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
It was December 5th, 1998, when I stepped outside of Jimmy’s nightclub at 2 a.m. The strip was packed with inebriated club hoppers loitering on the sidewalks. Cars blared their stereo systems, and the scent of ganja lingered in the night air. With 15 grams of cocaine stashed in my jacket, I decided to head home. I had no intention of being around when the cops showed. I popped on my headset and bopped to the lyrical testimonies of Tupac Shakur, “Come listen to my truest thoughts, my truest feelings, all my peers doin’ years behind drug dealing…”
As dozens of footsteps converged towards me, I was imbued with panic. I trained the gun on the first face that hovered, only to see it was a friend who’d rushed to help. At his request, I ceded the gun and watched as he bolted around the corner. More faces appeared, suspended above me, annoying me with their questions and concerns. My backside raged with pain as if being cauterized with a searing stake, while pressure penned my chest, causing my breathing to strain. With each new face that happened into view, a fraction of the air was claimed, as my vision succumbed to a fierce swirl that distorted the surroundings. Voices were reduced to murmurs over the thumping of my chest.
I closed my eyes, stilled myself, and relinquished my woeful struggles. I drew on a spiritual medium where inner calmness was fostered. Compelled by the notion to atone, I immersed myself in prayer, neither for forgiveness nor some half-hearted attempt to explain away my misdeeds, but a prayer of strength for my mother. I wanted her to know how much I loved her and thought she deserved better. Afterward, I wasn’t afraid anymore. I was ready for the final transition.
One evening we all got together and headed out to Lover’s Lane, a secluded area on the countryside popular for its fishing. Cloudless skies enriched our spirits while songbirds chirped at our arrival. Uncle Kenny went off to search for snakes, believing they hung out in good fishing spots. My brother, Ray, was tasked to keep near my mom to unhook and rebait her rod. Grandma tended to my cousin, Teeka, and I as we settled around the creek with our poles.
I was grinning before Grandma even touched down, thinking, ‘That’s what her mean self gets.’
Then, out from beneath the steel counter crawled an adorable, yet furtive, tot. She wore a teddy bear t-shirt, fluffed trousers, and her plaits were fastened with assorted hair bows. She whirled around to study me with cinnamon eyes that held me in their gaze. A subtle smile crept along her face before I watched her struggle to climb onto the seat, defiant of her pintsized stature. There was a fearlessness, a result of her naïveté, which left me feeling intimidated. I searched my thoughts for an explanation, but they only gave way to guilt. Her confusion was marked by an arched brow as the discomforting silence increased. She then rocked on her haunches, squared her shoulders and declared, “Hi. I’m Caleiyah, and you’re my granddaddy.”