Читать книгу Two The Hard Way - Travis Hunter - Страница 10

I ran toward the corner where I normally caught the bus and was stopped dead in my tracks by that brand-new fence.

I gotta get used to that thing, I thought.

I could see the MARTA bus making its way toward me, and if I walked around the fence, then I was sure to miss it, so I had to jump it. I couldn’t get any traction in my slippery dress shoes, and the bus was steadily barreling toward me. I reached up and grabbed the top of the fence to pull myself over it.

Ouch!

The pointed side of the fence stuck me in the hand, drawing blood. I almost fell back down, but I made it across. I grimaced in pain, held my bloody hand with my good one, and ran to the bus stop. The big vehicle came to a halt and I got on, showed my bus pass to the driver, and plopped down in the front seat. I looked down at my hand and saw that the bleeding wasn’t so bad. It was just a flesh cut, but it still could use a little attention. I leaned over and asked the driver if he had anything for my hand. He looked back and nodded toward a first-aid kit hanging by the token collector.

“Do I just get it myself?”

“You want me to stop the bus and get it?” he asked sarcastically as he whipped the big steering wheel around and turned onto Highway 78, headed toward downtown Decatur.

“I didn’t want to assume,” I said, standing up and retrieving the kit. I opened it and grabbed some gauze and a mini bottle of peroxide. After cleaning and wrapping my hand, I closed the kit and put it back where I’d found it. “Thanks, man,” I said.

“That ain’t your throwing hand, is it?” the driver asked. He was a funny-looking man. Gray hair with a bald spot showing a shiny dome, but the funny thing was he had a ponytail covered with colorful rubber bands.

“Nah,” I said, surprised that the man knew who I was.

“Y’all looked good the other night. Just ain’t got no defense. You did your job, but who in the hell y’all got back there playing cornerback?”

I smiled, then laughed. My man Amir was the culprit.

“That boy couldn’t catch a cold in Alaska if all he had on was tighty whities and a fedora. What in the world was y’all coach thinking about when he put that joker in the game?”

I laughed at the visual. “We’re working on him,” I said.

“Four passes landed in his hands and what did he do? Dropped all four of them. I mean, come on, man. Put him on the bench with some Krazy Glue on his butt. That boy is a disgrace to the game.”

“He’s fast, so we need the speed,” I said, still laughing at the old man and his high-pitched New Orleans accent. “And our starter was suspended for failing some classes.”

“Speed? Well, he needs to use that speed to hurry up and find somewhere to sit his butt down. Maybe he should take up badminton, swimming, or something, but I swear football ain’t his thing.”

“I hear ya,” I said.

“You know where you going to college at yet?”

“Not yet. Still tryna figure it out,” I said, still amazed that so many people were concerned about my choice of college.

“Let me give you a piece of advice, son. Leave. Too many distractions around here for you. Young folks round here shooting each other just ’cause they mad. In my day, a good fistfight was good enough to settle a problem, but not these days. Youngins these days can’t fight. Scared to take a beat-down. Would rather shoot somebody and go to prison than deal with a lil embarrassment. Signs that the end is near.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “This is my stop right here.”

He pushed the brakes, and the bus squeaked to a halt. “Boy, I’ll tell you, Fred Flintstone got better brakes than this doggone bus,” he said.

“It was nice talking to you, my man,” I said, standing up and waiting on the five or six people who sat behind me to exit the bus.

“You too. Keep your head on straight and you’ll make something out of yourself,” he said. “And always be your own man. Be selfish with your life. It’s your life. You ain’t gotta try to impress nobody. Remember that,” he said before extending his hand to me.

“I appreciate it,” I said, shaking his hand.

“You know I’m happy to hear that you don’t talk like them lil ignorant bastards passing themselves off as teenagers these days. ‘Yaknowwhati’msayingshawtyfolk.’ I’m like ‘no, what are you saying? and I ain’t short. I’m six feet three inches tall.’ I’m glad you can talk like you got some sense in your head.”

“Thanks, my man. You take care,” I said with a chuckle.

I got off the bus right in front of the Art Institute of Atlanta and ran across East Ponce de Leon to a tall high-rise building where Kwame’s lawyer had her office. I walked into the building and headed over to the information desk in the center of the lobby. I asked the receptionist to ring the lawyer’s phone, but before she could punch in a number, I saw the tall, well-dressed black woman rushing past me.

“Hey! Mrs. Ross,” I called out.

Yolanda Ross exemplified class and poise. I don’t know where my brother found her, but I was glad he did. She looked to be in her early thirties, but the most striking thing about her was how beautiful she could be without any hair on her head. She stopped and turned my way. She smiled at me with those perfectly white teeth.

“Hey, Romeo. How are you doing?” she said.

“Am I late?”

“Late for what?” she asked with a frown on her face.

“I thought we had a meeting today.”

“No. But I’m meeting with your brother today. As a matter of fact, that’s where I’m headed now.”

“What’s going on?”

“The parole hearing is today,” she said, moving steadily toward the door. “Did you forget?”

“I thought that was tomorrow. I guess I got everything mixed up.”

“It’s okay. You’re more than welcome to ride with me if you like, but we have to leave right now,” she said, tapping a diamond-studded watch.

My heart started racing. I hustled over and followed her out the big glass doors. A driver held the door of a Lincoln Town Car, and I climbed in the backseat after her. The driver closed the door and we were off to the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary.

“So what do you think is gonna happen?” I asked the minute we were in our seat belts.

“Hard to say. Things can be a little unpredictable at these parole hearings. Sometimes it seems that the state is more interested in keeping bodies in the cages than actually rehabilitating them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Prisons are big businesses, Romeo. The inmates work all day for twelve cents an hour. That’s not even a fraction of minimum wage. So if a company wants to make a big profit on its product, they go to the prisons so they can cut down on their labor cost. Why do you think they are building prisons right and left and won’t invest one brick in a new college? Let that be a lesson to you. Trouble is easy to find and hard to get out of. And the reason it’s hard to get out of is because your body is a valuable asset to the government.”

My heart stopped racing and fell out on the floor.

“In other words, you don’t think my brother is coming home.”

“I didn’t say that, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high. Parole is a tough task, especially on the first go-round. But let’s stay positive and prayerful,” she said as she opened her briefcase and removed some papers. “I have some other things in line for Kwame if this doesn’t work out. His appeal is still in the works.”

The winds were taken from beneath my sails, and I was quiet for the rest of the trip. Mrs. Ross tapped my leg and mouthed the words don’t worry before she stuck her cell phone up to her ear and chatted away with someone at the prison. I turned and stared out the window, closing my eyes and saying a silent prayer for my brother’s return.