The 'Great' Kickin'dog: a family tree

By Sr. Kenneth Crutchfield

Ex musician, assembly line worker and alcoholic, John Coleman Sr. is a man with deferred and shattered dreams. Living in a Chicago housing project during the 60's he is a father raising his eight-member family; four girls, two musical prodigy boys and a mentally unstable wife, in a drug, gang and gun infe

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth Allen Crutchfield, Sr.
• Release date: Apr 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087945071

Sr. Kenneth Crutchfield

Kenneth Allen Crutchfield, Sr. was born on the south side of Chicago into a family of musicians. During his formative years he worked as a professional drummer in Chicago then traveled globally after finishing high school. He received a Bachelors degree from the University of Southern California and a Masters degree from Queens College (CUNY) in New York City, both in music. He has written several plays, The Great Kickin'dog, Balloon on a String and Lorna's L'Elegant Lounge; two musicals, All God's Saints Go To Heaven-Not and Bones Brothers Brothel. All were produced in New York City as well as nationally. Ken is also a writer of prose and pens poetry as well. The 'Great' Kickin'dog' is his first novel, loosely based on his family.

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CHAPTER 1

Lost and Find

"That’s not it. No, that’s not it. No, he says to himself as he runs through rows and rows of sixteen story buildings at Stateway Gardens Housing Projects on Chicago’s south side, where most residents are fatherless families living on ADC (Aid to Dependent Children). A precocious little boy, three-year-old Troy Coleman can reason and instinctively recognize his surroundings. He is a special child, whereas a three-year-old can wander through a dangerous housing complex on a hot and muggy Friday night in late June of 1961. With a head disproportionate to his smaller than average frame and midget-like freakish appearance, Troy is an enigma as he darts through a maze of drug dealing, gun-toting gang bangers in the middle of business transactions, commonplace to his surroundings. As he whizzes by, they say, Look at that lil’ boy’s head! Damn!"

The weather brings out the residents in droves, even at night. Children are taking advantage of their newfound freedom from school by playing on the monkey bars. Lovers embrace while listening to Motown hits like The Miracles Shop Around on the radio and winos are perched on the complex’s benches guzzling down White Port and Kool-Aid. Some nonthreatening residents are taking advantage of the fleeting months of hot weather in Chicago by drinking, drugging, partying, and more partying as they go about their daily lives of idleness, which brutal Chicago winters curtail but never stops. Along with all of the activities is the threat of deadly violence lurking in the atmosphere. One never knows when a scuffle may break out between two rageful youths and a shootout ensues, leaving the residents to scatter to avoid a stray bullet.

Earlier that afternoon, Troy had been shopping with his mother, Mary Coleman, and four sisters for summer clothes on Roosevelt Road; the west side of Chicago at a shopping area the Negroes derogatorily call Jew Town, where proprietors of Jewish descent peddle their merchandise at astronomically low prices. Even though quantity, rather than quality, has become their mantra, Jew Town is an area flooded with stores where one can buy almost anything at discount prices. Clothes, radios, televisions, musical equipment, furniture, and everything between. Swarms of customers dart from retailer to retailer hoping to find a great deal and they are rarely disappointed. Some patronize the area to indulge in a delicious, juicy, greasy polish sausage sandwich with condiments of relish, mustard, ketchup, grilled onions, pickles, hot peppers and thick-cut French fries. Nowhere in Chicago can one find such a delicious sandwich. The grills have years of just the right use and are tempered with grease that gives the sandwich its unique taste, although unhealthy.

Mary and the girls had been shopping longer than they intended. Their scheduled appointment at the beauty shop was quickly approaching and there was little time for them all to return home. The salon was no place for Troy. It was understood that he could not withstand several hours there, and Mary and the girls had no intention of haggling with him. The last time he visited the beauty shop with them, bordered on a disaster. Having to sit for hours with nothing to do but play with his toy car made Troy restless and extremely irritable. He was so annoying to them all, that his older sister Lucille was chosen by her mother to skip her press and curl to take him back home.

After shopping, they had all taken the State Street El train at Roosevelt Road, lugging their purchases of sandals, blouses, shorts and underwear. Once again, Lucille had been instructed by her mother Mary to get off at 35th Street to drop Troy off at the Field House (community center) where his father, John Coleman Sr., and brother, John Coleman Jr., performed with their Swing band, The Rhythm Aces, then to meet them at the beauty parlor.

The train had stopped at 35th street. Holding Troy’s hand, Lucille exited the train and stepped onto the platform. The doors closed, and the train pulled off; her mother and sisters remained on. They all waved through the window as the train continued down the tracks. Lucille walked down the stairs into the streets. The walk from the station to Stateway Gardens was not uneventful. There were the usual seedy and questionable characters, but this was nothing Lucille was not accustomed to.

