Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned Read online

  He led her to the door and whispered, “Don’t worry. The kinda luck I got he prob’ly be home ’fore you are.”

  Corina listed forward and then stopped, then she swayed forward again and kept going until her full lips were at the corner of Socrates’ mouth. The kiss was a testament that she had heard his words; she wasn’t afraid of how he felt.

  {2.}

  He watched her go through the tiny garden and into the alley that ran past his gate. She half turned to catch a glimpse of him as she went.

  A sideways look and half a kiss, Socrates thought. Maybe if I wait another twenty years I might get a hug too.

  He went back into his kitchen feeling exhausted, the way he did on weekdays after taking the bus home from work. He sat down, took a deep breath, and then said, “You could come on out, Howard.”

  Howard Shakur came out of Socrates’ sleeping room. The look on his fat face would have scared most men, but Socrates didn’t care.

  “You gonna fight me, boy?” the ex-con asked simply. “’Cause if you are I hope you got some insurance for them babies.”

  “What the hell you mean by lettin’ her in here an’ talkin’ to her like you did?”

  “You want some whiskey, Howard?” Socrates gestured a tired hand toward the cabinet under his sink. “There’s some whiskey down under there.”

  Howard squatted down and came out with a fifth of PM whiskey. He stood up making a fat man’s grunt and took two glasses from the shelf.

  “What the hell you mean by tellin’ Corina all that shit?” Howard said as he settled into the chair his wife had been sitting in.

  “I ain’t said nuthin’ t’her that I didn’t say to you a hour ago. I told you you was a fool.” Socrates took a short swig of the cheap whiskey and grimaced.

  “But it was the way you was talkin’, man. You tryin’ t’get over on my woman?”

  “You damn right I was. What you think, Howard? A woman look like she do an’ she gonna go out an’ bust a gut workin’ fulltime. That stuff is just like gold.”

  “That’s my wife you talkin’ ’bout, man,” Howard Shakur said. He downed his glass and poured another.

  “No it ain’t.” Socrates shook his head and put his glass down. “Uh-uh.”

  “What you mean she ain’t mines? Whose wife is she if she ain’t mines?”

  With speed that Socrates rarely showed he snapped forward and caught Howard by the wrist.

  “Ow!” Howard shouted. He tried to pull away but the older man’s grip was too strong for him.

  “Let me tell you sumpin’, boy. Long as you out here, away from that girl, she belong to whoever she want. Ain’t no man gonna say, ‘Naw, I better stay ’way ’cause Howard might decide to come back one day.’ Fuck that! Woman like Corrie make a man boil.” Socrates pushed Howard back so hard that he flew over backwards in his chair.

  Howard jumped to his feet, ready to fight. Socrates rose to meet him. His blood was hot. He wanted to do something strong. If it wasn’t with that girl at least he could break Howard’s jaw.

  But Howard hadn’t had quite enough whiskey to be a fool. He snorted but that was the most of it.

  “I thought you was my friend,” Howard said.

  “You ain’t got no friends when it come to a woman like Corrie, Howard. That’s what I was tryin’ t’tell you ’fore she got here. That’s a woman you got there, man. She ain’t no dog. She ain’t no car for you to park somewhere and walk off on. She’s a woman an’ she needs her a man. Now she prefer that man to be you; at least right now. But you know I will be over there day after tomorrah. I will. Then you could be free and I could be happy.”

  “That ain’t right, brother.” Howard shook his head. “Ain’t right at all. I come here an’ tell you my problem an’ then you gonna run out after my old lady.”

  “You said you don’t want her. Ain’t that what you said?”

  “I said that I couldn’t live up there no more. She always doggin’ me.” Howard set his chair up and sat back down. He poured more whiskey and glowered at the tabletop.

  “You see,” Socrates said. He held his hand against his chest. “I don’t mind that kinda doggin’. I don’t mind a woman tellin’ me when I’m wrong. She wanna kick my ass an’ then kiss my lip … shit, you know I be the first one on line.”

  “But she’s my wife,” Howard said.

