Hello, World!
I started this blog because I’ve found an amazing relief
from all of my ills in writing. I can be whinny, creative, even informative if
the right topic comes across my mind’s eye. But, I also want to open a window
and expose anyone who cares to pay attention to my writing to all the many facets of light and dark that are part of me. My first book No Loose
Ends is about to be out, and I want to try something different with this blog
post. The story is about Travis Smith, his dealings in a new city (Reno,
NV), and the folks he comes in contact with; but the story is only through his
eyes. What I thought I’d do for you folks leading up to the book's release is to let you get to know some of the other characters of No Loose Ends.
I’m not sure if this has been done before, but I think of it
like this: We are all the main star in our own movies. So, for a few ticks, I’d
like to turn the cameras on Jasper Dubois; or J. Dub, as he’s known and
affectionately referred to. My mind roams free when it comes to writing, and J.
Dub took the form of a light-skinned Louisiana Creole-type brother. If I had to
describe him, I’d say about 6 ft. tall, 195-210 lbs., nice build, wavy hair,
hazel-eyed pretty boy type; with a country/ Cajun accent and a habit of sucking
and shining his gold incisor before brandishing it in his sneaky, slant-eyed
smile. Old school chick magnet in the Al B. Sure, El DeBarge, Mario Van Pebbles
mold; or Chris Brown or Kid Ink with wavy hair by today’s standards. There will
be plenty of time for my rants, and I’ve got a lot cooking, but I’ll turn the
spotlight over to Contraband’s (Travis Smith’s) road dog…. Mr. Jasper Dubois.
Hey now, world. What’s happening? I’m glad ya’ll all been
checkin' out Contraband Tales, but let me tell you one thing: one of the craziest
takes in my 36 years on dis rock was how I meet Contraband. I hail from
Oakdale, Louisiana, where my mama whooped my ass with a ping-pong paddle 'til I
was 14. Back home, the days is long and humid, and about as close to a scene
outta Huckleberry Finn as you can get for black folks. Think Eve’s Bayou, with
flat-screen T.V.’s and the occasional caddy on big rims, and dat's Oakdale. I met my pops when I was 17, down by Spuds; dat's a waterin' hole where you have a few cold ones and shoot some pool. We look
like each other so much, Jasper Sr. (or Jazzy, dey call him) and I, dat his new
girlfriend mistake my back for his and start grindin' on me while he was on da
john one night. He come out pissed off and ready to fight, and it’s like looking
into a mirror.
We get to know each udda fine enough, and he turn me on to a
couple of odd jobs and the ins-and-outs of doin' dirty werk. Most folk bond ova
playin' catch and fishing trips. Me and Jazzy got to know each other ova pool
shots, and in-between heists and armed robberies. I catch my first pinch
because most of Papi’s girlfriends either couldn’t tell, or chose to test drive
the newer edition of the Dubois line. Jazzy always played it off like he didn’t
care if I bedded his bitties; but I think he must have felt some real feelings
for Gale. She was a college girl from Baton Rouge with family from 'round Oakdale. She had deep dimples and a great….
Uh….. smile.
Anyway, Jazzy come home early on a day Gale had called me ova
to take a look at a loose handle, or broken door knob, and I ended up usin' a
lot more den my tool-kit to check her pipes, you know? And he didn’t make a
fuss at the time, but I can see it in his face he’s sick about it. Well, few
days passed and he tell me 'bout dis job of long money for short werk, and I’m
eager to make up for beddin' his main girl. So, I buy into this scheme about
robbin' a jeweler. Dis Jew-boy s'posed to have $80,000 worth of watches and loose
stones in a briefcase cuffed to his wrist, with one bodyguard and a route we
staked out for two weeks. I jump out with the mask on, and Jazzy s'posed to
surprise them from the back; so we get the drop on 'em you know? Problem is, Jazzy never show up. The bodyguard reached for a gun, and I shoot him in the leg and
try to run off before he kills me. The son-of-a-bitch Jew dealer is some kind
of Quick-draw McGraw, and puts a bullet in my ass as I’m running away. Dey come
cuff me in the hospital as the doctor is pulling a .45 slug outta my butt-cheek. I got 8 years for Jazzy’s jealous ass, and I high-tailed it to the West Coast when I gets outta prison. Shit, dat was a good one, but me and old
Contraband meet in Reno. They got one of the shittiest county jails I dun been
to; mostly cause dey wanna make you change your ways or whatever, but you know
how dis shit go. Now, dis one wasn’t too long ago. I was in one of the big new
pods on the hill up at Parr Blvd. And if you ever watched one of dem prison
shows, it look like dat. A big pet store with sad faces pressed against the windows and
movin' around in tiny tanks.
Well, dey let us out to shower, use the phone, and watch TV and shit like that. And each race usually has their own TV. Dat way the
Mexicans can watch dem soap operas, we can watch B.E.T. or sports, and the white
boys can watch motorcross or Seinfeld or whatever.
So, something happened to one of the TV’s where it was down
or maybe the cops were playin' games, but it basically came down to English and
Spanish TV. Now, the Mexicans was pretty deep in this one pod; it was about 40
of them to about 50 blacks and whites combined. Bottom line is, dey was gone
keep watchin' dey soap operas and soccer and we had to figure out some kind of
system for the Americans in the room.