She and Troy arrived at the Field House. It is a gymnasium turned into an auditorium with rows of folded chairs filled to the rim with people and a stage for the performers.  Immediately Troy’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree bulb. He witnessed the audience’s enthusiasm, but their fervor did not reflect the band’s ability, for The Rhythm Aces were mediocre at best, all except John Jr. This seven-year-old, skinny, wide nose, dark-complected with facial blotches, pigeon toe and bow-legged boy (suffering from eczema) is naturally talented. The crowd would welcome any entertainment just to break up the monotony. The quartet consisted of Big Ben, a tall man of massive size with large hands on bass, John Jr. and Sr. switching off on drums, Roosevelt, who is the spitting image of Woodrow Wilson, only in blackface, on guitar and John Sr.’s favorite, Count on piano. Count is a self-taught pianist whose alcoholic mother dropped him as an infant, leaving him a hunchback. His protruding stomach results from too much alcohol and fast living. His fair skin, carved nose, long face and curly hair affords him the ability to pass for white, but his allegiance is with that of the Negro race. John Sr. protects Count. Many nights, in the hazardous streets of Chicago, John Sr. saw Count home to his one room in a tenement building when he was sloppy drunk after a gig and that was every gig. Count is an alcoholic like his mother. Passed down from his mother to him, Count suffers the consequences of his mother’s excesses and thereby continues the calamitous legacy spending his life drowning in the sorrows of his lot in life. John Sr. and Count are kindred spirits, connected by a common thread of music and alcoholism. Like Count, John Sr.’s mother was also an alcoholic. He often said he had to pick her up from the gutter. She died in the early forties from a fall down a flight of stairs while drunk. Rumor has it, at the hands of her sister during a heated argument. She had just left the lounge where Johnny was performing. Having a heart for forgiveness, John Sr. and Mary lived with that very sister in that same house where his mother died when they were first married.

Only performing Swing music of the 40s, the band performed "Lady Be Good, by George and Ira Gershwin. John Sr, chest out and all smiles, was sitting next to his son while blurting out, Blow, blow, blow!" as seven-year-old John Jr. mastered the drums with mature capability unseen by anyone his age or any age for that matter. He was at home playing that style of music even at seven years old. Troy always enjoyed watching his father teach his brother in one of the bedrooms converted to a music room in the family’s small and crowded apartment. He loved listening to the loud sounds that the round shiny things made when his father and brother hit them with two long sticks and the boom sound that the round thing made when it was kicked. All this, he was drawn to innately, as though he were reincarnated and destined to be a drummer since becoming aware of himself. This excited Troy and was beyond the comprehension of a three-year-old.

After the end of the song and during the applause, Troy released his hand from his sister’s grip. All eyes were on him as he made his way through an aisle of folded chairs towards the stage. The audience of gang bangers, ADC moms, kids and drug dealers watched on in bewilderment as if to say, "Whose big head lil’ boy is that and why is he going up there to the stage?" John Sr. was taken aback to see his son there, let alone walking towards the stage. Searching through the audience, his eyes suddenly rested on Lucille standing in the back of the room. Thinking he was now with his father, Lucille walked out of the Field House to rejoin her mother and sisters at the beauty shop.

Not knowing what to expect, John Sr. helped his son onto the stage. Egg, how you get here? (Egg was the nickname he assigned to his big head son Troy) I can do that, said Troy to his father, as he approached the drums. The other musicians were amused as they responded in chorus, Let him play! John Jr. handed the sticks to Troy while dismounting the drum stool. Troy was only three years old and too small to sit on the drum stool even at its lowest adjustment. John Sr. pushed it aside so Troy’s little foot could reach the drum pedal. The anticipation of what would come next hung in the air. One could hear thoughts audibly saying, "Can this lil’ big head boy play? What he gon’ do?" Even John Sr. was thrown off guard.  He hadn’t noticed Troy as he focused all his attention on John Jr., his energies stored then hurled towards his firstborn. It would be at least a couple of years before he could begin teaching him. Besides, John Jr. was his firstborn son and namesake. He had a lot riding on him.

Seconds evolved into an eternity as Troy adjusted himself and held the sticks in a traditional grip emulated from his father and brother. The audience leaned forward in anticipation. This was a time that may eclipse, even for an instant, the daily lives of those in attendance. Count gazed intently at John Sr. and with a big hearty smile asked, What we gon’ play for lil’ man, Johnny? John Sr. shrugged. This was new to him too. Searching deep inside his mind, John Sr. could not find an instant that made him aware of Troy’s ambitions. He had ambitions of his own. He had dreamed of being a great jazz drummer like Max Roach or Art Blakey, but in its place was a wife, six kids and a day job as some part-time musicians called it. His ambition relegated to working the assembly line at International Harvester and a part-time security guard on occasional weekends to make ends meet. Occasionally he could be found drinking and "sitting-in at neighborhood jazz lounges, living vicariously through those musicians who had the guts to see it through even though their lonely lives left little to be desired, but most times he was grooming his firstborn son to be a great drummer. John Jr. was born after three girls. This was John Sr.’s consolation and his strength to continue. Now his dreams were John Jr.’s dreams whether he liked it or not. John Sr. was living vicariously through his son. He had missed the bus. HIS time had passed, but it was just beginning for his son. In John Jr, he had a second chance. He often reiterated to him, you gon’ be a drummer or you ain’t gon’ be nothing!" What was a child to do? John Jr. was trapped in an unsolicited cycle of subsistence. He was his father’s savior.