  “Then get yo’ ass home an’ act like it.”

  “You cain’t tell me what to do,” Howard growled. “I go home when I want to.”

  “If you still got a home t’go to.”

  They drank the bottle clear. Howard had more whiskey but Socrates felt its effect too. He muttered, “If you cain’t show a fool the door then you gots t’show’im the floor.”

  “What you say?” Howard asked angrily.

  “Fuck you,” Socrates said.

  “I’ma get on outta here,” Howard said, but he made no move to lift his bulk from the chair.

  “Howard,” Socrates said. “You ever think about Corina fuckin’ some other brother?”

  The younger man glowered but stayed quiet.

  “You know,” Socrates continued. “Some little dude. Him gruntin’ an’ twistin’ ’round like some goddam snake. An’ here’s you wife just singin’ out his name an’ smilin’ like she’s seein’ Jesus.”

  Howard opened his mouth—to get more breath.

  “You know that ain’t too bad.” Socrates held the empty bottle upside down over his glass. After a moment he realized that there were no more drops coming. “Naw, not too bad. ’Cause you gonna find you some other girl to sing for you. An’ you gonna believe that that new girl got a better song. But you might not be thinkin’ ’bout what happen after that skinny boy get up offa Corina. He gonna go get one’a your old undershirts an’ wipe hisself off, an’ then he gonna go in the other room and yo’ kids, Winnie an’ li’l Howard, gonna jump up sayin’, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’”

  Socrates sat back. When his hand left the table the bottle fell and shattered on the floor. Both men looked at the broken glass.

  “But you got it better’n me, Howard. You got it better’n me. ’Cause even if you a fool at least you got a woman who had your babies. Even if you a fool an’ never see them kids again—at least you had’em.”

  Howard fell forward out of his chair. He went down on one knee and then stood up grunting.

  Socrates heard him go but didn’t see him leave. His eyes were wandering across that tabletop, looking at the walnut finish of the paper glued to the cardboard sheet.

  {3.}

  Socrates Fortlow, a convicted murderer who was released (on his birthday) after twenty-seven years in prison, washed up using the water out of his kitchen sink. He splashed on cologne from a sample bottle that he’d bought off a man selling odds and ends from a blanket on the street. He wore black jeans and a drab green turtleneck shirt. In the pockets of his army jacket he had five Hershey bars with almonds and a Mexican-made sterling silver ring inlaid with blue stones. He’d bought the ring from the man who’d sold him the cologne.

  Socrates walked eleven long blocks to Howard and Corina Shakur’s little stucco house on 121st Street. He hadn’t heard from either one of them in a few days. But that was no surprise. Socrates didn’t have a phone, Howard was probably still mad at him, and Corina had a family to take care of.

  There was a plastic tricycle lying on the tiny porch. The screen was shut but the door beyond it was open. Socrates felt his heart pumping. He waited a second and then knocked on the aluminum frame.

  “Momma!” Winnie shouted from somewhere inside. “The do’!”

  Corina looked good in her orange housedress. When she saw Socrates a smile filled her soft features. She opened her mouth to say something. Socrates hoped that it would be an invitation but instead she called out, “Howard. Howard, Socrates is here.”

  She unlatched the screen and ushered him in. He sat down on a spindly sofa couch that had thin pine legs. Winnie was playing with a doll on the floor and
little Howard was digging a finger in his nose and gaping at the powerful newcomer.

  Howard came out of the kitchen and Socrates rose to meet him.

  “Hey,” Howard said and they shook hands.

  “Hey, how you doin’?” Socrates replied. “I just come by to see how you folks is.”

  “We’re fine now, Mr. Fortlow,” Corina said. She was beaming at Socrates.

  “Yeah,” Howard said. “Got me a job at Pronto Pizza.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. They just lost an assistant manager an’ wit’ my experience wit’ the city they hired me on probation. Only pay six twenty-five a hour right now, but it could go up to eight eighty-five in six months if I work out.” All the time he spoke, Howard watched Socrates distrustfully.

