Severed at the Root

By J.F. Carr

Almost every female, in Jerry's life, represents pain and failure while almost all the males are mischievous and deceitful. With those types of influences, there's no wonder his life is a wreck. In fact, his own actions repulse him so much; he is forced to veer a life of shame to one of benevolence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481739351

J.F. Carr

J.F. Carr A man plagued with racial infamy, worsened by a lack of chemistry. An abundance of diverse talent, overshadowed by a lack of balance. A grain of sand with infi nite potential; the force behind it however; minuscule. The overachiever who goes unnoticed; admired by few and still - hopeless…

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© 2013 by J.F. Carr. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/16/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3936-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3935-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013906413

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

INTRODUCTION

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As an adult, in today’s world, I look at the majority of teenage males that walk around with sagging skinny jeans, braids, and skateboard shoes with disapproval. However, the truth is—it’s not their fault. We all have fallen victim to some sort of branding fad, at some point. In fact, every single action of ours is merely a re-representation of what we’ve seen or heard. Only exceptional people have the courage to pave their own lane from scratch. In the end, what is truly shameful is—when the images we see and the sounds we hear are of poor quality.

CHAPTER ONE

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Iused to think there were demons living inside of me. There were no demons, just memories. Those memories do, however, have a striking resemblance to demons. They are negative, ugly, and horrific. Echoes of a young boy screaming at the top of his lungs bounced off the walls of the long, hollow hallway of the Annie Malone children’s home one cold February in 1987. Don’t take my sisters, I want my sisters, rippled down the narrow foyer like a sonic boom as the full size tears hit the meticulously buffed white marble floors and shattered like glass during an automobile collision. I was forced to look at my own blurry reflection, in motion, as my mother dragged me down the hall, by one arm towards the exit, effectively wiping up my tears as they pour. I guess this was her rendition of cleaning as you go. When my mom opened the front doors of the building, I hopped up and got myself together right quick. I had endured enough pain already, I wasn’t about to take on the twelve concrete steps that followed. I stared out the back window of my mother’s turd green Chevy Impala like an inmate on a prison bus as the building grew smaller and smaller until it was no more. Momma, why would you leave them there, I asked. And she blankly replied, They asked for it. I felt numb inside as I silently looked at my mother noticing the luster of her large curly afro, her flawless pecan complexion, her chubby cheeks, and the powder blue eye shadow atop her glossy, slightly reddish tinted eyeballs in the rear view mirror. As beautiful as she was, I wondered if maybe one day, she would abandon me also.

With my sisters gone, it had become quite quiet and boring at 7010 Raymond. My father worked two jobs so, when he was actually home, he was either sleep, on his way out, or in between jobs when I would see him. His idea of affection was an occasional What’s up man followed by the ridiculous thing he used to do which consists of him placing his hand on the crown of my head and shaking me up. Messing up the shape of my mini fro was the only thing that accomplished. There was even less effort when it came to my mom. There were no terms of endearment or heartfelt greetings to accompany his arrivals and departures. Most times there was just silence. The silence would force me to think about my sisters and often bring me to tears. I could hear them saying, Momma treat you better than she treats us. We always get in trouble but, not her baby. That’s why you’re a spoiled brat. Even my dreams had become continuous replays of life prior. Like the story my youngest sister, Latoya, told me about a dog named Tina, we had when I was a baby. It was the week of Christmas and it was freezing cold with several inches of snow. Tina, our white and black streaked Shiatsu, was pregnant and had just given birth to five adorable puppies two days before. All was well for the first few days even though my mother would leave Tina and her puppies out in the doghouse all night. But, one particular night must have been too much for Tina to bear as she barked and crowed nonstop. Toya and my other sister Sharon knew Tina was struggling to keep the puppies warm. They begged my mother, Momma can we please bring in Tina and the puppies. Hell no, my mother replied, If she would’ve stayed her ass in the backyard, in the first place, she wouldn’t have this problem. Apparently, later that night, Tina’s cries became a burden for my mother so; she finally decided to let Tina in. However, she left the puppies outside, alone, in the cold. According to my sister, Tina laid by the back door moaning, quietly, all night long. The next morning my sisters went out back to check on the puppies only to discover them frozen to death. My mother noticed them outside and said, Since you all are so worried about the damn things, go ahead and bag them up and put them in the trash while you’re at it. Tina never made any attempt to go outside. It was like she already knew what had happened. Tina spent the following summer relentlessly attempting to escape. She would repeatedly back up to the tree she was chained to and run full speed towards the chain linked fence until the chain ran out, causing her entire body to be jerked and lifted in to the air. It was to point that there was a dead ended dirt trail, in the form of a straight line, from the tree to a few feet short of the fence. It was normal to find Tina all bloody around the collar. Nevertheless, Tina was eventually vindicated and the chain that she had stressed for so long snapped. My sisters were out front playing when Tina breezed by in a blaze of glory. So, the chase was on. Tina went west on Raymond, then south on Partridge. She passed Melrose, then Julian, then Plymouth and was irresponsive to my sisters’ calls. They yelled, Tina, stop! Tina come here! TINA! Just as Latoya passed Arcadia, it was over. As Tina crossed Olive Street, her mid section was flattened by a large pickup truck. She was twenty feet away from freedom with a portion of the broken chain still around her neck. Weeks of work and effort for a few minutes of freedom. Toya would always tell me stories. She told me everything like we were best friends. She would talk to me like she knew I was old enough to understand, contrary to what most people think about five year olds.

