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All Rights Reserved
Drayton Clarke, Tools of the Trade
©2007 CaSandra Mathis |
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~ Drayton Clarke, Tools of the Trade ~ |
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©2007 CaSandra Mathis All Rights Reserved
Some things you pray to never remember; others you hope to never forget. The shit that happened to me that night, was a whole lot of both. I couldn't have been doing anything more innocently than sleeping. Tucked comfortably away in my bed, not a care in the world. But, doing what's as natural to a human being as breathing, made this unnatural act one hell of a wake up call.
I felt this pressure against my rear, right in the crack. And, whatever dream I'd been having—'cuz I was known for dreaming—turned into a vision about using the bathroom. Number two as I was taught to call it. I was having one of those real hard times like when you've eaten too much oatmeal, but didn't drown it in enough butter and sugar so it comes out in clumps like it went in. Eventually, the dream took a different turn. I think that's the part where my penis became involved. One thing I don't do when I'm having a strenuous bowel movement, which I later learned to call it, is fondle with my you know, which I later decided to call my penis.
I tried to turn and realized I was being held. That's when reality slapped the hell out of my dream. The pain in my rear became real, along with the stiffness of my you know, and the huge, calloused hand holding it captive. Screaming was not an option. Pride? Stupidity? Self preservation? Either way, whoever was trying to steal my manhood, would remember that night as much as I, maybe more.
I eased up, struggled less. Nothing of any undoable measure had occurred, just a whole lotta nastiness you'd never confess around a campfire, or tell another living soul. In fact, no one besides me and that monster ever needed to know.
Just as I'd hoped, the fool relaxed. He stopped trying to put that thing where it didn't belong, and sho nuff wasn't trying to go, and turned me onto my back. He still had a handful of my you know, so I had to think carefully on how I was going to play this. Even then, it was a treasure to behold. So, in order to remain sane enough for my grandiosely planned life to unfold, I had to have all of me intact.
I willed myself to not cry. At any age, this was some strange, demeaning shit that could make you question yourself for life. But, at the tender age of seven, waking up to a grown man trying to force his grown penis into your young behind has got to be the worse thing imaginable. Especially to a little boy who wasn't trying to do nothing but get one good night's sleep in a household where anything good rarely took place.
That night I realized the advantages of growing up in the hood; the advanced state of youngsters who fend for themselves at an early age, versus those born with a silver spoon in their mouths and loving parents to keep them from choking on it. The increased abilities of those who'd fought to get a bottle even before they knew what a bottle was. Learned quickly how not to cry 'cuz no age is too young to get smacked, or jacked up until you think your little head's about to roll completely off your even smaller shoulders.
I'd been scrapping since I was two. That was a cool thing to ignorant black folk in the forgotten zones; those parts of the worse neighborhoods that everybody turned their backs on. You know, the streets that folks who didn't live on knew better than to tread upon? The blocks the city had moved their bus stops from? That's where I grew up.
So when two toddlers get to pulling each other's hair, 'cuz they don't know no better. Or, pushing each other down, 'cuz they don't know no better. Eventually, one parent, if not both, will show them how to ball up their fists, and aim for the face in hopes that their child will be victorious in the fight between two, innocent, shouldn't even be thinking about fighting little kids who can barely talk, or walk. Because, even though they're supposed to, their grown, dumb asses don't know no better either.
So, there I was. A little scrapper caught in the worse situation of a pedophile trying to make me his victim. My butthole was a little sore, but intact. I was determined to keep it that way. I waited for the idiot to slip up like they always do. And, just when he tried to kiss me—damn that still gives me nightmares!—I balled up my fist and punched that sucka right in his throat. Jammed every digit of my seven year old hand right into the center of that big, 'you're supposed to be a man and not be trying to rape little boys' Adam's apple with all my might and all my will. All the pride I had then, and would grow to have later. But, that wasn't enough. I started kicking like I thought I was Bruce Lee. The real one.
That's another thing ghetto kids have always been privy to. If you don't get to watch nothing else, somebody's gone make sure you see a few karate flicks. If you're lucky, they'll take you back to the original. Or, as original as the hood knew karate to be. That's Bruce Lee, with two e's. So, I kicked. Bam! Right smack in the center of his black legs. Ugh! That fool was stark naked. It was dark in my room, so I couldn't see what I was kicking. Still, my bare foot knew what it had felt; nasty, naked, penis flesh. And, having something on you gives you good indication as to where that same something would be on someone else. So, I kicked at that vulnerable target some more. Bam! Bam! Bam!
He started gagging and choking and trying his damnedest not to screech like a girl. I didn't know who he was. Had never seen him before. But, he was big and not just because I was a kid. He'd have been big to anybody. That's when common sense kicks in. Or, rather hood sense. We weren't stupid like those white kids on television who hit an attacker once, then acted like it was all over. We knew it took the police forever to come where we lived, if they came at all. We knew no matter what happened to us in our God forsaken piece of the world, nobody gave a damn. So, we didn't run screaming for help. Or, even more stupid, wait around to see if the little damage we'd done was enough. We took care of business ourselves. Right then. If we didn't, we knew there'd never be a right now. Self preservation. God thank the hood for teaching me that, if little else.
