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A Dream Deferred

Jarrett Fulton

    “Iz dis it?”
    Keyshawn slipped his hand into his pocket. His fingers groped around inside, but he didn’t find what he was looking for except a set of house keys and a book of matches; he checked his rear pocket. A torn sheet of scratch paper protruded from the open slit of jeans. He pulled it out. The letters written across the sheet of paper were barely legible, but he was still able to make out the words. The information provided a home address along with a brief description of a car.
    Keyshawn glanced up and read the sign illuminated by a street lamp.
    Rockwell Boulevard.
    Keyshawn folded the sheet of notepaper and slid it back into his pocket. “Yeah, dis it,” he answered.
    Placed at the edge of each driveway was a black metal-frame mailbox with the set of white numbers printed across the side. “1221,” Keyshawn now counted under his breath. “1225...1229...1233...1237...124-” He pointed his finger at the front yard of 1241 Rockwell Boulevard. “Der it iz.”
    A sports-luxury vehicle, a Monterrey LX500, sat undisturbed in the driveway. The black two-seater had a low narrow body equipped with customized features such as a diamond-gloss platinum chrome grille, a sliding sunroof, and platinum alloy chrome wheels.
    “See anywon?”
    The neighborhood appeared to be asleep.
    Keyshawn turned toward his partner, Will, and shook his head. Then, he listened for any suspicious sounds. He only heard the faint buzzing of electrical current running through the streetlights from above and the rumbling of the motor generating heat into the pool in the backyard of 1205 Rockwell Boulevard. He also detected a few other random sounds such as a dog barking, a gate lock rattling between its hinges, and an engine from an airplane propelling across the sky; but there were no immediate threats. So he stepped to the lip of the curb and surveyed the neighborhood.
    The 1200 block of Rockwell Boulevard consisted of twelve houses which stood respectably on each side of the street. The homes themselves were quite simple: a two story house with a wide rectangular porch, a medium-sized garage, and a small, manicured yard, which parted in the middle with a walkway. Many of these homes weren’t all that luxurious in design, but they appeared to be suitable enough for the average working-class American.
    “I need ya’ to stand ova dere,” Keyshawn pointed at the light pole across the street in front of 1234. “Holla if you see anywon.”
    Will crossed over to the opposite side of street and stood underneath the streetlight. The yellowed light glared dimly exposing the full rim of his lips, his black-and-white Yankee cap, and the cubic zirconium pinned into his left ear. He primarily watched for people that might appear or any cars that might show up, but no trouble came, so he pulled the brim of his cap over to the side, leaned his back against the pole and stuffed his hands into his pockets.
    Keyshawn backed away from the curb, eluding the yellow glint of a street light, and stood beside a tree on the lawn of 1201. He prompted himself with a slow, starting step, and then he sprinted. The blood lagged into his legs, which at first, caused him to waggle through his first set of steps with his shoes swooshing through the ankle deep grass. Not long did take for his speed to climb, pulling his momentum forward. The crisped wind whipped across his face, sucking the moisture from his eyes as he fielded across the yards of 1209, 1213, 1217, 1221, and 1225 Rockwell Boulevard. But when he reached the front yard of 1229, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. The passageway to his lungs became constricted, and he began wheezing and coughing up his breaths.
    I need to stop smoking, he realized.
    Crummp. Crack!
    Keyshawn stopped abruptly. He swooped down into a kneeling position and crawled into the casting shadows beside the house of 1233. He listened. The wind limped, waning to a whisper. Now, all he heard was the monotonous lull of his own breathing and the tumbling roll of a plastic trash bag caught in the light breeze.
    Cluk! Clamp! Clak!
    Keyshawn sought out the noise again and found it to be a grunt from a door. His eyes traced along the home of 1237 and watched as the front door pulled back, and the screen door pushed open, smacking against white and green weatherboards of the house. A young black woman walked through the door. She was comfortably dressed in a gray and blue West Campbell University sweatshirt and a pair of black denim jeans. “Mom! Dad!” The woman yelled out with her back to the street, “Hurry up. I’m leaving.”
    Neither parent came to the door, so the woman reached down to untangle the shoe strings of her pink and white cross-trainers. She crossed the laces over, tied them, and stood up again.
    Keyshawn dropped into a crouch and lurked across the gap between the houses of 1233 to the front yard of 1237. Then, he sank behind a low bed of bushes. Convinced he was safe there, he rose to one knee and cautiously brought his head up to watch.