Suddenly, like a burst of energy held back until that precise moment, Troy, with no formal training-without ever touching a set of drums, lit into to them with precision well beyond his three-year existence and imitated his father and brother only he was better. John Sr. stood there, gaping, as he recognized the sound and touch of a seasoned drummer. He suddenly thought, I got two geniuses on my hands. The pride swelled up inside of him. His mouth curled into a smile that could fill the entire room.

Among the applause and cheers, Count suddenly called out to the band members, Cute! Then counted, A one, a two, a one two three four. After the count off, the band, ignited by the enthusiasm of the crowd, delved into the tune made famous by Count Basie. Troy was with them every step of the way. He had heard this before. After a while, Count called Lay out, lay out! to the band as they stopped, allowing Troy to take a solo. Troy’s instincts informed him it was his turn to shine. There were looks of amazement in the audience with comments like, That long head lil’ boy can play! Is he a midget? That ain’t no lil’ kid playin’ like that, that’s a man! No, he ain’t, I see him outside sometimes walkin’ with his big sister, were circulating throughout the crowd. During that evening, John Sr. realized that Troy was a true child prodigy, a freak of nature with a special gift from God. OOO, OOO, look at them hands go, he sounds like Buddy Rich!" said John Sr., as he gawked at Troy’s barely noticeable hands attacking the snare drum with single strokes resembling that of a machine gun in rapid fire. His wrists were well-oiled machines as they maneuvered fluidly from cymbal to cymbal in an orchestrated sound unlike bashing. The bass drum was well coordinated in syncopation with his hands. All this he accomplished while standing because he was too small to sit on the drum throne. This was truly rehearsed in the womb. Troy was a natural drummer.

Troy was the highlight of the evening. When the song finished, the crowd jumped to their feet. This was entertainment they rarely saw for free, a treat to pacify the growing tension of life in a Chicago Housing Project. John Sr. lifted his son and hugged him, saying, Great, great! The other musicians came over and shook his hand. Ms. Roper, the Field House coordinator, handed Troy an orange soda and donut. The attention frightened Troy. He was not used to people crowding around him. After a while, the excitement died down. Wearing his new pair of short pants, white T-shirt and new sandals, Troy was dressed nicely for the occasion. He sat next to his brother on stage, eating his donut and drinking his orange soda. John Sr. was now on the drums making ecstatic sounds while playing an old Blues number with the band. He loved music more than anything. He was at home on the drums. As usual, Count played those exciting piano riffs, a style that set the stage for R&B music.

Troy suddenly realized that his sister Lucille was not there. Even though his musical ability was far beyond his years, his emotional level was still that of a three-year-old. He wanted to go back home with his sister. He was now uncomfortable, and the novelty and excitement were over. The audience members’ character was not that of sophistication. Their attention span was short. They lived their lives moment to moment, never thinking of the future or if they had one. Already, they had forgotten about Troy. As the music played, not even his brother noticed as he left his seat; exiting out the front door in search of his sister to take him home.

It’s dark. Troy runs through the sparsely lit development of torn down lamp posts and broken lights from vandalism. "That’s the big round smoke thing," thinks Troy, "and the big square thing where the big boys play with a stick and a ball and lots of people come to see, he says to himself, "Sometimes the ball goes way over that big square thing and then flashy things come out in the sky," thinks Troy, recognizing the two landmarks from a distance. He always enjoyed watching smoke twirling out of the smokestack and the vibrant and colorful fireworks exploding into the sky after a grand slam at White Sox Park. The Stateway Gardens Housing Projects looms across the street from the stadium and IIT, The Illinois Institute of Technology.  Even though it was near those two eminent institutions, 35th Street was the dividing line between crime and sanity. All affronts took place within the project buildings and amongst their own. "White folks" were safe in that neighborhood if they were there to watch a game or attend IIT. Even if they ventured into the precarious projects, which would never happen, it would be a novelty for any resident to assault a "white boy" knowing the jail time might be in the double digits. The residents knew to stay inbounds. Chicago was segregated and unequal.

"That’s it," says Troy to himself, suddenly recognizing his building and scampering to the heavy door leading to the stairwell. He didn’t want to take the elevator. "Sometimes it don’t go up and you hear a loud noise and the doors don’t open and you stay there for a long, long time," thinking to himself. "Sometimes the man with big boots and a big raincoat and a big hat have to open the door with a long stick," thinks Troy. It was not unusual for the fire Department to make several rescues a month. Sometimes vandals would set off a false alarm, which happened often.

