TWO MINUTES
TWO MINUTES
BY
D. JOEL LEE
PUBLISHED BY
MORPHEUS PUBLISHING
28 E. Jackson Bldg. Suite 1020 #M85
Chicago, IL 60604
Phone: 7083511905
Morpheuspublishing@yahoo.com
Contact the Author:damianjoellee@yahoo.com
Copyright 2010 by D. Joel Lee
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
ISBN 1461120144
Printed in the United States of America
CHAPTER 1
THE BEAUTIFUL BEGINNING
AUGUST 9, 1981
WASHINGTON DC
Goon was such a handsome child at the age of five that he often kept a much older woman holding him or openly admiring his smile or being lured in by his charm. Though Timothy Washington had one brother and two sisters, all with darker complexions, he was a lighter shade of white chocolate with hair that hung down his back in corn rows, dimples deeper than eye sockets and a manipulatively charming smile. A smile which remained plastered to his face most of the time. However, he wasn’t smiling right now. Goon looked more like a frowning smurf. “Fuck you! When I get old I’m gonna get me a gun and kill you,” he said.
His hands were balled into fists. His eyes were welling up with tears, and he was shaking a little.
“Goon, don’t say that to Jason,” Taya, Timothy’s mother, said with a grin stretching her face.
Jason stared a Taya, appalled at her obvious disregard for her son’s behavior. Jason was Taya’s male companion of the month and Goon was turning out to be a bit more than he could handle. Goon had knocked Jason’s bottle of beer out of his hand and onto the floor, and punched him square on the chin. When it was apparent that this was more entertainment to a drunken and high Taya, Jason punched Goon in his chest a little harder than one would be inclined to hit a five year old child. Goon fell to the floor briefly.
“You better get him before I hurt him,” Jason said.
“Goon, go to your room. I don’t know why yall always fightin,” Taya said.
Goon darted to the bottle lying on the floor, picked it up and threw it at Jason. Jason lifted his arm to deflect the flying bottle. The bottle shattered on his forearm.
“Goon!” Taya yelled.
“I’m gonna kill you,” Goon exclaimed. He flew into the kitchen and retrieved a steak knife from the knife drawer, ignoring the shouts of his mother whose high was quickly being blown.
“That little mothafucka,” Jason said, rubbing his bleeding arm.
Taya stood up on wobbly knees. She sat her bottle of beer down and reached for the broom in the corner.
“Goon, I’m gonna whip your ass,” she said.
She gave Jason a towel and the joint she’d been smoking and began sweeping up the glass. When she’d swept the glass into a pile on the middle of the floor she leaned over in front of Jason, kissed him on the lips, and apologized for her son’s actions. Jason just shook his head and pressed the towel against his burning arm.
“Your youngin is the devil. Why aren’t the rest of your kids like him?” Jason said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“He got it from his crazy ass father. He act just like him,”
Taya said.
Goon came flying into the room, as if straight out of a classic depiction of hell. He held the steak knife above his head. His face was a mask of fury. His eyes had the cold look of a seasoned criminal.
“Goon,” Taya screamed as she hastily slid out of his way.
Jason’s eyes widened as Goon flew past his mother and plunged the knife into his thigh. Goon pulled the knife out of Jason’s leg just as Jason kicked him across the room. Goon slid into the pile of glass, cutting his back and arms. Taya screamed again as she watched this situation spinning out of control.
Jason jumped up and limped over to Goon who was rolling over and trying to shake off the blow. The knife lay on the floor by the back door of the apartment, out of reach. Jason began punching Goon like he was a grown man. Taya yelled and yelled while Jason brutalized her son’s body with crushing blow after blow. Every time a crying Goon would attempt to get away, Jason would drag him back to him and continue pounding his small body.
Taya couldn’t seem to get Jason to snap out of it. She snatched the 12-gauge shotgun from beneath her mattress. She yelled at Jason again.
“Stop it Jason or I’ll knock your fucking head off!”
But Jason wouldn’t stop. He’d flipped all the way out. Taya yelled and screamed all to no avail. Finally, she cocked the gun and jousted him in the back of his head with the barrel. When Jason turned around as if he would attack her as well, she pulled the trigger, exploding Jason’s head like a watermelon dropped from a skyscraper.
BOOOOOM!
Taya was a jumble of nerves. How could she explain something like this? The house smelled of marijuana. There were cocaine capsules stashed everywhere. She also had an automatic .22 caliber placed casually beneath her mattress. But her son lying there bleeding, barely breathing meant a lot more to her than imminent incarceration or even the temporary loss of the children. She dialed the emergency phone number, made up a story about an addict forcing open the back door and trying to rob her, and began trying to stash everything a little better. She picked Goon up and laid him on the bed. Slight moans seeped from his lips. She felt how limp his body was and knew there were some broken bones.
“I got him for you, Goon. I got him back baby.”
She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead. She knew that smelling like a liquor store wouldn’t help matters, but she needed something. She grabbed a beer from her miniature refrigerator and guzzled it down. She fired up a Newport and inhaled deeply. Her foot tapped the floor as she stroked Goon’s head.
“You gonna be alright, baby. Ok? Don’t die, boy.”
She glanced over at the bloody corpse sprawled on her floor. She thought of her children outside playing. She heard knocks on her front door. She heard faint sirens from a good distance. Taya knew her 16th and Isherwood apartment would be taken. Her children would be taken. She had to do something. She took all the cocaine capsules she’d been selling and put them in Jason’s pockets. She also removed his money. She retrieved the .22 automatic and wiped her fingerprints off the weapon, peeped out the back door, ran across the alleyway and threw it in a dumpster, ignoring the few stares from nosy neighbors whom couldn’t have missed hearing the KA BOOM of the shotgun only minutes ago.
When she re-entered the house, blood from Jason’s near decapitated head was running all the way to the door. She heard the sirens growing louder in her mind. Closer. She wiped the prints off the shotgun as well as took Jason’s hands and put his prints all over the gun he’d known nothing about until seconds before his death. She’d also removed everything except the capsules from his pockets.
