The Invincible Alex Xavier

By Che Parker

The first in a three-part series, Alex Xavier is a vivid and intense coming-of-age story set in Kansas City in 1989. Narrated by a 12-year-old boy, Alex Xavier depicts the life of an inner city family struggling to make it. The young narrator, astute and creative, longs to be a superhero, and he discovers that his street art may be his family's way out of the ghetto. After experiencing success as an artist, he realizes that the other side may not be greener. He decides that superheroes come in all shapes and sizes, and fighting to make his neighborhood a better place becomes his mission. And he'll stop at nothing to fight for what's right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Che Parker
• Release date: Oct 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311906250

Che Parker

Che Parker is the author of two novels (The Tragic Flaw and The Precious Life, Strebor Books/Simon & Schuster). He works in public relations and lives in Alexandria, VA.

Book preview

The invincible

Alex Xavier

By Che Parker

Copyright 2015 Che Parker

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my son, Che Anthony Parker. May you grow up and become a real superhero.

Acknowledgment

To Juanita Freeman, the original Black Swan, rest in peace.

Like some kind of thief, the sun came pourin’ through the bed sheets we had coverin’ the windows, robbin’ me of sleep. The birds was chirpin’, like they was a havin’ a real good conversation. All that fuss, along with the sunny day, made me want to go outside. Momma was already awake, on the couch watchin’ a program about cookin’. She was in her same spot, where the couch was sunk in from her weight. The old lady on the TV program was old and hunch-backed. Outside the window I could see tree branches movin’, like they was dancin’ to some music I couldn’t hear, and the shadows of the leaves rocked back and forth on the window sill. Grandma was sleepin’ on her bed. Every so often she would snore and the sound would rip through the room like a chainsaw.

It was hot. School for the year had been done for about a week. Just that soon it felt like it was going to be a crazy summer. Some man named Ollie had got in big trouble for selling weapons to Arabs, and American troops was heading to Panama. Fighting for drugs or somethin’. The hot weather got people feelin’ anxious. Rousin’ they spirit, as the old folks would say. Usually it wasn’t that hot this early in the summer, but that’s what it was. Had people already talkin’ about and wishin’ for cooler temperatures. We live on the third floor of a house in the ghetto. It’s a big house. Would be big if one family lived in it. But other people live on the other two floors.

When you come up the stairs, which are in the back of Mrs. Johnson’s house, the owner, and you open the door, you can pretty much see the whole place. To the left is the bathroom with the magnifyin' mirror. Straight ahead is the livin’ room, which is also the dinin’ room. To the left, a little past the bathroom, is the kitchen, where Momma frys everything that ain’t tied down.

To the right of the livin’ room is my little corner. I have a few comic books over there and a pad, a pencil and a few colored pencils that I draw with. Momma sleeps on the sofa in the livin’ room. Straight ahead is Grandma’s room, although it’s not really a room. It’s more like a corner, just like mine. It’s separated from the livin’ room with a bed sheet with faded yellow flowers on it. Faded like us.

There was a fan in the window blowin’ cool air. I stood in front of it. Blades turned and the constant breeze cooled my face. It was like angels was flappin' they wings. So cool. I leaned in closer and hummed. The wind chopped the sound. I was a robot liked the cool breeze.

And there on that bed is where she sat. Her gray hair wrapped in a dingy scarf, her lips and cheeks kinda sucked in from all the years of smokin’ she’s done, a real angry look permanently drawn on her face. If a word woulda been written on her face, it woulda said Mean. Angry, mean, old lady. Her thin nose always bunched up like she smelled somethin’ bad. She tapped on the box of Moore’s cigarettes with her hand then pulled one of the long brown smokes out. Her fingers was wrinkled and boney. She used them to search her breast pocket for a lighter or some matches. I sat on the floor near her feet, at first watchin’ her, then watchin’ the dust floatin’ around the room in the sunlight. Every once in a while the light from the window would be filled up with the little pieces driftin’ through the air, little pieces of somethin’ that had no idea where they was. They was lucky for that reason. I knew where I was. Outside I could hear my friends runnin’ and playin’ and enjoyin’ the first week of summer vacation. I wished I could be out there with them. Playin’ catch or tag or throwin’ rocks at trees or street signs. But I was stuck in the house. It was too hot out, and ‘cause of the ear infections that I always got. Grandma eventually found her matches and lit the cigarette. There was a constant stink of mothballs in the air. Don’t know why she used ‘em. Didn’t have anything to protect. I bet the moths were offended.

