question and continues. “He caught this boy, Darryl, killing an old rooster Socrates kept outside his house, and now he’s going to make that boy clean, and cook, and eat it.”
“Why?” says Coty.
“To teach him responsibility. Because it wasn’t his rooster to kill.”
Nobody says anything. Samson clears his throat and starts to read an excerpt from the book in a deep, rough voice that no longer sounds like his own:
“ ‘You should be afraid, Darryl,’ Socrates said, reading the boy’s eyes. ‘I kilt men with these hands. Choked an’ broke ’em. I could crush yo’ head wit’ one hand.’ Socrates held out his left palm
.
“ ‘I ain’t afraid’a you,’ Darryl said
.
“ ‘Yes you are. I know you are ’cause you ain’t no fool. You seen some bad things out there but I’m the worst. I’m the worst you ever seen.’ ”
Samson keeps reading, until we are lost. Spellbound. For the moment, he has become Socrates Fortlow, a giant ex-convict sitting on an overturned trash can in his too-small apartment in Watts. I can picture him, the faded threadbare T-shirt stretched over his big shoulders, beads of sweat standing out on his bald head. And I very well could be Darryl, the skinny boy waiting to eat his plate of dirty rice, green beans, and tough rooster. I keep one eye on the food, and the other on the doorway, wondering if I’ll make it out unharmed, or if the big man will crush my skull with his big hands, the ones the other cons used to call rock breakers.
The boy tells of a crime he committed with some friends, a murder. He becomes scared that Socrates will turn him in. Samson reads on: but Socrates says,
“ ‘I ain’t your warden, li’l brother. I ain’t gonna show you to no jail. I’m justtalkin’ to ya—one black man to another one. If you don’t hear me there ain’t nuthin’ I could do.’ ”
I’m pretty sure I could sit here for the rest of the day listening to Samson read. And although he stops at the end of the first chapter, the words of Socrates Fortlow (about the old rooster’s crow that was hardly a whisper) stay with me for a long time:
But at least that motherfucker tried
.
28
After dinner I wait in line at the Ping-Pong table to get a shot at Double X, who still hasn’t lost. I am in luck, because today he’s off his game, distracted by the other guys’ talk about Moses Rivera, a gangbanger from Brooklyn who is supposedly going to be a famous boxer.
Wilfred, who is ahead of me in line, says, “That dude’s bad, like Mike Tyson bad.”
“I heard of him,” says Bobby. “He’s a killing machine when he gets going, like one of them berserkers.”
“What’s a berserker?” Wilfred says, but everyone ignores him because his questions can go on forever, until no one remembers what we were talking about in the first place.
It’s my serve against Double X, and I’m playing really well, but nobody seems to notice; they are too excited about this Rivera guy.
Double X pauses before his serve. “Well, homeboy was in a fight, right? Punched this dude so hard in the face thatthe dude almost died!” He hits a soft arcing shot, and I smash it back to take the lead for the first time in the game.
Coty fetches the ball for us and says, “I heard he’s locked up at Penfield Secure.”
“True,” says Double X. “True. But he assaulted a guard, so guess what? Homeboy getting transferred here!” He is excited because this will bump him up in standing within his gang if he can buddy up with Moses, or so Freddie says.
I rip a serve across his backhand. He connects but sprays it wide off the table, ending the game. This means that I am the new Bravo Unit champion, at least until someone beats me. It’s the first time I’ve been good at something, but nobody seems to care right now. Double X hands his paddle to Wilfred, grinning even though he’s just been dethroned.
They keep talking about Moses like he’s a superhero. Moses is going to kick the
“Why?” says Coty.
“To teach him responsibility. Because it wasn’t his rooster to kill.”
Nobody says anything. Samson clears his throat and starts to read an excerpt from the book in a deep, rough voice that no longer sounds like his own:
“ ‘You should be afraid, Darryl,’ Socrates said, reading the boy’s eyes. ‘I kilt men with these hands. Choked an’ broke ’em. I could crush yo’ head wit’ one hand.’ Socrates held out his left palm
.
“ ‘I ain’t afraid’a you,’ Darryl said
.
“ ‘Yes you are. I know you are ’cause you ain’t no fool. You seen some bad things out there but I’m the worst. I’m the worst you ever seen.’ ”
Samson keeps reading, until we are lost. Spellbound. For the moment, he has become Socrates Fortlow, a giant ex-convict sitting on an overturned trash can in his too-small apartment in Watts. I can picture him, the faded threadbare T-shirt stretched over his big shoulders, beads of sweat standing out on his bald head. And I very well could be Darryl, the skinny boy waiting to eat his plate of dirty rice, green beans, and tough rooster. I keep one eye on the food, and the other on the doorway, wondering if I’ll make it out unharmed, or if the big man will crush my skull with his big hands, the ones the other cons used to call rock breakers.
The boy tells of a crime he committed with some friends, a murder. He becomes scared that Socrates will turn him in. Samson reads on: but Socrates says,
“ ‘I ain’t your warden, li’l brother. I ain’t gonna show you to no jail. I’m justtalkin’ to ya—one black man to another one. If you don’t hear me there ain’t nuthin’ I could do.’ ”
I’m pretty sure I could sit here for the rest of the day listening to Samson read. And although he stops at the end of the first chapter, the words of Socrates Fortlow (about the old rooster’s crow that was hardly a whisper) stay with me for a long time:
But at least that motherfucker tried
.
28
After dinner I wait in line at the Ping-Pong table to get a shot at Double X, who still hasn’t lost. I am in luck, because today he’s off his game, distracted by the other guys’ talk about Moses Rivera, a gangbanger from Brooklyn who is supposedly going to be a famous boxer.
Wilfred, who is ahead of me in line, says, “That dude’s bad, like Mike Tyson bad.”
“I heard of him,” says Bobby. “He’s a killing machine when he gets going, like one of them berserkers.”
“What’s a berserker?” Wilfred says, but everyone ignores him because his questions can go on forever, until no one remembers what we were talking about in the first place.
It’s my serve against Double X, and I’m playing really well, but nobody seems to notice; they are too excited about this Rivera guy.
Double X pauses before his serve. “Well, homeboy was in a fight, right? Punched this dude so hard in the face thatthe dude almost died!” He hits a soft arcing shot, and I smash it back to take the lead for the first time in the game.
Coty fetches the ball for us and says, “I heard he’s locked up at Penfield Secure.”
“True,” says Double X. “True. But he assaulted a guard, so guess what? Homeboy getting transferred here!” He is excited because this will bump him up in standing within his gang if he can buddy up with Moses, or so Freddie says.
I rip a serve across his backhand. He connects but sprays it wide off the table, ending the game. This means that I am the new Bravo Unit champion, at least until someone beats me. It’s the first time I’ve been good at something, but nobody seems to care right now. Double X hands his paddle to Wilfred, grinning even though he’s just been dethroned.
They keep talking about Moses like he’s a superhero. Moses is going to kick the
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