Die To Live

Die To Live

“That’s a damn shame,” an old man mumbled as he crept pass Clyde the wino. He shook his head in disgust, and for a second, wished his cataract had clouded his other eye just so he couldn’t see Clyde’s tall, famished frame passed out like a drunken sea lion.

Like any other day, between Miguel’s Bodega and Carnegies Pharmacy, Clyde gave decency the middle finger by resting his raunchy, liquor-soaked bones on the mid-August pavement. The rusted gates and senseless scribble marring every storefront on the block blended with his scraggly beard, which was stained gray and bronze by years of stress and spilled liquor. His faded camouflage pants was a testimony of his washed-out patriotism to a life he was once gung-ho about. Out of all the Brooklyn neighborhood’s criminals, dope fiends and loud mouths, Clyde the wino was, by far, the most hated. The unbearable heat brought the people to throw boulder-sized innuendos like “Clyde, I hope you’re dead,” and “Clyde, one of these days I’m gonna piss on you,” at him, but they bounced off the capricious, foul-mouthed drunkard like the stench of sweat and two-dollar wine fuming from his body.

Just when his snores took on a Godzillaish roar, he was torn from his stupor by a flurry of kicks to the ribs. Three bad-ass rugrats, with nothing to do but get their lives of crime off and running, stood over him, laughing and taunting, as their size sixes crushed his frail torso. They hurdled the eight empty bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 standing by his feet and fled into the humid air with Clyde bolting painfully in pursuit. But his vengeance escaped with them when his prosthetic limb gave out, slamming him a nose hair away from the same spot his son, Brian, was murdered eight years prior. The bloodstains were faint but the memory of watching bullets rip through his seventeen year old body was fresh. What haunted him the most was not Brian choking off his own blood or seizing violently, but of him, standing in the crowd, drunk and cowardly, gripping a pint of White Irish Rose, and not the hand of his dying son.

People poured salt on his wounded chest and palms with laughter, finding him the only amusing part of their shitty day.

“What yall laughin’ at? You ain’t never seen a nigga fall?” he said, trying to snap his leg back in place. He lost his real leg, along with his mind, in the jungles of Vietnam. He was given a choice of either a prosthetic or wheelchair, and chose the obvious because drinking and moving a wheelchair involved too much thinking.
“To hell with this.”

He dug deep into his pocket, pulled out his last two dollars and a ball of lint and shouted, “I need another drink!”

Al Green’s Love and Happiness blasted from a van parked at the curb. Clyde didn’t waste a single note standing still. With a cold bottle of Mad Dog wrapped tightly in a brown paper bag in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he two-stepped to Al’s soulful cries and the drum’s deep kicks.

The corner was Clyde’s stage. Everyone walking by either ducked or dodged, cursed or complained, but Clyde was in his own world.

With a bag of groceries in one arm and a newly dry-cleaned choir robe in the other, Natasha, walked a straight line to the corner knowing one thing- that Clyde better not bump his drunk ass into her or any of her four children. Her pork chop frame bounced with the confidence of a hot head looking for a reason to slap somebody. Sure enough, Clyde did a crooked spin move and hit all five of them. She watched as her bag took flight and crashed to the ground. The muffled crunch of broken glass brought the corner to a stand still. She heard twenty dollars in food stamps flush down the toilet as pickle juice and egg yolk ran into the cracks of the pavement. On-lookers saw her caramel hue turn deep strawberry, and immediately wagered on whether Clyde’s ass or head would hit the ground first. Her instincts told her to squeeze the breath from his body, but as he madly swayed from side to side, she saw a confused drunk with no clue as to what just happened. She took in a whiff of the Holy Spirit, looked at her blue and red choir robe and thought of her new walk with Christ, and what better way to show the world what He had done in her life than to turn her anger into forgiveness.

“I forgive you my brother,” she said, struggling to match her heart with her words. The infamous pugilist was still fairly new to the whole Christian thing. “For you know not what you do, Brother Clyde. I’ll pray for you. Matter fact, won’t you come to bible study with me tonight. Pastor will be talkin’ ‘bout…”

Clyde interrupted. “Pray for me? You can’t say excuse me, bitch?” he yelled for the world to hear. He couldn’t believe she ruined the best part of his week and blamed him for it. “It ain’t my fault your big ass takes up both sides of the street.”

Natasha wanted to make him bleed. What would Jesus do? echoed through her mind while the corner erupted in instigation. So instead of snatching his bottle and smashing it across his head, she decided to crouch down and gather what was left of her groceries and walk away. Clyde stood over her basking in what he assumed was her submission, and his victory. He finally won something.

“The stinky man called you the b-word mommy,” her daughter said, sounding like she had a stuffy nose.

“We must learn to forgive those who are lost, sweetie,” she replied.

