I remember it well, like yesterday. When my mom and I packed up and moved across town. K-Town became the South Side and our storefront home became a brownstone. She sold it to the local Baptist church on Kostner Avenue and done so right after we got robbed in broad daylight at gun point. To this day I still feel that shotgun barrel firmly pressed against my jaw and the anger of having my life jeopardized for a few dollars and a charity jar full of coins.

I understood why she did what she did, but quite honestly I didn't want to move because of all the cool friends I had and what the neighborhood offered fun-wise. Now what I really wanted was a redo and have that crook on the other end of it, in tears, with closed eyes, praying to live, but that chance never came. Such an experience forever altered how I dealt with the world and those within it. I learned what hate really was, so I handle it the best way I knew how, which was to confront it on without fear and hope and remorse.

Still, I flat out disliked the idea of starting fresh and introducing myself, but I made the most of it by doing what I had done before. I would walk around to see what I could see and whom I would meet. It didn't hurt looking like I did. Some kids would just stare. Others would approach out of curiosity and treat me like the alien I was and administer the third degree. The who, what, where, how and why? before they determined whether or not I was cool. For awhile the world I met was okay; however, there were days when they weren't.

On those days dudes would just walk up and make blanket requests and expect them to be carried out, hinting by not doing so had risks. Claiming their gang affiliation, whether directly or indirectly, endowed them with special authority. They could do whatever they wanted when they wanted and do it to whomever. Contact with them often went sideways. For one, I wasn't having it. I had already faced death along once and with that came a strong dislike of having my soul threatened. This led to many fist to lip replies. Why bother sharing harsh insults or diplomatic acts. Just get it over with and do how I felt and to their surprise they found out real fast I wasn't a pushover, having better hands than them and able to hold my own, and with that word got around which in itself attracted further challengers.

I mean, come on, there weren't too many places for a freckled-face, blue-eyed, dreaded black boy could hide. I stood out. What bothered them most was what I had done to them and I didn't look like the typical stereotype who normally did it. I had taken up karate and boxing, kind of. Much of my knuckle game stem from watching tons of martial arts movies and boxing matches on television and listening to Theoda. My favorite uncle, war veteran, truck driver, one-time resident, and dangerous silverback. He taught me how to use what I saw and knew properly. Because of him, I became ambidexterous, improvisational, and cutthroat, and he implored that if I must defend myself I should shame them until they submit.

"Remember," my uncle reminded. "Most bullies don't expect to meet a better versions of themselves. Street fights aren't about fairness, but respect, so do what it takes to win or draw. Never lose. Losing is bad. Or else, they'll never stop fucking with you as long as they believe they can bully you." I had never forgotten his advice and although I had no need for it where I used to live, it was necessary now. I only wished I didn't have to knot up so many faces to disprove what I wasn't and earned that all coveted look and head-nod of acceptance.

Suddenly, I was jarred awake.

When I woke up darkness had fallen, the Greyhound Bus I was riding on climbed onto a parking lot. My mom unaware of what I had gone through since our move had decided to send me south, from Chicago to East St. Louis, to spend time with my kinfolk for the summer. As I sat up I nursed a crook in my neck. I couldn't believe I had slept so hard for so long. The trip was abnormally lengthy. An extended window view of Illinois scenery and highway traffic, of small towns, odd landmarks, and stretches of farm land. And somehow I slept past it all, including hours of loud snoring, loudmouths, crying babies, infrequent debauchery, fidgety smokers, and unsteady walks by passengers to reach the bathroom.

I also lost out on meeting fascinating people who would board at makeshift bus stops, gas stations, or stand at roadsides. Them all predominately regular folk, the forgotten, and ill-defined. People who moved invisibly about, rubbing off on each other, with looks and dialects, in their quest for a better horizon, or somewhere familiar.

As soon as I saw that bleach white stucco building I knew I was home. The driver chimed over the intercom our location. Then he proceeded to give instructions. The regulars knew them well, about the risk of getting off and wandering too far. They could mistakenly get left. Since no one else stood up. I easily had the aisle to myself. I began navigating it slowly, offering my apologies, while trying to avoid extended legs, as not to disturb other hard sleepers. In the rearview mirror I could see focused eyes watching my approach. Up ahead and to my left, two attractive black women began fawning over someone outside. I knew right then it was my ride. There leaning comfortably on the backend of his car was an ageless, firmly put together, and very elongated but dapper senior citizen. He flicked his lit cigarette and began striding effortlessly toward the bus.

“Damn he’s pretty,” said one colored woman, as she lightly rapped on the window, trying to get his attention. My ride being easy-going, looked up and blindly waved, but the tinted windows prevented him from seeing who had knocked. “Let me by,” she told her friend. “I got to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” her friend replied, physically impeding her ability to enter the aisle. “We almost got left last time over some cute looking nigger. So sit your hot-ass down.”

“So! We made it didn’t we,” she laughingly said, as her heavy behind hit the seat. “So I like them tall and bright. I can’t help what I like.” Suddenly, she stretched across her friend to touch my arm. “Say baby, is that your daddy out there?“

“No ma’am. That’s my grandfather,” I corrected.

“Grandfather? Oh my lord,” as her face lit up in delight. “Girl, that’s his pawpaw.”

“For true,” the other lady responded. ”That’s your pawpaw? Damn! That old man is one pretty nigger and he knows it too. Just look at him. "

“Say baby, what’s his name?”

“Sweetlove.”

Their looks said it all, however I didn’t linger but left them, uninterested in further amusing two overly coy black women. I felt giddy about being back in my birthplace, because I knew there would be far less drama and more babying and fun. The driver asked if I had any luggage to claim besides what I had thrown across my shoulder. "I do," I responded. So he took hold of a silver lever and turned it to open the door and followed him right out. Once I stepped off I was immediately greeted.

