Ghetto Bastard 2: The Ghetto Bastard Series, #2

By Russell Vann

The saga continues....

The words, "I love you" are echoed a million times a minute around the world, but what is love? Is it about a spiritual connection? Is love a form of infatuation? Are the words "I love you" a source of manipulation?

In Ghetto Bastard: Book 2, twenty-six-year-old Malik Russell continues to discover the negative impact of love as he knows it.

Society dictates that when a child is born, his mother automatically loves him. That she would protect and die for him--maternal love. But some mothers abuse their children, use them for financial gain, or even kill them. Some mothers neglect their children, like in Malik's case.

If a child is raised with the absence of real love in his life, how does he learn to give it? How can he recognize it?

The road to discovering self-love--the greatest love of all--is a rough one for kids who were raised by the ghetto; love can be as elusive as food, shelter, and clothing. Malik had love, he had a good job, he was making it. But infatuation, temptation, and manipulation got in the way of it all. With no foundation to fall back on, he gave up everything "for the girl." And now he is paying the price--he's alone, jobless, homeless, and hungry.

What will he do now?

Follow Malik on his solo journey to find true love, the love of God, the love of a good woman, and the love of family.

And find out if it will be enough to keep him alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russell Dynasty, LLC
• Release date: Sep 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393578529

Book preview

Ghetto

B A S T A R D

   2

                         a memoir

Russell Vann

Ghetto Bastard

Published by Russell Dynasty, LLC

Copyright © 2017 by Russell Vann. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9991540-1-4

Twitter: @Ghetto_Bastard

Facebook: www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100018804571379

Website: ghettobastard.com

Editing and Book Design: www.529Books.com

Editor: Lisa Cerasoli

Interior Design: Danielle Canfield

Cover: Claire Moore

In loving memory of Caroline (Nana) Russell and Julie (Ma) Sanchez.

Ghetto Bastard

BOOK 2

Note to the Readers

I was born in the South Bronx in the late sixties to a drug-addicted mother, who didn’t know who my father was, and into a world that didn’t want me. Growing up, I faced life or death situations every step of the way, it seemed. Not only have I struggled to overcome my own specters, but also those of my environment. I started to write these books as a form of therapy. In doing so, I realized that all the people around me, throughout my life, had been dealing with their own misfortunes. That’s when it hit me that I was writing my memoirs to convey that current situation neither determines nor defines final destination.

I’ve had to overcome many obstacles affiliated with living in the ghetto. Did I escape unscathed? No, but I’m stronger. And matters of the heart—that I’ve experienced because of the ghetto—have shaped me into the man I’ve become.

 I’m no longer in the ghetto, and while those experiences haven’t defined me, they haven’t left me, either. I am truly blessed to have my loving family’s support on this journey to become an author.

Regardless of where you come from or what you do, I hope my life story touches you. The threads of commonality that run through my memoir show that we all face similar struggles in life and must overcome much of the same troubles. Life and death battles don’t lurk around every corner, but fears and worries haunt us all; love and heartbreak can change our lives in a moment. Because of that, Ghetto Bastard tells everyone’s story.

P R O L O G U E

June 1, 1968

A pregnant seventeen-year-old Rosemary screams out, Momma, this is it. It’s time.

Marlene, Rosemary’s thirty-six-year-old mother, repeats her statement in the form of a question. This is it?

They look at each other and it registers: it’s time for the baby to drop. 

Marlene calls out to her live-in boyfriend, Pete, Rosemary’s going into labor. We’ve got to go!

Pete says he’ll get the car, knowing that it will take Marlene and Rosemary time to get from their fifth-story walk-up to the street.

Pete pulls as close to the building as possible. Still, they have to squeeze between two cars to get in. Jacobi Hospital, on Pelham Parkway in the North Bronx, would take some time to get to, so Pete races to the Bruckner Expressway heading north, and floors it, going 100 mph to the Bronx River Parkway. 

Thirty minutes later, they get off the Parkway near Jacobi Hospital. 

Peter drops Marlene and Rosemary off at the Emergency Room entrance, where Rosemary is scooped up by staff and placed in a wheelchair. 

The contractions are coming every five minutes. 

Rosemary is rushed into a delivery room, where she gives birth to a baby boy.

A short time later, Rosemary is recovering when a candy striper wheels the baby in. Marlene picks the baby up and holds him close. The candy striper starts to ask Rosemary various questions, helping her fill out the forms.

The baby’s name?

Malik Russell. 

Race?

Black.

Weight?

Six pounds, five ounces.

 The candy striper looks to Marlene. Okay. Let’s take his footprints.

They unwrap little Malik and press his feet in the ink and then onto the forms to get the prints.

