Iced Tea and Karma

The gang-banger had really fucked up this time. Any niga with a lick of sense would have known a narc when he saw one, but he needed cash for a new ride so bad he'd overlooked the obvious and met the dude anyway, with a bag full of coke, and blinders on. So, of course, he died that night, simply because the lack of common sense it takes to be a player is the same lack of sense it takes to think pulling a piece on a cop is a brilliant idea. The undercover brother he tried that shit with simply showed the peace sign and the SWAT team sniper put a nice hole right thru Jamail's forehead before he could even think of pulling the trigger on the nine.

Nice thing about head shots is that you don't suffer a hell of a lot. You go to sleep, so to speak, and next thing you know, it's the next thing. The next thing, in this case, was Jamail sitting on a bench in front of a fruit stand next to an old black man, a mason jar of iced tea in his hand, looking out over a field of cotton. Jamail was born and bred Detroit niga; had never seen cotton in the raw, so he stood up real fast and whipped around, grabbing for the usual hardware and finding nothing. The old black man with the white stubble on his face just watched him as though he saw young black men acting weirded out all the time, and raised his own mason jar of tea to his lips and took a draw.

It only took Jamail a few seconds to get over his instinctive rush and realize he wasn't in Detroit anymore, that the deal had gone south, and he was dead. Being dead meant he was now faced with what happens to people when they got no place to be, so he lowered his hands and calmed down and stared at the old fucker watching him calmly from the bench. "Hey, niga, who you? Saint Peter? I spected him to be some white dude, and you ain't very white. So what now? I going down?"

The old man lowered his jar and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, staring calmly at the young black man. Jamail was used to being looked at this way, those old black men with their know it all attitudes, their disrespect for a proper player. But this old man didn't seem to have that fear in his eyes he was used to seeing in his victims, which often as not were old black men on social security or disability, whose checks he often stole from them. But this wasn't the hood, so Jamail didn't try to bitch slap him for looking at him that way.

Jamail stared at him with wild eyes as the old man simply lifted up his right arm and stared at his wrist watch, like he was expecting something about this time. "Don't be staring at some fool watch, old man, I'm right on time, if you's waiting on some dead dude to show up. What's gonna happen now? You taking me to the devil to pay up?"

"No, son," said the old man, "I'm just seeing how long we got before you get over life and start feeling your place. I remember how it was when I came over, all scared and confused, not knowing what was gonna happen. Won't be long now."

"How long we got? What the fuck you talking about, old man? We taking a bus or something? Hell, I figured I'd go STRAIGHT to hell when I got capped. Instead I'm out in the middle of nowhere with some crazy fuck talkin' nonsense. If THIS is hell I don' like it much."

It was about this time that the old man looked up from his watch and stared into the face of the younger man, albeit a dead one, as if seeking some realization due to occur. He was not disappointed, for a gradual but definite change in demeanor had occurred in that face. They both stared into each others eyes until the young man's eyes began to well with tears and he tore his gaze away, his hands suddenly grabbing about his chest as though some cosmic heart attack had suddenly inflicted him. And no, this was not some invisible satanic embrace the young man was suffering, but something far more horrible and effective.......he was experiencing truth, realization, and knowledge.

The old man, wanting very much to reach out and comfort him, could only watch as the young man dropped to his knees, his body wracked with sobbing, every ounce of sass and arrogance having drained from his soul as something much more powerful possessed him. He was suddenly aware that there was no hell awaiting him, no devil waiting to punish him for all eternity, no God to account to for all his sins. His punishment, for the moment, seemed much worse than all he had come to expect from what little dogma he had payed attention to as a child being forced to attend the First Shiloh Baptist Church. There was no hellfire and damnation here, no, there was accounting for his life by knowing what his life had been for and what he had done with it, as well as what he had done to others. Yet, the horror of his lesson was balanced by an overwhelming joy, which was all-encompassing and equally painful in a way that could not be explained in human terms. He lifted his tear stained face and looked back at the old man, and look of understanding transmitted between them, a smile coming to the lips of both, sharing in this knowledge both had found in different yet similar ways.

The old man finally rose to his feet, rather spry for his apparent age, for his body was nothing more than a representation of him as he last lived, and he walked over and took the young man by the arm and helped him to his feet. "Son, we've both.......we've ALL been through this scene so many times, and each time we go through it, it's like a new flame searing our souls, something we can never forget yet will never remember each time we go back and try again. I'm sorry you fell behind so badly this last time around, but we both know it's the only way we learn the way, don't we?"

The young man wiped off his face with an offered, if not actually real, handkerchief, and nodded his head. When all is revealed in such a brutal fashion as this, it makes a crack high seem like a bad joke by comparison. He stood on shaky legs, legs which were only figurative, for he now realized that he was much more than a collection of body parts, bad or good behaviors, with a name. He was in reality one powerful being, individual, yet a mere speck of existence in a grand collective of consciousness, all knowing all, no one a stranger to another. He was as much a part of the old man he'd been cussing at a few moments ago as he was his own self, and any ill will he had visited upon the man had only been reflected upon himself when the mirror of truth got in the way of his ignorance.

" Guess I got a harder road than hell to travel on this day, don't I, old man?" said the young man, a wistful smile upon his face as he went back with him to sit on the bench and enjoy the view. "Yes, Son, it's one hard road, but we been walkin' it for one long time now, and we got miles to go, so's we best be going now, we got some resting to do, some love to make with old flames, some parents to apologize to, and maybe a few good books to read we never made time for. At least we know that what we headin' for is one fine place to be, and worth every step it takes to get there. You ready to get going?"

"Yes, Sir, I showly am. And thank you for not laughin' at me being such a fool."

"Son, I never did, and I never will."