For several months when I was a kid, we lived on Powell Street, a lowly urban neighborhood rich with crime.  Daylight brought a liveliness for drugs and alcohol, while nighttime a thirst for violence.  Powell Street was a cautious city block where pilfers and opportunists inhabited the shadows, and a street hustler, Slim Rodgers, stood at the heart of its workings.

Slim was ghetto royalty, a middle aged, bald headed, ebony prince, whose influence pressed on the locals. He was exceptionally introverted with keen observation, often lounging on the porch in his Lazyboy recliner while overseeing the day’s take.  Occasionally, he doled out coins to the neighborhood kids for sweets at the corner bodega. We didn’t dare to steal.  If we were caught stealing, it was said that Slim would ‘get us’.  I thought it meant he would get us in our sleep.

Once, after spending all our coins at the arcade, we headed over to the liquor store to bum for spare change.  Slim found out.  He corralled us together with a heated glare, then marched us up the street to his apartment. After disappearing inside, Slim returned holding a yard rake, trash bags and a velvety purple pouch.  He said that begging was disgraceful, and if we wanted something, we should work for it.  At seven, I had no idea what the word ‘disgraceful’ meant, but I still swore off begging.  Slim handed over the items and tasked us to rake leaves; the pouch was filled with coins.

One summer day in 1981, while Powell Street happened outside, tragedy nearly struck my family.  We were gathered in the rear bedroom of our apartment, my mother tending to the diaper change of her newborn daughter.  My brother, Ray, was making weird faces to distract Sophia, whose bawling was unsettling the quiet evening, while I snickered away in the corner. For my untimely humor, I received the worst detail of all.

“Here…” my mother said as she bundled up the stinky diaper, “…go put that in the trash.”

I clamped the diaper with two fingers and hurried toward the kitchen, my scrunched nose grateful for the midday breeze.  Once there, I chucked the waste into the trash bin, then lustily eyed the fridge as I figured on some stolen sips of Kool-Aid. I peeped down the hallway, cracked the icebox, and guzzled the sweetened beverage.  My mischief was suddenly shattered by an eerie, watchful presence. I turned to the door, and there stood a stranger.

He was tall and beefy with a matted afro, his beard tuft and nappy.  His light colored tee was darkened with stains and drooped over narrow shoulders, and his hulking fist was wrapped around a brown paper bag as he tarried on the porch and peered into the kitchen. Uncertainty fixed our gazes on one another, while the awkwardness of the moment rendered us still.  He then glanced over his shoulder, tugged on the handle and said, “Hey!  Open this door!”

I sat the pitcher aside and headed over to the door, where the strange man dithered noticeably. Stretched upward on my tiptoes, I fumbled at the latch when I heard my mother shout disapproval. 

“Duck, what chu’ doing, boy!  You better git away from that door!” 

I jumped back, confused by the stranger’s face, which twisted in defiance.  A violent pop announced his intrusion, as the door blasted open.

My mother rushed over and pulled me close behind, while I struggled to see around her sturdy frame. The man moved into the kitchen with his eyes wild and his hand fastened to a gun. It had chrome cylinders, much like a cap gun, except heavier and more menacing. Immediately, I thought, ‘I want one’, as the urgency in his voice grabbed my attention.

“Where Slim at?”

“Who?” my mother responded, her own voice standoffish.

“Slim!” he repeated.

“Slim don’t stay here. He lives next door.”

There was an unexpectedness in the air that filled the awful silence, as protector and intruder faced off. Finally, he muttered, somewhat apologetically, “Uh… can I go out the front door?”

A profound sense of relief poured through the room, dousing any signs of trouble. It seemed as though discord had no place wherever Slim was mentioned.  With a nod, my mother permitted the man’s exit, as he tucked the gun away. He then dashed across the living room, peeked through the window and vanished out the door.

Within moments, my mother’s anger turned my way.  “Don’t cha know that man could’ve killed us!” 

Unsure if I was being questioned or warned, I decide to keep quiet. She hauled me to the bedroom where my siblings remained, then she went about securing the house.  When she returned, my mother sat with me and disclosed a terrible truth.

“Everyone who shows up at your doorstep aren’t always good people,” she explained.  “Some may try to hurt you, or worse.”  She counseled me to never open the door for a stranger, and I promised that I wouldn’t.

