Ordinary Life (eBook)

1

Saint Rose, Georgia

Dawn breaks. Waves crashing in the Pacific send swirls of misting ocean water over this city. Sprinkling. Trickling. The rising sun bends fulgent rainbows through these slow-falling drops of dew. It’s late August. The warmth of summer is dulling, giving birth to the chilling breezes of autumn. Saint Rose, Georgia. A southern reflection of the prestigious Chicago, Illinois. Multicultural neighborhoods. Alleyways made canvases for illegal art. Endless street performers collecting bounds of untaxed profit. Bicycles tearing through the city, mounted by people in unusual regalia. Magicians cast spells of the mind while musicians play the melodies of their souls. Abstract and inspired frequencies surge from every crevice of this city. Desirably intriguing.

As most cities, Saint Rose has ghettos and suburbs. Mansions and shacks. And even with its abandoned neighborhoods and thriving regions, this cultivated city stands tall everywhere it’s believed to matter most. Wealth. Opportunity. Adventure. Nonetheless, people of late have only been drawn to one odious thing in Saint Rose, Georgia – the mysterious and gory abduction of Coca Rene McKinnley. Coca Rene McKinnley. Nineteen-year-old college student abducted from her home four months ago. A nineteen-year-old girl who grew up in this city. A girl obsessed with art, love, and lilies. Obsessed with the sodality of her family. A family not bonded by roots. A family bonded by providence. Six women. Cousin. Girlfriend. Neighbor. Sisters. Best friend. Ordinary. And they all live together, scattered within the borders of Saint Rose.

Up North, plateaus of ghettos are maintained. These ghettos have their leaders and followers. Generals and soldiers. Royalty and subjects. Legacy Boulevard. Preston Hollow. Oates Street. Terrell Heights. Four great plateaus. Four heinous and ruthless leaders at each one’s center. Though, only one leader, one general, holds each ghettos’ alliance and respect.

Welcome to Oates Street.

Rap music beats down the block in an ‘02 Cadillac DeVille owning twenty-two-inch rims and chipping candy apple paint. This car is brimmed with teenagers no older than fifteen or sixteen. Meanwhile, eleven and twelve-year-old’s jay-walk, skipping class to hustle with their influential peers. They shout slang. Laugh profanity. And tease each other with shoves and punches.

This street is patterned with potholes, cracks, and ancient territorial tags of gang graffiti sprinkled with sparkling pieces of glass from shattered bottles of alcohol. Beer. Wine. Whiskey. The smell wafts up from the gutters.

At the center of Oates Street, as the center of a village, sits a castle of sorts. The Rosemount Apartments, known to most as “the Pinks” for their famous pale pink paint job. It is, to the naked eye, unimpressive. Blot. Eyesore. The broken gate to the apartment complex stands open. Flaking paint reveals a lighter pink. Squatters chill. Thieves plot. Trashy hookers strut by. Then –

A wave floods into the people of Oates Street. Waters of pure deference.

A woman walks up the steps of the Pinks. She’s suited comfortably – grey sweatpants, slides with purple socks, and a plain white t-shirt. With a newspaper gripped tight under her arm, she treads boastfully. Cousin. The Queen of Oates Street.

Pop! Pop! Gunshots fire nearby.

Everyone is whipping out their phones. Calling. Gossiping. Trying to figure out what’s happened. Everyone but her. She continues up the steps. Swiftly. Fluidly. Slides scoffing each step. Her reticent demeanor firmly opposes her appearance. Rich brown skin soaked in an array of elaborate tattoos covering her neck, arms, and legs. Portraits. Pin-ups. Scriptures. Tags. A snake bites piercing with gold studded rings protrudes from her bottom lip. She twists these gold studs with the tip of her tongue. Round and round. Long thin dreadlocs flow past her neck, braided straight back with a fresh edge up. She secures a purple durag over her braids, Winnie stitched across the front of this durag in yellow threads.

As she makes her way to her apartment, she is seen. Residents, older and younger, exchange dap with the Queen. Head nods. Fist bumps.

Just before she makes it to the top of the staircase, a young man steps in her path extending a hand –

“T.D., man! What’s up with you?”

Tanecia Drawers, the Queen, better known by her street name – T.D.