The sirens were very loud now, she could’ve sworn.
She returned to Goon, who was now twitching in obvious pain on the bed. His lips were moving, but his words were too low to be heard. The pounding on the front door was now rattling the walls. Her head was twirling. Her ears were ringing. Her judgment was impaired. She pulled another cigarette from her pocket with a trembling hand. She’d just killed a man; the man lying on her floor in the same room with her.
She inhaled the cigarette. The arid aroma of gunpowder, blood, marijuana, beer and death permeated the room. Taya stroked her son’s head one more time before creeping to the front door. Reaching the door, she saw the weak frame cracking from the pounding it was taking from the outside. Her children’s voices echoed off the outside hallway walls. This was worse than the time the men had jumped through the window and stabbed her husband to death.
Well, she thought, I’ve made it through worse.
CHAPTER 2
STICK EM UP
JULY, 1989
Goon had gotten his name from a television program his mother had been watching one day. Goon was very intelligent but it had been apparent that he had his own agenda from the start. He never listened to his mother. His siblings were terrified of him, and Timothy Washington reveled in his ability to strike fear in individuals that were bigger than himself. He’d always been in trouble for biting, punching and scratching while in school.
It just so happened that the police department didn’t side with Goon’s mother on the evening of the tragic event. What was worse was that Goon’s mother had been under investigation for several months beforehand. The family had been split up. Goon’s mother was thrown into jail and had gone into an unshakable depression, verging on the brink of insanity.
Goon now stayed with his aunt, who lived on the 1700 block of E street in North East DC. His Aunt Michelle wasn’t fit to be a mother by far. She was a dedicated heroin addicted booster. She received her welfare checks and stole everything from TVs to car batteries. Goon’s other siblings were as far away as District Heights, Maryland and his brother stayed in Clifton Terrace in North West DC with a friend of the family.
Goon actually enjoyed the freedom his aunt gave him. He never was chastised or yelled at. He also stole from his friends’ houses. He fought at least once a week for the tiniest irking of his immature nerves. But lately he’d been finding more and more of an attraction to the 1600 block of E Street. The 1600 block differed greatly in appearance from the 1700 block. There were windows missing from the apartments. There wasn’t any grass where the grass should’ve been; only dirt remained. At least one car stayed on the street. Looking as if it’d been tortured to death and burned afterwards. It wasn’t rare to see police cars flying to this location. A body lying on the corner twitching, bullet holes puckering portions of a victim’s face, also wasn’t an event causing surprise.
Goon had been in several fights on E Street and he’d been jumped on by four youngins on one occasion. For the most part, Goon had the gift of heavy hands, quick reflexes, and a high tolerance for pain, and enough heart for five men. He wouldn’t allow anyone to run him away. He also enjoyed the attention he received from the older young women whom he had no problem showing off or dancing for.
Goon enjoyed the constant drama which seemed to come along with 16th and E Street. It had been only a few weeks ago that Goon had fought Lil Mikey, who had a reputation with his fists. Goon and Lil Mikey fought in the middle of the street while the older young men and women urged them on. Goon had been ready to cry after only six punches. It was only when Mikey tried to throw a combination that failed that Goon was able to capitalize and hit him so many times that Mikey fell and curled up while Goon pounded him beyond submission.
On this particular occasion, Michelle had been notified.
“Did you whip his ass, Gooney?” She’d asked, touching his swollen face.
“Yes,” Goon had said, proud of himself.
Big Ty had approached Goon a few days later and offered him a way to make money. He’d taken Goon to get a few outfits, a couple pairs of shoes and he’d put a few bucks in his pocket. Ty had talked to Goon, told him to go to school every day and come and see him when school got out. Goon had listened and in turn learned how to cut crack cocaine, how to weigh it, and he’d watched it being cooked. After realizing that this was a sure-fire way to make more money than stealing, Goon accepted a quarter from Big Ty.
“This is yours youngin. Follow the script. Go to school. Make money when you get out. Whatever you make when you finish, come to me and buy some more. Deal?” Ty had said.
Goon couldn’t believe his luck. As big as the quarter was, Goon could probably easily make $700 dollars.
“Ok, I gotchu,” Goon said.
He’d gone to school on time, tried to stay out of trouble with the anticipation of making his own money afterwards. He attended Eliot Jr. high school and the fights seemed to come to him over and over again. He fought because of girls. He fought because he wasn’t from South East. He fought because some 9th graders attempted to take his sneakers. But Goon liked to fight and fought well.
Tonight he stood on the corner of 16th and E Streets with a bag of $20 dollar rocks in his pocket. An older man walked up and nodded his head in an exaggerated fashion.
“What’s up,” Goon said.
“Got any 20s?” the man said.
It was about ten O’clock on a Friday night and it was still warm out. Goon pulled the bag from his pocket, not caring about the police coming. Goon was fast as a gazelle sprinting from a starving cheetah. The man looked at the bag for a second, looked at Goon, snatched the bag and took off running.
Lately Goon and his buddies had become infatuated with ninja stars, spiked darts, butterfly knives and switch blades. It just happened that Goon kept a switchblade in his sock. And it was this switchblade that Goon pulled out faster than a speeding 280 Datsun and flew behind the scurrying crack head. Another young man, Jessie, darted out of an apartment hallway on the corner, wielding nothing more than a vicious expression and a confident stride.
Goon followed the thief through alleys, up streets, between cars and refused to lose sight of him.
“You don’t know who you fuckin wit,” Goon panted as he gained on the man, making him look as if he were only jogging.
Jessie was about 15 steps behind Goon. Goon resembled a tiny professional athlete, especially when he dove at the thief, caught the back of his shirt with his left hand, and allowed himself to drag behind the man, using his own weight as a hindrance. With his right hand he rammed the knife into the man’s back repeatedly. The victim began to wrench from side to side, reaching back clawing at the youngin attached to his back. The flailing and Goon’s attack was enough to slow the victim down just enough to allow Jessie to catch up to him.