It would be many years later before I realized the dire possibilities of that day.  I watched as my mother jumped into action to protect her children with little regard for her own safety.  Her devotion was the mark of a great parent and something I hoped to inherit someday.  It was discovered that the man had robbed a liquor store, and he was desperate to hide out.  His intrusion gave me a glimpse into the hostile capabilities of wrongdoers in their efforts to avoid penalty.

However, the thing that impacted me the most that day was the measure of one’s power and influence, how some circumstances are dictated by the promise of retribution. I witnessed as Slim’s reputation alone tamed potential tragedy. I wanted that same power and reputation someday, if only to protect my family. I wanted conflict and disorder to be a fleeting notion in the face of my influence. It would shape my perspective in a way that was flawed, affecting poor choices.

Slim, too, was flawed by certain legal standards, but he wasn’t without decency. He was not the ideal role model for kids, but neither was he unworthy to inspire.  My childhood hero was not some great man honored throughout the pages of history, but I will forever be inspired by the day our lives were secured at the very mention of the name Slim.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a gifted and thoughtful writer who is currently working on two novels. He lives on Death Row but maintains his innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

In June, 1993, I came home after serving 27 months in prison.   While I was gone my mother had relocated from the projects where I grew up to an upscale community on the outskirts of town.  I arrived home to a section of seemly brick homes, spacious yards and lush greenery in a neighborhood that was relatively safe – but boring.

The morning after I arrived, I checked the mailbox at the end of our driveway and later strolled to the neighborhood store, noticing each time I left that I drew the attention of a young boy across the street.  He had sunbaked hair, hazel eyes and skin the color of butterscotch, with a slender frame under clothes that were marked by rough play.  In the yard were toys and other objects to which he showed no interest, seemingly content to sit and stare all day.  When my mother  returned from work, I inquired about the strange boy across the street.

She succinctly replied, “Oh, that’s Chad.”

In the following days Chad proved to be as normal as the other kids as they boisterously played throughout the day.  Oftentimes he tussled with his dog or shot hoops in the backyard, other times he simply observed.  He was around eight years old with two older siblings and a kid sister. Their mother worked two jobs, and their father frequently came and went. Their house wasn’t the most adult supervised one on the strip, but it was a crime-free neighborhood so there was little concern.

One day I set out to walk our dog and saw Chad headed my way at a determined pace, his head held sharp and unwavering.  He stepped to me and asked if he could walk my dog.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. Before I knew it, I was strolling around the neighborhood with the most inquisitive kid ever. Many of his questions had simple answers, though Chad posed them in a difficult way.  He had a budding curiosity that was pleasant company and reminded me of myself at his age.

Soon Chad found an excuse to come over almost every day, whether to help with yard work or to show me something he had found.  His attentiveness gave me such a feeling of relevance that I looked forward to having him around. One time a friend of mine spent the night.  She went outside early for the morning newspaper, and when she returned, she asked, “Who dat lil’ boy sittin’ on ya’ll doorstep?”

I guessed safely and answered, “Oh, that’s Chad.”

Chad and I often fished at the local pond or practiced target-shooting with pellet guns. We washed cars, mowed lawns and played video games all for the sake of filling the days.  He was so willing to learn and committed to work that he never once complained.  And although he could be incredibly annoying at times, he was still the best part of waking up to a new day.

Two years would pass before trouble pierced our rural haven, and I wound up handcuffed in the back of a squad car.  Chad looked on from the curb with confusion etched on his face.  I sat in prison for 31 months for a crime I didn’t commit, and by the time of my release, I was a fragment of myself with little good to offer.

Chad was like a one-man welcoming party, exhilarated by my return. Just seeing him helped me to shuck some of the bitterness and appreciate the warmth of home.  I would peep outside some days and see Chad sitting idly on his porch waiting for our front door to open.  When it did, he would rush over just to say, “Hi.”  He was the reason I stayed home many a day, though my vengeful heart kept me gone most nights. 

I turned to drug dealing and petty crimes to validate my sense of self-worthlessness, carrying on destructively to mirror how I felt inside. I was caught between being a hooligan by night and a mentor to Chad by day, as I appropriated stories of my nighttime endeavors to preserve a wholesome image. Occasionally, Chad would ask if he could go with me to town, and I would come up with an excuse.  Then I discovered that not only was he a curious bug, he was also quite persistent.