I don’t know if you know this, my Grandmother said as she blew out some smoke, but I told your momma not to have you. Now I ain’t usually one for killin’ babies; I was always taught that the Lord put them there for a reason, that the Lord don’t make no mistakes. She coughed. But with you, I don’t know. I think the day your black soul was conceived, the good Lord must’ve been preoccupied.

She thumped her ashes into a Coke can. They hissed when they hit the liquid at the bottom.

Trust me, she said. Ain’t no bad people in heaven.

I wondered why my Grandmother was so mean. Momma knew it. All my friends knew it. That’s why they never wanted to come by. She always said crazy things. I always thought that maybe she was just like the Grinch, and had a heart that was two sizes too small. No. Her words, when you mixed it with the smoke and all the dust in the air, was like some type of scary movie. Alfred Hitchblock, and I was looking at her through a Window.

I was in my corner readin’ comic books. I guess somewhere inside me, I always wanted to be a superhero. Someone with special powers. One of the men with super strength or cool weapons. Someone who could fly or jump over buildin’s or talk to animals. The ones I liked the most was the mutants. It was like they was blessed and cursed with their special abilities. Bein’ a boy born in the ghetto would never stop a superhero. If I had powers, I could leave this place. Some of them was blessed with super fast speed, telepathic abilities, makin’ them able to move things with their minds. I really liked the mutants’ leader, Dr. Xavier. They all called him Professor X. I would imagine that I was special like them. There were other comics I liked. Others that I enjoyed. Most of them was Marvel, but I had a few DC comics. If I had my choice, I mean, if it was up to me, I would become somethin’ like the X-Men. Yeah. If it were my choice, I would be someone who was more than me. Someone with powers. I would become the invincible Alex Xavier.

But I was no superhero the week after school let out.

Where’d you get the barbed wire? my grandmother asked me later that day. She stared at me, her bony shoulders pokin’ through her blue robe. That shit ain’t just growin’ on trees.

I don’t know.

Fuck you mean? You don’t know?

I guess…

"You guess what?

I found it.

Found it where?

Outside.

Outside?

Yes. In the back, I said. A roly poly happened by near my foot. Its six or so legs moved in rhythm. I flicked at it. The gray bug quickly curled into a ball. I watched it. Where did it come from? Where was it goin’? Did it have a family? Did it have a soul?

I mashed it with my thumb and ground him into the carpet.

My grandmother didn’t notice.

Whose cat was it? The Joneses’? I know they had a load of kittens a couple weeks back.

I don’t know.

You don’t know? Puttin’ barbed wire ‘round a damn cat. Nigga, don’t lie to me. Where did you find that goddamn cat? Her voice hurt my ears.

I don’t know, I said. It just walked by. I don’t know whose cat it was.

It just walked by? Poor dumb ass animal. I guess if the motherfucka’ had any instincts whatsoever it woulda’ high tailed it as far away from your sick mind as possible.

I looked away. There was a moment of silence. The little dust planets in the room floated about. I had wished I was on one of them – livin’ a life without grandmothers and mothers and cats who wished to walk by.

So you didn’t know whose cat it was? And you just decided…what? Boy, look at me when I’m talkin’ to you!

I jumped. Her eyes was wide. She had real dark eyes and it was like they was lookin’ right through me.

And you just decided what, exactly?

I don’t know.