He snapped at the five year old for not letting sleeping dogs lie. “Shut the hell up you snot-nose brat! Tasha, I thought you aborted this little bitch.”

The taste of wino blood rattled her fangs and sprung her to her feet. She didn’t mind him cursing her, but cursing her child was forbidden.

“You know what, nigga. I tried to be Christian. I tried to be diplomatic and understanding that you a fuckin’ pitiful ass wino with nothing to do but sit on this corner every fuckin’ day harassing us with your funky ass attitude. You a disgrace to humankind. Won’t you take that shopping cart full of bottles you got hidden in the alley and buy some self-respect.”

He sensed sadness in the midst of her outrage. Admittedly, he was out of line, a mere puppet to the wine. But she couldn’t tell other than a sad puppy look on his brow. That wasn’t good enough for her. She wanted to humiliate what wasn’t already. She wanted to speak for those who had to live with his debauchery for the last two decades. She went in for the kill.

“Your life ain’t amount to the dog shit on the corner of your mouth. You got a fake leg. No teeth. You stink. You probably got all kinds of diseases living in your anorexic ass. What have you ever done for somebody else besides clean they windshield, huh? Even your own family hated you.”

Ouch! Her words swung into him like an ax. She wasn’t getting away with that. He surrendered his hands to the air, sat on his milk crate and thought hard about the rebuttal that might get him killed. She drew first blood, and she had to pay.
“Now I see why yo’ old man put that bullet in his head. He told me he’d rather burn in hell than to look at your fat ass another day.”

She rushed him like a hungry lioness on a ripe gazelle. She swore. She cried. She pounded the man who divulged the truth that was never spoken until then. Everyone on the corner cheered like they were front row at Madison Square Garden. Each time Clyde put his arms up in defense her pudgy fists knocked them down. Even her seven-year old son joined in, taking back pieces of his mother’s honor with each blow to Clyde’s nuts. Then, out of the muggy air, a young man, strong and slender, stepped in to break it up. With her arms wailing, the young man struggled to hold her back.

“’Tash, don’t mind him. He’s drunk and crazy,” he said calmly.

“I’m gonna kill him! Get off me!”

She pushed the man into the crowd. She caught a glimpse of him as he fell backwards. She immediately did a double take convinced she didn’t see whom she thought she saw. Suddenly, all her rage was flushed out as if she saw a ghost. Her mouth hung wide. She gasped for words of reason, but his mere presence stole them.

It can’t be she thought.

Something in the man’s voice tugged at Clyde also. Once he lifted his head and saw the man’s dark skin, bushy eyebrows and shotgun nose, he too, became paralyzed by disbelief.

“Brian?” That was all he could say.

Nah! It can’t be. He’s deader than Elvis, Clyde thought. He stood to get an honest look thinking the liquor had finally made him lose his mind.
He reached out with quivering hands to touch his face. He smiled as he stroked the flesh of his flesh and fumbled with words he never thought he’d say.

“Bryan? Is it really you?”

“Yeah Clyde. It’s me.” His solid voice resonated with a maturity that made Clyde flinch. The last time they exchanged words puberty hadn’t sunken into his throat.
“I thought you were, were…”

“Dead!” Natasha blasted callously.

“Well, I’m not,” he fired back. “I’m not alive either. I’m a figment of your imagination, so go about your business because you never saw me.”
Natasha was mute. The tongue she had for Clyde would never lash out at Brian. Especially, a Brian who was supposed to be dead but wasn’t. Frantically, she raced away leaving two of her children behind. When she came back to retrieve them, she pointed to Clyde and said,

“I ain’t forget you. Watch your back.”

“I will. It’s way better than watching yours.”


“Clyde, I need to talk to you. Hurry up, I can’t be ‘round here too long.”

“Brian, what’s this all about?”

Brian understood his confusion. One minute he’s a memory, the next minute he’s stopping a three hundred pound woman from ripping him a new asshole. But he didn’t want to mislead Clyde into thinking love brought him back. His curtness and sense of urgency showed he meant business.

As they strolled up the block, Brian looked around nervously, hoping the wrong people don’t catch wind of his return. So far, he hadn’t been as covert as he intended, but as long as their conversation stayed brief he would leave with his life, for a second time.

“A lot of new faces ‘round here,” Brian said. What he wanted to say was how saddened he was that nothing but the faces had changed. The projects. The abandoned warehouses. The cloud over everyone’s head. His death should’ve meant more to his people than R.I.P B-NASTY scribbled on walls around the neighborhood.

“Not a lots changed since you been dead,” Clyde chuckled sarcastically. “Same ol’ shit, different day. But hay, you know, life in the ghetto.”

Clyde didn’t know what to make of Brian’s mysterious arrival. He was excited to see manhood flowing through his broad shoulders, veiny forearms and many other features bearing his likeness, but he was concerned about the mischievous squint he always wore when he was up to something.