    The woman still faced the doorway. “Mom! Dad!” She yelled again into the house, but there was no answer, so she flicked some of the dreads that hung beside her ear. “I’m ready.”
    Keyshawn wanted to move closer, so he crawled toward a spot behind an iron pedestal and a large weathered stone-finished Buddha statue. His movements shuffled with the faint passing of wind as he tucked himself behind the pedestal and then craned his neck over the side of statue to watch.
    The woman’s parents finally stepped through the doorway of the house. They were dressed in silk silver-and-gold sleep wear with their arms clutched around each other. “So when are you coming home again,” the woman’s father asked.
    “Dad, we discussed this before at Auntie Candice’s house. My field team is flying to southwestern Peru to study the recent activity in one of the volcanoes over there. By the time we gather enough data and research, the semester will probably be over with, and who knows, I probably won’t have enough time to hang around here because the fall semester will have already started.”
    “Well, in that case, can you at least try to stay for another day? Your grandmother will be pleased for you to visit her again.” The woman’s father read the reaction on his daughter’s face and grinned. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m not too wild about the woman either, but this is your spring break. And you have four days left before your return to school. Can’t you relax until then?”
    The woman slouched, then rolled her eyes. “I am relaxed,” she replied, “but dad, I’ll be all right. I’m going to try to write to you when I can.”
     “All right, honey, just be careful. Call us as soon as you get there.”
    The woman turned and walked up the landing of the porch. “Okay, dad,” she said and took a step down. “I will.”
    “Honey, wait.” The woman’s father lowered his arm from his wife’s shoulder. “We need to tell you something.”
    “What is it now?”
    The woman’s father walked up to the handrail. “I know that school and work are creating a lot of stress,” he placed his hand on his daughter’s shoulder, “but just remember that we’re proud of you.”
    The woman spun around. A grin blossomed in her face. “Thanks, dad,” she rose up a step to hug her father and then reached over to kiss her mother on the cheek. “I will talk to y’all later.”
    “Okay, and don’t forget. We love you.”
    The woman descended the flight of steps and walked over to her four-door Honda sedan parked in the driveway. She opened the door, sat herself down and reached her arm over for a suitcase lying in the passenger seat. She pulled back the metal zipper and peeked inside. Everything had been packed, so she closed the door and stuck the key in the ignition.
    The car’s window rattled from the music blaring through the front and rear speakers. Keyshawn couldn’t understand the muffled lyrics juking through the windows, but it sounded like pop music with a leading female vocalist.
    The woman backed the Honda out the driveway and into the street. She honked her horn, making a final good-bye, and drove off.
    Her parents waved and then went back inside.
    Keyshawn heard the front door shut and then someone securing the top and bottom locks.
    The neighborhood was silent again.
    Yet, Keyshawn remained still. His eyes focused away from the house of 1237 and followed a path leading up to the driveway of 1241 where the Monterrey sat under the faint glimmer of the moonlight.
    Almost there.
    Keyshawn lifted to his feet and strode across the remaining length of the yard of 1237. He softened his steps once he tracked along the aisle of concrete of the driveway. He knelt beside the driver’s door of the Monterrey, then he slid his hand underneath his shirt and pulled out a long, thin-metallic bar called a slimjim.
    To unlock the door from the outside, Keyshawn needed to attach the notch on the slimjim to the lock rod between the window and the weather stripping of the door. He had very limited space to use to penetrate the crease in the window, but he controlled the trembling in his hands and slid the slimjim inside. The metal bar rustled around, thudding against the springs and the glass inside the door. Then, he heard a click.
    Keyshawn yanked up.
    “Fuck.”
    A small scratch appeared on the lower corner of the window where the slimjim had missed.
    Keyshawn tried again. He widened the space between his fingers and squeezed. The sweat filled the small etched lines in his palms as he used the weight of his shoulders to steady the slimjim down into the window.
    “Shyt,” Keyshawn’s fingers slipped causing the metal bar to bend back against the door and trigger the alarm.
    RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!
    The car squawked as its front and rear headlights flickered. Keyshawn hadn’t quite panicked yet, but it was difficult for him to concentrate, so he twisted his neck over his shoulder and glanced down the street.
    Where was Will?
    RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!