Boy, don’t tell me you don’t know! Me and ya’ momma seen the goddamn cat on Tuesdee. All mangled. Mrs. Johnson showed it to us. She said it had to be you. Wasn’t no one else around. Could barely tell it was a cat at all. What the fuck is goin’ on in that dark brain of yours?

She took a long pull. Her cigarette lit up like a firefly. She blew out the smoke. She shook her head. Licked her lips. She reached with her left hand for her Coke can, this one she was actually drinkin’. She lifted it, gave it a little shake, and then put it down.

We all outta’ pop. Go get me some cold water.

I got up and grabbed the old jelly jar she kept in the freezer. It had a pattern of leaves etched into the glass. I turned and filled her glass from the tap. A red bird, think it was a cardinal, landed outside our windowsill and started chirpin’. I looked at it and it flew away. I shut off the faucet and before I turned to face my grandmother I spat in her glass, swirlin’ it around to pop the bubbles. I turned toward her. She was nearly lost in the cloud of smoke she’d kept creatin’, a fire breathin’ dragon, and I was in her lair, trapped. I’d wished my spit was magic, a potion to knock her out. And when she awoke, I’d be long gone, living a piece of dust that filled our air. I brought the glass to her and she quickly drank it down without leavin’ a drop. The dragon had taken the bait. I sat kinda hopin’ to see a reaction. But there was nothin’.

Boy, make no mistake, keep this shit up and when you die you gonna burn in hell like a goddamn candle, my grandmother said. Like a wick lit at both ends. Only difference is, little niggas like you ain’t consumed by hell’s fire. No, sir. Shit just gonna burn yo’ ass till Kingdom come.

I could hear a boy laughin’ outside. I think it was Demetrius. He had a real deep laugh, like an old man at a weddin’. He was goin’ into the ninth grade, a year older than me, and he was taller and heavier than all the other kids on the block. I’d wished I was outside playin’ with him and the other boys. My grandmother musta knew what I was thinkin’.

You ain’t goin’ outside today, you little bastard, she said. Her words grated like a garbage disposal. What? So you can play with those kids?

My eyes returned to the floor. I tried to find the roly poly I mashed into the carpet but I couldn’t. It was now a gray stain lost in a sea of dirty brown fabric.

Callin’ those kids animals would do shame to animals. Dirty mouth-breathin’ bastards. All those damn kids breathe with their mouths.

She took one last puff before rubbin’ out the cigarette and tossin’ the butt in the can. Heathens is what they are.

She stared at me.

You sure do look pitiful. On second thought, go on outside and play. I ain’t tryin’ to look at that sour face all day.

I hopped up and ran for the door. She screamed at me.

And boy, don’t you be repeatin’ anything I say you. You hear me?

I stopped in my tracks.

Yes, ma’am.

I mean that, little nigga. Don’t be spreadin’ our business out in them streets.

I nodded again. The sun was lowerin’ outside. Cicadas was makin’ a fuss.

Okay. Go on. Get the fuck out.

I ran out. I ran down the stairs. If only I had super powers. I could have flown away.

A few minutes later I was in the backyard, sittin’ Indian style in the grass. It was still damp from the downpour the day before, and the bugs was crawlin’ and slitherin’ about. Inside Momma was back from the store, fryin’ somethin’. I could smell the grease comin’ out the windows. I bet the whole house smelled like grease, not just our apartment on the third floor. Momma was a big woman, and she was always fryin’ somethin’. Either she was asleep, at work, or fryin’ somethin’. She slept alot, like it was her only form of escape. She would sleep for hours. When she wasn’t fryin’ somethin’, she could be found nappin’ on the couch. Sort of a surrender to the day. Grandma said there was very little fight left in her, with her sugar disease and all. Plus she didn’t have a man.

I looked up from the bugs and the grass and saw Mrs. Johnson standin’ on the porch eatin’ sunflower seeds. She turned and walked back in the house. Mrs. Johnson lived alone on the first and biggest floor. She owned the house. For some reason her eatin’ those salty seeds made me thirsty. I wanted some water. I looked up at our apartment on the third floor. I didn’t feel like walkin’ up those flights of stairs and bein’ hit by the smell of hot grease. I stood up and went and knocked on Mrs. Johnson’s door. She opened it and invited me in.

