Always in the Head

"I seen it lots of times, I seen it, just from being

on the street when something new was going down;

I seen kids get killed, a few, my buddy Jules

got bucked, this gang he was down with, I mean he

wasn't even down with them when they started

beefin' with this other gang, but one day, it was hot,

I remember it was real hot, somebody called Jules

and he opened the window and looked out and

they got him in the head; you know all the

time now you got to get 'em in the head,

gotta bust that brain, man, don't shoot

'em in the head most likely they won't die,

and if they don't die you might as well kill

yourself cause soon as they can stand up

they be stalkin' you big time, man, might as well

blow yourself away. Gotta bust that brain, man.

But you know what was funny, even the folks

Jules was down with didn't know who smoked him

cause they was beefin' with so many other gangs,

and then there was Billy, they jacked him big time,

took him out just for talkin' shit, acting like he was

down with brothers who didn't even now his ass,

cocking them colors wrong, and I'm sorry for laughing,

I know the shit ain't funny, but I was still looking to

see my boys hanging in the 'hood, jiving and scoping

the bitches, but then I saw them at the wake, laid out

man, lying stiff, skin two colors too light, wearing wigs

to hold their heads on and they mamas clawing at them

and screaming outside their heads for Jesus, then I knew

Jules and Billy wouldn't be hanging no more, but after

awhile you just deal with dying, you get cold with it.

It's like, 'Yo, man, somebody got their cap peeled last night,

you know who it was? Man, not him man, that's foul,

he was down, man, you going to the wake? No man,

can't make it, got a game, gotta kick some ass on the court.'

You just take in the word, you know, about somebody dying

and you deal with it, can't let it twist you round and

mess your head up cause then you let your guard down

and like I said before then you might as well kill yourself.

Me? I ain't sweatin' 'bout dying, I'm kickin' the right colors,

got my brim twisted proper. Sometimes it's even fun

hanging out at places most people are scared of,

like down at Dudley late at night, the game is not

knowing if you gon' be there when something goes down

and something always does. Somebody gets bucked and

hits the street and some folks will say 'Oh man, that's

too bad,' but almost everyone else will say 'Did you see

that guy get shot? That was live, man. Did you see how

he ran, how he fell, how he screamed like a girl?

they got him in the head, man, they busted that brain,

it was like the movies, man. He screamed like a fuckin' girl.' "

Tuesday, wind shakes the windows. No one is outside,

at least not that I can see, and my son pulls on

a second sweatshirt, a bulky goosedown coat. He is 15,

a year younger than Jules, a year older than the child

who saw Jules open the window

to answer to his name, to let in some air.

There are times I hate being a reporter.

I am afraid of the stories. The voices are too real,

the colors too strong.

I rewind the tape, open another computer file,

hear my son yell goodbye and slam the door

on his way out. I run to the window.

Yes. His head is covered.

Source: Close to Death (Steerforth Press, 1998)

Patricia Smith: Selections