“What’s up Tommy?” T.D. smiles, dapping the young man up.

Tommy shrugs, “Same ol’ shit, you know? Different day, same hustle.”

“You been good though?” T.D. leans back on the railing. “Heard about your pops. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Tommy smiles wryly. “Cancer a bitch.”

T.D. takes a breath, “I’ma have to catch you later alright? Hit me up if you or your mom needs anything.” She levels eye to eye with him. “I mean that. Ya pops don’t deserve that cancer shit. Neither do you or ya moms.”

Tommy smiles and nods. They exchange dap again, and he continues down the steps. T.D. continues up. Makes it to the top. Walks down the second-floor walkway.

“T.D.!” a girl shouts, the spectacle of berets clipped to the end of each of her many braids popping against each other as she runs up to T.D.

A swarm of children surround this little girl. All equally eager to see T.D.

T.D. laughs, “What’s go’n on everybody?”

“You coming to the Candy House later?” one kid asks.

“Mama Tee said Unk making chili pies and chicken sandwiches,” the girl with berets explains.

T.D. scratches her head, squatting down to their height, “Sound like something I can’t miss out on, huh?”

“You gone play Combat?” another kid asks.

T.D. grins, “Only if you really bout it!”

The kids ripple into laughter and gossip –

“You gone get your ass handed to you!” a little boy shouts.

T.D. laughs, standing to her feet, “Oh, that’s cap! Ya’ll go downstairs now. Know ya’ll ain’t supposed to be running up and down these stairs man.”

They all go tottering down the stairs, except the little girl with berets. She waves back to T.D. –

“See you later!”

T.D. continues down the walkway to her apartment. More dap. Acknowledgement. Respect.

“Damn T.D.!” a woman whines.

T.D. turns to see three women in bonnets and pajamas leaning against the railing. Smoking. Looking down at people in the parking lot. One of them steps forward in ice cream patterned pajama shorts working her neck –

“So, you can’t say good morning to nobody?”

T.D. rolls her eyes with a smirk, “What’s up Denise?” She sticks her newspaper in the waistband of her sweatpants, opening her arms to give Denise a hug. “How ya kids do’n?”

Denise pops up on her tippy toes, draping her arms over T.D.’s shoulders, “They do’n good. Real good.”

T.D. steps back, “That’s good. They bad asses’ downstairs?”

“Mhmm. They gone be at they daddy house this weekend, gi’me a lil’ break,” Denise leers. “You should come through,” she suggests. “It’s just gone be me and my best friends.”

The two other women in bonnets wave at T.D.

T.D.’s eyes buck, “Well I –”

“Winnie! T.D. baby, is that you?” a small elderly woman wearing a bright pink apron calls as she comes up the stairs.

T.D. whips around, “Hey! Mama Tee!”

“Text me and le’me know, okay?” Denise pouts, walking back to her friends.

T.D. laughs, shaking her head as she walks over to Mama Tee, enveloping the frail woman in a tight hug.

Mama Tee smacks T.D. upside her head, “What on earth you do’n out here, huh?”

“What are you talking about Mama Tee?” T.D. asks, rubbing her head.

“Now I, you, he, she and them know that you out here running things and taking care of folks,” Mama Tee nags. “Can’t just be putting yourself all in the open with no protection Tanecia! Who knows what crazy foolishness might be going down!”

“Come on Mama Tee, not the government name!”

Mama Tee puts her hands on her wide hips, “I’m serious child.”

T.D. raises her hands, continuing towards her apartment, “I’m headed inside now, Mama Tee.”

“Mmhm.”

T.D. laughs, pulling her newspaper from her sweatpants waistband and gripping it back under her arm. She walks on.

“Hey now, T.D.!” Mama Tee calls.

T.D. turns back.

“You come on down to the Candy House later on tonight. I’ll have Otis cook you and that lost soul in there some good food,” Mama Tee says.

T.D. nods, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Mmhm.” Mama Tee rolls her eyes, walks off.

T.D. arrives at her apartment – 222. Walks in. Closes the door it. Locks it. Bolts it.

The living room is hardly homey. There’s nothing with any genuine meaning. No pictures. No throw pillows. No decorative décor. Just a worn sofa, a game console plugged into a forty-inch television, and a plain wood paneled coffee table topped with an...