Just Goon’s luck or the victim’s horrible luck, the three of them ended up in an alley. In the midst of the now outright scuffling match between Goon and the crack head, Jessie was able to catch the thief-turned-victim on the temple with a heymaker that sent all three of them tumbling to the ground. The blood flowed from the man’s back and neck. Goon was covered in blood and dirt from the ground, but he never stopped stabbing the man. Jessie got up and kicked the man and stomped him as he balled up into a pathetic whimpering knot on the alley floor.
Goon’s teeth were bared. This was the ghetto. This was poverty. This was desperation. This was a reality that so few will ever be capable of comprehending.
“Steal again, nigga,” Goon exclaimed, stabbing away.
Jessie’s foot came down over and again on the man’s head until he stopped moving, but Goon didn’t seem to notice. He kept stabbing the man a full two minutes after he’d ceased twitching, moaning, and breathing.
Goon had grown up without ever getting what he wanted unless he stole it or took it. ‘Mommy’ did all she could and had still never had a thing but more needy kids. When someone worked legally or illegally in the ghetto to get something better for themselves, nobody had better come along and think they could just take it. Goon had witnessed a man being murdered for a gold chain while he was only six years old. He’d seen a young lady beaten to death with a crow bar because two youngins hadn’t learned any other way to release their frustration here in the ghetto. When there’s no money, there’s usually a lot less understanding; a lot less compromising; a lot less consideration; a lot less room for error when it comes to infringing on those who are fighting in any way possible to get it.
“Bitch nigga,” Goon said, spitting on the man.
Only then did he realize that he was nearly twelve blocks from his strip. Only then did he realize that no one was paying any attention to the neighborhood crack head being demolished in the dark alley. Only then did he look up at his older buddy, and the look in his eyes told him that the man at his feet was dead.
Goon’s heart was racing. He was heaving from fatigue and settling adrenaline. He looked around the alley as fear and realization of what had just happened began to set it. Instinctually, he clutched at the man’s hand, ultimately biting on it in an attempt to pry the man’s hand open. Finally the man’s death grip released and Goon took his smashed bag of cocaine. He and Jessie jetted out of the alley way. Goon hoped his fear of what they’d just done didn’t show. Never once did he look back.
CHAPTER 3
LORTON, VIRGINIA
JANUARY 1995
When the ragged bus pulled up to the front gate of the Youth Center in Lorton, Virginia Goon was rocking back and forth in his seat. Staring through the wire-mesh-covered windows, seeing the parked cars of the employees and the gun tower directly beside the first entry portion of the fence, Goon knew the moment of truth had arisen. He’d gotten away with numerous armed robberies. He’d assaulted plenty of people with very few repercussions. He’d shot several individuals, one fatally. Hell, he’d gotten away with his first murder at age twelve. Jessie, who seemed to stay incarcerated, called Goon a ‘…lucky muthafucka.’
Goon stood in front of a young lady’s apartment on Girard Street in North West, DC one afternoon. She seemed to be taking forever and two days to come outside. As soon as he got out of his ‘93’ Maxima, an Econoline van pulled up beside him and two men jumped out wielding .45 caliber weapons. One of the men grabbed Goon by the arm. The other pressed the gun to his side.
“Get the fuck in the van.”
The back doors to the van swung open. Everything was happening in warp speed, it seemed to Goon. He recognized one of the two men. That face. Yes. That one face, which now was hard, almost sculpted into a grimace, was once the drooling cowardly face of a scared-to -death victim. Goon’s victim. It was as if the forces were no longer with Goon at that moment.
His mind raced. His heart thumped. His fear was quickly overridden by rage. Ironically, he had a Gloc .40 handgun in the small of his back, tucked into his belt. He knew getting into the back of the van meant imminent death.
“Hell no! Kill me right now. I ain’t getting in that van,” Goon yelled. He also tugged urgently in the opposite direction.
Young men, women, people peering out of windows, now took more notice of the event transpiring in the middle of the street. One of the young men pressuring Goon to get into the van now glanced around nervously. The people weren’t running or hiding. They just stood, watched, stared. It was as if an attempted armed kidnapping in broad day light was mesmerizing, inducing the now many onlookers into an unwavering trance.
Goon took the indecisiveness of the perpetrators as his cue. With a fluid motion, he whipped the gun from his waist band with his right hand while pushing forcefully at the arm of the culprit pressing the gun into his side with his left. Goon fired the gun.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
There were screams. More shots were fired. There were screeching tires as the van sped off. It seemed as if the entire atmosphere grew thicker than an old tube of Elmer’s glue. Time stopped.
Goon stood there resembling a madman on a mission. His nose was wrinkled. There was fire in his eyes. His hand was plastered to his weapon. He saw the van speed around the corner with one of the perpetrators pulling himself thoroughly into the vehicle. The other man was lying on the ground at Goon’s feet, unmoving. Goon jumped into the Maxima and took off.
He hadn’t been caught. He remembered calling the young woman he’d been waiting for on Girard street after he’d parked his car in a friend’s garage.
“Hello,” she’d answered.
“I’m gonna kill you. Bitch.” Click.
He also remembered the perpetrator he’d seen lying on the ground that day, giving a statement saying that Timothy Washington had shot him in a robbery attempt. The lucky streak had definitely run out. Goon knew he should‘ve shot the man again instead of just assuming he was dead. Goon hated fakes and snitches.
The gate rattled open in an ungraceful fashion. The bus pulled into a dock of sorts with yet another fence in between the vehicle and the Youth Center #1 compound. The gate closed behind the bus, encapsulating the vehicle in between the two closed gates. The driver got out and another officer peeped inside. Another correctional officer wearing an old .38 caliber revolver on his waist holster looked beneath the hood of the vehicle and then beneath the under carriage. The driver boarded, jumped back into the driver’s seat and began inching the bus forward as the second gate slid smoothly open in great contrast to that of the first.
