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Cause nothing else ever changes in this poor man's shithole, I don't got any choice but to stare out of a window like it was some kind of TV set. Real problem is we get zero channels on it. Sometimes I hear myself saying, "Lord, ain't you ever going to fix that damn TV set -- it's all I got." Guess da Lord doesn't have an ear pointing in the direction of this people's coop. It's da same old habit of staring at a TV set after you turn it off, and all of a sudden feeling real-l-l dumb.
When you stare at it long enough you begin to see things, like yesterday, when I remembered da first time I whacked a guy just to get into the Screaming Ravens. All of a sudden, clear as day, it's that cool dude waiting for the Urban Transit bus. He was leaning on this big "No Parking" sign, wearing a black Raiders T shirt. I could see again that look in his eye when he first noticed I had a gun, and I pointed it at him out of LeRoy's car window. You could see that, "Ah Shit it's all over," look, just before the gun went off, and I thought I'd lose my hearing forever. The flash back was so real I could swear my ears were hurting again. I turned my back to it, closed my eyes, and waited for God to change the channel. I knew he was just reminding me of why I was in this dump and telling me," live with it."
It seemed like most of my life I had a lousy view of the world. Even that crummy apartment we lived in was in a basement, with only a half window facing the street. I never learned a lot about people, but with my view of da people's legs and feet walking by, I became a shoe expert, and got a real appreciation for a woman's ankle in high heels, Oowee. When I was twelve, I remember my ma telling my pa when we moved in to that apartment, "Now when you come home drunk, you won't have to worry about climbing steep stairs. You can just fall down them and lay there, until I decide to let you in." I remember he only fell down them two more years and then he left -- never did see him again. I was kinda glad too, because I was always getting between the two of them when he wanted to beat her up, just cause he could. I got a split lip and at least two black eyes trying to get between them. Once I hit him with a hammer, and the neighbors called da police on me. That was da beginning of my problems with da juvenile court.
My Ma worked hard as a nurse's aide at da Mercy Hospital to support my dad and me. She was a good woman, and deserved a lot better life than she got. She worked nights a lot, which left me with a bunch of time to get myself in all kinds of trouble. Da gang became my family and my job training. Whacking someone was a strange entrance fee, but at da time it made me feel like a big man. Being interviewed by da pigs was part of my skills training, and it was kinda funny cause they were always questioning me about some thing I didn't do, when there were a lot of things they should have been talking to me about.
I quit my schooling after flunking two years of high school, got a job cleaning up at da movie house over on Monroe street. I didn't make a lot of money, but it got my ma off of my back because she thought I had an honest job. I was able to see a lot of free movies, and had time after to work da streets with some of da gang each night. Our most profitable gig was robbing some money toting business dudes when they were down in da wrong neighborhood visiting da hookers, while their wives thought they were at a business meeting. They gave up their wads of money easy and most times wouldn't even report it because they had more to lose than we did. My buddy Vinnie loved that routine -- said, "We were doing God's work."
I told him that was a stretch, but it was good for a laugh. Wasn't so godly one night when this dumb, out-of-town dude tried showing us he took a self defense course and ended up getting stabbed several times by Sammy. Never did know whether he died or not -- we didn't read da papers.
I would buy my ma some flowers when we had a big score. I kinda owed her and she would think that maybe someone in her life was going to turn out right. She was proud of me, and I felt a little guilty cause I knew what was really going on.
Then one night after the movie I tried to make time with a girl who was alone at the movie. She stayed after they closed, and I thought this was going to be an easy lay; but then at the last minute she said no. I got pissed, beat her up and took what I wanted anyway. The police picked me up, held me for three days, and then da girl's ma talked her out of pressing any charges because she knew my ma. My ma was really mad, but when the girl dropped the charges she started believing my story about what happened. I guess she really wanted to believe it, because I wasn't that convincing.
The gangs had their own women; they'd give us all the gang sex ,we needed but it wasn't da same. I didn't know a lot about romancing. When I did date a girl and didn't get what I wanted, I'd force myself on her or end up making some kind of crazy scene.
I think about sex a lot during da lonely nights in my prison cell, looking out that dumb TV window again. When da searchlights go scanning around da compound at night, they bounce off of my window, and it really looks like da TV just going on. Then it goes black again, and I have to begin my own story. Last week I was doing that, and all of a sudden there's a rerun of that bad night when Sammy lied about how much money we got from this dude's wallet, and we got into a big fight. I ended up hitting Sammy over the head with a pipe and putting his lights out permanently. We had to dump him in the river cause we didn't know what else to do with da body. The police knew we hung with him and questioned us a bunch, but they didn't learn nothin. We didn't help them any. We had lots of conversations with da pigs over da years --we called that our skills training, and we would handle this one like pros. The light flashed against da window, and I returned to reality.