The candy striper washes the ink off Malik’s feet, wraps him tight, and gives him back to his grandmother. She then turns to Rosemary. One last thing for the form. What’s the father’s name? 

Rosemary puts her head down. 

The candy striper recognizes the shame. Okay, she says.

Marlene looks at Rosemary. Don’t you even want to hold him?

He was her shame. He was her burden. He was a constant reminder of her promiscuity. Rosemary looked at her mother with contempt, knowing that she, too, felt shame—that of being a thirty-six-year-old grandmother, of being the mother of an unwed, teenage mother.

The candy striper leaves with the forms and approaches the nurses’ station, explaining the mother couldn’t provide the name of the father. 

The nurse responds, Oh, that’s just another Ghetto Bastard. There’s one born every day.

T W E N T Y - S I X  Y E A R S  L A T E R

O N E

True love is patient, kind, it does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud, it is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. It does not delight in evil but rejoices in truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, it always perseveres. True love never fails."

In life people often say that love is blind, but what is seldom mentioned is that it can be deaf and dumb, too.

Love goes through three phases. 

Phase one: Infatuation—two people meet. The novelty of a new relationship is more intoxicating than any drug. They spend hours talking, making love daily, and the whole world is seen through the proverbial rose-colored glasses.

Phase two: Reality—two people realize that this new, so-called love is not so original. They’re just like everyone else with insecurities, past grievances, and past resentments. They realize it will take work, hard work, to stay in love. In time, they either become closer or turn into bitter enemies.

Phase three: True love. Most people don’t make it this far. Sometimes just one person makes it to phase three.

Love is a wonderful thing when two people are in love, but when only one person is in love it’s a fool’s paradise. The one in love will do anything to please the one they love. No matter how many people tell you it’s a bad deal, it doesn’t smell right, it’s no good for you, Love will say, It’s alright. No matter how unjust a situation is, Love will always make you say, I forgive you.

But the thing to remember: True love only comes in pairs.

· · · · ·

My uncle met us at the gate. I was happy to see him, happy to start my new life, happy to build a life with my new woman. Y.E.C. and New York seemed like the distant past, whereas, this felt like déjà vu—I was full of so many high hopes and expectations, like the last time I came to Milwaukee. My uncle lived with his girlfriend and two kids. He didn’t believe in marriage. His kids were both boys, one ten years old, and a newborn about three months old. My uncle’s girlfriend, Michelle, was a heavyset, high yellow Black woman. Michelle was into all types of illegal activities, but her main operation was what they called boosting—a complicated term for stealing. Oh, and mindfucking—at that, she was a pro, the best of the best. When Jezebel and I walked into the house, Michelle and a couple of her relatives were there. They gave us a friendly greeting. Jezebel and I went to our room and unpacked, then joined the family in the living room. Michelle and her nieces, who were about twenty to twenty-five years of age, were going to some sort of concert and invited Jezebel along. I thought it was a good idea. I felt it would make Jezebel feel at home. While the girls were out, I babysat Mikey. Jezebel got home about 2:00 a.m., intoxicated. I didn’t mind—she seemed happy.

The next morning, Michelle took Jezebel and me to lunch, while my uncle was at the liquor store. She asked us what happened in D.C., and about what our plans were, and we said we wanted to get jobs and start working as soon as possible.

That afternoon, Ron, Michelle’s bother-in-law, came by the house. I asked him if he had any openings at his cleaning service, and he said yes. Jezebel was willing to work at the cleaning service, also, but someone had to watch Mikey.

Ron gave me a job as a janitor at Tombstone Pizza. Ron had a contract worth about $500,000 a year. The only messed up part about the job was that it was broken up during the day. The hours were from six a.m. to noon, and then from six to ten p.m. Ron would pick me at 4:30 a.m., and then pick up a couple other people so we could reach the destination by 6:00 a.m. Then, Ron would pick us up at noon to drop us off at our various locations, and then pick me up at 4:30 p.m. to arrive at Tombstone Pizza at six. Finally, he would pick us up at ten p.m. The next day, we’d start the whole thing all over again. Ron was paying me $8 an hour, so before taxes, I was making $400 a week. It wasn’t as much as Y.E.C., but I needed to start making money again.

While I was at work, Jezebel would hang out with Michelle and sometimes even watch her baby, while Michelle went on errands. They became close. They would go shopping together; they did this daily. I sat down and had a talk with Jezebel about spending so much money. I told her we needed to save to get our own place. I was letting Jezebel hold all our money so she would feel secure and not dependent on me but the shopping had to stop.

Michelle’s hold on Jezebel increased steadily. One day we were all in the kitchen when Ron told me that a guy he knew had an apartment ready for us. I was excited, but Jezebel spoke over me and said we would have to think about it.