She smelled like baby powder mixed with a peach that was a couple days overripe. Her place was nice. Real nice. Little lace things, little circles, covered her tables and the arms of her couch. Wasn't no dust on the furniture or on the floor. She had a dish on a table with big puffy mints in it, and another dish with walnuts and a shell cracker. I wondered who could be over there crackin’ walnuts ‘cause she never had visitors.

I suppose you coulda' went upstairs, but this here was closer. She rubbed under her titty. I tried not to look. You didn't have to climb them flights.

I nodded. Seemed like her water was better, fresher and colder. I guessed it was probably the same, though. She had a stuffed black dog on an end table in the corner of the livin’ room. From the time I took my first sip of that delicious water, until the last drop, I could not take my eyes off that dead dog that wasn’t livin' in the livin' room. Mrs. Johnson musta noticed my curiosity 'cause she spoke to it.

That was Mista Snuffles. Strangest dog. He always, well, had the snuffles. Hell, it was so bad didn't know what else to call him. Coulda been Spot or somethin’ obvious like that on account his hands and feet got spots, but that woulda been too borin’ for me.

I stared at him a bit more then worked up my nerve.

He dead, right? She chuckled. Of course he dead, child. If he wasn't he woulda been all over you, markin' you wit his scent.

I guzzled down the rest of the water. I didn't know what markin' his scent meant, but I knew I didn't like it.

How'd he die? I gave Mrs. Johnson the glass.

Oh, he got into some old rat poison. Damnedest thing. This fool was supposed to get after them rats and got his own self killed. In the military they call that friendly fire."

I nodded.

You wan' another drink?

No ma'am.

Well, then, let's head back on outside. We headed out and I took another look at the stuffed dog, dead in the corner of the livin’ room.

When we got outside, the bright sunlight made us both squinch. I was still curious about one thing, and Mrs. Johnson was friendly enough so I decided to ask.

That dog, Mr. Sniggles...

Mr. Snuffles, she corrected.

Yeah, since he was black and all, you know, is that like a black cat? I mean, was he bad luck?

Mrs. Johnson paused for a moment and looked up at the clouds. She gently rested her hands on her wide hips. She leaned in closer to me, and then closer still, like a whisper was 'bout to come out her mouth and the breath was gon' warm my ear. She was a tall women so her creepin' toward my ear seemed to take a long time. When she finally got close enough, she said Child, some things is bad luck. From what I seen, it's more people than things that are bad luck. In fact, they could be right next to us. A wolf in wolf's clothin'.

She stood up; her movement was faster this time. I tried to think about what she said but wasn't nothin’ special or grand comin' to mind.

What you know about your grandmother? She asked. I shook my head.

What you mean? I asked. She took a few steps on the wooden floorboards to the edge of the porch, and the worn-out wood that was once painted navy blue but now was a baby blue creaked with each heavy step.

There's stories about her. Plenty of stories. For me, you know, long as I've lived I done seen and heard it all. One story, though, one about your grandmother, she sighed, that one takes the cake.

She turned and looked at my eyes and they musta been big as dinner plates, bigger than when I was starin’ at that dead stuffed animal.

You want to hear this story?

I nodded so fast I heard a small bone pop in my neck. She sighed.

Next time, she said. Next time.

And she walked back in the house, tweakin' those floorboards, and she closed and locked the door behind her.

Terry almost died in a car accident. It was real dark and cloudy outside. Terry’s my friend. They said the driver couldn’t see. Our street ain’t got no street lights. No stop signs, neither. The accident sounded like one of those machines that crush old cars at the junkyard, chompin’ down on glass and metal. What came before that was a high-pitch screech, like a woman screamin’. Probably was the tires. I don’t know. You could smell the gasoline fumes leakin’ from the tank,