Few words were spoken although the bus was full. Expressions of intense concentration, feigned fearlessness, genuine inquisitiveness, and looks of boredom, even, spoke an altogether different language than that of verbal communication. After all, this was Lorton. The infamous Lorton. The stories were known by every criminal in DC. Everyone knew someone who’d been here or was currently in one of the facilities which made up the whole of the Lorton correctional system. None of the stories were pretty.
The bus cruised down a small hill, made a right turn and came around a bin, pulling into a parking area in front of a small building. The compound actually looked rather scenic. For the most part, all the grass was evenly trimmed. The paved roads swirling around the whole of the compound were as clean and litter free as the paved walkways. The buildings were mostly one story jobs resembling cottages with two to four extensions protruding from each corner. Goon also noticed a few other buildings with slightly different dimensions to them. There were a few men strolling the compound in small groups or standing in front of the buildings with the protruding extensions. Some of the men were approaching the bus as if lured by a familiar smell. Goon thought of wolves and their prey. But Goon thought of himself as a wolf as well.
Come on with it, he thought.
He also noticed the strategically placed gun towers around the fences of the compound. The barbed wire covering the tips of those fences.
“As I call your names, get your asses up off my bus, and stop polluting my seats,” the officer yelled with a booming baritone voice.
The new arrivals were shackled, handcuffed, and the hand cuffs were connected to a chain in circling each convict’s waist. Each convict wore a blue jump suit and jacket.
Soon Goon was processed, given some paperwork along with his property and told to follow the other convicts up the hill to R&D to get his bed role, and blue pants and shirt uniform. From there he was transferred to #4 dormitory, one of the buildings with four protruding extensions. Goon was 18 years old. He’d known that prison was a possibility but he’d never done a day of time. The DC jail had been a reality check. The experience had definitely put him on guard. He’d never expected to have ended up with a 12-year Youth Rehabilitation Act especially after he’d given his lawyer his last few thousand dollars.
“Give me your paperwork, youngin,” the guard at the desk in the office said without even looking up at Goon.
Goon was tempted to tell him that his name wasn’t youngin, but he thought better of it.
It happened that the dormitories were set up with the TV room and the C.O.’s office in the center, cottage-like portion. Each protruding extension was a wing which had been given a specific letter acting as the wings’ indicator. Each wing had approximately 25 rooms with doors that the convicts were supposed to have the keys to. However, most of the locks were missing and so were the majority of the keys. There was a basketball court directly outside the TV room surrounded by a fence on one side and enclosed by A and C wing on one side and another court on the other side, enclosed by B and D wings. Each wing also had a gate at its head which was closed and locked at night and during count time. This gate allowed no convict off the wing while it was locked.
Goon was assigned a room on C-wing. P.I.S.S. (Problem inmate Sanitation Squad) wing. His roommate was a large fellow with an even tone and respectful demeanor. Goon dropped both his bags onto the floor.
“What’s up, slim,” the large young man said.
“Ain’t nothing,” Goon said.
“They call me Seal.”
“I’m Goon.”
The two men shook hands.
“Chow time!” an officer screamed from the top of the wing. The gate slammed twice and convicts stormed off the wing. “Let’s go eat. Goon. We’ll straighten everything up when you get back. I know you’re hungry,” Seal said.
Goon followed the rest of the convicts off the wing as his new roommate waved him on and took a detour into the bathroom. Goon strolled across the compound in the general direction of the large crowd in front of him. Many individuals stared at him as if he were a smoldering meteorite that had just landed in the middle of Youth Center#1. He noticed a few familiar faces but he wasn’t quite sure why they looked familiar. He’d learned quickly from his experiences in the DC jail that agendas tended to change based on circumstances as well as immediate peer groups. Goon had no idea what type of times any of these brothas were on. But he’d heard about Lorton game.
He went through the line and found a table left unattended. He wasn’t that hungry, although he couldn’t figure why. About ten minutes later he heard someone calling him. “Hey Goon. Over here.” Seal waved him over to another table. Goon picked up his tray and ambled over to his room mate’s table. There were two other people at the table.
“Hey, Goon, this is Rock and this June.”
“What’s up,” Goon said.
“Where you from?” Rock asked.
“North east,” Goon answered cautiously.
“Oh yeah, what part?”
“Near Hechinger Mall.”
On the way back to the dorm Seal pulled out a pack of Newport cigarettes and handed Goon a few. When Goon fired up the first one his head began to spin. He hadn’t had one in two days. For some reason he’d been placed into a non-smoking block at the jail. He enjoyed the minor buzz and thanked Seal, noticing how ape-ish he looked. His nose seemed to stay flared out. His permanent expression exuded anger and frustration, yet he neither spoke nor behaved the way he looked. His shoulders were broad, and he stood about 6 feet 2 inches tall.
“Go ahead and get yourself straight homie and I’ll holler at you later on,” Seal said, stopping at the top of the wing.
“Ok”
When Goon arrived at his room, he noticed that both his bags were nowhere in sight. Everything of his was gone.
CHAPTER 4
DIE HARD DOLL
JANUARY 1995
Dahlia sat in the driver’s side of her blue Maxima at the red light on 7th and Florida Avenue. Two other young women occupied the vehicle. Dahlia had no problem sporting her man’s car all around the city. After all, she was Goon’s woman. She was down for him no matter what. If he wanted her to drive to Tijuana and back for him she’d do it. Dahlia loved Goon with a passion.
She sat at the light, admiring herself in the rear view mirror. She was a few shades lighter than charcoal with slanted, captivating eyes. She stood five feet two inches tall, and though she could eat her fill, she maintained a flat stomach accentuated by a round buttocks and size 36 C cup breasts. Her perfectly full lips stayed tightly pursed, as if she were always holding back a biting comment or remark. She could stare at herself for hours. Her hair was kept short.