It takes all the strength he has as he tries opening the door. Just then, a couple engrossed in themselves and not paying attention exit, allowing Troy to enter the dark stairwell where the walls and stairs are made of concrete and the guardrails of steel. Again, vandalism robs the stairwell of its light. It’s dark and smells of urine. One could hardly see his hands in front of his face. There is a gap in the center between the parallel flights. From the top floor looking down the well like gap, one could see the guard rails descending in a rectangular fashion all the way to the basement and ascending when looking up from a lower floor, although it is very dangerous to do so. Sometimes one could see hands gripping the guard rails when ascending or descending the stairs. It is not uncommon for some malevolent person to impishly drop objects from the top or upper floor just for sport; void of any remorse of someone being seriously injured. If that happened, their response would be to snicker and go on about their day. Cans, bottles, liquids, anything one could imagine was dropped from the top floor, even people. Sometimes, someone urinated from the top floor hoping to catch some hapless chump looking to explore, but most residents understood this danger. It was always a clever idea to keep one’s hands and head away from the gap. Many non-kosher things go on there. Whatever one’s imagination imagines, it happened there. While holding on to the guard rail, Troy climbs the stairs until he instinctively feels he has arrived at the floor where he lives. After minutes of groping for the door handle, he finally finds it. With all the strength his little body could muster, Troy uses both hands to open the heavy door. After several tries, he succeeds. Wiping his hands on his T-shirt, Troy endeavors to remove the slime from someone spitting on the door handle. The night air cools his face and the stars are a welcomed fixture to this edifice of mayhem. His family’s’ apartment is on the 5th floor at the end of a long outside corridor, facing the stairwell door. On the left side are the other eleven apartments stretching from one side of the corridor to the other with the elevator inserted in the middle. On the right is a fence that covers the opening of the building from one side of the corridor to the other that reaches from the top to the bottom resembling a penitentiary preventing the residents from throwing objects over the fence and possibly landing on some innocent victim. Troy opens the screen door then knocks on the front door. No answer. He knocks again. Still no answer. No one is home. Feeling tired and sleepy, Troy lies down on the concrete floor outside the apartment and falls asleep.

***

It had been a long six hours and Mary and the girls are finally on the bus headed for home. From late afternoon to night, Mary and her girls had been at the beauty parlor for their bi-weekly press and curl appointment. She was accustomed to securing an appointment for her and her three daughters every other Friday to prepare for church on Sunday. Saturdays were out of the question, for that was the busiest and most hectic day of the week. On Saturdays, hordes of women cram into a small space of three beauticians, three chairs, two sinks and a bench for those waiting to get their hair washed or for a chair to become available for a press and curl. It was always over-crowded with women having their hair done, but Fridays were at least tolerable. The smell of cooked hair and grease permeated the air as beauticians worked the assembly line. One customer having her hair washed, while another sat under the dryer awaiting her turn to have Royal Crown hair grease applied to her scalp and having a comb withdrawn from a cylinder-like oven and combed through her coarse hair, making a sizzling sound as the hair is smoothed out. It is fried, dyed and laid to the side, as the saying goes.

With warnings of a jealous hand echoing in her mind, Mary Coleman came to understand the importance of a trustworthy hairdresser. She had heard horror stories of women losing their long hair to envious beauticians who, despite numerous attempts of oils and vitamin E applications, could not secure hair growth beyond ear length. Having found such a trustworthy beautician, Mary was secure in trusting Izaiah, her hairdresser for over 15 years with her and her daughters’ hair care. She always had pride in her appearance and after six children, Mary was still an attractive woman looking much younger than her 36 years. With light skin, an oval-shaped face, high cheekbones, beautiful thick eyebrows, shapely legs and long black hair, she grew to believe the myth of her grandmother being part American Indian. When her wide lips stretch to a smile, and that is not often, her dimples show. Having been endowed with such beauty, Mary found herself to be the subject of envy from other girls her age and therefore kept to herself. Her daughters are also attractive. Brenda the oldest at 13, is pencil thin, with short, coarse hair just right for her thin face and a dark-brown skin color inherited from her father. Her tooth is cracked from a broom falling on her mouth while twirling it during one of her imaginary performances. Brenda fancies herself somewhat of an acrobat. Lucille, 12, has a round face and pudgy nose. She inherited her thick beautiful eyebrows and light skin texture from her mother. Her hair is long and beautiful. Her piercing brown eyes denote that of insolence, and her medium build epitomizes strength. Loti, 10 is the middle child, but with her height, bulky frame and sagacity, she is mistaken to be the oldest. Her beautiful thick eyebrows are also derived from her mother, and her wide nose is the spitting image of her father. Her complexion is that of her mother’s, and her wide face and full lips are framed with beautiful medium length hair. Debra, six, is also pencil thin like her big sister Brenda. Her long and beautiful face is framed with braided pigtails and accented with a protruding forehead and carved nose. Her skin tone is light brown and her skin tone is smooth and silky. Debra is tall for her age and her appearance resembles the preliminary stage of a model.