    A white glare, perhaps from a reading lamp, had suddenly clicked on. Keyshawn turned his eyes up to the second floor window of the house of 1241 and could feel the danger mounting as he watched a shadow slowly rise from the bed.
    Keyshawn had no time to decipher his thoughts. He pulled the slimjim out of the window, retreated from the door, and then crouched behind the rear wheel of the car. He glanced up at the window again.
    The curtains had been drawn back. A middle-aged man with a white mottled face and a brown, stubble beard was staring though the small space between the curtain and the corner ledge of the window.
    Can he see me, Keyshawn wondered, but he quickly realized he was dressed in all-black, and he had pocketed himself underneath a cast of shade beside the rear bumper of the vehicle.
    RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!
    The man withdrew his head from the window. The curtains dropped back into place, and the reading lamp clicked off.
    Keyshawn, now relieved, kneeled and scrambled beside the door. He raised the slimjim above his head and came down, stabbing the bar into the window. He jiggled the slimjim back and forth until he felt he had a hold on the lock. He yanked up.
    The lock popped.
    Keyshawn stuffed the slimjim underneath his shirt, pulled back the door and crawled into the driver’s seat.
    RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!
    The inside of the car offered very little light; however, Keyshawn managed to pull the lever underneath the steering wheel, which popped the hood. He made a quick peek at the house to see if anyone had come out. No one had, so he jumped out and ran to the front of the car.
    Keyshawn lifted the hood.
    RAHHHHH!...RAHHHHH!...RAHHHHH!
    Keyshawn ran his eyes along the battery, then the engine and back to the battery. He reached into his other hip pocket and pulled out a small, black leather case. Inside the case were a screwdriver, some pliers, and a mini-flashlight. He crammed the flashlight into his mouth, aiming the light beside the engine, then set the case on top of radiator, and dropped his hand into the pocket of space between the engine and the battery. His fingers riffled around the three wires that ran into the battery coils. It didn’t take him too long to find the right wire that disabled the alarm, which he cut with the pliers.
    The alarm suppressed and the streets muted into sudden, deafening silence.
    The easy part was over, Keyshawn thought.
    Unfortunately, unlike what is seen in the movies, Keyshawn could not just jump into the driver’s seat, break into the ignition key with a screwdriver and drive off like any typical American model.
    Nope. This was a Monterrey LX500, a foreign-made model equipped with state-of-the-art technology. This only meant to Keyshawn that he needed to hot-wire the car from an access point beside the engine right below the alternator.
    Keyshawn switched the pliers for the screw driver, which he used to fire the starter. The engine cranked, misfiring twice before turning over in a low throttle.
    Keyshawn smiled, then he placed everything back into his case, shut the hood, and ran back to the driver’s door. He readied himself for his final act as he hopped into the driver’s seat.
    He had to unlock the steering wheel.
    The interior of the car, like the steering wheel, the dashboard and the instrument panels, were made up entirely of a sophisticated brand of plastic, easy for Keyshawn to break into. He simply pushed the screwdriver into the center of the steering column, causing it to snap, and pulled the wheel up, releasing it to move.
    “Coo-Coo!”
    Will?
    Keyshawn slid his leg inside the car and closed the door. He scrunched down, hunching his knees up against the bottom of the steering wheel, and kept still. The wind pounded against the windshield with a handful of leaves skittering across the roof. Then, a dim glare of light from the porch of 1241 struck through the car’s window and shimmered across the tip of the wheel, revealing the bulge of his knee.
    Keyshawn stuffed his legs below the steering wheel and shifted his body around, pressing his cheek against the seat. He listened. He could hear a soft clacking of a door opening and then a pair of some flip-flops smacking against the wooden boards of the porch. He allowed a moment to pass before he mustered the courage to peer up.
    A short, slender man with pale-olive skin stood on the shadow recess of the porch. He wore only a royal blue house-robe and a pair flip-flops with the back of his slightly greying head covered with a black yarmulke.
    Keyshawn remained still.
    The man walked to the banister where he rested his hands over the railing and leaned over. The grogginess from a broken sleep colored the whites in his eyes, but he seemed alert as he stared at his car through his thick, black frame glasses.
    Keyshawn imagined that the man thought that he were hearing things. Or maybe a cat had triggered the alarm. Or maybe the alarm itself malfunctioned.
    The wind howled, muffling out the deep droning of the motor.
    The man still hadn’t found any evidence of mischief, so he glanced down the street.
