Forgot I wrote this

In looking through my emails for something completely unrelated, I found this bit of flash fiction that I wrote for the heck of it. I re-read it and like the darned thing. So here you go.

HIS NAME WAS BUD

By Roy L. Pickering Jr.

 

 

His name was Bud. He hated when random strangers addressed him as "buddy", so close to accidentally guessing his actual name. Of course, they did not know that his name was Bud, much less that it wasn't short for Buddy. It was an abbreviation of “Rosebud” and his mother picked the name from some old Black & White movie that he had never bothered to watch. He didn't know if his mother had expected a girl or decided on Rosebud as her child’s name regardless of gender. What mattered is that he could not very well go around allowing himself to be called Rosebud, so for better or worse, Bud it was.

It had mostly been for the worse. Life had been hard and mean to him so far. His father had not bothered to stick around long enough to find out that his mother would die giving birth to him. This meant being raised by an aunt on his mother's side until he turned 5 and she turned and took him to an orphanage, done with being responsible for the mistakes of others, family or not.

At 18 he was officially a man, out on his own, no direction or plan or clue as what to do next. Robbing a convenience store seemed like as good of an idea as anything else. Next time, if there was a next time, Bud would do a little more research to find out in advance if the guy behind the counter was likely to have a gun back there, and if he would be inclined to use it.

Getting shot in the gut hurt like hell because of course it did. Bud's big plan collapsed on itself and now he had nothing better to do than to sit on the floor, press against the rapidly leaking hole in his stomach, and wait to see if the cops or an ambulance would arrive soon enough to do him any good.

Bud looked towards the window for whoever might be coming to his rescue, but most of the view was blocked by stuff for sale, and the bit of glass he could see was too filthy to be transparent. His eyes were growing heavy, but he refused to let them close for good reason and fixed his sight on a rack of DVD's. Maybe one of the movies was the one his mom had picked his name from.

 Wouldn't that be something? 

Mama's Boy - a short story

 

For a good many years this story along with one named Dialogue were housed at a literary web site with the clever name of TimBookTu. That site is no more, so now for the first time ever here at A Line A Day I present my short story - Mama's Boy.

                                           MAMA'S BOY

                                               BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.

 

       What would his mama say?

     What would she think if she could see him now, about to do what he was about to do?  She'd kick his butt good.  Toss it into the streets with no more hesitation than if he were the garbage.  His mother would be ashamed that he was her son.

     But she wasn't seeing this.  And he didn't have a choice in the matter.  He had wanted to be down with the Crypt more than anything.  Now he was.  That brought responsibilities along with it.  The lesson most stressed by his mother was that you live up to your responsibilities, no matter what.  That was how she had managed to raise half a dozen kids in this neighborhood with no man around and done just fine.

     Ricky was the last of those children to grow up, and the most difficult to get there.  His older siblings had made Mama proud, graduating high school, getting jobs with the city, marrying before kids were on the way.  They made things easy for their mother because they bent to her overpowering will.

     She had not been able to go six for six, however.  Ricky fought with his mother from day one, when he had to be forcibly removed from her womb.  A clear omen of things to come.

     When his mother commanded that he eat his vegetables, Ricky screamed for candy.  She told him to get to bed early, he wanted to watch late night talk shows.  When she demanded he hit the books, he read comics.  She insisted he clean up his act and stop getting detention, so he got himself expelled instead.  His mother had dreamt the impossible for all her children, that they go to college.  Ricky was her last hope.  He had not placed college very high on his list of priorities.  But at age thirteen, he joined a gang.

     That was six weeks ago.  Since then, he had done a lot of things his mother wouldn't approve of.  He had consumed alcohol and ingested drugs.  He had engaged in sex.  Ricky had robbed, and fought, and hurt people foolish enough to resist.  He had hurt people who didn't resist at all.

     If there was anything in his mother stronger than her will, it was the love she held for her children.  Ricky knew that despite the things he had done in the past, she would forgive him. But after what he was about to do?  He didn't think so.  This crossed the line not even a mother's love would venture beyond.

     Nevertheless, Ricky had chosen his path so now had to walk it. He wasn't willing to travel the long, arduous road his mother had tried to direct him towards.  He was in too much of a hurry.  Out on these streets is where he would stake his claim, where he would immediately be paid in full. 

     That's why Ricky was leaning against a fence, waiting to fulfill his latest duty as a member of the Crypt.  Any moment now the guy would be coming home, basketball in hand, cap turned backwards on his head, one pants leg rolled up to his knee.  And Ricky would make his first kill.

