by Sylvester Brown, Jr.
June 30, 2022
It
took my mind a minute to process what my eyes were seeing.
I
was sitting on my bed watching an episode of “The Boys” when I noticed a figure
creeping toward my bedroom doorway. Other than the TV light, it was kinda dark
in my upstairs apartment. I couldn’t see the face clearly. My mind went through
the checklist: It’s not my girlfriend. This body was bigger and beefier than my
brother, Tommy, who lives next door. These are the only two who have keys to my
apartment.
“N***a,
who the f..k is you?” I shouted like a semi-illiterate, Samuel L. Jackson.
Please
excuse my use of the N-word here but, damnit, sometimes it applies…for black
folk that is, not the descendants of those who’ve abused the word to snatch the
lives, liberties, and freedoms from blacks.
In
my young world the word applied to trifling, no good, thieving, lying, raping,
or murderous black men. In my old world, it’s still apropos.
I
jumped from the bed and got directly into this stranger’s space. He backed up a
bit too slowly for my comfort.
“Am I going to have to tussle with this dude? At 65, can I still tussle?”
Still, I kept advancing, keeping my eyes on his hands as he back
walked toward my kitchen.
He nonchalantly handed me my keys and said, “you shouldn’t have left these in the door.”
I was taken aback. “Did I leave my keys in the door?” Maybe. It didn’t matter.
This dude should have knocked or shouted before creeping into my apartment.
“Outside,”
I said, glaring into his creepy eyes. He tried to say more but I pointed above
his head. “I said, OUTSIDE!”
He
left and hustled down my steps toward the courtyard. I took a quick inventory
of my apartment: Wallet was still on the stand in the kitchen. Nothing seemed
to be missing from it. My laptop was on my desk, and nothing looked out of
place.
Then
I got mad. “This N***a was in my freakin’ house!”
Anyway,
I grabbed my “weapon” and went looking for the dude. I was urged on by images of him creeping
toward me still burning in my memory. What if I were asleep? Would I have been
woken by a knife in my chest or a bullet blazing through my body?
I
live in the Old North neighborhood, not far from Crown Candy. There’s an
interesting collective of people here. It’s comprised of working class,
lower-working class and people doing what they have to do to get by. Let’s just
say that seeing the occasional crackhead in the vicinity isn’t that rare.
Once
downstairs, I saw two neighbors from across the street standing in the alley.
“Did
you guys see a creepy-looking dude in a greenish shirt?” I asked.
“Yeah,
he just walked around the corner,” the male neighbor answered.
It
was sort of heartwarming to see how my eclectic neighbors-my brother, a
constant rehabber, a back-alley mechanic, and some people I’d never met- gathered
behind my building all discussing and searching for the mysterious intruder.
I don’t
know why but I didn’t call the police. I just thanked the God’s that I wasn’t
harmed or robbed. I double-locked my door and went to sleep.
The
next afternoon, standing in line at a fast-food joint, I pulled out my wallet. The
$45 I thought I had was gone.
“I’ll
be goddamn…that MF did rob me!”
When
I got home, my neighbor, the rehabber, knocked on my door.
“That
guy who broke into your apartment, walked into another guy’s house and was harassing
the young lady who lives below you,” he informed me.
Apparently,
the other guy whose home was invaded had called the police. No one has shown
up, the rehabber informed me.
It
was then that I decided to call the police. Within a half hour, the rehabber again
knocked on my door to tell me the police were downstairs. I don’t know if my
call had anything to do with their visit or if they were responding to the
other call or both.
Anyway,
it seems the rehabber and back-alley mechanic had done some impressive reconnaissance
work. They knew where the dude lived, how long he lived there and who his girlfriend
was.
Me
and the other home invasion victim gave the police our accounts of what
happened. Fifteen minutes or so later, there was another knock at my door. The
police wanted to know if I’d get in the back of their cruiser to identify the
suspect. Through tinted windows, I saw the creepy-looking, black dude again,
this time handcuffed between two police officers standing against a building
about six or seven dwellings from mine. He had the gall to have a put-upon look
on his face.
“Yeah,
that’s him,” I told my driver.
The
next day, I got a call from the circuit attorney’s office wanting to know if I
would testify if they decided to prosecute the guy.
“Yeah,
sure,” I answered.
This
whole interaction has left me stunned. The thought of what the guy might have
done to me if I was asleep or what he may do to others; me being on the side of
the law and genuinely appreciating their work-all of this has left me in a vulnerable,
disturbing, introspective mood.
Mostly though, I’m still grappling with the eerie reality that this apparently up-to-no-good, possibly nefarious, possibly drugged out, creepy-ass n***a was actually in my house.
Sylvester Brown Jr. is a long-time St. Louis journalist. He currently writes for the St. Louis American newspaper and is the author of three books, "When We Listen: Recognizing the Potential of Urban Youth; White Castles with Jesus & Uncle Ray at the Used Tire Shop and his first novel, Gateway Gas. More information can be found here.
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