    This help eased some of Keyshawn’s wariness as he started to believe he might get it away-
    The man drifted his eyes back to his car and spotted Keyshawn crouched there peeking from the window in the front seat.
    Keyshawn felt so many sensations at once that the rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to stop as the saliva in his mouth began to taste bitter. His eyelids collapsed, shutting out his sight, as the cords in his throat swelled, stalling his breathing. He anticipated that the man would stand straight up and scream out something like, “Hey, hey you!” or “What the hell. How did you get into my car?” The next thing that would happen is that Keyshawn would have to back the car out of the driveway, drawing unwanted heat to himself and his partner, and then drive away, possibly escalating the scene into a police chase. The results would always be the same: His capture and spending another stint in jail.
    Keyshawn opened his eyes, accepting his fate, but what he saw was not what he’d expected.
    The man still stood slumped over with his forearms resting against the banister. His facial expression remained calm as he opened his mouth to yawn.
    Keyshawn thought he was hallucinating until he realized...
    The windows.
    The windows were tinted.
    The man was actually looking back at himself!
    Keyshawn twisted himself back into the seat. He rested his head on the steering wheel and shut his eyes again.
    He had done it, but the celebration didn’t last long.
    Keyshawn couldn’t say for sure if he was angry when he first heard Will’s footsteps approaching the passenger’s door, but he admitted that he no longer cared, which explained why he immediately unlocked the doors when Will rapped on the window to get inside. Keyshawn rationalized the fact that the mistake had already been made, so the only thing he could do now was to sit back and see what would happen.
    Will slammed the door. “Pool off!”
    “Why didn’t ya’ wait.”
    “I thought he caught ya’.”
    “Da windows are tinted en you can see dat.”
    “Fuk it, pool off.”
    Keyshawn ignored the order and looked out the window.
    The man had stood with his shoulders and back erect. His pale, grey eyes blinked, astonished.
    It fascinated Keyshawn to now see the man move away from the banister and run down the flight of steps at an astonishing speed, which almost seemed not of his own. But the momentum the man created from running had put too much strain on his knees and his ankles buckled under the pressure of his weight, causing him to fall over the final step of the porch.
    “Cuz, why you sittin’ dere?”
    Keyshawn didn’t respond. What diverted his attention was a set of keys that had slipped out of the man’s pocket lying beneath the bottom step of the porch.
    “Cuz, pool off!”
    The man placed his palms flat against the concrete and boosted himself up to his knees. His flip-flops slipped from his feet as he was slow to get up. His toes scraped across the asphalt of the driveway, but he managed to hobbled toward the nose of the car.
    “Hey,” the man’s voice flowed out with a sense of urgency that compelled both Keyshawn and Will to listen. “What the fuck are you little shits doing inside my car?”
    No response.
    The man reached for the door handle and tried to open it. The door didn’t budge. He kept his composure as he bent down and brought his hands together, placing them against the window. He brought his face up to the glass to get a clear look, but all he could make out were two dark figures sitting in the front seats. Now, his face infused with panic as the hot air streamed through his nose, fogging up the window. “I can see you two in there,” he crammed his hand into his pocket, fumbling around for his keys. He couldn’t find them, so he looked down, searching frantically along the driveway.
    No luck.
    The man went back to the window and tapped rapidly against his door. “Open up,” he demanded. The loose skin around his neck tightened, making his larynx visible. “Or I’m calling the cops.”
    Again, nothing happened.
    “Goddamn it, you little fuckers,” the man brought up his elbow and rammed it into the window. “Open up!”
    Little damage had been done to the glass as his elbow only left a greasy smudge across the window. However, the man tried again. “Open up!”
    He produced the same result, but this time, a small tear formed on the back of his sleeve. Still, determine to get inside of his car, he gave it another try. He thrusted his elbow into the window, leveraging his weight on his hips and shoulder.
    The window shattered. Pieces of broken glass fell across the dashboard and into Keyshawn’s lap.
    Keyshawn flinched, twisting his neck away from flying bits of grass. He had underestimated the man’s strength and his will, but that no longer mattered because it was time to leave. He swept the glass from his crotch, and then slid his hands behind the steering wheel, turning it to its original position. His foot stomped down the clutch pedal and he pulled the car into reverse.