Not being old enough to get her hair straightened, Debra doesn’t like going to the beauty parlor. Sometimes she would tell her friends it was "very borin’ sittin’ around listenin’ to old ladies talk and waitin’ for her sisters to get their hair fixed. It would be alright if other kids was there to play with." The three older girls were more in league with their mother, even more so Loti, the middle child. To them, Mary had the Wisdom of Solomon.  She thought of her kids as the three little ones and the three big ones.  Debra was part of the three little ones along with her brothers John Jr. and Troy.

Mary Williams came from a poor yet proud family of nine, her parents, four brothers, two sisters and she, who lived in a poor section of Birmingham, Alabama. The family’s’ complacency stemmed from Mary’s father, Gene Williams Sr., who may have inherited it from his ancestors back in Africa, possibly a noble tribe. Even though Gene Sr. had an image of self-confidence, circumstances of being a Negro in America, growing up during the 1920s prevented him from achieving any status other than a laborer. This inflated sense of self-worth would follow Mary throughout her life. Mary’s father worked in the coal mines and died at 45 from the black lung, leaving Amanda, Mary’s mother, to care for a family of eight with a monthly social security check hardly enough to buy food. Mary’s two older brothers carried groceries, shined shoes and did whatever odd job available to earn money to buy shoes and clothing. Mary often recalls being terrified when her father’s wake was held in their house, his body having to remain in the living room overnight. In the segregated south during the 40s, there were no black funeral homes nor money for embalming.

The Williams clan was highly sensitive with a hair-trigger temper and a callous streak a mile long that ran through the entire family except for the father, who was an even-tempered man, although a womanizer. It was rumored he fathered a child while married to Amanda, who was often surly even before her husband’s infidelity. Mary and her siblings endured beatings with switches or electric cords from their mother on their naked bodies when she was cross. Mary’s oldest brother Fred was often called Devil by the children in the neighborhood. His reputation landed him few altercations, but when necessary, his opponents were in all actuality victims of his rage. Fury seemed to reside in all the Williams siblings. Mary once bit a cat for scratching her and her older sister Inell pulled a girl’s hair out for talking to a boy she fancied, but Sundays found the William’s family in church, which to them, was the cornerstone of the Negro existence and the platform for the forgiveness of sin.

Chicago is just a dangerous town in some areas with stabbings and shootings being commonplace. The Negroes there are southern, mostly from Mississippi, bringing the southern drawl or Negro dialect along with them. It’s been years since Mary first came to Chicago after finishing High School to help her sister Inell with her newborn baby. This was Mary’s fourth niece and Inell, who was mentally unstable, needed help. Even though Mary would later learn that mental illness runs in her family, how could Inell not be stressed having a husband like Pete, who was a heroin addict and run-of-the-mill musician with high hopes of getting great that brandished low marks as a father? The children were basically raising themselves with the twelve-year-old taking care of her younger siblings.

Inell and Pete migrated to Chicago from Alabama with hope and a dream. It was the Jazz capitol of the world and beginning in the twenties, Jazz inherited the scene from New Orleans. There was a lot of music in the 50s there for skilled musicians. Great musicians like Louis Armstrong, Baby Dodds and Earl Hines were Pete’s inspiration, but that scene was not opened to him and John Sr. Pete was a run-of-the-mill musician hoping to get great playing his saxophone in the Jazz Lounges of Chicago’s south side. Johnny and Pete worked in a band together in those Lounges, which is how Mary and Johnny met.

Not making enough money to feed a family, Pete would later decide to rob a Bank with a few fellow musicians. He did not include John Sr., fearing he would disclose their intentions to Mary. They were all caught and sent to the penitentiary. The strain of Pete’s arrest and conviction tilted the scale, bringing an already unstable mental state in Inell to a complete mental breakdown. Chicago proved too much for her, prompting her to move back to Alabama with the children. Later she would be admitted to a mental hospital.

Mary had not only come to take care of the children but also to take care of Inell, but things quickly changed when she met Johnny. She intended to allow herself to go to the lounge once to hear Pete perform while the children stayed home alone. She thought it would do her and Inell some good. One beer with Johnny, which Mary forced down, turned into a dating routine of jazz lounges and dates at the movies. Having both lost one of their parents, Johnny’s mother and Mary’s father, their dating provided them both a shoulder to cry on. Their chance meeting was not the love affair of the decade, but an "at the right place at the right time" union of convenience that produced Brenda, their first child and subsequently a trip to the Justice of the Peace.

