Kool-Aid

"Sherwin, wake up."

Kool-Aid woke but did not open his eyes. It was the crack of noon and he was face down on his bare mattress. The frayed buttons on the stained ticking were pressing uncomfortably against his cheek. He and his brother shared the twin mattress laying on the floor. The blankets he and he brother shared had been kicked down to the foot of the bed. They lay in a tangled heap on the floor with their clothes, food wrappers, empty cans, and wads of toilet paper. They used the toilet paper in the winter to stuff between the cracks in the floor so the cold wouldn't blow up from the crawlspace. The wads tended to get pushed out by mice or rats over time or fall through the cracks entirely.

His seven-year-old brother was already up. So were his twin sisters. They were five. Being the oldest of his siblings in the house and fourteen himself, he knew that little kids are always up early on Saturday mornings, hungry, watching cartoons or arguing about playing on the Nintendo they shared. Which of those things they were doing depended on whether Mama had paid the cable bill the day before like she said she would. Watching cartoons was what Kool-Aid had done when he was little, but he hadn't got a Nintendo yet. Back then he could go into Mama's room if she didn't come out at the sound of the TV and ask her for some breakfast, knowing that eventually she would sleepily feed him. She didn't do that now.

As to the cable bill... She didn't come home before Kool-Aid fell asleep around three in

the morning, and that was generally not a good sign. The best he could do was be pessimistically hopeful.

"Sherwin, wake up. We're hungry! Wake up!"

"What you want me to do about it, Keyshawn?" Kool-Aid grumbled. He rolled onto his back, eyes still shut. "I don't have no food neither."

"You can ask Mama."

"You ask Mama."

"There's some dude in there." By "in there", Kool-Aid knew he meant Mama's bedroom.

"Fuck that."

"Don't talk like that, Sherwin. I don't like it."

"Sorry," Kool-Aid muttered. He gave up, opened his eyes, and was greeted with the familiar sight of the ever-expanding water stain on the ceiling. He sat up in bed.

People in them TV shows don't wake up to this, Kool-Aid thought. They wake up to curtains and posters on the wall and breakfast in bed.

"Go on and play some Nintendo or something," Kool-Aid ordered. "I'll be out soon."

Yawning and stretching, he cherry-picked his clothes off the floor, looking for the items that were reasonably clean, which is to say clothes that had only been worn once or twice. There had been no trip to the laundromat lately, and it was a long walk, even if he had the quarters for the machines and detergent. He shook each garment vigorously before he put it on to make sure that no creepie-crawlies had stowed away during the night. He did the same with his prize Air

Jordans. Not checking was a mistake he had made only once.

Soon he was suitably attired in two pairs of undershorts, boxers over briefs. The outer pair was entirely for show under a loose and sagging pair of cargo shorts. Over his chest, he wore a wife-beater under a T-shirt that read "Thugs 4 Ever" with a cartoon homeboy with crossed arms whose grill glittered with sparklies glued right onto the material. He only put the T-shirt on halfway, one arm in and one arm out with his head through the neck hole. It wasn't all that comfortable, but it conformed to the latest neighborhood style. He rubbed an imaginary dark spot off of his immaculate sneakers with his thumb before he put them on. They were a Christmas present from his grandma, and they were the greatest kicks he had ever had, even if they were getting a little tight.

He made his way to the living room, running his hands along the short hallway wall. Flakes of paint settled to the unswept wooden floor that may have seen its last can of varnish fifty years ago. As he approached the living room, the sound of his brother and sisters arguing punched at him through the air.

The living room featured a sagging, nondescript couch and a couple of kitchen chairs. The furniture faced a squat brown furnace that had not provided heat since the gas had been turned off the winter before last. The television, DVD player, and video-game console sat atop it. Movie and game cases littered the floor around it. The kerosene heater was tucked in a corner, and it would be ready for when winter inevitably came around again if only someone would put some fuel in it.

"It's my turn!" his sister Shymisha yelled, tugging at the video game controller in her sister's hands.

"No, it ain't!" twin sister Tymisha hollered back, trying to get the controller out of her reach. "I died too fast! It ain't fair."

"Quit yellin'," Keyshawn ordered with a slight twinge of fear. "Y'all'll wake Mama up. Give it here."

"All y'all need to cut it out," Kool-Aid said. "If you can't, I'll take it away. It's my game."

"But you ain't got no TV in your room," Tymisha argued.

Kool-Aid walked over to the video game and made like he was disconnecting it.