    The car eased itself out of the driveway. Keyshawn pumped a little gas. A rat-tat-tat came from the engine. The power of the car bullied Keyshawn’s hands away from the wheel. The car swirled onto the neighboring lawn of 1237. The tires trampled over a garden fence that surrounded a heap of roses where the car continued to steer backwards until the rear bumper bashed into the mailbox, tilting it over.
    Keyshawn stomped the brakes.
    For a moment, the man neither speak nor moved. The expression on his face seemed to say, “Is this actually happening?”
    Keyshawn eased off the brake, allowing the car to retreat from the sidewalk and roll onto the street. He tapped the gas pedal. A deafening report shot from the engine. The front end of the vehicle slipped off the edge of the walkway, bouncing onto the concrete of the road. A haze of blue sparks scintillated underneath the car.
     “NOOOOO,” the man shouted, chasing after his car as it stopped again. He ran up to the driver’s door and stuck his arm through the shattered hole in the window. “Y-Y-You sonofabytch!” He clasped his fingers around somebody’s neck. It was immediately batted away, so he grabbed the steering wheel. “Yo-You fucking can do this to me!” The man started turning the steering wheel towards him until he felt a hot, wet sensation gnawing into his wrist.
    The man released the steering wheel and withdrew his arm from the window. “God-damn you-you fucking bastards,” the man rubbed the bite mark on his forearm. “When I get my hands on you,” he went for the door handle and tried to rip the door open. “I’m going to kill you and everyone you fucking love!”
    The springs in the door handle broke. The man’s hand slipped, and he stumbled back and fell.
    Keyshawn and Will looked at each other. They were impressed.
    This man really did love his car.
    However, this mutual admiration didn’t last long for the neighborhood had started to wake up. The bedroom windows of every home on Rockwell Avenue went white with the faces of women looking out through the corner of the curtains suspiciously as several of front doors opened where the men of the households stepped out wearing their nightly attire, and stood on their porch in a watchful silence.
    The man got back to his feet and ran out into the narrow clearing of the street. “I beg of you,” he backed away, treading his bare feet through in a small puddle of water, as he created some space between him and his vehicle. “Please don’t do this to me,” he rasied his pale arms over his head and motioned them back and forth. “I pay you anything you want.”
    Keyshawn stepped on the clutch, switching the gear into first, and released his foot from the brake. The car rolled up the street.
    A jewel of sweat appeared below the man’s chin. “Please,” he said as the fear crept the his voice. “I beg you.”
    Keyshawn floored the gas pedal causing the engine to hiss. The wheels spun fast on the gravel, leaving behind a trail of smoke.
    “Stop!”
    The car did not yield to the man’s demands as it continued to charge up the street.
    The man, not willing to give up, retreated a step until he realized the car was coming straight for him. He knew he was not agile enough to get out the way, so he closed his eyes, threw his arms over his face, and opened his mouth to scr-
    The car clipped him. The man’s body straightened from the impact, then his shoulder and chest folded over the hood where his head hit against the windshield. His legs lifted up, rolling him over to the roof, and he bounched off, landing face first onto the pavement.
    The air was dense with black smoke. It floated there for a moment and thinned away. Keyshawn could see through the rear-view mirror the man lying there sprawled out with his face upward to the light with blood spurting from his mouth as his eyes went back, showing only the whites, and his neck twisted at a slant. His eyeglasses were crushed and his yarmulke had rolled off his head and fallen over, lying against the grate to a gutter.
    Several of the neighbors sprinted from their porches and into the street. They gathered around the man. Someone kneeled down beside the body and checked for a pulse. Then, the neighbor looked up and nodded, indicating that the man did still have one.
    Keyshawn lowered his eyes to the steering wheel. He wanted to hate himself, but he instead chose not to and then checked the rearview mirror again to see if they were being followed.
    They were not, so he made a right turn, following a route that led out of the neighborhood. The slight chill blowing through the hole in the window brought to Keyshawn’s attention that he didn’t want to make this car visible to the local authorities. There were streetlights everywhere, making it almost impossible for him to lurk through, so he took an alternate route back to the city.
    The back roadways were deserted.
    Keyshawn felt his heart rate return to normal and his nerves eased. He was ready for the drive home, so he pushed the seat back and moved the steering column up to give himself some extra leg space. He navigated through each intersection, speeding up at the beginning of each block, and cruising through until he reached a stop sign where he then slowed down and stopped behind the crosswalk. He continued to drive this way until he reached the outskirts of the city.