Dahlia aggressively made a right turn onto 7th Street. Her eyes were a bit more slanted than normal on this day, and it didn’t take but a quick glance to the right to get her friend Monica to pass the marijuana blunt her way.
“Damn, you gonna smoke it all? And watch where you let them ashes go,” Dahlia said.
She remembered Timothy telling her how fine she was. How much he loved her. How he’d do anything for her. Goon and Dahlia were the perfect couple. And they were both 18 years of age.
In reality, the conversations usually went something like this: “You crazy, psycho, Egyptian looking bitch. You lucky you got some good coochie or I’da probly kilt your ass.”
Yes, but Dahlia knew what Goon was really trying to say. He loved her. And she knew it. The fact that he’d given his car to that slut Tiara meant nothing. It was simply a mistake. He was just rushing or he wasn’t thinking properly.
But it wasn’t a difficult process to remedy that situation. Dahlia had simply waited for Tiara to come home one day, after thoroughly researching her habits and place of residence, and ambushed her, along with two companions. They basically strong armed Tiara for the car, threatened to invade her parents’ house if she didn’t produce the title, and drove off.
Tiara, not understanding how serious an item Goon and Dahlia were, attempted to come and visit Goon on several occasions while he was at the jail. A raunchy scene which ended in Tiara being beaten pretty good or badly, depending upon how one viewed the picture, by Dahlia and her two buddies was all it took to get her to stay away from the jail.
Dahlia was born and raised in N.E. DC near the Brookland subway station. Her parents were very gentle, compassionate people. They’d given Dahlia everything they could afford to give her. For the most part, Dahlia was reserved and passive while in the presence of her parents. She’d known they were push-overs at a very young age. She used to feign a crying fit well after the age of ten. And lo and behold the parents would ‘come a runnin’ to their baby’s rescue. “What’s wrong honey?” “Sugar, are you alright?” “What is it? What can we do?” and so on and so forth. Being an only child was heaven.
It had always been too easy. But Dahlia enjoyed a challenge. All the “You’re sooo sexy,” and the “I’ll buy you anything you want if you’ll be my girl” were immediate turn-offs. Oh, but she’d accept the gifts and then simply discard the givers. Dahlia hated weak people, especially weak men.
She’d always been short, and this somewhat of a disability forced her, in such a chauvinist, tall, beampole society, to become more aggressive, more daring, and in many cases just more outright wicked than her male or female counterparts. At the age of 14 she’d spotted a young lady with a pocket book exactly like her own. No one else in the school had a bag like that one. When she’d told the young woman never to bring her bag back to school, the young woman became belligerent. Dahlia, by that time, had grown to enjoy hurting people, either by leading them on and then laughing at them while letting them down uneasily or by instigating some sort of altercation between two or more people, or by physically assaulting someone. On all of these levels, she’d learned many tricks. On this particular occasion, she’d simply allowed the young lady to take her stand. Dahlia came out of her shoes and earrings and patiently waited for her opportunity to administer her latest perfected trick.
The young woman swung. Dahlia weaved swiftly swiped her hand across the young woman’s face. An almost dainty maneuver. Dahlia kept her nails perfectly manicured even back then and they stayed perfectly filed as well. The young woman reached for her eye with both hands, screamed as if she’d just seen white death in the distance, and ran from the school yard.
Dahlia had appeared to swipe at the eye as a grizzly bear might be inclined to playfully swipe at its cubs. But Dahlia had intentionally scratched the surface of the young lady’s eyeball. She put her shoes on, smiling as the young lady fled the school grounds. Of course, Dahlia had been suspended, but upon her return to school she never had to worry about anyone mimicking her style unless she allowed them to. Her disposition and countless charades earned her the respect of many young women whose follow-the -leader faculty was highly developed. These constituents ultimately became to Dahlia what the domesticated dog becomes to the owner who loves to say ‘sic em!’ She’d earned the title
‘Die-Hard Doll.’
“There she is right there,” Monica said, pointing.
“I see her dilly ass,” Dahlia said, pulling her car up to the bus stop in front of Howard University.
“Hey, ya’ll! Today was crazy. This guy Ricky kept on badgering me. Calling me his Baby and stuff. He is so crazy. And Jonathan got really really upset because I was talking to Ricky. But I told him that Ricky was the one talking to me. But Jonathan ain’t even my man, so why was I even…”
“Shut the hell up, Jada. You ain’t even all the way in the car yet and you talkin,” Dahlia said, pulling into traffic, ignoring the angry drivers blowing their horns.
She came to the light and made an illegal U-turn, ignoring more horns and quick breaking cars.
“Oh, hey Doll. Ya’ll got some more weed?” Jada said, laughing nervously.
“You got some more money?” Dahlia said, reaching her hand back to Jada. “Get a cash advance. I’m gonna stop at an ATM machine.”
Dahlia remembered her last visit with her soon-to-be husband at the jail. She’d watched Timothy’s mellow expression turn to one of fury. This turned her on. Timothy, happy, upset, ready to kill, sad, whatever, he turned her on. She felt unlike herself. It was as if his very presence was capable of sucking the power from her while simultaneously stimulating her on various levels. He melted her.
She managed to stay poised, attempting to maintain her composure. But she couldn’t stop the smile from spreading her face. Her God stood before her. She could almost smell him, taste him, feel him.
Goon snatched the phone on his side of the thick glass separating the visitors from the gentlemen in the blue jumpsuits. He did not sit down.
“What the fuck is your problem? Are you retarded or something?”
He yelled into the phone, expecting to see Tiara.
“Sit down, baby. And stop raising your voice at me,” Dahlia crooned in her most passive tone.
“I’m serious. Are you fuckin retarded?”
“Timothy, you know I love you. I’m going to be the one handling your business for you, baby.”
Goon glared at the convicts on each side of him and he glared at Dee Dee, sitting beside Dahlia, before taking a seat reluctantly himself.
