Bodhi Crocodile

Bodhi Crocodile

To find yourself in a neighborhood like this means you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. It doesn’t matter if it’s day or night, if you walk these streets and so much as give somebody the wrong eye, you may find yourself getting robbed, beat up, or worst of all—dead.

If you meant to come here, you better know your way around. Knock on the wrong door and you might be greeted with a sawed-off shotgun. This is not the place for weak people to visit. This is the kind of place the public ignores and tries to avoid. It’s a small section of town where, despite the short time it takes to drive through, people purposely navigate around it.

The complex consists of rundown, single-story housing with four connected apartments for every building. Each has a numeric address but the units are given letters A through D. Cracked sidewalks separate the rows and lead to shared parking lots where some cars sit with flat tires and smashed bodywork. Vehicles with engines that no longer run sit in the grass where they’ve been pushed to their final resting place. The air smells of grease and garbage from nearby dumpsters.

The area is policed by the locals. Adult men ride shirtless on children’s bicycles, pedaling around at a slow pace, approaching visitors to decide whether they’re worthy to be here.

No one decides to move to this neighborhood. Those who live here—this is where they grew up. They learned to adapt at a young age and eventually have to make a decision: one day manage to claw their way out, or acquiesce to the lifestyle. Others can never imagine themselves being anywhere else. It’s their world and how things will forever be. Too many of them have to do what they can to survive, and for most, the methods they choose end up getting them killed.

Some people sell dope; others sell sex. Worst of all, nobody around here has a filter on their mouths. If the men don’t overdose or the women aren’t getting roughed up, then shouting off to the wrong person will eventually get them in trouble. Everyone acts like it may be their last day, but not in a You-Only-Live-Once sense like the hipsters that congregate mere blocks away, but as a fatalistic, reality-driven principle of survival.

There are no weekends or weekdays—this kind of life happens every day. The only time these streets are peaceful is when it rains. Even when the air is warm, the showers fall colder and harder than the self-esteem of most locals who hustle home to take shelter. The wind blows through, replacing the thick tension in the air, providing temporary relief. The showers feed the trees and wash yesterday’s blood off the concrete. It’s as though the Earth needs to cleanse the sins of good weather with harsh storms.

If you see Terrance around, you may get the urge to run away. With his toned muscles and a razor-sharp expression, nobody wants to mess with him. His reputation is one of the few things that permit him to pass through the neighborhood. Even though he’s from the area, it’s not always safe, especially at night.

As a rumble of thunder unleashes a cloudburst of showers, Terrance comes walking down the sidewalk. He realizes he’s been spotted by two thugs in a dark alley. He covers his right arm with his jacket and tries not to wince from the pain. His swollen arm hurts from the elbow to his fingertips. There’s a large blood stain on his shirt and he hopes that it’s too dark outside for them to notice. Both men seem to be looking for trouble and neither care about a potential victim’s handicap. To fight a tough guy with a busted arm will give them an advantage. Fortunately for Terrance, they recognize him as most do, and they know not to confront him.

These thugs fear him. They know he’s dangerous. But he’s not out here trying to run these streets. He doesn’t get involved with things that don’t concern him. He keeps his head down and his eyes on the ground.

Once Terrance enters his run-down digs, apartment A, he’s nothing but a memory to anyone anymore. The doorknob locks with a click, and above it are two deadbolts and a chain. It also has one of those latches they use in hotel rooms. No one ever comes by though, and especially not unannounced. Not tonight or any other, not in three years. Terrance is not like the others. He will warn a visitor to leave him alone, even though sending them away may likely seal their fate by one vice or another.

He waits in silence for a moment, to make sure no one has followed him. Terrance shivers from the coldness lingering in his wet clothes. Curling his right wrist to his chest, he tosses his jacket to the floor. His knuckles are purple and raw with dried blood, and he can barely move his fingers without cringing. He should get his arm examined by a doctor, but most people who live around here can’t afford insurance. Besides, the city bus won’t stop by until early in the morning. For now, an injured wrist is nothing a cold beer can’t fix. Wrapping his sore hand with a towel stuffed with ice, he snags a chilled bottle of brew from his refrigerator.

Tiny paws scratch at his muddy shoes. His Bombay cat meows like it hasn’t been fed all day. Terrance uses his good hand to peel open a can of food and sets it on the floor. It’s a common superstition that black cats are bad luck. Some people believe when the ominous creature crosses their path, it brings a promise of misfortune and tragedy. But when your entire life has been nothing but a hardship, what is there to worry about?

Cats are responsible for the extinction of thirty-three animal species. Humans would be another, but the only reason they don’t attack us is because we intimidate them with our size and nature. Cats can sense that at any given moment, we will snatch all nine of their lives with one hand if they try to harm us.

Terrance’s cat knows his owner isn’t like that. He gets along with him because he keeps him fed, out of the rain, and safe from these evil streets. Terrance smirks, leaning over to scratch his pet’s furry neck as it nibbles on its meal.

“Whitey, you little shit.”

One furnishing of Terrance’s living room is a television stand without a television. He hates television. Too many commercials, too many frauds trying to sell him shit they think he needs. That’s why he prefers books. You don’t get stuff like that with a good paperback. There’s also a couch he found next to the dumpster, broken and tilted down on one side. He doesn’t know where its legs are—they were missing the day he brought it home.

A small lamp, dim with a shade tinted from age, sits on a wooden table at the sofa’s crippled end. Underneath are stacks of books he’s collected over the years. Some of them, classic novels he’s revisited several times, and some still waiting to be read.