One night I arrived home around 2 a.m. to reup on drugs, not the least bit surprised when Chad wondered over.

“What’s up, Duck?  Are you staying home?” he asked.

“Nope,” I answered while in a mad dash inside to grab the dope supply and head back to the block.

When I returned, Chad was still there waiting in the chill of night, determined to get a word.  “Lemme go wit’ chu, Duck.  I’ve got money.”

“I’ve got sumpthin’ to do tonight, Chad.”

It was the scene that had played out countless times before except this time the outcome was different as his shoulders collapsed and his smile faded.  He turned and started for home.

“Hey, Chad….” I called out to him without giving it much thought because at that moment all that mattered was his happiness,  “…C’mon, get in the car.”

Ecstatically, Chad bound over and jumped in the backseat as I dipped inside the house, removed all the illegals, and joined him in the taxi.

We were dropped off in the filthiest, most crime-infested area in the heart of the city’s drug market, where the unlikeliest shadows gave rise to dope fiends jonesing for a fix.  Cars cruised surreptitiously along narrow side streets as dealers kept an eye out for trouble, and while many residents’ doors were closed and bolted for the night, others were just beginning to open.

The first spot we headed to was the bodega for knickknacks and arcades. We then took in a spectacle of rambunctious trash-talkers over an intense game of craps. With loads of money scattered on the ground and vulgarities stirring, I thought it best that we split, and Chad didn’t have to be told twice to move – he stayed close behind. 

Next we walked a few blocks to the poolroom for chili cheese fries and chicken wings, then we settled in a vacant park and scoffed down our meals.  While there, Chad delved up tons of questions, some even provoking thought, and I could tell that he was having the time of his life because I was too. 

We finished off the night with a fast-food breakfast and caught a taxi home at the cusp of dawn. Once there, Chad hopped out with a yawn and said, “Thanks, Duck. I’ll see ya later, a-ight.”

I watched as he shuffled to his house across the street and disappeared behind the door, not knowing that it was the last time I would ever see Chad.

Days later I was charged with murder and within a year I was sentenced to death.  I prayed that Chad would get used to me not being around anymore. 

Four years later, I learned through a visit with my mom that Chad had been killed. It happened during a skirmish that he was fatally injured and his body was recovered in the woods.  I couldn’t believe it – Chad was gone and he was only sixteen.  I sat with the news gnawing at my conscience, feeling crushed beneath a swell of guilt while imagining the inquisitive kid I first met – not understanding why someone would want to take his life. I blamed myself for not being there for Chad and prayed to take his stead.  He was a much better person and deserving of life than I could ever be.

I have lived with the guilt of Chad’s death for over sixteen years with tomorrows still to come, wondering how our lives would’ve been had I not gone away.  I try not to remember how Chad was taken – I remember how he lived, and I’ll forever keep the fond memory of our night on the town together.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and lives on death row. He has always maintained his innocence for the crime he is incarcerated for, but often uses his writing to honestly confront the mistakes he’s made in his life. His honest revelations are an inspiration and a testament to who he is.

Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

Friendships are pleasurable relationships that often stand the test of time.  They are the sharing of ourselves and our innermost feelings with those whom we trust the most. Even cultivating them can be an everlasting treat, like a stroll down the candy aisle of life.  However, just as sweets can be tasty yet terrible for our health, sometimes friends can do more harm than good.

It was a chilly Saturday morning in 1979 – I was five years old. The trailer we lived in was quiet, my mother buried beneath the covers after working a late shift. I poured a bowl of cereal and took my place before the television set, anticipating my favorite cartoons. Suddenly, familiar voices trickled in from outside – it was my older brother Ray, cousin Sam, and Kenny, a neighborhood friend.  I dashed to the bedroom, slipped into some clothes and bolted out the door.  The three of them were bunched together, walking steadily.  Kenny spoke in a hushed tone while Sam and Ray listened. I eased into their group and kept quiet – they paid me little attention.

Their discussion was about the local tadpole pond, which wasn’t much of a pond at all, but rather an abandoned foundation with busted pipes that formed a humongous sinkhole.  We often passed by the vacant site on the way to the corner store, and each time I guessed at the mysterious ripples in the water.  Kenny let on that he and Sam were headed to the pond to see a dog that drowned.  Ray was eight and impressionable – he would follow those two anywhere.  After agreeing to join them, the trio set out while I was tightly wound in their shadow.