"Never mind," said Tymisha. She handed the controller reluctantly to her sister.

"Nyah nyah," Shymisha taunted quietly.

"If you're gonna be like that, you can't play either," Kool-Aid said.

"My bad," Shymisha said unconvincingly. After a few seconds had passed without anyone taking anything away, she began to thumb the controller vigorously. Faint sounds of furious combat radiated softly from the nearly muted television.

"I'm hungry," Tymisha said to Kool-Aid, no longer having the game to distract her. "Can you get me something to eat?"

"Did Mama bring any food home last night?" Kool-Aid asked. It was a long shot.

"We didn't see nothin' this morning," Keyshawn said.

Kool-Aid went to check the kitchen. There was a sink load of dishes, some salt, a half-empty forty in the 'fridge with no cap along with some unwrapped moldy leftovers, but nothing edible. It smelled bad.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself. He looked around to see if anyone had heard him.

He made his way from the kitchen to the closed door of his mother's bedroom. He rapped on the door gingerly. His brother and Tymisha watched him wide-eyed from over the back of the couch.

"Mama?" he said in a small voice. He spent a full minute listening, his ear gently touching the door.

"Mama?" he repeated a fraction louder this time.

People on TV don't do this, he thought. Their mamas are up making them eggs and bacon and shit. They're not even hungry. They take a few bites then run off to school like they like it or something.

He worked up his courage and opened the door with the delicacy of a brain surgeon plying his trade.

The afternoon sun shining through the irregular gaps in the broken pink Venetian blinds bathed the room in a surreal light. A naked man Kool-Aid did not recognize was sprawled across his mother's big bed, as was his mother. There were no covers. He looked at his mother's once-opulent flesh, her sagging breasts, and open legs, and then he looked away in shame.

Mama's dresser and part of the floor was a graveyard of empty bottles, some freshly decanted, most of the others the fossil remains of debauches past. A crack pipe made from a car

antenna was laid carelessly on her nightstand with an empty plastic bag. Kool-Aid didn't see any rock. She had already finished all she had, or she'd be awake and still smoking it until it was gone.

He stood there for long minutes. He rocked from foot to foot. The floor creaked beneath him. Finally, his mother opened her eyes weakly. She made no attempt to hide her nakedness.

"What the fuck do you want?" she asked him.

"Keyshawn and the twins are hungry, Mama," he said in the voice of a much younger boy, his eyes pointed to the floor.

"You hungry," she repeated in disgust. "You always hungry. What happened to the shit I got...whenever? The other day."

"We ate it, Mama," her son replied, still looking down, his voice still small. "That was last week."

"Y'all eat too much."

"Sorry, Mama."

She was silent for a minute.

"They's some food stamps in my pants pocket. On the floor."

Kool-Aid searched out until he found the nearest pair of jeans. He started searching them.

"Not them, dumbass. Them black ones yonder." She waved her hand, but he wasn't looking. He finally found the ones she meant and felt around the pockets until he discovered the thin, familiar mass of the coupon book. He took it.

"Thank you, Mama," he said, making his way out. "I won't bother you anymore."

"And get me some cigarettes. Newports. Hundreds. You know which ones."

"I can't buy them with no food stamps," Kool-Aid protested.

"You know how to do it," his mama said curtly. "Don't you come back without no cigarettes."

"Yes, Mama." The cigarettes meant that he would have to buy less food.

He gratefully left the room and closed the door gently behind him. He tucked the coupons into one of his cargo pockets and sealed it shut carefully with the Velcro fasteners.

After telling his brother and sisters that he would be back soon with some food, he set off to the convenience store that his Mama always called a "bodega" for some reason. He automatically adopted a strut designed to show the right amount of confidence and swagger, hoping nobody would mess with him.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't.

A Haroldstown cop drove by him ten minutes later. He was about halfway to the store. The officer scrutinized him, turning his head as his car passed Kool-Aid. Kool-Aid met the cop's eyes evenly with his own, silently challenging the cop to stop him and find out if he was doing something wrong. Their heads swiveled with mutual distrust until the cop was forced to look at the road again. The police car pulled out of sight.

"Fuckin' po-po," Kool-Aid muttered, repeating what he often heard grown folk say. "Ain't got nothin' better to do."

As he rounded the last corner and headed down the street where the store was, his friend Loquavious pedaled up behind him on his BMX. He skidded to a stop next to Kool-Aid and they shook hands in a complicated set of movements that they had devised when they were in the fifth grade.