Over the course of a few weeks, I had grown accustomed to my sisters not being around. It wasn’t so bad after all. I could actually come home from a long day of blowing warm, wet spitballs at my friends and waiting for another opportunity to touch Jessica Thorpe’s booty, to a peaceful evening with full control of the television. Normally, I would have to miss both episodes of Thunder Cats, everyday, because my sisters had a two to one vote. So, I was tortured with a daily dose of The Young and the Restless. I made it my business to give them hell the whole time though. I would sing and beat-box, really loud, the whole time. It’s funny because they actually liked one of my songs or at least they made me sing it over and over again for some good laughs. The song was called I See the Light. I don’t remember the words anymore but the chorus went:

I see the light… (Long pause) I see the light… (Long pause) I see the light, at the end of the tunnel, and I think it’s the Lord… Oooo… Oooo… Ooooooo…

Yep, that was my first big hit.

Back then, there weren’t many kids my age on the block so, often times, after Thunder Cats went off, I would go outside, ride my big wheel, play with my Optimus Prime transformer, or my three foot Voltron replica. Our driveway was double wide with a steep decline, starting at the edge of the garage, and the farthest left half, of the driveway, wrapped around the side of the house to the back patio. So, I would get on that big wheel, start on the back patio, make a left, pedal full speed to the edge of the garage, and take my feet off the pedals. Just before entering the, low traffic, two way drive, I would try to catch the pedals. Most of the time, these steps would result in some of the coolest skids you ever saw. I would skid to the left, skid to the right, and, on some occasions, I even did a complete three sixty. I was a real big wheel stunt driver. On the flip side, no pun intended, I would over shoot a turn and flip over or the pedals would slip and I would crash full speed into the curb across the street. One slip too many and my big wheel was totaled, ending with a front wheel, split at the center, that looked like two plastic bowls on an axle. The two plastic rear tires were meatless but, at least my dad got his moneys’ worth. Optimus Prime was my hero. He and Voltron would always battle. However, Voltron was significantly larger than he was, so, he would always fly away and, conveniently, fly back once Voltron broke formation into five small lions. Whatever; in my world, Optimus Prime could fly. He would commence to thrashing the lions and then drive off. What better time to save on rocket fuel and burn diesel than after kicking five lions’ asses. That’s the type of stuff that pretty much kept me busy until my mother would holler, J.R!!! That was my nickname, short for Jerry Franklin Clemons Jr. The whole neighborhood knew it was time for me to come in and it was usually just before sundown.