     He patted the gun which was held securely in the waist of his jeans, hidden from view by his overlapping shirt.  Ricky wondered what it would be like to kill a person.  What else was there to think about at such a time?

     Would he feel like more of a man, or less?  Would he feel regret and remorse?  Or only relief that he had accomplished his mission?  Would he like it?  Would he like himself?  Would he be able to do it?  If so, would any of the other questions matter?

     There he was.  Ricky could set his watch by him.  He was alone as usual.  The sun was down, the nearest streetlight out, no witnesses to be found. 

     Ricky moved closer. It was necessary to be as quiet as possible, because if seen, his intentions would be instantly known. But he couldn't be too far away.  Missing was not a luxury he could afford.

     When his foot hit the discarded soda can, a dozen car alarms and a marching band could not have made a more resounding clamor. Surprise was no longer his ally.  Neither was time.

     Ricky raised his arm and fired.  The bullet harmlessly flew over the left shoulder of its target, eventually imbedding itself in a wall of the tenement building behind him.  The second bullet released sunk deeply and with finality into soft flesh.  Its victim crumbled to the ground, his hands an ineffective dam to hold back the flow of blood.

     "Did you see that?", a voice asked.  "He just smoked that nigga."

     Apparently, there had been people around.  Ricky hadn't noticed them.  Who could blame him?  He was new to this.  Killing was a skill like any other.  You had to practice to get good at it.  Doing it right, doing it perfect, wasn't easy to achieve the first time out.  Novices tended to be sloppy.  They made amateurish mistakes like not observing witnesses; making unnecessary sounds that gave them away; missing their first shot, which could turn out to be their only one.  Cause if your mark was wearing a piece himself then he would get a chance, and you could end up lying on the ground bleeding your life away.  Just like Ricky was.

     He would never know what it was like to kill a person, but he would learn how it felt to be killed.  Voices around him slowly growing softer, the stars in the sky becoming fainter by the second.  The pain, overwhelming at first, then fading as well.  No chance to even be afraid, for Ricky had allotted his precious remaining moments to asking himself a question. 

     The police would come, the news would spread, the sordid tale would be told.  Ricky Tate, thirteen-year-old gang banger, tried to pop someone and got popped himself.

     What would his mama say?

DIALOGUE - a short story

The short story that you will find below was written when I wore a much younger man's clothes. It explores in light-hearted fashion that purposely exhibits stereotypes, the vast divide between people of different demographics. And how this societal gap can perhaps be bridged if we would merely be willing to engage in open, non-confrontational dialogue.

                          DIALOGUE

                    BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.

 

 

     The subway train rumbled steadily onward, an encapsulated mobile community beneath the city streets.  At four o'clock in the morning, few passengers were on board.  The most inhabited car was the one pulling up the rear which contained five people.  Sleeping against each other in a corner was a homeless, but nonetheless happily inebriated couple.  Immersed in conversation was a casually clad black youth of about 16, and a conservatively attired white man in his thirties.  The final member of the rolling soiree was a blonde woman in her late twenties, decked out in party gear of the ‘Bring Your Own’ variety, distractedly reading the latest romance novel to top the NY Times Best Seller list.

     "Yo, check it out, Larry.  Shorty is peeping you out.  Don't let me hold you back now.  I know you want a piece of that.  Her body is boomin’."

     "I don’t think so," said the urban professional to his eager travel companion.  “Attractive certainly, but I doubt we’d have very much in common.”

     "You don't think so?  Don't tell me you're a mo."

     "A what?"

     "A faggot, a queer boy."

     "I'm quite heterosexual, thank you."

     "Then what's the problem?” asked the young man, genuinely perplexed at Larry’s apathy.  “You gots to think that honey is fine."

     "She really isn't my type."

     "Not your type.  Check out those titties.  Those are fucking siliconed works of art.  And did you get a good look when she walked in?  That's one serious bootie.  Somewhere out there is a sista wondering who the hell stole her ass."

     Larry cast a glance at the leopard print tights that painted the woman's legs.  "She's a little too showy for me."

     "I know what homegirl can show me.  Man would I wax that ass good.  Now stop playing me.  I refuse to believe you don't want to get up on that."

     "I guess I find her appealing in a Staten Island sort of way," Larry conceded.

     "Damn straight you do.  Now go over there and bust a Wall Street rap on that fly honey."