It started out cool enough, they watched the tube early morning
while the brothas slept in, then we’d get it from The Young & The Restless
till 106 & Park was off. But the shit hit the fan during the C.M.A.’s and a
playoff conflict. We wanted to see LeBron in Prime Time, and they had Kenny
Chesney and Taylor Swift on the brain. Now der was dis tall brother kinda
speakin' for us and trying to work out some kind of deal so we could switch
between da two shows during the commercials or sumthin'; but there was a couple
of grimy bikers and an old skinhead dat seemed to want it to be an issue, and it
don’t take much to stir no pot in jail. They all had the look of seasoned
prison dudes. All black tattoos, buff chests and skinny legs. The bikers were soldiers, maybe Aryans
or Neo Nazis. We used to rock-and-roll
wit dem all da time back home. But this brother was younger, he look maybe
21-22. Big kid, like he play ball or should be, you know?
He not cussin' and usin' a bunch of bullshit talk. He really
tryin' to work out the problem, and most of these cowboys is going along. The
skinhead got his arms crossed, and the bikers are leadin' the charge in the other
direction. Eventually, the cops say fuck us all, and turn the TV’s off. But with
no resolution, and no playoffs, we all go to bed salty, like Auntie Pam’s gumbo.
Few days later, it’s early in da morning and business as
usual; brothas is sleepin' in, white boys watchin' Good Morning America and the
police are walking around. These two young brothas is up at the ass-crack of
dawn for some reason and playin' dominoes. The table slams wake me up, so I get
dressed and come out to wash up. They havin' a blast and doin' the dozens on each
other. It was some good "yo mama" jokes and secrets about dey baby-mamas exposed,
dat's fa sho'. But it was loud, and kinda outta line for 9:00 am; plus, dem youngens
ain't have no filter for using the N-word. It's N this and N dat; again, kinda
much for the early morning hours. So I got my face ova the sink, and I hear a
white voice scoldin' the youngens and saying the N-word with the same venom of a
Mississippi water moccasin. I step out, and it’s the skinhead going at the
youngens, swastikas and lightning bolts ablaze. They are outnumbered, but
giving it back as much as he’s barking. I jump in the fray and make the white
boys back up. The commotion catches the cops attention and they start makin' they way towards us. We go in separate directions, but there is plenty of eye
contact saying we gon' revisit the issue fa sho'. The white boys go one way, and I
take a seat with the youngens and we run over the episode as some other
brothas wake up and come over.
There’s a point where we all head back to our cells, and then
the police let us out for lunch-time. Word has spread from cell to cell; and, when the doors crack open for lunch-time, it’s like the "ding-ding" at a boxing
match. In the main area of the pod, one of the youngens swings at the nearest
white person his size; a biker takes a swing at an older brother; and bodies,
food and plastic trays start flying everywhere. The police are on the radio
screamin' for back-up; and the radio is crackling with static, emergency codes
and panicked voices. The tall brother that was trying to make peace is in the
mix with the youngens and wrestling and throwing punches at the same time.
I go looking for the skinhead because he struck me as the pull-a-weapon-type. No need to let one of these kids gets stabbed because he
decided to play dirty. Sure enough, I catch him in a corner of the mop closet
about to grab something, but I get clunked in the back of the head by a big
white boy with a broom handle. I turn around and mix it up with this guy, and he
drops the broom after a couple of jabs and hooks I learnt from ole Jazzy back
in Oakdale. He’s on the ground, not moving, and the police are shouting; but it’s
only two of them in the unit, so they can’t get in the mix until back-up arrives.
Outside the windows, we can see the goon squad all dressed in riot gear, with dey
guns drawn, making their way down the hall. This scene was wild with people
yelling and an alarm going off. Fists was flying, and I see the youngens doin' the most, beating up a couple of punks with tattoos. The tall brother is
getting the better of a biker with a long beard. He can’t see it but this
skinhead has something metal in his hand and making his way over to do some
damage; I know the dirty dog was a weasel when I seen him.
I grab the mop ringer from the closet and move across the
room as fast as I could as the gooners break into the room. There screamin' at us “Get
on the ground, get on the ground”, and I hear pops from gas canisters and bean-bag guns. The skinhead has his shiv ready and is about to poke the tall brotha, and I stop him dead in his tracks with a crack from dat mop ringer. He hits the
ground, den I get hit with a bean bag that folds me over at the waist. Smoke
fills the room, and we’re choking and coughing and getting handcuffed and drug
out with our eyes and noses and running.
It’s (how dey say out west?) all bad. So they hose us down and
give each of us a cell in the hole; where there’s only a 24-hour light and a Bible, that’s it.
I’m down here for a couple of days steaming angry and bored out of my mind. Then, randomly I hear this big laugh from a cell somewhere outside; like a
grizzly bear was being tickled pink or something. I’m so starved for attention
or anything to do, I call out to the laughing bear.
“What’s so damn funny?” The laughing continues and actually
gets a bit louder, like the brotha was having a real loony tunes moment over
der. So I yell out to him, “Hey Slim, is that you?” He stop laughing a bit and
yell back “Yeah! Who’s that?” I say “This is J Dub, who dat?” He holler
back “What’s up, J Dub, dis Contraband, you alright?” I yell at him “Yeah, I’m
good. What’s so damn funny over there?” He yell back “I can still hear that
crack when you took off on that white boy.” At dat moment I could hear the
rattle of the extra-strength plastic and metal smacking against that boy's back
while he was trying to stick up da young brudda, and I start laughing too. We
keep each other cool till we both get outta dat Parr Blvd., and we been friends
ever since.
I hope ya’ll enjoy dis No Loose Ends; and if you get anything from
this story, know that sometimes help comes from strange places; and when you way
down in ya deepest holes, still try to find something to laugh about.
J Dub