Jezebel started to mimic Michelle’s behavior in that she became arrogant and patronizing. Michelle would tell Jezebel about Vivian, T, and Denise, and Jezebel would say, I’m the best thing that ever happened to you. I was in love with Jezebel. Even so, I knew the best thing that ever happened to me was Denise. Of course, I couldn’t say that to her.

We had been there less than a month and it was New Year’s. Jezebel cried on the phone with her family—she missed them. I asked Michelle to take me to a jeweler. I picked out a nice diamond and paid about $500 for it. I told Michelle I was going to propose.

She said yes.

Every night, after we made love, I would express my love to Jezebel. We’d talk about everything.

Jezebel, Michelle, and her nieces started hanging out every weekend; they’d be out all night, leaving me and Mikey. I started to express concern about this, but Jezebel wasn’t receptive. As she hung out with the girls, I maintained my habit of drinking every day. I was probably a straight-up alcoholic by now.

One night, Jezebel came home staggering drunk. She took her clothes off and got into the bed. I made advances toward her, and she was out of it, but not passed out. We had sex.

The next day, I went to work early, my regular routine. When I came home on break, Jezebel was standoffish. Later, when we were in our room alone, she said, I don’t remember having sex with you, and if you did have sex with me in that condition, I think it’s disgusting.

I was taken aback. To me, she was receptive toward my advances. We made love every night. It was our thing.

Jezebel replied, How could I have been responsive when I don’t remember anything? It was like you raped me.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Rape is a strong word. I know you were out of it, but I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I love you.

Jezebel said, Well, right now, you make me sick.

I left Jezebel alone and gave her some space.

I talked with my uncle about Jezebel’s sudden change of heart toward me.

My uncle said, It didn’t just begin today. Everything you and her have been talking about, she’s been telling Michelle. Say, did you show her some guns?

I had shown her the long rifles in the storage room.

He said, Well, Michelle said that Jezebel said that you showed her a .357 Magnum, and now she’s saying it’s missing.

 My heart was breaking as my uncle was telling me these things.

Ron picked me up for the second half of work. I couldn’t focus, but I plowed through.

Later in the week, the whole family was going out to see this comedian, Tommy Davidson, live at a club. My uncle had tickets for everyone. There were about fifteen of us altogether, and most were couples. Jezebel wouldn’t talk to me the whole night, and everyone knew what was going on, including her claims that I had raped her. Jezebel was acting like she wasn’t with me. There were some guys looking at her because they thought she was alone. I reached out, grabbed her by her coat, and pulled her toward me. Jezebel said, You’re pathetic. You make me sick. I can’t stand you, right in front of everyone.

My uncle took me away from the party.

While we were drinking at another bar, he said, Nephew, you don’t know anything about women. You think the more beautiful a woman is, the better she is. That’s not the case. You’ve only known Jezebel about three months, and here you are buying that bitch an engagement ring. And she’s putting all your business out in the street, making you look like a stupid muthafucker. And I bet you’d forgive her, wouldn’t you?

I said yes, that I loved her.

He said, Stupid muthafucker, and took a sip of his drink.

My uncle and I didn’t get back until about seven in the morning, and I was pretty drunk. When I opened the door to my bedroom, the bed was empty. I went upstairs and found Jezebel. She refused to come downstairs. My uncle, hearing us fight, came in. Hey, cut it out. Malik, go downstairs and sleep it off.

I listened to my uncle. I was drunk, but not drunk enough not to be embarrassed by what was happening to me.

The next day, I woke up thinking about everything. But I didn’t care. I wanted to forgive her. I had given up so much for her. I still loved her. She was so beautiful. I was going to make it work.

There was a knock on the bedroom door. It was Jezebel. She said, I’m leaving you. I’m going back to New York.

I was dumbfounded. Please don’t do this to me. What have I done to warrant this type of reaction? I never struck you. I never called you out. I love you! My pleas fell on deaf ears. Jezebel had made up her mind. Said she was leaving in two days.

I thought, I have two days to convince her to change her mind.

That night, I slept on the basement pullout sofa. The next morning, Ron picked me up for work.

      When I came home for the midday break, Jezebel was packing up her stuff, and again I pleaded with her not to go. When that didn’t work, I dropped to my knees and begged.

Then, Jezebel blurted out, She said I was going to leave you. She said you were going to go back to Vivian.

Who said? Who are you talking about?

The Santeria lady. Everything that has happened, she told me was going to happen, but I was scared to tell you. She said when it was all said and done, we would hate each other. You might not admit it to yourself right now because your pride is talking, but I know what kind of person you are. I watched you when you were working at Y.E.C. You’re vindictive and unforgiving, and no matter what you think or say right now, you will never forgive me for what went on here.