     "I'm not interested.”  It seemed unnecessary to explain that he didn’t actually work on Wall Street.  The kid’s characterization was clear enough.  “Why don't you talk to her?"

     "First of all, she's a bit too old for me.  More importantly, she doesn't strike me as being into dark and lovely.  You know what I'm saying?"

     "I think so,” Larry said.  “But you see, I have a barrier just as great as you do."

     "Unless you're the lightest mulatto brother I've ever seen, I don't know what you're talking about."

     "You may have noticed that the necklace she's wearing has a cross on it.  I happen to be Jewish."

     "So, who gives a fuck?"

     "She very well might," Larry answered, a feint trace of resignation in his voice caused by a long ago love affair that ended for this very reason.

     "I'm not saying you should step to the girl and ask to meet her parents.  Just bullshit a little and get her digits.  Next week you take her out, spend a few bucks, and then butter that biscuit. I thought you guys were smart."

     "I resent that."

     "Resent what?"

     "The anti-Semitic tone of your last comment."

     "The what of my what?" 

     "Your statement was prejudicial against Jewish people."

     "By calling you smart?  You’d rather be called an ignorant nigger?  Look Lar, I ain't got nothing against Jews.  Man you guys are sensitive.  You own half the money in the goddamn world.  What you got to complain about?"

     "I got ...  I mean, I have just as much reason for complaint as you.  Jewish people have been persecuted as much as your race.  More so even."

     "You're talking out your ass now.  You guys own all the movie studios, the banks, the law firms.  That don't sound too much like suffering to me."

     "You ever hear of the holocaust?” Larry asked, his voice rising from the whisper they had been trying to maintain as the conversation took on an unexpectedly political tone.  “You ever read in the newspaper about what's going on in Israel?  The people there are living in a war zone."

     "You want to see a war zone?  Come by my hood.  Take a stroll through good old Harlem, USA.  And how about slavery?"

     "I'd take cotton picking over a concentration camp any day."

     "At least the holocaust ended.  Cotton just got exchanged for welfare checks and food stamps.  Alright, enough of this bullshit. Let's get back to the topic at hand.  Homegirl has been scoping you out since she sat down.  You got the fly gear.  Shorties be into that Brooks Brothers look nowadays.  It shows you got an important job.  It shows you have no shortage of Benjamins."  He noticed the perplexed look that pass over Larry’s face and clarified.  “Plenty of money.”

     "I happen to be involved in a serious relationship.  My girlfriend and I have been together for three years."

     "So?  You ain't down with OPP?"

     "Am I down with Opie?"

     The kid shook his head and suppressed a laugh at Larry's ignorance.  “Is your girl as dope as this one here?" he re-phrased.

     "Is dope a good thing?"

     "Yeah."

     "Not in such an obvious way," Larry confessed.

     "More importantly, is your girl here right now?"

     "No."

     "So then there ain't nothing to it but to do it."

     "Okay, enough of this badgering," said Larry testily.  "Why don't you go about the business you were conducting and leave me be."

     "Sure, Larry, no problem.  I was getting off at this stop anyway.  You like to work solo.  I can understand that.  Just take some good advice.  Whatever you do, make sure to wear a jimmy hat. That's a condom.  These are dangerous times we're living in."

     The knife being pressed against Larry's back was removed. 

     "I'll take that phat watch you got on too."

     Larry was somewhat puzzled over the description of his rather thin timepiece but did as he was instructed.  He grimaced as his hard-earned money went into someone else's pocket but was pleasantly surprised when the wallet he had handed over earlier was returned with his numerous credit cards still contained. 

     "Ordinarily I don't do this.  But I like you, Larry.  You're all right."

     The kid got up and stood by the doors as the train pulled into the next station.  "Shalom, my brother," he said when the doors opened.

     "Keep the faith, homey," Larry responded.

     The young bandit bounded off the train.  Larry watched after him for a moment, wondering how much his Rolex would go for uptown. When he turned back, he noticed that he was being observed.  The couple in the corner had awakened, or rather, they no longer pretended to be asleep now that the crime they chose not to witness was over with.  Larry shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he might very well have done the same thing had the situation been reversed.  Then he straightened his tie, brushed back his hair, switched to a seat on the opposite side of the car, and proceeded to introduce himself to the young woman without a hint of the caution or trepidation he would typically experience.  He would soon be exiting the train with no money in his pockets, but perhaps he could even the score by obtaining a phone number to fill the empty space.