Things really got screwed up when they picked me up one night as I was walking home after da movies closed. Da police threw me on da sidewalk, cuffed me, and really roughed me up. "Dah Bastards!" All da time I'm waiting in da interrogation room, I'm thinking about all da bad things I done they could be locking me up for. These two fat detectives come in with smug looks on their faces, and said, "Da best way to deal with a murder charge - boy - is to be straight with us right up front." Said if I was, they could help me avoid frying in the electric chair. My head's a bouncing around inside trying to figure which murder they had me for, when they said, "We know it was you that murdered that old guy during a liquor store robbery". I was thinking, "That's great -- I know they can't prove I did that one, because I didn't," as I stared at another dumb window. This time the window was pretty large, but it was mirrored, and I was smart enough to know it was a one way mirror and my view was going to be screwed again.
Unfortunately, at da time of da murder I was alone cleaning up da movie house, then walked home alone, so there were no witnesses to prove I didn't do it. They said they had a witness that saw me there, and physical evidence that tied me to da scene. I knew that was all bullshit, and with a public attorney I could walk out of there even faster than I did when I did whack someone.
I always thought we bad guys had da advantage because we could lie, cheat, steal, do anything it takes to avoid being picked up and convicted by da police. They had all of these rules and had to prove to twelve people that they were absolutely right. That was the year I found out it didn't go that way. Their young female witness described a young man of average height and average build, wearing a black T shirt and dungarees. My court appointed attorney asked her, "Doesn't that description apply to half the young men in this city? Didn't it help that in the mug shot you looked at my client was wearing a black T shirt and dungarees?" She sat there on the witness stand and lied her teeth out so she wouldn't look silly, but I was sure no one would believe her. I hadn't even been there!
Then came da real surprise when that smart ass detective who arrested me, introduced a plaster cast of shoe prints found in da flower bed at da murder scene. They matched my shoes exactly, and wasn't that a big surprise. When you're arrested they take all of your clothes as evidence and give you prison uniforms. Those crooked bastards had taken my shoes back to the scene, made the foot prints, then poured the caste so they could frame my ass good. The jury only took two hours to find me guilty, and the judge only two weeks to sentence me to death by lethal injection. I guess those detectives weren't so smart anyway cause by da time my trial came up, the court ruled that I had da choice of da electric chair or lethal injection, so I wasn't going to fry after all. I always thought my on da job training prepared me for just about anything, but I never guessed da so called good guys would out lie me, out cheat me, and get me good.
I looked out da window that cheated me out of a decent view of this world, and stared into da empty space. I tried to get ready for my walk down to da execution room tomorrow. After eleven years and endless legal appeals, I'm ready to get it over. I'm over that -- they cheated me -- business. I cheated my ma and myself out of everything for so long, and I have no one else to blame but me. Sure, they're killing me for something I didn't do, but that's just some kind of crazy justice for all the killing and hurting I have done.
Finally, it's almost over as I lay here on this nice white table having my clean, painless death to pay them back for all the torture I did to other people, and isn't that ironic. Look at this -- finally I'm provided with a large clean window with a great view. First the reflection of myself, staring into space, knowing no one is going to save me, and there I am, ready for the big get away. It's such a clear view as I see my sad ma in tears, her arms held up by my long lost dad who must have finally come home to do something good. There's that smart ass detective who arrested me. He has a smirk on his face like, "I got yah!" The only one missing is da guy who really killed da liquor store owner. He's probably following da newspaper stories about my execution and laughing his ass off, but I can remember feeling that way, and he and I are just like any other gambler -- eventually you lose -- and you lose big!
You can tell da reporters with their recording devices and writing pads as they create some kind of make believe end to my screwed up life. Yes, I can see it now, "He closed his eyes peacefully and got ready to face his maker." Outside those crazy people walk back and forth with their candles in that noisy circus, like somebody really cares what happens to me, but it's real quiet in here as everyone whispers -- like I don't know what's going to happen.
One of the reporters jots down a few notes. "He takes that last look at the window, and it's a video shot of his whole life, finally, clearly laid out in front of him. Now it's time for God to pull the plug. Go to blank screen."
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