    Very few words were exchanged for most of the trip. Keyshawn and Will had both made some mistakes; yet out of pride, neither one of them tried to correct the other. However, Keyshawn started thinking. Why hadn’t he pulled off right away? Or why did he run over the man when he clearly could have swerved around him? He wanted to explore his thoughts and somehow find an understanding?
    “I ben thinkin’,” Keyshawn said, slowly articulating each word. “Maybe I need to go back to skcool.”
    Will smiled. “C’mon, Cuz,” he said, surprised to be having this conversation, “you know sckool iz for da hoes, to keep up wit da latest trend en to chill out with da fellas.”
    “Yeah, but let me be real fo’ min’id,” Keyshawn continued to press the issue. “Itz seems like, back ack home, everyting I know seems tue be bullshyt, you know whut I’m sayin’? Lik I can’t be myself cuz I got to try to live up to sumting dat I know I’m not. Either I waste half my money ack da mall, or ack sum damn party, or trying to get into sum club.” Keyshawn drew his foot off the brake and stepped on the gas pedal. The car crossed the intersection. “And I ben tue tue many parties, you know, and I’m lik, what am I celebrating? Ain’t dun shyt my entire life. I aint going nowhere. I mean fo’ reel, Will. Caint I be nobody else?”
    The amusement disappeared from Will’s face. He studied Keyshawn for a brief moment and then responded coolly, “so whut are you trying to say?”
    “Dis ain’t me anymo’.” Keyshawn finally admitted. His words had made a leap from the denial of a choice of lifestyle to a personal conflict. He had now decided to confess to someone how he really felt and he didn’t want to omit any information.” I feel lik I ben runnin’ away fum sumthing. You know, I sumtimes find myself in uh corner, giving’ up, and dat I shouldn’t do nuthin’ bout it. I don’t know alot, cant do alot, but stead of doin’ sumting bout it, I jus’ cover it up wit tings I really don’t need lik new clothes, or flashy jewelry, or braggin’ bout how many bitches I fucked, you know whut I’m sayin’? Deres people out dere doin’ tings en aw I can do iz be da same ass lazy muthafucker on da corner and I might be stuck dere fo’ da rest of my life. Whut type of example iz dat fo’ my kidz or fo’ my lil’ brother?”
    “So you thik skcool ‘pose to help?”
    Keyshawn nodded.
    Will flipped down the visor. He now extracted a small piece of dead skin from his bottom lip and flicked it across the dashboard. “Da only people I know who worked hard en college and made it wuz ether yo’ mama who iz uh teacher or sumwon who played ball en dey didn’t go nowhere, but dropped out and ended up wit sum factory job. So whut da hell are you gonna do?”
     “Dunno,” Keyshawn stareted to mistrust Will’s motives. “Maybe I can git a degree and find uh honest job.”
    The Monterrey reached another stoplight. A pair of bright lights flashed from an oncoming car that traveled in the opposite direction and then disappeared.
    Will closed the visor. There was no expression showed in his face when he turned to look at Keyshawn. “I don’t have time to lissen to your bullshyt.”
    “Ain’t no bullshyt.”
    The stoplight turned green, but Keyshawn kept his foot steady on the brake. He fought with this dilemma: The conflict between knowing what he was capable of and the world’s opinion of him. He did not want to stand on a corner, or play ball, or even rap. No, it was when he read the newspaper or magazines, or went to the movies, or took a walk downtown that he felt he could merge with people in the crowd. He wanted to be part of the something different. He wanted to be given a chance, even though he was ignorant. He had realized he was handicapped by poverty, lack of education, and just plain misfortune, but he knew enough that he didn’t have to live the way he did simply because no one in his family or anybody in his neighborhood had bothered to journey out of their surrounding limitations. “You know,” Keyshawn decided he wanted to disrupt the tone of the conversation, “I saw someting tonite.”
    “Whut?”
    “Uh college student.”
    “So.”
    A collage of thoughts gathered in Keyshawn’s head. He sorted them out and then coerced them into words. “Do you know any young mothers walkin’ round our neighborhood telling der friends or der family dat dey wants der baby to grow to be lik you? Or me? I steel cars fo’ a livin’ and no one ever came up to me and said ‘Aye, you really doing sumting good fo’ yourself,’ or ‘I’m proud of you.’” The words now shrilled out of his mouth as he spoke them at a faster tempo. “Aw I hear iz, ‘Did you hear bout Ethel’s grandson? Da cops hauled his lazy ass off to jail again.’ And do you tink anywon cares? Fuk no. It jus one less sonofabytch off da street.”