The hardwood floor has no carpet. Most nights, Terrance’s feet get cold from air leaking in through his window. In the middle of the glass, cracks spider out in all directions with a piece of duct tape sealing the center—a bullet hole. It’s been there for three years.

Before, he would hide in the bathroom with a flashlight and read his books, safe in a place without windows. He didn’t want anyone outside knowing he was home. These days he doesn’t mind so much, because he’s nailed blankets to the walls like curtains. They’re thick enough to hide the light from inside, but thin enough he can hear the rain smacking hard against the pane like a shower of tiny stones. Now, anytime he hears gunshots outside, it’s as normal to him as the wind.

Down the hallway is his bedroom, and inside is a bare mattress with clean clothes piled on top, and a laundry basket half-filled with dirty shirts and pants. He used to sleep there, but to do that meant he might not awaken to sounds of an intruder. It’s better to sleep on the couch than wake up in bed with a pistol in your face. Keeping his senses intact is how he has adapted to this lifestyle.

Those thugs in the alley might laugh if they ever saw Terrance with his thick reading glasses. It takes him a minute to kick off his boots and get comfortable. For a second he forgets about his busted fist, but when he opens a book and a sharp pain shoots through his arm, he’s quickly reminded. Whitey likes to curl up and sleep at his owner’s feet. The lamp is dim enough not to bother him.

Terrance’s bottle is empty down to its last inch of warm, golden beer. The pain in his arm subsides to a dull pulsing ache. He rests his book, spreading the pages open across his chest. With his good hand, he gently rubs his fingertips along the back of his cat’s head. Thunder rumbles and Whitey purrs in his sleep.

The soothing sound weights Terrance’s eyes, and he can barely keep them open. His sleeping brain plays images like a movie, showing scenes of a better life. A bigger home with unbroken furniture. A steady income without having to hustle each day. A nice car instead of the city bus. Maybe a loving, pretty girl to come home to. Neighbors he can greet instead of having to avoid them. A safer life for himself and his cat, if there is such a thing.

Out of nowhere, come two hard knocks at the door and Terrance jumps to his feet. One of those events startles Whitey. The cat leaps from the tilted sofa and hides behind the television stand. Terrance rushes to his end table, bumping his elbow against the lamp. It wobbles above him as he kneels beside his stack of books. Stashed behind his collection is a novel with no cover.

The pages are hollowed-out like a secret box. From inside, he produces a 9mm Smith & Wesson and crawls toward the door. His senses are on edge, waiting for another knock or someone to burst into his apartment. Rising to his feet and stepping sideways, he creeps close enough to see through the peephole.

Before he looks, he presses the barrel of his gun beside it. If the wrong person is waiting on the other side, Terrance can unload a magazine through the thin wooden door and into their face.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’s shot somebody.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken a life.
This doesn’t mean Terrance feels good about killing people, but this is the life he’s grown a custom to.
This is the real world.
This is how things are.

He’s careful not to get too close. Otherwise, the visitor outside might notice his moving shadows around the doorframe. With his finger hugging the trigger, he aligns one eye to see through the tiny glass hole. His heart pounds, and his palms sweat.

Ain’t nobody out there.

Whoever knocked must have come to their senses. Whitey comes out from hiding but waits in the corner with his tail standing straight up, hairs spiked out, ready to attack. Terrance is cautious about unlocking the bolts. With his gun stretched in front of him and leading the way, he cracks open the door and takes a peek.

There’s nothing out front but the shiny black pavement being splattered with the thick sheets of rain. He scans around, making sure nobody’s hiding in the bushes. He opens the door wider and leans outside.

Nobody.

The fading hum of an engine makes its way through the spattering, depleting with it in the distant darkness and turning a corner are two taillights—the right, a brighter shade of red than the left. Lowering the gun to his side, he takes a step back, and as he pushes the creaking door closed, something catches his attention.

On the doormat by his feet is a black duffle bag. Through a small opening of the zipper, he can see wads of cash. Bricks of hundred-dollar bills wrapped together with thick rubber bands. He notices a white plastic shopping bag packed loose around something to shelter it from the weather. Terrance’s heart sinks, and his mouth falls open in disbelief.
He knows what it is.
He knows what it means.

Stuffing his gun in his waistband, he leans down and is quick to drag the bag inside. He locks the door and reaches in the plastic to uncover what’s inside. Tears threaten to fall from his eyes. The money stays in the black bag. Terrance doesn’t care about that. He already knows it’s one-hundred-thousand dollars, money he will count later. Right now, in comparison to what it came with, the cash is of no value. Now Terrance, a grown-ass man of these hard streets, is shedding tears over the most heartfelt gift anyone could give.

Grown men don’t cry. They’re supposed to leave that sobbing shit for the babies and their mommas.

Yet now, and for the rest of the night, that’s all Terrance can do.

Whitey sits relaxed, watching his owner rush to grab a towel from the kitchen. Terrance hugs the prize to his chest. Sliding himself to the floor, he hunches down with his back against the kitchen stove. He muffles his whimpers with his uninjured fist, afraid someone else can hear through the thin walls. If anyone in the streets could see him now, they’d know how soft he is underneath his hard exterior.

Those fools, they don’t know shit. Any one of them would be doing the same thing had they found this thing at their doorstep. Any one of them would be wiping their runny nose and wet eyes if they knew how important it is and what it means. They would cherish it if only they knew what others had to go through because of it. Their stomachs would cramp from crying so hard if they knew the story of the person who left him this priceless gift.