  “Sit’ own,” Corina said. Howard took the chair facing the couch and Corina ran into the kitchen to bring out a kitchen chair. She was smiling and happy.

  “What shift they got you on?” Socrates asked as he settled back down.

  “Three to eleven. But I could get days if I get seniority. I could be a manager if it works out.”

  “That’s really good, Howard.” Socrates meant the words but he could only whisper them.

  “When Howard come home I told him what you said, Mr. Fortlow.” Corina smiled. “I told him I could get a man to work two jobs for me.” She reached out to hold Howard’s hand.

  “Yeah,” Socrates said. “Howard ain’t no fool. No sir. Winnie?”

  “Yeah?” the little girl answered. She was sitting in the corner talking to her black baby doll.

  “You want some chocolate?”

  The girl whirled around and looked at her mother. Corina nodded and the girl did too. When Socrates took the Hershey bar from his jacket, little Howard started whining and holding his hands up over his head.

  “Caddy! Caddy!” the baby cried.

  “Share wit’ your brother now,” Howard said.

  “’Kay, Daddy.”

  They visited for a while and then Socrates rose. Corina told him that they were going to have a dinner the following Sunday with their parents and that he should come too.

  “You like my father, Socco,” Howard said, smiling for the first time. “He old, like you.”

  As he walked away from the door he heard, “Bye, Mr. Fortlow!” and turned to see Winnie, with Corina standing over her, at the screen.

  {4.}

  On the way home Socrates saw a round dinette table, with three broken legs, lying in the street. It was made from maple wood and deeply scarred. Socrates hefted the table on his back, using the leather strap from his pants to hold it around the one good leg. He put the other legs under his arm and carried the heavy table for nine blocks. He made a deal with himself that he could keep the table if he could walk the whole distance without putting it down.

  His deal included the special circumstance that he would accept help if it was offered. But nobody offered. No one even seemed to notice Socrates and his labor.

  The last three blocks had his lungs hurting and his knee joints were on fire. He almost dropped the whole thing when he reached the wooden gate of his garden. But he held on with the grip of his baby finger of the left hand. He made it through to the back door and then let go.

  Socrates came to dinner the following Sunday. The elder Mr. Shakur was as fat as Howard. They had a good time together and when Socrates left he told Corina that he’d invite them over to dinner sometime soon.

  For the next three weeks Socrates worked on the table. He used carpenter’s glue and metal ties to restructure the broken and splintered legs. He cut grooves in all four legs and the tabletop, then glued them together using a bag full of sand to hold it all down. He sanded the wood and then puttied the gashes. He restained the table and brushed on polyurethane to seal and protect his work.

  Every night after coming home from his job boxing groceries at Bounty Supermarket, Socrates worked the wood. He’d go to bed rubbing his fingertips together, feeling the hot blisters of hard work.

  When he was finished he walked over to the Shakur residence and invited the whole family over to dinner.

  He prepared greens and rice, and beef tripe cooked with tomato sauce, garlic, and vodka. The tripe was a recipe that he got from the butcher at Bounty.

  He served the meal on his rebuilt maple table.

  He had pies and ice cream for the children; Seagram’s and soda water for their parents.

  Howard wasn’t mad at Socrates anymore. He had his wife and job, he had his kids. The food was good and Corina drank more than she was used to. She talked silly baby talk with the children and made eyes at both of the men.

  Socrates stood up straight from the table and said, “Corina, I have something for you.”

  “Oh?” she said, holding her head at a slant. “And what is that?”

  “This here table that I found and put back together again,” Socrates said. “I wanna give it to you-all.”

  “No,” Corina said. Maybe she even sobered a little. “That’s too much. It’s so nice.”

  “Yeah,” Howard said.

  “Yeah,” echoed Socrates. “I fount it an’ put it back together. An’ all the time I was thinkin’ ’bout you two. ’Bout how I wanted to say how, how wonderful yo’ wife is, Howard. An’ how anytime you wanna walk out or give up you could look at the hard work I put in this table.” Socrates was talking to Howard but his eyes were locked with Corina’s. “‘Cause you know I’m out here waitin’ an’ you cain’t slip up a damn bit.”