My evenings were spent doing homework, followed by dinner, bathing, and finally bedtime. Once in bed, it wasn’t uncommon for me to hear the only conversation my parents would have. I guess they thought I was sleeping. But, it would start with my mother saying something like, It would be nice if you would bring your ass home. Then, my father would say something like, I’m here now and what are you doing? You’re bitching. Maybe, if you didn’t bitch so much, I would be here more. My mom’s response might include, You aren’t here because you’re out with them little tack head whores. These arguments would continue and ultimately guide me into a nightmare of true events. Like last summer when my dad came home early from work and my oldest sister had a boy in the basement. Sharon is 7 years older than me and we weren’t that close because, one way or another, I was always in the way of her life and her plans. The guy’s name was Derrick and he knew he had to take care of me and, in return, he would have peace during the visit and parental confidentiality. He knocked on the door with the rhythm of Grand Master Jay. It was like 1.2… . 1.2. I knew it was him but, I still asked, Who is it? He replied, It’s D. When I opened the door, there’s this high yellow, five foot seven, hazel eyed, wavy, close fade haired, 14 year old boy, with some burgundy Cross Colors jeans and a silk paisley shirt, looking like Al B. Sure Jr. He smelled like Brut, you know, the kind that used to come in the green plastic bottle that your dad only used as backup. He looked at me and asked, Is Sharon here? I looked at his black Nike backpack and asked, What you got for me? I got Zelda 3, Tecmo Bowl, and Contra, he said. I was like, That’s it? With a puzzled look on his face he said, I got some Red Hot Riplets and… some grape flavored drink. Well, he called it grape juice but, there were no grapes in that stuff, just sugar and purple #30. I put my right fist under my chin, with my index finger touching the right corner of my mouth, and gave him a look of dissatisfaction before saying, Throw in a dollar and she’s all yours. He quickly handed over all the goods and I yelled, Sharon, your boyfriend is here! This guy must have really liked my sister, that, or he was a sucker. But, the dude was alright with me. Once I realized what he was doing with my 12 year old sister; it felt like I was pimping her. Sharon walked in with her long, black hair that hung a few inches above her behind. She had on some stone washed Guess blue jeans, some blue and white Dope Man Nikes, and a tight blue tank that made everyone notice how much bigger her tits were compared to the average 12 year olds’. She looked like my mother’s younger twin and her lip gloss had her lips shining like she’d just ate a thigh from Church’s Chicken. So, they headed to the basement and I started hooking up D’s Nintendo in the sitting room. About three boards into Contra and halfway through the bag of Red Hot Riplets, I felt a major dump coming on. So, I headed to the restroom and once on the stool, I could hear Keith Sweat’s How Deep Is Your Love playing on the boom box in the basement. I could also hear my sister moaning, gently, like my mother used to do late at night sometimes. D was all like, Umh… . Umh… . Ooooo…. I guess they didn’t realize there was a vent right above them leading straight to the bathroom. Right around the part when Keith Sweat says, You may be young but, you’re ready, I heard the front door open, close, and the sound of keys being thrown on the dining room table. These sounds were all typical of my father’s post work entrance. When I heard the refrigerator door slam and the fizz and crack of a Stag Beer, I knew it was him. Obviously, he heard Keith Sweat bumping in the basement because, that’s where he went next. After two steps I heard Sharon say, J.R, you better not come down here. Three more steps and she said, Lil boy, I’m not playing with you, go back upstairs. Five more steps and my dad said, What the fuck is this? I assume he was talking to D when he said, Get your little ass out my house. Seconds later, I heard a scream from Sharon that sounded like she had a starring role in a horror movie. As sounds of leather and skin colliding accented the poop laden air, I woke up and realized I had shed a single tear. By then, the house was silent and I was up for a while still thinking about the series of events that followed. Poor D, he had to witness my sister’s beating before he was able to make his way upstairs. I mean, he had to have jumped three stairs at a time trying to get out of there because, I only heard four steps, a few screeches from the kitchen floor, and the air from the stopping mechanism on the front storm door. When I finally decided to exit the bathroom, I went straight to the sitting room and, to my surprise, D left his Nintendo. I guess pimping ain’t easy. Derrick never came back to get the Nintendo or to see my sister again. Latoya wasn’t home because she spent a few days sleeping over her best friend’s house but, when she came back the next day, Sharon told her the whole story. Not long after, Toya came to me to get my version and in return told me some things that I didn’t even know. According to Sharon, the only thing she was wearing, when my dad whipped her, was a pair of socks. She told Toya that my dad grabbed her by the ankle and held her upside down, in one hand, and beat her with the other as she dangled. Toya went on about how they both hated my dad. I eventually fell back to sleep.