"What you up to, dog?" Loquavious asked.

"Goin' to the store up yonder," Kool-Aid replied, gesturing with his head.

"Buy me somethin'?"

"Yeah." Now there was even less for food, but he couldn't say no.

"Cool, bro."

Loquavious got off his bicycle and walked it alongside himself and his friend.

"Where was you last night?" Kool-Aid asked. "I thought you was comin' over, dog."

"Man, my folks made me go to church," Loquavious complained. "Then they wouldn't let me go nowheres on account of they said it's a weeknight. I told them they ain't no school tomorrow, but they was like 'Rules be rules.' It be whack, yo. You lucky you don't have to go to no church."

Kool-Aid was quiet, and Loquavious mistook it for silent agreement. His mother didn't bring him and his brother and sisters to church much anymore. Once in a while she would say that she wasn't going to do anymore "partying", and then they would go on Sunday. They didn't usually go two Sundays back to back. In fact, they had only been to church once that year, and it was already July. Kool-Aid was okay with that. The preacher was always talking about Heaven

and Hell and Jesus being the Way and Truth and Light, but Kool-Aid didn't see why he had to worry about stuff that wasn't going to happen until he was an old man. And if he was good all the time, there wouldn't be a Nintendo or a VHS player or sometimes even something to eat for his brother and sisters and him.

Also, he didn't have a shirt and tie, and being there with everyone all dressed up made him feel raggedy.

They were almost to the store.

"We gonna boost?" Loquavious asked loudly and enthusiastically. "Like the last time we was in Walmart?"

"Shut up, man! You talk too much!" Kool-Aid looked around nervously, but there was no one in earshot that he could see. "I can pay."

They opened the door and went in. The smell of fried chicken gizzards smacked Kool-Aid with a greasy hand. His stomach contracted into a painful knot. The last of yesterday's food had been sparse, and Keyshawn and the twins had gotten the lion's share of it, such as it was. Keeping his discomfort off of his face, Kool-Aid held the door for Loquavious so he could walk his bicycle in more easily.

"You leave that outside," the shopkeeper barked from behind the counter.

"Come on, man!" Loquavious instantly protested. "I don't want no one to take it!"

"You lock it up outside."

"Ain't got no lock," Loquavious said.

The shopkeeper thought it over. He rubbed his hand over his two day's growth of beard.

"Okay. But you leave it over there." He gestured to the ATM machine with the out-of-order sign on it. "I don't want you knocking down my stuff."

"Whatever, man," Loquavious said dismissively. "It's my bike and I can take it wherever I want, homs."

"Just do it, man," Kool-Aid said. "You know how far I got to tote stuff if he don't let me come in here no more?" The next-closest convenience store was twice as far away, and carrying bags full of cans or a milk jug full of kerosene was not the easiest thing in the world.

Loquavious sullenly rested his BMX against the broken machine where the merchant had pointed. The machine had been broken for years, and it appeared it was going to stay that way forever.

"I'm doing it for my boy here," Loquavious told the store owner. "I ain't doin' it for you."

"Okay, but you do it," the owner gloated, satisfied.

Kool-Aid went to where the canned goods were. Loquavious went off to look at something. Kool-Aid hoped he wasn't planning to steal anything, knowing if he got caught the police would almost certainly arrest him too. Kool-Aid grabbed an armload of canned ravioli, spaghetti with meatballs, beef stew, and mixed fruit and piled it on the counter. Then he went back for a second armload. He got a two-quart bottle of milk out of the refrigerator case along with some sodas and a few packets of his signature cherry Kool-Aid. As an afterthought, he made another trip for cakes and potato chips, realizing that Loquavious was there to help him carry the

stuff back.

"That all?" the owner asked.

"Yeah."

Loquavious reappeared by his side.

"Get me some gizzards, man," Loquavious asked. "You said you would buy me something."

Kool-Aid's heart sank, but he couldn't say no to his friend.

"And some gizzards," Kool-Aid added smoothly.

"You pay cash?" the owner asked skeptically.

"Naw, man," Kool-Aid said. "Stamps."

"Gizzards with stamps cost more."

"Whatever."

"And hot sauce," Loquavious piped in.

"And hot sauce," Kool-Aid repeated.

The owner wrapped some up, muttering under his breath. He put a packet of hot sauce in the bag with the gizzards.

"Give me two hot sauce, man," Loquavious ordered.

"One serving, one hot sauce," the owner said.

"Leave it alone, man," Kool-Aid said to his friend. "I got hot sauce at home," he lied.

