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