Not coming from a strong and confident family of means but from one of emotional and mental deficiency, Mary felt she had few choices and lacked confidence herself. Fearing becoming an old maid, she settled. Johnny was not Mary’s ideal man. He was short with a large head, broad shoulders and wide nose. He sported a mustache and goatee, which signified he was a serious Jazz musician and he always wore suits with pleated pants, crisp white shirts and ties, wearing those same suits in later years. Somewhat shallow during his younger freelance musician days, Johnny thought Mary to be eye candy. Having her draped on his arm provided him with the appearance of success, which he desperately needed. He was a musician with a fine woman. Now in his early forties, John Sr. feels that life has dealt him an unscrupulous hand in that it has blocked his success and his plans are now in disarray and has taken him off course. Now, after years of feeling insecure because of a space between his two front teeth, John Sr. finally had it filled with gold. His protruding stomach gives the appearance of complacency, but his emotions are in internal disarray in which alcohol provides a temporary solution.

Mary and the girls sit at the front of the bus in the long parallel seat behind the bus driver, watching the paying riders deposit their bus tokens then travel holding the upper railing to their chosen seat. Several loud conversations ensue, a radio plays and some individual sits at the very back drinking from a paper bag. The pungent odor of liquor and urine permeates the air. At some stops, youngsters and adults sneak on from the back door without paying a fare while the bus driver focuses straight ahead to avoid confrontations. With no air conditioning, the bus is hot and muggy, which makes for, even more, a perilous situation to escalate into a violent outburst at any given moment. This, Mary is used to, having lived in the projects for many years, she has taken the 35th Street bus many times. She has a strong constitution, more common sense than formal knowledge. Mary is a volatile but a God-fearing woman who believes that "If you treat peoples right, you ain’t got nothin’ to worry ‘bout, God’ll take care of you." This is her motto and she sometimes lives by it.

Because it is such a sweltering day, Mary hopes she and the girl’s hair don’t "sweat out. That man so crazy ‘bout that music! He know he should ‘a picked us up from that beauty parlor!" thinks Mary. "Now if my hair sweat out before church Sunday, I’m gon’ be so mad I don’t know what to do!" Mary notices that her stop approaches. She yanks on the cable above her head. The bell alerts the bus driver to stop at the next bus stop. Ya’ll come on now, calls Mary to the girls sharply. Thinking about John Sr. not picking her and the girls up from the beauty parlor irritates Mary. The older girls crowed near the bus driver, just above the steps holding on to the handlebar waiting for the bus to arrive at their stop. Mary holds Debra’s hand. She and the girls struggle to keep their balance as the bus thrusts forward then jerks back, arriving at their stop. Mary grimaces then glares at the bus driver. The automatic doors unfold, and they carefully descend the steps. The diesel fumes hover in the air as the bus pulls off into the perilous night. Mary and the girls enter the grounds of Stateway Garden’s Housing Projects. A small group of youngsters approaches, The Colemans stank! yell the juvenile delinquents insolently while snickering and turning to watch Mary and the girls continue walking. "These low-class peoples ain’t worth my time!" thinks Mary, continuing. Those juveniles were infatuated by the beauty of the Coleman girls and knew there was no chance in living out their fantasies. In their minds, the Coleman girls were saditty, snobbish, a step above anyone else in the projects. They were sheltered by Mary and conditioned to be prudent and had great cause to be. Stateway Gardens is a threatening place with pugnacious residents always on edge, ready to fight when someone stares at them too long. Like the Israelites in the land of Goshen, Mary endeavored to separate her family from the perils of the projects. Unbeknownst to John Sr., Mary had been saving from the weekly allowance he gave her for groceries and bills. The savings account had grown, but Mary didn’t feel confident enough to move into a house in a better neighborhood. She was afraid to launch out into the deep. Though she feared God, Mary had not reached the level of a faith-filled Christian. She didn’t know what it was like to live by faith. It was only something the pastor preached about on Sundays but was not a part of the fabric of who she was. So, she rested on her nest egg, folded in her comfort zone believing grass is not greener on the other side.

John Sr. was one of few fathers at Stateway Gardens who remained with his family. The running joke around the complex was that ADC meant "After Dad Cut-Out. When drunk, John Sr. often boasted about remaining and taking care of his family. You ain’t gon’ never catch my family taking no food stamps to no supermarket, not if I can help it!" he would habitually proclaim. In fact, anyone from the Coleman family would be embarrassed to do so, but the Colemans’ haughtiness does not match their socio-economic standing. John Sr. is the sole provider of a family of eight and money is scant, to say the least. He declares his mantra at every opportunity and lets it be known that Mary ain’t never hit a lick at a snake! and to that, her refrain is always, I gotta’ take care of the children! Mary’s inflated sense of self-worth is only external, creating a larger than life persona while her inner turmoil cries insecurity. She considers herself to be only a housewife and secure with that ambition. The polarization takes hold and cements the battle between Mary and John Sr. She is limited in ambition and he is overzealous with aspirations, lacking the confidence to realize his dream and therefore blames Mary for his shortcomings.