  Little Howard made a wild scream just then and laughed. Corina turned her own amazed smile on her son and picked him up. He slapped her on the nose and laughed again but she ignored it.

  “You feel up to it, Howard?” Socrates asked his friend.

  “Up to what?”

  “We gotta carry it over your house. Turn it upside down an’ it should be easy.”

  “You really wanna give us this?” Howard asked. He was squinting at his friend.

  “Just think’a me when you sit down to dinner, man. Tha’s all. Think’a me out here an’ you in there—safe an’ warm wit’ yo’ family.”

  THE WANDERER

  {1.}

  When Socrates Fortlow was released from prison he ran just as if he had gone over the wall. There was no family that wanted to take him in. There were no old friends except for other men who had been released from prison and now lived in the shadows of Indianapolis, Gary, and Chicago.

  They paid Socrates twelve hundred thirty-two dollars and sixty-three cents for his twenty-seven years behind bars. He put the money in his pocket and took a bus to Los Angeles.

  He had three reasons to go there.

  The first was that even though he had been born and half raised on a farm he no longer knew the country. He couldn’t live the slow rural life and so he needed a city.

  His second reason for escaping west was that the prison he’d come from was drafty and cold. The only cold he wanted from that day on was chill in the one thousand dollars’ worth of beers that he planned to imbibe.

  He learned in prison that L.A. was a big rambling bunch of towns and that everybody was in too much of a hurry to remember faces, places, times, and events. An ex-con would need that kind of anonymity.

  And so he got on a Greyhound hunched over, sullen, and silent like some kind of fugitive. He ran as far as California and then he burrowed in, hating every policeman, every clerk’s glance, and every footstep behind him.

  He ran because he knew that in Indiana the cops would know him. If they knew him they’d try to bring him in every now and then. And if anyone tried to put him in a cell again he would try his best to kill them.

  Socrates Fortlow was running for his life.

  Within a week of his release from prison, eight years ago, Socrates had his first fight. He was confronted, in the alley that passed his door, by a bulky young man named Charles Rinnett. Charles, trying to impress his grinning friends, had claimed that Socrates was an “old Dumpst
er-divin’, rag-pickin’, homeless mothahfuckah.”

  Socrates was only fifty at that time and even though he was more than twice the age of Charles he convinced the young man by argument, and a strong hand, that he wasn’t homeless and that he had never eaten from the garbage.

  “Sometimes a broke nose is all you young boys understand,” Socrates said while standing over the heckler. He’d knocked Charles to the ground three times before the youth got the idea to stay down. The young men around them stopped laughing at Socrates and started making fun of their friend.

  Charles never spoke to Socrates after that day. He grew older and more somber and could be seen, now and then, collecting bottles and cans on the streets of Watts. Socrates watched Charles for all those years as he turned meaner and shabbier.

  If he could have, Socrates would have told Charles that he was sorry for breaking his nose; that he was just recently out of the penitentiary when they had their fight. In the penitentiary you had to hurt somebody in your first few days on the block because you had to show that you weren’t a punk. A fight was no more than a housewarming in the joint.

  Sometimes, as the years passed, Socrates would have imaginary talks with Charles. He’d ask the yellow-eyed sloucher why he stayed around those same old streets.

  “Why you out here actin’ like a hoodlum child when you a man should be makin’ sumpin’ out yourself?” Socrates mouthed the words silently on the bus coming home from his new job at Bounty Supermarket.

  “An’ what you doin’ so special, old man?” the Charles in Socrates’ mind responded. “You live in that rat hole an’ take the bus to yo’ sto’ ev’ry day. What you makin’? What you doin’?”

  “I got a job, man,” Socrates whispered. “I get up an’ go to work. I get a paycheck. I got me a bank account.”

  The lady sitting in front of Socrates got up. At first he thought that she was getting off, but then she just changed seats.