I told her she was wrong. I would never go back to Vivian. I loved her. I would forgive her. Just give me a chance. Please, please, don’t leave me like this. I asked her about the money she was holding—how much was left, and how were we going to split it.

Jezebel said, Well, you’re working, and soon the unemployment checks should be coming in, so I think I should keep what’s left so I won’t go to New York broke.

That didn’t answer how much was left, but I knew I had given her around $4,000 to hold.

That night, my uncle said, You better get that ring back.

I went to our room and Jezebel had a chair shoved under the doorknob so I couldn’t get in. I pushed the door in, breaking the doorknob. What the fuck is this shit?

Jezebel was hostile. I don’t want you anywhere near me. You either leave the room, or I’m going to a hotel tonight.

Well, I don’t have any money to live. Can I have my ring back, at least?

I’m not giving you your fucking ring, she said. I deserve it for what you put me through. And you want to know something else?

What?

You’re just like your mother. You even look like her.

Of all the venomous words that Jezebel had spouted in the past few days, those stung the worst.

Ron picked me up the next morning. I was in disarray. I can’t stay at that house anymore.

Ron said, Listen, my friend still has that apartment for you, and you could move in right away. It’s $425 with a $200 security deposit.

I told Ron that I didn’t have any money. Ron said he would lend me the money, and take $50 out of my check weekly until he was paid back.

Jezebel’s flight was at 2:00 p.m. that day. While riding around with Ron, I kept noticing the time. I kept hoping, after everything, that maybe she would change her mind. My mind was racing to the point that it felt like it was going to explode. I started to think about everything that had happened to me in six short weeks—all that I had lost with Y.E.C., my car being set on fire, how I damaged my relationship with Steve, how humiliating this situation was, how I had begged and pleaded for this woman not to leave me. I thought about how pathetic I must have looked as a man, discarding every drop of pride I had to keep this woman that was clearly not in my corner.

I was sitting in on a meeting with Ron and some staff members at a worksite. I looked at the clock on the wall: 2:00 p.m. I just started to break down right there. Tears were running down my face, and people were looking at me very bizarrely. I held an outright emotional outburst in until the meeting was over. Once inside Ron’s car, I just started bawling, crying uncontrollably. I looked away from Ron, toward the window in an attempt to hide my face, the shame of my actions consuming me.

I cried for about fifteen minutes, and Ron didn’t interrupt me. He let me have my moment. When I was done, tears were still running down my face.

Ron said, Malik, Malik, you got to hold it together, man. You’re losing it. You can’t lose it now, man.

I collected myself. I’m alright.

Ron said, Look, man, ain’t no bitch like that worth you losing your shit over. I know she was pretty, but man, you see what kind of bitch she was. She couldn’t be trusted. She didn’t have your back. She betrayed your trust on so many levels. Look at you! She took all your money. She took your pride, and here she is on a plane back to New York, and you’re sitting here, ass out.

I’m not just upset over Jezebel. I’m upset about everything that has happened. I’m upset about everything I lost. I used to sign people’s paychecks. I was on my way to starting a spinoff of my company in California. I was well-known and respected in my field. And now here I am without a dime to my name, alone, humiliated, and all over some pussy.

Ron drove me by my uncle’s house to pick up a couple things. There wasn’t anyone home. I asked Ron to drop me off at the house of the woman I was working with, Dotty.

Dotty was a single mother of two, about thirty-five. I knew that she smoked marijuana sometimes from the conversations we had while working together. I knocked on her door.

She opened it and said, Malik, you look terrible.

I told her I knew, and I got to the business at hand. I said, Dotty, do you think you can score me some weed tonight? I’m having a rough time, and I need something to relax me. Dotty told me to call her later and she should have it. She knew a guy that delivered.

Dotty’s house was within walking distance of my new apartment. I walked home and entered my new, spacious two-bedroom, apartment. I had no furniture and no stove. I left the apartment right away. The empty space was closing in on me, reminding me how alone I was. I called Dotty from a payphone, and she told me she had my marijuana. I walked back to her house.

I sat down with her for a few minutes and told her what had happened during the last couple days. Dotty had such empathy for me. She told me that the bag of marijuana was on her. She asked me if I had a radio, or if I needed anything. I told her I didn’t have anything but the clothes on my back. I didn’t even have a stove or a bed to sleep on.

Dotty offered me a small AM/FM radio, a thick blanket, a pillow, and a hotplate. I thanked her, and she gave me a ride home. I dropped the stuff off in the apartment, and walked to the store about a block away.