Several people come to the elevator but become impatient and leave. Mothers with small children, young boys making noises, it’s a plethora of movement. Loti presses the elevator button. What’s takin’ so long! says Lucille with a surge of emotion, violently pressing the same button. Stop that child! shouts Mary, slapping her hand away from the button, we just gon’ have to wait! The ringing of the emergency bell signals that perpetrators are once again holding the elevators hostage for sport. Let’s walk up, Mama, says Brenda, they playin’ with the elevators again. We can’t walk up those dark stairs, Brenda, anything can happen! wails Lucille, pressing the button again. Mary, now impatient with Lucille, bites the base of her hand between the thumb and pinky finger in frustration, a habit she acquired as a little girl when angry and then retorts, I’m gon’ slap your face! Didn’t I tell you to stop pressin’ that button?! "I don’t know why this child give me so much trouble, thinks Mary, the pollution musta’ gotten to her." Brenda and Loti stand on the side next to one another. Brenda glances at Loti. Her eyes shifting from Mary to Lucille, being careful not to comment, afraid of what uproar it would cause. Even though she was the middle child, Loti was the self-appointed leader of her siblings and Mary’s confidant. Sometimes called the General, Loti came to know all the family secrets when she became of age. She protected Brenda, the oldest but least mature of all the siblings and attempted to keep order among them during Mary’s absence. Even at an early age, Debra, proving to be more gregarious than the other girls, possibly because of the age differences, was disconnected from her sisters. Lucille was the most troubling of the six children. Frequent outbursts and slamming of doors conditioned the family to treat Lucille delicately, which was not always successful. It was even necessary to have Lucille evaluated by a psychiatrist who once asked her if she heard voices or had conversations with Jesus Christ.

Where that lil’ big head boy of yours go, Johnny? said Count, slurring his words, resting his hand on John Sr.’s shoulder. He went back with Lucy, responds John Sr. in a gregarious tone while he and John Jr. disassemble the drum set. John Jr. recognizes this tone. He notices his father’s ring and baby finger curling upwards in a twisted fashion, which is always a signal he had a drink. Even his young mind realizes that John Sr.’s condition could only get worse as time passes and his desire for drinking would be inexorable, especially having his best friend with him. Count pulls up a chair and sits watching father and son put away the drum hardware into the trap case. It suddenly occurs to John Jr. that his father, Count and Big Ben disappeared for what seems like an eternity earlier that evening. That’s where it began. It was during one of their breaks that only Roosevelt remained practicing difficult jazz riffs with much zeal on his unplugged guitar, attempting to execute the notes perfectly but repeating mistakes while making frustrating hums of protest. John Jr. sat in a chair near the stage, uncomfortable, watching the people socialize, unable to move, stuck to the chair in a shroud of ineptness. It would be one of many occurrences during his life as a musician with his father that fear, anger and embarrassment would be fused together in memories of times passed. You got another one on your hand there, Kickindog, says Big Ben, his large hands carefully covering his bass with his soft vinyl case, then methodically positioning it across the stage on its side as if laying down an infant. That lil’ egg head boy of yours sound like Gene Krupa! I ain’t know you was teachin’ both of ‘em! Kickindog was John Sr.’s nickname given to him by Count as a way of paying homage to him for having such a good foot on the bass drum. Over the years, Count relied on John Sr.’s foot to encourage his playing, paired with alcohol. John Sr. produces a smile like a Cheshire cat, showing his gold fillings, howls, then bellows, You know he ain’t never touch a set of drums until today! Jolted, Big Ben looks as if he was hit with a ton of bricks, you lyin’ man! With the alcohol giving way to lucidity, for a moment, John Sr. categorically understands the gravity of this moment in his life. Like Mary, the mother of Christ was selected by God to give birth to Jesus, he and Mary were selected by God, for whatever reason only He knows, to be the vessels of Troy’s carnation here on earth. John didn’t understand why, only that he was far from perfect.