“You are fucked up. I mean real fucked up. You roughed off my car and my girl? I should get your head splattered to a wall,” he said, pointing a stiff finger at Dahlia. Dee Dee waved and mouthed a hello.
“Tell her I said fuck her, too. Look. I’m going to tell you this one last time. Leave. Me. The. Fuck. Alone. I’m telling you some good shit. And don’t ever call me Timothy again.”
Goon dropped the phone, stood up and punched the glass four times.
“Get me the fuck out of here!”
As an officer ran over to where Goon stood, Dahlia mouthed an ‘I love you’ through the glass and blew him a kiss.
Yes indeed, that is a man, she thought as she tucked the money order into her pocket.
“I thought all the money was for weed,” Jada said.
“This is for my man. My man comes before any of you bitches,”
Dahlia stated.
She almost heard Goon saying ‘I do’ at their pending wedding. Timothy would be her husband and her babies’ father in the very near future. They were just too compatible.
“As a matter of fact, I’m about to drop you off anyway. Where are you going, Jada?”
CHAPTER 5
IT’S NOT A GAME
JANUARY 1995
Goon’s heart had lurched when he noticed his things were missing. He immediately went in search of his celly. When he couldn’t locate him, he began walking the compound. After a stroll that only lasted halfway around the campus-like compound he ran into someone staring at him intensely. Goon was furious and paranoid at the same time. He knew the weapon of choice in this type of environment was the knife.
While Goon was at the DC jail he’d seen an opportunity to make a weapon the first time that the crazy lady, Doll, showed up to visit him in his woman’s stead. He’d unscrewed the ring off the lower portion of the phone and placed the alloy ring into his shoe, attempting to walk as normally as possible. Once back in his cell, he’d used his stool, which had a single hinge that allowed it to swing from beneath the metal desk. Attached to the hinge was a protruding piece of metal welded to the portion of the swinging stool closest to the hinge to stop the stool from swinging all the way into the wall.
This portion between the stool and the hinge allowed him to crack the alloy ring on the side and also flatten the ring into a straight object. He then used an indented portion beneath his window to sharpen the item.
A week later, he’d managed to unscrew the shower head on the shower. He’d noticed that the shower head was very solid and painted enough at the tip to be of use to him. Later that day he’d taken his boot off and used the shower head as a makeshift chisel. He placed the tip of the shower head in between the groves in the screws holding his mirror onto the wall. After banging the screws loose, he’d taken the entire mirror loose, disposed of the mirror itself, and used the stool to break the frame down into four separate pieces. He disposed of the mirror and kept one long piece. There was a very thin opening in the part of his sink that acted as a spicket. This small opening in the spicket was only wide enough to slide about 10 sheets of paper through. It was this slit that he used to break a jagged point off on his soon-to-be weapon. Finally, he used the wall to sharpen his shank.
He was now much closer to the gentleman who was still staring at him. Goon did not have a knife, and he hoped this guy wasn’t one of his robbery victims. At that moment he began to recognize the man staring at him. A smile appeared on both men’s faces at about the same moment.
“Troy?”
“Goon?”
And they chorused, “What’s up!”
The two men shook hands and embraced. Troy had been incarcerated since age 15. The two men had grown up together.
“Man, I done seen a few people I recognize, but it’s really good to see somebody I know,” Goon stated, still clutching Troy’s hand.
“Oh yeah? Jason, Moe, Chink, Lil’Rob, big Ty’s cousin. Man, everybody’s down here.” Troy said.
“Hey, I need a knife,” Goon said.
“Damn. For what? You just hit the pound. I can get you over here with us,” Troy said.
“My stuff just got stolen. I checked everywhere. All my shit is gone.”
“What! Where they got you at? Who’s your celly?”
Goon answered all Troy’s questions and when he finished Troy was very upset.
“Yeah, I’m trying to find my celly. He seems pretty cool,” Goon said.
“No, no, homie. All those dudes are snakes. That’s why they stay on that wing. To steal all the new dudes stuff. Seal is vicious with that type of shit.”
Goon thought about it. This was an entirely new environment. A new atmosphere. A different collective mentality. Ps and Qs alone wouldn’t cut it. A person had to raise his entire level of consciousness here. Goon became angrier.
“Yeah. Get me a knife.”
“I got that homie. But I’m gonna hollar at the dude and try to get your stuff back.”
Goon was led to #3 dormitory and met up with many of his other buddies that he’d grown up with. He was given a knife with ridges going all the way up on the side. It also had a loop of material dangling from the handle.
“What’s this for?” Goon asked, holding up the loop.
“That goes around your wrist so the jont won’t slip out of your hand when it gets all bloody.”
Goon sat in #3 dormitory smoking cigarettes while Troy and someone Goon didn’t know went over to #4 dorm. About 20 minutes later, they came back.
“Your stuff is back in your room. Don’t worry about it. He didn’t know who you were,” Troy said.
“So it was my celly?” Goon asked.
“Yeah. But don’t worry about it. He’ll probably try to get you high tonight to make it up to you. Just chill. He ain’t know. Those dudes are fucked up.”
Goon nodded his head slowly. He didn’t mention the incident again, but reminisced and layed back with his buddies. The plan was to get him into #3 dormitory the following day, and away from the snakes.
Later that night Seal asked Goon if he smoked weed or not. Goon said he did. After the final count cleared for the night, Seal covered up the door and fired up a long, rather healthy joint. Goon noticed that nothing had been said about the thievery incident, but he knew that this was Seal’s way of apologizing. However, Goon did not feel like smoking. He didn’t inhale. Seal and Goon talked for about an hour and a half before mutually agreeing that the sleep demon had won for the night.
Goon got onto the top bunk and lay there, still as a mountain, thinking. He began to hear loud snoring in less than fifteen minutes. Goon lay there for about 10 minutes longer. He jumped off the bed. Seal continued snoring. He put his shoes on. Seal continued snoring. He pulled his knife out and placed the loop around his wrist. Seal snored on.