“I see you still hittin’ the bottle.”

Brian, however, wasn’t excited, nor did he see a resemblance between him and the downtrodden, selfish coward intoxicated off his own regret and sorrow.

“It’s what keeps me goin’. Some people wear a cross ‘round they neck and some put rabbit foots on they key chains. I keep a bottle. Half-full I may add.”
“We all need that crutch, huh? Just to feel alive.”

Clyde wanted to take off the rope he used as a belt and whip Brian’s judgmental ass, but this was a chance to right a lifetime of wrongs, so he left alone.
“Speakin’ of alive, what the hell you doing here? Where you been? Why you ain’t dead? How you survive?”

“Whoa, Whoa. Slow down. I ain’t come here to get into that.”

Brian went over this day in his mind for weeks. He rehearsed what to say and how to say it, but once he stared into Clyde’s bloodshot eyes, his words drowned in anger. Painful memories clinched his jaw. Slapping the insipid look off Clyde’s face came in a distant first to asking questions.

Clyde sensed Brian’s inner struggle. “What’s on your mind boy? Talk to me.”

Who is this? This ain’t the Clyde I remember. Talk to me? What’s on your mind? This nigga done turned into Cliff Huxtable. What happened to questions like where’s my change you little bastard or why you crying, I’m the one with no job and a plastic leg? Okay. You wanna be sensitive, here you go.

“Why did you leave me?”

“Huh?”

“Before you answer, take a look at this.”

Brian handed him a picture of his newborn son. He looked exactly like Clyde on a cold night- clueless, helpless and wrapped in a blanket. Their resemblance brought tears to his eyes.

“Is this my, my grandson?” he whimpered.

“ His name’s Jesus. I named him after the man who saved my life.”

“Oh.” His tone went from overwhelmed sinner to a God-fearing whisper. “Nice name.”

Brain continued, “Laying in the hospital, not being able to breath on my own, a million questions went through my mind. But the one I kept asking the most was what did I do to end up like this. In retrospect, I deserved to be there. I sold drugs in these streets. I killed people. I was outta control and I never denied that, but I never got a choice to live another life.”

“Son-,”

“Don’t call me that!” he barked. “You lost those rights,”

“Sorry. Now that you here, I, I just want to make this right.”

“When I held my son for the first time, I couldn’t believe I created this life. Innocent. Non-judgmental. A life that would’ve never been here if I died on that corner. And then it came to me. The answer to my question.”
He took a strong drag from a Newport.

“You put me there.”

Clyde became furious. “No, No. Don’t put that shit on me. It was those hoods you ran wit’ that put those bullets in yo’ ass, not me. If you woulda stayed off the streets it woulda never happened.”

“Look Clyde. I didn’t come here to argue about who shot who. I just wanna know why you left. In order to be the father I need to be I have to know.”

Clyde wanted to air the truth. The guilt that weighed his stomach down like eight-year old Chinese food was making him queasy, but he didn’t appreciate Brian accusing him of something he didn’t do. So, as usual, he let his anger speak for his heart.

“Damn boy! Why you come over here messin’ wit’ me after eight years wantin’ to know all my secrets and motives and methods and whatnot. You askin’ all these questions and you ain’t bearing gifts. It’s like Africa out here and you ain’t even offer to buy your pop a cold one for old times sake.”

Brian patiently watched Clyde perform, all the while looking over his shoulders for
any trouble.

Brian gave Clyde a crisp ten-dollar bill for his inconvenience. Clyde hesitated. If he took the money, he’d be selling an answer to his son’s life-defining question and that would be wrong. He’d much rather have a hug or a handshake. But times were hard, and reality just went up two more degrees and his throat was dry, so he took the money. At that point Brian finally knew what he meant to his father.

“I left ‘cause I ain’t want you to be like me. I was a bad father, husband, human being. My life was one fuck up after another. I’m surprised your mama saw enough in me to marry me. But everything I touched, I ruined. Did I find more joy in getting’ drunk, smokin’ dope and goin’ to the titi club, rather than playin’ catch or goin’ fishin’ wit’ you, hell yeah. ‘Cause that’s how I dealt with the layoffs, the debt, the war, the struggle, everything. When I left I knew I was doin’ the right thing. You would grow up and accomplish great things without me holdin’ you back. I hoped you’d be a better man than me. But watching you running around these streets broke my heart. I didn’t want that for you. And seeing you laying on that corner destroyed what hope I had for you. I shoulda been the one dead, not you.
“But the sooner you realize something the better. Go back to where you came from and know in your heart that I ain’t shit. I never was, I ain’t now and as long as God curses me with more days to live, I never will be. I lived my life, right or wrong, now you live yours and don’t come back here. You’re better off wit’ out me.”