Returning from having packed his amp and guitar away in his car, Roosevelt reenters the Field House as if on an important mission, walks with a purpose to John Sr. and with a grimace, mutters, and They take care you yet, Johnny? Then, in an instant, John Sr. is jolted back to reality under the influence of the spirits he consumed earlier and comes to himself.  Got almighty NO! I forgot to get the check from Ms. Roper! A check?! retorts Roosevelt, shaking his head. I thought we was getting’ paid cash! Me too, replies Big Ben, tilting his head to the side, ready to listen to John Sr.’s excuse. Looking around, John Sr. notices the janitor folding the chairs getting ready to close. You seen Ms. Roper?! growled John Sr. Everybody gone, says the janitor in a nonchalant manner and as he continues putting away the chairs coarsely adds, Ya’ll got to get outta’ here. I’m ‘bout to close. John Sr. frowns, Well, I’ll be doggone, exclaims John Sr., his ego having been bruised, "after wailing or entertainin’ the crowd! thinks John Sr., How can that guy treat us like that?!" Because he is in the first stage of being tipsy, it seems to John Sr. he is watching himself on the big screen playing out a scene in a movie. This mild state of euphoria helps to mitigate a tense situation from getting out of control. "I see you still ain’t handlin’ your business Johnny, recounts Roosevelt, removing his round frame glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief. I was countin’ on that money today, says Big Ben, standing in protest, his big frame towering over the others. Hey, hey, what a minute fella, says Count, raising from his chair coming to John Sr.’s rescue to disarm the situation, Johnny good for it. Ain’t ya’ll always got paid? Yeah, after waitin’ forever, retorts Big Ben. John Jr. sits on one of the drum cases periodically shifting and adjusting himself, waiting to help load those heavy drums into the car, an activity he always loathes. He doesn’t like hearing those men talk mean to his father. I gotta get the check from Ms. Roper baby, John Sr.’s voice is slurring. It is unclear when he took his last drink. Normally he keeps the bottle of wine under the seat of his car. He transferred it to his back pocket while on break. John Sr. is now in stage 2 of inebriation. Let me get outta’ here before they steal my stuff, man, says Roosevelt impatiently, thinking, He let that alcohol rule him. Throwing inhibitions to the wind, having grown confidence through the bottle, John Sr. gives Roosevelt a big bear hug and with a chuckle, says, You wailed Jim, this cat sound like Charlie Christian! Yeah, he got a lil’ Charlie Christian in him, echoes Count and Big Ben. Roosevelt’s tepidness goes unrecognized and is implausible by the other musicians. Having spent a year in music school, he considers himself superior to John Sr. and the others, but in all actuality, he could not survive in any truly professional band. He is a Rhythm Ace whether he likes it or not and the others feel blessed to have him on board. Call me when you get paid, says Roosevelt, with pursed lips, as he unfolds himself from John Sr.’s hold, I’ll see ya’ll later, and with that, he is out the door. Come on now, I gotta’ close up, says the janitor, keys clattering, having put away the last chair. We better go Dog, says Big Ben, lifting his bass. Let me know when you get the check, as he scuffles with his bass out the door. Come on, Dog, I’ll help you and Big Bill, says Count, grabbing a small drum. John Sr. was in the habit of giving his children nicknames and Big Bill was the one he chose for his son John Jr. It was never known why he named him Big Bill only that the name stuck and seem to fit. Okay, Count," says John Sr., stacking the other drums on top of the trap case, rolling them out the door. The janitor shuts and locks the door as Count, John Jr. and Sr. take the drums to the car.

The stairwell is dark and menacing. Mama, when we gon’ move outta’ her!? Lucille ‘s comment aggravates Mary, When you get you a job, retorts Mary, climbing the stairs holding Debra’s hand. Brenda and Loti climb in silence. Loud noises and laughter suddenly manifests coming from the top floor advancing towards them. Mama,  let’s hurry up. That might be Edward Lloyd and them, says Brenda, taking a couple of steps at a time. Brenda, stop worryin’ ‘bout Edward Lloyd, he ain’t gon’ do nothin’ to us, don’t you believe in Jesus? Lucille was always impatient with Brenda. The whimpering and fearfulness did not befit the oldest sibling, which irritated Lucille to no end. "How come the oldest act so much like a baby? thinks Lucille. She get on my nerves!" As the noise gets closer, Brenda darts up the stairs as fast as she could go, reaching the 5th-floor landing and through the door to the corridor. Unlike the other sisters, Debra is not afraid. She is content with life in the projects. It is not uncommon for children to develop their personalities by age 5, and at six years of age, Debra likely will not change. She is satisfied playing with the other children in the projects and, therefore, not put off by any aggressive behavior. For some reason, she feels a kindred spirit with those who live there and not intimidated by the stairwell. Loti, calm, in control, always the self-appointed anchor of all the siblings, climbs the stairwell unaffected. Lord have mercy, cries Mary, that child scared of everything. Arriving on the 5th floor, Loti reaches for the handle and opens the door. A patch of moonlight shines through the stairwell as Mary, Lucille and Debra file through the stairwell door leading to the corridor. Edward Lloyd and others, bounding down the stairs, come upon Mary and the girls entering the corridor. The Colemans stank, bellows Edward, continuing down the stairs laughing menacingly, beating on the walls and spitting indiscriminately. Edward Lloyd was a battle scared Disciples gang member who was also attracted to the Coleman girls. John Sr. had threatened he and other gang members while intoxicated saying, If any one of ya’ll touch or bother any one of my family, I’m gon’ get me a gun and shoot and kill every last one of you!" God knows they could have shot John Sr. first, but for some reason, they left he and his family alone, other than being taunted, the Coleman family was never physically harmed.

Brenda stands by the apartment door, visibly shaken from the ordeal. These projects somethin’ else, Mama, we gotta’ get outta’ here, says Brenda, her voice trembling. He just playin’ Brenda. Don’t be scared, Debra holds her hand and strokes her back. We ain’t got no money to move child, your daddy the only one workin’!" Mary unlocks the door to the apartment. She has grown weary of defending her stance on remaining in the projects. Yes, it was possible for her to work, but a block of traditionalism