I peered through the dimness until I could see. That fool had fell on the bed and was grabbing his self with both hands. He was hurting, but not where he couldn't recover and kill my little ass. He turned towards me, like evil people trying to hurt somebody always does. I saw it again. That huge, Adam's apple, sticking right out, waiting for me to do my thang. I drew back as if to run, then turned and popped the hell out of it again. I heard him gasping and grunting and crying for God to help him breathe. That's when I really went to work. I didn't know what he was going to tell the people he knew when this was over, but I knew what any television, newspaper, or radio personality who got hold of the story was going to report, "Lil nigger from the forgotten land, the Lil' David, beat the shit out of the pedophile, ass trying to pump Goliath," and I was hell-bent on making sure that's exactly what happened.
I jumped off the bed and rolled underneath, knowing big
nigga pedophile would think I was running scared. Scared my ass. I was running smart. I
kept a little sense of comfort under my bed. Not southern comfort like my mama. I'm
talking
I rolled all the way under the bed and came out on the
other side. Real quiet like. When you're confident, you can strategize. I was Bruce Lee,
but a nigga, ninja type, so I was even cooler. I peered over the bed. Just as I figured,
he'd leaned over to see where I'd gone. I jumped! Nah, ninja's don't jump. I sprung onto
the bed, and by the time he turned to see what was up, I'd landed
I decided to bust big nigga up real bad. In a way somebody was going to ask him what the hell happened and, nine times outta ten, it would be the hospital, or police. Neither group of which he'll want to tell that his butthole poking ass was beat down by a little, no named nigga from the hood. The forgotten hood at that.
The sight of blood splattering and his big ass squealing like a lil' bitch got me riled. That's the only way I can explain going off like I did. Casting all that nigga ninja shit and Bruce Lee codes of fighting to the wind, and wreaking full measures of havoc all over that fool's body. While I pounded the hell out of his face, his chest and eventually his penis, I saw the faces of kids he could have hurt with that thing, then hundreds more he would never hurt after getting his ass sho nuff kicked by a kid of which he'd had full intentions on hurting. Still, no matter how heinous a fool is, they always have a problem when they get their heinous shit back. So, it was my duty to make sure that this problem would not be a problem to any other child again. Ever.
Suddenly, a flash of bright lights blinded me. The hammer was snatched away, and somebody big grabbed me. That's when I started crying; arms kicking, feet flailing, my tears and his blood spurting everywhere. Somehow, pedophile's pedophile crew got wind of me beating him down and came to his rescue. When they saw me doing my thing, they grabbed me and were going to rape me until I passed out, kill me, then burn my body in acid so the crime would never be solved, then pay my worthless mama and daddy some drugs, and maybe a little money to say I'd run away. Such is life for a little nigga who had the nerve to fight against the crimes that happened to those unfortunate enough to be birthed in the land of the forgotten. Hood, that is.
It wasn't until I'd bit someone that I realized my overactive imagination had run amuck. Mama had heard the screams. Guess Jack Daniel's hadn't done his usual job 'cuz she was still semi conscious. Daddy was never home, so I wasn't expecting him to come in the room. Anyway, the neighbors heard the screams before Mama and called the police. By the time everybody rushed in, Mama, Daddy and about five cops were on the scene. It was a cop who'd grabbed me. He was so appalled, he wasn't even mad that I'd bit him. Instead of beating the hell out of me like cops always did folks in our neighborhood, he yelled for everybody to get the fuck outta the way so he could get this child out of this negative environment. He tried to hug me, but I knew my thing was still exposed and didn't want it touching no parts of no man, uniformed, or not. He must have understood my dilemma, 'cuz he put me down on the hallway floor, then yelled for mama to get me some damned drawers.
He asked me if I'd been hurt, if that bad man had… hurt me in any way. I glared at him. Now that I knew I wasn't going to be gang raped and dipped in acid by a bunch of disgusting, pedophile men, my ghetto boldness was back. I looked him square in the eyes and said, "ain't no pedophile, nasty ass nigga gone stick no dick in my black behind. I'm a boy, so it wuttin' going down like that."
That cop looked at me like I'd played the dozen all over his mama. He turned momentarily to watch the paramedics carry ex-pedophile's battered and bloodied body out on a gurney. When he turned back, his face broke out in a wide grin. His initial look wasn't shock, it was admiration. He held his hand in the air and I slapped it hard with a high five. He hugged me like I was his son and he was really proud. I hugged him back. We were men. Two strong, black men who wasn't taking no shit. I hugged him real hard, dick hanging out and all.
©2007 CaSandra Mathis All Rights Reserved
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Drayton Clarke, Tools of the Trade
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