The wing was locked. There was barely any noise on the wing. Goon guessed everyone had had their share of marijuana for the night. It was time to go. His feelings and pride had been hurt. He’d been tricked in less than 20 minutes of being on the compound.
Goon plunged the knife into Seal’s groin area three times very quickly and forcefully. Seal groaned and tried to jump up. Goon began stabbing away at Seal furiously, frantically, and fanatically. He’d had no plans on letting it go. He couldn’t. Come what may, his mind was made up and he’d never been one to look back.
Youngins were supposed to be schooled by the older guys, not stolen from, Goon thought. He knew Seal was strong. He knew that Seal may also have a knife. He just didn’t care. He was going to get things set straight from the gate. If you disrespect Goon, you’re going to be dealt with, was the message he was sending out to Seal and any other vultures that might see Timothy Washington as vulture food.
Seal grabbed Goon and slammed him into the book shelf sitting up against the wall. Goon bounced off the wall determined, pushing his knife with quick, rapid, powerful thrusts. Seal was quickly a bloody poor excuse for a roommate. Try as he may, he couldn’t muster the strength or speed to fight off Goon’s unrelenting attack.
“I’ll take your life, nigga. Steal again!”
It was déjà vu. Goon was twelve years old again. Seal might have well been holding a bag of $20.00 dollar rocks in his hand. Goon stabbed away.
The commotion drew a few people from their rooms.
“If you come up in here, I’m gonna stick you. Whoever you are,” Goon yelled.
There was a rattle of keys at the gate.
Seal finally ceased his defense tactics and simply bulldozed his way to the door, catching several more rapid punctures to the back while en route.
The gate slammed. The officer at the top of the wing called the code. Seal, running toward the open gate, collapsed onto the floor and did not get back up.
“Everybody, get in your cells. Get the fuck in your cells,” the officer yelled.
Goon didn’t exit the room. He tossed the knife out the window after wiping it off with his shirt and also tossing the shirt. He knew the officer hadn’t seen him do anything so he couldn’t write much about it.
Vans sped to the dormitory. Officers flooded the wing.
“He came from out of that cell,” the officer standing over an unconscious Seal said, pointing towards Goon’s room.
When the officers’ bum rushed the room Goon lay face down on the floor, putting up no resistance whatsoever. The officers cuffed him and snatched him from the floor by the backs of his arms.
“What the fuck is your problem? You don’t do this type of shit on my shift, boy!” the guard said.
By this time, Seal was on a stretcher, being taken to MTA, the medical department, which wasn’t far from the entry gate to the institution.
“I didn’t do shit,” Goon said.
“Hey, we got the knife and his shirt outside,” another officer exclaimed.
Unfamiliar eyes stared at Goon. He couldn’t quite make out the thoughts or feelings behind the expressions, but he met every stare eye to eye.
He did know what his own expression meant:
“Try me again,” it said. “And I’ll try to kill you.”
CHAPTER 6
THE ROCK
JANUARY 1995
Goon was freezing like a cone from the Good Humor truck during a scorching summer afternoon. His cell’s walls were made of some form of aluminum or metal. The perfect freezer. There was nothing but a bunk bed, a sink and a toilet in this cell. And this was a cell indeed. The sliding door was made of steel bars. The windows and the heater were outside of the cell. The bunk bed was so small that he sat on the lower bunk hunched over with his shoulder blades resting on the bottom of the top bunk. When he lay down his feet dangled from the edge of the bed. It was a shame that these cells had actually been constructed for men.
He’d only been allowed to bring 4 pair of boxer shorts, 4 pair of socks, 4 T-shirts, 1 bar of soap and 1 tube of toothpaste. Absolutely nothing else was allowed. No books, cards, radios, nothing. This was #5 tower, also known as the Rock. If there were no buildings, or anything located on the Youth Center Compound besides dry land, an individual could literally walk a straight line all the way to the rear of the institution from the entrance, and he’d run directly into The Rock.
It was actually a gun tower with 8 cells inside of it. Each cell was supposedly constructed to accommodate two men, four cells on each side of the tower.
Goon saw trees and some odd looking scurrying creatures outside. He hated the cold, and this particular cold felt as if it’d seeped all the way down to his bone marrow. There was no noise. No music. No one talking. No one banging on the walls. No one rapping or doing any of the nerve racking things that convicts did to pass the time in situations like this one. These same nerve grating activities, performed day and night, all day and night, were really being looked upon differently now that Goon was faced with this.
Dammit, is everyone dead or what? He thought.
The silence sort of grew on him. This wasn’t proper. This was insane. Staring at the woods. Freezing. No noise. No nothing. He thought of doing some sort of exercises to warm himself but he thought also about how cold he’d be when he stopped for good. And if he’d sweated out his clothing, he’d really be done.
He lay back on his bed. He was really locked up. He missed Michelle. He missed his women. He even missed crazy Doll about now. And she was by far the craziest woman he’d ever rolled around with in bed. This was serious. He was stripped of everything. No mail. No visits. No people. No family. No heat! He wondered if they even fed the people they put up here. Of course no one is talking or making noise. They’re all starved and frozen to death, he thought.
Experiences flashed through his mind. And Goon had plenty of experiences, too. He’d tried a lot of things. Even Michelle had taken notice.
“You a hard working soldier. One thing about you. You gonna go and get your money,” she’d said often.
Goon remembered Baby Dolling as it was called. He and some other youngsters would make up colorful pamphlets with pictures of sports stars on them, catch the subway out as far as it would take them and begin soliciting donations. At one point in time Goon had gotten so good that he’d been consistently making $60.00 dollars an hour at the age of ten.
“Good after noon sir. My name is Sylvester Mckenzie and we’re trying to raise money for our stolen basketball uniforms. If you could donate….”