Brian nearly boiled over with laughter. Clyde’s self-pity monologue was Oscar-worthy, but not convincing enough to hide the man he truly was- a lazy bum who ran from responsibility instead of facing it like a man. He felt his answer was sincere and that’s all he wanted.

Clyde felt better but there was still a void in his heart. The last ten minutes were a blur compared to the last eight years. For his sanity’s sake, he still considered his son dead, only now he could bury him in peace.

“I’m outta here. Take care of yourself, Clyde.”

“Shit, who else gonna do it. How’s ya mama?”

“She’s good. She’s got her own beauty salon now.”

“She’s still fine, huh? Boy, I remember when-,”

Something touched the corner of Clyde’s eye. Natasha’s boyfriend, Rico, was steamrolling up the block with fire coming through his ears and nose. Natasha was trying to stop him, but with his jail yard physique, he flung her around like a Cabbage Patch Doll.

“Stop it baby. He ain’t worth it. He was only joking.”

A mob followed. They chanted, “Fight, fight, fight,” hoping somebody, anybody, would satisfy their hunger for bloodshed and violence.

“Ahh shit! Brian, get out of here. You don’t need this trouble. I can handle this muscle head nigga myself. He ain’t nuttin but a gnat dressed up like a bee.”
Suddenly, Rico, Tasha and the mob stopped. Rico’s fire went out. Not even a stream of steam was left. Something sent him and the others running back the way they came.

The clanking of a broken wheel axle pulled Brian and Clyde to the opposite end of the block. A black BMW crept around the corner with a masked man hanging out the passenger side window. With a devilish chuckle, he yelled out, “Rat’s need to stay in they holes,” and began to fire his sawed-off shotgun. His tongue hung out the mouthpiece like a rabid dog while cradling a sawed-off shotgun.

BOOM!!

Clyde dove to the ground headfirst. Brian ducked behind a parked car, barely dodging the buck shots. Glass and smoke rained down burning his skin and eyes. Bullets ripped through the car metal like a rocks through a sheet of Reynolds Wrap.

BOOM!!

The thunderous blasts were no match for the screams from those who never thought such a beautiful day would end like this.

BOOM!!

“This time I’m gonna make sure you die, you piece of shit,” the man screamed. He jumped out of the car before it could come to a screeching halt.
Brian recognized the man’s voice. It was Vincent- his best friend, his partner in crime and the man he knew tried to kill him.

Brian smelled Vincent coming closer. He reached under his shirt and pulled out a .45 caliber pistol. He wasn’t a fool. He would never come back to a place that nearly killed him without a gun. He rose cautiously wasting no time to let Vincent have it.

POP!! POP!!

Brian seized his chance to escape. He stayed low while exchanging fire with his nemesis. With each erratic stride, a long prosperous life became more immanent. Vincent grew frustrated at his weaving target, so he threw down the shotgun and drew out his 9 mm pistol.

He was Mel Gibson with it. He took aim with a sniper’s patience. Brian’s back stared straight at his sights. Vincent’s finger danced on the trigger tauntingly. He had the drop on him. He took a deep breath, inhaled the arousing aroma of gunpowder and whispered, “ Got ya.’

BAM!! BAM!!

Clyde jumped in the path of the bullets.

“Run, son!!” he shouted as hot lead sunk in his chest.

“No, Pop!!” Brian cried out as he watched his father fly backwards.

Before Clyde shook the ground with a lifeless thud, Vincent, and the car, disappeared in the brick red abyss of the housing project.

Brian looked to his car and saw a clean getaway. No cop trouble. No witnesses. No Vincent coming back for seconds. He glanced at Clyde’s body, stretched out like his once was. He remembered begging for that last touch to prove he still had life. It was the loneliest feeling when he didn’t get it. An ear-ringing silence was broken as he walked amongst mangled glass and bullet shells to console the man who saved his life. A frightened neighborhood hid fearing aftershocks, but Brian, with his gun still holding his sanity together, was fearless. He kneeled beside Clyde. It wasn’t the stench of death that scowled Brian’s face; it was the coldness of life. What defines a man’s worth when his life can be taken without pause or hiccup.
Brian grabbed his bloody hand. Clyde responded with a weakening grip. He peeled his eyes slowly and smiled at the sight of Brian.

“Sssson,” Clyde murmured, almost choking on the words he was once forbidden to say.

“Shhh. Pop, Don’t talk. You gonna be alright.” He couldn’t even say it without bringing his sadness to the world.

“Take this.” Clyde handed him the picture of his baby boy which was now a crinkled portrait covered in blood.

“I love you pop,” Brian said softly, not knowing if he really meant it.

Clyde squeezed his hand for the last time and said,” tell my grandson…I did something for him…I couldn’t do for you. I, I died so he could live.”