I woke up on December 4th so excited because, for one, I had a half day at school, two, my birthday was quickly approaching, and three; it was Friday. My mother used to call me a gift from god because; he gave her half off my Christmas and birthdays gifts, considering my birthday is on the 20th. I made my twin bed with the royal blue Superman comforter that had the large S logo in the middle. I went in the bathroom, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and picked and shaped my mini fro. Back in my room, I slid into my gray fleece pants with the USA sweatshirt to match. I completed my look with my favorite sneakers, white and blue Wildcats. Then, I went to the kitchen and made me a bowl Pops cereal for breakfast. Afterwards, I went into the sitting room to catch the second half of the Smurfs and when the credits rolled, it was time for me to go outside and catch my bus. I put on my London Fog coat, which I hated, that my mom got from the Goodwill, grabbed my Superman backpack and I was off to school. There was no snow outside but it was quite cold. My ears felt like they had a million splinters in them and every time I would breathe in through my nose, it felt like there were cobwebs in my nostrils. My bus finally came, all loud and chaotic as usual. I always sat with my best friend, Kevin Townsend. We had the same teacher and we prided ourselves in giving her hell. Her name was Mrs. McKinney and she had a mustache and a goatee. We called her Mr. McKinney and threw pre fabricated paper balls at her when she was writing on the board. Otherwise, we would play pencil break when she wasn’t looking. We would go through a box of pencils in a day and as far as we were concerned, we were saving our parents money because; the end result was twice as many pencils. My mother asked me one time, How the hell you keep breaking all these pencils? I said, They cheap, you should buy me better ones. So, she brought me mechanical pencils thereafter; talk about a plan backfiring. One time, Mr. McKinney turned around just as Kevin was throwing a paper ball and it hit her, square, in the right eye. She grabbed her big red pencil, which was about 5/8 of an inch in diameter, and proceeded to approach Kevin’s desk. He hopped up and led her on a chase around the room, which was quite entertaining for the whole class. He faked left, faked right, slid under an empty desk and continued his outlandish display of disobedience. One fake too many and Mr. McKinney stuck that burgundy patent leather penny loafer out and tripped him. The whole class said, OOOOOOO. She stood him up and told him to hold out his left hand because he was right handed and she didn’t want to give him an excuse not to do his work. She took her pencil, using what looked like standard pencil break formation, and commenced to perform a knuckle shattering demonstration. She popped the four main knuckles, where the fingers begin and it sounded like walnuts dropping on a tile floor. Anyway, I greeted Kevin on the bus with our usual custom greeting that consisted of a hand smack, another hand smack on the black-hand side, and then shaping our hands like pistols pointed at one another and saying, Bang. We immediately started filling our backpacks with paper balls in preparation for, yet another, mischievous day. When we got to class, we were stunned because there was no Mr. McKinney, there was Mr. Roach. He was only the meanest substitute teacher ever. He always wore the same black suit and different solid color ties to class; regular teachers didn’t even dress up like that. His beard was trimmed but frisky like the branches of a juniper shrub. He had a shiny bald noggin with a three inch strip of nappy hair that wrapped around the side and back of his head like a wooden dance floor surrounded by shag carpet. His complexion was blue black and his right eye was cloudy like a severe thunderstorm was brewing in it. Mr. Roach made examples out of kids like Kevin and I. Everybody knew about the wooden paddle he kept in his briefcase. Word on the street was; if you clowned in his class, he would open a window and make you face it while grabbing the sill. Then, he would spank you several times with the paddle, forcing you to scream out the window, for other potential victims to hear. Seriously, we would be in class, and out of nowhere, we would hear some poor kid crying outside and we knew that was Mr. Roach. Needless to say, when school let out, we still had backpacks full of paper because Mr. Roach was smart enough to write everything, he needed to, on the board before class. There wasn’t one minute during the entire class that you weren’t in the eye of the storm. It was so boring; it seemed like a whole day of school. On the bus ride home, all my classmates that rode my bus were cracking jokes about Mr. Roach. Henry Logan said, It looks like his eye is in the socket backwards. Mark Bush followed with, I just want to lick my fingers and smack him in the top of his head. Tiffany Banks yelled, His hair looks like some burnt broccoli. We all started cracking up. When I got home, my mother was there already, as expected, because she would leave work early, at the Federal Records Building, whenever I had a half day. She was in the sitting room with some puffed cheese balls, in a paper towel, watching The Price is Right. I said, Hi, Momma. She responded, Hey, like she wished she had more time to herself. I went to my room, to put up my things, and moments later there was a knock at the door. I heard my mother head to the door and say, Who