Loquavious ignored him and asked again with even more hostility.

"You charge enough," he said. "Give me two."

The owner muttered some more, but he slipped another packet into the bag.

Kool-Aid scrutinized the register display as the owner rang up the groceries. It came to thirty-eight dollars and sixteen cents, and he knew the owner would take forty out of the book and not make change.

"I need some cigarettes, man," Kool-Aid said.

The owner looked skeptically at the twenty-five dollars in stamps left in the book. Then he looked out the front window of the store.

"What you want?" he asked.

"Give me five packs of Newport one hundreds," Kool-Aid said confidently.

"Three," the owner countered.

"Four," Kool-Aid said.

"Three packs," the owner insisted.

"Forget it, man," Kool-Aid said. He held his hand out for the coupon book.

"Okay. Four."

"And matches."

The owner punched more numbers into the register until it totaled sixty-four dollars and change. The drawer popped open and he slammed it shut again, putting the coupon book that still held twenty-five dollars worth of stamps into his pocket. Kool-Aid knew he would use them to buy stuff at the supermarket and then sell what he bought in his store for twice the dollar amount

he paid. He didn't even scrape off the old price tags. He just put his higher prices over the original ones.

The owner started to bag the food and milk and cigarettes.

"Can I get double bags?" Kool-Aid asked.

"One bag enough."

"I got a long ways to walk," Kool-Aid said. "Please."

It cost a little more muttering, but the owner did as Kool-Aid asked. Loquavious looked at Kool-Aid sideways but didn't say anything. In a few minutes, they were back out on the street with bags and bicycle. Without discussing it, they both worked to hang the bags on the handlebars of Loquavious's BMX, balancing the weight so that the bike would shoulder most of the burden.

"I don't know if you can come in," Kool-Aid said as they began the trek back to his house. "My mama ain't feelin' good today." There was no need to be more specific than that.

"We can just hang on the porch, cuz," Loquavious said reasonably. "It too hot to be inside anyhow."

"Hold up," Kool-Aid ordered. Loquavious obediently stopped. Kool-Aid fished out one of the packs of cigarettes. He ripped it open, took out a cigarette and tried to light it. It took a couple of matches to get it lit because the wind kept blowing them out. Loquavious looked on admiringly.

"You want one?"

"Naw, man. If my folks smell it on me, I'll get a whuppin'. Don't your mama smell it on you?"

"Folks who smoke can't tell," Kool-Aid sagely informed him. He inhaled the smoke a bit and suppressed a cough. The next several puffs got easier.

They walked in silence for a moment.

"Did you see Martin on TV last night?" Loquavious asked after a while.

"No. I was playing Nintendo," Kool-Aid lied again. Loquavious didn't need to know that the cable was turned off. He certainly didn't need to know that Kool-Aid spent the night reading a book he had borrowed from the library after feeding his brother and sisters a modest meal and making sure they had taken baths before they went to sleep. The way Loquavious ran his mouth everyone would know, and he would be picked on without mercy.

"Too bad. It was real funny. Did you play that game we 'borrowed' from Walmart?"

"You know it, bro." Another thing Loquavious didn't need to know is that Kool-Aid had fenced it.

"It crazy, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Kool-Aid affirmed.

"You walk the bike for a while," Loquavious said. "I want to eat my gizzards. Cold gizzards ain't no good." Kool-Aid flicked away his cigarette into the street and took over walking the bike while Loquavious awkwardly slathered his gizzards with the hot sauce. He dropped the empty plastic packets on the ground.

"Gimme some," Kool-Aid said. Loquavious held the out the small paper tray. He took one and ate it.

"They good, huh?" Loquavious asked.

"Uh huh," Kool-Aid replied. After nearly twenty hours without food, they tasted as heavenly. "Gimme one more."

Kool-Aid couldn't stop with just two. They shared the rest of the gizzards, and when they were gone Loquavious dropped the paper tray on the ground and unconsciously rubbed his grubby hands on his pants. If he had noticed how hungry Kool-Aid was, he didn't mention it.

"Can I get one a them sodas?" Loquavious asked.

"They for my mama," Kool-Aid said smoothly. "She be mad if I don't came back with 'em."

"Are you gonna make that Kool-Aid when we get to your crib?" Loquavious asked.

"Yeah, man."

"Cool. I'm thirsty. You got ice?"

"I dunno. I hope. Cold drink would be nice."

Soon they turned onto the block where the little house Kool-Aid lived in was.