Yes sir that was easy money. But still Goon had become bored with it. There was nothing to it. And he wanted more money. He’d been enchanted by some of the things he saw inside the large houses. The insides of the houses called to him until he’d ended up just breaking into the houses and taking what he wanted.
He’d go to the trick shop in Georgetown and steal everything that wasn’t nailed down. He and some buddies would stroll down the Rock Creek Park bike trail, knocking unsuspecting bikers off their bikes and riding off, selling the bikes later on.
He’d washed car windows, beat on buckets downtown, swept and mopped people’s porches, walked into stores and just snatched what he wanted and ran. He’d sold drugs, robbed and would not hesitate to kill someone if that’s what he thought it took to get paid. Goon had never been anything close to lazy. He just wasn’t too fond of getting pimped like so many of the hardworking people he saw day and night struggling just to survive. While some penny pinching modern day slave driver pocketed the benefits of their labor. Goon saw the world being filled with two types of people: Pimps and Hoes. Winners and Losers. Goon could give a damn what the next man or woman thought. He would definitely stay in the pimpin and winning category.
“Show time.” A scrawny officer appeared at the bars holding some trays.
Goon jumped up and grabbed his tray. He did notice that the officer was holding at least five more trays, so he guessed that there were more people on The Rock.
A few days went by slowly, quietly, almost painfully, but Goon took it. He figured he wouldn’t be here forever. Large dust balls accumulated on the floor. The cold somehow managed to get colder each day. Dinner was served ridiculously early and nights were filled with goose bumps and stomach pains. Goon never knew what time it was. The officer answered no questions.
“Shower?” A humongous officer asked at Goon’s bars.
“Yeah,” Goon said, rushing for his things.
“You got five minutes in the water. No more,” the officer stated
“Five minutes?”
The officer, whose nametag read Mitchell, was already stepping away from the bars.
Goon hadn’t had a shower in at least two days. Five minutes wouldn’t be enough. To hell with what the cop was talking about, Goon thought.
When Goon reached the shower he was trembling and his teeth were beginning to chatter. His toes were so cold they hurt. The shower was one makeshift stall with a concrete floor and one shower head. The entire contraption was carved into the wall, with the temperature gauge and on and off switch on the outside wall. Goon turned the water on hot, hung up his towel and placed his hand into the weak sprinkle of water flowing from the shower head. The water remained as cold as his near numb toes.
Officer Mitchell resembled an ex-football linebacker. His shoulders were massive. His build was solid. His face was a weathered mountain, unyielding. No expression. He may have well been an android.
“Four minutes, twelve seconds,” he said, standing in front of the shower, staring directly at Goon.
“What! Man, the shower ain’t even hot,” Goon stated.
“Four minutes, ten seconds.”
“How the hell you make the water hot?”
Corporal Mitchell said nothing. He just stood there, arms folded across his chest, face as frozen as the concrete floor of the shower. Slowly, the water began to show feint hints of heating up. By now the shower was luke warm or normal room temperature.
“Three minutes.”
“Hey, I haven’t even been in the shower yet.”
“Two minutes 56 seconds.”
Goon took off his boxer shorts and t-shirt and climbed into the shower, wishing the huge officer would simply evaporate along with this entire experience. He shivered beneath the water until finally he felt some warmth.
By the time he got his wash cloth lathered and had begun washing his upper body, the guard startled him with a boisterous yell.
“Time!” the guard bellowed.
“I ain’t even washed up yet,” Goon said with a grimace on his face.
“Are you gonna get out of the shower, son, or am I gonna have to get you out?” The guard stated, matter-of-factly.
As Cpl. Mitchell spoke his facial expression remained neutral. His arms were still folded across his chest. His entire torso expanded and detracted as he breathed.
Goon turned his attention back to washing himself, enjoying the warmth of the now hot shower. The officer had to be out of his mind.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Goon said.
At that, the guard’s expression did change. His eyes widened. His arms left his chest. As cold as it was in the tower, he wore no jacket, simply his gray button up shirt with 2 stripes on the short sleeves. He opened and closed his hands rapidly, approaching the shower. First, he turned the water completely off.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Goon exclaimed.
“I’ve still got soap on my body.”
The guard stood in front of the stall, eyes still wide, shoulders bulging.
“Get the fuck out of that shower,” Cpl. Mitchell growled.
“Nigga, fuck you,” Goon said, staring the guard straight in the eyes.
Cpl. Mitchell lunged at Goon, reaching for his arm. Goon smacked his arm down, threw his soapy washcloth in his face and threw several punches at the guards head. Mr. Mitchell reached for his eyes with one hand and for Goon with the other. Goon slid out of the shower. Cpl. Mitchell grabbed ahold of his neck but the soap prevented him from maintaining his grasp. Goon hit the guard with two solid overhands, one connecting to his chin, the other to his nose. Immediately, he dipped and hit Cpl. Mitchell with his most powerful kidney shot. Cpl. Mitchell’s surprise was obvious.
As soon as the kidney shot landed, Goon lost his balance on the cold floor and fell to the ground. Mr. Mitchell kicked Goon twice, and on the third attempt Goon locked himself onto the guard’s leg, refusing to let go. Ultimately both Goon and the officer ended up on the freezing floor, Cpl. Mitchell attempting to choke Goon half to death while simultaneously kneeing him in his groin area. Goon did his best to keep the officer from killing him.
“Go ahead with that shit, Mitchell,” came from the other side of the tower.
The phone in Mitchell’s poor excuse for an office began ringing.
“Hey, shorty. Fuck that big nigga up,” someone yelled.
Cpl. Mitchell released Goon, got up off the floor and rushed out of the short hallway. In seconds, the phone stopped ringing.
“Five tower.”
Goon pulled himself off the floor, shook his head from side to side like a dog that just jumped from a pond. He checked himself out and came to the conclusion that he was alright. He walked over to the shower, cut it on, picked up his wash cloth, slid his feet back into his shower shoes and resumed taking his shower.