“East Boogie,” he shouted. “What it is Grandson? Damn! Look how big you've gotten and that crown it has grown longer too?”

“Yeah I have,” I replied. “I blame it all on you.”

“That's fine. How's home?” Granddad asked pointedly. “I ran into your uncle awhile back. He told me what was up."

“He did, huh. Well, I had fun this year,” I grinned. “Not as many fistfights. I kept my dukes mostly on standby. Spent much of it going all over the hood and unbothered too. Freedom of movement felt so strange. I'm no dummy though. I still wear blue jeans and white t-shirts and Pumas everywhere. Nothing envious nor colorful. Why get mistaken for a gang member."

“That's good. I'm just glad all that boxing and wrestling he honed done the trick. I figured it would." Granddad pocketed his hands, then he looked down at me. “Curiously, how many of these fights were initiation related? You know?"

“Not really. Wait, a few might've been. Some of them were supposed friends. They thought by beating me up they'd get in. None passed though. Not at my expense." I replied. “They now stay out of my face, except for the most bold. I do feel bad for them though. They're getting it bad like my uncle said."

“Your mom knows?” Granddad hinted, “About all this fighting?”

“I doubt it,” I replied smugly. “She did wonder why I would come home looking all scruffy sometimes and I would tell her it came from playing sandlot football at the park.”

“Well, I suggest you stop stopping at the park,” he replied. "That way you won't have to keep lying."

“Yes sir,” I told him. “I’ll do my best, but I’m no sissy. Punk neither.”

"Just don't become your uncle, alright."

"I won't."

Chicago was a rough place to grow up, especially on the South Side. He once lived there, so he knew what it could do. How the city raised up boys faster, harder and gladiator-like, to die far too young. It made push back necessary despite its perils because the forces of dispair would never let up. I had seen it upclose and personally. Thankfully our discussion soon concluded and he pursued another topic. “Alright then answer this? Who is taking care of that mane back home? I know it's not your mother. She wants them cut."

“I know, right." I amened, "But I have a friend-girl who looks after them. She doesn’t mind.”

Looking quite puzzled, he inquired, “What's that? A friend-girl? Where’d you get that from?”

“It just fits,” I replied.

Just when I was about to define it, the bus driver whistled to get our attention. He had been waving futilely, while standing beside the side luggage claim doors. I apologized, then pointed out which items were mine. Two items were targeted. A footlocker and a spinach green duffel bag. The driver struggled dislodging both before successfully landing them on the ground. He then shut both doors and walked away, bidding farewell, and ordering all the stranglers smoking to re-board, including that horny black lady. Moments later, off it went to its next destination.

As I drugged my luggage, the car was being backed up. So, I guided him when to stop. He came to the rear, popped the trunk, and easily loaded both. Once in the car my grandfather returned to our last discussion, about what was the difference between a friend-girl and girlfriend. He found the wordplay interesting and sought clarity.

While driving he spun the wheel in his very casual yet attentive way, randomly tapping my shoulder, and sharing his own acuity, advice and wisdom about the matter. “From what I've heard thus far, it appears the friendliest girls like you more,” he grinningly said. “While the others just like you for you. They all probably like it that you’re a badass. The other reason could be they just find your peculiar look attractive."

Home was reached. A simple large yellow brick three-bedroom home, having white trim, and a very large wrap-around porch. The doorway, walkup, and wide concrete steps were all centered. I could see the second car parked in the driveway. Granddad recommended leaving the luggage where it was. He would bring them inside in the morning to avoid disturbing an asleep Grandma.

Upon entering I noticed how much the living room had been altered yet remain simple in design—a blend of old-fashion and modern furniture. Meticulously clean, with its waxed wooden floors, Persian-like rugs, library, African, Indigenous, and Asian artifacts and TV-less. I then reached my bedroom, flipped the light switch, to find it anew.

That long wooden Magnavox record player, which once sat in the living room, now rested against the wall. There was a full size bed, matching upright dresser, carpeted floor, television, and multiple shelves of vinyl occupants, but the drum kit and instruments were gone.

“Where’re the drums,” I whispered?

We silently moved to the back of the house. He hit the light and I was astounded by all the renovations. The back porch had been partitioned. Half of it was now a soundproof studio. It held my grandfather’s drum kit which had grown grandiose. There were multiple Bamboula and Djembe drums, and varying assortments of wood blocks, Clives, sticks and cowbells scattered about. He had gotten a lot done in two years and admittedly Grandma persuaded him to put his carpentry skills to good use and make room for his hobby.

We finally crept back to our respective rooms. And after low exchanges of goodnight, I let Granddad know that I would call mom in the morning. She began her new job at Michael Reese Hospital and went straight there from the bus station. Right after that I closed the door and let the bed capture my fall. I loved my improved digs, back living with my grandparents, if only for the summer, by letting out a constrained sound of joy before sleep finally hit. Tomorrow will officially begin my summer break. Three whole months without lifting my fists. Oh, how nice it felt to grow up anger free again and not constantly battling the world. Too bad it won't last.

Wayne McCray was born in East St. Louis, Illinois, in 1965, and later grew up in Chicago until 1984. He is a graduate of Southern University A and M in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He resides in Itta Bena, Mississippi. Recent publications include Afro Literary Magazine, Bandit Fiction, The Bookends Review, Chitro Magazine, Roi Faineant, The Ocotillo Review, Ogma Magazine, Pigeon Review, The Rush Magazine, Swim Press, and Wingless Dreamer.