We walked a short way before a voice called out and collared me from behind, “Hey, ya’ll, wait up!”

It was Junior, a tubby, spirited kid from around the way who had an enduring appetite for mischief.  He and I were friends, yet often turned rivals whenever my brother was around to stir the competition.  Only then did our Big Wheel rides become fierce battles to the finish line or a game of marbles end in a fight. Our spats never lasted long – Junior and I were usually back to being pals before the turn of day.  His cheeks wobbled like cozy gelatin as he hustled to catch up to our party. 

“Where ya’ll going?” he inquired.

“To the tadpole pond,” I answered.

We arrived at an enclosure and paused to take in the sights, a quaint oasis of thriving vegetation at the edge of the trailer park.  Incredibly dark waters swayed passively with the morning breeze, glistening with the rising sun.  Kenny slipped through a breach in the fence, Sam and Ray soon followed.  I was content to observe from beyond the barrier until Junior squeezed through as well. I tucked my head and dipped past the opening in the fence, fearful yet eerily excited. 

We stood scattered around the water’s edge as the ever dreadful tadpole pond lay before us, polluted with trash and a sodden couch partially submerged at the center.  Kenny pointed out a floating object that was fuzzy and swollen round.   He then looked for something to fish out the carcass while Sam and Ray gathered rocks. Junior fixated on the water and began to inch forward – my curiosity willed me closer.

There were tadpole, tiny critters with long squirmy tails, that flowed along the shallow end.  I squatted low until my reflection bounced back off the face of the water.  It was the first time I’d ever seen a tadpole.

“We need a can,” Junior proposed and disappeared behind me to search for a container. Enthused by the idea of having a pet, I was toying around with names when suddenly I was thrust forward and pitched into the water.

Like a phantom cutpurse, the chilling temperature stole my breath away.  I opened my mouth to yell, but gurgled as the agony gushed in.  My head was a jumble of fear and confusion – frozen with the shocking reality that I was cast beneath the mystery of the rippling pond – and I didn’t know how to swim…

My jacket and denims became weighty with absorption, like linen anchors wrapped around my limbs. Algae and other slush minerals surged down my nostrils and set my lungs afire. I flailed about in a desperate fight against the sinking madness until my wild kicks propelled me above the surface.

Water erupted from my mouth in a vicious spray as the scum fell away from my eyes. I saw my brother racing toward me.

“Help me, Ray!” I pleaded, splashing about to stay afloat until the menacing hand of gravity pulled me under.  I drew in a quick breath and held it tight within as the world collapsed around me.

Slowly, I drifted down into the hazy unknown, kicking, screaming in my head for my mother.  Again, my flapping elevated me, and I burst free from beneath the murky water. Ray shouted words, but they were lost in the frenzy.  Kenny appeared and stretched out toward me.

“Ray!” I cried before my pleas were cut short by another cruel descent into the black.  Lashing out in one final attempt to thwart my tragic end, I somehow grabbed a hold of an object – it was a stick with Kenny holding the opposite end as he plucked me from the horror.

I was drenched, shivering, and felt utterly defeated as I considered the dire possibilities.  Sam peeled off my jacket and replaced it with his own while Kenny assured me that everything was okay. Ray held me tight, but said little as he busied himself with an explanation. And Junior – he was halfway up the block hightailing it for home. 

Today, I saw Junior for the first time in twenty years.  It was a thrilling moment to see how much he had changed, yet concerning for the troubles he faced.  His thick, woolly dreadlocks dangled like tassels over eyes that drooped with sadness, while casting aside his ill-predicament to sympathize for my own. Junior’s trouble was life in prison, mine was the death penalty.  It’s ironic how parallel our lives felt to that day at the tadpole pond.  Still, the quiet agony was short lived and our jaded smiles reciprocated as we stared at one another through a Plexiglas divider and worked to repress our misery.  I realized that Junior was my oldest of friends despite our childhood quarrels. It had been forty years since the tadpole pond, and even now we hurt for one another.  For all the rivaling we did as kids, our friendship survived the chaos – even though he almost killed me, we’re friends all the same. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a gifted and thoughtful writer who is currently working on two novels. He lives on Death Row but maintains his innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton