a.m.n, man, ask one f.u.c.kin' question at a time, all right?”
”Awright, Mr. Important. You okay?”
”Okay all day and even on Sundays.”
”Naw, I know that, I mean the bullet. What the Doc say?”
”I know what you talkin' 'bout. I'm cool. Fool say the bullet hit my back, broke up and stopped.”
”You bulls.h.i.+ttin'?”
”Naw, I ain't. Doc say I'm too strong for a deuce-deuce to stop.”