    Will grunted, negating this fact. “Maybe you’re rite,” his head turned toward the window. A glint of green from the traffic light colored the tip of his nose. “But you paid your grandma’s rent didn’t you?”
    “I ain’t trying-”
     “Didn’t you?”
    Keyshawn measured the sum of the question, but he didn’t like the answer, so he didn’t respond.
    “Your son ate last nite, didn’t he? You got sum nice clothes in your closet, dunt ya? So why da fuk are you complaining fo’?”
    “I steel cars-.”
    “And you good ack it. Dats whut God put you on dis earth to do and so goddamn it, do it. I understand you have your good days and your bad, but you have to learn to live wit it.” Will jammed down his Yankee cap and slumped back. “En whut you gonna have to realize, cuz, iz once you in, deres no way out.”
    Keyshawn smacked the steering wheel with his opened hand. “Man, I don’t believe dat bullshyt anymo’.”
    Will finally lost his cool. “Okay, cuz, heres da deal.” He sat up in his seat and leaned forward, resting his eyes in the palm of his hands. “You ben to jail twice, so dat means you twice da fuck up. And plus dat, no man, white or black, iz gonna hire your ruthless ass. You can barely read, so your bess bet iz tue enroll ack some ghetto azz community college program to git your GED. Den whut? Who gonna give you any money fo’ college? You a felon. Wit your record, you’ll be lucky if you ain’t stuck cleanin’ up shyt aw day en a publik bathroom fo’ da rest of your life jus’ tue pay off one sirmester of college. Fuk dat. I tried to work. Eight dollas an hour iz not gonna to cut it.”
    “But-”
    “And whut bout your family? Your grandma needs dat surgery, rite? Your baby’s mama pregnant again, ain’t she? You got tue lil’ kidz to feed, don’t you? And dey jus’ cut da damn gas off at your crib again. So whut you gon do bout dat? Read uh goddamn. Hell naw wit dat. Your dreams dide da day you dropped out of high skcool and had uh baby. So stop acking like a bytch, grow up and drive.”
    Keyshawn opened his mouth to speak, but the words stifled in his throat.
    What could he possibly say to that? What was so discouraging was not what Will had said but how he had said it. It astonished him so much that it even ushered a tear. A sense of strangulation swept over him as he sat there now, hating himself for the predicament he was in. No. The predicament others had put him in, but because of his pride, he had not wanted anyone, especially Will, to know that his life was entirely conditioned by their attitudes. Keyshawn was never brave enough to venture outside his circle and gain confidence in himself and establish his own rules, which he knew were different from those accepted in his neighborhood.
    However, what was it that troubled him the most?
    It was the stillness in his life he could no longer tolerate. His routine of having nothing to do but wait around for the day’s excitement of eating, drinking, fucking, and finally sleeping, just to wake up and do it all over again had finally sobered him up and forced him to face his problems. Yes, he stole cars and peddled drugs, but he often felt like the victim. His neighborhood stripped him of his power, disciplined his natural ambitions, and incarcerated him from the simple joys and freedom of life. And it was those reasons that led him to blot everything out with weed, alcohol and women. He believed, if he allowed himself to feel the full effect of his life, the result would only come down to an immeasurable burden of misery.
    So there it was. Keyshawn had now opened the door to a room full of emotions no one else beside Will knew, but he was devoid of words to further explain them. All these doubts and frustrations he had had been the reason why he lashed out and hit that man with his own car. Keyshawn just wanted to accomplish something that showed his individuality that would catch anybody’s attention.
    God how he dreamed of being free.
    Keyshawn shut his eyes. He knew in his heart he wanted to be somebody else. He wanted to be better, but he just didn’t know how.
    When Keyshawn opened his eyes again, he glanced at a billboard a block down from where he had stopped the car. A pair of young men with a woman standing between them posed in front of a large, beautiful white-and-turquoise campus. The words written across the top of the billboard in black bold-face letters read:

West Campbell University
Demolishing life’s obstacles, one lecture at a time.

    Keyshawn lifted his foot off the brake and stepped on the gas. The Monterrey drove through the intersection and traveled up the dark deserted street back to the bright lights of the city.

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