"I'll take the stuff in and make the drink," Kool-Aid said. "You just chill out on the porch."

Loquavious inclined his head to show he understood.

As they walked up the dirt path that led through the yard to the house, Kool-Aid heard the

sound of his brother and sisters crying in abject fear. Without a word or a glance at his friend, he dropped the groceries and ran full tilt into the house. His brother and the twins were crouching on the floor in front of the sofa.

"He's killing her, Sherwin!" Keyshawn shouted over the shrieking of his sisters. "Do something! He's killing Mama! Please, Sherwin! Help her!" The faces of his siblings glistened with tears and their eyes were wide with unadulterated terror.

A cold and terrible calm came over Kool-Aid. He knew what he had to do, and he didn't hesitate. He ran to his room and got the Louisville Slugger Mama had bought for him years ago for tee-ball out of his closet. He then ran to his mother's room and thrust open the door.

The man who had been sleeping beside her an hour ago was kicking her as she sat in the corner, still naked, her legs drawn up and her arms covering her head. She was screaming.

"What the fuck?" the man said as the bedroom door slammed open. He turned, but he never had a chance of avoiding the tip of the bat that hit him in the general vicinity of his left kidney. The only reason he wasn't crippled instantly by the blow was that Kool-Aid had to swing left-handed to avoid hitting the wall with the bat. He jumped back and to the left, hand clutching his side.

"You little motherfucker!" he seethed. "I gonna kill your ass!" He grabbed a bottle off the dresser and prepared to break it over the edge.

"You go on and break that bottle, then walk your ass over here," Kool-Aid said. He spun the bat to the ready, a maneuver he had practiced for hours and hours.

The man looked at his bare feet and thought the better of his plan.

"This ain't none of your business, boy," he said, spitting out the last word.

"I'm makin' it my business. Mama, go on. I got this," he said, never taking his eyes off her erstwhile new friend. She fled the room. He heard the door of the bathroom slam shut and lock.

The stranger stood frozen, bottle in hand, considering his next move.

"She took my shit," he said. "She owe me."

"You beat on her," Kool-Aid said. "You even now. Get your ass on up outta here."

Fumbling with the bottle, the man found his pants and drew them on. He forced his feet into his shoes and held his shirt in his hands. Kool-Aid kept the bat raised.

"Let me by," the man ordered.

"Climb over the bed," Kool-Aid snapped back.

The man did just that, awkwardly, keeping an eye on the boy with the bat. He left the room. Kool-Aid heard his brother and sisters scream anew and started to chase the stranger, but then he heard the sound of the screen door open and shut.

"Yo mama is a 'ho!" Kool-Aid heard the man shout from the street. "She a goddamn 'ho! She ain't just a 'ho. She is a crack 'ho." By the time Kool-Aid got to the window and looked outside, his back was already turned and he was walking away down the street. He wanted to chase him down and beat him with the bat some more, but suddenly he felt very weak. He began to shake. He backed up to the bed and sat down. Tears started streaming down his face, and he

wiped them away angrily with his trembling hand.

His mother came back to the room, a bathrobe tightly closed around her. She stood in the doorway.

"I..." she began to say.

"It's okay, Mama," Kool-Aid said. "You don't have to say nothing."

He got up to leave. She stood aside.

"I ain't gonna do this no more," his mama said. "No more partying. I swear I won't."

"Okay, Mama. I got to bring the stuff in."

He went out to the living room, shutting the door behind him as he left.

"It's all right," he told his sniffling brother and the twins. "He's gone. He ain't comin' back. Quit you crying."

Keyshawn and the girls nodded. He saw respect in their eyes. He felt proud.

Unsurprisingly, Loquavious was gone, but the groceries were left thoughtfully on the front porch, minus one soda. Kool-Aid brought the heaviest bag inside, then instructed Keyshawn to get the rest. He put the milk and sodas in the refrigerator and threw the garbage into the bags from the store. All the precious cans and chips and sweets were placed in the high cupboards, save three. He left the three cans out for himself and his brother and sisters to eat. They would share ravioli and beef stew and a can of fruit cocktail for their breakfast and lunch. He put two packs of cigarettes on the counter for his mother. He added the other pack to the one in his pocket, and he wasn't planning to hide them as he had done before. In fact, he took one out

and lit it with a hand that was still barely trembling. He flicked the ashes onto the dirty dishes in the sink with practiced disregard. It was all good. He was the man of the house now.

He wouldn't have to hide anything anymore.